ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[concertos in the snow]
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Mildly edited to sound less like I swallowed a thesaurus despite the fact that I genuinely used my own vocabulary.
I don't own APH.
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The last time Switzerland had touched him was in the snow in November, some profound brush of skin that made Austria know with a sad surety that he'd never do it again. In that moment, he swore he'd never forget.
Austria had gone home soon afterwards and confided in his piano in that secret language musicians speak. He'd begun with tenuous chords and ended with chills up his arms and a half-hearted need for air in his lungs. He evokes the feeling of his tenderness and awe in the keys he presses and the melody that plays. It doesn't really matter that Switzerland won't look him in the eye anymore because in a way, the dance his fingers carry out on the ivory keys remembers. And if his eyes should close for a moment, the magic of that single instant in time, spawned from some unknown impulse, surrounds him again.
It all comes back to him, then. Swords. He'd liked—still likes—the sound of those, as incompetent as his own skills were. But Switzerland had been so good with them.
(A rare, almost happy trill of the keys: the blonde is telling him how useless he is, even as Austria looks at the other boy sheepishly.
"I don't have to be good at this. You always save me, anyway.")
He's secretly grateful for his old friend's love of neutrality and firearms now; the old memories are his alone and, in them, Switzerland still stands tall and strong in army garb with a frown on his face but a smile in his eyes, just for Austria.
He remembers it all. And if he allows himself to do with words as he does with music, he'd say that somewhere along the Swiss-Austrian border, the snow remembers too.
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