Quick A/N:
Bold writing is song lyrics
Bold italics is song lyrics that have been edited to better fit the story
I heard there was a secret chord
Italy loved the piano lessons Austria would give him. Even after the lesson, Italy would practise every chance he got. Austria let him play the old portable piano in the backroom, where his constant playing wouldn't disrupt the house.
That Italy played and it pleased the Lord
Holy Rome loved listening to Italy practise. After his lessons, Holy Rome would follow Italy to the backroom, and sit on the other side of the door, listening to the gentle tinkling of the keys. He winced as wrong notes were hit, smiled as scales and arpeggios were flown through with ease, and tears would fall as Italy perfected that fiddly phrase- though the proud blonde would never admit to it.
But you don't really care for music
When Italy stopped playing, and pulled the cover over the keys with a muffled thud, Holy Rome would run away, too embarrassed to be caught listening to Italy's playing. Italy never brought it up with the growing empire, but he would often see the black cloak and hat disappearing around the corner.
Do you?
Despite his –secret- love for listening to Italy's practise, Holy Rome could not play the piano. He tried once, on the piano in the backroom.
Italy caught Holy Rome frowning at the keys; a mixture of anger and confusion. Giggling, Italy taught Holy Rome a basic arpeggio in C major. Holy Rome's face grew red as copied his beloved maid-girl's actions.
Italy gave a clap, and an adorable little 'Ve!' that sent Holy Rome's heart aflutter, as Holy Rome mastered the simple refrain.
It goes like this; the fourth, the fifth
After that, Holy Rome would sit in the backroom with Italy. Sometimes Italy would teach Holy Rome a new scale or arpeggio, or even a short piece. Sometimes Holy Rome would just sit and listen. And when Italy had finished playing, they'd run up the hillside, canvases tucked under their arms and paintbrushes in their hands, to paint the grand manor they lived, learnt and worked in.
Hungary, and sometimes Austria, would watch Holy Rome and Italy come scurrying out of the backrooms with their easels and paints. Hungary's face would adopt a motherly smile, and even Austria's cold exterior would melt at the heart-warming scene.
The minor fall, the major lift
Soon enough, Holy Rome was invited to take piano lessons alongside Italy. Italy was much more advanced than Holy Rome, but Holy Rome's persistence and Italy's patience, matched with Austria's demanding, yet efficient teaching methods, Holy Rome was soon at a similar level to the maid-girl.
The growing Land composing
After much work with his young students, Austria finally composed a duet that was basic, yet beautiful, and matched the playing style of his two students; Italy's music flowed naturally, whereas Holy Rome's playing was more methodical and robotically perfected.
Italy's part was happy; full of trills and staccatos, played on the higher notes of the piano. Holy Rome's part was peaceful, with long, dwindling chords and smoothly played arpeggios.
Austria gave the song a simple name. A name which he claimed linked back to Italy's Catholicism, but in truth was simply the word he had muttered under his breath as Holy Rome finally perfected his first proper piece;
Hallelujah
Your love was strong but you had to leave
The pair practised together for hours on end, but they never mastered the entire piece together. Holy Rome had to leave for his battle before they got the chance.
You saw her on that summer's eve
Holy Rome will never forget, and will always regret, the day he was forced to leave Italy at Austria's manor. Thinking back on it, Holy Rome would often cry, either tears of happiness as he remembers the young face he loved so dearly, or tears of misery as he wonder if he'll ever return to see that dear young face again.
Her beauty in the sunlight
And the kiss. Those few seconds were the single greatest moment of his life. Italy had been soft, and tasted like pasta, with a sweet aftertaste that tingled on his lips for days afterwards, as if Italy was playing a dainty little tune on the inside of his mouth.
Prussia's eyes narrow into thin slits as Holy Rome smiles dazedly. They're headed into battle; this is not the time for one of Holy Rome's day-dreams about that damn maid-girl.
The horn blares, and Holy Rome rides into yet another battle, a nostalgic smile brightening his young face.
Overthrew you
Holy Rome falls to the ground, sword spinning from his fingers as the blade of a bayonet jabs into his chest.
"Tsk," his helmeted attacker spits at the ground by the boy "You're just a kid. What makes you think you can just take over, huh? I'll show you what war brings you little boy, see if you still wanna fight then."
And with that little speech, the faceless soldier begins to stab, and cut, and stab, and slice, and stab, leaving the horrible, painful scars that Italy had warned him about.
Behind the jeers of the soldiers who gathered around to torture the young empire, a tune could be heard. A gentle, tired, peaceful hum, with long, dwindling notes and smooth arpeggios.
They tied you to a kitchen chair
"Saint-Empire Romain?" a voice calls. Familiar. Too deep to be a woman or child, too gentle to be Austria or Prussia, too concerned to be an enemy soldier.
"Is he awake?" that sounded more like Prussia.
"I think so," the first voice answers, "but he is a little dazed."
Holy Rome grunts, and moves to stretch himself out. Something digs into his wrists and ankles, and, as he struggles, his legs, stomach and shoulders undergo the same torture.
They broke your throne, they cut your hair
"Can you hear me, mon ami?" the first voice asks. Holy Rome nods soberly, eyes still half closed. "You have lost the war."
"I think he's worked that part out already," Prussia snaps, "Listen, Rome, you can't go back to Austria."
Holy Rome's eyes open fully at that. "What! But I promised Italy!"
"Italy?" a blonde man –the first voice- asks, "what does mon petit Italy have to do with this?"
"He and Italy have a strong case of young amor," a third voice pipes up. Holy Rome doesn't need to see the origin of the voice to give it a name and a face.
"Spain?"
"I'm afraid so," the caring tomato-lover smiles weakly. "You won't tell Romano about this, will you"
"No, he won't," Prussia says curtly, "The Holy Roman Empire has to die."
And from your lips, they drew that
Holy Rome struggles against his –rather excessive- bonds.
"Hey, hey, amigo," Spain's hands appear at Holy Rome's shoulders, pinning the blond empire back in his chair. "No one said you actually had to die."
"Prussia just did!"
"He didn't mean…" Spain sighs, head dipping in exasperation, "He didn't mean that youactually have to die."
"What else could "The Holy Roman Empire has to die" mean?!"
"It means that we'll tell everyone that you've died, while you lay low for a while. Then, in a few decades, you'll be re-introduced to the world as Prussia's brother… what was the name again?"
"Deutschland."
Hallelujah
"What about Italy?"
"Italy will miss you," the blond man sighs, "But loss is inevitable for us nations."
Holy Rome –Deutschland- hangs his head. "Prussia… do me a little favour… please?"
Spain and France crumple at the sight of the meek, defeated empire. Prussia just smirks. "Ja, Deutschland?"
"Tell me my name in Italian."
Prussia pauses. "Germania."
"Germania…"
Maybe I've been here before
Germany pads down a familiar corridor at the back of a grand manor in Austria. At the end of that familiar corridor, behind a familiar wooden door, the blond nation knows that a portable piano stands.
What the black-clothed boy doesn't know is that a familiar maid-girl had fallen asleep against the keys of the piano, just as the sun had set.
I know these rooms, I've walked this floor
Italy wakes at the sound of the door.
"Holy Rome!" he dives at the empire, throwing his arms around him. The empire wraps his arms around his beloved maid-girl, and hugs 'her' close, relishing in the smell of pasta. "Holy Rome, are you really back?"
Germany strains to keep the smile on his face. "No, I… you're dreaming."
"Oh." Italy's face falls, and Germany's heart breaks.
"But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves."
"You mean I can't enjoy myself."
"Don't be pessimistic," Germany's fingers stroke Italy's cheek tenderly, "I… I haven't had chance to practise, but would you like to play Hallelujah with me?"
I used to live alone
The pair sit side by side at the piano, and that's when Germany begins to notice the changes in both himself and Italy. They've both grown several inches, Germany's voice has broken, and Italy's voice seems to have climbed a few notes.
Confident piano music fills the little backroom, with bouncy staccatos and cheery trills, and a peaceful pattern of long, dwindling chords and smooth arpeggios toddling in a split second behind. Germany's fingers stumble and slip over the black and white keys, but with his persistence and Italy's patience, after a few hours, the piece clumsily falls together.
Before I knew you
As morning breaks, Italy closes the wooden cover over the keys, and leans against Germany as he closes his eyes, settling happily into a soon-to-be-disturbed sleep.
"Holy Rome, if I'm dreaming, you won't be here when I wake up, will you?"
"No, Italy. Im sorry."
"That's okay," he snuggles closer into Germany, and soon, his breathing deepens, and he is fast asleep.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
"Veneziano!" Romano bursts through the door, breathing heavily.
Italy jumps awake, sitting bolt upright, cramps clawing into his back and shoulders. "Si?"
"It's about Holy Rome…" Romano trails off, looking his brother in the eye with a look of pity crossed with exasperation.
Italy runs past his sibling, up the corridor and outside. He watches as a smirking Prussia and a forlorn France take Holy Rome's flag down.
Love is not a victory march
Veneziano and Romano stand side by side to watch the victory march of the Bad Touch Trio. To anyone watching them, the just looked like a pair of pre-teen maid-girls, hand in hand, watching a parade of soldiers, one glaring angrily into the troops, the other on the verge of tears. That anyone would just think that these two children were just emotional, or perhaps even hormonal. That anyone probably wouldn't think any further into it, and return to watching the parade, led by a Spaniard who looked like he would rather be anywhere but there, a blond Frenchmen whose face was a picture of misery, and an albino Prussian with a smug smirk cutting into his pale cheeks.
It's a cold and it's a broken
Spain slams into a wall, Romano's hands fisting the front of the Spaniard's shirt.
"My fratellino's upset, tomato-bastard," the maid says bluntly, "If I ever find out you anything to do with my fratellino's pain, I will destroy you, understand?"
Hallelujah
Germany watches as Italy runs back to the manor. His grip on the decking brush tightens as he blinks tears from his eyes.
There was a time you let me know
Italy kneels before the cross, his hands folded into prayer. Behind him, a young, miserable blond slinks through the door and hides behind the pews.
Germany can't help staring at Italy, dressed in formal priest robes, despite his small size. Sunlight streams through the stained glass window, making Italy glow in the centre of a distorted rainbow.
Germany thinks his little maid-girl looks like an angel. White, and pure, and surrounded by happy colour and warm light. That's Italy, Germany thinks; happy and warm and pure.
What's really going on below
"Our Father," Italy prays aloud, "Thou art in heaven, hallowed be thy name." As the young priest prays, Germany's jaw practically drops off his face.
That isn't Italy's sweet little voice. That's a man's voice. But there's no one else here, and the voice is coming from Italy's knelt form.
But I don't know you anymore
Of course; girls aren't priests. Girls are nuns, and men are priests. And no one had ever actually said that Italy was a girl. Holy Rome had just assumed.
Red-faced, Germany flees from the church.
Do I?
Italy whirls as he hears the church door being hurriedly thrown open, just in time to see a black cloak vanish behind the wood.
Italy smiles. Holy Rome is still with him, and is still the same stubborn, shy little boy he remembers. That makes Italy happy.
Remember when I moved, and you-
"Österreich, Ungarn, meet my younger brother; Deutschland."
Austria scans the teenage boy with little regard. Hungary, however, has always seen through Prussia's antics.
Holy Rome- was moving too?
"Have you taken Németország to see Olaszország yet?" she asks sweetly.
"No, uh, Deutschland isn't exactly religious, so I don't see much point."
And every breath we drew was
Austria sleeps soundly, thinking that Italy has grown up well.
Hungary is restless, knowing that Prussia is lying to the entire world.
France forces himself to sleep, telling himself that it wasn't his fault.
Spain worries himself to sleep, wondering what would happen if Romano ever found out that Spain had caused Veneziano misery.
Romano sleeps well, not knowing of the misery, guilt and mistruths surrounding his and his fratellino's long-going lives.
Prussia sleeps fine, feeling no remorse whatsoever.
Hallelujah
Italy sleeps peacefully, firmly believing that Holy Rome will always be there, even if Italy can't see him.
After think about it for a long time, Germany has stopped caring about Italy's gender. He didn't love Italy because he thought that Italy was a girl. He loved Italy because Italy was sweet and kind and caring. It will still be warm and happy and pure, whether Italy is a boy or a girl. Germany sleep, vowing that he will one day see Italy again. He sleeps, and dreams of his Italy.
Maybe there's a God above
Italy prays every night. He prays that Romano is happy. He prays that Austria manages to smile. He prays that Hungary is still the caring, yet feisty woman he knew, that no one has tried to break her. He prays that Spain isn't suffering by Romano's hand. And, even after all these years, even in adult hood, even after the World Wars, he still prays that Holy Rome is at peace.
But all I've ever learnt from love
Italy's heart breaks every time he looks at Germany. Germany looks exactly like Holy Rome.
Germany's heart breaks every time he catches Italy gazing sadly at him. Italy doesn't know, and Germany can't find the right words to tell him.
Romano hates Germany. Germany looks exactly like Holy Rome, and Holy Rome caused Veneziano great pain. Romano, despite his grumpy exterior, cares for his idiotic fratellino.
Spain feels a sharp twang of guilt every time Romano glares at Germany.
Is how to shoot at someone
Despite Germany's intensive training, Italy is still the same playful, scatter-brained little child that Holy Rome knew. That makes Germany happy.
After a long day's training, Italy falls asleep, all curled up on whatever surface he happens to be laying on. He still looks like the little maid-girl Holy Rome painted all those years ago. That makes Germany happy. Then Germany remembers how the canvas disintegrated in the fire that killed the Holy Roman Empire. That makes Germany sad.
Who out drew you
So then Germany sneaks away, to a backroom, in which are the only three pieces of Holy Rome that Germany managed to hide from Prussia, and a piano.
Locking the door behind him, Germany takes up the black hat and cloak, and puts them on. The cloak is far too small, covering only his back, and the hat perches pathetically on his head. He picks up the decking brush, and gives the already spotless floor at quick once-over. Then, gently setting the old brush down, he sits himself at the piano.
The room fills with peaceful music; long, dwindling chords and smoothly played arpeggios. It has taken him several centuries, but Germany has finally perfected Hallelujah. And this, in the backroom, is where Germany is at his happiest. And in this backroom is where Germany is at his happiest.
It's not a cry you can hear at night
Italy always remembers the day he learnt of Holy Rome's death. He remembers the flag being taken down, he remembers the victory march, he remembers how he cried. But most of all, he remembers the dream he had of Holy Rome. And he believes that his dream was not a dream, but Holy Rome saying goodbye.
It's not somebody who's seen the light
Which is correct. That night was Holy Rome's last night. And he's glad he spent it with Italy.
It's a cold
But how he wishes he could play the piano with Italy again. It would be perfect, it would sound beautiful, exactly the way Austria had intended. And then Italy would smile, and be warm and happy and pure.
And it's a broken
No. Italy can't know, because Germany can't find the words to tell him. So when he's depressed, Germany will just lock himself in his backroom, and play the tune he wishes he could play with Italy, but the other half of the duet will never be played again. They're two different song now; one cheery and one serene. Together, they would be beautiful, but apart, the only thing they have in common is their name. A name that supposedly linked back to Italy's Catholicism, but to one man, it was the word that that man had muttered when Holy Rome finally perfected his first proper piece. The name of a song that was happy, peaceful and beautiful. That was as warm and happy and pure as Italy, and as proud and practised and methodical as Germany and Holy Rome;
Hallelujah
A/N:
I don't own Hetalia, Rufus Wainright or Hallelujah.
Inspired by an image I saw while watching CMVs. Also by my Dad, who used to listen to me playing the piano when I was a child, just like Holy Rome listening to Italy.
Language notes; Land is German for country (which is why it's capitalised), Olaszország is Hungarian for Italy, Németország is Hungarian for Germany, and Saint-Empire Romain is French for Holy Roman Empire. You can work the rest out for yourself.
-Laurel Silver