The brick wall the blonde is pressed against is cold, digging like icy daggers into the small of his back. A breeze is blowing softly, tousling his hair and ruffling the thin, black shirt he wears. Snowflakes catch on his lashes, and he has to blink to clear his vision. Green eyes flit across the forest ahead of him as he waits.
Damn.
This was much easier to do in the summertime, when he didn't have to worry about freezing his ass off out here. Watching. Waiting.
Damn.
This had been much easier when he was younger. Admittedly, he wasn't that old, and still he yearned for youth. Things were much simpler then, he mused.
Damn.
Whose bright idea had it been to wear this short-sleeved poor-excuse-for-a-shirt and khakis outside during a snowstorm? Oh, right. His.
Damn.
How long had it been since he had arrived here?
Damn.
How many nights had he come crawling back here?
Damn.
How many more nights would he come and cower here?
Da—
His thoughts are cut off abruptly as a thunderous sound echoes through the empty, snow covered field. Softly at first, then louder and louder. A crashing, yet melodic sound. The man pushes himself closer against the wall, and now his head resting just below the windowsill.
Inside, his heart hurts. His stomach hurts. His head hurts. He feels wistful, and longs for conversation. He can't remember the last time he actually sustained one, much less a friendship. And yet there is one person in particular that he wants to talk to. But the stubborn man doesn't want to think about his desires at the moment (nor does he ever, for that matter).
He drops his rifle, letting it fall into the snow at his side, and wraps his arms around his knees. The song is much prettier now, and the cold seems much warmer. Sleep doesn't seem all too bad, although he can't say he has ever fallen asleep out here before. He has never dared to risk capture.
And yet, he begins to slowly drift into a black abyss of sleep.
Damn.
…
The brunette is seated at the piano, pounding viciously at the keys. His brows knit tightly together over violet eyes. Thin, yet broad shoulders are hunched over the ivory keys, swaying in time.
And then he remembers.
The man remembers his audience, and his hands move at once up an octave, fingers adjust to a major key. Now the tune is happier, lighter, and very much unlike the harsh winter night. His mind wanders as he plays the familiar tune.
How long has he been doing this?
A long time, one could say.
And then the piece is over, drawing to a close on a happy C-major chord. Simple, but sweet. Something he used to play for him.
The wind is raging outside, and for the first time he contemplates leaving the warmth to venture outside to meet his audience. He won't confess, but worry has begun to tie his stomach into knots. It's freezing outside, and he is well aware.
The musician slips on his purple coat, fidgets with the ascot around his neck, and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. As a peace offering, he also brings a cup of hot chocolate and some torte.
With both hands full, it's a bit difficult for the less-than-muscular man to push open the door, and yet he somehow manages. His thin frame is buffeted by the wind.
"Hallo—"
The torte falls, followed by the elaborately painted teacup in the man's right hand. At once, the snow beneath his feet is covered in burning liquid and creamy icing. But the man couldn't care less.
He's too busy tapping the blonde.
"Wake up, this isn't funny," He mutters, barely audible over roaring gusts. He receives no response, and slides the other onto his back.
Heavy.
A lot heavier than he had thought. But he collects himself (and regains his balance in the most dignified way possible) and carries the man insides. A smile twitches across his face.
"Just like old times, hm…?" There is no response, of course.
The brunette treks up the stairs to a closet, pulling out a few blankets before returning to the blonde's side. He tucks in the other man, and retires to a bulky, leather armchair in the corner of the room.
…
The blonde wakes up to a terrible head cold. He's staring up into the shimmering depths of a gold chandelier. He turns his head slightly, and catches sight of the brunette sitting stoically across from him on the opposite couch. He then turns his head back to the light fixture and says nothing.
In turn, the other man watches the blonde quietly, wondering if he should say something. Ultimately, he doesn't, and the quietness continues. It isn't an awkward silence, or event a contented one. It's just silence.
It would be hours before either one of the men spoke.
…
A/N: Well, I decided to start writing drabbles of my various headcanons, and I figured I'd start off with *ahem* Edelweiss.
Headcanon: Switzerland often waits outside Austria's house every evening to hear him play, even though the two rarely speak to one another.