A/N: Part of meine Familie, the collection of Hetalia fics that will, hopefully, trace the German family from the beginning of Austria to present day.

Note on names: Because of frequent changes in name that occurred through the centuries, I've chosen to use the German translation of each country's name in dialogue (current to the time), and the English name in prose.

[meine Familie]

Between Dusk and Dawn

March, 1946

Austria sat back in a plush upholstered armchair and carefully read through the sheaf of papers in his hand by the light of a lamp to his right. The fireplace crackling obtrusively through the otherwise silent room provided the only other light, to his shame. There weren't the resources to waste in Vienna right now on unnecessary electricity.

He only read the papers through once, but he turned back to the first page and pretended to read it again to give him time to think.

Composing words was far more difficult than composing music. Violet eyes stared blankly through plain glass as he flipped through the speech again. An iron curtain has descended across the Continent, indeed... a skilled composer of words, this one. Fascinating that one such man would put it into words so eloquently whilst dismissing that he himself is one of those keeping that curtain strong.

Every day, every hour he could feel the beat of the boots of foreign soldiers in his city, in his country. With the end of the war, England, France, America, and Russia had seen fit to divide in him four among them. His whole country was drawn and quartered, Vienna sectioned even further.

In 1943, they had declared him Germany's first victim. Yet, pray tell, how was this occupation different from Anschluß?

Ah, yes. This time he hadn't even had the illusion of choice.

Well, such is war. He was too old and too world-weary to protest, body too racked with the pain of two World Wars within twenty years of each other. Even now, almost a year after war's end, he still felt the ache, sometimes a sudden spasm of pain that left him breathless, bent over the piano's keys or his desk, unshed tears pooling in his eyes as he struggled to breathe, just breathe–

A polite cough, and Austria immediately looked up and offered a small smile to his guest. He must have reached the end of the speech again and failed to continue reading, thus arousing the attention of the Englishman across from him.

"Well? What do you think?" England glanced at him over the rim of a teacup before taking a sip. He managed not to wince this time, for which Austria was grateful. He didn't need the reminder that his cuisine was hardly up to standard; thankfully, England only seemed to find the tea substandard. "He's magnificent, isn't he?"

There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. Austria raised a polite eyebrow and hummed lightly in response, setting the papers down with practiced indifference. He had heard this pride not too long ago. Mein Führer, Germany had extolled. Mr. President! America shouted. There was always a certain pride a nation took in his (or, as he thought of Hungary, her) leader. It must be nice, he reflected, having a stable government of which to be proud. "Herr Churchill is very eloquent," he said after a moment, sitting back in his chair and raising one hand slowly to push his glasses higher on his nose.

From the sour expression crossing the Brit's face, it was evident he'd expected more as he snatched the papers off the desk and all but thrust them under Austria's nose. "He's talking about you, man, didn't you read it?"

Lowering his hand from his glasses, Austria pushed the sheaf of papers down. "Please, refrain from touching me, England, I haven't the mood." He could feel a cough building in his chest, the kind that tightened his lungs and shortened his breath, along with the fluttering panic that this time, maybe, he would slump into unconsciousness from the lack of air. "You may sit on the far edge of Europe, my old friend, and look upon us from afar whenever you see fit, but please, do not think you know what it is for us here."

Carefully, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small white handkerchief, pressing it to his lips in a vain effort to stop the cough he knew was coming and closing his eyes. He didn't need to look to see the Englishman's eyes darken, lips twisting into an ugly scowl.

"Y-you German bastard, after everything we did for you, after everything you did to us–!"

Ah, there it was, the tightening of the throat that gave his voice that raspy, just-emerged-from-the-smoke voice. "Ah, I believe you decided it was entirely Deutschland who did that, yes?" Austria opened his eyes in time to see England lunge to his feet, and absently wondered if the other would grab him by the neck and throttle him. It would be a faster suffocation, if nothing else.

His face had taken on a flushed scarlet hue, shining in the firelit darkness. "You're sitting here after the war that you started, and you think we're not as poorly off? Your bombs, Austria, your precious Germany's bombs–"

Handkerchief still in hand, Austria spread his arms wide as if to encompass the entire house, and beyond, his entire country. Perhaps all of Europe. "Look around you, England, and tell me that we're not all suffering. Fool." And just as quickly, he brought the handkerchief to his lips, back spasming as he doubled over for a moment. "I was referring to your... your Iron Curtain." A soft, bubbling laugh tinged more on desperation than humor. "You know, the thing with curtains is that they tend to descend on something. Something on one side, something on the other. But if it is a thick curtain – as I am assuming this is intended to be – then, invariably..."

He trailed off there, stomach tightening and shoulders shaking as the cough built in his throat, finally exploding into a wet, ragged sound that couldn't be muffled behind the handkerchief. "So please," he managed, impatiently waving away England's hand as the other crossed as if to help him, "Do not think... that you can judge Communism from your comfortable home across the English Channel. Things here on the Continent are... different."

England stood there, towering above him as finally the cough subsided. Hands shaking ever so slightly, Austria started to fold the handkerchief, gesturing for the other to return to his seat. The other just shook his head and jammed his hands in his pockets with a scowl. "Sorry," he said, lip twisting into almost a sneer. "I don't take tea with Communists."

"Very well." Austria stood and closed his eyes as he smoothed the wrinkles in his shirt. "Allow me to fetch your coat, as we seem to be quite finished here." His throat seized up again as he leaned over to switch off the lamp, an aftershock of the earlier cough, but he merely walked ahead of the other country in the semi-darkness and retrieved his coat from the closet near the door and offered it to him. "He is a great writer, your Churchill."

England just scowled and ducked his head in acknowledgment before wrenching the door open and stalking out.

Austria stood at the doorway and watched him get in his car. The other was already inside before he even thought of turning on one of the outside lights; more the better, as then he would not need to waste the power. He was not quite offended; rather, as he touched a contemplative finger to his lips and watched the other pull away, he merely felt a faint sadness that things were coming to this.

~Ende~

Footnotes~

"Sinews of Peace" Speech: Written by Winston Churchill and delivered at Westminster College in Missouri, March 5, 1946. Commonly referred to as the "Iron Curtain" speech. He was *not* Prime Minster at this time, he was a member of Parliament, but he was still a major figure in the United Kingdom and the world.

additional notes~

Austrian government: Post-WW2, the Austrian government was basically up in the air; the Allied Occupation forces of the USSR, the UK, the US, and France still held the country itself.