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]
One Slice Too Many
February, 1945
"Deutschland, I've made Sachertorte." Austria didn't bother knocking as he entered the other nation's office. "I was forced to make substitutions due to shortages, but I'm certain you shall enjoy it."
The blond merely grunted in response, shuffling a stack of paperwork. Other than that, he made no other motion of acknowledgment. Lips twisting in a frown, Austria set the small plate down and crossed his arms. "You'll have to accept my apologies; it's rather dry, and there wasn't any cream to be found."
Another grunt, this one obviously closer to annoyance than acknowledgment as Germany turned his head to slide the papers into a red folder, the banker's lamp on his desk shading his face half in darkness.
He waited another moment, and when Germany didn't move to try the cake, huffed a bit and crossed to lean against the wall and watch him. "I wonder... if I stand here and speak to you, will you even listen? Shall we test it?"
Silence. The hiss of paper sliding against smooth wood as Germany pulled a pen from the holder and clicked it once in preparation for the next report.
"They're coming, you know." Austria sighed and crossed his arms tighter, staring out the window as if to look eastward, or westward, but... it only faced north. One of the few directions they were relatively safe.
If anywhere could really be considered safe. "The Soviets are on my borders. I shall likely be leaving your house soon."
Click, click went the pen as Germany checked its ink by scribbling quickly on a spare notepad before starting to neatly fill out the form. His back remained ramrod straight, blue eyes focused only on the black ink filling in the spaces.
Austria's lips twitched, gaze catching the faintest remains of the red sunset from the opposite sky tainting the northern indigo. "How is Italien? Have you spoken with him recently?"
This paused the German's pen, but only for the slightest of moments before he continued to write, offering a non-committal grunt. It was enough to attract Austria's attention again, and he tilted his head with a bitter twitch of lips that in other days might have resembled a smile. "Well, even if you've forgotten everything else, you still care for Italien... I suppose that's something."
Keeping his arms crossed, Austria crossed the room to the yet-untouched cake. "Have you spoken with your boss? As I understand it, he's not reacting well to visitors."
A twitch this time, the sound of pen scratching out of rhythm in a solid line across the white as Austria lifted the cake and took the fork for himself, slicing a thin bite and licking the fork clean with practiced indifference. He'd become accustomed to hiding everything behind a veneer of politeness and unconcern that he wasn't quite sure what he'd do if he were to suddenly be forced to lay the truth bare. ...Hungary had always kept him from reaching this state; something about the brightness of her smile kept him from retreating behind a veil of bitterness.
Hadn't we had enough with the Great War? Austria swirled his fork in the thin layer of chocolate syrup he'd managed to procure and drizzle over the plate as he studied it carefully. If he mixed it enough, he could almost imagine he could see his own face reflected in its glossy surface, worn, haggard, abused by smoke and fire and bomb and death, far too many deaths. Hadn't we seen how different the world had become? He flipped the fork over to absently draw four lines across the plate, stainless steel screeching softly against white porcelain. As he glanced up at Germany, he couldn't blame the other man... after all, it was partially Austria's own fault that Europe had become the way it had, its mess of treaties and alliances that only meant that things were no longer solved the way they were.
If he weren't careful, he might eat the entirety of the cake for himself. Setting the slice down, he remarked casually, "Perhaps I should return to Vienna. I'm certain the Allies would appreciate a cake like this, poor as it is." If they don't simply take it for themselves.
Germany's face had regained its own impassiveness, but with a small, bitter smile, Austria noted a slight tremble in the other's frame. The pen looked as if it might snap from the pressure applied by the German's fingers, but his handwriting remained impeccable. As expected.
Austria sighed and crossed his arms, adjusting his glasses as he turned and made as if to leave. Pausing with calculated intent with his hand on the doorknob, he mentioned, "I haven't seen your brother today. Lounging about like a fool, I expect."
Finally, the sound of pen hitting the desk as Germany set it down. Careful to hide his smile, Austria turned slightly to see the blond glaring at him, weariness lurking behind but not dimming the fury in his blue orbs. "Don't speak about mein Bruder like that, Ostmark," he all but snarled. "He's out on the battlefield. Defending your borders, which you seem so concerned about."
"Oh lovely, I feel safer already." Releasing his grip on the doorknob, Austria turned and shook his head. "You'll have to forgive me, but I have my own people to take care of. I cannot – will not – stay in this house any longer." Not with this emotionless shell that was once Germany. In the beginning... perhaps. No longer. Not when he doesn't even believe we can triumph.
"Farewell, Deutschland." With an abbreviated nod, Austria opened the door and left, shoes clicking softly against the hallway's carpet.
The house was almost completely deserted now, and all the carpeting in the world couldn't muffle the echo of his leaving, following the same path others had taken before him. Smoothing the front of his uniform as he walked, he tried to ignore the large paintings, the blood red flags emblazoned with the swastika that adorned every wall in some fashion or another. Most of the lights were off to conserve energy, especially at this time of night, and as Austria descended the large staircase to the entryway, he reflected that, if it were not only the two of them in the house, he might never have heard the telltale click of a cocked pistol.
The sound echoed even more so than his footsteps, an out-of-key note in an otherwise flawless performance. Pausing on a middle stair, Austria let his hand fall from the banister, holding them both out, open to the side and clearly visible.
"I cannot let you do that." Germany's voice was the most intrusive thing yet, barking orders as if Austria were a mere soldier to hop to and follow commands.
Glancing over his shoulder, Austria might have laughed. In the semi-darkness, the only things that were readily visible were the piercing, uncompromising blue of the German's eyes, and the silent gleam of electric light reflecting off the gunmetal of the pistol held easily in one hand. "You wouldn't dare." He turned slowly, calmly, making his way down the stairs with the same grace he would have used had he merely been descending into a formal party. Germany wouldn't shoot him.
The crack echoed like thunder as something whizzed past Austria's ear, and he stopped cold, heartbeat suddenly rising in his throat as his grip tightened on the banister. Oh. Perhaps I was mistaken. Really, his mind was far too calm for the fact that he'd just been shot at by the young man he had raised, had joined in his foolish wars, had...
Germany wouldn't shoot him.
The Greater German Reich would.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?" he demanded, voice shaking more with anger than fear as he turned and started to walk up the stairs, heedless of the warning cock of the pistol as Germany leveled it again. "You cannot simply force me to stay here when the Soviets are–"
"Ostmark." Germany's tone hadn't changed since the shot as he kept the pistol leveled at the other's chest. "You won't die from a shot like this, but you will be incapacitated. Don't force me to do this." His eyes flickered oddly, and Austria's heart leapt into his throat. He could have sworn, for just a moment, he saw an unspoken please.
Austria stopped where he was, one foot on the next step as he glared up, tugging at the collar of his uniform as if it were strangling him. "I do not have a place here any longer, Deutschland. You have just proven that. You may keep your own people under rule with such tools as that, but you shall not do the same to me and mine." Crossing his arms, he tried to maintain an air of injured dignity that he wished was the only emotion he felt. "Tell me, did Preußen do the same thing? Did you force him to protect you at gunpoint? I wonder how many of his people are dying right now thanks to the Sovie–"
"Will you shut up, Österreich?" Pushing the hammer back into position, Germany let the muzzle of the pistol fall to point toward the floor, running his other hand through his gelled hair in the epitome of frustration.
"No, I shall not 'shut up.'" Austria kept his arms crossed, refusing to allow the sound of his name to sway him as it might have in the past. He didn't have time for this desperation, he could not afford to play aide to a falling emperor, no matter how much he cared–! "At this point, all I can do is speak, yet you pay no attention. I have been warning you that I shall be forced to leave your house, whether it is my wish or no, and now that I am leaving do you finally pay attention? Think for a moment!" Gott, this tie...he tugged at the uniform's tie, loosening the knot enough to pull it free. Holding it in one hand, he examined the thin fabric before letting it flutter to the floor. "I have stayed as long as I am able, Deutschland." Turning again, he stiffened, almost expecting the sharp, screaming bite of a bullet in the back as he resumed his deliberate march down the stairs.
"Please." Weary defeat was plain in Germany's tone, accompanied by the thunk of pistol falling to threadbare carpet. "Österreich..."
He almost didn't hear the quiet plea. "Don't leave me alone here."
Foot on the final stair, Austria paused, not daring to turn and see the expression on the other's face. For a moment, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hearing in Germany's voice the same tone he himself had used when Hungary had left his house, mere decades before. "Großdeutsches Reich... You have... my sincerest apologies."
And he left, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed through the house with more power than the pistol's shot. Standing at the landing of the stairs, Germany stared at the door, to where Austria's back was, had to be, before sinking to the floor and resting his head in his hands with a hoarse, hollow coughing laugh tinged with madness.
This house, slowly crumbling around him, was far too large for one man.