The warm, subtle fragrance of tea filtered through the almost deserted house, tickling his nose as he rolled over and buried his nose in his pillow with a smile. Feliciano must have forgotten that he'd requested coffee, and Elizaveta must... have...

Roderich's smile faded into his pillow as he opened his eyes, a familiar sinking loneliness settling into its place in the pit of his stomach. It had been years since Elizaveta had lived with him, and even longer so since Feliciano had worked for him. His smile tried again for his lips at the memory, but quivered there for only a moment before vanishing into a forlorn sigh. With only the slightest bit of difficulty, he rolled over and sat up, blankets pooling around his waist as he propped his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands.

Small specks of dust drifted through the air, shimmering softly in the sunlight beaming through the large window. Roderich turned his head and glanced toward it with a frown, knowing that he must have closed the curtains before going to bed last night. The sunlight shone off the dark mahogany floor and trickled into the bathroom's partly ajar door to gleam off the gilded surface of the mirror within. From the bed, one would be hard-pressed to see how worn the gold paint actually was, how badly in need of dusting or even the smallest amount of care the house was. There had once been legions of servants from ethnicities across Europe to do that for him.

Bong tolled the grandfather clock downstairs, its tone just slightly out of tune.

Now the house was simply a remnant of times long past, far too large for the single man within its walls.

Roderich let the bell finish tolling seven more times, its melody echoing through the house and sounding even lonelier than he...

He pursed his lips and forced himself out of bed with only the slightest wince of pain, hobbling over to the bathroom but feeling himself straighten with every step. This century had not been kind to him or his German kin, and it didn't look to get any better. With the way events had been progressing, Roderich wouldn't be surprised to find himself embroiled in yet another war thanks to America and Russia. Unsurprised... but very disappointed. With a dry laugh that was in no way humorous, he wiped his face with a wet washcloth and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were still lined with red from the smoke in the air, and the deaths of his people, and his body ached in ways it hadn't since the Great War... but, he mused indifferently, staring at himself in the mirror, it wasn't as bad as it could be. He wasn't bound in a wheelchair this time, nor was he in the same state as Germany...

His fingernails scraped against the porcelain as he clutched at the countertop. Or Prussia. Or Hunga...

He immediately stopped that train of thought and swept back into his bedroom to dress himself. It was only as he was straightening his cravat that he paused to smile mirthlessly at himself in the mirror. The world had left him behind as surely as it had abandoned his favorite piece of clothing, but... well, the day he surrendered his way of life would be the final end of Austria itself, and he would never allow that to happen.

It was only as he made his way down the stairs, still straightening the cravat to his satisfaction, that he paused, the smell of tea that he'd thought he'd imagined only growing stronger as he approached the kitchen.

Times certainly have changed...

Roderich coughed and stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Guten Morgen, Herr Kirkland," he greeted stiffly, not bothering to switch into English for the other man's benefit. His minor rudeness was inconsequential compared to the sheer gall of breaking in and–

"Ah, good morning, Roderich." Arthur looked up from the morning's newspaper with a smile and a polite nod as if it were no problem he were making himself at home at Roderich's kitchen table.

And according to the conditions laid out at the end of the war, it wasn't. Ah, he had almost allowed himself to forget that every month his occupiers changed, giving them free reign over his home however they pleased. Arthur had been fairly reasonable about it, but next... next would be...

"Breakfast?" Arthur offered a plate with a slice of buttered toast. "The bread was stale, so I took the liberty of toasting it. Hope it's not a bother."

Roderich gritted his teeth and ignored the sound of his stomach rumbling, allowing his severe look to speak for himself. "My people are starving, Herr Kirkland. You'll forgive me for not having fresh bread at the moment. But please, enjoy it."

Arthur perhaps looked the tiniest bit guilty as he took the bread back and set the plate down with a sigh. "The war wasn't easy on any of us, either."

He merely raised his eyebrow without uncrossing his arms, leaving his expression to convey the amount of consideration he took. Roderich may have been an aristocrat once, but as he swept through the kitchen to sniff disdainfully at the boiling mess Arthur had made of his scant tea leaves, he couldn't bring himself to bother with manners. Perhaps when England was partitioned into four pieces and his people rioted in the streets of London for a lack of food, perhaps then he would consider it.

Not before.

"Is there something with which you need my assistance?" The unspoken, if not, then kindly show yourself to the door chilled the air between them as Roderich opened the glass cabinet and started to reach for a teacup before pausing. A clear circle of mahogany shone amidst the dust where Arthur must have removed his own teacup. His hands shook just the slightest bit at the sight as he pulled a matching cup and saucer from the shelf, wondering when the last time was he had bothered to use the fine porcelain. Not for years.

It likely hadn't been cleaned since he'd gone to live with Ludwig. Roderich shook his head and rinsed the teacup in the sink before pouring himself the boiling liquid and sipping gingerly. Perhaps Arthur's cooking had improved; it was tolerable. Or maybe it was enough that he hadn't made himself a proper cup of tea for far too long. At this point, he would gladly eat all the scones Arthur could muster if it meant his people would receive one decent meal.

Roderich veiled his distaste and sat stiffly at the table across from Arthur, one eyebrow raised as he waited for an answer. The other nation was uncharacteristically swirling a finger in his teacup, hinting that the liquid had long since grown cold.

"Just thought I should let you know that we're going to stop by later," he stated, expression cooling to match Roderich's own. "I happened to be in Vienna, and the others will be by later this afternoon."

"A phone call would have sufficed." Roderich stared evenly at him over the rim of his teacup, saucer held delicately in the other hand in half-remembered elegance of another era. "I'm not quite at the point where I can no longer afford to receive calls, but I do appreciate your consideration. How is Prussia, by the way?" He deliberately didn't call the other –former– nation by its new name, leaving that to Arthur. Did you enjoy taking his very name and people from him? East Germany... He barely restrained a contemptuous snort.

As if he'd know. The only one who could answer that was Ivan. And Roderich sincerely doubted that Ivan and Arthur were on the best of speaking terms at the moment.

Arthur gritted his teeth and set the teacup down with a clatter atop the saucer. "You know, you make it bloody difficult to carry on a civilized conversation, Roderich. Between you and Ludwig, I'm starting to wonder if you're worth the effort at all."

"Hm. Quite." He closed his eyes and smiled without mirth as he set his own teacup down atop the saucer with far more care. His hand trembled once, producing the quietest clink that would have earned him a glare from any true nobleman. "Thank you for the notice, Herr Kirkland, I shall attempt to prepare something with which to entertain you. Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

A scowl twisted across the other man's face as he rose to his feet. Roderich was half-surprised that Arthur didn't smash the teacup in frustration, but merely inclined his head quickly with something that might have been called an apology written on his face. "Until then."

"Ja." He raised his teacup and took a sip. "You obviously made your way in here easily enough, I'm sure you can see yourself out."

He waited until he heard the sound of the door slam shut behind him with enough force to rattle the cup on its saucer and the sound of footsteps crunching down the walkway before setting his teacup down and sighing. Guests. Announced guests, as a matter of fact.

A part of him simply wanted to go outside into the city and 'forget' that Arthur had informed him. Perhaps he'd even lose himself in the city and not return to his own home until long after the time which they were supposed to arrive. It wouldn't be difficult to get lost, but... with a sigh, he pushed back from the table and drank the bitter tea down to the dregs. They would be expecting that, and likely would go find him. It wasn't as if their soldiers weren't crawling all over his city and wouldn't be able to find him in a moment's notice. Gone were the days of simply ducking into anonymity; there was literally nowhere in Vienna he could go without seeing a soldier wearing someone else's flag.

He filled both teacups with water from the sink and let them soak, leaning back against the countertop with yet another sigh and a slight cough as he inhaled too deeply. There was no reason to make a good impression, but perhaps, if he were to impress his houseguests well enough, they would be able to allay their constant fear of uprising.

As if he were really in a state to be uprising against anyone.

So absorbed did he become in his cleaning that he barely noticed the creak of the door opening and shutting, and the heavy tread of booted feet audible on the threadbare carpet. It wasn't until he heard a cheerful, "Avstriya~" that he straightened abruptly, nearly striking his head against the lid of his piano and dropping the tuning wrench atop the strings. The sputter of notes was quickly muffled as he spun, hands held before him.

"Herr Braginsky." Roderich acknowledged him with a small nod, trying to calm his beating heart before bending back over the piano to retrieve the wrench and resume tuning. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment, I am in the midst of doing something."

"Da, certainly~" One could almost hear the smile spread wide across the other man's face as he crossed the room and perched on the edge of the piano bench near him. "It is good to be seeing you again, Avstriya. I am hoping to be enjoying my stay in your home."

It took all of Roderich's self-control not to drop the wrench again, several curses that were more at home on Gilbert's lips than his own rising to mind before quickly being squelched as he focused on nothing but the strings before him. "Ja," he answered neutrally.

He felt more than heard the other man rise to his feet and lean over his shoulder, his breath sending an unwelcome chill down his spine. "How is this to be working? I am afraid I am not being familiar with the piano."

This time one of Gilbert's curses slipped almost inaudibly from between his lips as he lost his grip on the wrench again. This was the man who had taken both Prussia and Hungary away from him... and while to anyone else, the loss of an irritant and an ex-wife would be more cause for celebration than anything else, to him it was as if pieces of his very being had been carved up and put into isolation. Roderich wanted nothing more than to turn and drive the wrench into the other man's eye, make him bleed and hurt like his soldiers had done to his people and Elizaveta's people and Ludwig's people and Gilbert's people...

"When you press a key," he said instead, voice carefully calm as always, "the hammers, here, strike a string. The vibrations produce a note, and the notes become music. The strings loosen over time, and one must occasionally tighten them to produce the correct sound. That is what I am doing right now."

"Ah, I see~" Ivan giggled once, very quickly. "Da, a piano is like people. Sometimes they are not correct, and must be fixed."

Roderich's stomach clenched, and he didn't dare answer as he extricated himself from the piano and set the wrench back in its box. "Would you like anything? I'm afraid there is not much to be had," with the food shortages and feeding and housing your soldiers, "but you're welcome to it."

"Ah, nyet, I am being fine." Ivan pulled away as he did and smiled once. "Amerika, Angliya, and Frantsiya will be joining us soon, da? Perhaps then I will be having something."

"Of course." He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to think about his friends, his lovers locked away behind Soviet borders as he gestured to the couch. "Please, take a seat. I shall return shortly, if you'll excuse me..." Without waiting to see if the other nation took his suggestion, Roderich retreated into the kitchen under the pretense of retrieving some kind of snack... if there was any to be had.

Within a few minutes, Roderich had boiled tea properly, and the other three had filtered in. Ivan still sat on the couch, all smiles as Alfred, Arthur, and Francis sat as far away as politely possible on the other side of the same piece of furniture. Alfred openly glared at the larger man, while Francis and Arthur at least had the dignity to properly ignore him. The Austrian snorted under his breath as he sat before the piano; it was almost as if they were afraid they were going to catch Communism as if it were a disease.

"If you'll excuse me," he repeated, inclining his head slightly. "I shall play a selection on the piano."

"Sounds good!" Alfred said quickly as Ivan opened his mouth, covering the other man's "Da~" "But do you have to play that classical crap?"

Roderich nearly rose to his feet in protest, eyes flashing, but Francis leaned over and lightly smacked the younger nation's knee. "Mon cher, do not disrespect the man in his own home. There is a certain value to be had. Perhaps you should give it a listen, oui?"

Anything Alfred could have said in retort was ignored as Roderich set his fingers to the keys and began to play. He'd chosen his ensemble carefully, beginning with one of his favorite composers and musicians, Chopin. His fingers lightly brushed the soft, deceptively quiet opening notes of Etude Op. 25 No. 1, nicknamed "Winter Wind."

Roderich paused for just the slightest of beats before launching fully into the heart of the song, fingers all but attacking the keys. With some satisfaction, he heard a quick, startled intake of breath from one or more of the four behind him, but he couldn't dedicate any more time to them than that as he poured himself into his playing in a way he hadn't done since before the wars. He couldn't speak, couldn't voice his protest against the Allied Powers, wouldn't dare revolt or rise against them, but through his music, he could channel the rage and pain of his people, the rage and pain that fueled song after song, from Chopin and Mozart to Bach and Beethoven. He refused the nocturne, turned up his nose at waltzes; no, for this impromptu performance, he poured everything into the rest, fingers numbing under the onslaught of the keys but he refused to stop, refused to give in or bow down.

Sweat dripped slowly down his nose and splattered lightly on the keys as he paused before launching into the final measures of Chopin's Scherzo No. 2, Op. 31, ending on a similar note as his opening song.

"Merci beaucoup, Roderich." Francis lightly dabbed at the corner of his eyes, earning him a disgusted glare from Arthur and a smirk from Alfred. "You haven't lost your touch after all these years. Ah, it takes me back..."

"Indeed." Roderich let his tone of voice speak for himself. In times before, he would have been pleased, would have felt the warm glow of satisfaction that came from a performance well performed, but he felt nothing but disgust for this, for performing for those who were, if not the enemy, were certainly not his friends.

He smiled, he graciously accepted their compliments and their false promises of better conditions, their small talk. And as the sun set, he politely showed them the door.

He sat before the piano again and rested his head in his hands and elbows on the keys. The keys let out a sympathetic bang! of protest, screaming his own frustrations for him.

"Are you being sick, Avstriya?"

He jolted upright to come face to face with Ivan, so quiet that he'd forgotten he was there. The larger man smiled, unperturbed at the fact that Roderich had to lean away to keep from bumping noses. "I would hate for you to be becoming sick."

"I'm fine," he all but snarled, nerves wearing to the point where they were almost as threadbare as his clothing. "Is there anything else you require of me?"

"Mm..." Thankfully, Ivan leaned away, bringing a gloved hand to his lips in careful contemplation. "I much enjoyed your performance, but I noticed there were no songs of my homeland. You are to be knowing some, da?"

"Ja." His nostrils flared.

"Ah, that is good!" Ivan never lost his smile as he made himself comfortable on the very edge of the couch, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. "I would much be enjoying something of home, da?"

Roderich felt like he was going to be sick as he lightly touched the keys. He didn't tell the other man that he was sitting where Gilbert always sat, or that only Gilbert and Elizaveta were so bold as to request something from him. It took a moment's thought, then his eyes flashed. "This is a piece intended for full orchestra, but I believe you'll enjoy it the piano arrangement." His voice remained outwardly smooth even as his insides roiled.

Fingers fluttered over keys with no attempt of hiding his emotions, each key being struck with all the force he could muster until his muscles trembled and a cold sweat ran down his back. The "March Slave," written as a Russian patriotic song, but all he could think as he beat the tune out of the piano was Gilbert and Elizaveta under this man, this smiling giant's iron fist, being played, being tuned to the key this man wanted them to be.

And when he was finished, he didn't try hiding his glare, violet eyes meeting violet as he stared at the other man, breath coming slightly hard. "Where are they?" he dared to question. "Gilbert. Elizaveta. Prussia. Hungary. What have you–"

"Tchaikovsky, da?" For once, Ivan's face was completely bare of his childish smile. "You are to be liking him?" He stood and crossed over to the piano, thoughtfully pressing one of the keys.

"Gilbert and Elizavet–" he repeated, half-rising to his feet.

Ivan reached out and took him by the chin, smile back on his face but his voice deadly serious. "I am liking how you play that song," he whispered without looking away from Roderich's eyes. "But not how you are speaking."

Roderich was struck speechless by the sheer chill Ivan's eyes, tensing under his touch as he squeezed his chin before releasing him with a snap.

"You are to be playing it again, da?"

It might have been spoken as a question, but Roderich didn't dare protest. The strains of Russian patriotism echoed around the two in an otherwise empty house.

Occupation of Vienna: post-WWII, Austria and Vienna itself were separated into four sections, each controlled by the four main Allied Powers, France, Britain, America, and the Soviet Union. In the early years of the occupation, Vienna was declared an "international zone;" each month the "occupier" of Vienna would change to a different Allied Power.

Marche Slave: "Slavonic March," written by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in 1876, was composed as a patriotic song to support the Serbians in their war against the Ottoman Empire.