This started out as something completely different and then morphed into... this. I apologise. I haven't written modern PruAus in about a year, so I'm a bit rusty. Also inspired by the new release comic, with flute!playing!Prussia, which had been my headcanon for years… but also a Prussia who is, potentially, no longer healing like he should be. I'm not altogether sure I like what this fic ended up being, but I haven't posted anything in awhile.

Prussia plays a transverse flute, like Frederick the Great did.

I've also decided that this is part of a lame series of one-shots I'm calling Persephone, but it very heavily references the events in fics such as These Bloody Days and The Dictionary of Fools. Mostly the first one. You need not read those fics to understand this one.

-x-

"Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, "My dear, my dear
It is not so dreadful here."
- Edna St. Vincent Millay

We Three Fools

Austria was used to warfare. He had been born into it, had grown up learning it, and even if he hadn't been as proficient as some might have wished he had still been strong enough to hold together the reigns of empires without crumbling in under a decade. For centuries he had been the seat of the Holy Roman Empire, and even with Haus Habsburg's eventual split from Switzerland he had remained strong, forging lengthy ties through a combination of strategic marriages and warfare which had carried him into a new world that, in retrospect, he hadn't been ready to accept.

It wasn't hard to admit that now. He had to. His empires were long gone, lost to the years and the centuries that had passed. There was no wedding ring around his finger now, no matching one on someone else's, and though there were times when he missed it he did not fall into fits of melancholy. He had kept going as he always had, pulling himself off of one bloodstained field and moving forward, refusing to bow before his opponents no matter how many times they tried to beat him back, no matter how many times they had tried to destroy his influence, to shorten the length of his grip.

And in the end, that was the difference between Prussia and the others. His past rivals had wanted to weaken him, but Prussia… Prussia had wanted to destroy him. He had wanted to beat him down, to make sure he never got up again, and Austria could remember when he first realised that: fighting one of the many bloody battles that they had waged against each other.

But he had never bowed to Prussia, and had never stepped back and acknowledged him as his better, even if he had been forced to look upon him as more of an equal as Prussia had led Germany away from him. Despite that, they had grown… Well, they had grown. They had been forced to grow, as all nations must, and in the years—the decades—that had passed them by Austria had felt the old anger chafe away, replaced by a grudging admiration for Prussia's care of the blonde child who had become Germany and a niggling sense of exasperated fondness. There were times when Prussia still irritated him, of course, and he would never deny that, but it wasn't as deeply entrenched in his lands, in his bones. Austria had learned long ago that sometimes one must let go of old grudges to force new relationships, and he had learned that lesson well.

There was an old resentment there when he saw how close Prussia and Germany were sometimes, one that occasionally sharpened his tone and made his rebuffs more cold, but he had been startled to find a knowing light in Prussia's eyes when that came about, a downturn to his mouth that spoke of chasms and empty fields and a tentative respect between two rivals. That Prussia loved Germany with all the love one can feel for family was undeniable, and Austria had watched him grow, becoming a source of power that Prussia was undoubtably proud of.

Then the fool had gone and all but sacrificed himself for the boy, sacrificed himself for the man that boy had become, and that was the thought on Austria's mind as he stood outside the door to Germany's study, resting one hand against the wall as the flute music was followed by the sounds of voices, Germany's low and even and Prussia's loud and pushy until Germany's also rose to an alarming pitch, one that made Austria sigh briefly even as he fought down the brief flashes of fear. Austria's mind raced at the mention of the bite, the bite that he himself had noticed a week ago when Prussia had come in to filch something from the kitchen and then later, when the house had been silent and it was just the two of them sitting in the quiet peace they'd discovered they could achieve when Germany was a child.

The bite that was still there, that Austria knew Prussia had been trying to hide. He wondered for a moment what was worse: the fact that he had known Prussia was hiding it and hadn't pushed, or the fact that he had long suspected what Bismarck's policies had been doing to Prussia and done nothing. But why should he have? He had been married to Hungary then, thin-lipped to see Prussia's strength going to support the boy as Bismarck reinforced the new German Confederation. Austria doubted the weakening of Prussia had been Bismarck's intention, but it was a consequence all the same.

Yet when Prussia had been dissolved, when he had become nothing more than a name in the history books, he had stayed around. Austria had watched him for the telltale weakening that had plagued the Holy Roman Empire near the end, and had eventually contented himself when it wasn't there.

He had been a fool to think that it never would be.

He knocked on the door to the room, sharply requesting Prussia's presence before stepping back.

When Prussia exited the room Austria held his ground, watching as a myriad of emotions flickered across Prussia's face from shock to realisation to horror as he realised Austria had heard, and then to the anger that Austria had always known so well.

"Couldn't get enough of my awesomeness, little master?" Prussia said, reverting to the old barbs, but he clutched his hand close to his chest and wouldn't meet his eyes. Despite himself, Austria could feel the fear welling up in his chest, not debilitating but there all the same—fear for something he had seen before and been completely powerless to stop, mixed in with harsh rebukes against himself for not seeing it earlier.

"Let me see it, Prussia," Austria said firmly, holding out his hand, but Prussia just laughed and took a step back, something that was, in and of itself, concerning.

"It's fine, little master. Just a scratch. West's dog just couldn't handle my presence," he insisted, and Austria sniffed disdainfully, covering the concern with a shake of his head.

"You know I know."

Prussia froze, every muscle in his body going still, his lungs following suit until Prussia needed to breathe again, whereupon he sucked in a breath and darted his eyes to the study door he had just closed behind himself. Austria followed his gaze, and for a moment they just listened to the silence that came from the other side of the large wooden doors, though they knew Germany wasn't likely to hear them out here. Finally Prussia scowled, his shoulders hunching forward, and Austria's mouth thinned at the sight.

When Prussia stomped off down the hall and stopped to gesture harshly at him Austria stiffened, his eyes narrowing before he swallowed his pride and followed the other nation down the hall, where he was immediately pulled into the room that the Prussian called his own: a modestly large chamber kept in an impeccable state of cleanliness, a trait Austria had not been surprised to find in the more militaristic nation all those years ago. He had spent more time in this room than he cared to think about, talking quietly in the dark like they'd never been able to before and, yes, arguing on multiple occasions. He glanced at the empty instrument case that sat on the trunk at the end of Prussia's bed.

"You gave him your flute," Austria said as Prussia slammed the door, and though the other man's back was to him Austria could see the way his muscles tightened, the way his grip on the door handle turned his already pale knuckles almost translucent.

"So what?" Prussia said, punctuating the words with a laugh, but the words were shaky. "I've had it for a long time, y'know. It's about time he learned to play it properly. Priss," he added at the last second, but for once Austria didn't rise to the bait.

He knew the significance of that flute. Of course he did. He and Maria Theresa had despised everything about that vile man, Frederick—the one who had turned Prussia from an almost insignificant piece of land to one of Europe's foremost players—but even Austria had not been able to deny the man's talent with instruments. Prussia didn't have to tell him where the beautiful transverse flute he played had come from, for Austria already knew, and God knew they had all lived together long enough that Austria had heard Prussia play, had even been offered one of Prussia's private concerts before on occasion.

And he could not deny that the other nation played beautifully.

Prussia drew in a shaky breath, even as he turned to Austria with his cocky, trademark smirk on his face. The effect was ruined when he glanced at his hand, curling his fingers into the palm even as his fingers encircled the wrist the injured hand belonged to, rubbing it. Austria had commented before on Prussia's fidgeting, especially when he was trying to read and Prussia wouldn't stay still.

He found he couldn't bring himself to do that now.

"It's nothing. Just taking a little longer to heal, is all. You know how it is. Anyway, I'll be fine! The awesome Prussia isn't about to be brought down by a little scratch," he declared, but there was fear in his eyes, fear that Austria could see even from where he stood a metre away, and it was that fear that almost stole his breath away. He suddenly felt like he had been walking for too long, and he couldn't help the sharp breath he sucked in, something that drew another wavering smirk from the former kingdom in front of him.

The idea that Prussia could be dying was absurd to him. For centuries, ever since the day Prussia had stolen Silesia from him, he had wanted nothing more than for the other nation to go away, to crawl back to the dirt that had birthed them all, but now that he was faced with the very real possibility of his centuries-old wish coming true he found he did not want that, not when they had settled as they had, familiarity even breeding a modem of affection for the other man on Austria's part, and something must have showed on his face for Prussia was quick to snort, slumping bonelessly into the couch right by the window. Austria could feel the old ire rising within him, the same anger and irritation that had driven him to fight back even when Prussia continued to beat him.

"You fool," he said, his voice cutting sharply in the otherwise quiet atmosphere. "You complete and utter fool, Prussia. What have you done?"

What has Bismarck done to you?

Prussia laughed, but he looked almost panicked now, his expression pale as he tried to push it aside. Austria's eyes narrowed, his mouth thinning, and he reached out and seized Prussia's hand like Prussia had done to him too many times to count. But Austria pressed no mocking kiss to the skin, only holding the pale hand in his own, but Prussia must have seen something for he started speaking rapidly, punctuating his words with more pauses and awkward words like "um" and mixing them with insults.

"Isn't it worth it?" Prussia said, and something in his tone made it sound like he was begging. "He's so strong, strong like you never could have made him! He's… he's everything I wanted him to be. He's everything I promised myself he would be when I—"

"I know," Austria said, cutting him off. His mind flickered to that day over a century ago, standing in the fields near Sadowa as Prussia had led the childlike Germany away from him, forming a new Confederation that had pushed him to the sidelines even as he struggled to hold onto the rapidly shattering pieces of his own empire, of his own power, power that had eventually been stripped from him altogether after too many wars fought and lost. He remembered the loss that had ripped through him, surprised at his own affection for the child that was no longer his, the "brother" Prussia had claimed and won as his own. He remembered losing Italy, remembered passing Romano to Spain, remembered—

Remembered the Holy Roman Emperor standing in front of him, his eyes wide with unshed tears as he asked Austria why he wasn't healing as quickly anymore, why the cuts and bruises from being beaten on all sides by enemies were still bright and livid against his skin.

His grip tightened on Prussia's hand, but if the other nation noticed he was too distracted to comment. There was something terrible and open in Prussia's face now, so unlike anything he had ever seen before, and for once he didn't know how to respond. He wanted to berate him, to snap, to tell him that he had been a fool to listen to Bismarck, a fool to put so much faith in the man. Bismarck's policies had led to the strengthening of Germany, yes, but at the cost of Prussia himself, and none of them had done anything about it. That was the way the world worked.

He sat stiffly on the couch beside the other nation, exhaling sharply through his nose.

"You fool," he said, his voice softer this time, though the anger was still present. Prussia seemed to realise that Austria was still holding his hand, for his face quickly heated and his eyes snapped from that to Austria's face and back again.

"Who'd have thought the weak little master would outlast the mighty Prussia, huh?" he joked weakly, and Austria's grip tightened again. Prussia felt that this time and winced. "Hey, ease up, all right?" And Austria knew how much it took for Prussia to ask that, to reveal weakness to him, so he did so without comment, without berating him. Prussia looked him in the face then, and Austria didn't move.

"Didn't think I'd ever see you worried over me, Specs," Prussia said, and there was something in his tone that Austria couldn't quite place. He frowned.

"I'm not worried," he said, but Prussia's broken laughter told him his lie hadn't been bought.

"Did it hurt him? Dying. Did it hurt him?" Prussia then asked, and Austria didn't even need to think to know who Prussia was talking about. His mind flickered back to imagines of a young child dressed in black, and he could feel the aristocratic mask on his face cracking.

"You're not dying," Austria insisted, surprising himself with how sharp the words were, even though it could be nothing but, even though he was the one who had forced the issue by stating, so coldly, that he knew. He knew what Prussia's inability to heal meant, knew what was bound to follow if this continued, knew that, just like with the Holy Roman Empire, he wasn't strong enough to prevent it from happening.

"You can't tell West, of course," Prussia continued, as if he hadn't even heard. Flippant. "He can't know. He can't ever know. He can't know what Bismarck did, he can't know that the reason he—he can't know. He'll feel guilty, which is seriously annoying, and you have to promise me that you won't ever tell him."

"He's capable of finding out himself. You're not dying," Austria repeated, but Prussia only grinned that same grin he had been flashing for centuries, the one that had always made Austria's blood boil. Now it just made his chest hurt, an ache he had once felt for Spain, for Hungary.

"Y'know, I never thought you'd care. I used to want you to, y'know? I thought that if I could get you to notice me… well, hell if I know, but you didn't, so then… then I wanted you to acknowledge me. Not as a pest—and close your mouth, little master, I know you didn't like me, probably still don't sometimes—" a self-deprecating laugh "—but as an equal."

"Prussia—"

"Shut up," Prussia snapped. "Jeez, Specs, I'm trying to give you a heartfelt speech here. The least you could do is listen." Prussia scowled at him for a moment until, satisfied that Austria would not interrupt him again, he continued on. "We've got a lot of shit between us, y'know. And not all of it bad."

Prussia fighting like a man possessed against the forces of Napoleon's men, celebrating their victory by the fire; the soft, brief kisses, two of them, exchanged as enemies became allies against a greater threat. Years later, teaching Germany, raising Germany, and that one night where Prussia's anger had bled into something more primal and Austria had been pulled into it without protest. The victory against Denmark, fighting together once more instead of against one another, and the feeling of Prussia's arm around his waist as he shouted his victory into the air.

The years they had lived together since, arguing and fighting but still coexisting, an odd relationship of sorts blooming where, for Austria, there had once only been irritation and frank dismissal.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Not that I wouldn't do it all over, little master," Prussia said hastily. "The awesome me did love beating you into the ground. But, y'know, we had a good run. And maybe… maybe you aren't as weak as I always thought you were."

Austria knew his concern must be showing on his face, for Prussia promptly averted his own eyes before he said, in a voice so quiet Austria wouldn't have believed Prussia capable of producing had he not seen the other man's mouth move, "And maybe I still want you to care about me. Just a little."

His breath left him in a rush, his hands curling into cages on his lap. He was hyper aware of Prussia sitting beside him, aware of the weight of his eyes, a weight he had grown accustomed to for so long that the idea of them not being there anymore was daunting.

"I don't hate you, Prussia," Austria said then, voice quiet and soft, like the one he had used so long ago. Prussia smiled, but there was a sharp, knowing edge to it, and Austria inclined his head in place of a return smile. Prussia already knew. He wondered if he should have been surprised. "He did not feel much pain," he said then, keeping his tone even and controlled, shutting up the fractured and sharp edges that had made their appearance earlier. "One day he was just gone." After Napoleon was through.

"So that's what'll happen to me?" Prussia said, sneezing once. "Jeez."

Austria frowned and shrugged stiffly. "I suppose."

There was silence between them for a few moments before he heard a brief "thanks" from the former nation beside him. Austria inclined his head again, still trying to bring the emotions swirling in his chest under control, wondering how he had become so used to this life, so used to Prussia's presence, that he would miss him when he was gone. He had let the grudging respect grow slowly into affection, but even that affection wasn't new. He had felt it once, long ago, and if he closed his eyes he could almost see it: the three of them in the grass outside of the old estates, Prussia leaning with his back up against a tree as Austria demonstrated proper sword techniques to a young Germany, pride surging in his chest as Germany copied him. Pride that he had seen mirrored in Prussia's eyes when he had glanced up a few seconds later, pride that had turned to shock when Austria had smiled faintly at him. He had almost found the way Prussia sputtered amusing in that moment.

There was no amusement now, and summoning the aristocratic grace that was innately part of him, Austria lifted one hand and rested it lightly on Prussia's thigh.

"I won't tell him," he promised, not saying that he wouldn't have to. Germany was more than capable of looking back and figuring it out himself, if he hadn't already. Austria knew more than anyone that if he had been watching Prussia, waiting for him to disappear like Rome had, like the Holy Roman Empire had, that Germany and the other nations had been as well, but he wouldn't say that. Instead he lifted the burden from Prussia's shoulders, settling it on his own, a heavy but familiar weight. Prussia sagged visibly at that, sighing, but there was none of his usual confidence in the gesture, the confidence that had been trickling in and out since Austria confronted him outside of Germany's study.

"Good," Prussia breathed. "I… good. Thanks, little master." His face screwed up at the words, and Austria nodded, but then Prussia turned to him, grabbing the hand that Austria had placed on his person, and Austria could feel the calluses on the former nation's palm and fingertips as he flipped Austria's hand over in his own. Prussia leaned forward, his expression intense, his eyes narrowed with a soldier's determination.

"We had some good times," he repeated, and when he looked up at Austria's face it was all too clear what he meant. So when he leaned forward Austria let him, remembering a similar situation, more angry and tense. Prussia had learned since then, his kiss less clumsy and demanding, but he was no Spain, he was no Hungary. Yet Austria found he didn't mind, and it was no trouble for him to guide Prussia towards the right technique, as he had been guided himself once upon a time.

"I don't want this to be a pity fuck," Prussia said suddenly, breaking away. Austria grimaced.

"Don't be so vulgar," Austria said, and that seemed to be the only answer Prussia needed, for he laughed and pulled Austria up, kissing him again, arms going around his waist.

And this time, when Austria woke up the next morning, he stayed.

-x-

"Gently, West!" Prussia whinged, a scowl on his face that Germany matched, lowering the flute from his lips.

"This isn't a Ming vase, brother," he retorted, and from where he sat on the couch Austria sighed, causing both brothers to turn their heads towards him wearing twin expressions of irritation. Austria flipped the page of the book he was reading, ignoring their looks as he placed a bookmark in the margins before he closed the cover and rose to his feet.

"Raise the flute," Austria said patiently, watching as Germany did so with slow, deliberate movements, and for a moment he thought he saw a little boy raising a sword, and then a young boy sitting at the piano, but the images were gone almost as soon as he thought of them. When Germany had lifted the flute to his lips Austria reached out, adjusting Germany's posture, gently murmuring his instructions as Prussia watched with narrowed eyes, confusion written on his face. Austria raised a delicate eyebrow at him, sending him a slightly exasperated look as he stepped back, missing the way Germany's eyes followed him.

"I do watch you when you play, you know," he said, "and I did begin teaching him the piano." Prussia stared at him for a moment before grinning, slinging one arm around his shoulder as he chimed in with a quick, "Always knew you liked watching me, Specs." Austria rolled his eyes, but he didn't move, even if he didn't relax. His eyes flickered down to the former nation's fist, where the bite marks had at last faded, but that didn't change anything at this rate. They both knew.

Prussia's arm tightened for a moment, as if he knew what Austria was thinking, but the pointed clearing of a throat drew their attentions back to Germany, who was looking at them with a puzzled frown on his face, still in the position Austria had guided him into. Prussia sneezed, detaching himself and walking forward.

"Right then! Posture's fine now, so try again. You remember that first time my awesome self taught you, yeah? Muscle memory! Like firing a rifle."

"One does not play the flute as if they're firing a rifle, Prussia," Austria said, exasperated, but there was a small curve to his mouth.

"You're so funny, Priss," Prussia groused, but he was smirking.

Austria tuned them out after that, walking back to his seat, sinking gracefully onto the cushions. Prussia's time was fading rapidly, and they both knew there was nothing they could do about it. If Prussia was frightened it was in the early hours of the morning when Austria would wake up to see him standing by the window, biting his lip and wanting reassurance that he would never verbally ask for. Spain had done that, but while he had been able to coax Spain back to sleep it was more difficult with Prussia, so oftentimes the sun would rise with them both watching it, standing side-by-side in silence.

Austria never commented on the way Prussia would sometimes grab his hand, callused palm rubbing against his smooth one.

"And I suppose the priss might know what he's talking about," Prussia was saying now, rolling his own eyes as Germany lowered the flute, "so, hey, if I have to leave and, y'know, do awesome things at least you have him around. Isn't that right, little master?"

Austria looked up, and when his eyes met Prussia's he saw in them a level expression that he had never before seen, the eyes of a man who knew he was going to die but who was going to make damn sure his little brother was taken care of before he did, even if that little brother wasn't so little anymore. There was a twist in his own stomach at that, at the thought that Prussia was not only leaving Germany but himself as well, though he pushed that down, along with the blackness that rose with it.

"Yes," he responded.

And for the first time in weeks, Prussia smiled.