Author's note: Past FrUK, implied Frain, past Spaus, AusHun, past RuHun, past RuFin, past(ish) SuFin, and SuNor.
Based on (and opening quote and title) taken from Beth Orton's « Pieces of Sky ». I picked some of my favorite ships, threw in some angst, and tied it all together with a pretty bow.
These memories are just pieces of sky
Pieces of something much bigger than I
To anyone else just endless blue
I see time framed, an image of you
1.
He hears that laugh, that laugh he has both despised and loved, sometimes at the same time. He hears it and chances to look up and at that his eyes meet Francis's but Arthur doesn't have the strength to look away. He doesn't know that he's ever been strong enough for that.
A hand on the Frenchman's elbow draws the republics attention away and for a moment all Arthur can do is admire the man's jaw, how blue his eyes are, the effortlessness of that blond hair pulled back simply. His suit is impeccable; Francis's clothes have always been impeccable, whether Roman garb when they were children or medieval tunics or shining armor across the battlefield. Arthur always preferred him in breeches partially because Francis has fantastic legs and partially because the wars were less violent then. They were able to meet in secret locations, far from armies and spies, and make love quickly but quietly.
Francis laughs again, his whole face lighting up. How many others have had the slut? How many others has he convinced that he loved the way he convinced Arthur? There's always been a voice shouting it's different with the English nation, and he knows it is, he knows Francis's voice of honesty and he feels the difference. Yet while that voice is desperate and broken, the voice shouting that Francis is a whore who would sleep with anyone to get what he wants, or worst just because: that voice is louder.
He quits the room before anyone sees his futile tears.
2.
Antonio watches Arthur leave and maybe he should feel more guilty; he knew the Brit was watching when he took his friend's attention away, but the Spaniard doesn't care. And with the English nation gone he can sling an arm around Francis's waist and kiss his jaw and the man laughs so those around them do as well.
Because in the distance he can see Roderich, an arm low around the Hungarian nation. He can see the way the Austrian smiles at her, how he blushes at something she whispers and how he smoothly goes for a kiss. Antonio can imagine the mewl that elicits from Erzsébet whom he gets along with fine until he remembers that Roderich once loved him above all others, and that Erzsébet has replaced him.
He loved Roderich. Maybe he still does.
Doesn't matter anymore though. Not really.
3.
His ears perk at her soft sigh but Ivan doesn't need to turn around to know that fucking Austrian was the one who was eliciting the sound, doesn't dare take his eyes off his sisters conversing quietly. His restraint lessens each day he sees Erzsébet, each time she smiles or winks and those things aren't his and his alone. The Russian had fought all meeting his desire to flip the table and throw her over his shoulder and steal her away, his forever once more.
They used to be happy, he tells himself again. They used to be happy in that miserable system because they had each other. Erzsébet was different, not because she was a woman but because she was unafraid. She could look him in the eyes back then as she challenged his authority and even Ivan's sisters couldn't always do that. They could never hold their ground and call his bluff because with everyone else he would lash out, striking them down for such insolence.
Somehow he could never hit Erzsébet.
Perhaps whatever once tied her to the Austrian had been retied; perhaps the invisible string had never been severed. But Ivan knows they are still connected too, knows that when he stands she looks away purposely: not the way Feliks and Timo do, not to spite him, it's too different. It's as if she must deny herself the pleasure of looking at him, of feasting her eyes on someone she once claimed to love. She could have been using him, Ivan knows, but no one has ever tried to do that to him before, to make him love them to use him. She was brilliant, though, cunning.
Fellow nations had immediately flocked to her, once she was set free: because she's Hungary, because she's Erzsébet, because she's a friend, because they can trust her. They flew from Ivan to that beautiful thing as if she had never left, as if what they had been had all counted for nothing.
Perhaps it had.
4.
Berwald watches the way Timo's eyes keep darting to the Russian. He watches them linger when the Finn thinks no one is watching, he watches how the one he once loved and prized above all over stares. The Swede doesn't miss Timo scribbling something in Russian.
They used to fight in the beginning; he'd wake to Timo trying to stab him, grabbing the smaller man's arms and pinning him down. Maybe he broke Timo and that's why the Finn gave in to his advances, though Berwald would like to think his companion over five centuries came to see something compassionate in the Swede instead. Much more romantic that way.
He could reach out and touch Timo right now; they are married, after all. He could do it.
Berwald doesn't dare.
5.
Lukas hears the breathing beside him change, hitch, and he silently curses Berwald for still being in love with fucking Timo. What did the Finn have that he didn't? He wasn't nearly as beautiful as Lukas, nor as fit, nor as tall. He was a borderline alcoholic as far as Lukas was concerned, a loose gun who had spent too much time being kept by Berwald and Ivan to be trusted. Oh Finland itself was a fine country, the Norwegian would never argue that, but Timo he refused to trust in the least because of that anger the Finn always kept bottled up. Lukas knew that anger was a danger to them all, just as his own was.
Why couldn't Berwald let go? Why couldn't the idiot Swede see that Lukas was here, and better, and his? The three once-Vikings had made a pact, a millennium earlier, that no matter what happened between their countries, who they were as men and what relationships they pursued would be independent of the politics. Why was Lukas the only one who remembered?
A hand runs up the Swede's thigh resting beside his own leg, hidden by the table they were still sitting at. Berwald barely reacts as Lukas continues to read the paper on his iPad, his hand moving to cup the large kingdom.
Hot breath whispers in his ear, "What are you doing?"
What was he doing? He was taking back what should rightfully be his! Oh the Norwegian wasn't nearly as heartless as everyone thought him; he could see all around the room the longing faces as nations looked upon nations, the hurt and the desire left unspoken. Even the ones who didn't look, who tensed, who simply were thinking of lost loves, Lukas could see those too. What was he doing? He was quitting years of stupid pining in favor of action. The only risk in trying was losing, where not trying meant inevitable lost.
Lukas turns his head quickly, too quick for Berwald to move, and steals his lips for his own. Tongues meet before the kiss ends abruptly. The Swede looks left: Timo had been watching Ivan; the Norwegian looks right: Christen and Emil had been looking out the window.
"And what was that?" the man whispers in his ear and Lukas smirks his signature look of smugness before turning his head lazily and groping Berwald's half-stiff cock again.
"What was what, beloved?"