It was why he played so much. Why he spent hours every day in that room, his fingers desperately dancing over the piano keys, forcing himself to keep playing, until, at last, his fingers began to bleed.
That awful, terrifying silence.
He was living in his worst nightmare. The echoes of past chatter bounced from the walls, the smiled and laughs and lies that had been the heart of the house, now just remained as crumbled memories in his head.
It had been a long time since his best friend left. The first to leave. He supposed that he'd been too useless, feeble, weak. He'd always screwed up everything, too tired to walk home, constantly relying on Switzerland like the useless, hopeless coward he was. He could no longer blame Switzerland for leaving him, giving up on their friendship. He would have given up on himself.
There was the Holy Roman Empire, with his endless pursuit of Italy. He could still remember the two of them running through the empty halls and tripping over their long clothes, remembered scolding them for being so careless. He recalled reprimanding Italy when the little girl, as he'd thought of her, did something wrong, and the warm swell of affection that rose in his chest, bubbling from his lips in a quiet, stifled laugh. They made the house less lonely and empty.
Then there was her. Hungary. He still smiled at her name. The aggressive, irritable, beautiful, caring country that had smiled as he played the piano and the words left unsaid. Whenever he fell ill, or got lost, she'd be the one to help him out. Every time life threatened to overwhelm him, she'd see through his facade and be by his side. The marriage may have been one of convenience, but not the valentines chocolates, the anonymous flowers, the shy smiles, reddened cheeks, entwined hands, constant presence, piano playing...and the fact that, in secret, he had fallen to his knees begging the Allies to let her stay.
And now the house was silent. No more Switzerland, Holy Rome, Italy or Hungary. Just a lonely man in a ghost filled house, with the blood from his fingers dripping onto the ivory piano keys, waiting for the one he loved to come back.
It felt pathetic that he waited every time, though she was never anything but on the hour. A small smile quirked his lips, and he ignored the pain as the skin nearly split as it moved.
He had only to wait until Hungary came back. She always did. The silence was kept at bay.
"She promised." He heard a small, childish voice in his head insist. Maybe they'd go to the park, or a cafe or stay and fill the silent house with laughs and memories about the past. She'd come and throw open the curtains, and embrace him with a smile, ignoring the bandages on his bloodied hands. She'd speak like it was still 'old times', like there was no quiet, like he wasn't going to go insane without her.
And every time she left, she wouldn't say goodbye, simply "See you soon, Roderich. Szeretlek." And she'd smile as she turned away, waving over her shoulder and never looking back. There was no need. Because she'd return soon and fill up the silence in his house.
"Ich liebe dich auch, Erzebet. Für immer und ewig."
And there was no more they needed to say.