Hello, my dear readers! Firstly, I wish to thank every one of you who took the time to read my first and previous story, particularly those who were so kind as to mark it, or myself, with a following, favorite, or review. However, I should mention that it was intended to be a one-shot, so I sincerely doubt that it will be continued unless I decide to give it a sequel. I am sorry if you are disappointed by that, but I hope you might understand that Pianos, Prussians, and Thunderstorms was simply intended to act as an experiment to provide an answer to three inquiries - Can I write well? Which style should I write in? Am I able to write two very proud characters in a challenging situation while still keeping them in character rather than simply making them uncharacteristically romantic? I believe I have my answer to one of these questions, but I am still working on improving my writing and discovering which style to use that fits into the appreciation of modern society. On that note, I wish to give special thanks to two reviewers - Lawliness and ShiroiKarasuX. Both of these two offered me something invaluable. ShiroiKarasuX, you provided me with boosted self confidence and motivation, as I will admit to have used your review to brighten my day whenever I have found myself discouraged. Thank you very much, and I am more grateful than I can perhaps ever say to have brought a story to life in your mind! I would adore to read anything that you write! Lawliness, you have provided me with constructive criticism, which I desperately need. So often, I receive no feedback to provoke improvement simply because I use many details and words. My current literature teacher has informed me on multiple occasions that she cannot teach me anything and has stopped giving me any form of criticism whatsoever. I cannot express how refreshing it is to be told what I still need to do to improve. I am well aware that I ramble, I write too many details when they are not needed, and I partially blame this on being taught to write by the example of Charles Dickens during the years which I learned and remembered the most. Thank you very much, and I will do my utmost to shorten, if not eliminate, the unnecessary sections of my work!

Now that these expressions of gratitude are behind me, I will discuss the details of this story. Viennese Blue was an idea I created nearly a year ago, but could not write as I envisioned it. This is a greater experiment, of how well I can write these characters in an even more difficult situation, which style I should use, and how well I can write my first multi-chapter work. I do not expect this to be a well crafted story, though I will do my best to exceed my expectations. Each chapter will likely be more brief than my last story, but these will work as a piece of a complete story, while the last was a complete story by itself, so I personally feel that they should be shorter than any one-shot I might create. I may edit this story after it has been published, therefore I would greatly appreciate any advice you might have! However, if you would keep your criticisms constructive, it would be especially helpful. Additionally, this story will develop to incorporate PruAus, the romantic pairing between Gilbert Beilschmidt, Prussia, and Roderich Edelstein, Austria. However, you are free to view their relationship as you see fit. If you are uncomfortable with the idea of the usage of this pairing, I highly suggest that you find another story to read written by a more experienced author, as I would not wish you to force yourself to read something you know you will not enjoy.

Finally, an important trigger warning must be given here, as this work contains themes such as depression and self harm. If this bothers you in any way, please find another story now that will not upset you. With that in mind, thank you and I hope that you are able enjoy this work!

There were only a few objects scattered about the room. Firstly, there was a knife. The knife had caused so many problems and yet so many solutions, an endless paradox that seemed inescapable now that it had begun. Secondly, there was liquid. Vile, repulsive liquid that stuck to the floor, the furniture, and everything else in its path, a sole drop falling to the floor every few seconds for the last hour. Too much of it. It filled the room in a chaotic result of a disaster. It was all too much. That was all the third object in the room knew. It was too much, and yet, too little. All that was left was the suffocatingly large destructional trail of chaos, everything spun out of control, far beyond the point of redemption. Where was the order? It had to be there, as order is, at least as he saw it, eternally inescapable, a necessary evil that was required in all things, and yet it was gone. One trial, one single string of chaotic desperation, and it gave into the pressure, collapsing into the endless abyss of nothing. Had he only been granted one opportunity, one chance, to prove himself worthy of its blessings before it sold him to the warfare he had made himself victim to?

A shuddered breath, bare limbs, and the harsh bite of frigid tile beneath him, a fallen guard made prisoner after the inevitable corruption that had always lingered over his shoulder like the cold hand of death since the felons began mocking him from their darkened caverns behind bars. Had redemption taken its leave to retire among those who mirrored its purity, or was it still there, whispering comfort to deaf ears? Did it not care that vanity had taken so much and him so far? Was glass still worth salvaging after it shattered?

That was the question, or the first, at least. There existed not a single creature, there never had and there never would, who held the capability, and certainly not the willingness, to make the decision for him. No one was coming, if the hollowing emptiness of the surrounding sanctuary did not tell him this, the battlefield filled solely with his opposition on which he had once held with him the belief that he could maintain any fleeting sense of order and control would most certainly spare no malice in making certain he was well aware. Now, there was nothing, only a man, chaos, and an unmade decision. It was now his moment to decide.

If anything, was it worth it to face the damage and renew the struggle for what he had lost?

If he chose to surrender himself, was there anyone, any person at all, who would know the damage? Would his defeat be met with grief or celebration, acknowledged as a tragedy or a blessing? And what about himself? How would he greet a victory? Would he pride himself or silently confine himself to the unlockable cage of misery in hopes that his mask would be enough to convince the world that his success meant something to him?

And what of his potential? Was Maria right in her belief that it would be immortalized as the greatest blessing the world would ever know? Were his creations enough to outweigh the failure? Did any of them carry any meaning beyond his own pleasure and obligation? Were they capable of making his existence worthwhile? Was the music enough? Was the dance? Were any of them the deciding factor?

Did it matter that he cared more for these things than his own life, a life which he lost control of? And how many times had he fled to them in a pathetic attempt to pretend he could not see the damage inflicted upon the innocent as a result of his own weakness when the moment came to protect them? Out of all the many years he had danced to the music of another composer, gliding into the steps of another choreographer, had anything he had ever done, his accomplishments, his work, his very life, meant anything, at least enough to see their impact on the world, or even on one person, one child?

Even as it was, devoid of anything, there remained too much. Too many questions, too many doubts, too much misery, too much hatred, too much temptation. Everything had a question, yet nothing he ever asked seemed to be worthy of an answer. His jaw clenched, teeth forcing themselves upon another row with so much force that the possibility of their damage lingered in his mind, but was not significant a thought enough to pursue, and his lips tightened into a straight line, the silent form of indignation he had practiced for so many years.

How had he ended up this way? In the days when he stood proudly by the side of his leaders on elegant balconies above cheering crowds of thousands of loving citizens, each of whom treated the experience as a miracle they had waited years to know for themselves, it had never once occurred to him that he would end up in such a way, a pathetic, quivering mound on the floor after a few small pushes caused him to collapse and shatter completely, certainly not with the repulsive image of that egotistical Prussian idiot looming over his shoulder, counting every passing second as he waited for him to slip up. In fact, the very idea would surely have repulsed him.

And he did. He slipped up and fell so harshly, skidding across the ground and muddying himself with the earthly remains of the storm of his failure, while everyone else stood their ground and remained strong. The same limb stuck out to trip them all and caught only him, leaving him in such a position that all he was capable of doing was wondering. The question of whether he wanted to get up lost all significance and replaced itself with the question of whether he deserved to. Was he really willing to force himself up from the mud to face the tortured screams of those who suffered from his mistakes? Or, contrary to his hopes, would the sounds ring in his ears for all eternity, as they so had up until that point and continued to? Could the streets of his mind never be cleaned of the blood that colored them, forever staining the boots of the soldier of tracked through the rain of equal color? How high was the price of the badge of the guilty, the grim reminder of what could not be undone and that which laid blame on he who was truly at fault?

Despite it all, the music he played did nothing more than feed himself lies. After all the years of deception, of crime, failure, and white gloves stained red, he had gotten no better. Nothing he created amounted to anything. He had never changed, and, perhaps, he never would. Tonight's events should hardly have been anything shocking. Nothing could degrade him beyond his own actions, much less his own loss to chaos in a bitter attempt at redemption.

But that wasn't true, was it? No, that was only what he chose to tell himself. There was no pure motivation beyond what he had done, only an absurd act committed in the selfishness of anguish. The vain mindset that his unhappiness justified acting impulsive when he himself knew nothing of suffering was deplorable, yet it was his, and he had found no means of uncovering another. Even so, the third question arose from epiphany:

What gave him the right to sit limply in a pool of blood that was not his own and whine and grieve for his own discomfort?

His people should have been disappointed in him, and perhaps they would have been, should they have known. Surely, they were not deserving of such a sorry attempt of a nation. Shriveled on the floor and seeking pity from the heavens as though he was capable of nothing more, it would be an insult to subject them to the sight of their land in such a state. On days such as these, he questioned whether they would be better off without a representative altogether.

Naturally, he knew better than to truly believe that his people

A deep breath, bare limbs, and the harsh bite of frigid tile beneath him, a fallen guard could fix himself, and they would all soon know his glory, and when that day came, no, they would have to wait no longer, each and every citizen he housed would overflow with pride for their nationality. Order, precision, control, these were all things he knew best. If he could do anything, he could at the very least try to regain them. If he had a choice, it would be idiotic to decline it.

From his position on the floor, legs folded underneath him and arms outreached to his own viewing point to inspect the horror of his collapse, shaking to a greater extent with every further second he chose to inspect them, his head, like a rusted sculpture of tin, creaked upwards, the movement lacking its normal speed and grace. Every breath taken in and out of his nostrils was shaken, but calming. From the meager amount of leverage it now claimed, he found himself just able to recognize the top of his head and the mound of hair the color of black coffee that pooled over it from the brief picture of their reflection that he was able to grasp from his limited vision of the person standing inside the mirror hanging on the wall.

If he could muster the strength to stand from whatever passion and desire existed still inside him, he could peer into the visual display of whatever damage had been taken. His legs ached and his forearms burned, but they were capable. If they could carry him and remain loyal through war, they could carry him across a simple room. As if a miracle, the mirror was so close that it might as well have been touching him, only a few feet away at the very most. Even at his very worst, though he was not certain that he was not at that moment, he knew very well that he could accomplish that much.

The strain that pulled at his legs was unexpectedly harsh, though he had most certainly predicted that it would have been present. How long had he allowed himself to linger there, not moving said limbs except on rare occasion? Thinking back, he found himself unable to know. The resulting irritation that flowed through himself in response bit at his lips, threatening to pull them back into a rather ungraceful gesture.

'You should know that you're better than this.' He thought to himself, not bothering to correct his brash tone. Quite furiously, he scoffed, at no person other than himself and his own foolishness. In a fit of heightened frustration, he began to rise to his feet, though shakily and unsteadily. As expected, his limbs seared with a burning sensation, and his determination could do nothing to blind him from such a discomfort. Several moments on his journey to stand upright threatened to be the one at which he collapsed, his knees nearly buckling with the strain of his weight, yet none proved themselves to be capable of doing little more than causing him to flinch. After each spell, a few restrained breathes paved way for something yet to come, possibly the next and possibly the strength he was yet to find.

With some effort, he managed to force a foot from its position on the floor, dragging it a short distance through the air, and placing it down gently on the tile below. Even with his caution, the little impact caused shock waves of pain to course through his leg, burning and pulsing nearly unbearably. Instinctively, his mouth shot open in preparation to sound some manner of a pained gasp, though no such sounds came, aside from a few strangled cries that were hardly loud enough to be audible. Silently, he reminded himself to never weigh down his leg in the way he had for the amount of time that it had endured the lack of comfort.

A few moments passed, just as many shuddered breaths passed from his open mouth, before he dared to attempt movement again. Once he did, it was far from enjoyable, but any physical strain was expected. The second foot moved tediously, travelling little distance over what felt to be far too great of a span of time. Under any other circumstances, it would have been disappointing, but in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to focus on anything but the strain. As he set it down, the same electricity jolted through his leg, still unnerving him despite how much he had expected it. The sensation seemed to travel through him, grasping and pulling at his facial features until he quickly gave into the act of cringing uncomfortably.

He dug his teeth into his lower lip, allowing heavy breathes to pass through his nostrils, and allowed his eyes to close in an attempt to shield himself from the pain. 'Schwächling,' He silently berated himself. 'You took a step, if you can't do that, how do you expect to control this?'

Sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth, he wrenched a foot forward once again. The pain seemed to have lessened ever so slightly, though that was not saying much. One of his feet was likely beginning to collapse into slumber, offering a unique numbness that did not entirely prevent feeling, though he was not entirely certain as to whether or not this was an improvement. What he was certain of, however, was that this detail offered no excuse to cease moving forward. Despite what happened, he had to see the damage. Not only that, but he needed the container, it was no longer a mere option. Nothing else could cure him of this chaos, and he could no longer bear to suffer through it.

Another step, then another. Each brought some form of agony, but it was dulling. For the reward, anything was bearable. In a sense, the struggle was degrading. Just days ago, he had so firmly sworn to himself that he would never allow himself to go so far as to stoop to the level of requiring the contents of the capsule. No, he had never wanted to do this. To beg for a solution was to admit the problem, and his stubbornness had deemed such an idea far beyond consideration. Yet, here he was - stumbling pathetically to it in a fit of desperation because the only other option was ignorance. After tonight's events, every last particle of anything and everything that had ever gone wrong seemed to have grown eyes, which peered mockingly and unceasingly into his very soul until he was forced to admit his shame. As long as it had gone on and as many clues and foreshadowing as there were along the way, somehow, the climax had still taken him surprise.

Perhaps he simply wanted to believe that he dictated his mind so much that he began believing himself. However long ago it was when it began - he honestly couldn't say, as it happened so gradually that he had been blind to it until roughly a month back, though the severity was a matter he could never have foreseen - he had been fine, and that was not a prideful lie. On the rare occasion that someone were to question the status of himself and his country, he could answer with honesty that there was nothing wrong with him, apart from the inevitable political debate from his people that irritated him so much. No matter how one were to phrase it, the meaning was the same - he was fine, he was alright, he was okay, and now, well, at the very least, he could pride himself on the matter of recognition. Unlike many, he was not so far gone that identifying his dilemma was ludicrous in his own mind, which he supposed was good, as he was not too far gone. Did that mean he would attempt to seek some form of help, as others did? Absolutely not. He was troubled, not delusional, and by no means would he attempt to fool himself into believing that he could think of anyone who honestly cared about his predicament.

The consumption of his mind at the hands of his suffering and his reminiscing had left him unaware of his surroundings, and as he had allowed himself to become lost in his own thoughts, he could only blame himself for all but slamming himself into his frigid marble destination. Upon doing so, he let out a pained hiss and sent the counter a pointless glare, as though it were at fault for his placement of it. In an attempt to regain what little composure he had not already destroyed, he drew a hand to his glasses, pushing them farther up on the bridge of his nose. The other gripped the edge of the counter tightly, as though all the order in his life could be restored through his hold on an object.

His momentary lapse of anger was quickly forgotten as his eyes shifted uncomfortably across the marble. The shame he held his actions was remembered with an absolutely repulsive feeling in his stomach, without content to remove from it, at the sight of the steadily growing pool of scarlet liquid. As much as he despised it, he could not bare to will his eyes to leave it, as though they were drawn to it magnetically and could not leave until the electric pull had been eliminated entirely. Or, perhaps, some remaining sense of justice in his mind told him that it was only fair for him to see the consequences of his actions.

It then occurred to him that this, well, rather intentional, accident required his attention before all else. He swept his eyes across the short distance to the neat rack of towels, not allowing them far enough up as to reach the mirror, and brought his arm down from where it lingered by his face to stretch across the distance. The towels were warm, in spite of the room's temperature, and welcomed his grip on them. With one taken in his hand, he moved the cloth to the mouth of the faucet, bringing his second hand from the edge of the counter to grip the metal handle, which fit wonderfully and smoothly into his palm, and still startled him with the bitter coolness of the object.

The handle creaked just slightly as he turned it, but did not fail to begin the pounding fall of water from the faucet. As the water crashed onto the cloth, he could feel the heat draining from the fabric, being replaced by dampness that was chilled and crisp, adding weight for his hand to maintain. Quite quickly, the water ended its flow and the now wet object was due to serve its purpose.

Though it should have been anticipated, the freezing water stung as it entered the gaping wounds that lied in rows across his arm. In an odd way, the feeling was both refreshing the cause of the now constant feeling that some inhuman creature was crawling under his skin for the sole purpose of giving him an incentive to stop what he was doing. Despite how little comfort he received from it, he pressed the fabric harder against the stretching rips in his skin, expelling a liquid of another type, this one darker and tinted crimson, from underneath. The droplets of both kinds poured across the near translucent skin of his forearm, pooling by the edge of the cloth where the colored contaminated the uncolored, and falling across the limb and onto the floor in a repeating sound that was just loud enough to tire him.

Hardly a minute had passed before he transferred the cloth to the other arm, locating the area of concern without effort and covering it. As he did so, the cool air began rushing into the lacerations on the now uncovered forearm, causing his entire limb to twitch in a most unnatural way and stealing away any comfort he had any hope of regaining. That was not to say that the covered arm was causing him to have the time of his life, but the clean injuries suffered from a new brand of discomfort from the natural chilled air of Vienna in the fall.

Only when he deemed his wounds thoroughly clean did he released his tight hold on the cloth. With one issue behind him, it was necessary to move onto another. Taking in a preparatory breath, he dragged his own head upwards, at last staring into the image displayed in the otherwise beautiful mirror.

The person who stared back at him was a miserable image. Pale and ragged, his face projected the living image of a lack of willpower, sharing with him the image of someone unable or unwilling to continuing the battle he found himself fighting. And, at this, he could see the question forming on his face - how had he come to this? Obviously, he was aware that he had taken the course of action that he had, but, even so, the image was another brand of vile. Even the vivid repulse that tainted his face, his eyes bulged and mouth pulled back in disgust, looked incorrect, just as all else in the image did. Throughout years of war, blood on his hands, and corpses at his feet, he failed to bring any other occasion to mind in which any other was capable of housing eyes that appeared as lifeless as his. Honestly, he had always carried some level of pride for his eyes, relishing in the compliments they collected and the few unguarded stares from strangers during the beginning moments of conversation, but he could not say this was the same now. The sight before him was utterly shameful, placing him under a repulsed and ashamed hypnosis until he brought himself to tear open the nearby medicine cabinet in such a way that the hanging door shielded himself from his own corpse-like reflection.

He shook his head, attempting to expel the image from his mind. Instead, he put his focus on rummaging through the contents of the cabinet. "I am Austria." He muttered to the various bottles and brushes which were forever sworn to silence, though the comment was intended to reassure himself of his own words, repressing the volume of his voice as if he expected a person to appear around the corner, carrying harsh judgement with them. "I am Austrian." Shoving past objects, rearranging others, he continued his search. Had he gotten rid of it, or relocated it to some area he would never think to look? No, he certainly would not, or, at least, he thought he wouldn't. Perhaps he had, but had simply forgotten. Surely, it was distinct enough to be eye catching, that was undoubtable, but there was no part of his mind that was not convinced that he had intentionally hid it behind other objects in fear of it being discovered on the off chance that he were to have guests - that much he remembered.

And, evidently, his memory was not far past its prime, as he found the apricot colored container behind an aged tube of toothpaste that appeared to have been not well taken care of. Upon seeing it, a feeling overcame, though whether it was excitement or dread, he could not say. It was strong, but did not deter his thoughts enough to prevent him from reaching for the container and encasing it in his palm. The bright label on its front was smooth, and he ran his fingers over it a considerable number of times, inspecting the feel of the paper in what he assumed was some corner of his mind's panicked attempt to stall for time in order to offer him a final chance to reconsider his planned course of action before he went through with it.

His mind remained made up, and he directed another dripping arm over to the translucent case, taking the thick lid in his hand. Once his hand had a trustworthy grip on the lid, he twisted it open, taking some relish in the varying degrees of volume in the cracks made by the plastic. Despite its creaks and cracks, it opened, revealing a plethora of miniature capsules inside. He stared at these for a few moments, breathing in slowly as the extent of his presumed actions became clear in his mind. He was not afraid of what he would do, no, for he had no reason to be, but there was an element in taking a small dosage of these objects that was thought provoking, at the very least.

Setting the lid down on the puddle-covered marble, he brought a hand over to select one or two of the capsules. They were smooth, their texture seeming to reward him for choosing to partake of them, and cool, though not in the way that the air nor the water were. He briefly dragged his tongue across his lips as the shaking hand moved closer to his slightly ajar lips in anticipation.

The tremor in his hand calming, the capsules awaiting his actions, it was then clear - as of that moment, Austria would soon regain his control.

Translations:

Schwächling - Weakling

Author's Note:

Ah, it feels wonderful to write again! I don't know how good this was and I feel like this is all really out of character, but I sort of just wanted to experiment with Austria and Prussia! Also, sorry that I took until the last few paragraphs to tell you that this was an Austria-centric chapter. That was just an odd choice that I made when I was initially writing this and I thought that I might as well stand by it. Looking back, it was probably really irritating, though.

Also, in case it wasn't made clear, this chapter and story do involve constant mentions of Major Depressive Disorder, or depression, as it is more commonly known, this chapter even referencing self-harm. As I have never had MDD and certainly never considered harming myself in such a way, I have never experienced this kind of a situation before and, thus, do not know exactly what it feels like, so I had to write this off of my knowledge of Austria's character (which, let's be honest, isn't great) and my knowledge of the disorder, which I did some amount of research on and have friends who have suffered from this. If I am at all displaying this incorrectly and/or in a way that is offensive, please let me know and help me to edit this chapter and any future chapters so that I may represent this emotional disorder correctly. Additionally, if you or someone you know suffers from this, especially if it is becoming dangerous, please seek help. If you need someone to talk to, your family, friends, teachers, heck, myself, though I am rather inexperienced, anyone, please do so. We will always be here for you and desperately want to see you get better and be happy again!

Oh, and I will also mention that the thoughts projected in this work are not mine, but, rather, my interpretation of the thoughts that someone such as Roderich might experience in such a situation. They are probably not accurate to his character, as I previously stated, but I want to see if I can get to the point where they are. Once again, I hope you were able to enjoy this and I very thoroughly apologize if you were offended in any way.

~Aleberle