I started writing this fic in July while I was in Germany for three months. The temperature was forty degrees and would remain such for the entire month. I finished it in Canada, right when the temperature started hitting -20 and below. It's not my usual thing, as I've been getting over the insane stress of the month and trying to finish up my essays and dealing with rude people on tumblr while I slowly wreck everything, but I'm happy because I've been dealing with a lot lately and the fact that I managed to finish this at all meant I was still able to write in the first place. It was supposed to be light and fluffy so I could prove to the-plague-doctors on tumblr that I was capable of such a thing.
(I ruined it.)
The virtues referred to in this fic are the famed Prussian virtues.
you spin me right round (and darling you're my world)
It was, Prussia thought with the ire of a man sure he was going to melt into the floor at any moment, way too fucking hot.
It wasn't that he couldn't deal with the heat. The sun wasn't kind to people with his particular complexion but he was fantastic, thanks—he knew how to deal with the sun and he'd faced down worse things than a little hot air. Having a couple weeks out of the summer where the temperatures soared over the thirties and into the forties was normal, expected, and it only became more normal as the years dragged on. Having a couple months with that temperature, however, was a whole other issue.
Prussia swore for the millionth time that day, closing the fridge with an angry grunt. He folded his arms over his chest, glaring balefully at it, as if the fridge would smartly cower before the strength of his might and promptly fill itself back up, instead of remaining regrettably empty. The ice was gone, too, and he spent a few moments banging around the kitchen and filling up the tray, grumbling all the while and cursing the other occupants of the house for being too cheap to buy a fridge capable of automatically making ice.
"Fucking Priss," he muttered as he shoved the filled tray into the freezer drawer with more aggression than was probably needed, turning his head to scowl out the window where the sun mocked him from the cloudless sky as he slammed the drawer shut.
"Please, Prussia, do continue taking out your aggression on the appliances." Austria's voice floated to him from the entryway, crisp and clear as it usually was, and Prussia turned, mouth open to tell the little master exactly what he thought of the sorry state of the fridge, when his eyes caught sight of the other man and he froze.
Austria was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, running a hand through his hair, and the expression on his face was reminiscent of a cat who'd just been unceremoniously dropped into a pond. It wasn't his face that caught Prussia's attention, though. Rather, it was his attire. The neatly pressed pants and crisp white shirt were gone, as was the cravat that seemed so ever-present, having been replaced with a loose white tank and shorts.
There were small droplets of sweat dotting his brow, and Austria responded to them by huffing and pushing the damp strands from his face, but already his hair was losing the style Prussia was normally accustomed to seeing it in, and all he could do was stutter something incoherent as Austria sent him a withering glare, moving past him to survey the food they had left, grabbing a towel off the oven rack as he did so.
"We're out of milk," Austria commented, his mouth twisted in irritation.
"Um. Yeah," Prussia said dumbly as Austria wiped his brow with a towel, his expression sour. For once, however, Prussia didn't comment, too busy staring and trying to keep his jaw from dropping, even as his face flushed an even deeper red. He averted his eyes after a few moments, cursing under his breath, which made Austria glance up, his brow still furrowed.
"Do you want to go get more?" he said slowly. Prussia just blinked, rubbing his hand over his face and keeping his eyes focused at a point beyond Austria's head, trying to get his scattered thoughts under control and wondering if it would be considered cowardly if he were to beat a hasty retreat to the deck.
"Can do."
Now Austria looked suspicious, and Prussia felt his heart jump. "And eggs. We need more eggs," Austria added pointedly.
"Yeah."
"And the living room needs tidying."
"Sure. Yup."
"And you're the one who ate the desserts I instructed be left alone."
"Yeah."
Austria smirked. "I had thought so."
Prussia blinked again, then his brain caught up with him and he spluttered, facing Austria full on and gesturing wildly with his hands as he said, "That was fucking sneaky, little master!" Austria, however, looked completely unconcerned, plucking the near-empty jug of orange juice from the fridge and filling his cup deftly. Prussia whinged.
"Damnit, Specs, I was going to use that," he groused, reaching forward to try and grab the jug while Austria simultaneously tried to keep it away from him. The sour look was gone, replaced with a ghostly smile that Prussia knew spoke of self-satisfaction, but before he could get irritated over that he noticed another drop of sweat sliding down the side of Austria's face and his tongue suddenly felt thick and unwieldy in his mouth, especially when he noticed their proximity.
"Um," he said eloquently, but Austria merely raised an eyebrow and sidestepped him neatly, placing the empty jug on the counter. He pushed his hair from his face again, then slid one hand casually into his pocket, and Prussia rather thought he did a good job of not gaping too openly. Instead he hunched his shoulders and looked away, feeling oddly helpless, which brought about a resurgence of old anger. He gritted his teeth, his mood going from fairly benign to match the sour expression that had been on Austria's face earlier, and he exhaled somewhat shakily, embarrassed. This was ridiculous. He couldn't—he shouldn't—
"Prussia."
"What?" he snapped before he could stop himself, regretting it instantly when Austria's expression morphed into the mask he knew all too well. He didn't apologise, though. They had too much between them for apologies, really.
Austria sighed, placing his cup on the counter. "Honestly, Prussia," he murmured, "you are a fool if I've ever met one." He shook his head, and Prussia squawked, indignant.
"Hey! I'm not the one walking around in—in a dress or anything."
Austria looked distinctly unimpressed. "Nor am I."
"No," Prussia said, gesturing frantically, "but—well, little master, it's hardly a nice shirt and slacks, is all I'm saying."
"It's hardly an appropriate temperature for a nice shirt and slacks," Austria countered, and for a moment Prussia just looked at him, considering, assessing, and maybe a little bit—no. No. But he could not stop his eyes from tracing the contours of Austria's face and the angles of his collarbone and shoulders, on display like they rarely were, and he felt shame well up in the pit of his stomach as he berated himself, the old virtues running through his mind, and he hated Austria, just a little, for the effect he had on him; for the effect he'd always had.
A hand at his wrist distracted him, and when he glanced up Austria was standing in front of him, his expression oddly soft. His hand was still on Prussia's wrist and Prussia looked at it dumbly for a moment, his breath seizing in his chest, and when Austria slowly dragged his other hand up to rest on Prussia's shoulder Prussia could do naught but stare, trapped like a deer in headlights. He swallowed, opening his mouth, but he didn't get anything more than a strangled Specs out before Austria should his head. Then Austria was resting a hand at the back of Prussia's neck, the look on his face almost pitying.
"You are a foolish man, Prussia. Do you think I don't know what goes through your mind?" he murmured. Prussia tracked the movement of his lips, wariness and want hitting him all at once. "Your self-denial has become tedious over time."
"My—"
"Hush," Austria said, and Prussia felt rather than saw the flick to his wrist because Austria was kissing him, soft but confident, and Prussia didn't freeze but he couldn't respond, his mind going completely blank, unable to focus on anything other than the man in front of him, the object of his hatred and his veneration; his obsession and his salvation. Then Austria stepped back, and there was a knowing look in his eyes. He kept his hands in place for a few moments before removing them, and Prussia felt strangely bereft of his touch, but it wasn't until Austria gave him a pitying smile and made to move back that he managed to find his voice.
"Please—" Prussia tried, but the sound was strangled and his throat seemed to seize up. The sharp look in Austria's eyes seemed to soften, and he lifted one hand and brushed nimble fingers down Prussia's jaw. Prussia managed to move his hands this time, shakily resting them on Austria's bare shoulders, thumbs brushing against the smooth skin.
"I—you—"
Austria's fingers encircled his wrist. "Sometimes," he said carefully, "life does give you what you want." He leaned up and kissed the side of Prussia's mouth with gentleness Prussia hadn't believed him capable of, not when it came to him. "I think you need to hear that it's all right to accept it." Then Austria stepped back, reaching for his abandoned glass of orange juice, and left without looking back, leaving Prussia alone to deal with the swirling emotions in his chest and the resurgent sharp, aching need for something he'd never believed he could have.
He slumped against the counter, the heat all but forgotten. Austria had always been good at turning Prussia's world on its head, and while part of him hating the other man for doing it again, for filling Prussia's head with jumbled thoughts and half-formed wants, the other part considered Austria's words carefully.
It seemed he had a lot of thinking to do.