Author's note Chapter 2! Featuring other nations, the French language, Mona Lisa, and oodles of Austrian contempt. It's longer than the first chapter, surprisingly. Hope you enjoy!

P.S. if you think you can notice a Hannibal influence, you're right. :)

Disclaimer Hetalia does not belong to me.

CHAPTER TWO
The Painter

"I must say," Austria said with relish as he took a bite off a chocolate-filled croissant, "your pastries do get better every year, France."

"Thank you so much," France grinned, and Germany heard the speciousness in France's voice. He knew the latter was faking flattery. If France had been told that once, he'd been told a thousand times over by Austria, every single year. He'd always thought the Austrian sounded a little bit more condescending each time he said it to France; after all, croissants originated from Austria, and not only was it natural for the glasses-donning nation to scrutinise pastries that had come from his own country, he was clearly annoyed that croissants were now more attached to French culture than Austrian culture.

This year was no exception. Germany could hear the contempt practically dripping from the Austrian's lips like spoiled custard, and this time there was probably an extra sprinkling of jealousy, too—earlier, Hungary had been flirting madly with France, complimenting him about the different pastries he had prepared. Germany could see why Austria would act so testily. On the other hand, France, ever the charmer, did his best to act as the amiable host who tolerated even the most offending snide remarks against him.

Not that anyone had anything negative to say. The furthest anyone got was Austria, and beyond that nothing more radical was done.

To Germany, this was largely helped by and was possible because of the fact that Prussia wasn't saying anything. For some reason, Prussia took the whole dinner with a very bored and languid approach. He would absent-mindedly twirl his fork around a cheesecake or look out the windows with a faraway expression. The other nations thought him rather ignorant for not participating, and this may have been a bad thing (enough to warrant a concerned question from Belgium, asking if he felt ill, to which Prussia vaguely shrugged), but to Germany, it was perfect. For once, his brother shut himself up, and for once, Germany could enjoy the company of the other nations in peace.

He wasn't completely sure why it was that Prussia refused to comment (when, in fact, he could easily anger them all in a world conference, or—as had happened a couple of weeks ago—impress high-ranking politicians such as the Chancellor herself with his oh-so magnificent charm), and that probably meant that there was something wrong with his brother, but since it was good enough to silence the usually vocal ex-nation, then it was good enough for Germany.

For instance, Austria would occasionally look at Prussia's direction and throw a distasteful look at him, but through some miraculous divine intervention, Prussia was capable of completely dismissing the Austrian's hostile glances, without so much as a single glance back at the other nation.

It was heaven for Germany. Usually his older brother would retaliate through sticking his tongue out at the Austrian or pranking him, but Austria's distasteful glances were only met with composed dismissal.

Perfect.

"It really is delicious," Germany said as he took a bite out of a lemon tart, his eyes sparkling. "Don't you think so, brother?"

Prussia gave a meek sound of assent and nodded.

"When it comes to pastry, hardly anyone surpasses French quality," Hungary commented, and the other nations agreed. Austria shot a withering look at the Hungarian, who ignored him coolly.

Following this awkward, synthetic exchange of pleasantries was always a comment by some nation about the choice of flower arrangement that year, except for that one time when there wasn't a flower arrangement at all, in mourning for some dead French Prime Minister. (The whole event had turned into some sappy eulogy.) Due to the fact that the topic of flower arrangement was something which attracted only a select few individuals, the nations often found themselves speaking in groups, not as a whole.

"Prussia, you haven't touched your food," Belgium said, concerned again. "Are you alright? Is there something wrong with it?"

Prussia smiled weakly at her. He understood that Belgium would have been a bit worried, as she helped out in baking some of the trifles and cake. "There's no need to worry, Belgium. The pastry is excellent, but I'm full, as I've already eaten at home"—lie, Germany communicated to his brother through a single flick of his eyes, you're starving; look at your hands, they're shaking—"and there really isn't any space in my stomach right now. Thanks for asking, anyway."

Belgium was unconvinced, but accepted Prussia's statement anyway. "If you insist," she said, settling into her seat uncomfortably.

As expected, the other nations fell into their own little islands of conversation. France always entertained those who commented on flower arrangements (even though he was probably sick to death of discussing the 'hidden meanings' of flowers); the Nordics always kept to themselves, whispering softly in their strange mutually intelligible languages; and all the other countries would engage in some other vapid conversations which Germany barely cared about. He did, however, decide to listen whenever some of the conversations got interesting.

This time, he regretted his decision.

Instead of the usual comment about the flower arrangement that year (which was a tasteful, if not bland and clichéd, arrangement of roses, baby's-breaths, and daisies, with sprigs of some boring thin-leafed plant), France immediately introduced a painting, which was usually the conversation starter for when the silence built up again near the end. But for some reason, the painting seemed to be the centrepiece of the dinner this year.

"I'd like you all to take a look at this painting, here," France said as he took out a framed painting from a silk pouch. It measured approximately 30 cm by 50 cm, and everyone was positively intrigued. Even Prussia looked up and watched as France unveiled the painting.

France lovingly swept some dust away at the corners of the painting's frame, and then turned it round for everyone to see. There was a collective gushing sound which all the nations made as they realised what it was: a stunning oil painting copy of the Mona Lisa.

"I made it myself," France said, beaming proudly. The other nations expressed their approval by nodding their heads, and even Germany found himself softly clapping with the other nations.

"It's wonderful," England gushed, in a rare moment of appreciation for the Frenchman. "Très bien, mon ami. It's one of the best pieces I've seen from you thus far."

"Merci beaucoup, Arthur," France replied, flattered, especially as the compliment had come from England. "I worked for more than three months on this piece, and it was no easy feat, but thankfully"—he eyed Austria—"others were always willing to provide constructive criticism, without which I would not have been able to paint this with a degree of professionalism."

"I agree completely," Austria added with a cloying tone of admiration. He pretended to wipe away tears of joy from his cheeks with a silken kerchief. "You have captured the very essence of da Vinci, my friend. I am proud to have aided you in the time you have painted this masterpiece. Your composition is flawless, and your choice of colour has always been very astute. It is a commendable piece, indeed."

Involuntarily Germany glanced at his brother to see if Prussia had a reaction, but Prussia remained still and unresponsive the entire time. He was looking intently at the painting, but if he had any thoughts about the matter, then his face declined to reveal any emotion.

Just as well, Germany thought, but there really was something in Prussia's eyes—a strange, glazed-over look—that worried him.

Something was up.

France, meanwhile, had a battle against genuine tears that were threatening to squeeze out of his tear ducts upon hearing the compliments, and so Austria continued his string of flattery. "You have truly shown excellent craftsmanship here, France. I must say even the great da Vinci would be ashamed to look at your painting. You have even exhibited the finer details of creating some... how do you say it..."

Everyone stared at Austria, waiting for him to complete his sentence. Germany immediately felt intense embarrassment for the Austrian.

"... uh... um... it's at the tip of my tongue... that word you use to create those... fine, crack... things... uh..."

Austria's cheeks quickly began to redden. He could not find the word, he could not—

"Craquelure."

Dead silence.

All heads turned towards the far end of the table, past France, past Italy, past Germany, and past Belgium to stare at Prussia, who had so sleekly uttered the word.

Oh, Gott, Germany thought. He was prepared to hurl a glass at his brother. If he gets this wrong, I swear, I'll...

Austria blinked several times. He took his glasses off his face with shaky hands, wiped them with another frilly, silky-looking fabric which he produced from a coat pocket, and, upon placing them back where they had been perched upon his nose, raised an eyebrow at Prussia.

"Come again?"

"Craquelure," Prussia repeated, his voice devoid of any emotion.

The word seemed to arouse a strange sort of irrational admiration and fear amongst most of the other nations. Who would expect Prussia, the warmonger, disrupter of world conferences, and ex-nation, to know what the hell craquelure was? Nobody expected the bored, stupid-looking one to suddenly understand anything about art.

Switzerland was so shocked that he was almost ready to cover Liechtenstein's ears should Prussia say anything lewd. The Nordics all had confused looks plastered on their faces as they struggled to visualise what the word craquelure looked like. The Netherlands had a bemused expression on his face, almost disgruntled, and his sister, who was sitting next to Prussia, was simply staring at him with a dazed expression. Spain and both Italies were blank. England wasn't sure what to feel, so his face flickered somewhere in between confusion and shock. Hungary was smiling.

And Germany felt sick.

Austria tilted his head, a dangerous light glinting off his glasses as he stared at Prussia with narrowed eyes. Prussia stared back, unfazed.

"And what, my good friend," Austria drawled into practically the next continent, "does that word mean?"

Germany was biting so hard into his lip that blood began to run down.

Prussia smiled—congenially again, in that way of his—a smile so saccharine and fake that it inspired the butterflies in Germany's stomach to lurch forward and make him feel like vomiting again.

Not here, Germany pleaded with his brother through another flick of his eyes. Not after that embarrassing stunt with Merkel.

"I'm glad you asked," Prussia responded, ignoring Germany. "The word craquelure comes from craqueler in French, which means 'to crack'"—he cast a sidelong look at France, who nodded in approval—"which, as an artistic technique, is known as craquelé. In Italian, the word is cretattura. More colloquially in English it is simply known as 'crackle'. As you can tell, the technique refers to the dense cracking pattern on paintings, as can be observed in Vermeer's The Girl With a Pearl Earring or, as Monsieur France has emulated, in Leonardo Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. There are many types of craquelure, all of which are designated a purported country of origin, even though a Flemish type of craquelure, for example, may be observed in a painting from Russia."

More silence. No-one dared to do anything except for France and Belgium, who jointly swooned at the Prussian's impromptu art lesson.

Germany hardly breathed: Austria was staring daggers into Prussia. If looks could kill, Prussia would have been incinerated on the spot.

But he carried on. "Monsieur France, in our case, has quite excellently exhibited English-style craquelure in his copy of the Mona Lisa," Prussia continued, "although da Vinci used Italian-style craquelure in the original. This technique is often what tells you whether or not a painting is a reproduction of another. Nevertheless, Monsieur France has evidently painted this with so much skill that he deserves another round of applause."

As if turned on by a switch, the other countries applauded again (except for Austria), and most of them were not sure whether they were applauding France for his painting, or Prussia for his artsy speech.

"That's... very... informative," England remarked, half-impressed and half-frightened, as the applause died down. "Very, very good, er, Prussia."

"Very surprising, I'd say, coming from you," Hungary smirked. "Who knew this airhead knew anything about art? Nobody! Half the time he couldn't even tell the difference between his ass and his head!"

Everyone laughed—again, everyone except Austria, who was still silently glaring at Prussia through murderous eyes reduced to slits—and Prussia flashed his weak, sheepish smile again, which all of the females (and even some of the males) in the room suddenly found absolutely adorable.

Germany could sense the vomit-y sensation building up in his throat once more. Images of the now two-week-old encounter with Merkel replayed cruelly in his head as he looked on at all the attention his brother was suddenly getting. It was unearthly, and hellish, and godly at the same time.

"You seem to know an extraordinary amount of things about painting, Prussia," Austria said, hiding the disdain in his voice. "Did you ever take art classes?"

Prussia grinned.

"I was a world power during the 1800's, Austria. Of course I took art lessons. And have you ever wondered why a certain shade of blue is called Prussian blue? It's because this chemist from Berlin accidentally discovered it whilst he was searching for a lucrative replacement to ultramarine, which we all know cost a fortune back in the day..."

Back in the day, you stuck swords in people's chests when everyone else was sticking paintbrushes to canvasses, Germany thought, snickering to himself.

Austria's contempt was clear.

Prussia the painter.

Who would've guessed.

Germany could suppress the vomit-y sensation this time.

Translations:

Très bien, mon ami. – Very good, my friend.

Merci beaucoup. – Thank you very much.

Oh, Gott – Oh, God.