It had been ages, it seemed, since he'd played his Bösendorfer.

There was always a slight thrill in the dark, glistening wood and shining ivory keys. (Polishing it once a week was one of the few chores he performed willingly.) Even at times when the rest of the house was strewn with clothes and coated with dust, the piano remained perfectly neat and ordered (even though Germany continually insisted that he had no idea how he could tell where anything was).

Towering stacks of sheet music surrounded him, marking those pieces too beloved to relegate to the shelves bordering the room. On his left was a pile of those practiced most recently ('What would that be? Three months ago?'), and on the right were those he was about to run through. 'Of course, I don't really need the practice – or the sheets, for that matter – but it's always enjoyable to practice.' He pulled a paper-clipped set of sheets from his right and glanced at the title: Zwölf Variationen über das französische Lied „Ah vous dirai-je, Maman." 'Didn't I play Mozart at Hungary's house, too? Well, it makes no difference.

'For every snob who says that Mozart was a mathematical genius, painfully precise, there's one who remembers how playful he could be. A true Austrian, no matter what Germany says. What's next after this, the theme from Figaro? It has been awhile, hasn't it? I can't even remember the order of my own system.

'It's really their fault, of course. I can never concentrate while they're around. Thank God they both went out to the corner bar. Just when I was starting to think I'd never convince them to leave me alone. They should be gone for another… four? Five hours, maybe.' He slid from the first variation to the second, accentuating the second strike of the lower C to suggest the melodic shift. 'Pure poetry. Of course, it won't get interesting until the third, or really whimsical until the seventh, but it's a perfect exercise.
'Perhaps they left me alone because they know I overheard them… Imagine, me joining that "group" with the Baltics and the others! They assuredly don't want me there, and they'd be sure to underline my alleged fall to patient every second… Why is it that I can never be as eloquent out loud as I am in my head?

'Cross over… a bit tricky. Don't sharp, don't sharp! In any case, they cannot force me to join. It would be disastrous for the others, and of course I'd quickly take over. I'm far less susceptible to psychological tricks, after all. It simply wouldn't be fair.

'Fourth. Go down an octave and emphasize right hand. I'd like to see France do this. He couldn't play andante if his life depended on it. That's the real greatest art: not painting, not food, but music.' He moved towards an A major chord, but struck the augmented version instead. 'Odd. I don't usually make such obvious mistakes.' That was when he thought to glance over his shoulder for a second.

Germany was staring at him, silent and imperturbable. Austria quickly turned back to the piano.

'Don't let him bother you, or he'll think that you're easily disturbed. What are they doing back so early?' He winced with an inappropriate second. 'What if they didn't really leave? I never heard the car pull out, but I thought that they were walking. What have I been doing for the past hour? Anything that they would find revealing? No, I just had lunch and started playing. Wait, they left (or is that "left?") right after breakfast, after which I took a shower.' His hands hurt dreadfully. Oddly, he hadn't noticed it before.

'Of course, they have no reason to spy on me. It's not as though they can't see me plenty when I know they're here. I'm just being paranoid – not, of course, that there's anything wrong with me. After all, it's a perfectly normal response to… I'm starting to make excuses, aren't I? Telling myself the old clichés: "It's not your fault," "It's a normal way to react," "You're just scared."

'Unless, of course, he is standing there for a reason. Maybe he's planning to tell me about the group; suggest I join it. I was quiet the other night. I don't know whether or not they know I was listening, and they'd want to bring it up first either way to give an impression of openness.' A trill went a second too long, and he spared another to glare at his hands.

'And then there are the other reasons he could be standing there. He could be trying to unnerve me and prompt a severe reaction before he suggests treatment. If I look insane, coercing me into the group would appear rational and humane.

'Ah, seventh variation. I'm certainly not going to let him ruin this, no matter what he's up to.' A faint smile played on his face as he watched his right hand glide from G and E to F and D to D and B, all without changing the melody. 'He could just be watching me play. He isn't normally fond of classical, but who knows? Perhaps I've converted him.

'What if he was watching me earlier? Not that he would. After all, he's my brother. But if he was watching, when I was in the shower. Or listening? Was I talking or singing to myself? (No, of course not, humming at most.) We're alone here. Where's Prussia? Maybe he still is at the pub. Germany could've easily made an excuse to come back, and he wouldn't have questioned it, particularly when there was beer to enjoy.

'"I hope you realize that I am going to kill you." That's what he said, isn't it? Of course it is; I can still hear him. And now we're alone. It's not as though he ever liked Russia. Quite the opposite. But that's why he's been upset with me. He sees me as an ally of an enemy and a danger to Prussia's stability. (He's always gotten along better with Prussia, after all.)'

Germany crossed the room and sat on the floor at his right, next to the pieces he hoped to play soon. He remained silent, listening to the slowing, faltering notes of the eleventh variation.

Offhandedly noticing his place, Austria sped up, finishing the twelfth in as many questions. 'Emphasize the last note. You're proud of this. You won't let him take it away.' After playing the final note, he held his hands still, as if poised to restart. 'Remove them. You shouldn't keep them on the keys. Let him know the song is over.' They shook as he raised them.

"Was that syncopated?" Germany asked, his tone neutral. "I didn't know that Mozart did that."

"It's a common misconception that syncopation came with swing, and in any case, he was ahead of his time." He kept his eyes forward, trying not to look at the gray shape on the floor.

"It's a wonderful piece. I'm surprised you haven't played until now."

"I prefer to practice alone. Incidentally, why are you back early?"

Germany's shoulders moved slightly, almost suggesting a shrug. "It was too loud, and Prussia seemed content to be alone. I thought I might spend the evening here." He rose. "I'll leave you alone if you want. Is there anything in particular I could make for dinner?"

'He's not thinking about it. He doesn't want to hurt me. Quel soulagement!

'Why did I think he wanted to harm me? We're related, he only said that bit about killing me because he was worried, and – I'm being completely irrational. No wonder they're spending time here. Even if they don't know what I'm thinking, they can see it.'

He eyed the stack at his right with a slight sense of exhaustion. 'I should just stay here and play. I'd relax, and the feeling would go away.' He stood. 'But that would be wrong, wouldn't it? Hypocritical, of course.' He rubbed his arm and started for the kitchen.

'I don't know what's worse: having to admit to "needing help" (what a demeaning phrase), or having to tell him that he was right.'