Disclaimer : I own nothing but these words, which are worthless.
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How to Fight an Austro-Prussian War
(2009 Edition)
War. War never ends.
"Of course it won't, the world's full of warmongering idiots," Austria mutters beneath his breath. In front of him lies three flickering monitors, currently the pride and joy of the Austrian front. (It's only coincidence that they're running Windows 2000, he's only saving up money and refusing to buy from that American upstart until his own technology firms could figure out an OS that's easier to use than Linux.) Two of them shows a website. One of them shows another website entirely.
His fingers fly over the keyboard.
"I won't let you do it."
It asks for a password. That's easy. Prussia, the idiot, wouldn't use anything better than awesome12345.
"I'm not letting you commit this atrocity!"
Disgracing the name of the Germans, after all that! He can hardly believe it of Prussia, who really should know better. But okay, he's Prussia, maybe he really lacks the brain cells to know any better.
He enters the last of the script with a flourish, letting his hands fly up like he's just finished playing a crescendo for a sonata. Ah, yes, that feels good.
A red, annoying, blinking error message immediately blares onto a screen, screaming 'HAHA WRONG YOU LOSER!' It also has the temerity to use comic sans and a gif of a rainbow-colored organ of male sexual properties. Austria feels his sense of decorum whimper, but this is no time to be whining like a submissive partner in certain forms of internet fiction. His fingers continue to fly.
And thus the Austro-Prussian War of 2009 begins.
It started in 2008, back when Prussia finished an evening course on scripting languages. First he hung around on disreputable messageboards, according to Germany's heartbroken confession, before moving onto bigger targets like people on Youtube. Apparently he'd sling all sorts of insults regarding the intelligence of their mothers at them. Just thinking about it gives Austria shivers.
Then, a few months later, he started to attack innocent websites, defacing them and replacing them with records of his vulgarity. The latest victim has been a webcomic site by some Japanese author. It appalls him, he thought Prussia liked Japan.
"This is my responsibility," Austria says between gritted teeth, mindset already back to the 16th century, when he was indeed (sort of) responsible for the misbehaviors of the entire German race. (Old habits die hard, especially when you're faced with someone whose old habits refuse to die. Including that one about stealing people's underpants.) He wouldn't be able to stand on equal ground with wily, untrustworthy Prussia otherwise, and it's unbearable if he can't.
awesome12345 doesn't work, so this time he tries 12345awesome.
The error message blares up again. Austria frowns. What else could it be?
It's at this time that his Skype rings, on the other monitor. It's from Prussia. Austria's frown deepens as he answers the call.
"Austria speaking."
"Hi Priss~~!" Prussia's sneer could be heard all the way across the internet. "You trying to hack my website again, huh? Man, that was a lousy attempt, I've gotta say."
"First, it's not your website," he answers levelly. 12345awesome doesn't work. What else?
"You really have a lot of time," the white-haired annoyance whistles. "And? So what's second?"
"Second?"
"You know, 'first, it's not your website'. If there's a first, then there's a second. What's the second?"
"Look, Prussia, I am rather busy right now. Why don't you stop assuming that I have enough time to go clean up after you, and stop bothering me with stupid messages while you're at it?"
"You so are trying to hack my website, priss, it's so obvious it's not even funny." He pauses. "Just about as obvious as everything else you're hiding. Cough it up."
He tries vitalregionsmine, remembering that it was what Prussia used as his email password back in the nineties, rolling his eyes as he enters the password. Austria doesn't know what to think of it, to be honest. Prussia says things like that all the time, but it's obvious that he means nothing, and if he means anything it can be nothing else but mockery.
Prussia's loathsome error message again. Buzz.
"Oh man, I can't believe you remember that one," Prussia breathes from the other end of the line. He could just imagine the albino's face, wet with derision and intent with the passion of immature hackers everywhere. Austria resolutely ignores that mental image.
"If I don't know better, Priss, I'd almost think you're stalking me." Another pause. "And are you really trying to hack my website by guessing passwords? Really? Where are we, 1980s Hollywood?"
"I don't have the slightest clue what you're talking about. Also, I find Hollywood productions to be singularly dreadful. You ought to attend a good opera every once in a while, if only to purify your taste."
There is a long, long pause. Austria finally notices it after he tried and failed three more passwords.
"...Prussia?"
If he's gone, well, there is that. Austria can concentrate on his work of cracking the Prussian Code.
He might admit to being a little...disappointed, though.
At hearing his voice, however, Prussia apparently springs back to life, just like some primordial paramecium that wouldn't go away. He coughs.
"Priss."
"Yes?" He tries another password, fritzisawesome. Buzz. "Do you want me to hang up?"
"That's my li- - -no, wait, scratch that," he says. Then pauses again. Really, these pauses are starting to be annoying. "Is that...a date?"
This time, Austria is the one who pauses. He's utterly confused, immediately thinking of lousy desert fruits Turkey claims are better than his apfelstrudels. As if. And then his mind veers back on track and locks onto the word's regular meaning, to no less confusion than before.
"...What date?"
"You know," Prussia breathes. "You just asked me out to an opera. With you."
Austria slams his hands on the keyboard, the aging operating system wailing in painful PC-speaker sounds. It hurts, but then again, he only does this because the keyboard is not his beloved piano.
Prussia, that terrible, uncouth, vulgar excuse for an ex-nation, is toying with him again. And every time he rages because there's some quiver down in his stomach that feels like butterflies, and he hates that more than anything, the fact that those butterflies exist for someone who will never take him seriously. The fact that they haven't existed for someone else for a while. The fact that, no matter how much he runs after Prussia, this entire thing is pointless and he will never be anything more than a vulgar little joke for Prussia's spare time.
"I did not ask you out to an opera with me," he seethes. "Do you have any idea how much a ticket costs?"
There is another pause.
"Is that all the problem is?" Prussia asks, his voice annoyingly full of wonder. Typical. Austria is here trying to figure out the bastard's password, and Prussia's sitting there, sounding randomly astounded and happy because opera tickets are expensive. Very insensitive of him.
"Priss, if that's what it is, I'll buy- - -"
Austria will have no more of this senseless gloating. "Excuse me, but I have matters to attend to."
He just finished and failed another password when Prussia rings again.
"Austria, you idiot," Prussia accuses from the other end of the line, sounding rather breathless. Austria doesn't know why he should have to stand that kind of abuse, especially coming up the grandmother of idiots anywhere. Once again, he moves his cursor to the hang up button.
"Wait, don't hang up!" Prussia yells, as if he's prescient, which gives Austria pause. As much as he hates it, he has never been able to really hang up unless Prussia says so. "At least listen to what I have to say, you enormous, sissy, springy-haired idiot."
"Prussia," Austria says with an exasperated, exaggerated sigh. "I really am busy right now. Can we talk later?"
"No!" then he quickly amends. "It's just, you know, these kinds of things, it should be right now. I mean."
"Can you at least talk in a clear and parsable language?"
"I'm trying t- - -are you really that intent on figuring out my password?"
"How else am I going to stop your nefarious terrorism on innocent townsfolk?" Austria answers irritably. He's about to enter another password (elizasboobs, much to his chargrin), when Prussia says something that makes him freeze on the spot.
"I'll tell you what my password is," Prussia says, his voice laden with meaning. "No, wait, I'll give you a hint and let you guess. It's no fun if I hand it to you on a platter, after all."
"It's the password you just tried, but with a different name as the last word," Prussia says, twirling his chocolate bars around like a supervillain. (He's even better than them because his bars are sweet while cigars taste like shit and give you cancer, so there.) The series of phrases Austria tried as his password flashes on the screen, some of them endearing, some of them flattering, even if a few were not. He's grinning from ear to ear, really, at the idea that the priss- - -his priss- - - -actually paid that much attention to him and his habits. It's fairly nice, being unconsciously stalked.
The last password, by the way, flashes : ilovefritz
"Do you use underscores?" Austria asks over the call, sounding delectably clueless. It's worth learning C++ and braving 4chan to hear that innocent, inquisitive voice of his, really. The last time he got anywhere close was way back when he asked Prussia how the Crusades worked, and that was a stupidly long time ago.
He shakes his head, even if he's not using his webcam and there's no way for Austria to see it.
"Nope. Just try some names, Specs."
There's the sound of hands running on a keyboard. Oh yeah, Austria's sexy hands. It's sexy on a piano, it's got to be sexy typing- - -
ilovegilbird
Prussia snickers. "Try again, idiot."
He can hear Austria's frustration all the way across the Alps.
iloveludwig
"Uh-uh. Wrong! Try again!"
iloveeliza
"Oh, you wish. Come to think of it, you've always said I should die in a fire, right? Is that what you mean?"
ilovefrancis
"Ewwwwwwww! What the hell brought that on! ? Look, we're best buds, but I don't want to die of STDs yet!"
ilovebeinganobsfucatingidiot
"Now you're just being rude," Prussia whines in injured tones. "Oh, what a horrible country Austria is. Here I am, trying to tell the secrets of my heart, and here you are, mocking me. Prithee, I think I mayest die."
He can hear some uncomplimentary sounds from the other side of Skype. Really, Austria has a much shorter fuse than he thinks he does, and he's more of an undisciplined tantrum-thrower than he thinks he is.
"Can you just quit being insufferable, or should I hang up?" Austria groans, sounding like he's being strangled by a cat. "At least give me something to work on, I don't have all day."
He's tempted to reply with then stop trying to guess my password and go to your stupid opera with me, but holds his tongue, because that's no fun and would get him thrown out of the Viennese airport for a week. A Prussian must stay classy. Classy, like the most fleet-footed of cats and the most glorious of eagles combined. High above it all. Yes. "Sure I can, Priss. On one condition."
"What?"
"You'll buy an opera ticket for me. And yourself. We're sitting together, on the box."
There is a confused moment of silence. Doubtlessly the Priss' cheapskate brain is trying to figure out how much money it's going to cost and whether Prussia was out to financially ruin him in the long run. Prussia rolls his eyes. He'd buy the tickets himself if it isn't because of Austria's ridiculously easy to injure austerity, really. His brother gives him that much allowance.
"…Deal."
Prussia's grin grows as wide as a watermelon. Finally. After all these years! Maybe it requires some stupidity, but finally his gorgeous priss is going on a date with him! Austria sitting next to him at the opera, his white neck exposed in the dim light, ripe for tasting, and his stupidly girly brand of perfume driving Prussia mad as the music slowly rises to a crescendo, his supple thighs trying hard not to brush Prussia's crotch...So many things he can do with that mental image...
But first, he cans it. Priorities.
"It's someone you know. His name starts with an R," Prussia says, his heart starting to thump. If this goes well, today might just escalate from a great day to the best day ever.
There's a pause, then Austria starts typing. His heart pounds in anticipation. The words flash onto the screen.
iloverussia
Prussia howls.
"How did you come up with that! ? That creep? How the hell did you come up with that! ?"
"You said it's someone I know whose name starts with an R!"
"'Russia' isn't the name, you idiot! If that's the case, it would've been 'Ivan'!"
"Who is it, then! ? Raivis? Are you so far gone as to go after the underaged now! ?"
Prussia breathes like an enraged animal. He should've known it. This is Austria, and Austria is the world's leading expert at demolishing warm fluffy romantic moments into the wind. So much for thinking it could turn out into the best day ever. So much for thinking Austria could understand- - -
"Fuck you, Roddy," he mutters. "I was an idiot for trying, anyway."
There is, quite suddenly, a crystal-clear silence.
It takes him a moment, but Prussia catches himself and realizes what he just said. He just blew up at Priss. His Priss, the one who never forgets the smallest mistakes, the one who really had a terribly low opinion of how others viewed himself, who said he was plain, who always seemed perplexed when Liz suggested that others might like him. Priss, who took rejections and divorces and rebellions that weren't really his fault so badly that he ends up not even trying, not even thinking about it anymore. Prussia liked being under Austria's aristocratic disdain no more than any regular person, but he's different in that he was there to see it, the walls that the Priss closed behind him. And he really doesn't want to see it anymore. Did he just end up doing the same thing, is Austria never going to look at him again, except with that those tired, defeated eyes...?
"Roddy, I..." Prussia starts, but then realizes he's hearing a sound.
Austria is typing.
i
The letters appear so slowly, it's almost as if Austria is trembling. Or maybe it's just that time itself has slowed.
ilov
Maybe it's just Prussia himself whose perception has entered the Matrix and gone bullet-time. He's aware of every breath he takes, every single heartbeat. They're racing faster than anything he knows.
iloveroddy
The words hang on the screen as if they're there forever. Then, as if to break the spell, a warning message gently pops up, telling him that his website has been logged onto from another place.
"You idiot," Austria whispers across Skype, and for once the insult is the sweetest sound Prussia has ever heard. He doesn't care what happens on the screen anymore, he just wants to focus on the sound of Austria's fingers on the keyboard, the softer, barely inaudible sound of his breathing, the next words he would say. He doesn't even notice when his blog was wiped away and replaced with a white screen.
He does frown, though, when a small blinking message appears in comic sans. Prussia squints and bends over to get a closer look at it.
Prussia has the world's smallest penis, it reads.
He feels his jaw slowly drop as his brain resists the urge to scream and wake the neighbours. (It's 2 AM, West'll have his hide.)
Another message pops up. Prussia kept wetting his bed until he was 200 years old.
This time he can't resist howling. Jams his password on the keyboard.
'HAHA WRONG YOU LOSER!' explodes, the rainbow dick dancing mockingly at him.
Below the message, the text continues.
Prussia is a creepy stalker who steals underwear and breaks into houses while the owner is sleeping.
There's a faint, suspiciously snicker-like sound from the speakers, and suddenly Prussia remembers. He's dealing with the douchebag aristocrat Austria, the asshole who never lets go of the smallest bygones, the one who stuck his nose up at the rest of the 'uncultured' world for five centuries, who yelled at kids eating pasta, who out-snarked France with nothing more than smiling like a goddamned king. Austria, who made people sign away their hereditary lands over breakfast and their treasuries over dinner then complained if they bother him during piano break. As much as Prussia loves- - -yes, loves- - -his insecure prissy little master, he remembers how much he just wanted to see him beaten to a pulp.
Prussia pretends to be manly, but he keeps a collection of girly diaries in his house and still rereads them like a mentally deficient person.
"Austriaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..." he growls, weighing the wisdom of punching the douchebag aristocrat's mug first when they go to the opera (yes, they are still going to the opera) versus making him apologize for each and every one of those creatively, elsewhere. But Austria's revenge is apparently not over yet. Another line of text appears.
Prussia also has the worst taste in love ever, and has fallen for the world's most terrible man.
That takes him by surprise. "Wha-"
The world's most terrible man, unfortunately, is also terribly fond of him.
The message blinks there for three dumbfounded seconds, then winks out of existence along with the rest.
He stares at the blankness for twenty more seconds before coming to, and before he knows it, Prussia is shaking the screen and yelling for Austria to come back and explain the meaning that he already knows.
Having restored the webcomic artist's site to its original state, Austria sits back and enjoys himself as Prussia continues with his hysterical babbling, plus the occasional sound of something falling with a crash. He has always known Prussia to be the high-strung one, really, and it's easy to imagine the albino with his face flush, eyes wide, clutching at the monitor for dear life and his brain holding nothing but Austria's name and Austria's words and the idea of running out of the house to come see Austria right now. It's a mental image to be savored, he thinks. His own face is a little flushed with heat. The flippant, magnetic, brilliantly shining Prussia, using that as his password. Having that being so important that it's the first thing he thinks of, the one thing he won't forget. It's sweet. It's- - -Austria doesn't even know what to feel yet, except for a rush of warm, fuzzy butterflies inside his heart.
But first, he cans it. Priorities.
Austria surfs to the opera house's website and peruses the schedule, picking out the most inconvenient time slot and the most boring opera possible while his ears enjoy the sound of Prussia calling his name.
"I'm not going to go easy on you," he whispers, smiling with something approaching an incredulous happiness.
The opera reservation is concluded with the hacked details of Prussia's credit card, the master password to it still echoing in the virtual air.
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END
Some completely unhistorical footnotes!
- The proper method to hacking is probably to overload/DDos the site. I can't hack, IDK.
- No, Austria doesn't know how to turn off Skype. He also uses IE6.
- Yes, it's Austria who originally said the vital regions line. He just wants Prussia to be the one to speak it. Call it Freudian brainwashing.
- The moral of this story : never give out your passwords, and certainly not ones tied to your credit card. Shame on you, Prussia. What a lousy script kiddie you are.
This fic was originally a fill from the Hetalia kink meme.