Austria closes his eyes as he sits at his grand piano. He can feel the stirring of a new piece of music inside of him so he takes a deep breath and rolls back his shoulders. There were many long and painful years in his youth that he had spent on seemingly infinite piano drills, technique, and even posture (people seldom realise that you need to learn how to sit to play the piano properly), which had been agonising at the time, but now allow him to simply sit and play.
He lets his fingers trail across the keys whilst his mind jumps from topic to topic. The tune doesn't really mean anything yet; it is more a jumble of thoughts splayed out into a melody, but after a good few minutes he finds himself settle on familiar memories. His hands follow suit, and the notes fall into place.
There was a time, too long ago now, when he had been plagued by that insufferable nuisance, Prussia. He had been bullied and beaten, and he could remember the anger he had felt. All he had ever wanted was to play his music in peace and be civilised, but it seemed that his pesky neighbour simply did not understand the concept.
As Austria remembers, the tune of his song becomes faster and angrier as the notes clash in discordant harmonies. He smiles a small smile as he feels the exhilaration that comes with playing complex chords at such high speeds.
He remembers when his treasured cousin, Silesia, had been taken from him by that barbarian. His boss Maria had gone all the way to England, to Saxony - even to that Dutch idiot - but despite their help, he could not get her back.
He hadn't realised how much time he had spent around Prussia's house, spying on him and his poor Silesia. He'd argued with Prussia so many times, and they had fought so many times; somewhere along the line, Austria realised that he actually enjoyed their fights a little too much.
That had been an incredibly confusing time for him. Wasn't Prussia his enemy? Shouldn't he hate the frustrating idiot?
He'd written many pieces during that time. (How else was he supposed to release his emotions?) He still remembers a few of the melodies, and his hands trace an old piece of melodic minors and diminished sevenths.
But through all the confusion, there finally came the day when he was able to rescue his dear cousin! Russia had come along (here Austria tries not to dwell on that backwards imbecile for fear of ruining his piece) and had distracted Prussia thoroughly.
It had been too easy to sneak into Prussia's house and take his little cousin by the hand, whispering reassurances and telling her that they could go home now. Little Silesia had smiled and wrapped her small arms around him, and the feeling of her warm body close and safe again was definitely worth the long fight to try and get her back.
However, Austria had been shocked to find Prussia lying in a broken heap not far outside the house as he and his cousin were making their escape.
He should have felt victorious, or perhaps elated, when he saw his enemy defeated at his feet (although admittedly not by his own, delicate musician's hands).
He should have laughed, or maybe made some witty remark about just desserts.
But instead he had felt completely wretched. Which was horribly confusing.
Austria had held out his hand and had brought Prussia the few metres to his house. At the time he had no idea what he was doing, just that he needed to do something, and that he couldn't let Prussia lie there in a battered mess. When he was safely inside, Austria turned away, but he still heard the faint 'Thank you.'
He has told no one how the warmth had blossomed in his chest when Prussia had thanked him. That was when the dreams had begun.
He thinks of Debussy's Reverie when he remembers those strange dreams. The melody becomes surreal, yet beautiful and blurred.
He used to wake up every morning having dreamt of Prussia (the dreams, at first, were of blood and the vicious bruises littering an angular face, but after a while he dreamt of soft words of praise and Prussia's warm body in his arms as he half carried him into his house…)
Soon enough, he ended up spending most days at Prussia's house enquiring politely after his health.
The maids had laughed at him and told him, 'Why, Mr Austria, you are here so often, it is almost as if this is your own house!' and they would wink and he would blush and move on because he is a gentleman and gentlemen do not get flustered.
Obviously, he was only going over to ensure Prussia's steady recovery. Obviously. It wasn't as if he cared or anything, god forbid. It was strategic actually, because if Prussia did happen to die, there'd be all sorts of fights over who took his house and possessions, and Austria just didn't want to deal with all those complications. His reasons for his daily visits were purely about protecting himself. Purely.
Of course, he was usually greeted with verbal abuse and 'Oi, you idiot, come again to bask in my awesome presence?', but somehow or other he found it a little endearing (although you will never hear him admit that.)
They started talking for hours on end. They talked battles, empires, history, dreams and Austria would even introduce Prussia to his favourite composers. He spent a few hours demonstrating the difference between classical and romantic music. Although for some reason Prussia simply could not understand the frankly obvious contrast. The two genres could not be more different!
On another occasion he had learned, with great horror, that Prussia was completely incapable of appreciating Liszt's genius. Even worse, he preferred the rather uniform structure of baroque pieces over the beauty of the great romantics such as Schumann. (This is after Austria had played through several pieces from different composers whilst explaining in great detail what the differences were)
Needless to say, when the day came that France tried to burn down all the nations' houses, Austria and Prussia fought side by side.
They shared the glorious thrill of battle as they faced war together for the first time. (Austria plays a loud, dramatic tune full of octaves that takes after Holst's Mars whilst remembering the marching beat of the soldiers and the adrenaline of war.)
After returning from the fighting, he and Prussia would turn to each other, fuelled by adrenaline and sweaty with exertion. And somehow they would have a strange sort of companionable silence that held the charge of…something.
But after all those battles had been fought, it all started to change. Prussia's kid brother Germany had suddenly reached puberty, and they moved to a different house, a bigger house. It wasn't just Prussia's any more. If anything, people started to call it 'Germany's House'.
Prussia stopped talking about himself and naturally, this caused Austria to worry.
They were lying on one of the large, ornately decorated couches of Austria's living room when Austria pointed out how quiet it was. Prussia mumbled something that Austria couldn't quite make out. From there it only got worse.
His hands shake a little as the melody takes another turn, becoming bitter and legato - blurred.
One day Prussia couldn't speak at all.
Austria remembers his panic; he remembered this happening to others, both Persia and Holy Rome (although he'd been so young then) – and he knew what it meant.
Prussia was fading.
He can't help the angry, bitter dissonance that takes over his music as the notes clash painfully and violently.
Prussia had started to disappear – he had looked haggard and skeletal, and whilst standing by the window you could almost see straight through him. He had always been pale of course, but that had been a whole different level: corpse-like rather than just albino.
He'd become confined to his house (or rather Germany's house) because he hadn't been able to travel further than the bathroom adjoined to his room. So Austria had practically moved in with him.
He had brought his spare upright piano into the room, playing sweet melodies to Prussia which would make him smile (even though he had previously called them 'pointless and stupid'). Austria had fought the tears because he couldn't let Prussia see and he was (still is) a gentleman, and the noble do not cry.
Until the day when Prussia did not smile at Austria's music. Prussia did not move at all. Prussia had disappeared.
And that is where Austria stops his tune.
It has been some time since then, and he knows that time changes things. Others will come, maybe Prussia could even return. He tells himself that he doesn't care because he is a gentleman and thus he does not cry.
But he is also a musician, and his music tells him otherwise.