( axis powers hetalia ) string quartet no.14, hungarian dance no.1.
Title: String Quartet No.14, Hungarian Dance No.1.
Series: Axis Powers: Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Hungary, Austria, mentioned others. Heavily implied Austria/Hungary, but what do you expect?
Rating: PG.
Summary: Lying is just a matter of helping protect the people you love, even from something as little as a contrary opinion; looking back on her life, Hungary can't say she's been entirely honest, but she was taught by the best.
Notes: I'm not really sure where this came from or if it even has much of a point: Hungary reflecting on selective history, music, names, and her (ex) husband. AND NO MORE SPAMMING TODAY I promise.
The most common question Hungary gets is, "what was it like back then?" Her memory isn't much more infallible than any human's, but in the end they're rarely asking for details, exact accounts; they just want to know if people really dressed like that back then, men in tights (hose, she corrects with a smile). They want to know what the kings were like, what artists and musicians she's met. But they also don't want to know, not really; just the image, the picture. They imagine Beethoven concerts and adoring crowds; she remembers one visit near the end of his life, Austria at her side, hesitantly speaking, a man at an altar; she remembers hearing the music but can hardly remember the tune unless she finds the record-and she recognizes it only by that. She was bored that day, and her dress was new and itched. She pretended to be interested in the violins, dragging out so slow, the room so hot and smoky-and that is all she remembers of it. Her meeting with a legend: heat, an uncomfortable dress, an incomprehensible violin-And Austria, rapt and hardly breathing. She'd been in love with him even then, and willing to fake the same breathless joy he shone with.
And it is that joy she mentions if they ask her (they always do), because that is what they want to hear, even if it isn't the truth. They want knights and corsets and long-dead legends, and she doesn't mind lying now and then if it helps their dreams of the past.
The other question is opposite: did people really die? Did you ever meet this man, or that man, or that one's boss? Were you at this revolution, that massacre, that siege? "It wasn't so bad," she smiles each time, even when it was worse. Death is fascinating and the details are too hard to describe; they like hearing how their country was once a knight like any man, wielding a sword with sinewy muscle, imagining her armor shining instead of dirty and dull, raising it in victory in the bright sun. They leave out the act of killing, the sweat and grit, the bone weariness and gasping and screams. There are no string quartets on battlefields. But she's not cruel, and doesn't make a habit out of ruining her people's dreams. If they want to think of knights as glorious, she can lie to help them. Even historians, those who profess to know her better than any, who can talk about sieges she fought in and know more about the details than she ever did, any soldier ever did-even they don't really want to know, even though they do. The Ottoman broke through and the city fell soonafter sounds much nicer without the cracking of bone and dripping of blood.
Sometimes it's just easier to be Erzsébet; spelt E-l-i-z-a-b-e-t-a, because she can compromise in other areas too, with an Austrian ex-husband and a city full of people stumbling over her name. Like that Queen in England, she'd tell them, trying to smile; later complaining to Austria as he picked at his violin; she'd lie on her back and pick at her stockings on the covers of his bed. It is too exotic, he would say, and she'd scoff at him, call him Rodrich, choking out the last two letters, pronouncing it in Hungarian, over and over until he put aside the violin.
Erzsébet was a complainer. Loud and negative, uncomfortable in finery and happy in her heavy cotton dresses, the ones that make others sigh for their plainness. Elizabeta was a nobleman's wife, as dainty as she can manage, whose only quirk was her refusal to ride sidesaddle. Hungary is both of them; Hungary is good at lying to make people happy, and telling the stories expected from her. And sometimes it's easier to be a human, no matter what kind of one, to tease Austria until he can no longer take the high road and watch him try in vain to explain musical progression and notes and listen and then be surprised at a sudden pluck or note or slide, making her smile at the… the playfulness, the sound, the way Austria's knuckles whiten as he plays. She has heard him be asked questions of the past as well. He is worse at it than she, totally oblivious to matters of state and war, and over explaining the matters of culture and taste, the reason for the corsets and fans, not just the confirmation that they did exist.
She finds it charming, really, but knows better than to say that as he's sensitive to it. He tries, but has no talent for it. After all, he is German (but if nothing else, she's always had a thing for Germans, hasn't she? She can't help it, the cluelessness is just so…). The obsession with details had its strong points even if it didn't help with explaining the past in the least.
Elizabeta had been her ex's invention as much as her own, him supplying every detail, ever lesson in how to walk, speak, move, wear clothing not made for working in, even eat. At times she'd wanted to throw things at him, whack him over the head with his own violin. I can be a country without being a lady, she'd snapped. He'd been calm, unflustered, graceful and, and well perfect: no, you cannot. She'd been so jealous. He had been right. She'd leave the house after chores and come back barefoot and dirty, hair down and tangled, laughing with bared teeth at Prussia and she'd come back and he would just stare at her, watch her, unreadable and unchangeable, a living beautiful portrait. She'd imagine him judging and scorning behind that blank look and grow angry at him, and then grow angry at Prussia for encouraging her to be this way to start with. So she would wash and change her clothing and smile and be meek and lie her way into grace until he showed her the correct way, wanting to please him and hating herself for not knowing why. And soon she had become Elizabeta, a beautiful, smiling lie. Who loved, or pretended to love, string quartets.
When they had gotten married, he had confessed he'd been jealous of her freedom, her lack of caring, and she'd laughed and kissed him as he stammered and tried to excuse it. It is another kind of lie, and she loved him for it. Still does, although she's older now, they both are, and she can no longer motivate herself to act just to please him. But she showed him how to use his mobile phone again and again until he finally got it, and he calls often, usually for directions. She doesn't know what else love is; booting up her laptop to try and find a map of Klosterneuburg even though her laptop is eight years old.
And he's supported her too, for centuries, teaching her the grace and poise she needed to lie, even how to mend her stockings (because really, he wasn't going to shell out the money for new ones, and she couldn't wear them with a run, either). Sewing is one of the few things she's never been able to learn, let alone master; his tireless, invisible stitching is another thing she owes to him; stitching and lessons and the music he plays, sometimes screeching to her ears and sometimes slipping into what she can understand. And he says she's the only one he's ever loved, and she honestly is not quite sure if he's lying.
Once, very soon into their marriage, he took her to a performance and seemed nervous; a new composer, he said; perhaps even greater than the ones before. She'd smiled and pretending to be as excited as he, but this time he'd caught her in the lie. A new dress was presented to her with a new corset to match, the kind she was rapidly growing to dislike, so tight even her thoughts seemed to be in a sieve. The concert hall was packed with gossip and the aristocracy, many of whom Austria knew well and Hungary was supposed to; he whispered for her names and titles and then took her by the arm and pulled her to their box. "You're really excited about this," she'd said wonderingly, teasing, because it was rare for him to be nervous enough for sweaty palms. He had smiled tight lipped.
Her people ask her about emperors, kings, Beethoven and vampires, folk heroes and folk songs. But somehow they never ask about Brahms: "I have found a concert you will enjoy," Austria had said with a serious sort of pride: four hands on piano, Ungarischer Tanz Nr.1.
She'd have liked it more to dance to out of a corset, but he had been so pleased with himself for finding her a proper Hungarian song. Sometimes it's just easier to rest your head on your then-husband's shoulder and lie.
People rarely want to know the truth, anyway.
notes.
Beethoven's String Quartet No.14 in C♯ minor, Op. 131, was written in 1826. It was one of his personal favorites, and one of his last works. At the time it and the other Late Quartets were first performed they were considered just too modern and too forward, and the initial reception was confused and lukewarm. Now they're considered brilliant and some of his best work. Beethoven himself was very fond of them, especially No.14.
Brahms' Hungarian Dances were published in 1869. Only three of them were of his own creation; the others were based on existing Hungarian songs. They were originally written for four hands, that is, two people at one piano, although they've been reworked into just about any combination you can think of. At the time they were published, Brahms had only been well known as a composer for a year or two, sort of the hot new name in music; Austria-Hungary was only two years old itself (which isn't really relevant, just one of those interesting timeline things).
The 1860s was when skirts reached their most ridiculously wide, flat in the front and about a yard across. It's also when corsets were taken up a notch, made much longer and tighter all around.
Series: Axis Powers: Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Hungary, Austria, mentioned others. Heavily implied Austria/Hungary, but what do you expect?
Rating: PG.
Summary: Lying is just a matter of helping protect the people you love, even from something as little as a contrary opinion; looking back on her life, Hungary can't say she's been entirely honest, but she was taught by the best.
Notes: I'm not really sure where this came from or if it even has much of a point: Hungary reflecting on selective history, music, names, and her (ex) husband. AND NO MORE SPAMMING TODAY I promise.
The most common question Hungary gets is, "what was it like back then?" Her memory isn't much more infallible than any human's, but in the end they're rarely asking for details, exact accounts; they just want to know if people really dressed like that back then, men in tights (hose, she corrects with a smile). They want to know what the kings were like, what artists and musicians she's met. But they also don't want to know, not really; just the image, the picture. They imagine Beethoven concerts and adoring crowds; she remembers one visit near the end of his life, Austria at her side, hesitantly speaking, a man at an altar; she remembers hearing the music but can hardly remember the tune unless she finds the record-and she recognizes it only by that. She was bored that day, and her dress was new and itched. She pretended to be interested in the violins, dragging out so slow, the room so hot and smoky-and that is all she remembers of it. Her meeting with a legend: heat, an uncomfortable dress, an incomprehensible violin-And Austria, rapt and hardly breathing. She'd been in love with him even then, and willing to fake the same breathless joy he shone with.
And it is that joy she mentions if they ask her (they always do), because that is what they want to hear, even if it isn't the truth. They want knights and corsets and long-dead legends, and she doesn't mind lying now and then if it helps their dreams of the past.
The other question is opposite: did people really die? Did you ever meet this man, or that man, or that one's boss? Were you at this revolution, that massacre, that siege? "It wasn't so bad," she smiles each time, even when it was worse. Death is fascinating and the details are too hard to describe; they like hearing how their country was once a knight like any man, wielding a sword with sinewy muscle, imagining her armor shining instead of dirty and dull, raising it in victory in the bright sun. They leave out the act of killing, the sweat and grit, the bone weariness and gasping and screams. There are no string quartets on battlefields. But she's not cruel, and doesn't make a habit out of ruining her people's dreams. If they want to think of knights as glorious, she can lie to help them. Even historians, those who profess to know her better than any, who can talk about sieges she fought in and know more about the details than she ever did, any soldier ever did-even they don't really want to know, even though they do. The Ottoman broke through and the city fell soonafter sounds much nicer without the cracking of bone and dripping of blood.
Sometimes it's just easier to be Erzsébet; spelt E-l-i-z-a-b-e-t-a, because she can compromise in other areas too, with an Austrian ex-husband and a city full of people stumbling over her name. Like that Queen in England, she'd tell them, trying to smile; later complaining to Austria as he picked at his violin; she'd lie on her back and pick at her stockings on the covers of his bed. It is too exotic, he would say, and she'd scoff at him, call him Rodrich, choking out the last two letters, pronouncing it in Hungarian, over and over until he put aside the violin.
Erzsébet was a complainer. Loud and negative, uncomfortable in finery and happy in her heavy cotton dresses, the ones that make others sigh for their plainness. Elizabeta was a nobleman's wife, as dainty as she can manage, whose only quirk was her refusal to ride sidesaddle. Hungary is both of them; Hungary is good at lying to make people happy, and telling the stories expected from her. And sometimes it's easier to be a human, no matter what kind of one, to tease Austria until he can no longer take the high road and watch him try in vain to explain musical progression and notes and listen and then be surprised at a sudden pluck or note or slide, making her smile at the… the playfulness, the sound, the way Austria's knuckles whiten as he plays. She has heard him be asked questions of the past as well. He is worse at it than she, totally oblivious to matters of state and war, and over explaining the matters of culture and taste, the reason for the corsets and fans, not just the confirmation that they did exist.
She finds it charming, really, but knows better than to say that as he's sensitive to it. He tries, but has no talent for it. After all, he is German (but if nothing else, she's always had a thing for Germans, hasn't she? She can't help it, the cluelessness is just so…). The obsession with details had its strong points even if it didn't help with explaining the past in the least.
Elizabeta had been her ex's invention as much as her own, him supplying every detail, ever lesson in how to walk, speak, move, wear clothing not made for working in, even eat. At times she'd wanted to throw things at him, whack him over the head with his own violin. I can be a country without being a lady, she'd snapped. He'd been calm, unflustered, graceful and, and well perfect: no, you cannot. She'd been so jealous. He had been right. She'd leave the house after chores and come back barefoot and dirty, hair down and tangled, laughing with bared teeth at Prussia and she'd come back and he would just stare at her, watch her, unreadable and unchangeable, a living beautiful portrait. She'd imagine him judging and scorning behind that blank look and grow angry at him, and then grow angry at Prussia for encouraging her to be this way to start with. So she would wash and change her clothing and smile and be meek and lie her way into grace until he showed her the correct way, wanting to please him and hating herself for not knowing why. And soon she had become Elizabeta, a beautiful, smiling lie. Who loved, or pretended to love, string quartets.
When they had gotten married, he had confessed he'd been jealous of her freedom, her lack of caring, and she'd laughed and kissed him as he stammered and tried to excuse it. It is another kind of lie, and she loved him for it. Still does, although she's older now, they both are, and she can no longer motivate herself to act just to please him. But she showed him how to use his mobile phone again and again until he finally got it, and he calls often, usually for directions. She doesn't know what else love is; booting up her laptop to try and find a map of Klosterneuburg even though her laptop is eight years old.
And he's supported her too, for centuries, teaching her the grace and poise she needed to lie, even how to mend her stockings (because really, he wasn't going to shell out the money for new ones, and she couldn't wear them with a run, either). Sewing is one of the few things she's never been able to learn, let alone master; his tireless, invisible stitching is another thing she owes to him; stitching and lessons and the music he plays, sometimes screeching to her ears and sometimes slipping into what she can understand. And he says she's the only one he's ever loved, and she honestly is not quite sure if he's lying.
Once, very soon into their marriage, he took her to a performance and seemed nervous; a new composer, he said; perhaps even greater than the ones before. She'd smiled and pretending to be as excited as he, but this time he'd caught her in the lie. A new dress was presented to her with a new corset to match, the kind she was rapidly growing to dislike, so tight even her thoughts seemed to be in a sieve. The concert hall was packed with gossip and the aristocracy, many of whom Austria knew well and Hungary was supposed to; he whispered for her names and titles and then took her by the arm and pulled her to their box. "You're really excited about this," she'd said wonderingly, teasing, because it was rare for him to be nervous enough for sweaty palms. He had smiled tight lipped.
Her people ask her about emperors, kings, Beethoven and vampires, folk heroes and folk songs. But somehow they never ask about Brahms: "I have found a concert you will enjoy," Austria had said with a serious sort of pride: four hands on piano, Ungarischer Tanz Nr.1.
She'd have liked it more to dance to out of a corset, but he had been so pleased with himself for finding her a proper Hungarian song. Sometimes it's just easier to rest your head on your then-husband's shoulder and lie.
People rarely want to know the truth, anyway.
notes.
Beethoven's String Quartet No.14 in C♯ minor, Op. 131, was written in 1826. It was one of his personal favorites, and one of his last works. At the time it and the other Late Quartets were first performed they were considered just too modern and too forward, and the initial reception was confused and lukewarm. Now they're considered brilliant and some of his best work. Beethoven himself was very fond of them, especially No.14.
Brahms' Hungarian Dances were published in 1869. Only three of them were of his own creation; the others were based on existing Hungarian songs. They were originally written for four hands, that is, two people at one piano, although they've been reworked into just about any combination you can think of. At the time they were published, Brahms had only been well known as a composer for a year or two, sort of the hot new name in music; Austria-Hungary was only two years old itself (which isn't really relevant, just one of those interesting timeline things).
The 1860s was when skirts reached their most ridiculously wide, flat in the front and about a yard across. It's also when corsets were taken up a notch, made much longer and tighter all around.