(no subject)
for madelineusher, a drabble that was supposed to be a fic and then an actual fic.
He knew the place where her waist dipped inwards as well as he knew the bow of a violin. He had held her there just as many times as he had picked up his favorite instrument and played.
Her shoulders were to him the ivory keys of a piano. Both were smooth and pale and equally beloved by him; he caressed her shoulders with light kisses and his fingers danced over the keys with confidence but also with love.
The small scar on her hip that matched one on her knee were the flute and the clarinet of her body, light notes gracing her skin in similar ways while singing different songs; they were essential to her whole perfect being.
He knew her as the symphony that the orchestra of the world had come together to create, its masterpiece above all pieces that had ever been played and he also knew that it would never, could never, match the beauty of her again.
Austria could do nothing but sit and wait, his fingers flying over the keys in anger and sadness. He wouldn't play Rachmaninoff, nor Matyushin, nor any other Russian composer. It was Chopin and Beethoven over, and over, and over again.
But some nights he didn't have it in him to play at all. He didn't have the heart. He may have been reunited just a year ago, the pieces of his land whole once more, but he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable until his second half was no longer Soviet. For so many years his heart had resided in two places, and he no longer remembered how to live alone in just one home.
And on those nights he would just sit on the swing in his backyard, remembering when he had someone to sit next to, someone soft and warm and who knew him almost better than he knew himself.
One night in 1956, just after autumn started turning the leaves red and the wind turned bitter, he sat alone on his swing. He'd do this all year round; on desperately cold nights he would bring a blanket and some tea and sit outside until he could no longer physically stand it.
But it wasn't cold yet that night; it was October. Early October, nearing midnight, and Austria was gearing up to count the stars as a distraction when he was suddenly toppled off the swing and onto the grass. His glasses were knocked away and all he knew was that he was enveloped in long hair and the smell of tulips, being kissed by lips as familiar as Vienna.
He couldn't help himself; he had no other choice but to wrap his arms around her and kiss back, breaking away only when she did. “Eliza,” he breathed, his eyes wide. She pressed their foreheads together, dropping a kiss on his cheek.
“I escaped,” she whispered, and he savored those words, sweeter to him than Sacher torte, but his heart sank as she continued, “but only for a few hours. Porosz is distracting him.” They kissed again, desperately, their second stolen kiss for the night, their second kiss since 1918.
They stayed wrapped around each other for the few hours she had. Their bodies were so familiar but somehow still so new: they both had scars, new and relatively old, that the other hadn't explored and so they spent their time worshiping each other, remembering how it used to be when it was just them together, alone.
She left just as quickly and as quietly as she arrived and Austria could only lay there in the grass, his mind whirling with the events of the night.
It wasn't too long after that news of what was happening in Budapest reached him, and he played Liszt to drown out the mental, imagined pictures of her broken body lying in the streets.
As he played, his chest seeped blood from the portion of his heart where Hungary still resided.
EPILOGUE:
Six years later, Austria was drinking his morning tea when he heard a cheerful “szia!” He dropped his teacup and went to her immediately.
She was still Soviet, but she had earned her freedom.
Rachmaninoff and Matyushin are both Russian composers.
It's noted in canon that Chopin is what he plays when he's angry, but I think he plays Beethoven when he's sad.
October 23, 1956 was the Hungarian revolution against the USSR. They didn't win their independence (that came in 1989), but following that they had far greater freedom than the rest of the satellite states to the point they were referred to as "the happiest barrack".
Porosz is Hungarian for Prussia.
Szia is Hungarian for hello.
He knew the place where her waist dipped inwards as well as he knew the bow of a violin. He had held her there just as many times as he had picked up his favorite instrument and played.
Her shoulders were to him the ivory keys of a piano. Both were smooth and pale and equally beloved by him; he caressed her shoulders with light kisses and his fingers danced over the keys with confidence but also with love.
The small scar on her hip that matched one on her knee were the flute and the clarinet of her body, light notes gracing her skin in similar ways while singing different songs; they were essential to her whole perfect being.
He knew her as the symphony that the orchestra of the world had come together to create, its masterpiece above all pieces that had ever been played and he also knew that it would never, could never, match the beauty of her again.
Austria could do nothing but sit and wait, his fingers flying over the keys in anger and sadness. He wouldn't play Rachmaninoff, nor Matyushin, nor any other Russian composer. It was Chopin and Beethoven over, and over, and over again.
But some nights he didn't have it in him to play at all. He didn't have the heart. He may have been reunited just a year ago, the pieces of his land whole once more, but he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable until his second half was no longer Soviet. For so many years his heart had resided in two places, and he no longer remembered how to live alone in just one home.
And on those nights he would just sit on the swing in his backyard, remembering when he had someone to sit next to, someone soft and warm and who knew him almost better than he knew himself.
One night in 1956, just after autumn started turning the leaves red and the wind turned bitter, he sat alone on his swing. He'd do this all year round; on desperately cold nights he would bring a blanket and some tea and sit outside until he could no longer physically stand it.
But it wasn't cold yet that night; it was October. Early October, nearing midnight, and Austria was gearing up to count the stars as a distraction when he was suddenly toppled off the swing and onto the grass. His glasses were knocked away and all he knew was that he was enveloped in long hair and the smell of tulips, being kissed by lips as familiar as Vienna.
He couldn't help himself; he had no other choice but to wrap his arms around her and kiss back, breaking away only when she did. “Eliza,” he breathed, his eyes wide. She pressed their foreheads together, dropping a kiss on his cheek.
“I escaped,” she whispered, and he savored those words, sweeter to him than Sacher torte, but his heart sank as she continued, “but only for a few hours. Porosz is distracting him.” They kissed again, desperately, their second stolen kiss for the night, their second kiss since 1918.
They stayed wrapped around each other for the few hours she had. Their bodies were so familiar but somehow still so new: they both had scars, new and relatively old, that the other hadn't explored and so they spent their time worshiping each other, remembering how it used to be when it was just them together, alone.
She left just as quickly and as quietly as she arrived and Austria could only lay there in the grass, his mind whirling with the events of the night.
It wasn't too long after that news of what was happening in Budapest reached him, and he played Liszt to drown out the mental, imagined pictures of her broken body lying in the streets.
As he played, his chest seeped blood from the portion of his heart where Hungary still resided.
EPILOGUE:
Six years later, Austria was drinking his morning tea when he heard a cheerful “szia!” He dropped his teacup and went to her immediately.
She was still Soviet, but she had earned her freedom.
Rachmaninoff and Matyushin are both Russian composers.
It's noted in canon that Chopin is what he plays when he's angry, but I think he plays Beethoven when he's sad.
October 23, 1956 was the Hungarian revolution against the USSR. They didn't win their independence (that came in 1989), but following that they had far greater freedom than the rest of the satellite states to the point they were referred to as "the happiest barrack".
Porosz is Hungarian for Prussia.
Szia is Hungarian for hello.