[APH] Spring, Winter, Morning
For 31_days, January 6, "absolutely necessary to a gentleman." Takes place sometime during the Austrian Empire--after 1815, before 1848.
Spring, Winter, Morning
Axis Powers Hetalia, 849 words, G, male!Hungary and fem!Austria.
Hungary takes an ill Austria her breakfast.
"You stand like a stable boy," Austria said, and tapped her closed fan against the small of Hungary's back.
He turned around to pick up the breakfast tray and set it on the bed. "Well, I'm not just your maid."
She lifted the lid on the coffee pot and sniffed delicately. "You're not a maid; you're a manservant. And this is tea."
"You're ill," he said, forcing a smile, "so I thought tea would be more soothing." He was tempted to write it off as another excuse for her to stay in bed until noon and not entertain guests for week, but she did that anyway. She was sick: her treasury was in the shit, and there were some massive imperial cramps going on that he didn't care to ask about.
"That's very considerate of you," Austria said, nodding. "You should have asked first."
He frowned. "You'd have said no."
"That's not the point. Pour it, please." Hungary poured the tea from its heavy pot-the rest of the service was dirty, so he'd used the creamer from the silver set and hoped she wouldn't notice, and it was pathetic how he'd come to care about that-inclined his head, and went to slip from the room. "You walk like a stable boy, too," she said softly. "Stay."
He almost pretended he hadn't heard her, but he glanced back and saw her all alone in that ridiculous bed, and he found himself going back and pulling up a chair. Austria turned the cup around in her hands as though she was trying to warm them, but her back was perfectly straight. "You've been keeping the house clean while I've been bedridden?"
"Of course," he said. She took a sip of tea and frowned.
"And my piano, you've been dusting it?"
I should have left, Hungary thought. "Yes."
"Good, good," she said. "Visitors?"
"Herr Metternich sent someone asking after you, and flowers."
"What did you do with them?"
"They were ugly flowers."
Austria pushed up her glasses and passed Hungary the cup of tea. He stared at it, dumbfounded, for a second, and then took it from her. "Go ahead, drink," she said, switching over to his language. "You brewed it just right, I want you to taste it."
And Hungary almost grinned proudly before he remembered that that was what Austria did; she took everything from you and made you her dog, and, for the occasional smile or pat on the head or sentence spoken in your language instead of her hideous German, you would happily stay that way until she put you in your place and you remembered to hate her again. (He could practically hear Poland and Bohemia laughing: No, Hungary, that's just you.)
He drank, handed the cup back to her, and she set it down, without a noise, on its saucer. "Should I stoke the fire?" he asked.
"Ah, no," she said, shivering and drawing the blankets up a little more. "We're down to the last of the firewood, are we not?"
"I can cut some more."
"If you must." And that was another thing Austria did: she made you beg to take care of her. Hungary got up to throw more wood on while she got up and opened the curtains. It was a clear sunny day in the way winter days were clear and sunny, and when Austria turned around he noticed that she was wearing one of his threadbare old shirts and nothing else-money over propriety, nothing wasted, and so on, all of which didn't make it any less interesting to him-and that her nipples stood out very clearly.
"Ungarn," Austria said, switching very forcefully back to German.
"Right," said Hungary, and pretended to be very focused on prodding at the coals until he heard her get back into bed.
"And your health?"
"Good," he said, going back to the chair and pouring her another cup of tea. "Great, actually."
She pursed her lips, but only for a second. "And you'll be visiting your capital-"
"Next month, and Croatia's coming to pick up the housework for you."
"She'll be adequate," said Austria, and bit off the end of one of the Kipferl he'd made (because they were sweet, and because they were her favorite), deemed it acceptable, and spread it with jam. "Not as good as you, though." And he tried not to feel a ridiculous surge of pride at being called a good manservant, but that, like so many other things, was out of his hands. Before he could even start to think of a response, she took a sip of tea and waved him out of the room.
"Oh, and Hungary?" she said, not in German, when he reached at the door.
"Yes?" He turned around, she lowered her cup; his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her gentle smile.
"The tea service didn't match. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Don't make that mistake again."
"It is bitter-bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart."
Stephen Crane, "In the desert"
Spring, Winter, Morning
Axis Powers Hetalia, 849 words, G, male!Hungary and fem!Austria.
Hungary takes an ill Austria her breakfast.
"You stand like a stable boy," Austria said, and tapped her closed fan against the small of Hungary's back.
He turned around to pick up the breakfast tray and set it on the bed. "Well, I'm not just your maid."
She lifted the lid on the coffee pot and sniffed delicately. "You're not a maid; you're a manservant. And this is tea."
"You're ill," he said, forcing a smile, "so I thought tea would be more soothing." He was tempted to write it off as another excuse for her to stay in bed until noon and not entertain guests for week, but she did that anyway. She was sick: her treasury was in the shit, and there were some massive imperial cramps going on that he didn't care to ask about.
"That's very considerate of you," Austria said, nodding. "You should have asked first."
He frowned. "You'd have said no."
"That's not the point. Pour it, please." Hungary poured the tea from its heavy pot-the rest of the service was dirty, so he'd used the creamer from the silver set and hoped she wouldn't notice, and it was pathetic how he'd come to care about that-inclined his head, and went to slip from the room. "You walk like a stable boy, too," she said softly. "Stay."
He almost pretended he hadn't heard her, but he glanced back and saw her all alone in that ridiculous bed, and he found himself going back and pulling up a chair. Austria turned the cup around in her hands as though she was trying to warm them, but her back was perfectly straight. "You've been keeping the house clean while I've been bedridden?"
"Of course," he said. She took a sip of tea and frowned.
"And my piano, you've been dusting it?"
I should have left, Hungary thought. "Yes."
"Good, good," she said. "Visitors?"
"Herr Metternich sent someone asking after you, and flowers."
"What did you do with them?"
"They were ugly flowers."
Austria pushed up her glasses and passed Hungary the cup of tea. He stared at it, dumbfounded, for a second, and then took it from her. "Go ahead, drink," she said, switching over to his language. "You brewed it just right, I want you to taste it."
And Hungary almost grinned proudly before he remembered that that was what Austria did; she took everything from you and made you her dog, and, for the occasional smile or pat on the head or sentence spoken in your language instead of her hideous German, you would happily stay that way until she put you in your place and you remembered to hate her again. (He could practically hear Poland and Bohemia laughing: No, Hungary, that's just you.)
He drank, handed the cup back to her, and she set it down, without a noise, on its saucer. "Should I stoke the fire?" he asked.
"Ah, no," she said, shivering and drawing the blankets up a little more. "We're down to the last of the firewood, are we not?"
"I can cut some more."
"If you must." And that was another thing Austria did: she made you beg to take care of her. Hungary got up to throw more wood on while she got up and opened the curtains. It was a clear sunny day in the way winter days were clear and sunny, and when Austria turned around he noticed that she was wearing one of his threadbare old shirts and nothing else-money over propriety, nothing wasted, and so on, all of which didn't make it any less interesting to him-and that her nipples stood out very clearly.
"Ungarn," Austria said, switching very forcefully back to German.
"Right," said Hungary, and pretended to be very focused on prodding at the coals until he heard her get back into bed.
"And your health?"
"Good," he said, going back to the chair and pouring her another cup of tea. "Great, actually."
She pursed her lips, but only for a second. "And you'll be visiting your capital-"
"Next month, and Croatia's coming to pick up the housework for you."
"She'll be adequate," said Austria, and bit off the end of one of the Kipferl he'd made (because they were sweet, and because they were her favorite), deemed it acceptable, and spread it with jam. "Not as good as you, though." And he tried not to feel a ridiculous surge of pride at being called a good manservant, but that, like so many other things, was out of his hands. Before he could even start to think of a response, she took a sip of tea and waved him out of the room.
"Oh, and Hungary?" she said, not in German, when he reached at the door.
"Yes?" He turned around, she lowered her cup; his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her gentle smile.
"The tea service didn't match. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Don't make that mistake again."
"It is bitter-bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart."
Stephen Crane, "In the desert"