Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia/Axis Powers Hetalia—Hidekaz does.

Author's Note: I wrote this as a fill for the Hetalia LJ Kink MEME and I'm posting it here. Story's canon and a little fluffy with some boy x boy love. Nothing explicit though. If you don't like it, GTFO, because I will report flames. Anyways. Here's some Prussia x Austria. Enjoy!

Feeling Useless (part one and two)

Roderich knew he was never horribly strong, nor had he ever been a fighter. His passion had always lay within music—Which wasn't a problem now. He really couldn't do much, confined to a wheel chair after World War I. Elizaveta had left him. . . and the Austrian nation was left crippled from the war.

At the moment, his wheelchair was facing the window—he'd lost the will to write music, even to touch his piano, which was now collecting dust. He was uncharacteristically depressed—even Mariazell seemed to have lost life, the curl slumped. Unseeing violet eyes watched the rain hit the glass of the window. Pale lips were parted slightly and his breath fogged up the glass.

A grumble in his stomach and he knew he needed to eat. Slowly, he wheeled the chair to the kitchen to eat. He couldn't really reach the counter now, which caused a few problems. He sighed. Maybe he would just go out for food, though truth be told, he hadn't left his house since the end of the war. He wheeled away from the kitchen and down the hall to his room. It was times like these he was grateful for having a spare room on the first floor. Once in that room, he pushed the door closed with long fingers before moving to the bed. He lifted himself from the wheel chair to his bed and laid down.

His bed was soft and comfortable. . . One hand removed the glasses from his face and set them on the bed-side-table. Heavy lids closed over violet eyes, slowly breathing through his nose. He was rather lonely, and he recalled now how much he disliked the others sometimes. Ever since Switzerland. . . His mind lingered on that thought before going black.


Austria sat up, awakened by the smell of wurst the next morning. He rubbed his eyes before realizing he'd fallen asleep in his clothing. Moderately disgusted with himself, he slid off the bed and into his wheelchair, wheeling himself to the closet.

It was saddening how such a simple task that rarely took more than ten minutes in the past now took him nearly a half hour. Once he'd dressed again—he'd skipped bathing for now, as that was a huge hassle in itself—he rolled himself out to the kitchen. Who was in his house, cooking? Who had a key?

He was disappointed to find the kitchen empty. But on the table, with a little note beside it, was a plate of wurst and eggs. He picked up the note and read it.


Heard your troubles. Hope this helps some. You should play your piano again, it was looking dusty.

But there was no signature with it, causing the brunette to frown. Who would've left such a note? Obviously a German speaker, but that didn't help—aside from himself, there was Switzerland, Germany, and Prussia. Out of those three, Germany seemed to be the most likely to do such a thing, but this handwriting. . .It wasn't Ludwig's. Well, it surely couldn't have been Vash or Gilbert. . .

He shook his head and began to eat. The wurst was delicious, the eggs just the way he liked them. Who could've cooked so expertly? He knew Gilbert didn't have the skills, but Vash would never do such a thing. . . He finished his meal and put the plate in the sink before attempting to wash it. He managed, somehow, though he couldn't put the dish away. He then rolled his wheelchair to the front room and stared down his piano.

A slow breath and violet eyes closed. He had no inspiration to play it. Nothing at all. . . Slowly, he wheeled away, to his bedroom. He grabbed another change of clothes before moving along to the bathroom. He proceeded to take a long bath, soaking his useless legs. Roderich was overcome with this feeling of helplessness as he sat in the tub, eyes closed. The warm water was wonderful against his flesh, oddly relaxing. However, he heard something and sat up, opening his eyes, though his sight was poor without his glasses on.

The front door was open, someone was in his house. . . He strained to hear. The only sound he heard from the intruder was the sound of combat boots along his wood floors. Roderich bit his lower lip. The intruder was in his kitchen now, preparing lunch it sounded like. Was it already so late? It must've been. . .

The brunette lifted himself from the tub and grasped his towel, drying off. He moved as quickly as he could, but it was difficult with wounded legs. Once dried, he dressed—the intruder was still there, he could hear that much.

He slid into his clothes with difficulty and buttoned up his shirt and pants. Quickly, he towel dried his hair, careful of Mariazell. The pianist moved himself into his wheelchair after draining the tub. He wheeled himself into the kitchen as quietly as possible. The intruder was still there, making lunch for the brunette.

His back was to Roderich, clad in that blue uniform he always wore, his white hair a mess atop his head. The brunette was shocked to find Gilbert Beilschmidt, of all people, in his kitchen, making him lunch. The last he'd checked the albino hated him—and the feeling was mutual, or so Roderich claimed. So what was Gilbert doing here?