Author's Note: Hey everyone, this is my first Hetalia fic. I think the fandom needs more Prussia/Austria (or maybe it's just me), so here you guys go (: Erm, to give background on this, it was sort of my band-geekery and Hetalia-geekery combined into… well, this. I don't know if I should continue it but if I do, it would probably get pretty pervy… heheh. I guess it would turn into a bunch of random anecdotes about these two. Maybe in the future I will include more of the Hetalia characters. Who knows!~
"… 'The Duke's Misfortunes' will be passed out right now. Please, once you receive them, hand them to their respective parts," Mr. Greene announced authoritatively to the band. The large room was animated with not university students' chatterings, but rather the papery, shifty shuffling of music sheets, the muffled thuds of fine-quality leather lids shutting atop leather cases, the first few block of note of a concert Bb breaking through the air by an assortment of brass and wind.
It was another serene day for Roderich, he thought, as he pulled out his silver horn and made careful to not hit his prized brass into anything. The first three minutes or so were nearly an orgasmic bliss—no one needed to say anything, only the scrape of paper and noodling of keys and valves displayed the tranquil diligence everyone had in common.
Soon enough, being in the middle of the ensemble, a black-haired clarinetist presented Roderich with the horn parts and much of the lower brass by holding out the sheets behind his back, not even taking a glance of the hornist behind him.
"Thanks, Kiku," Roderich said politely, while the nervous young man shuddered a little and hurriedly performed his scales, a little softly but with beautiful flair.
He examined the parts, ready to pass them on, when he saw Gilbert's—why the hell was he first chair anyway? Roderich could not even comprehend. He was always late, always poking fun at the composers' private lives, botching up his theory tests all the time, and yet when he picked up that trombone he was able to belt out anything and everything flawlessly, pitch-perfect, passionately fiery with a masterful tone.
Roderich took out a pencil from his pocket (a musician always has two pencils handy!) and, ready to soil the clean sheet of music, wrote:
I can't believe you. You were a minute tardy today, and you're getting a solo on this piece! A misfortune indeed.
He passed it back.
Gilbert snatched the paper from his hands and looked to see a neat surprise written on the right-hand corner in very eloquent writing. He borrowed a pencil from his neighbor's stand and wrote:
What girly handwriting. Anyway, this obviously proves that my methods of being a total awesome kid are absolutely working. I mean, this solo is off the hook! It's like I'm the center of attention while everyone else is like, little ducklings or whatever.
Roderich felt something prod at the back of his head and sighed. He took back the music sheet, looked over his response, and penned back:
How rude, everyone plays a part in this band to make it sound extraordinary.
It was passed back again.
You're right—everyone brings the 'extra', I bring the ordinary. Like, without me it would just be 'extra', lame huh? Like we're just an 'extra' for the university not a part of it or something. You know I'm like, half the low brass. Pussies. What are you wearing?
Tossed over the brunette's shoulder; not even poked with anymore.
It was thrown over his head.
Hey, I'm trying to start something here. Don't you know that's how you start all hot convos? I read it in this book 'How to Turn Anybody On.'
Roderich held the piece of paper in his hands and blushed. Then he madly scrawled:
Why would you want to read something like that? I would like no participation in this!
'The Duke's Misfortunes' was once again passed back, Gilbert smirking when he saw the flawless handwriting turn a tad darker. He gripped at the sheet and looked at Roderich once his head was turned back.
I see you're wearing the norm. Wait, is that a snakeskin belt I see? Undo it.
And soon the flurry of passing back papers left, right, over, this way, that way, continued into a tennis match rally of words, firing little notes to each other amongst the soft, uniform buzz of the band room.
That made me very uncomfortable, Gilbert. Please stop.
Now, put your fingers in your mouth and suck slowly on them, coat every digit with that slick tongue of yours—I'm sure YOU would be good at tonguing, right? Heheh.
Do you realize I'm not doing it?
Unbutton your trousers and pull out that big boy—oop, I mean small guy. Anyway, wrap your hand around your member and stroke up and down and the other into your shirt, pinching your tits. That's right, TITS, because you're a girl. It might be a shock at first because your hands are freakishly cold but don't worry I guess it'll warm up. Think of how sexy I am!
Gilbert, erase that this instant! It's making me very bothered!
And at that moment when the piece was delivered back for the umpteenth time, Mr. Greene approached from his office and made over to the mahogany podium, baton in his right hand. Immediately everyone arose from their hunched postures and straightened their backs, instruments in their hands and raised to their mouths, eyes all directed to the hefty man at the front of the room, ready to follow that baton waving about.
The music commenced. It began off slowly with only tinkling bells and calm waves of saxes and flutes, then erupted into a spell of squealing clarinets, attacking trumpets, abrasive percussion. The madness went on and on, intricate chords and melodies deliberately fighting above the musical lunacy—it was to symbolize the Duke's struggle to overcome his troubles—and suddenly, everyone backed off into a mezzopiano or so to have a violent trombone solo enter grandly. Of course, it was Gilbert.
The wailing trombone went on without a hitch, when suddenly there was an odd note that seemed to throw everything off. It was so odd that Mr. Greene had to tap his baton twice onto the wooden podium surface.
"Gilbert, measure 69 wasn't quite right." Enter Gilbert's quiet giggling. "Let's take it from measure 67."
The band started again, and Gilbert went over the first two measures easily, but made the same mistake once that odd note sounded out. The band was stopped again, and Mr. Greene looked at him funny.
"Alright, how about you play your part by yourself," he suggested. The solo broke out of the trombone's bell again, and even yet again there was a mistake at that part.
"Something's very odd. I'm sure you were supposed to play a E natural," he pondered. "Let me see your music." And then Gilbert froze.
"No, wait, er, let me… correct something on it—"
"That's okay, just let me see it now." The wooden plok of footsteps grew closer and closer.
"I can fix it the next playthrough, I swear!" And after those words was the sound of paper seized from his hands.
"Alright, where's the—what's this, writing on your music sheet?" He proceeded to read it aloud. "I bring the 'ordinary'…"
Roderich and Gilbert looked at each other nervously and for once, they were in accord of feelings, except Roderich was reddening madly when he imagined what would happen if his classmates heard what Gilbert suggested him to do. Would they think the two were gay or anything? It was dreadful to think.
Mr. Greene went reading on, and soon the rest of the trombone, baritone, and tuba sections were glaring at Gilbert. Then soon enough many of the girls were shifting in their seats, blushing.
"I see the problem, 'coat every digit' was right next to the E and you must have thought that the 'd' was a flat. Better take note of that," Mr. Greene told Gilbert. "Alright everyone, let's get it on!"
"The Duke's Misfortunes" carried on flawlessly and Gilbert's solo was profoundly well-done.
After class, Roderich put his case away, stood outside waiting for Gilbert, and then tripped him when he came over. Gilbert lay flat on the ground and felt a fancy shoe step over his bottom.
"I have a nice ass, huh?" Roderich tried to ignore that.