I decided to write some Austria/Hungary. YES INDEEDLY. EET IZ ZE CANON. LUFF.
Austria is yummy. Especially with a sexy piano. (I'm a fan of musicians, if you can't already tell.)
I don't own. Just playing, I promise I'll put the toys away when I'm finished.
(Anyone else find it odd that Austria loves Chopin so much when Chopin's actually Polish? It makes sense, though, since Chopin is amazing. Anyone who guesses where the piano piece is from, I may write a request fic for you if you want it!
Roderich had always associated the Polish composer Frederic Chopin with beauty. His music epitomized elegance and emotion, the pulse of life, gentle evening rain in the summertime. All things that he loved.
Chopin had never felt dearer to his heart that afternoon in December, though.
It was Christmas. He remembered, because Italy had helped cook Christmas dinner for that afternoon and had positively gone overboard with the food, like a true Italian. Austria, however, enjoyed it, and gave small gifts to Italy and to the Holy Roman Empire, as well as a gift and a piece on the piano to the fair Elizaveta of Hungary. After insisting that the two housekeepers take the day off, he'd retired to the parlor and opened the book of Chopin etudes that Feliks had sent a few months prior and began to play, feeling the notes wash over him in wave after wave.
He reached Opus 10 Number 3, more commonly known as "Tristisse". Smiling, the nation's hands gently pressed the keys on the piano, gazing absently out the window as he did so. Something about classical music and the falling snow always seemed to tug at his heart.
It was then that he saw her. Elizaveta.
She was out in the snow, dressed warmly in an old brown coat she'd had for years with naught but a scarf wrapped around her head and neck and a pair of well-worn brown gloves. The snow fell around her as she strolled through the courtyard, holding a warmly bundled-up Italy's hand. She smiled kindly upon the younger nation and when Holy Roman Empire ran out as well, dressed warmly like the others, she gave Italy a gentle push towards the blond nation and an encouraging smile. As the two children began to play, she watched, sitting on a slightly-snow-covered bench, her eyes filled with an emotion of warmth that Roderich couldn't quite place.
Quite suddenly, he wanted to hold her, to be out there with her. His fingers kept playing the Chopin melody as his head cocked slightly to the left, eyes glazed and mouth slightly open in slack-jawed wonder as he did so. Did she realize she was so fascinating?
That evening, when she joined him in the parlor for one of his nightly "private concerts" as she so affectionately put it, he played the same etude, his eyes occasionally wandering to her, then abruptly back to the keys.
"That was lovely," she told him. "Chopin would have been proud."
"Lovely," he murmured, watching her intently. "Indeed."
It was true what Austria had always thought of Chopin. His piece epitomized beauty; it epitomized her.