The first time Italy hears the tune, he pauses in the hallway in the midst of sweeping. Normally he would walk right in and sit down to listen, but he woke up late this morning and has to hurry with his chores so that Mr. Austria won't be angry with him.

He does want to go in, though, if only to know what this new melody is called. It is simple, but beautiful, like many of the best things in life. Mr. Austria applies the pedal lightly, just enough to blend each note together, the way an artist blends colors with a gentle sweep of the brush. Italy closes his eyes, and in those notes he hears a morning with a blue sky and no clouds.

The second time he hears it, he attempts to hum along with it, and finds it too difficult to manage. The piece itself is simple, with two hands playing one line of notes, but it is made of broken chords and arpeggios. Simple for a pianist's deft hands, perhaps, but not so much for a voice.

The third time he hears it, he finds himself humming again. He doesn't follow the notes, however. A simpler melody springs unbidden to him, a little harmony to go along with the piece. He doesn't recognize it, and he doubts that he could have thought of it himself.

Perhaps it is something that has not yet been written. For a nation, music is funny like that.

The fourth time he hears it, he puts words to his harmony.

Austria is really very fond of Johann Sebastian Bach, for all he wishes that the composer had been one of his. Whatever else anyone might think of the Holy Roman Empire, Bach is definitely a point in his favor.

It is a shame, Austria thinks, that Holy Rome left before he could hear the works of The Well-Tempered Clavier. Especially the piece he plays now, Prelude No. 1 in C Major. Not the most exciting of titles, but Austria has a feeling that humans will get a bit more creative in time.

It is beautiful in its simplicity, and ideal for limbering up his fingers and practicing his musicality. It feels so fragile when he plays it, as if a touch too much pressure on a single note will ruin it.

Austria has only played the first progression of arpeggiated chords when he hears a high, clear voice join in. Startled, but practiced in performing through distractions, Austria plays on.

He recognizes the Latin words as Catholic prayer, sung with melismas in each word, to a tune that he has never heard before. Without pausing in his playing, he glances to the half-open doorway and is not quite surprised to see Italy in the hallway, her face alight as she sings. He can tell that she pays much less attention to her task of sweeping than to the music.

Such a troublesome child, with her head always in the clouds. But Austria has not seen her so happy since Holy Rome left, so he allows himself a smile and plays on.

Italy asks him later, so very shyly, if they might play and sing for Holy Rome when he returns home. Austria does not say no.

Centuries have passed since then. Today, Austria is weary and stressed. Today's meeting has not gone well. That is not to say it has gone poorly, but little has gotten done in repairing the world's economic troubles.

Ah, well. Tomorrow the discussions will continue. For now, the evening is young and there is a piano in one of the hotel's empty conference rooms.

The aristocratic nation carefully adjusts the position and height of the piano bench, before sitting down and playing a few notes, to check that it is well-tuned. He needs to take his mind off of things, and what better way than with music?

The first piece to flow from his fingertips is Mozart's Turkish March (and Mozart is his, no matter what Germany might say). It feels wrong to him, far too rushed and clumsy, and by the time he finishes, he feels incredibly dissatisfied with himself.

"Ve, did you forget to warm up?"

Austria jumps. So absorbed is he whenever he plays that he rarely notices anything else. He hadn't heard Italy enter the room.

Despite the fact that Austria is sitting and Italy standing, the former still managed to look down his nose at the latter. He does not take any sort of criticism lightly, especially not from one who is in little position to give it.

But Italy is smiling fondly at the piano, a faraway look in his eyes. "I remember you always used to warm up first," he remarks. "It was always nice to hear you play."

Ah. Not criticism after all. Simply an innocent remark.

Then he remembers the piece he used to play to keep his hands limber and train his fingers to tread carefully on the keys. Turning away from Italy to hide his smile, he plays.

Italy's eyes light up with recognition. He sits back on his heels, waits for the first phrase to end, and joins in.

It's different, Austria notes. He sings in countertenor rather than soprano the way he used to. And they recognize the tune, now. It came much later, written by one of France's (which came as a shock to Austria, he will admit). Austria wonders if Italy was ever disappointed that it came from France, when Holy Rome's fate also had many years prior.

Austria glances up at Italy's face, sees the glow of joy in his eyes, and knows he is not.

Germany is looking for Italy when he hears the piano. It's Austria, he knows; Austria may play Chopin when he's angry, but he plays Mozart when he's stressed. And judging by the four or five wrong notes littered throughout the performance, whoever is playing right now is very stressed.

With a shrug, he follows the music to the conference room, rounding the corner just as the piece ends. As he approaches the doorway, he hears voices. Perhaps Austria knows where Italy is.

He is two paces away from the open door when the music begins again, and he hesitates. He isn't sure what mood Bach is.

Then a high, clear voice joins in, blending with the piano melody like liquid.

"Ave maria..." He knows that voice. Germany keeps silent as he cautiously peeks through the doorway, not wanting to be seen just yet.

He didn't know Italy could sing.

Italy faces away from him, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. His head is held high, his face turned upward. Every now and then his shoulders hitch as he takes a breath. He is untrained, or simply out of practice, but he has a good voice. For a moment Germany feels content, standing in the doorway and listening to his friend sing.

Then Italy turns his head, looks over his shoulder, and meets his eyes.

The embarrassment that follows lasts only a split second. The warmth in Italy's eyes, the soft smile on his face, and the way his stray curl seems to form the shape of a bass clef from this angle, banish any awkwardness Germany might feel at being caught watching.

It's almost as if Italy had known he would be watching. As if he wanted nothing more than for Germany to hear him sing.

Germany stays by the doorway until the final notes have faded into the air, and for the rest of the evening he is left with the strange feeling that he has finally, finally come home.

This was inspired by Chloe Agnew's performance of the Bach/Gounod Ave Maria. It is set to Bach's Prelude No. 1 in C Major, which was published in The Well-Tempered Clavier in 1722, with a melody improvised by French Romantic composer Charles Gounod over a century later. The first part of this fic takes place when The Well-Tempered Clavier was first published, but if America can use a laptop computer during World War 2, then Italy can sing a melody written in 1853 in 1722.

This was a fun fic to write. I got to indulge my inner hopeless romantic and my inner music nerd.