It wasn't stormy outside. There wasn't a cloud in the sky; just the stars dotted the sky, accompanied by a moon with half of itself left in shadow. Roderich was curled up in his bed, clutching rather weakly at the sheets that warmed him. Something was whispering to him, telling him things he tried to will away. The Austrian just wanted to sleep, just sleep and wake up feeling ready for the day in the morning.

"Roddy."

He stirred. It was more like a twitch, lips parting in a pathetic attempt to respond to the voice. A sharp breath left him, but his brain was screaming.

"Hey, Roddy." Roderich would swear the following day that he felt a hand on his shoulder, jerking back as if he were afraid of the touch. "It's morning. Might wanna get your ass out of bed." His other senses joined in. Roderich could smell sweat, blood, the fire and death of battles long since passed, and the scent of stale beer on the breath of his ghost. Such memories he had longed would leave him. He tried to beat them into retreating to the recesses of his mind, to make it easier to deal with his day to day activities. But when the horizon swallowed the sun, they crawled into his dreams and made a home. One of his eyes cracked open, hardly enough to make sense of his surroundings or be yanked from his imagination. His heart fell to his stomach at the shape leaning over his bed, smiling at him.

"Time to wake up, aristocrat."

The Austrian sat upright in a flash, wide-eyed and reduced to something akin to a frightened animal. He squinted in the suddenly bright morning light pouring through his window, playing with the shadows that remained in Roderich's room. The clock at his bedside table read nine o'clock. Roderich's eyes scanned the room maybe a hundred times, knowing that who he thought was present wouldn't be there. He laid back down and threw the sheets over his head, lying on his side with his knees pressed to his chest. His eyes closed, but he couldn't sleep. It was a miracle that he could manage to sleep at all.

--

"Roderich?"

Though she always spoke in a soothing tone to Roderich, and as much as he appreciated it, the most the Austrian could do was remain in bed, knees pulled up to his chest. Even with his glasses on—

You look like a librarian!

His vision was blurred by a sandpapery feel of not blinking and no sleep. Roderich was afraid to even look at the clock. When he thought he was sitting there for two hours, only a minute had passed in the world's reality.

She sat beside him. The comfort and warmth of her presence was there on his skin, but it didn't reach his heart. "It's almost two. You should get dressed and come downstairs. There's lunch."

"I'm not really hungry," he said. Mariazell twitched as his head moved, having his chin rested upon folded arms. "Thank you for telling me, Elizabeta."

The Hungarian smiled at him even though he wasn't looking at her, and placed a hand on his shoulder. All she wanted to do was make sure Roderich was alright; that wasn't a crime, right? But even so, when she touched him all the man felt was deeper sorrow. He just remembered the harsh slap on the back, followed by a bellowing laugh and a smart remark concerning his demeanor.

As she walked out the door, he heard his voice trailing behind.

What the hell are you doing, starving yourself?! Get up, lazyass, and get some meat on those bones!

I'm sorry, Roderich thought as he crawled back under the covers to try sleeping yet again. The sandpaper feeling flared as tears filled his vision, remembering his glasses once he could taste salt. He jerked them off, set them on his bedside table without glancing up, and buried his head beneath his pillow. The clinking sound of his glasses falling from the table was left unheard.

--

It had been three weeks. For the first time, Roderich had decided to shower and fix his hair afterward, get dressed (the cravat was a little off, and his coat was still hanging in the closet) and go downstairs. He walked through the halls as if he weren't familiar with them. As detached as his mind was, that came to the Austrian as no surprise. He came to the oak double doors that were worn, old, and keepers of memories that tore at Roderich's heart, but made him press forward. Crossing through the threshold, the deep violet eyes rested on a large object with a white covering over it. A twitch of lips thanked a certain Hungarian for such a thing. With slow steps, he approached the object and let his palms rest flat on the hard surface a moment. Briskly, he grabbed the fabric and pulled with a graceful sweep, revealing the great instrument it protected.

Roderich let himself trail his fingers over the wood with tentative, slender fingers. They paused in their journey, middle finger tracing the scratch that would never be repaired without replacing the piano itself.

Shit. Well, it still plays even with a little scratch, right?

What was an Austrian's anger became his amusement now. Both he and Elizabeta were ready to slaughter that albino for what he had done. Just the word 'slaughter' stole any brief feeling of happiness Roderich felt in that memory. He continued past the scarred section of his dearest possession and finally reached the cover that protected the keys. After lifting it, the brunet took a seat and closed his eyes. His fingers seemed afraid to touch the keys, but once they made contact, a subconscious reaction sent them to work. Dramatic, fast-paced sorrow filled the room with vibrations that pleased any ear they reached. He moved over the ivory and ebony counterparts as a truly passionate musician.

In the midst of it all, a man was standing in the doorway, watching the Austrian with intense interest. He felt every emotion that Roderich was feeling in every crescendo, and his heart ached with sympathy for the other. After all, their loss was just as important to him as it was to Roderich. But he couldn't, wouldn't let it break him. No, he was trained to push emotions aside until he had privacy to let them go. And besides, Elizabeta couldn't manage the house by herself (Or rather, he wouldn't let himself let her do it.) And with his Austrian roommate in such despair, he felt that letting him regain his lost pride would be the only crisis that could take place on his watch.

Roderich finally stopped playing and froze for a moment. He cracked his eyes open, and his peripheral vision showed Ludwig not far from him. It had been a while since he last looked at the German. That stern expression was ever-present, but underneath it was a tinge of empathy.

They were both suffering from the same thing. Gilbert didn't just leave him.

He slammed the cover back on the keys, scooted back roughly from the piano in an uncharacteristic manner, and walked to a nearby couch. The couch Elizabeta sat at when she wanted to hear him play. Feliciano would often pay him, and not just Ludwig, a visit for a tune. But there was the silver-haired, wild-eyed hooligan that reclined on this couch and drank beer, acting as if he could care less about the Austrian's passion.

Yet, he sat there, every day, and listened. Was that how he could read through Roderich? Was that his way of burning his memory into their minds? Why did he have to leave? Why did he let himself leave? Roderich buried his face in his hands and took a shuddering breath. Moments later he felt the blonde German's presence beside him, rubbing his back in a soothing manner that didn't do anything for him. As he wept, he screamed the same question in his mind over and over again.

Why is your stupid grin the only thing I can't forget?

Ahem. Author's note time.

I'm quite surprised I didn't cry while I was writing any of this. In fact, it didn't seem to sink into my mind that this was one of the most depressing fanfictions I've ever written. Granted, I've written some pretty bad stuff before. This was just… so fitting to me.

Like it? Review and let me know, s'il-vous plait. 3