Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz

Cleanliness

Cleanliness is next to godliness, and Germany's kitchen may well be hallowed ground.

Austria hasn't even finished assembling the array of dishes for coffee and pastries before Germany is running a damp dishtowel over the kitchen countertop. The maxim keeps time to his scrubbing, although he isn't trying to play God—his pride and self-respect merely insist that Germany keep an organized, pristine house.

"Honestly," Austria grumbles as he carries the confections to the table, "there are limits to obsession. Sit down and use your hands to put something in your mouth instead." The cups rattle on their saucers as he sets them down—the final pieces—and seats himself.

Germany has stepped inside the tidy, efficient interior of Austria's home and glanced about his well-kept sitting room. The nation may be frugal with his spending and refuse to replace anything, but he maintains his home with strict orderliness. The furniture may be antique and mended, the rugs may be worn bare in places, but every inch of every room retains the dignity of frayed ends tucked in, stains bleached with careful hands, and the absence of gathering dust.

So Austria's commonplace complaints about his neat-freak tendencies—the vitriol, it seems, of such an aristocratic disposition removed from his comfortable environment—have become to Germany just another familiar piece of furniture to clean around. And it's easy enough to focus on his task and ignore the pained look that pinches Austria's features every time Germany enters a room, carrying his cleaning supplies.

Austria blows over the top of his cup to cool the liquid inside, and Germany continues to rub his cloth over an imperfection in the countertop, just in case the mark is hiding another dried-on spill.

Prussia has sat in that same chair before, leaning an elbow on the table and watching and mistaking the concentration and intensity settled in Germany's face for frustration. He asked why West bothers—doesn't it piss him off, knowing the dirt just comes right back and all his cleaning is an endless, time-consuming waste? Why does he willingly keep throwing himself into a losing battle?

What Germany's really losing is the stiffness in his shoulders. The cleaning relaxes him; the mindless, mechanical movements unwind the tension that builds in his muscles during the rote of training sessions. Wiping, dusting, sweeping—it reverses the mindless, mechanical movements of war. Germany may be a good soldier, but he doesn't enjoy it in the way that Prussia does.

Satisfied, Germany drapes the limp cloth over the edge of the sink and sits in the chair across from Austria, his back as straight as ever but a little less stiff, and rescues a pastry and cup of coffee. Austria has picked up his book and, without interrupting his reading, asks, "How is it?"

Germany finishes chewing his mouthful, swallows, and replies, "As good as usual." A few crumbs plink faintly against his plate. Austria turns a page and drains his cup of coffee. Germany soon follows, sweeping any stray flakes of pastry onto the plate with his hand and gathering up their cups. He stacks the now-empty dishes and carries the lot of them to the sink.

Cleanliness is next to godliness.

And he does strive to be as close to perfection as he can attain (which doesn't seem, in hindsight, to ever be as much as he should). In the pantry closet, within easy reach, Germany keeps two faithful tools to this end: the broom tucked up in one corner, and the white apron hanging on the inside of the door.

Cleaning is important to Germany, but it's not as though it's a fanatical obsession. He holds no zealous delusions that it offers any moral improvements aside from the practice of self-discipline. If he ties on that bleached-white apron, it's only out of practical concern to protect his other clothes from whatever mess he's currently obliterating. He isn't donning any sacramental garb, reenacting some ritual handed down from the past. The broom means nothing to him beyond its immediate usefulness in sweeping up grit.

Regardless, true to the mantra, his cleaning contains a sacred aspect, a godliness--drawing him closer to a presence that Germany can neither name nor envision, but which haunts the tip of his tongue and the back of his mind. More than a prayer for a sensible, orderly world or superiority of being, every motion reenacts, memorializes something he can't remember.

But it's a comforting, pleasant unknown, and since the act of cleaning soothes and relaxes him, Germany doesn't interrogate its mysteries with the frustration he subjects to everything else that doesn't make sense or fit into his rigidly composed worldview.

Germany straightens the apron on the hook it hangs from, but he has no use for it at the moment and shifts his hands to the handle of the broom instead. At the table Austria exhales a breath that might be a sigh, but when Germany looks over he is still absorbed in his reading.

He starts sweeping around the counters, gathering up a fine spill of flour and a few delicate, lacy flakes of crust from Austria's cooking that didn't manage to reach the table. Germany grips the smooth, wooden handle as surely as any of his guns, his sweeps as precise as his marksmanship; but even though he takes pride in both jobs well done, the feeling here is different. He hums a lively marching tune, punctuated by occasional grunts, as he works.

Free-loading Austria never lifts a finger to help, and he doesn't take his book to the sitting room, but he does obligingly pick up his feet as Germany sweeps around his chair and under the table. They share an awkward space in Germany's house, but he's growing comfortably accustomed to Austria's quirks the way he has to Italy's, and he today he doesn't bother with a half-hearted snapping.

But the train of thought has continued on to a new station at which Germany disembarks. He stills the broom as he muses, "Hm, that's right. Italy said that he used to have to clean your house when he was young and lived with you then." Austria nods, a tight, sharp jerk of a motion, and that particular curl in his hair bounces along. "I understand the problem. But there's no need to look put out, just because you've forgotten what thorough housekeeping is like." Germany knows it isn't true, and that Austria has managed quite well in the interim following Italy's childhood—though he still can't picture Italy doing chores in Austria's house, or showing any kind of discipline—but he can't resist a little good-humored teasing.

Austria huffs and replies, "It's your house. I don't care what you do." He raises his book higher, as if to hide his face, but he's miscalculated. From his height standing over Austria, Germany can read his dour expression quite well in his eyes and the frown of his brows, even if his mouth is hidden. They don't match the careless, unconcerned tone of his flippant words.

Germany makes a nice, neat pile and crouches down to sweep it into a dustpan. He's a serious man himself, often troubled by Italy's too easy-going nature, so he has no right to complain. But Austria grows somber and moody over the strangest things, watching him with dark eyes that Germany can't puzzle out, falling into a strange melancholy. He isn't a trouble, exactly, but he is troubling.

Satisfied that the kitchen is clean once more, Germany stores the broom and dustpan back into the closet. Austria has vanished and, raising his eyes up towards the ceiling with his hands on his hips, Germany predicts that in a few minutes the first strains of music will begin wafting down. When they do, they put faint pictures in his mind that he can't begin to articulate. He can't place any of the melodies, but every so often he can hum the next few notes—unsurprisingly, because Austria has little else to do when Germany frowns on him leaving the house, and so of course his frequent playing would grow familiar.

Germany hums along under his breath, stumbling badly over the notes in quite a few places, inspired to carry his cleaning binge to another room. He pauses to grab the apron from the closet—he may need it—and tosses it over his shoulder. A memory hesitates at the tip of his tongue but slips away before it is fully formed, as the next stanza of Austria's song escapes him and Germany has to wait to pick up the melody once more.

–

Windswift