This is long. Sorry.

Should I have poll to vote with? Would that be easier?

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Please Don't Send Me Roses: Austria

Rating: T for the minute

Genre: Just romance, with a little modern history in there. GCSE History is good for something, after all

Pairings: England X The World-ish. Missed a few countries out or it would go on forever.

WARNINGS: None except implications and language. Maybe some angst.

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..:.:.:.]Austria[.:.:.:..

Roderich had married a lot of people in his time. His knowledge of the laws of marriage, the conventions, the in-and-outs, the unspoken rules was both flawless and unquestionable by anyone's standards.

However it was quite the opposite when it came to love. He felt so empty. No one he had ever loved had stuck around, no one he was in a relationship with caused him anything but pain.

Roderich was haunted by green eyes.

Olive eyes, for a long time, to be precise. Cheerful olive eyes that smiled so much laughter lines already pointed at them, although not a single other line blemished this man's perfect face. They seemed to scream 'Look at these eyes! Are they not the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen? Are they not alight with good-humoured laughter all the time?' Their marriage, and supposedly their love, cracked and broke along with the House of Hapsburg. His warm olive eyes turned to others, away from Roderich's striking violets. He immediately missed the warmth of his Iberian lover. His country was too cold alone. His bed, sometime his very country, was too cold alone.

The most painful time, surely, was when their marriage existed but their love did not. The only time he got to see the calm olive eyes was on the other side of the battlefield. His eyes did not warm him. They burned with the hatred of someone whose love turned into the slow accumulation of hatred. Roderich's immediate reaction was: How dare he oppose Maria Theresa? She was a perfectly legitimate queen; this was all just the Prussian arschloch's way of claiming his vital regions. Well, if Spain wanted to be Prussia's lackey then that was his choice. And Italy was his! Alright, it may have been a little cruel to fob Spain off with the angry older brother, so he could keep the admittedly considerably more obedient North Italy, but that was not an excuse to invade.

It was the small things that did for their passionate union. His assertion of dominance over little North Italy. Spain's increasing colonial power rendering him territory hungry. The slow cooling of their love for each other, every 'I love you' just a little further apart, cheerfulness turning to 'fine-have-it-your-way' passive-aggression on Spain's part, Roderich's tentative infatuation and unspoken love turning to distance and snobbish coldness to avoid the hurt. At the fact that this was all they were. A union of convenience, now. It all spiralled out of his control.

Tiny arguments about nothing meant Spain decamped to his place for days at a time.

What exactly is the deal with tomatoes anyway?
I suppose I'll see you in couple of days then.

No, I can't visit your house right now, I will burn hopelessly. Could we go in winter?
Oh, you'd prefer to sleep in the guest room.

What do you mean you need more space?
Come and visit me sometimes, then, if you're moving out. Tell me how Romano's doing.

Why does the door always shut too soon?
If it stayed open for a just while longer, I might've told you I love you.

My love, why do you turn your back on me so easily?
I would give my soul to see your eyes so warm again.

Come back to me.
I'll be in the piano room.

Waiting.

For days at a time sonatas might be his only companion, his sustenance and entertainment all at once. Save for the quiet heels that clacked to the door every so often. About once an hour, he would hear the click of three inches on wood. The clicks would echo up the hallway, faintly audible over the tones of the piano. They would pause at the doorway. Restart. And fade away into the distance.

The music rang in his ears, starting soft and sweet, before descending into melancholy and cutting off altogether, most likely on a crescendo of discord as his forehead rested on the piano keys. Why did pianos always seem to insist on grinning? They had the most ugly smile, Roderich thought. Full of black gaps and almost grotesquely wide.

Spain used to love his piano playing.

Six days after Spain walked out, although their divorce was yet to come, a hand fell on his shoulder. Roderich did not look up. The strange fuzzy shapes created by pressing his forehead against the piano so one of his glasses' lenses was pressed hard against his eyeball and the other was halfway down his face were far more interesting.

There was a soft clink as a plate of something was placed on the piano surface – normally he would have a hissy fit, but the blurry shapes were distracting him from the dull weight at the base of his heart and… Never mind. He couldn't be bothered to snap at the warm hand anyway. It was the first human contact he'd had in a couple of years at least, and he wasn't complaining.

It stayed on his shoulder for another minute before he heard the distinct sound of heels clacking off into the distance. He lifted his head and watched the skirts of Hungary's dress bob as she walked off into the distance, head slightly bowed.

Hungary's eyes were like jade. Perhaps the outside of a lime. They had too much yellow to be truly emerald, and were not dark enough for moss. He saw those eyes darken in battle rage, soften in pity for him, glow triumphantly. But he never saw them quite as soft or as tender as when he chased after her down the hall and grabbed her arm. She turned and looked at him, those green eyes widened in mild shock, and he realised he didn't exactly have a reason for chasing her. "Erm… that is…" He took a quick breath. Regained his composure. "Thank you for bringing me food. That was very considerate of you. And thank you for the military support, I really do appreciate it." Hungary's face was lit by a soft half-smile. Her eyes were kindly, if a little pitying.
"Your glasses are crooked, Mr Austria." Roderich flushed a delicate pink, hastily righting them. She walked off, shaking her head a little. "Madam Hungary?" He called after her quietly. She glanced back, a little curiosity on her face. "I would rather you called me Roderich."

His eyes slipped to the side slightly awkwardly. He wasn't quite sure what had brought it on, and apparently neither was Hungary. "Oh… Then I will, Mr- Roderich." Roderich nodded his head curtly, still a little pink. He paused, as if waiting. Another odd look was gifted to Roderich. They simultaneously turned and left.

Their union happened shortly after that. It was not an obvious coupling to begin with. The sweeping and other menial tasks bored and frustrated Hungary. The longing gazes forest-wards stopped eventually. She stopped going hunting with Prussia. But later, he found her slumped against a wall outside, broom next to her, bow on the other side. A tree a fair distance away had six arrows in it: five of them were split down the middle by the one proceeding it. Her shoulders were shaking. He never quite knew what to do when she became like this. She seemed too untouchable, like a bomb that might go off if he got too close. And then who knows what might get destroyed?

A love like this he had never felt before. He had loved Spain, yes, but his love for Hungary went above and beyond that. He wanted to keep her in a glass case and look at her forever. He composed trembling pieces of pure joy at her presence on the piano, unaware of the sharp green eyes watching with a mixture of wariness and adoration behind them. He just finished the last note of his latest piece, and it still rang in the room. Heels as before clicked up behind him and a hand was once again on his shoulder. He started at it, flinching as his violet eyes met incomparable green. "Madam Hungary, I realised not you were there, please forgive me." She smiled softly, having recently realised his airs and graces were just disguises for his deep insecurity. He was a miser in Lords' clothing and hoping desperately not to be found out.

Roderich didn't think his heart had ever soared so high as when she intoned, "Please… Roderich. I'd rather you call me Elizabeta." Her smile was teasing and kindly, and it was shocking how attached to her he felt.

They were foolishly, passionately in love. Elizabeta almost never longed for forests and arrows, for horses and shocking red eyes that burnt your soul. She was so happy with calm violets that pierced through it instead. Roderich was exultant beyond belief: at last he had found someone to fill the space in his heart, who would return his love wholeheartedly. This woman of the wilderness had consented to be with him, to live in his house, rather than go hunting and roaming and fighting with a dangerous albino who frequented their garden like the personal embodiment of her temptation. She sent him away without as much as a fifth glance back. With the words, "No, Gil. I have finally become meek." To Roderich, Elizabeta and Gilbert all it sounded like she was convincing herself more than Gilbert. And of course, the hurt in Gilbert's eyes did not touch her at all. Because Roderich had won. He had stolen her away from him.

Their most tranquil, perfect moments were sharing a stool on the piano in the front room. Roderich would play, and she would sit and listen. And in those times, she would think to herself, 'Perhaps they are worth it, these sacrifices I have made.' For a few fleeting moments, the call of the wild would be drowned out by notes of Mozart, or Beethoven. For a few fleeting moments, violet eyes were all she needed.

So after World War One, when the League of Nations, that smug, superior victors' club, forced their divorce and robbed them of their Empire, Roderich fumed at them, filled with hatred. He ignored that in his memories of the war Elizabeta looked more happy than she had in years when she was shoulder to shoulder with Gilbert (among other allies, but she mostly seemed to be with Gilbert), amongst blood and mud. Her eyes were alight in a way he only glimpsed before their relationship. Before she became meek.

The moment his heart snapped in two was after the dissolution of the Empire was formalised in 1920. She came to him on the night, in his piano room (for it was only truly his), and kissed him sweetly on the lips. Spoken in hushed tones, almost furtive, she told him, "I think this is best. For the both of us. I love you, Roderich, but I feel… caged in your big, empty house. Since Italy left, I just don't feel at home. Well, I feel less not at home than usual, if that makes sense." She sighed and pressed her hands to her forehead. "I just… don't think our relationship will outlive our empire. I don't feel free. I love fighting for you, I love being useful like that. Sweeping and doing the dishes? Not my thing, so much." Roderich's brain whirred, trying to decipher what her words meant.
"So you don't want to be with me anymore?" Elizabeta winced at the bluntness, but Roderich felt no need to mince his words.
"I am not free, with you. I always… wanted to go out on my horse, or practice archery, or to go hunting with Gil… But it felt like betraying you, somehow, betraying your regal lifestyle."

Roderich felt cold. He could not show hurt, or how much this truly affected him. A weight upon his back settled, causing a dull ache and a slight, unconscious hunching of his shoulders. "So will you return to him then?"

Green eyes strobed a few times, eyelids blinking, as she tried to work out who 'him' was. "Gilbert. No. I can't… be with either of you anymore. I love him like a brother, and hate him like one too. He was my first love, but… But I have moved on now. We are friends and nothing more. Dating him would just be weird. As for you, Roderich. I love you. I really do. But this relationship is bad for me. As much as I love to be adored," a small smirk, "I am not meant to be caged, and if I am a bird then I do not appreciate having my wings clipped. I can't love you fully like this, and I don't think you love me so much as love to love me. Love that someone like me loves you." She nodded, once, as if to confirm what she was saying.

The click of heels on a wood floor had never seemed such a lonely sound.

And his house was just that again. His house.

Arthur entered his life as a mutual secret. The first time violet met forest green he was in his carriage, travelling a small road through a forest, on his way to finalise the terms of the Anglo-Austrian alliance in the War of the Austrian succession. It was late November and dark, so he found it hard to see out of the carriage. The view was dominated by his own reflection. However he could catch glimpses of what lay beyond the ornate carriage window. Every so often, he thought he saw a large black shape darting between the trees, a flash of a shadow. He steeled himself and told his imagination to damn well shape up or ship out.

His worst fears were realised when the black… shape cut across his path, causing the horses to rear up, the driver to panic and the carriage to come to a shuddering halt. Hooves were heard moving slowly around to the window, and was that a whimper from the coachman? Roderich's heart beat too hard for him to tell. The carriage door opened, and why did these useless things only latch? A pale face, only nose and eyes visible, left uncovered by black scarf, mask, and hat smirked down at him. Roderich had seen too many sneering eyes not to realise this man was smirking. He noticed that a lock of sandy blond hair, that looked like it might be spiky if part of a group, hung down over his mask out of his tri-corn hat in a way that looked distinctly contrived. Two feathers, one white and one black, stuck out of the side of his mask.

An ornate pistol was drawn from a black leather holster at the waist. Taking in the whole of the man, and his horse, black seemed to be a theme to Roderich. Black horse, black saddle and saddlebags. Black jodhpurs in black knee boots. Black leather gloves cutting off just before the wrist and of course the black hat, eye mask and scarf. There was a brief break in a sort of loose white pirate shirt, ruffled and sloppily laced at the front to reveal the collarbones and most of the chest. A black velvet waistcoat lay on top of this, though.

A cut-glass English accent uttered the words: "Stand and deliver, your money or your life." Dazzling emerald eyes shone out through his mask that barely shaded them. It was almost as if the highwayman did not quite want to conceal who he was.

Those eyes remind me of Elizabeta. The thought ran through his head before he could stop it.

He was brought back to the moment by the cocking of the pistol in the man's hand. "Come along, my dear, you look wealthy enough. Surely you can spare, oh, I don't know, everything you're carrying?" His voice screamed arrogance, even though Roderich knew he could overpower a mere human such as him within an instant if it weren't for the gun.

That attitude reminds me of Gilbert. His mind grumbled instantly.

The eyes flashed behind his mask, and he contorted his body so his back was nearly entirely in the carriage. One hand clung to the doorway and the other held the gun just below Roderich's chin; only his legs were still wrapped around the horse. They were practically nose to nose. Their breaths mingled. "I don't appreciate being kept waiting, specs. I suggest you begin handing over what you have." The noble nation exhaled heavily through his nose at the ridiculous nickname.

Roderich kept his mouth glued shut but handed over the small bag of coins he kept for emergencies. The man's face darkened. "I find this all terribly wearisome, my dear. You have such pretty eyes. It would be such a shame to see them permanently dimmed. If this is all the money you have, I want jewellery, spectacle chains, rings. Anything that sparkles or it'll be the worse for you." Roderich desperately hoped his cravat hid the flash of his wedding ring on a gold chain, but handed over his diamond cravat pin and matching brooch, pocket watch, and a couple of rings that weren't really worth much. He decided to ignore the comment about pretty eyes; he wasn't exactly sure what to make of it. He had never seen a man who was not a nation flirt so openly with another man before.

Perhaps he is… No, preposterous, a nation robbing from another nation would be a declaration of war.

The man seemed satisfied for a second, before a devious look appeared on his face. He trailed a hand up Roderich's chest and felt his prey's body stiffen up. He moved it up to caress the nation's neck, before running a finger down across the collarbone, under the cravat. Roderich was still mesmerised. Finding his prize, the highwayman wrapped his hand around the chain that covertly adorned the nation's neck. He never broke eye contact as he snapped the chain off from its moorings. He graced his victim with a wink and "I have an eagle eye for spotting golden things, my dear." His body snapped back like a spring to being upright on his horse. "Much obliged, sir." His voice was a mockery of politeness; he even tipped his hat, revealing a few more wild blonde strands of hair.

So careless. I suppose even if they knew what he looked like the police couldn't do anything.

"The Magpie, at your service." He bowed deeply, one hand on his hat, before galloping off into the night.

Stupid pseudonym. Explains the feathers in his mask, I suppose.

Slightly shell-shocked, carriage and occupants rolled on to England's abode.

Which happened to be a castle. Such wasteful extravagance. He must be extraordinarily arrogant to think himself worthy of such grandeur.

He did not see the man for another fifteen minutes from arriving. He passed a multitude of gatemen, footmen, serving ladies, chaperones and finally a rather wizened butler who led him on a walk to what appeared to be the innermost point of the castle, considering it took him about five minutes just to get there. By the time he got there he could have sworn he had been through a particular corridor at least four times, and had absolutely no idea where he was.

He's trying to disorient me, put me on the back foot.

We shall see about that.

"It is this room, I believe?" He indicated a pair of grand double doors and the butler nodded. "Then you may leave me here until I depart."

Mustering as much confidence as he could, he swept into the room announcing "I do not know the reason for having your butler lead me on a wild goose chase tour of the castle, but I would like to get these negotiations out of the way as soon as possible." He nearly couldn't finish his sentence as he noticed that, slouched diabolically on a throne at the end of a ridiculously long dining table, was the British Empire himself.

And he had the exact same eyes as the highwayman.

A lock of blond hair fell over one eye, separate from the rest of an unkempt mop of hair. It looked distinctly contrived.

The rest of him passed suspicion. Almost.

True, he wore an ornate red velvet jacket with gold brocade on the lapels, and cream and brown leather riding jodhpurs under brown, leather, slightly heeled knee length boots. But under that coat, for all its ruffles the shirt was loose and plain cotton, laced to show just a little too much torso to be considered acceptable. Roderich narrowed his eyes at the man. Somehow he doubted 'acceptable' was high on his list of priorities.

At first glance the Empire was blank faced, but, but. There was a distinctly mocking tilt to his head, and the way he slouched in his chair, cheekbone on fist, elbow on armrest, left foot on right thigh, suggested little respect for the nobleman nation before him. A small smile threatened to melt onto his face. His expression was far too innocent. The fingers on his other hand drummed the corresponding armrest.

He was daring Roderich to challenge him.

Oh, he's good. The coachman didn't get a proper look at him, and short of ransacking his house I have no way of finding evidence it was him. It would be my word against his, and I didn't even see his face. What do I have to go on? Green eyes and a lock of blonde hair.

Roderich smiled back, too pleasantly. "Shall we get to it then?" He watched the other's eyes widen, and then he smiled. Pleasantly, of course.
"Naturally, Mr Austria." He indicated the seat at the other end of the ridiculously long dining table. The stone room they were in was strangely bare save for an incongruous, and enormous, crystal chandelier, and the throne, other chair, and table. Long, arching stained-glass windows, tops resting not a foot from the nigh on invisibly high ceiling, cast a multi-coloured light in the room, causing the other's eyes to flicker with blue, yellow and purple-pink.

The whole talk was heavy with the unshared-shared experience they had. The Empire's smile might've said 'I know something you don't,' if Roderich didn't know that England knew he knew, and that he knew that too. Roderich confused himself thinking about it.

England left the talk with considerably more respect for Roderich than when he arrived. Roderich decided the strange atmosphere was worth it in the end.

Their relationship was one of dry, casual mockery. Roderich would mock England's cookery, England would mock his uptightness (these were his pre-gentleman days. The first gentleman, as he referred to himself, tongue in cheek, would never cease to wonder at how quickly people forget them.) It was an alliance of convenience, and Roderich was fully in his comfort zone: no feelings here to fuck things up. He did occasionally stop to wonder at the sharp coolness of those eyes, like dew on pine. But relationship-wise his attention was elsewhere.

As the alliance soured, and Britain got closer and closer to Prussia (but they are just made for each other, arrogant maniacs) and Roderich realised he was only really in it at all to challenge France, or whenever else it suited him, they grew more and more distant. When England deserted him to 'keep the balance of power' he didn't really care – it would have been nice to have some assistance but… Between Spain and Hungary his attention was entirely diverted (although he reserved the right to talk shit about England behind his back.)

He began to admire Arthur in the Second World War. As an empire, a flourishing one, he had been strong and terrifying, almost invincible. Yet, there was something so much more fascinating about him as he unravelled. England's determination was astounding: France had surrendered; China was of no help whatever, being too busy fighting Japan. Yet Britain, little Britain alone in Europe against the many allies of the Axis, kept fighting. He never capitulated, even when it looked like America might not join and hope was lost. That fearful obstinacy had made countries fall at his feet. Truly, he was not a quitter, and Roderich admired that.

But he really fell for Arthur, after having been sent roses for years, at a conference in the mid-eighties, in some dreadful concrete tower block that was as ugly as it was soulless. England had spent the first half almost solidly yelling at France or America, and looked very stressed. This was fairly usual. However unusually, instead of waiting for everyone to leave, he dashed out of the conference as fast as possible. Roderich, a little curious now, followed him cautiously. Instinct told him to duck into a doorway when Arthur glanced left then right, before opening an inconspicuous door and heading… up the stairs?

But we're on the top floor.

His curiosity got the better of him and he followed suit. A melody on an electric guitar, each note long drawn-out and mournful. Roderich started as he realised that unceremoniously dumped at the top of the stairs were a pair of shoes and socks, a shirt and a tie and a tweed jacket. Cautiously, not exactly knowing what to expect, he padded onto the roof, where Arthur waited unwitting of his presence. The island nation was curled up in a rather large, silver pipe protruding in a sort of r-shape from the floor, as if in a pod chair. He cradled a red-and-white guitar, plugged into a small amp. A metal box with a bright yellow and black 'Danger of Death by Electrocution' sticker on it was open, revealing a socket into which the amp was plugged. It looked large enough to fit the guitar and amp in. Roderich guesses that must be the storage space as no-one had seen him carry the instruments in.

He plays really beautifully. Roderich thought he was by far the most musically gifted of the nations, but this was rather spectacular.

Arthur noticed him and started. His eyes widened and he stuttered "Don't- I'm supposed to have… left this all behind. Got a handle on m'self, y'know? Don't tell anyone." Roderich knew he was referring to punk days, empire days, pirate days, all of it.

But his mind turned to a young man with incredible green eyes who called himself 'The Magpie'. A knowing smile formed on his face as he leant against the stairwell doorway.

"Have I ever?"

And Arthur grinned such an inclusive grin, and his eyes were so alight with the nudge-wink laughter of an in-joke, and so very green, that Roderich felt his heart melt on the spot. He kept his face in its same expression, though.

There was a snap and a click, and something golden was chucked in his direction. It was reflexively caught by the pianist on the roof. His wedding ring, taken long ago. He was filled with confusion. How did Arthur know he would come?
He was distracted by a small chuckle.

"I didn't know you would find me, if you were wondering. It's the last little souvenir I carry around with me, of those days." His smile turned devious: "Besides… how can you use it against me now anyway?"

Austria could only think to say "Thank you" and turn on his heel. Before he could say something stupid, something along the lines of "Oh, you're good."

The first time he was gifted a rose by Arthur, a purple, almost violet rose, (he believed it to be a 'reine de violette' rose) was the day after Elizabeta left him, in 1920.

Black ribbon attached a small note to the rose.

'I'm sorry. I know you loved her. And I know how it hurts.
Sorry about being an arse during the Anglo-Austrian alliance. Empires are often genetically predisposed to being something of a twat. I was too self-involved at that time.

So, I'm probably going to send you a rose every year on this day from now on. Deal with it, pretty eyes.

Yours,
Arthur Kirkland.'

Dry laughter escaped his throat at the last line. As close to a confession of the crime as he would probably ever get, and what could he do with it?

On that day, while a thousand needles pierced their way through his soul, Roderich sat on the step and thought of green eyes, and the hole in his heart yet to be filled.

..:.:.:.]Austria[.:.:.:..

The melody is the solo from 'Please, please, please let me get what I want' by The Smiths, in my head. Feel free to imagine it however you like.

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