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Like many other things, the shot had promised Austria's (admittedly foolish) hopes to fairness—but as it went, something (someone), had thrust his aim off course, and the arrow parted from both bow and awaiting target with a disconsolate and definite...miss. In the empty seconds following the telling fwump of missed intention, a whistle trotted into his ear with an ungainly, smug trot.
(Even here, in the boonies of former kingdoms and well, former kings, Prussia retained all the cadence and mannerisms of an overgrown stray.) "Shit, Priss—even for you, that was piss fuckin' poor!"
Charming.
Austria loosed his finger from the string which had flown his ill-fated arrow, the bow falling limp in the nook of his elbow or Prussia's—it was too hot and they were rather too close to differentiate, really. Still, it was only the tutelage of archery that could prompt such deliberate...entanglement, Austria privately entertained, generously excusing his behavior as he removed his gloves, brown leather warmed over by sun and string. (And the imposing company of repeated, unnecessary guidance.)
Insufferable.
He let them reside on the overgrown grasses momentarily, wildflowers and the like offering their pretty sympathy in lieu of the missing fingers. June sunshine brimmed in his eyes and bounced off the brass buttons of a terribly outdated military jacket discarded nearby—and Prussia's lips turned sinuous at his nape.
Provoking creature.
"Your language is as indelicate as per usual. And your faulted guidance leaves much to be desired," Austria accused doubly, finally—finger extended backwards in some semblance of makeshift weaponry towards Prussia's unfortunate pug nose. Or the assumed direction of sun-churned freckles—but he was not a particular man where reparation was concerned, and as his current position left him in a somewhat vulnerable blindspot, was willing to make the best with what was offered. Crumbs from the rich man's table.
(Languid summer afternoons after all, tended to constrict one's options of vendetta to a bare minimum—as did a pair of bare arms wrapped uninvited around the waist from behind.)
Rude.
He cocked his head back at an unpleasant geographical angle sure to encourage a crick, and was immediately greeted by two (annoyingly familiar) features that Prussia decided to air on display from his seemingly endless supply: stick-thin eyebrows raised to implore heavenly impertinence, and a pair of mischievous eyes bowed to mockery as they met his own narrowed ones.
"I beg to differ with regards to the content of my uh, profane vocabulary. 'Sides," Prussia drawled on happily, "the only fault, if we're having snippy talk like that Roddy, is the one that rests 'tween your scrawny shoulders. Now that's a faultline, y'know. Horrible aim." He whined deeply as if this saddened him, but Austria's temple was tickled by a wiggle of barely suppressed grin, which rather hollowed out any illusory attempts at sympathy.
Fool.
Still, there always was an element of teasing that barbed Prussia's idiotic commentary like a bouquet of thistles, if any honesty was to be had—commentary, of course, which was currently being punctuated by the tilt of chapped lips at a lone Austrian dimple and -ah- ear lobe in the nearby vicinity. The current (lowbrow) fashion of clothing and season had left them parted by far too few layers of cloth, and the suggestion of something more feral only quickened its tempo in the heartbeat that rattled against Austria's spine.
(A heartbeat that was the favored, familiar battle cry of former knights bereft of their shields of composure—if they had ever seen fit to carry them whatsoever with regards to their better halves in the first place.)
But Prussia only nuzzled his cheek against him like a mongrel, theatrical sigh escaping his jowls. Austria decided to let the absurdity pass, undisturbed. (The splayed hands composing a tune under his shirt were rather harder a distraction to look over.)
Indeed.
He wiggled. Prussia did not take the hint, and the sightseeing intensified. Austria began to feel like an unfurled map taken out for the studious brand of anatomical study. The only branch of Prussia's spotty education that refused to go neglected, sometimes to Austria's dismay.
(He was still privately debating if this was a sometimes scenario. Or not. And he had an inclined bias towards the latter.)
"Least you so kindly forget," Austria murmured, fidgeting in a manner that he knew perplexed and annoyed the searching away from their more...desired pursuits, "my eyeglasses were removed in favor of testing my natural visionary compass. Or, so you claimed."
"Least you so kindly forget Little Master, your eyeglasses are an outdated fashion statement. And why must you keep moving? It makes the contents of your quiver poke like fury into my fuckin' thigh."
"Be thankful it is nothing else."
A groan. "There is nothing in there that I can find thanks in, Rod. On the other hand," Prussia continued after a pause which threatened to be sulky, "at least these ones here found a reasonable bullseye, unlike those unfortunate bastards there. And that was with your additional eyes on." A coarse hand gestured lazily at three painfully neglected targets, utterly unadorned by the arrows that had apparently decided to pursue greener pastures by burying themselves headfirst in the grass, like some sort of mass, ritual suicide to a circular trio of unblemished gods.
Austria's composure wavered (well, wavered to an extent greater than it already had), and he scowled—cheeks pinked from all things concerning Prussia, the perversity of June in general, and the absurdly low probability of his aim. Bad things always did enjoy the communal experience of a threesome. "...Regardless, thighs are not reasonable targets, Preußen," Austria all but snapped, "Nor are the various parts of the anatomy—"
Prussia pounced on this immediately, "—various parts of the anatomy? Okay, can we not part from that vastly exciting subject —"
"—especially when one is in the keeping of good company—"
"—which, ironically enough, requires at least minimal contact of the anatomy, who would've guessed? —"
"—customary greetings are rather different from the sordid implications you so insist upon—" Austria sniffed in utter condemnation.
" — fuck, I guess that implies warfare is excluded, even though anatomy tends to be a highly popular pursuit in that business from my personal experience —"
"—excluded, yes, along with yourself —"
"—bet it's 'cause my interests tend to be of the licentious sort, huh, huh? —"
Austria rather wisely chose not to dignify that quip with a response, especially as he felt that one of Prussia's 'licentious interests' had been growing rather considerably against his own lower extremities for a while now. A differing brand of punctuation for Prussia's...differing branch of bodily grammar. Amusement, annoyance—and something else—purred like a cat between them, and Prussia reached out to playfully stroke it when he leaned to murmur in Austria's ear, "Tell me, Specs, as my manners aren't nearly as uh, polished as yours—"
—(Austria barely managed to turn his snort into a rapid succession of spontaneous throat clearing at this most accurate observation) —
"—would it be in bad taste if I requested your approval...not to target, only to ah...contemplate the anatomy of my strapping form?"
Austria really did have to clear his throat at that, much to the bewilderment of several butterflies that were startled out of their orange stupor nearby —but if Prussia noticed any difference in the authenticity of Austrian phlegm, he held his tongue between his fangs. Austria suddenly found himself devoid of his bow and quiver —and several minute degrees cooler as well — he concluded a spare moment later, as Prussia had deposited his obnoxious form a few feet away, busying himself with docking an arrow onto the bow he'd doubly snitched from right under the haughty nose of their proper owner.
(Austria mentally added on thief to the never-ending list of Prussia's assorted skill-set.)
"Well?" he prompted. As if actually requiring a reply. (His was the self-proficient type of personality, like a circle —he asked the questions, drew his own conclusions, and regardless of what came of them, did whatever he pleased much to the general consternation of society, and long-suffering significant others.)
Perhaps because he was well acquainted with these quirks, Austria tilted his head most amicably in favor of the notion."...Though my glasses are another item of mine that has found itself in your keeping, I'll entertain your considerable ego," he generously allowed, lips twitching as he crossed his arms and waited. Prussia sent a roguish wink his way, taking the proper—if exaggerated—stance without further preamble. The missing t-shirt Prussia had formerly donned for this expedition had been the only faultline upon him—mainly because it broadcasted a modern group Austria considered utter rubbish as he did most current offerings to the musical genre—but it had mercifully been discarded to accumulate grass stains and an audience of insects, while Prussia's figure bore the brunt of furtive glances in its stead. (Ripped jeans, bare feet, and taut torso—the latter most being the result of a retirement rigidly endorsed by gym membership and secretly attended Zoomba classes.)
And, well, it was, altogether, a strapping figure, Austria jotted down with an unemcumbered approval that would have certainly made Prussia's considerable conceit explode if brought to his attention. No faultlines remained, despite a vast array of freckles, streaks of earth hinged at the joints—and scars, scars that mapped a scrapped history on skin paler than than the parchment that had tossed his reign into the trash. The remains of that country, forever dethroned from politics and the affairs of the day, were contained now not by the ink of a cartographer, but only the boundary lines of flesh, bone—and one hell of an indomitable, pigheaded will. Yet the former Prussia stood as always, sharp and hard and defiant; still so proud of himself even here in the midst of the great ribcage of castle ruins rising from the body of earth—this king without his kingdom, this country without his crown—sunlight the only gold that yet remained upon his head.
The hand shifted, callused fingers caressing the string already pulled firm, a sliver of birch tipped with silver strung up in anticipation—and then the arrow was set free with a resounding thwang. It soared as if it had wings, as if it were a most slender bird of wood returning from the air to roost in its proper nest, and Austria watched as it arched over the recent makeshift graveyard of its kind, finding the absolute center of its rightful home. There was a moment of silence to pay it due respect—only a moment—and then a cackle, an arrogant howl: the streak of meadow between bare feet and target still ruffled from the arrow's flight as Prussia turned back to him beaming toothily; cocky, and gallant, and surprisingly (wonderful) under the scrutiny of sunshine, and terribly fond violet-blue eyes.
(Now there was a shot that never did miss its target.)
"Little Master, what d'you say to that?" Prussia asked, demanding a compliment and looking altogether so pleased with himself that Austria would not have been surprised if a bushy tail had sprouted and started wagging in the process.
A polite smile. "Nothing, considering my glasses are currently lining the inside of your pockets."
"Bull-fuckin shit!" (A matching chorus of pissed-sounding echoes immediately rang out their support of Prussia from the surrounding ruins.) As the last of the shits faded into stony obscurity after their rather short, crass career—his lips continued to shuffle around choice obscenities that only sunshine and passing dragonfly heard. Nonetheless, after chucking bow, quiver, and Austrian-induced-vexation to slumber in the grass, he trotted back to Austria in resumed good humor, pulling wire-rim glasses from some well-hidden compartment in the jeans slung almost too low for public decency. Or the rules of gravity in general, but such trivial things had never seemed to concern Prussia.
"Only thing these appease is your hoity-toity vanity, nothin' else. You're a damn liar, Roderich."
"Oh?" Austria simpered, maneuvering for the glasses around eager fingers that reached for his own.
"Your cunning ways can't fool me—I saw you," Prussia revealed smugly, rejected fingers instead finding mischief near a plump bottom lip, "looking all pensive, this proud little mouth of yours nibbled in reflection. What, did my sexy good looks make your thoughts wax poetic?"
Austria rolled his eyes and fibbed again. Well, at least partly. "Now that would certainly be a first, if there ever came such a day."
"Already has, there's even a term coined for it, haven't you heard? It's called everyday. As in, every hour, every minute—"
"—only in accordance with the clockwork of your personal calendar, a greatly flawed collection of fictionalized moments—" but perhaps because it sensed there was no burr waiting for a response to the words, the rough hand shifted, turning strangely tender as it cupped Austria's cheek. And despite its usual finicky aversion to dirt, sweat, and public displays of affection—the cheek turned towards the rough hand.
(Now that was like clockwork.)
"Is it cabbages and kings, Roddy?"
Shoes and ships and sealing wax, while they were at it too, Austria supposed. But he kept it to himself, for he was a man who held no fondness for such blatant sincerity—or the nonsense poetry of foreign children's books. Instead, he slowly returned his glasses to their proper place, blinking as the world re-settled itself like a painting between the familiar silver frames resting upon his upturned nose. Everything was slightly blurred, for the glasses, he observed with some dismay a moment later, were smudged. Of course. The imprints on the lenses, no matter which direction he looked, remained Prussia-shaped.
Dearie me, Austria thought with a wry smile he could not hide, no wonder my vision has a certain view to it.
They stood there awhile longer, in overgrown grass, and tumbled stone, and against each other: poised like statues warmed to life under the mercies of hot June sunshine—another long summer in a far longer line of many. Or (much less sentimentally and perhaps more fitting)—like two new species of highly sunburned mushroom that had decided to sprout in the wild.
Yes, Austria decided with a twitch of his lips, now that is far more preferable.
Prussia fidgeted, either having grown tired of the prolonged silence or the ants biting a trail of fire up his leg, and cleared his throat loudly, once, twice—as if making sure everything was still in proper running order after the brief retreat into thoughts. His hands, always a devil's workshop unto their own, had begun to dance to a tune of their own making low on Austria's back. A wide grin already filling in the spare corners of his sharp face once again.
"Now tell me, four-eyes, what is it that you see?"
Austria raised his eyebrows. "Only you, I suppose."
Prussia laughed, and leaned down towards him.