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Switzerland adjusts his tie for the fourth time in fifteen minutes, and thinks that this is a terrible idea. Granted, the European Union has never really had any good ideas. But usually Switzerland can ignore them, even though he’s surrounded by the idiots who thought that tying themselves to one another politically and economically would somehow stop them all from hating each other. The best laid plans are bound to crash and burn, especially when they are orchestrated by France and Germany.
In the chair beside him, Liechtenstein smoothes her hands over her skirts and turns her head to smile at him. He thinks there’s a bit of reproach hidden in that expression, as though she’s telling him to stop fidgeting.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asks, and he can only imagine that she means the décor. Switzerland has nothing against Brussels, and the EU buildings are—extravagant, wasteful—tolerable, he supposes. Today they are in the main hall, the walls all white marble. The ceiling is a midnight blue, and there are small LED lights blinking down on them like tiny stars.
“It’s unnecessary,” Switzerland says. Indeed, most of what the EU gets into could be categorized as such. Tonight most especially.
“I think that’s the point,” Liechtenstein suggests softly. “I mean, the whole idea is to sell the atmosphere. So there’s a starry sky, and champagne, and the music is wonderful, don’t you think? I wonder if Herr Österreich helped choose the musicians.”
Switzerland looks to the quartet in the corner and huffs. He’d pegged them as Austrians the moment they’d arrived, and their skill and style have only confirmed that. He recognizes Paderewski’s Nocturne, and wonders if Austria chose the set list as well. He doesn’t much like the idea of the other nation favoring Polish composers. And Austria hadn’t even mentioned any of this, when he had come over to Switzerland’s house last week.
“Oh, don’t look like that,” Liechtenstein says. There’s always something soft and earnest in her tone, hiding the steely resolve that Switzerland knows is there. “I promise, we don’t have to stay the whole time. But you see, I promised Luxemburg—”
She goes quiet when the lights dim, making the “stars” on the ceiling stand out all the brighter. The ushers for the evening, in tuxedo shirts and blue vests, guide the rest of the crowd towards the neat rows of chairs that Switzerland and Liechtenstein have been seated in for the past fifteen minutes. So much for timeliness.
When the lights rise again, a spotlight focuses on the low stage at the front of the hall. The music shifts to a lower volume, and the audience applauds as two figures take the stage.
“Hello and welcome! We’re so happy you’ve chosen to join us tonight, for a very special event!” It’s Belgium, dressed in perfectly-tailored black cigarette pants and a deep blue waistcoat. A matching ribbon ties back her hair, and small diamonds glitter from the buttons of her vest. She holds a microphone in one hand, and gestures to her co-host with the other. “Isn’t that right, broer?”
Netherlands’ concession to the evening’s color scheme is a blue tie and glimmering diamond cufflinks. He does not try to match his sister’s dazzling smile. Instead, he sounds bored and a bit stern as he says, “I hope you’ve all brought your checkbooks.”
Switzerland is scandalized to see Liechtenstein snap open her clutch to ensure that her checkbook is, indeed, there. Switzerland’s is in the inner pocket of his blazer, but no one needs to know that. It’s not as if he’s planning on using it.
“Broer’s such a joker,” Belgium is saying, from the stage. “Anyway, as you all know, this is the annual fundraising auction for the European Union! Last year we had great success with auctioning off valuable pieces of art from each of our member states.”
“Not good enough to keep us from financial crisis,” Netherlands mutters into his microphone. The audience laughs, but Switzerland can’t help but think he has a point.
“Anyway,” Belgium continues with stressed patience and smile, “This year we have even bigger and better things for you all! Tonight we’ll see twenty-seven eligible bachelors and bachelorettes take the stage. You will be free to bid on each of them, for the privilege of spending the rest of the evening with them! After this will be a dinner prepared by Fran—one of the preeminent chefs of France, and then dancing. And who knows, if things go well… the night doesn’t have to stop there!”
A wave of interested murmurs ripples through the crowd. Straining his eyes against the dim lights, Switzerland spots China and his siblings in the front row. America and Canada are seated behind him, if the loud volume of the former’s voice is anything to go by. There are also contingents from Africa and South America, scattered amongst the civilian guests. If Switzerland were participating, he’d hope for one of those civilians. They tend to be harmless enough, which cannot be said for other nations.
It’s entirely too possible, Switzerland thinks, that the others aren’t here to bid on dates for the sake of it. They are calling in favors, or getting back at each other. This is as good an excuse as any to have someone else doing your bidding for an evening, to embarrass them.
“Let’s get started with our first bachelor. Broer?” Belgium looks at Netherlands, who finally breaks composure to throw her a desperate look, one that just screams do I have to? Belgium only nods curtly, lips curving reproachfully. Switzerland wonders if that’s where Liechtenstein is picking it up.
Netherlands sighs heavily and pulls out his phone, reading off of it in a deliberate monotone. “Our first bachelor hails from sunny Spain. He enjoys playing guitar and dancing, and taking long siestas in the late afternoon. You won’t want to look away from this dazzling smile, or that—seriously, Bel?”
Belgium laughs, winking at the crowd. “Well, don’t just take our word for it. Introducing the bachelor from Spain!”
The lights flash yellow and red for a moment, introducing Spain to the stage. Switzerland has never been fond of the other nation, who is precisely the kind of lazy and ineffectual person who makes his own life difficult. And it’s not as if Switzerland still remembers the Hapsburg marriage, which he wasn’t invited to. No, he’s forgotten all about that.
But even he has to admit that someone’s done a good job, tonight. Switzerland guesses that the suit is Italian—dark charcoal, with a blue bowtie. Spain smiles dazzlingly at the crowd, no doubt at Belgium’s behest. He turns in a full circle, the diamond pins at his lapels catching the light.
The lights around the crowd rise so that the hosts will be able to see raised placards. The room is stock-silent for a moment, and Switzerland think with mocking glee that this entire event will be a flop, and he will be saved from sitting through another twenty-six nations’ worth of it. But that dream is short-lived.
A placard rises.
“That’s five thousand Euro,” Belgium says sweetly.
Another.
“Six thousand.” That’s Netherlands, who’s looking much happier now that money has entered the equation. As Spain smiles with false innocence from the stage, more and more placards rise. Each has a flag printed on it, meant to suggest the origin of the bidder. But to Switzerland’s horror, he realizes that the highest bidders are mostly nations, holding up their own flags.
It goes on for several long moments, until—“Sold to the woman from Mexico for seventy-five thousand Euro.”
“No refunds,” Netherlands amends his sister’s declaration shortly. Mexico takes her seat again, looking flushed and pleased as she smiles slyly at her siblings. They all offer her winks and thumbs-ups back; Switzerland is left wondering if they planned this, pooling their money.
It quickly sets an unnerving precedent for the rest of the night. Taiwan looks close to winning Portugal, until Macau stands up and drops an obscene sum for the pleasure of the other nation’s company. New Zealand, Australia, America and Canada are all involved in a bidding war for England, until India gets to his feet and blithely bids them all out of contention. Japan buys Germany and Veneziano as Germany blushes awkwardly and Veneziano grins like he’s won a lottery. Japan, hands folded neatly in his lap, just smiles demurely. Switzerland’s not sure how Iceland has enough money to bag Denmark, Sweden and Finland, until he notices Norway sitting beside the other nation, murmuring instructions and obviously bankrolling.
Belgium is laughing as they move through the remaining nations, clearly pleased that things have worked out to such success. Even Netherlands looks marginally happier than usual, and Switzerland can almost see the other nation going through careful calculations in his head.
The evening seems to be going too fast, the crowd made warm and charitable by the sparkling atmosphere and champagne. They look through pamphlets with vague descriptions of the remaining nations, pointing out this one or that one who “seems charming” or would be “an excellent dinner companion.”
And then someone a few seats down from Switzerland says, “Oh, look! This one’s a composer!” and his vision goes entirely red for a moment, completely unbidden. Switzerland misses Vietnam winning France as he turns his head, searching for the owner of that voice.
“Are you alright?” Liechtenstein asks beside him, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “You look a bit red—is it too warm?”
“I’m fine,” Switzerland grits out. Because he is not buying into this madness, these ploys that treat people like prizes in order to stave off the EU’s impending and inevitable doom. He will not be drawn in by promises of conversation and dancing with nations who could not be less charming if they were actually trying. He is only here because Liechtenstein insisted. Yes, that’s right.
“Oh,” Liechtenstein says. “He’s up!”
The fact that Switzerland immediately snaps his head up and expects to see Austria taking the stage should be indicative of something, but he dismisses that thought as he realizes it’s not Austria. It’s Luxembourg.
“What?” he says, utterly taken aback by this turn of events.
“I told you.” Liechtenstein is blushing. Switzerland does not know how to process this. “I came to bid on him!”
Luxembourg, like the rest of the EU, is dressed all in deep blue. His waistcoat is tailored to a level of obscenity, and the ribbon that takes the place of a tie beneath his collar is secured by a diamond nearly as big as Switzerland’s fist. But the grand duchy seems guileless and serene as he waves at the crowd, reaching up to brush his hair away from his eyes.
“This next bachelor is a real catch,” Belgium is saying from the stage. “A jet-setter with an elegant and kind personality, our young man from Luxembourg will surely treat his date to a good time. He enjoys Belgian specialty chocolate and the artwork of the Dutch Renaissance. Let’s start the bidding at ten thousand Euro!”
Netherlands and Belgium seem to be enjoying this portion of the evening too much, grinning at their younger brother between counting bids. And then Liechtenstein raises her placard.
“Twenty thousand Euro,” Belgium counts off.
Another placard. “Thirty thousand,” Netherlands says.
Liechtenstein frowns, raises hers again. “Forty thousand.”
The same placard from across the room. “Fifty thousand.”
“Monaco,” Liechtenstein whispers, sounding shocked. “What is she doing?”
Switzerland says caustically, “Buying into the same sham you are. You shouldn’t have to pay money to spend time with someone.”
“It’s not that. It’s just a game, and it can be romantic.” Liechtenstein frowns, raises her placard again. Soon, all others have backed out, and the war goes on with Monaco and Liechtenstein dropping increasingly extravagant sums. Switzerland’s eyes widen as Liechtenstein seems to lose every ounce of frugality that he has ever tried to instill in her. Her entire expression becomes something fierce and determined as she rises to her feet and jabs her placard in the air.
“Five hundred thousand Euro!” she calls out, looking to Monaco with a challenge in her eyes. The principality just smiles and waves a dismissive hand, clearly out of the running.
“Sold to the young lady from Liechtenstein,” Belgium declares. Luxembourg is blushing, on stage, and Netherlands throws Switzerland a look that asks, did you know our siblings were up to the five hundred thousand Euro stage of their relationship?
No, Switzerland did not know. And he is regretting being here more and more at every moment.
“Alright, let’s keep going,” Belgium says. “We’d like to thank all of you for your support this evening, as we head towards our last few contestants. Our next bachelor enjoys classical music and ballroom dancing—perfect for our events later tonight! When he isn’t enjoying music he can be found in the kitchen, baking delicious tortes. Though he looks a bit proper, wouldn’t it be worth it to see him smile at you? Welcome our bachelor from Austria!”
This time when Switzerland looks up, he does see Austria, taking the stage with stiff dignity. Dressed to the nines in Italian tailoring, he lifts his head and gazes out at the crowd, looking haughty. To Switzerland’s absolute astonishment, that only proves to make him look more inviting. Under his dark suit he wears a shirt of medium blue, setting off his deeper-colored tie and his eyes. One hand is tucked in his pocket, and the other reaches up to adjust his tie in a nervous gesture.
Another murmur of interest ripples through the crowd, and then the bidding begins in earnest. Austria’s cheeks go slightly pink when it becomes evident that there are at least five different people bidding for him, each willing to counter the others. Switzerland looks out at the crowd with increasing derision.
No, he thinks when a woman in red raises her placard, you can’t have him. He’s not going to play music just for you.
Definitely not, he decides about the man three rows done, you’d smother him with boring conversation.
This had better be a joke, he thinks, when he sees South Korea raising his placard.
There’s another man—blond and well-dressed, with the look of a businessman. He raises a placard with the Swiss flag on it, and Switzerland doesn’t know how to respond to the terrible jealousy that traps him even as he’s looking at one of his own citizens.
“That’s three hundred thousand,” Belgium calls out. The bidding stills for a moment, a questioning air running through the crowd.
It’s a stupid idea, Switzerland reminds himself. If he wants to spend time with Austria, he could just ask. They have been spending more time together, lately, anyhow. The other nation brings sweets over to his house and has tea, discusses politics with careful but slightly amused politeness. It’s nice, and peaceful, and Switzerland enjoys those days more than he’ll ever admit.
But the idea of Austria having those conversations with someone else, dancing with someone else…
“Three hundred and ten thousand,” a voice says. It takes Switzerland a moment to realize it’s his own, and that his placard is raised, the white cross of his flag visible and accusing.
Liechtenstein glances at him, grinning. Switzerland feels the heat rising in his face, and determinedly doesn’t look at the stage, and especially not at Austria.
“Three hundred and twenty thousand,” another voice returns. Switzerland looks up—who is saving him from himself?—and is shocked to see China, of all people. He looks utterly nonplussed, smiling softly at Switzerland. How dare he, really. Switzerland has already had to deal with his darling sister dropping half a million on her would-be boyfriend. He most definitely doesn’t have the patience for anything else.
“Three hundred and fifty thousand,” he says, placard raised again. Even as he says the words, he can see the bills going up in tiny, tragic flames.
“Four hundred thousand,” China calls out. Goddamn superpowers.
“Four hundred and fifty thousand.” Switzerland doesn’t know why he keeps going, only that he hates the idea of Austria spending the night with China nearly as much as he hates spending money. Or more so? He doesn’t really know, anymore.
“Five hundred thousand.” China looks bored, fanning himself with his placard.
“Is that the final offer?” Belgium asks, looking out at the crowd, as Netherlands mouths what the fuck.
Only now does Switzerland turn to Austria, who meets his gaze and smiles thinly. But Switzerland doesn’t want that smile, reserved and guarded to the point of nonexistence. He wants the smile Austria saved just for him when they were children, wide and open and trusting.
Wouldn’t it be worth it to see him smile at you? Belgium’s sales pitch from earlier enters his head, unbidden.
Maybe, Switzerland thinks, maybe it would be worth it.
“Going once—”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand Euro!” He yells out the words, throwing them into the crowd like a dare. Somehow, he’s gotten to his feet, placard thrust upwards with force. Even Liechtenstein looks a little taken aback by the sudden movement. Switzerland’s cheeks burn.
The room falls silent. Belgium turns to look questioningly at China, who shakes his head.
“Sold! To the gentleman from Switzerland. Thank you for your generosity.”
Switzerland drops back into his seat and does not look up again until he’s sure Austria has left the stage. The rest of the bidding progresses from there, overgenerous sums that never match Switzerland’s and therefore do nothing to assuage his shame.
Eventually, Liechtenstein grabs his hand and pulls him up from his chair. “Come on. We’ve got to go meet our dates before dinner.”
A dinner he just paid seven hundred and fifty thousand Euro for, Switzerland thinks darkly. Still, he doesn’t renege on contracts, even ones made verbally in fits of insanity. So he follows Liechtenstein backstage, where the European Union is standing around, looking entirely too good in polished suits and silk blouses and diamonds. He hates all of them. Every single one.
“There’s Luxe,” Liechtenstein says, no small amount of excitement in her voice. She squeezes Switzerland’s hand, once. “I’ll see you at dinner, alright? Try to enjoy yourself.” She kisses his cheek, and as he mutters some noncommittal response she is gone, disappearing in the crowd.
As the couples pair off and drift away towards the dining room, Switzerland is left actually scanning who’s left for Austria. He finds the other man standing by a wall with Hungary and Spain, who are apparently still waiting for their own dates.
Something hot and possessive flashes through Switzerland as he sees Austria standing with two of his ex-spouses, murmuring in low voices. He sees Hungary grin at Austria, and then Spain winks. Austria looks up, flushing, and then meets Switzerland’s gaze. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, until Hungary and Spain turn to see Switzerland and smile knowingly.
“Have fun, you two,” Hungary says. “I’m going to go see if I can stop Prussia from starting a food fight.”
“Good luck.” With another wink, Spain follows after her, leaving Austria and Switzerland alone.
“What were you talking about?” Switzerland asks, before he can stop himself.
It takes the other man a moment to respond, and when he does Switzerland is surprised to see him blush. “Ungarn and Spanien are overly invested in my love life.”
When he thinks about it, that doesn’t seem too surprising. Those two, along with Poland, keep the gossip flowing at every world meeting. Switzerland snorts.
“What love life?” Because Austria’s been spending his evenings with Switzerland, having tea and not wooing anyone else. Switzerland would have noticed.
Austria raises a careful brow. “Precisely.”
There’s a careful moment of silence between them that neither of them seems willing to break.
Finally, Austria reaches up to adjust his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his slim nose. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, not quite looking at Switzerland, anymore.
“You wanted to spend the night with China?” Switzerland asks, not even trying to keep the irritation from his tone.
“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” Austria murmurs, head lifting haughtily. And then, with a sigh, “That’s not what I meant. Why did you do that?”
Switzerland swallows, releases his breath in a huff. “How should I know?”
Austria smiles thinly. “You’re the one who did it, Schweiz.”
“Forget it,” Switzerland mutters. He reaches out and grabs Austria by the wrist, tugging him forward. “Let’s just get to dinner.”
Austria stiffens a bit at the treatment, but follows Switzerland down the hall. Switzerland doesn’t let go.
“Hey, Schweiz,” Austria says. Walking two paces in front of him, Switzerland doesn’t bother to turn before answering.
“What is it?”
“I’m glad you did,” Austria says, sounding perfectly sincere. “Even if you don’t know why.”
Now Switzerland does stop, dropping Austria’s hand and turning around to face him. The other nation looks too knowing, too perceptive. It’s annoying, but familiar. Switzerland bites down on the inside of his cheek.
“Well, good!” he says, finally. “You should at least appreciate it!”
Austria nods, reaching out to lace his fingers with Switzerland’s. “I do. I appreciate it very much.”
Switzerland doesn’t pull away, though he can feel the furious blush on his cheeks, the back of his neck.
“Want to know why?” Austria asks, voice low and melodic. Switzerland swallows, hands suddenly clammy. He nods.
“Because I care about you,” Austria says. He’s smiling, now, wide and open and perfect. Switzerland wants to gather that smile, and the damn aristocrat who comes with it, and hold it close to his chest. He wants to hoard that smile and never let anyone else see it. “And I think this shows that you care, too. I’m very happy—and relieved.”
“Of course I do!” Switzerland grouses, green eyes rolling towards the ceiling. “Do you think I care about any of the rest of them? Not enough to sit through that.”
Austria laughs, this time, and it’s beautiful. Switzerland decides he wants to kiss the smile off his face, to keep anyone else from seeing it. Even as he thinks of it, he asks himself what’s come over him, what’s wrong with him.
“Schweiz,” Austria says again. “You don’t have to look so troubled. You won me, remember? It’ll be whatever you want.”
“Tch.” Switzerland squeezes Austria’s hand, lifts the other to cup his face. “Shut up.” And with that excuse in place, he presses his lips over Austria’s. The others response is immediate, leaning into the kiss and parting his lips. French kissing is apparently a gentlemanly art, because like all others Austria excels at this.
Austria’s still holding on to his hand when their lips part, and he laughs dryly.
“What?” Switzerland demands, forcing down the smile that’s threatening to appear on his face.
“I should thank Spanien and Ungarn. They both give very sound advice.”
Switzerland frowns, suspicious. “What?”
“They said I’ve been going too slow. That you would never understand if I kept hanging around your house and making you sweets. I thought you would prefer it like that, if we eased into things, but—”
“That was you trying to seduce me?”
Behind his glasses, Austria’s eyes widen and then narrow. He looks mildly affronted. “Of course not.”
“Then what?”
The other man smiles softly, shaking his head. “That was me trying to romance you, Schweiz.” He leans in, now, one hand on Switzerland’s shoulder as he gently walks him backwards until Switzerland’s back hits the wall. “This is me trying to seduce you.”
Dinner can wait, Switzerland decides as he tilts his head up for another kiss. Maybe they’ll make it in time for the dancing.
