Work Text:
Roderich's music is the best thing about being alive.
Well, one of the best things.
~*~
There are freshly picked flowers that can be tucked behind ears, as Roderich returns from one of his roamings through the countryside, and he drops a small bunch next to her while she lies on a sofa, probably while reading shounen-ai.
And Elizabeta looks up from "a particularly good bit, Roddy!" to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, picks up one of the flowers, and threads it into the usual spot above her ear. And Roderich's eyes mist up behind his glasses, a pinkness the colour of Elizabeta's flowers dusts his cheeks, and, coughing, he retreats to his piano.
~*~
There is also freshly baked kuglóf cake, which Elizabeta makes when she manages to work her way around Roderich's frugality when it comes to buying groceries.
And maybe Roderich "shouldn't have too much, you know how rich this stuff is...", but she keeps a watchful eye on his portion sizes, and learns that Roderich really cannot keep his word when it comes to her cooking. Especially cakes.
There is just how blissfully happy she feels, when Roderich's finished shuffling papers, "It's called making a living, Lizzie...", for the day, and his piano is not quite in tune, so he takes her by the hand - something she is still not used to, the first time he did it she misinterpreted it as an attack - and they walk around the Austro-Hungarian countryside.
No words have to be said, as they are quietly pleased with just each other's company. Elizabeta feels like these moments pass far too quickly, and Roderich never really makes much comment. She can tell he's happy though. His glasses have a different shine to them.
~*~
There are those moments at world meetings where Roderich is busy insulting Arthur for how much money he is spending... "Gott verdammt, Arthur, you could feed several orphanages, for a year, with all of that!", and Elizabeta is having incredibly important discussions with the other female countries concerning a particularly adorable BL novel that came out recently, and the two nations glance at each other at the same time.
Elizabeta smiles that special smile, reserved for a certain Austrian, and she can see the tiny flickers of warmth in his eyes. Then he returns to his insults, Elizabeta returns to her gossip, and the moment quietly slips by.
~*~
But Roderich's music is certainly one of the highest-ranked, best things, about being alive. Even above boys' love and cooking. His music defines him. His emotions are never open. They're shielded, behind small panes of glass and wire frame, and the icy frostiness of an ersatz aristocrat.
But those evenings when he settles himself down on his piano stool, the faded velvet cushion on the top worn away with so many sessions of music, those evenings are when his heart is temporarily unlocked, and his feelings are allowed to guide his hands across the keys. They resonate, and are left hanging in the air long after he finishes playing. It is those times when Roderich disentangles himself from the webs of notes and rhythm, and he turns around to see Elizabeta across the room, quietly sitting, her hands arranged in her lap, and a dreamy look on her face. That is when he coughs, his face quickly heating up. "I... I didn't see you there."
"It's alright, Roddy. You weren't really meant to."
She gives him one of her reserved smiles, gets to her feet, and lightly exits the room, being sure to close the door after her.