Work Text:
When had Holy Rome grown up?
Sometimes, Austria would look at him and wonder if Germany had always been that tall. If Germany's voice had always been that deep.
He knew, logically, when the boy had grown up—when he had grown so tall, when his voice had dropped. When he stopped needing Austria or Prussia to direct him. When he became the young man who commanded everyone's respect, and left behind the small child all sought to influence. But in Austria's deepest memories and in his mind's eye, the boy was still Holy Rome—hardly even tall enough for the top of his blond head to be level with Austria's shoulders; his voice cracking as he insisted that he wasn't a child anymore despite barely being an adolescent. Eager to prove himself capable of marching with Austria and Spain's armies, and later to stand with Hungary on the front lines—eager to leave the suffocating palace walls and escape the judging eyes of the courtiers; all the while dreading having to be measured for the new uniform he needed.
But in front of Austria's eyes—his physical eyes, unclouded by his nostalgia and grief—was not a boy, but a man. And he'd been a man for a long time now. If Austria thought about how long exactly, it would give way to memories he didn't care to reminisce on and years he didn't want to consider he had lost—tears he didn't want to shed. He had not lived with Austria for decades—instead spending time that passed in an instant, marching alongside Prussia and his men, gaining confidence he hadn't known he had lacked. He had nothing he felt the need to prove. He was now half a head taller than Austria; no longer needing to insist that he isn't a child, because he clearly was not. He donned a ceremonial uniform he was proud to wear, but with his steady, deep voice, he spoke how he had no desire to march another step or take up arms now or ever again, if it could be helped.
Gernany's voice hadn't always been that deep.
Germany hadn't always been that tall.