Chapter Text
Austria lifted a gloved hand to an old doorknob, covered in a layer of dust as if it had not opened in years, because it hadn't. Compared to all the doors in the hallway, it was the only one that seemed like it had not been tampered with, the paint job and appearance preserved by lack of use. It began to irk the Austrian man with the way it stood out, holding some kind of untold story within it, one he had denied both Hungary and Spain access to. Illuminated by the moonlight, he opened the door with an uncomfortable lack of patience and the hinges squealed in response. He stepped into the room and blindly felt around for the light, letting out an annoyed huff when he realized how truly long it had been, so long he forgot where exactly the light was located. After a moment, he finally found it and tugged it on, and a flicker cast warm glow upon the still atmosphere. Boxes, forgotten books, broken chairs, and discarded items covered the floors, and each one filled Austria with a feeling he had long since buried. He kicked aside items and made a spot for himself on the floor, pulling a box towards himself and setting his hands on top of it. It was lazily labeled with a four digit number that started with ‘17..’, but the rest was incomprehensible from the wood rot covering it. He stared at the box for a long while, it itself holding faint memories of when he stored these things, declaring that he would never pick it up again.
’I was more naive back then, hm?’
He almost smiled at the thought of a simpler time, when he wasn't saddled with burdens of people and the future, when he could so much as ignore anything or anyone. Austria eventually focused back on the box, opening it up and staring inside without hesitation. It was time that he strayed from his young ways.
Inside was a lot less than he expected, albeit this box was only filled with kinder, more domestic mementos of the time, such as art, books, and things that he had picked up of that nature. He took out the first thing on top, a glass vase, and he almost gasped in surprise that it was still in one piece. Austria held it gently in his hands, he could recall where it used to be, often holding beautiful flowers that Spain had insisted made the house beautiful. Looking back, Austria would agree, the vase was beautiful with flowers, but it lacked the added beauty of the flowers now. It was nothing more than an antique vase that had been used and now served no purpose, so Austria set it aside with a less than gentle hand. He reached down and strained slightly as he picked up a stack of five hard-cover books, and upon looking at them, winced. Memories surfaced that he forgot even existed, of exchanging unique books with Spain, or reading them together on a cold night. Austria would be lying if he said he didn't rediscover his joy for adventure novels after that.
’Such childish titles.. I'm not sure why I bothered keeping these, really, I don't even think Hungary would find this intriguing..’
He held one between his hands, it used to be his favourite. It was a novel imported from Spain, actually, and he pinched his nosebridge as he struggled to remember the exact plot. His fingers brushed over the back, threatening to turn it over and read the summary, but he stopped himself. He had a feeling something lay in this room that he needed to save his emotions for. Austria shrugged off the memories and proceeded to sift through the things in the box. Most of the things inside were less than important, and he assumed any artillery wouldn't be found in such places. He avoided any drawn pictures or paintings in the box, figuring he would cringe too much if he looked back at them. The emotional toll didn't feel as heavy as Austria expected, beginning to put everything back in the box, but he paused as he noticed something neatly folded and pressed against the wall of it. He slowly lifted it out, coughing heavily as it unraveled and surrounded him with a cloud of dust. When he opened them and stared at the clothing item he held, he wasn't sure if the tears in his eyes were from the dust or not.
‘Its for you, Austria! Blue textile is hard to come across, but I saw it and well..’
‘You think that this.. Blue–er, Indigo, would suit me?’
‘–I thought it would look nice with your eyes, Austria! maybe if you were dressed in something that made you look so dignified you'd be more open to being painted.’
And with that, Austria held it close to his chest and dwelled on being ‘dignified’ every time he wore it.
Austria dropped it and took off his glasses, wiping the effects of the ‘dust’ from his eyes before putting everything he had grabbed back into the box without much care. He shut it harshly, and the reverb of the sound shook him from his daze. Austria got to his feet and turned away to the opposite side of the room. His stomach twisted in an unusual mix of anguish and pensive sadness, the kind of feelings he got when two marriages dissolved before him, or when he sees an old friend and too much goes unsaid. He sat down in the opposite end of the room, which was filled with much more than the previous end, and he could already tell that a lot of it was from his marriage with Hungary. Many of the various items they had, unlike with Spain, still covered the house whether it be plates or decorations. Sometimes it was a subtle memory of Hungary's love, albeit just a friendship now, while other times it was a nagging reminder of his fading relationships.
Memories of what used to be covered the house in the form of beautiful plates that Hungary picked out, bed sheets she insisted Austria needed, or the old pair of glasses and chain that Austria looked down at, sitting in his hands. He clasped his hands around them gently, and this time didn't deny that it brought back a warm feeling in his chest. Austria dwelled in it before realizing there was still more to clean up, and he proceeded to go through the lot. Compared to his and Spain's things, there was more junk to be thrown out, albeit their lot was much older. He grimaced as he picked up a couple clothing items that had been reduced to cloth with holes from the rot of time, and flinched slightly as he swore he saw a bug scamper from the corner of his eye. Maybe it was better to tackle this spot another time…
Austria pushed the box away and got to his feet, pulling out various large things that had been stored against the wall such as flags, tapestries, rolled up carpets and such. He began to get winded after a couple minutes of lifting and moving things, plopping down in front of a wooden chest and running his hand back through his hair. He opened it with a huff and peered inside, surprised to find that it was mostly cobwebs surrounding a couple painted pictures. He lifted out the thin stack, using a piece of cloth he picked up earlier to wipe off the layer of dust. Upon noticing that they were all of him and Hungary together, he remembered why items like this felt awkward to display in the house. Austria was rather uninterested until he looked at the last one–something he did himself. Although Austria never considered himself a painter, he had a fondness for the colors of indigo, purple, and blue, like a beautiful night sky. The colors of the canvas had dulled from age, but he still remembered when he held the brush in his hand, canvas illuminated by nothing but the moon as he captured the night skillfully. It was not just any night, Hungary was with him, watching over his shoulder as a lithe hand caressed his forearm.
‘You really like those colors, hm? I think you should add some yellow for the moon and the stars, Austria, what do you think?’
She brushed a strand of hair from his face, fingers lingering for a second. Austria’s gaze did not stray from the canvas.
‘I think blue suits it just fine.’
Hungary let out a soft giggle, pressing a kiss to his pale cheek. Austria didn't react, but instead looked directly at the sky now. She was right, the moon no longer shone blue, not here.
He wondered what feelings this painting evoked in Hungary at the time, if he gave it to her would she remember? Surely it would not have been that significant if she didn't even bother to take it with her, although she already seemed to use Austria as her personal dump.. Spain wouldn't want it either, but he couldn't stand to keep it for himself. The man stared at the piece for so long he had forgotten that there was more to be done, so like the diligent worker he is, he went back to putting everything away before he found something that struck a nerve. Austria got to his feet, the lights buzzing and flickering brought him back to the moment, he realized it must be far past midnight now, and he had no watch or clock to check. He searched his wrists, but decided he would wrap it up by removing a large wooden chest in the back of the room; he needed to temporarily store a broken chair anyways, and it was the ideal spot where he wouldn't forget about it (most likely..) With some effort and strain, Austria dragged it into the middle of the room and plopped down with a heavy sigh, maybe a little too much effort used. He wasn't exactly sure what was in here, assuming old uniforms, books, or maybe that one broken violin he seemed to have lost and never found. The man opened it and it squealed loudly, making Austria’s eye twitch. Just how long has this been in here?
He looked inside and his breath caught in his throat. It wasn't anything of his own, not for a long time, in fact what lay in the top of the box was a book so tattered it was barely recognizable, several amateur paintings, and bracelets that looked like they were made of twine. He wasn't sure why his heart quickened in his chest when he reached for the book, maybe astonishment that it was there, or the fear that he was capable of remembering. He held it in his hands with uncertainty, the tassel of a bookmark brushing over his index finger. Upon feeling it, he felt a sickening wave of emotions. Austria wondered what must've cursed him that night, to force him to recount so much as a box filled with things of Switzerland. He may have considered this his most shameful thing he kept, none of it was necessary to keep, centuries old and forgotten for over half of that time. Austria opened the book to the bookmark, eyes drifting over the words. He couldn't recall reading this far and found himself flipping back a chapter or two till he could.
‘Hm. Switzerland must've kept reading, even when I stopped. He always said he found this book boring..’
Austria furrowed his brows and slowly shut the book, picking it up and holding it to his chest for a moment. For some reason, it didn't make him feel warm and content like it used to. He shook himself out of the daze and tossed the book beside himself, how pathetic he was, acting childish like this. He pushed up his glasses, squinted into the box and hesitantly reached for the two bracelets. They were stiff and old, and way too small for his wrists, definitely made by Switzerland when they were both just young nations. He felt his mouth curve to a sorrowful smile, looking down at them.
‘What is that, Basch?’
‘It's twine, Roderich. Give me your wrist.’
Switzerland held out the braided bits of twine. Austria didn't hesitate as he put out his arm, but scrunched his face as it was tied and adjusted to fit his slim wrist.
Switzerland picked up on his expression, and felt his own expression become bitter in response as Austria looked at the bracelet with confusion.
‘Do you always need to act so ‘dignified’, Roderich?’
Austria looked up and arched a brow. Dignified…?
He wasn't saved from his recollections until he felt a wet drop hit his hand, and another, and a few more until his hands rushed to his face to dry his eyes. He did it all in one swift manner, like he was hiding from something or someone, nearly knocking his glasses on the floor in the frantic movement. When his eyes were uncovered and everything was still in front of him, the Austrian held back a choked sob. Lord, how he felt so pathetic, shoving the bracelets into his pocket, and how pitiful he must look, scrambling to grab the paper-paintings in the box like they might fade away any second. He looked at one, unfinished, then another, unfinished, and the next one, nothing but a sloppy sketch. The last couple weren't paintings at all, to his desperate surprise, but were seemingly multiple letters all tied into one with string. Austria undid it and spread them messily onto the ground, picking up one and reading the faint handwriting. Letters. Four letters. Four times he wrote to Switzerland, but he never sent it, littered with begrudged apologies, half-hearted ideas, and offers to ignite whatever was left of their relationship. His breath wavered as he looked at all of them, the last one only written a century or two ago, addressed to ‘Basch Zwingli’, as if Switzerland would ever take it lightly for him to use his name now. No wonder he didn't let Hungary clean out this room.
He brought a sweaty palm to his forehead while his other hand began stacking the letters. The Austrian's gaze drifted over the one of the top.
‘I recall that night in October…’
A breeze passed through heavy fir trees, making them rustle and sway like a foreground against a sky lit up by the most beautiful constellations.
‘..Why do you like the sky so much, Roderich?’
Switzerland turned his head, pale green eyes focused on violet ones. Austria tore his gaze away from the sky and focused back. His look of Awe didn't waver.
‘I like the color.’
Austria answered simply, stating it as if it was a fact. Switzerland smiled faintly and looked at the starry expanse in rhythm with him.
Austria stood up in one swift but faltering motion, pulling the letter from the stack and slipping it into his pocket too. He tread to the other end of the room.
‘Your favorite color is Indigo..?’
Switzerland questioned, as if he didn't already know the answer. Austria hummed in response.
Austria didn't force his eyes shut this time, didn't abstain from the way he felt his emotions break, or the foreign feeling of wishing to cradle something in his arms that didn't exist. He stumbled down to the chest where Hungary’s things lie, forcing it open and cracking a hinge.
‘Someday, I want to paint it.’
‘If you paint it, can I watch?’
‘As long as you don't complain, Basch.’
Austria flashed him a smile. Switzerland turned onto his side, facing Austria, eyes glinting in the blue moonlight.
‘I just have one request.’
He pushed everything aside until it was a disorganized mess, everything but the painting at the bottom. Austria took it into his right hand, the left trembling over his gasping mouth to muffle the nonexistent words that he feared would fall from his lips. They didn't though, because unlike anyone, they would never sound the same as his.
‘You should make the moon and the stars blue.’
Austria abandoned the mess in the room, tucking the painting into the left breastpocket of his shirt and breaking into a breathless sprint down the hall to the exit of the house.
The moonlight from the windows illuminated his figure in blue hues, hues that only Switzerland would acknowledge. In his breastpocket, Austria carried a painting only Switzerland would recognize, and beneath that, his immortal body held a heart only he could appreciate.