General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

This fic is a chapter of the Edelweiss arc, of which you can find more about in my profile.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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Something Blue

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Austria's telephone is ringing.

He stubbornly keeps his eyes closed. The darkness will tempt sleep to stay, long enough for a servant to answer the device and thus cause the offending noise to stop.

Austria stubbornly keeps his eyes closed until he remembers that it is 1961. He no longer has servants who live on the premises, who will answer telephones for him at any hour of the day. He has a secretary that will answer his office line Mondays through Fridays. A maid that comes twice a week. A gardener that comes once.

Upon opening his eyes to his pillows, Austria also remembers that he no longer has anyone to share a bed with. (But that is another matter. And one he is used to by now. At least, he tells himself he is.)

Austria has not been paying much attention, but he figures the number of rings must be close to ten by now. He throws off the covers and sits up. He rakes his hair off his forehead. Blearily places his glasses on his face. Stands, straightens his shorts, and swiftly descends the stairs in his pajamas. There are advantages to not having a household staff. (He can pretend there are.)

The morning is bright. The wind chilly. The telephone rings. Perhaps it's the chancellor. Perhaps the president. Austria cynically thinks that only the government would be so persistent.

Unless it's America, and he dryly lifts an eyebrow at the receiver.

It rings.

He picks up. "Yes?" He can't remember when he stopped answering with "hello." (He can remember why.)

"Österreich?" The voice is deep and familiar, though one he has not heard in quite a while.

"Deutschland," he simply says.

"Are you busy?" There is a strange note of anxiety to Germany's voice, but it is not outright urgent, and so Austria waltzes around the question with one of his own.

"Why do you ask?"

"I…I was wondering if I could pay you a visit," the younger nation blurts out, managing to sound both formal as a member of parliament and embarrassed as a schoolboy at the same time.

Austria considers declining. He doesn't particularly feel like entertaining. And there is paperwork to tend to, after all. (An excuse. It could easily be put off. It is not much. It is rarely much, these days.)

"When?" he asks.

"Today?" Germany does sound a little urgent now, particularly to want to make such a journey so suddenly. Austria cannot bring himself to refuse. They have been through too much misery together to turn their backs on each other and cause even more. (Spite requires too much energy that he has too little of.)

"Today, then. When should I expect you?"

"The late afternoon, I hope. Maybe four o'clock." No doubt, right on the dot.

"Then I shall expect you around four," Austria confirms. (Formality is a refuge he often seeks comfort in.)

"I appreciate it," Germany says, perhaps a little awkwardly. "Auf wiedersehen."

"Auf wiedersehen."

Austria hangs up the phone.

His house is quiet and empty.

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-o-
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In the afternoon, after lunch, Austria bakes a chocolate torte. Germany likes his sweets. Germany also likes his beer, and so Austria makes sure he has at least a few bottles stocked and chilled. (Not wanting visitors is no excuse for poor hospitality when they are present.)

Austria's bell rings a few minutes to four o'clock. He slides his suit jacket on and goes to answer it.

Germany's hands are slung into his pockets in a simulation of leisureliness, but the rest of him looks as relaxed as ever. Which is to say, not very.

"Herr Deutschland," Austria greets, mildly, even pleasantly.

Germany nods. "Österreich."

Austria gestures to his foyer. Germany steps in.

"You look well," Austria says. It's true.

Germany nods again. "You too." (After losing two World Wars and enduring a crippling divorce, simply being able to stand is "looking well.")

"I made a torte, if you would like a piece," Austria says. "Chocolate."

"Oh?" The excitement is obvious in his voice. Self-consciously, Germany clears his throat. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think to bring anything…"

Austria brushes it off. "Nonsense. Think nothing of it."

He shows his guest to his front room. Germany sits. Austria excuses himself to his kitchen. He cuts two pieces of cake, pours two cups of coffee, and returns. (The tray is heavy; playing host reminds him of when someone else did the job for him.)

Austria sets the refreshments down, distributes them between the two of them, and takes a seat himself.

They eat. Dessert forks clink against plates. Porcelain cups against saucers.

"It's very delicious," Germany says, genuinely impressed.

Austria nods, his mouth full. He takes a sip before he speaks. "Thank you."

Germany finishes his cake and systematically drinks his coffee. Austria chews leisurely.

When he is done eating, Austria places the plates back onto the tray, along with Germany's cup and saucer. "Would you like some more coffee?" he asks. "Or a beer, perhaps?"

Germany perks up considerably at that. "A beer, please, if you don't mind."

Austria nods, walks to the kitchen, and puts the dishes in the sink. He retrieves a bottle, opens it, and returns. Germany drinks gratefully. Austria reseats himself and nurses the remains of his coffee.

"How long do you intend to stay in Vienna?" Austria asks.

Germany slowly pulls the beer from his lips and swallows thickly. There is a coaster within easy reach on the low table in front of them, but he does not relinquish his grip on the alcohol. "Not long," he finally says. "I should return today. To be honest, I shouldn't even be visiting. I can't afford to be away from Berlin, not really, but…I just had to get out of there, if only for a few hours."

Austria nods, hums neutrally in acknowledgement, but does not pry. (Prying would compromise the solitude he covets like a crutch.)

Germany sits on the edge of the cushion and looks as if he wants to fidget. The Cold War is primarily between America and Russia, but unfortunately the whole of Europe is caught in the crossfire tensions.

"It's the wall they're building," he abruptly confesses. "I just can't stand to look at it."

Austria knows the feeling. He can't stand to look at the border fences. (Though whether that's out of guilt or loss, he isn't sure, and will not dwell on the matter enough to come to a conclusion.)

Austria concentrates on the taste of coffee on his tongue and nods again, sympathetically. Germany takes a drink of his beer.

"Do you—?" Germany stops.

Austria raises a polite eyebrow. "Do I…?"

Germany swallows. "…Think he might still be over there somewhere? Even though the name has changed?"

Austria blinks languidly and speaks frankly. "Names have little to do with it. Prussia used to not even be a country."

Germany's fingers twitch worriedly around the bottle. Belatedly, Austria's own hands tense uncomfortably around his saucer and his eyes stare at the dark surface of his coffee. It reflects the wavering form of the ceiling light—an elegant but simple chandelier. There are no opulent strands of crystals that hang from this one. (Even still, he has much to learn.)

"I mean—" Austria begins.

Germany drinks. "It's fine," he grunts. "Teutonic Order, I know."

Austria breathes and tries to remedy the situation. "If he was truly gone, we would know." Many of them remember the fall of the Roman Empire, and have said as much.

Germany nods, barely consoled. "I…I just—miss him," he mutters, ducking his head, scratching the back of his neck. Telling state secrets would be easier for the stern, blond nation.

Truth be told, Austria also misses him—though he cannot claim the close title of "brother" that Germany can. Prussia's brash vulgarity would be a distraction, if not an entirely welcome one. (He would be too annoyed to be lonely.)

Austria finishes his coffee. He sets the cup and saucer on the table. "But Veneziano helps, I'm sure."

Germany sighs. "As much as he ever has."

Which, Austria knows from personal experience, isn't much. He smirks briefly, a little humorlessly, a little nostalgically.

"He does, really," Germany amends, gratefully. "He's…company." Austria is aware of the hesitancy in his voice, the way his eyes stay stuck on his now-empty bottle of beer. The sheer lack of company in Austria's house hangs loud and heavy. (There are no flowers in vases, or folk dresses lying around waiting to be embroidered, or charmingly off-key humming.)

He stands, perhaps too abruptly, takes the bottle from Germany's hand. "I'll get you another," he offers, in a perfectly composed voice, and Germany glances up in what might be a thanks or an apology.

Austria's steps to the kitchen are steady and casual. The refrigerator is a modern invention. Inelegant and out-of-place compared to the iceboxes he was so fond of, and Austria likes the appliance simply because he doesn't like it.

He grabs two beers, opens them, returns to his front room, hands one to his guest, and sits back down with the other. The lip of the bottle is wet and cold against his, and the alcohol is dark and bitter. (It tastes like memories, though he mostly drank wine back then.)

Germany's face pulls into an expression that might be called dour confusion. "I didn't think you liked beer."

Austria sets his drink down and his response is mild. "Funny, what one picks up over time."

A taste for beer, a knack for baking, a forty-year bout of smoking. (An empire. A wife. A sense of humility. Regrets.)

Germany exhales ruefully. "Or loses," he murmurs, hands hanging between his knees, arms propped on his legs, weight shifted forward. Germany does not slouch, but still his posture contrasts severely with Austria's prim way of lounging; he is still very much a soldier, ready to leap to attention at a moment's notice. A business suit does not change that.

"It's a hard fall," Austria states, not unkindly.

Germany nods. "…Do you miss it, ever?"

Austria's dark blue eyes flick coolly to the other country's bright ones. "Do you?"

Germany drops his gaze to the floor and shrugs awkwardly, as if his shoulders no longer fit his shirt. It's a strangely boyish gesture; it is easy to forget how young he really is, considering his usual severity. (Considering how old this century has made them.)

"I don't know," Germany mutters to the rug. "It was nice to be strong, to really be recognized. I'd never had that. I just wish I had gone about it differently, I guess…" His voice changes tone, his back straightens. "But I'd much rather be the lesser power I am now than the great power I was then."

Austria smiles slightly, perhaps with pride, perhaps to cover pain. "Your government's a good one," he points out. "Erhard, especially, is an economic genius. He's helped get you back on your feet." And indirectly, has helped Austria walk straight once more.

Germany's mouth twitches into a hesitant smile of its own. "I'm very grateful to him," he admits.

The hall clock chimes. Austria considers his economy. Germany drinks his alcohol. (The Eastern Bloc is an elephant in the room.)

"Well?" Germany prompts.

Austria lifts an eyebrow. "Well?" he echoes.

"Your situation was different from mine. Do you miss the way things were?"

Austria thoughtfully tilts his head and manages to make even beer-drinking look sophisticated. "Yes and no," he says at length, and focuses more on the no than the yes. "It's a great change, to be sure… But I have more time. More time for hobbies, more time to travel among my people. It's easier in many ways." And more difficult in others. For all his propriety, he has not been fond of relinquishing power, and to have it forcibly taken from him at the end of the First World War was a very bitter pill to swallow. Sometimes he feels it's still stuck in his throat. (Sometimes it's in the shape of a wedding band.)

Germany laughs once, despite himself. "True. You're not separated in two."

Austria presses his lips together apologetically. "No, I'm not," he admits. (Yes, he is.)

They drink.

When they are done, Austria offers to play some music. Germany accepts. It has been a long time since he has heard the musician play in person. Austria shows him to his study, which also doubles as his music room, and sits at his piano. Germany takes a seat in a chair off to the side.

He runs through a brief warm-up, and then plays Wagner. Germany listens politely. The hall clock chimes again.

Afterwards, Germany resigns himself to the fact that he needs to be on his way. Austria cuts him half of the remaining chocolate torte, wraps it up, and sees the other nation to the door. Germany clasps his hand in a firm, formal shake. "Thank you for the visit on such short notice. And for the cake," he adds. Austria smiles, a little indulgently. It is perhaps for the visit. (It is perhaps for the fact that it is over.)

Germany draws himself up very officially. "Well. Auf wiedersehen."

Austria inclines his body in a slight bow. "Auf wiedersehen."

Germany leaves. Austria closes the door.

His house is quiet and empty.

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-o-
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In the evening, after dinner, Austria sits at his piano again. The night is cool. The wind still. The lighting in his study low and warm.

His fingers press idly against the keys, and his thoughts wander back to Germany, to his visit, to the reason for it. A solid barrier between east and west. It is unfortunate, but there is nothing he can do. He no longer meddles with the affairs of others.

Austria closes his eyes and relaxes. He lets his fingers roam of their own accord, finding notes, and rhythm, and structure, and before long, he is playing a full melody. And when he realizes it is Liszt, his hands freeze. (His feet want to run, or slide into stirrups, or shove the accelerator pedal down to the floor of his car.)

Austria gingerly closes the keyboard lid and gracefully stands. His pace, as he walks to the kitchen, is unhurried. He cuts a piece of his left-over torte and enjoys it thoughtfully. Germany, he knows, is not the only country that likes chocolate. Perhaps Austria could follow his lead and pay another a visit. (Someone to the west. Most importantly, to the west.)

Spain's telephone is ringing.

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Notes:

"Auf wiedersehen": formal way of saying "goodbye" in German.

The Berlin Wall: construction began in August, 1961.

Erhard: Ludwig Erhard, Minister of Economics from 1949 to 1963, who was greatly responsible for the reconstruction of the German economy after WWII. Using a similar model for economic reconstruction, Austria also recovered.

Wagner: famous German composer of the 19th century (you probably already know this).

Liszt: famous Hungarian composer of the 19th century (you probably already know this).

A/N: Head-canon states that Austria became something of a hermit after WWI, and likely tried to convince himself of his own neutrality after WWII—at least until the border opening with Hungary in 1989 (hehe). Thanks for reading!