Disclaimer: Hetalia (c) Mister HH.

... I know. I say I will update Thirty Days every Sunday, and I do not.

Instead I have this crappy, emo story at the end of the 2nd Sunday straight.

Oh well.

uh, Warnings: Physical abuse of Roderich . Mistreatment of pianos .

Last week and the week before was so terrible with exams and stressful stuff and strained friendships and this is what pops out of my head.

It's sort of based on two quotes an old man once told me. "God understands some things" and "Properly is not neccessarily the best."

The piano duet they play at the end is Fantasy in F Minor by Schubert.

Go and listen to the Waldstein Sonata by Beethoven. It's half an hour of awesomeness. It was written by Beethoven (a German) and dedicated to some Count of Vienna (which is in Austria), who was close friend of Beethoven.

Thank you to PoisonIvania for reading through and minor editing . Pachelbel's Cannon in D is dedicated to you(:

If you notice any mistakes / spelling errors / wrong anatomy for pianos, please tell me so I can correct it .

Pachelbel's Cannon in D is playing on the gramophone.

Roderich is lying on his bed with his head pressed into the soft cushions, eyes closed and listening to the familiar melody. He's heard it so many times he knows it note by note; his fingers unconsciously twitch along the edge of the linen in some poor imitation of a great virtuoso. He would want to play again, but then he knows that no, he cannot, not after what happened. He must squash the yearning to play.

He can no longer hold a pen steady, much less play a piece of music. He cannot pick up a pen, he cannot play, he cannot compose, can no longer feel the polished black and white under his fingertips.

What he does is lie in bed and listen to the old gramophone dutifully playing the records of the great masterpieces.

Like he has been doing for the past few months.

He wonders how he got himself into this state. Maybe if he had quelled the rebellious, nationalistic side of him, maybe if he had not written that symphony, maybe if he had just compelled to Ludwig's demands, he might have ended up different.

He can still remember vividly when Ludwig stormed into the sitting room that morning, livid with the sheaf of freshly inked paper in his hands and the gun in the other. He remembered when the sheets were thrown in his face and when he read the title of the symphony and when Ludwig cocked the gun and put a bullet through the entire disarray of them on the coffee table. It was his newest symphony, filled with Austrian pride and righteous indignation, and it displeased Ludwig.

He remembers when he said something in response to Ludwig's anger, and the cry that escaped his lips as Ludwig boxed him in the side of his face and kneed him in the chest. The humiliation and surprise and indignation and worry for his people that had coursed through his body is still fresh in his mind, because Ludwig had never physically hurt him before.

He could remember as he was dragged, coughing and spitting and by the hair, to the living room where the grand piano – his beloved grand piano – stood in its glory. And the shock when Ludwig gave a coarse laugh and held his head in place as the first bullet struck the lovingly polished wood, and the second and the third, slicing through the spruce and rattling among the depths of the piano. He remembered the hurt and anger and pain that stabbed his heart as Ludwig let him drop to the floor and proceeded to attack the piano with punches and kicks and as the smooth wood splintered and wires snapped and keys sounding in response to his abuse like some discordant hellish tune.

He had imagined Vash's face, cold and concerned and disappointed with how weak he was; how he could only look away from the scene and feel a pain that was not his own – but his peoples', trampling over his heart with despair.

"Sie wollen Musik zu komponieren? Sie wollen Musik, die gegen mich ist, zu spielen?" He could hear through the cacophony. "Probieren," His head was jerked up and sideways and he was forced to look at the splintered wreckage that was his piano, his love and life and dreams. "Versuchen."

There was something mad in Ludwig's usually calm, blue eyes; something that still managed to chill him to the bone.

His fingers throbbed in pain with the memory of the crunch when the heavy, metal-soled military boots slammed down on his splayed hands, and the scream that ripped through his throat and tears sprung from his eyes unbidden.

No no no no no. Not the fingers, not the fingers. The piano, yes, but not the fingers.

He clasps his hands to his chest, thinking of when the boot twisted around and down and when he screamed some more, screamed something in protest and pain and fear and apology. There was so much agony and despair as his fingers were reduced to nothing but a mess of broken bones and blood and loss. Not just his fingers; kicks to the legs – thank god not bullets – to just make sure he'd never be pressing any pedals again –

And then there was some angry shouting in German – he could no longer discern anything from his surroundings; blood was pounding in his ears and his eyes were nothing but flooded with salty tears that burned tracks down his face. And there was the sudden absence of the warm metal from his fingers, someone's hands helping him up from the floor and brushing away his tears and strong arms that hold him to a warm, solid chest as he is carried away – anywhere – from the murder scene.

The room is dark, just like the rest of the house. Because in the darkness he can pretend the misshapen forms of his fingers are just a trick of the shadows.

"Rod-Roderich," A voice cuts over Pachelbel. Gilbert lingers in the doorway. He licks his dry lips and runs a hand through messy white hair – a partisan unsure of what to say.

He pads over to the bed, which sinks down from his weight. He himself does not know why he tries, every single day of the past six months. "I used to love it when you played, but it's not likeIwouldspyonyou fromthesittingroom whenyouwouldplay becausethatisnotawesome, but yeah you get the idea."

A ghost of a smile over an empty face, a frozen track of tears across cheeks, a broken man nursing his open scars.

"Will you…play for me? Just once. You, yourself. Not that dowdy old gramophone."

He asks, and the request lies heavily in the air.

"The Waldstein Sonata?"

He has no salve to treat the wounds, he just knows that his friend must be led to his place of refuge.

"I can't play anymore."

Suddenly his throat feels tighter and the weight on his chest is heavier. Saying it out aloud somehow confirms it. It seems so much truer now.

"It still sounds beautiful."

"The sad, tinkly one that picks up at the end."

He could never say it to his face, but for all the spying and listening in, he had somehow managed to learn a bit himself. Not much, but it is enough.

Somehow, he understands the man who sits at the side of his bed.

Roderich raises his hands. In the sunlight that miraculously manages to creep into the room, he looks at his fingers, bent and deformed and never truly healed from the injury. Gilbert takes his hands and kisses every single one of those fingers.

"Come. God understands some things."

Gilbert leads him out of the bedroom and down the stairs to where the grand piano stands in the living room. The lamps are lit and the bench pulled out and the cover propped open. They sit side by side and play some of the world's most beautiful music – two broken, recovering, hurting men together.

Not properly. Better than that.

Some sort-of historical notes!

During Hitler's rule, music was an essential part of daily life. The Nazis used it to spread their propaganda. There was some association that had composers and musicians that would play their propaganda music (which was mostly Wagner and Beethoven and Bach and less of morden music) . There were concerts and operas and recitals, the whole lot of them. Most of the composers were Austrians (because they're sort of more musically inclined) , and they usually were on Germany's side. However, there were a few composers who wrote nationlistic, pro-Austrian music and of course, Hitler and the Nazis were not happy. They got dismissed and exiled, or thrown into concentration camps.

The 'pain that was not his own - but his peoples' ' refers to them composers who got thrown into concentration camps.

I might have got this wrong, but the Austrians were not particularly against the Anchluss, because well, most of them were German anyway.

The Swiss...they were patrons to German/Austrian composers and often would (financially)back them.

For some reason, doesn't allow me to join Gilbo's words together. Maybe because they're too awesome for to handle.

... comments , reviews , criticism , suggestions on improvements are greatly appreciated (and needed ;_;)