Wiktor: Grüß Gott, and thank you for choosing to read this fanfiction. Your support is highly appreciated. A few notes before we begin, and a few things I would like to mention as a sort of warning to the possible younger audience reading this. This is for persons 18+. Now, I can't keep you from reading this if you're under age; it is not like I can show up at your doorstep and give you a slap of the glove. Just don't blame me if your parents find out you've been all over the naughty side of FanFiction. This piece includes mention/action on the following: Adult themes, sexual themes, eating/mental disorders, language, mild smoking, and mild drinking. Please keep these in mind while reading, and please review if you read. Danke.

"Man, it's really cold outside!" America whined, tucking his chin into the lining of his jacket. "I mean, I guess it's nice to have the whole U.N. here for Christmas, but we could have gone down South for once!"

Fiji, who trailed not far behind shivered and kicked the snow from her brown ankle boots. "I don't really mind coming here." She pointed out. "Of course, it could be warmer, but the landscape is beautiful and the food is always divine." She smiled and moved a bit quicker, falling in step with America. "Right?"

"Yeah, whatever." America pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "All this ever is, is an opportunity for Austria to show off how 'great' he is at everything and steal everyone's thunder all night."

Fiji giggled and shook her head. "I don't think I've ever seen you this unenthusiastic. Usually you're bouncing around like a chipmunk."

"Well, aren't I right?" America shrugged and took a deep breath. Maybe it wouldn't be too dreadful. "I guess it might not be all that bad this year. There's always good chocolate."

"Oh, the chocolate is fantastic! I think Austria's chefs make it themselves." Fiji grinned, toying with the button on America's sleeve before glancing to the side at the string of diplomatic cars parked in the massive lot, each adorned with its country's flag.

She pointed over. "It looks like Iran has made himself present this year." She chuckled, nearly slipping. "That's surprising."

America looked over and raised an eyebrow at the Iranian flag waving gently in the chilly breeze. "Geez, you're right. Shit. Well, if he's here I might as well ask him about the Nuclear Deal. He's asked for another extension and I wanna find out what's going on."

Fiji frowned and forced her arm into the crook of America's arm as they walked to keep from slipping on the frozen pavement. "Don't do that! This is a celebration that we were graciously invited to. Don't ruin it with this talk of politics." She giggled, playfully batting him in the shoulder with her free hand.

America brushed her hand away, uncomfortable with the amount of physical contact she was showing him. He thought a moment, then finally gave a small smile. "I could just be super nice to him all night long. Damn, that would make him want to start a fight!" He laughed at his growing plan. "This is gonna be too good. There's nothing he can do to me if I'm nice to him first."

Fiji blinked. That wasn't really what she meant, but alright. "I-If you want."

A sudden weight on America's shoulder made him tense up and yelp. He spun on his heel, nearly knocking Fiji off of her feet in the process before cocking back his fist to throw a punch at his assailant. Much to his surprise, a very amused France stood, cunning smile pasted into his pale features, directly behind him. Two other men, both dressed nicely in crisp uniforms, followed close behind him, prepared to strike back in the event that America actually threw his fist.

France chuckled and reached up, tenderly grabbing America by the wrist and lowering his hand gradually to his side. "It has been a while, yes?" He began, slinging an arm over his friend's shoulder. "It seems the War still has you on edge. Even after all these years?"

America took a deep breath and continued his walk. "Yeah, maybe a little bit." He said, shrugging off the surprise with a smile. It had been a little over a year since he had last seen France, and he had begun to miss his annoying romantic tips.

Fiji flew forward. "Oh come on now! We're all on medication for some war somewhere." She reassured. "By the way, France you look very nice with men on your arm like that." She teased, referring to his staunch faced bodyguards. "America's and mine are already inside mingling with the others."

"Ah, yes. They are new to my council." He grinned, looking her over and admiring the little pop of purple dress peeking out from under her long coat. "I thought I would break them in by letting them see how countries really behave at parties. And by the look of it, Austria has really gone out of his way to make this lavish." He pointed up ahead at Austria's magnificent walkway.

Immediately, any remaining trace of displeasure in America's mind was flushed away by his natural childlike virtuousness and wonder. He felt a growing exhilaration as they approached the truly extravagant home of their U.N. counterpart. France was definitely correct; the sheer amount of work that Austria had ordered on the outside of the colossal mansion was awe-inspiring. The grey stone looked as if it had been freshly laid and washed that morning and had a certain crispness to it, reflecting the cordial orange light pouring from the abundant picture windows dotting the side. Each wintergreen shrub had been trimmed by an expert hand, down to the last twig, and the bed had been thoroughly weeded down to the last blade of grass. Two woman, each brunette and wrapped in elegant, black, beaded evening-wear stood at the door, greeting the long string of guests with trays full of champagne glasses. America immediately scanned the crowed and excitedly picked out everyone he used to hang out with. Russia was the most noticeable, mainly for his two tall sisters, one on each arm, clutching daintily at the crooks of his elbows. A few places back stood Israel and his dazzlingly gorgeous wife directly in front of England and the whore of a redhead he decided to bring along as some semblance of a date. Germany stood in rigid conversation with Switzerland and his younger sister, Liechtenstein, most likely about trade negotiations and the standard political banter. There was no sign of China yet, but that was to be expected. The man's timing wasn't the best, but he always showed up before he was considered to be tardy.

The three made their way to the back of the unexpectedly quick moving line. France took up casual conversation with Botswana, who had joined them, complaining that the starting snowfall had caused him to contract a cold. Finally, when the group had reached the front, each nodded thanks to the servers and took a champagne glass, stepping inside before they were all halted in the doorway.

Their host, Austria, greeted them formally with a small nod, raising a hand to smooth the front of his deep chocolate outer coat. "Good evening." He gave a small smile when he noticed the formality of America's dress. "It pleases me to see that you have decided to dress nice this year. It is not as white-tie as I would have liked, but it is a start."

America narrowed his eyes. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean? I looked just fine last year." He retorted to the snobbish comment.

Austria blinked at the comment. "Oh, I'd hardly think so. Business casual to a dinner party is laughable." With that he turned and shook the hand of Fiji who grinned up at him. "You look lovely tonight Ms. Vesikula. And you," He turned to France, who warmly extended a hand as well, "Mr. Bonnefoy."

America put out a hand, a bit too unenthusiastically, receiving the same amount of reluctance from Austria. "Mr. Jones." Was all he said before urging the group on and continuing to greet the rest of his guests.

"What the hell is his problem with me?" America asked, helping Fiji out of her coat and hanging it aside on the coat rack.

Fiji shrugged and turned. "You two are just polar opposites is all. He isn't all that bad." She glanced up and flashed him a small smile. "I'm going to go and find Cameroon. If you want," she added harmoniously, "we could meet up later after all of this."

America smiled back and nodded. "Sure, we could go get some coffee in the morning or something."

France shook his head as the two watched Fiji sashay away into the crowd of mingling countries and advisers. "Oh, mon ami. I don't think you get it." He sighed with a half-chuckle.

America took a sip of champagne. "What do you mean? I'm sorta glad that we're friends now. We've never really talked much before, but she caught up with me outside and she's pretty nice." He grinned.

France waved off his comment. "Yes, yes, we all know. But, she's," he thought a moment, trying to figure out how to explain the situation properly, "devouring you with those gorgeous dark eyes of hers."

America seemed a bit taken aback and took a moment to reflect on Fiji's behavior. True, she was definitely touchy-feely, and they had never really talked much, but that didn't necessarily mean that she was after him in such a way.

Finally, he spoke once more. "Oh, come on. How do you know?" He still didn't seem convinced.

"Do you really have to ask?" France countered, raising an eyebrow. "She likes tall men with ridiculous accents. That should be the clue you need."

America wasn't sure if he should feel complimented or offended by such a remark. "Well, why don't you go after her then? Your accent is so damn thick no one can understand you half the time." He laughed.

France gasped, clearly insulted. "Women love my accent! How dare you say such a thing to a country of my caliber!" He stomped lightly on the ground.

America tried not to double over in amusement. "Dude, don't get all butt hurt about it. You have to admit that it's true." He joked. "Anyway, if you really want her, take her. I'm not interested."

France placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward as if he was concerned. "How could you not be interested? Those full hips, toned thighs, and dark skin would be enough to make any man melt! You must be ill!" He gasped dramatically.

America glanced to the side. "Nah, I'm fine. I'm just not into it, yah know? At least you should know." He prompted.

France cocked his head, perplexed, before a look of understanding flooded his features. "Ah! Yes. I remember."

"Duh." America laughed, taking another sip. France, with the exception of maybe Denmark and Germany, was the only one who really did understand, and it was strange how he had found out such a profound secret.

A couple of years back, at a different congregation, Denmark and France thought it would be more than hilarious to make America a ludicrous bet. The game was, America would receive five hundred dollars for forcing a wet kiss on Germany for at least six seconds. It didn't matter where in the building it had to be done, or who saw for that matter, it just had to be done at the gathering that night. And, if America couldn't do it, he had to give up five hundred from his own wallet. Seeing how utterly impossible it would be for America to hold Germany down for six seconds, Denmark and France thought for sure that they would be splitting the cash. But no. They had underestimated America's confidence in his strength and determination, and the level bizarre level of anticipation he had taken away from the situation. Sure enough, that night, Denmark and France had collectively lost five hundred dollars and Germany had lost all trust for America after being forcefully grabbed by the collar and pulled into a much unwanted kiss. When questioned later by an infuriated France, America admitted that he truly didn't mind kissing a man. He never specified anything past that, just that he merely preferred men over women.

France nodded. "Do you still want to hop into his bed?" He mumbled slyly under his breath.

America swallowed and turned, gazing past the glistening glass-topped coffee table of the sitting room to where Germany sat, still engaged in conversation with Switzerland, legs crossed professionally to the side. He smiled a bit when Germany looked up, making eye contact with and icy 'don't-try-anything' glare. America could care less about the meaning behind it; any opportunity to steal a glimpse of that blue nearly made his glasses fog.

"I dunno…" He mumbled in delayed response to France's question. "I'm getting over it. Sure, he's attractive and all," he whispered, making sure no one else was eavesdropping, "but it would never happen. I have to be realistic."

France shrugged and finished off his drink. "Well, I'm sure you'll find someone." He smiled. "They pop up in unexpected places; a friend, a colleague, sometimes love can even override hate." He explained. "That one person that you despise most in the world over everyone else…Sometimes hate is the only spark you need to long romantic nights."

America laughed. "Pfft! Don't get all sappy on me, man! I'll probably just go out and try and find a human girl to marry like everyone else and-"

He was cut off with a delicate clap from the host. Austria cleared his throat over the clamor and silently waited for everything to simmer down before speaking. He drew his hand towards the striking polished wood of the dining room door.

"If my guests would please follow me. My servers have set the table, but please wait to sit until instructed."

Dinner was as quiet as it was every year. A few mummers, a comment on the decor or two, but overall no business talk. Austria wouldn't allow for it at the table. He believed it to belong solely to the office, as the dinner table was more for entertainment and comfort. Some more anti-social countries loved the lack of conversation but, for America, he felt as though he would lose his mind in the silence. He had a literal need to voice his opinion, sometimes forcefully, whenever he saw fit and not being able to do so was boring him to death. Finally, someone further down the table broke the silence, but he couldn't tell who it was. It sounded like Cyprus but there was no way America would have been able to tell.

"Austria, we've been asking you for years now, why don't you play for us?" The mystery person asked eagerly. Everyone nodded in concurrence. Austria's playing was quite lovely, many of them had heard, though many of them hadn't been graced with the opportunity to listen...or had never paid attention when he actually had.

Austria froze, eggshell china at his lips, before taking a deep breath and slowly lowering it to its rightful place atop its saucer. He seemed a bit nervous to the trained eye, but overall hid it fairly well. "Play what, Spain?" He asked simply.

Spain? That's who that was? America should have known. The guy hounded Austria every year to play the piano for some reason that probably dated back to their marriage. The whole situation between the two was disturbing; no one could really tell if they still liked or completely loathed one another. Hell, it may even be both.

"The piano!" Spain piped up cheerily. "You're very good, and now would be the best time to play with everyone here, yes?"

Austria was flattered but didn't know what to say in the same breath. He opened his mouth to make an objection, but fell silent when he noticed his entire entourage watching him, forcing him to give a tiny nod of approval. "What do you want me to play?" He responded quietly.

"Why don't you improvise?"

This time, America immediately recognized the voice for the fake proper air to it. It was obviously England.

Austria thought about the request, attempting to find a way to weasel out of it. Finally, after a few long moments of staring down at his lap, he pushed back from the table, draping the napkin from his lap over his empty dish and motioning for the servers leaning against the wall to begin their clean up.

"I will be frank; I have not improvised for quite some time. But, if you all insist, I can arrange something."

Ugh. America couldn't get into music either. Everyone else around him knew how to read sheet music, and play some instrument of the sort, but he had never really learned. He was a drummer boy during the Revolutionary War, as he was initially considered too young to fight, but he never had to read a sheet. He just couldn't relate or feel the sound like the others. Plus, he had been hoping that after eating, he and his advisers could go back to their hotel and ring room service for some ice-cream. Oh, well. If there was nothing he could do to stop it, a little bit more time wouldn't kill him.

It had been a while since America had seen the others so excited. They flooded around Austria, who had once again stolen the spotlight as expected, as he led them back into the sitting room, whispering to a servant the entire time. America shoved his way to the front of the group, inquisitiveness returning at Austria's fragile movements and still seemingly blank expression. He watched him intensely as he sat, positioning himself delicately atop the cloth covered bench of his deep ebony grand piano, the glossy surface shimmering in the candlelight with eerily quixotic warmth. Then suddenly, as Austria put his fingertips to the ivory, America's entire perception changed, catching him off guard and freezing him in his shoes. He had heard others play the piano numerous times but this…this was different. He felt his breathing slow, but at the same time his heart accelerate and pound in his chest, causing him to choke on what he thought to be sentiment. This wasn't just a sound. It was an expression. An infuriated, yet poignant expression and, as much as America didn't want to admit it, he could somehow relate, though he wasn't quite sure how. But how a person with such an overall vacant expression and dry social life could put such profound emotion into something as simple as a note, he couldn't quite wrap his head around. He blinked slowly and noticed something that Austria had greatly been trying to hide, turning his face from the crowd every now and then as a makeshift veil. He was…crying? Why? What could he possibly have to cry about? An extravagant life, beautiful country, and adoring citizens seemed enough to make any person happy. But still, there was no mistaking it; no matter how uncharacteristic for the aristocrat it was, he was definitely crying. And by the looks of it, others in the room where too, both men and women. It was almost awe-inspiring, the power that music had over others to bring them to their knees and draw out their raw emotion, their love, and their memories. Just…to have that level of control over others was something America craved. As long as it was used to help and not hinder, he was all for something as magnificent as this. Shoot, he would go as far as to call it a superpower.

Finally, Austria broke America from his trance by quickly wiping his face before anyone noticed and standing to applause. America inhaled, regaining his bearings before grinning widely and joining the others. He never thought music would have swayed him as much as this, but now, he craved it as much as he craved a good meal. If only he could play like that! Then all at once, an idea dawned on him. He looked back to Austria, who hastily gathered the sheet music from the floor that had spilled upon his standing. This was probably one of the worst ideas he had in a while, and this was going to be difficult, but the possibility of being able to play that way, with such emotion, was all he could think about. But, he couldn't let anyone else see him talking with Austria; he would just have to wait until everyone else left for their hotels. Man, this was going to be interesting.

Wiktor: Well, I hope you at least got some enjoyment from the introduction. Those are always fairly long with my writing, but I promise that things will definitely start to pick up. Please review if you read, and I highly appreciate your sticking to the end of the chapter. Danke!