Chopin had been Polish from day one, and no matter where he went he brought a national pride with him. Even if he'd spent so much of his life away, even if he'd died in Paris of all things…

Poland choked on that.

Even if he'd died in Paris, without giving Poland the ability to sit next to him, he'd died completely Polish. Not just by title, but with nationalism that was firm, vocal, occasionally crude and explosive. It was enough that just by following his travels in the paper, Poland could be warmed while the never-ending pressure of Russia did all it could to freeze him to the core. Just to hear about it was enough, but he'd never been one to be satisfied with just 'enough'.

He was a glutton for basically everything life had to offer.

He poured himself a glass of the wódka he'd brought, and forced himself to sip it. None of which he actually wanted to do; he had to just shy of physically restrain himself from just grabbing the bottle and draining it in a handful of gulps. But, quite frankly, to drink form the bottle would be too Russian, and to chug it as was oh-so-tempting was far too German.

Quite frankly, he'd been mixing with them for too long, and at the moment he wanted to be able to pretend that he wasn't again occupied and caught in war. It was a different nationality this time, different ideals, but it was the same old routine.

It was…

Poland shook his head. He wasn't where he was at the moment, he wasn't very steadily getting himself stinking drunk, because he wanted to complain about there being Nazis in his house.

He was there to mourn Chopin over wódka and the destroyed monument that he'd spent so much time and money on. The beautiful centerpiece to his park had been destroyed with far too much enthusiasm by Germany. He was probably laughing over that with his idiot brother at a beer hall right now; slurring like the drunken slobs they were.

Not that Poland was necessarily above 'drunken slob' right then, nor did he really want to be. What he wanted was for the whole world to be as depressed and outraged as he was at the moment; or at least France and England who should have some feelings for his monument being torn down. But he wondered if they would even have bothered to notice it. It was probably just a footnote in their morning papers.

It was probably skimmed over after war news in order to get to the financial, athletic, local sections of the paper. None of them actually cared about what had happened, after all. They'd allowed Germany to take Poland without a thought; and all this care they had now was just hindsight telling them that giving an opportunist like Germany permission to take a little land would just get him hungrier for more.

And more, and more, and more, and on until the entire world was gulping beer down nightly.

And the heavy footsteps coming from behind him now weren't German, but they might as well have been. He would say this was the representative of part one of the German conquest, but honestly this one didn't require much persuasion in falling into the ranks; which was disgusting but not at all surprising. They'd always been close, those two. Well, three. Well… make that four.

It was too complicated, and Poland decided to forget attempting to figure out math and alliances and simply pour himself another shot. He didn't, though, stop himself from taking it in one gulp as he had been so careful to do for half the bottle. And the two bottles before that.

Whether he was welcome or not, Austria had shown up.

He could have apologized for his compliance in the atrocities that had already occurred, and all those that were to follow. He could have agreed that it had gone too far, he could have said that he would help Poland rebuild or fight back or something.

He could have broken down over the crumbling of the monument; agreed that its destruction was almost like Chopin dying for a second time. He could have offered to help pay for a replacement.

Really, Austria could have said anything at all. He had that option, but he bypassed it. Not that Poland minded at all; they both knew that any words would have been strictly symbolic. They were allies only because of occupation, but at the same time they were irrefutable enemies because of how closely they decided to hold this particular alliance.

But again, Poland reminded himself, this particular night wasn't about Nazis or alliances or war of any kind.

This was about remembering Chopin even if everyone around him seemed very keen on forgetting that there had been someone who'd been Polish with every bead of sweat on his brow, and who had brought the world to its feet with flaming nationalism.

Tonight was about the music and the man.

To have someone else understand this was, somehow, unimaginably exhilarating or empowering or something of the like.

So, when Austria took a seat beside him in the rubble, Poland wordlessly (but, he felt, rather graciously and gracefully) poured his companion a shot glass. Austria said nothing when half the liquor spilled long before it changed hands, and when there was little more than a sip by the time it was able to reach his lips.

All around them, they were no longer surrounded by the destruction, of the sound and smell and intimidation of Germans.

They were in a concert hall; where it was truly didn't matter. They were watching those skilled hands fly across the keyboard, and became enveloped in the music once again. A different song for each, of course, but the sentiment remained the same.

Alliance, familiarity, and music dissolved in the heat of the rising sun, and Austria took his leave without having exchanged a single word. The world, with no sympathy for drunkenness and mourning, much less the excruciating hangover that came with it, continued to turn. Poland went back to work as he was mandated to and vaguely dreamed of the day in which he could rebuild.

Whenever he expelled this occupation from his home, whenever he finally had the money, he'd rebuild the monument and fill the air with music and nationalism again.

And, if he was again joined, so be it.