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.

(Time period: Early 1957.)

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Diamonds and Rust

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For a moment, it sounds like gunfire.

It isn't until Hungary has bolted up in bed, half-falling, half-ducking down to her floor that she realizes it is actually frantic knocking. Her recent revolt means fighting is fresh in her mind; the fact that it failed means anxiety is fresh in her nerves. Heart pounding, she throws on her robe and goes to her front door, cautiously keeping her head down until she recognizes a familiar cut of blond hair. Letting out a breath of relief, Hungary unlocks the door and pulls it open.

Poland is antsier than usual, and the look on his face is perhaps as serious as she's ever seen. He clutches a large, flat box against his chest, as if he's prepared to guard whatever's in it with his life. "Omigod. Like, omigod, Węgry, you have to check this out."

Hungary's pulse kick-starts again, and the first thing she does is glance around. Dawn is just breaking. There are few people who would be out this early, and none of them in sight, and so she hurries Poland inside, bolting the door after him. If this is something that can be used against Russia, there can be no taking chances.

"The drapes! Get the drapes!" he hisses, and Hungary jerks them along the curtain rods, practically tripping over her coffee table in the process. It is only when the room is dim with blocked windows that Poland releases the box from his arms. He sets it down on the table, rips off the top, and pulls out—

A dress.

…A dress?

Hungary is both relieved and annoyed. At least it wasn't anything important, but still, she could have done without a heart attack first thing in the morning.

"Poland," she groans patiently, finally taking the time to rub her eyes, "why did you need to wake me up for this?" Hungary considers herself a morning person, but Poland takes the term to a whole new, obliviously sadistic level.

"Because omigod, look at it! Like, do you not realize this is Chanel? Chanel!" he repeats, grabbing for the garment tag and displaying it. "And not even Chanel, but vintage Chanel!"

Hungary blinks and finds herself actually taking a good look at it. Truth be told, it's one hell of a dress. Likely from the '20s, if the straight, sleeveless style of it is any indication. Pink chiffon, loaded with white and silver beads. In short, it's the flapper dress Poland always dreamt of. Even Hungary finds herself a little jealous of it, though Poland's coloring and lithe, masculine frame would probably do it more justice, oddly enough.

"Where did it come from?" she asks, in just a bit of wonder, taking it in her hands, fingering the cascades of decoration. The bright glitter of the dress seems terribly out of place when compared to the depressed atmosphere of the Eastern Bloc.

"Like, that's just it—I don't know! Delivered totally anonymously. It came through the black market, and that was literally all I could find out. And you know I've got some awesome black market connections. Whoever sent this was mad-skilled at covering their tracks."

Hungary purses her mouth, holding the dress out as if it will help her assess the situation. "Lithuania?" she guesses. Maybe a late Christmas gift?

"That's what I maybe thought, but Liet's, like, totally adamant that it wasn't him. He was all, 'Do you really think I could afford a Chanel dress, let alone keep Russia from finding out?' Which I guess is a good point," he admits, "because you can't really keep deliveries and stuff secret when you're living in someone else's house. Oh!" he exclaims, talking at break-neck speed in his excitement, fishing around in the box. "And check this out! It came with this note!"

It's just small piece of nondescript white paper, and contains only a short, unsigned message—not even hand-written, but typed:

I apologize for the delay. Consider this a gesture of gratitude.

"Was it you?" he suddenly asks, jerking his eyes up to hers. He's already toed his shoes off and is halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

"Poland, you know I'm very grateful for all your help last year," she says, very sincerely, too close to him to be at all affected by his display of immodesty, "but you also know I can't afford something like this. How would I even get my hands on it in the first place?"

"Yeah, that's what I figured." Poland shrugs, seemingly not too bothered by the mystery of where it came from (probably, Hungary thinks, because he's too enamored by its shiny elegance). "Like, don't get me wrong, this is totally fab," he says, taking the dress back from her and holding it against him, "but it's just weird, y'know?"

Hungary nods, at a loss, herself.

"Anyway," Poland goes on, already trying to navigate the garment over his shoulders, "Russia best watch out. Next uprising is going to be so totally gnarly with this, just you wait."

Hungary smiles a bit anxiously. Sometimes she doesn't know where he pulls his inexhaustible supply of spirit from. As it is, she still has bruises from last year that act as discouragement.

As if to distract her from the unpleasantness of her failed revolution, her eyes stray back down to the note, rereading it carefully. The formality of it almost sounds like…

She snorts. That's simply too ridiculous.

"What?" Poland demands, pausing in the middle of tugging pink chiffon down over his torso.

Hungary shakes her head at herself. "Nothing," she mutters with a little self-deprecating laugh. "Just a silly little thought that popped into my head. I was going to say it…almost sounded like Austria."

Poland's jaw drops and his eyes turn into green saucers. "Omigod," he starts saying again. "Omigod, it totally was! Holy shit omigod."

"What?" Either she missed something, or it's still way too early for her.

"Yeah, yeah—back in the war we ended up at Auschwitz together and I saved his sanity and he helped me make a dress and then we busted outta there like Bonnie and Clyde! It was pretty bitchin'," he concludes.

Hungary tries to picture her aristocratic ex-husband holding a needle and thread in one hand, a blazing gun in the other, grinning around a cigar. The needle and thread she can manage, just barely. She fails on the other two accounts.

"Austria?" she asks. Maybe she misheard.

"Yeah!" Poland exclaims, arms fluttering madly, trying to get the fact through to her. "He totally knows my measurements from it. I mean, I was, like, a lot thinner then, but height and length don't change." He runs his hands down the sides of the dress, eyes shining. "That little priss," he says, but there is a fondness to the insult. "Only knows men's fashion, my ass."

Hungary swallows, a little uncomfortably. Poland is occupied with sliding his pants off from under the skirt, and she wanders away into her adjoining kitchen. "I'm going to make some tea," she calls. "Would you like some?"

"Yeah, totally," he calls back, and she puts the kettle on.

Her old house was destroyed in the Siege of Budapest. Russia threw her into this dingy little bungalow before she barely had time to recover from the Second World War. She has tried to make it livable, but it's difficult to bring life to a house she can't even paint without permission. Her uprising the previous year damaged the window seals, and Russia refuses to let her fix them. The cold will do her good, he laughs.

And if she disagrees, she can do a stint in Siberia with no house at all.

Poland slowly follows her into the kitchen, beaded fringe clicking delicately around his calves. Hungary grins. "It looks amazing."

Poland grins back and smoothes his hands down the front. "You really think so? It's not, like, too big in the waist or anything?"

She shakes her head vigorously. "It suits you perfectly," she says, and Poland practically glows.

The water boils. The tea steeps, and Hungary pours two cups. Poland spoons in a pinch of sugar.

"Hey, Węgry…" he starts carefully, idly stirring his drink. "You don't have to, like, answer this if you don't want to, but…do you still love him?"

Hungary tenses, then sighs, her shoulders drooping. "…I don't know," she admits tiredly. "That was a long time ago."

Poland looks out her kitchen window. Outside is grey, and the glass is water-spotted. "Yeah," is all he says.

Hungary takes a sip to occupy herself, though it is still far too hot to drink comfortably. She takes another, then bites her bottom lip and decides to confess. Poland is a close friend, after all—perhaps her closest friend. And maybe it would feel good to get it off her chest. "We actually…ran into each other in World War Two."

Poland stops blowing on his drink and looks at her in shock. "Whoa. Seriously? You never told me that." There is perhaps a note of accusation in his voice.

Hungary shrugs down at her tea, as if to apologize. "In Berlin," she says. "At the end. Before Russia picked me up."

Poland does something funny with his eyebrows and looks off to the side for a moment. "So…like…how was that?" he asks, obviously curious, but tactful enough to not start demanding details.

She shrugs again. "It was…" Really, really hot when he lost control and hoisted her against the wall—

Hungary frowns and swallows, ducking her head, hiding her face in her hair and tea, in case that's a blush she's feeling on her cheeks.

All lust aside, he was also angry, and bitter. So very, very bitter. Did he really take the divorce so badly? Or was it just because of the painful end of a painful war?

Hungary shakes her head, as if to shake the thoughts away, and places her mug back down. "He…just seemed so different," she finally says.

"Yeah, well…that's, like, not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, he could be a real asshole, remember?" Poland says. "1848, anyone?"

Hungary looks over and smirks, a little humorlessly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to hook me up with my ex."

Poland shrugs awkwardly, coloring at the insinuation, going back to stirring his tea. "Well, I dunno… I know it wasn't all honey and roses, even when you guys were married, and he was kind of like, 'Huh? What do you mean I take you for granted? Now lemme start a war so you can fight it for me,' but, well…he's been through some really shitty times since then. That stuff changes you. Maybe it changed him for the better. I mean, the dude sent me a Chanel dress through the black market, for chrissake. Seriously—either he's mellowed out, or he's off his rocker, to the max," he points out, and Hungary even finds herself laughing at that a little.

"And, well…" he goes on, "when it was good between you guys, you were really happy. And you're totally my BFF, so I want to see you happy."

Hungary smiles at her friend, but doesn't quite respond. Instead, she busies herself with careful sips.

Her history with Austria is so long and so tangled at this point, that she often wonders if it can ever be untangled, or if it's even worth trying. For so long, she wished she didn't feel as drawn to him as she did, because it simply set herself up for heart-ache, again and again, because he never changed, not really, not even with their marriage. But now… But now…

Now, she doesn't know what to think. The memory of their explosive encounter in Berlin is burned into her brain. Along with the news that he sheltered thousands, tens of thousands of her people when they fled in November, even though it risked his own, tentative relationship with an invasion-happy Russia. And now this thoughtful gesture towards Poland, who he never had much of a high opinion of before…

Rather, she knows what to think, she simply doesn't want to think about it.

Not like it matters, anyway. It isn't as if she'll be seeing him again anytime soon, what with he being on one side of the Iron Curtain, and she on the other, and Russia in between.

"I, like, seriously need to look into a cut or a perm," Poland says, and she looks over to see him tugging the front locks of his hair with intent concentration. "This dress is wicked awesome, but this length is totally lame with it." He looks up at Hungary and holds his hand right up to his ear. "You think I could pull off a bob?"

Hungary blinks, and then breaks into a grin. Poland is a ditz at all the right moments. "Forget a haircut," she laughs, setting her tea down and pulling him toward her bedroom. "I've got a scarf we can wrap into a turban. And a pair of t-straps that should still fit you!"

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Historical notes:

-"Węgry": Polish form of "Hungary." I dunno—being that Poland calls Lithuania "Liet," and that he and Hungary are total bros, I guess I'm inclined to think he's all casual-friendly-like with her as well.

-In October of 1956, revolution broke out in Hungary. She kicked a lot of ass, but it was still brutally put down by Russia come November. Poland, who'd had his own failed uprising not long before, gave a totally whomped Hungary mad support in the form of food, medical supplies, etc. Shit was rushed in on helicopters and everything.

-1848: reference to the Hungarian Revolution of 1848, which was put down by Austria in a major dick way.

-After WWII, Austria was occupied by the Allied forces (England, France, America, and Russia, in respective zones), and didn't get full control of his government back until 1955. Come 1956, despite being officially neutral at that point, Austria was by and large very supportive of the Hungarian revolt, and once refugees started pouring in, did a lot to help them without being too obvious about it, lest Russia get pissed off and call him out on his not-so-neutral-neutrality. It was also around this time that his economy finally recovered (and he could finally afford a Chanel dress XD).