He is grasping at the last grains of sand trickling through his fingers.

Or it is some sadistic play, he muses, of a broken puppet on a frayed, lonely string. That thought brings a soundless chuckle and a bitter quirk of lips he can't yet call a smile. His empire was nothing but a play, a machination set to an invisible melody that deserted him halfway through. It burns a hole twice the size of Vienna in his heart.

His mansion, once grand and beautifully kept, is deserted, fallen into disrepair during the War. It is the first time in years he is here.

Hungary has left, and he does not blame her. Without the empire, they are nothing more than acquaintances. Strangers in close proximity, even. His hands collect dust when he runs them along the banisters. Most of the furniture is gone and the silver is scattered uselessly. His steps echo on the worn carpet of the stairs. He is walking so fast, they sound like gunshots.

His thoughts turn to the Archduke. Had it been really necessary? He curses himself. Stupid. Stupid and arrogant and selfish. How many years have even gone by? He had lost count. Stupid. He pauses at the top step.

He should not feel so bitter. It is war, after all, and there will always be winners and losers. He just happened to lose this time. Bitterness is bad sportsmanship; he is a noble, not a drunk lost in his own tankard.

A sharp sigh forces him to continue. If only Prussia could see him now, the vulture. Not that he ever intended to let him. His own quiet laugh startles him and he almost forgets. Thinking about that heathen at a time like this? The idea is indeed humorous, but Prussia is familiar. He could predict his actions with a fair amount of accuracy. He knows which buttons to press and when to put him out on his rump, where to jab just right to hurt his pride and play his anger and fear.

The door to the conservatory is broken, one hinge hanging lamely against the wood. It is nothing compared to the destruction inside. The windows are shattered, glass peppering the floor, and his bench is nearly ripped in two. Centuries of compositions are all over the room in various states. In the middle of the chaos, leaning casually against his broken piano, sits someone he never wished to see enter the war in the first place.

"You certainly took your time."

None of them should have gotten involved. It was between him and Serbia, not them. He ignores him, worrying more about his music. The piano will take a long time to repair. His knees nearly give out when he bends to collect the crumpled sheets.

"They're calling you a warmonger."

He snorts, allowing his fragile composure to flake away and fixing the intruder with a cold smile.

"Rather hypocritical of them."

They shrug, sending back the same corpse-cold stare. "Aren't we all, nowadays?"

"Some more so than others."

He turns back to the music. They are playing a dangerous game; one wrong move and he is done. There is a small rest in talk and he can feel their eyes on him.

"Germany's taking the blame for your little play, you know. Such a shame."

He grits his teeth and keeps his back turned. His legs soon fail him, however, and he collapses onto the floor. Another rest while he struggles to sit up. Then, a rapid staccato of heavy steps grows louder and he is yanked to the other's height.

"You should listen to me when I'm talking, Austria."

The pain almost blinds him and he struggles to breathe against the grip at his collar. In that moment, he could not hate them more. The intruder is calm and, somehow, he works up enough audacity to pierce him with an icy glare and spit in his face.

He smashes painfully against the far wall, crumpling into a loose ball. This is nothing, he tells himself through the pounding in his skull, there has been worse. A hand slams into his head, fisting a chunk of hair and pulling up.

"Do you know how damned lucky you are?"

Another hand grabs his collar again, hauling him toward what was left of his bench. They swing him onto it and against the piano with a clattering of keys, as if he is a rag doll. He laments his metaphor coming back too soon.

"Do you even realise how close you were to dissolution?"

He had not been allowed to attend the conference and they both know it. But, dissolution? He closes his eyes in half-defeat. A sharp tug at his hair stops that.

"Are you listening, Austria?"

Their tone is quiet and condescending. They trace their thumb over his cheek, leaning in to rest their foreheads together. His vision is blurry, but he does not need to see the smirk to know it is there.

"You're dangerous, you know. Power-hungry. Selfish. Unstable. Helpless, perhaps."

They lean back chuckling, observing him. He hates it. Hates every word the intruder spits at him. Hates himself.

"Someone will be here to watch you. After all, we don't want to start another war now, do we?"

They take their leave carelessly, and he can hear their boots until they are out the front door. He hates himself for being so helpless. He hates England. But, most of all, he hates the fact that in some twisted, sickening way he is right.

He spends the night in the conservatory.