Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 6Dinner was early that evening and Austria resented it. There was no excuse for interrupting his piano rehearsal. Adults could eat later than 6pm and if the child needed his food sooner, there was no sense in shifting everyone else around because of it.
“But isn’t it nicer if we all eat together as a family?” Hungary said. Chibitalia nodded in agreement and had a large bite of his beloved pasta. Austria refrained from pointing out the obvious. Hungary paused, perhaps testing if he would.
“Do you know who I saw at the market today?”
“Poland and Lithuania,” Hungary said. “I told them all about Chibitalia, and Poland said, ‘Your son sounds totally cute.’”
Austria’s hand froze halfway to his glass.
“You... told Poland that this child is our son?”
Hungary giggled and waved dismissively.
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 5In the centre of the resonating sound, Austria let his fingers run across the keys. In stressful situations such as this day’s, he generally chose a piece of considerable difficulty, so as to fully occupy his mind. This time, however, he had begun with the first etude on his piano desk stand and let the routine take over. There was probably something new from Schubert somewhere nearby, but he felt too cloudy to retrieve it. Fine. This piece would do. It was enough for him to feel the cool ivory under his fingertips and let the humming aura of the sound consume him.
With Hungary and the child preoccupied, Austria allowed himself to forget the world. Following the familiar patterns was hypnotic. It gave him a sense of pride and power knowing he could stylishly trace each song and recreate it like magic.
As his fingers spidered across the octaves, he thought he heard something rustling behind him. He looked over his shoulder and
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 4The endless pantry contained shelf after shelf of jars, Flours, grains, dried berries for sauces - Hungary could have sworn they had some egg noodles somewhere. Chibitalia had requested pasta, politely at first, but ever more adamant. He had been more than agreeable about everything else thus far, but pasta was non-negotiable. Austria had whispered to Hungary that it was a disciplinary issue. With a wave of her hand, Hungary told Austria she was happy to at least know what the youngster would eat. That would make things easier. At least, it would once she found the pasta. If they had any.
Behind her, the pantry door creaked open. Like a slinking cat, Austria stepped in and shut the door behind him.
“Have you seen the pasta?” Hungary asked, completely ignoring Austria’s expression of grave seriousness.
“Pasta is the least of our concerns.”
Hungary ignored this as well.
“How is Chibitalia doing?
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 3Not far from the estate was a field of golden grains and wildflowers. It was Hungary’s favourite place, reminiscent of the vast and wild spaces she had traversed on horseback with her family an era ago. In the early morning sunlight, she ran through the field, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being anywhere but indoors. That’s when a rustling in the tall grass caught her eye.
Cautiously, she approached. The rustling occurred again. She ducked low to the ground, slowly unsheathing the knife she wore strapped to her leg. Whatever was hiding in the grasses was close enough to chase her down over a short distance, so fleeing wouldn’t be an option. She crept closer, readying herself for whatever was waiting for her.
It seemed too small to be a bear. A small wolf, maybe, although those were nocturnal. Hungary paused. The rustling had ceased. She wondered if perhaps she was not being hunted, or if that was m
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 1The estate felt empty. It always felt empty. With forty-eight rooms for two people, how could it not? As night closed in, Hungary stared out the window at the endless field of stars. Although she usually enjoyed stargazing - it reminded her of her wild past and her countless adventures on horseback - tonight it felt hollow. The night sky held a blackness without depth that made her feel ever more alone.
She turned around in her oversized chair by the window and looked across the drawing room. Far away - too far away - her husband sat in an oversized chair of his own. The two chairs were a matching set, of course. Custom made. There were only two ways to tell them apart. Hungary’s chair was always placed by the room’s largest window because she preferred to look outside, and her seat cushion was still as plush as the day the chair was made, because she also preferred to BE outside. Austria’s chair, howev