Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. Because seriously, if I did, there would be many more FACE family moments as well as a couple more Asian nations.
This was writen for the belated birthday gift to a very dear friend of mine. She's also my coolest writing buddy and probably one of the few people that can stand my insanity. Hope you had a happy belated birthday Austria!
Music was an art of sound, the balance between silence and sound. It was one that could be shared amongst everybody all around the world. All cultures had it, all people felt it, and some of those even breathed it. Music was a subject that was the balance of the world's complexities with the simplicities of everyday life. But what composed music were four parts: pitch, harmony, dynamics, and the qualities of timbre and texture. They were what made music what it was, not whether the fact it was classical or punk rock.
Austria was one for his piano. He was one for the strings. He was one for the orchestra. That man, Austria, Roderich Edelstein, adored classical music. The sound of the strings harmonizing was like heaven to the bespectacled man. Classical music was an art form that dominated all others. It was the art of the high society to which he was a part of. It calmed his nerves after a hard day's work and relaxed his soul with its soothing chords and glorious harmonies. Classical music sang to him in a way that nothing else could. To the Austrian, there was no other perfection than the sound of classical music.
But that point could be argued by another. England was once for his electric guitar. He was one for the scream. He was one for the pure defiance, the anarchy. Arthur Kirkland, England, admired punk rock. It was the scream of the electric guitar. It was the reworking of sound and the ear. It was taking a piece that was meant for classical playing and tearing it to shreds for a sound that excited the audience in a way the original couldn't. Punk rock was the shout of those that the high society, or society itself, ignored. After a long day's work, to hear the scream of the guitar, pounding of the drums, and the scream for attention was the catharsis he required to keep going.
"Was (German: What) are you doing in those England," demanded the aristocrat when he caught sight of his friend.
Austria donned his usual attire, a long navy coat, a white jabot firmly around his neck, and black pants. His wavy brown hair was neatly combed and styled away from his face with his glasses sitting delicately on the bridge of his nose that was wrinkling at the sight of the "gentleman" in front of him. England just grinned at his aristocratic cohort. His blonde hair was a mess and his suit was missing. Instead his friend wore a long sleeved green shirt with some sort of band design on it in white, a "disgusting" black leather jacket, impossibly tight black leather pants, knee high lace up red combat boots, and a checkered bandana around his neck.
"Heading to a concert mate, care to come along?" England seemed to smirk when he asked the question.
"Was kind of concert vould require one to look like an over done hooker?" asked the flabbergasted Austrian trying to pick up the pieces to his poor shattered brain.
"Punk rock old chap!" England looked positively giddy at the thought, "Want to come along?"
A mix of emotions tore through the man: shock, horror, anger, and disbelief. In front of him was his long time friend England, the person who came to classical concerts with him eagerly and without complaint. The one person who he could speak to about the majesty of the genre without having them be bored to death. Now his one person was a fan of the musical rejects of the world. The brand that was known for its defiance and hatred towards everything that had order! How could fate be so cruel as to take that one person who appreciated his music to the same extent he had and make them love the trash to the musical society!?
"Another time England," hissed Austria as he stormed away. "Vhen you are not some hooligan who vould listen to rejects!"
"Oi! They're not rejects!" shouted England after his friend, "They're they masters! At least they're not afraid to say what they think!"
Austria didn't hear him, he was just too caught up in the anger and betrayal he felt. How could he even consider the other country his friend? That one had always been a trouble maker, never one for a quiet life like him. If England wanted to become a musical reject, then so be it. He didn't need friends like that.
But without his usual concert companion, he grew lonely. Hungary didn't enjoy the music as much as he did. Italy was too naïve to understand it. Germany, that man couldn't find the patience. Prussia couldn't understand the majesty. God forbid that he ever do anything or go anywhere with France. His only option left was Switzerland but that country wasn't particularly fond of him anymore and they weren't necessarily friends with each other.
The bespectacled country sighs heavily as he sits down in front of a piano he had found in the conference hall. America had hosted the conference and it had become like many other conferences, the young nation declaring himself the world's hero and the constant shouting and bickering among the other nations. It was only by luck he had stumbled upon the music room in need for an escape. As always when he found a piano, he decided to play it.
He didn't know exactly how much time had passed since he started playing or why he was playing anymore. He felt as if he just needed to play and let his fingers dance across the keys. It relaxed him and that was all that Austria needed. He only stopped when he heard the light tapping of footsteps and looked up to see England walk into the room. The two countries stared at each other in silence. Austria noted that England had an electric guitar strapped to his back while England looked over at the piano.
"Was are you going here England?" asked Austria.
"I needed to let out some steam," England sighed heavily as he repositioned the guitar in front of him, "Do you mind?"
Austria shook his head and sat back as he watched his old friend start playing his guitar. It wasn't as horrific as he believed it to be. But as he listened closer to the piece that was being played, his eyes widened in shock. It was Mozart's Sonata #3 that England was playing on the "vile" instrument.
"Something wrong mate?" asked England as he stopped, seeing the shocked look on the Austrian's face.
"Mozart's Sonata #3," he coughed, "You were playing it just now."
England nodded and grinned, "Why yes, yes I was. Would you like to join in?"
No words were spoken past that point, only music was heard, the classical piano alongside its anarchy loving cousin the electric guitar. Austria relaxed to the though he hadn't lost his friend but found him in another way. Though they spoke to different tunes, they could always meet in the middle. Music was an international language, spoken and known by everyone. It was an art of sound balance, even if the balance was between two genres that sat on opposite ends of each other.