( ❝all i wanted was the best for our love❞ )
blood and bandages | axis powers hetalia | 1000 words | prussia ; hungary | pg |
in which prussia arrives at hungary's wedding with a heavy heart.
written for loveliita's prompt "When Prussia realizes he loves Hungary", as part of the hetalia_het exchange.
blood and bandages;
Prussia is standing outside the cathedral, holding a crumpled invitation between his two hands. To give him credit, he hasn’t yet ripped it in two, which he would have liked very much to do. In fact, that has been his temptation since he received the invite some months ago. But ripping it would make it tangible, real. Ripping it would mean admitting the event it describes is actually going to take place. And he can’t-won’t-ever admit that. Because that would be admitting defeat.
He has always hated Vienna. It is a city of art and pageantry, music and splendor. In his eyes, it is a city of needless excess and soft people. In his cities, every man, woman, and child has the spirit and backbone to fight at a moment’s notice. Here, not even the men in the armies are fit to fight. The Austrians are weak, he tells himself. They have nothing on him, and his people, and his armies.
Nothing, except one person.
Prussia mashes his teeth together as he stands, staring, at the great oaken doors. He’s been here for at least half an hour, but he cannot force himself to go inside. Even though he is dressed in an elegant suit-not exactly drenched in finery, the way he is sure France is, or drowning in the bright colors he knows Spain is wearing-but it’s fitting to the occasion, at least. It’s ironed, and clean. He looks like the guest he is. But he still doesn’t go inside.
Finally, Prussia smoothens out the invitation enough to make it readable. On thick cream paper, the words are embossed in gold, with the Hapsburg crest providing a focal point at the top. Gentle white lace lines the card, making it expensive as well as beautiful. It is not the finery that bothers Prussia; it is the words that are written on the card.
You are cordially invited to help celebrate the union of
The Austro-Hungarian Empire
On June 8, 1867
At St. Stephan’s Cathedral, Vienna.
“Austria and Hungary. Married. What a fucking joke.”
❣
The Austrians have a long-held tradition, that the bride is not to be seen by her groom on the day of her wedding. So Hungary has gone all day without setting eyes on Austria, because he is nothing if not a stickler for tradition. It is Poland and Belgium who help her dress, in a gown that is a compromise between the traditions of her own people, and his.
Had this been a traditional Hungarian wedding, she would be wearing many colors, each flounce of her skirt a different shade. Austria has said that he doesn’t think that would look very classy, so she has reduced that number to three-green, red, and white. The white is traditional for Austrian brides, the green and red a custom of hers. Compromise, she thinks dryly, is the word of the day.
Hungary stares at the floor-length mirror, gazing at her reflection. Hair pinned up on her head, red and white flowers adorning the gleaming locks. Then, in the glass, she sees the door on the other side of the room begin to open, sees a man walk in.
“You’re not supposed to see me-” She gasps, spinning around, until she realizes the person who enters the room isn’t who she thought it was. “Prussia? You came.”
“Well, of course,” he scoffs, hands stuffed into his pockets. “You invited me, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes,” she admits ruefully. “But that didn’t mean you would come.”
“Hey,” he protests, “I may not be the gentlemen, but I still come when you ask.”
“Oh, of course.” Hungary rolls her eyes, but Prussia is suddenly silent as he surveys her.
“You really look like a girl, you know.”
She turns as scarlet as the flower in her hair, her expression livid. “Of course I do! I am a girl, idiot!”
“Guess I never really noticed,” he says slyly, which causes her to cross the space between them and shove her fist down hard against his head.
“Ouch!” He protests loudly, but her other hand comes up under his chin.
“Don’t say stupid things!” She orders him fiercely.
She starts to move away from him, but he’s quicker, grabbing her wrists in his hands. She squirms, but he holds her fast, looking straight into her deep green eyes.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she murmurs lightly. “Never seen you in a suit before.”
“Yeah, well.” He hasn’t let go, yet. “It’s not for just anyone I get into something this stuffy.”
“Sure,” she says, still blushing. She moves closer to him and leans her head against his shoulder. “Hey, Prussia?”
“Mmm?”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
❣
When Poland and Belgium come back into the room-blushing bridesmaids in every sense of the words-they usher Hungary away, and Prussia is left standing alone in the room. He didn’t tell her that she shouldn’t have worn white and red flowers in her hair and in the bouquet-he thought everyone knew those stood for blood and bandages, and are inauspicious for a wedding.
But he knows, in a way, that he’s only making up excuses, at this point. Because there is only one person for whom this wedding is inauspicious, and that person isn’t Hungary. Fuck, she looked happy, happier than he’d ever seen her. He had never made her that happy.
Why had it taken him so damn long to notice? She’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s his best friend. She’s everything, really. And in about ten minutes he’s going to have to haul his ass to the cathedral and watch some stupid Catholic priest marry her off to a guy he can’t stand. Because he wasn’t around to stop them from growing that close. Because he wasn’t here for her to fall in love with.
Prussia turns and looks at his own reflection in the mirror. Silver-white hair, crimson eyes. Blood and bandages. The worst colors for a wedding.
“Damn it.”
---
useful notes on austrian and hungarian wedding practices.
in which prussia arrives at hungary's wedding with a heavy heart.
written for loveliita's prompt "When Prussia realizes he loves Hungary", as part of the hetalia_het exchange.
blood and bandages;
Prussia is standing outside the cathedral, holding a crumpled invitation between his two hands. To give him credit, he hasn’t yet ripped it in two, which he would have liked very much to do. In fact, that has been his temptation since he received the invite some months ago. But ripping it would make it tangible, real. Ripping it would mean admitting the event it describes is actually going to take place. And he can’t-won’t-ever admit that. Because that would be admitting defeat.
He has always hated Vienna. It is a city of art and pageantry, music and splendor. In his eyes, it is a city of needless excess and soft people. In his cities, every man, woman, and child has the spirit and backbone to fight at a moment’s notice. Here, not even the men in the armies are fit to fight. The Austrians are weak, he tells himself. They have nothing on him, and his people, and his armies.
Nothing, except one person.
Prussia mashes his teeth together as he stands, staring, at the great oaken doors. He’s been here for at least half an hour, but he cannot force himself to go inside. Even though he is dressed in an elegant suit-not exactly drenched in finery, the way he is sure France is, or drowning in the bright colors he knows Spain is wearing-but it’s fitting to the occasion, at least. It’s ironed, and clean. He looks like the guest he is. But he still doesn’t go inside.
Finally, Prussia smoothens out the invitation enough to make it readable. On thick cream paper, the words are embossed in gold, with the Hapsburg crest providing a focal point at the top. Gentle white lace lines the card, making it expensive as well as beautiful. It is not the finery that bothers Prussia; it is the words that are written on the card.
You are cordially invited to help celebrate the union of
The Austro-Hungarian Empire
On June 8, 1867
At St. Stephan’s Cathedral, Vienna.
“Austria and Hungary. Married. What a fucking joke.”
❣
The Austrians have a long-held tradition, that the bride is not to be seen by her groom on the day of her wedding. So Hungary has gone all day without setting eyes on Austria, because he is nothing if not a stickler for tradition. It is Poland and Belgium who help her dress, in a gown that is a compromise between the traditions of her own people, and his.
Had this been a traditional Hungarian wedding, she would be wearing many colors, each flounce of her skirt a different shade. Austria has said that he doesn’t think that would look very classy, so she has reduced that number to three-green, red, and white. The white is traditional for Austrian brides, the green and red a custom of hers. Compromise, she thinks dryly, is the word of the day.
Hungary stares at the floor-length mirror, gazing at her reflection. Hair pinned up on her head, red and white flowers adorning the gleaming locks. Then, in the glass, she sees the door on the other side of the room begin to open, sees a man walk in.
“You’re not supposed to see me-” She gasps, spinning around, until she realizes the person who enters the room isn’t who she thought it was. “Prussia? You came.”
“Well, of course,” he scoffs, hands stuffed into his pockets. “You invited me, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes,” she admits ruefully. “But that didn’t mean you would come.”
“Hey,” he protests, “I may not be the gentlemen, but I still come when you ask.”
“Oh, of course.” Hungary rolls her eyes, but Prussia is suddenly silent as he surveys her.
“You really look like a girl, you know.”
She turns as scarlet as the flower in her hair, her expression livid. “Of course I do! I am a girl, idiot!”
“Guess I never really noticed,” he says slyly, which causes her to cross the space between them and shove her fist down hard against his head.
“Ouch!” He protests loudly, but her other hand comes up under his chin.
“Don’t say stupid things!” She orders him fiercely.
She starts to move away from him, but he’s quicker, grabbing her wrists in his hands. She squirms, but he holds her fast, looking straight into her deep green eyes.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she murmurs lightly. “Never seen you in a suit before.”
“Yeah, well.” He hasn’t let go, yet. “It’s not for just anyone I get into something this stuffy.”
“Sure,” she says, still blushing. She moves closer to him and leans her head against his shoulder. “Hey, Prussia?”
“Mmm?”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
❣
When Poland and Belgium come back into the room-blushing bridesmaids in every sense of the words-they usher Hungary away, and Prussia is left standing alone in the room. He didn’t tell her that she shouldn’t have worn white and red flowers in her hair and in the bouquet-he thought everyone knew those stood for blood and bandages, and are inauspicious for a wedding.
But he knows, in a way, that he’s only making up excuses, at this point. Because there is only one person for whom this wedding is inauspicious, and that person isn’t Hungary. Fuck, she looked happy, happier than he’d ever seen her. He had never made her that happy.
Why had it taken him so damn long to notice? She’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s his best friend. She’s everything, really. And in about ten minutes he’s going to have to haul his ass to the cathedral and watch some stupid Catholic priest marry her off to a guy he can’t stand. Because he wasn’t around to stop them from growing that close. Because he wasn’t here for her to fall in love with.
Prussia turns and looks at his own reflection in the mirror. Silver-white hair, crimson eyes. Blood and bandages. The worst colors for a wedding.
“Damn it.”
---
useful notes on austrian and hungarian wedding practices.