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Entry tags:
Artifice (Hetalia AusHun fic)
Title: Artifice
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG/PG13
Characters: Austria, Hungary
Pairings: Austria/Hungary
Word Count: 1156
Summary: You fell in love at first sight of her.
You fell in love at first sight of her.
Perhaps that is not what really happened. Perhaps love at first sight is only a myth, perhaps the only thing you can feel, only seeing and not knowing a person, is shallow attraction, or to put it more crudely, lust.
But, you have always been a romantic deep down, it’s a good beginning to a story, and if memories must be imperfect, they might as well be colored by the future, with all the heart’s deepest feelings impressed upon them. So you remember falling in love.
You remember that she was beautiful, that first time you saw her. Of course she was beautiful. She has always been beautiful enough to take your breath away.
In your remembrance she stands there, military straight, attempting to emulate a lady-like poise which is not quite natural to her yet. There is something indescribable in the way the light hits her hair, in the soft, crooked shape of her smile. She is so solid and genuine, and yet even then you know (or you remember knowing) that she is, every inch of her, calculated. She is more striking for being unexpected, you had thought Hungary was a boy. But you don’t remember questioning this. You remember meeting her and falling in love upon that instant. It is undeniable that very close to the beginning, she held your heart in her hands.
You were always distant with her, because you are distant by nature. And because for you, decorum is a defence mechanism, because you were afraid to tread too clumsily. Which of you you were afraid of breaking you did not know.
And so it was for many years. Look but don’t touch. But years are strange things, time is long and short and full of life, and so you learned each other by degrees, or at least you tried.
And so you lived together. And she had always served you faithfully, and she had always been ladylike and she had always been kind, but over time you thought her smiles began to show more truth behind tem, that the kindness in her eyes when she looked at you grew more genuine, and you hoped that she was happy here, you hoped that she did not hate you. Or perhaps she only grew more practiced at pretending.
Your marriage was not a matter of choice on your part, was not an arrangement of love, but purely a matter of politics. But despite this you were pleased by it. More pleased even than you were afraid.
But the trouble was that you loved her, and she did not love you.
If both of you were in love it would be perfect. If neither of you loved the other then perhaps there could be hope.
But you held most of the power and she held all your heart and if you were a more wicked man this would be your ideal state of affairs but you are not quite so bad as that.
The trouble was that love is a thing which cannot be forced on another, and sex is a thing which should never be.
And so it was that over a week passed and your marriage was not consummated.
On the tenth night you found her in a state of near undress sitting upon your bed, and you blushed crimson.
“Will you not come to bed, my Lord?” she asked you. Her tone was sly and teasing and caught you off guard entirely. She would never once have been so bold before now. But of course before she had been your servant, and now she was your wife, and she slipped in and out of roles and identities with as much grace and comfort as though they were well-fitting sets of clothes. “My Lord” she had said, and the possessiveness with which she said it sent shivers down your skin.
You lost the power of speech entirely.
You were at a loss as to what to do. It could obviously not be said that she was unwilling. But she was willing to do anything, sacrifice anything, if she felt the need, and she had not asked to be married to you, had never shown any interest in you at all, and if you hurt her…
She spoke, her expression softer and words gentle, as though she had noticed your inward panic, “You don’t have to, of course. You know, if you don’t want it, there’s no need to be ashamed of that, and it’s not as though we have a duty to produce heirs. But do you want it?”
“Yes,” you said, because you could not help but answer, because you had, perhaps, never wanted anything more, “Yes, of course.”
“Well, then,” she said, and her eyes were laughing at you now, “We are married. I’ll help you undress if you’ve forgotten how.”
And so you exchanged virginities. You were certain that she enjoyed it quite as much as you did, though you were not nearly so naive as to think this meant she loved you. But for now, this was enough.
She granted you kisses, and laughed when you blushed, and still you did so, no matter how many times she’d kissed you before. She was your wife, but still you could hardly believe it, could hardly believe she was yours.
You enjoyed each other’s company now, frequently and freely, and you thought you knew her better than anyone else in the world. But of course, that did not necessarily mean you knew her well.
She, in turn, seemed to see straight through you now. You are not an expressive person, but she could read every line of your body language, and often seemed to know what you were feeling before you yourself did. She teased you sometimes, that you could only emote through your music, but you saw no point in being more open, when she could see inside you regardless.
She, of course, was entirely open with her emotions, and lied effortlessly in her openness.
She knew exactly how you loved her. You still could not be entirely sure that she did not dislike you.
Her eyes are like cats’ eyes. You remember waking, morning sunlight slanting through your curtains, to see her looking at you with what you choose to hope is fondness. Her eyes, green, green, brighter than any simile you could think of. You think you could look into her eyes forever, and still be in awe of them. Her eyes are like cats’ eyes, with all of their slyness and playfulness, and deceitful, devilish cleverness, and you love her for all of it, but you wish all the same, that they were eyes as poets tell them, that they were windows into her heart. You love her for all her cunning deceptiveness, but still you dream that perhaps, for you she might be honest.
Part 3 of To Know and to be Known Part 1 Part 2
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG/PG13
Characters: Austria, Hungary
Pairings: Austria/Hungary
Word Count: 1156
Summary: You fell in love at first sight of her.
You fell in love at first sight of her.
Perhaps that is not what really happened. Perhaps love at first sight is only a myth, perhaps the only thing you can feel, only seeing and not knowing a person, is shallow attraction, or to put it more crudely, lust.
But, you have always been a romantic deep down, it’s a good beginning to a story, and if memories must be imperfect, they might as well be colored by the future, with all the heart’s deepest feelings impressed upon them. So you remember falling in love.
You remember that she was beautiful, that first time you saw her. Of course she was beautiful. She has always been beautiful enough to take your breath away.
In your remembrance she stands there, military straight, attempting to emulate a lady-like poise which is not quite natural to her yet. There is something indescribable in the way the light hits her hair, in the soft, crooked shape of her smile. She is so solid and genuine, and yet even then you know (or you remember knowing) that she is, every inch of her, calculated. She is more striking for being unexpected, you had thought Hungary was a boy. But you don’t remember questioning this. You remember meeting her and falling in love upon that instant. It is undeniable that very close to the beginning, she held your heart in her hands.
You were always distant with her, because you are distant by nature. And because for you, decorum is a defence mechanism, because you were afraid to tread too clumsily. Which of you you were afraid of breaking you did not know.
And so it was for many years. Look but don’t touch. But years are strange things, time is long and short and full of life, and so you learned each other by degrees, or at least you tried.
And so you lived together. And she had always served you faithfully, and she had always been ladylike and she had always been kind, but over time you thought her smiles began to show more truth behind tem, that the kindness in her eyes when she looked at you grew more genuine, and you hoped that she was happy here, you hoped that she did not hate you. Or perhaps she only grew more practiced at pretending.
Your marriage was not a matter of choice on your part, was not an arrangement of love, but purely a matter of politics. But despite this you were pleased by it. More pleased even than you were afraid.
But the trouble was that you loved her, and she did not love you.
If both of you were in love it would be perfect. If neither of you loved the other then perhaps there could be hope.
But you held most of the power and she held all your heart and if you were a more wicked man this would be your ideal state of affairs but you are not quite so bad as that.
The trouble was that love is a thing which cannot be forced on another, and sex is a thing which should never be.
And so it was that over a week passed and your marriage was not consummated.
On the tenth night you found her in a state of near undress sitting upon your bed, and you blushed crimson.
“Will you not come to bed, my Lord?” she asked you. Her tone was sly and teasing and caught you off guard entirely. She would never once have been so bold before now. But of course before she had been your servant, and now she was your wife, and she slipped in and out of roles and identities with as much grace and comfort as though they were well-fitting sets of clothes. “My Lord” she had said, and the possessiveness with which she said it sent shivers down your skin.
You lost the power of speech entirely.
You were at a loss as to what to do. It could obviously not be said that she was unwilling. But she was willing to do anything, sacrifice anything, if she felt the need, and she had not asked to be married to you, had never shown any interest in you at all, and if you hurt her…
She spoke, her expression softer and words gentle, as though she had noticed your inward panic, “You don’t have to, of course. You know, if you don’t want it, there’s no need to be ashamed of that, and it’s not as though we have a duty to produce heirs. But do you want it?”
“Yes,” you said, because you could not help but answer, because you had, perhaps, never wanted anything more, “Yes, of course.”
“Well, then,” she said, and her eyes were laughing at you now, “We are married. I’ll help you undress if you’ve forgotten how.”
And so you exchanged virginities. You were certain that she enjoyed it quite as much as you did, though you were not nearly so naive as to think this meant she loved you. But for now, this was enough.
She granted you kisses, and laughed when you blushed, and still you did so, no matter how many times she’d kissed you before. She was your wife, but still you could hardly believe it, could hardly believe she was yours.
You enjoyed each other’s company now, frequently and freely, and you thought you knew her better than anyone else in the world. But of course, that did not necessarily mean you knew her well.
She, in turn, seemed to see straight through you now. You are not an expressive person, but she could read every line of your body language, and often seemed to know what you were feeling before you yourself did. She teased you sometimes, that you could only emote through your music, but you saw no point in being more open, when she could see inside you regardless.
She, of course, was entirely open with her emotions, and lied effortlessly in her openness.
She knew exactly how you loved her. You still could not be entirely sure that she did not dislike you.
Her eyes are like cats’ eyes. You remember waking, morning sunlight slanting through your curtains, to see her looking at you with what you choose to hope is fondness. Her eyes, green, green, brighter than any simile you could think of. You think you could look into her eyes forever, and still be in awe of them. Her eyes are like cats’ eyes, with all of their slyness and playfulness, and deceitful, devilish cleverness, and you love her for all of it, but you wish all the same, that they were eyes as poets tell them, that they were windows into her heart. You love her for all her cunning deceptiveness, but still you dream that perhaps, for you she might be honest.
Part 3 of To Know and to be Known Part 1 Part 2