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Who\'s Afraid of Roderich Edelstein	By : CyreliaJ Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1826 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of it's characters. I'm also not making any money off of this.

Chapter List
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Note: This part does contain some Germany/Italy though it's small. Thank you everyone for reading and commenting. I've tried to correct the typos in the last section too so let me know if you still see any. Big thanks as well to my beta, doomy_slasher on LJ. From this point on all errors are mine. Warning that we are getting into more dark content.

4

"Mister Germany Dances"

What have I done? Who have I become?

Though these words may come alive...

Poets and prophets die...

-The Crüxshadows “Exile”

Berlin, Germany

Germany’s House

October 7th, 1939

Goodman; banned. The wail of the saxophone blares defiantly out of the old gramophone as the two men sit in the dimly lit living room of Germany’s house. “For your collection,” Veneziano had said standing in the doorway with the contraband record tucked beneath his coat far later than was appropriate. Germany had let him in without hesitation. The collection North Italy had spoken of no longer exists and Germany allows himself to enjoy the forbidden in the darkness where no one but his fellow nation shall bear witness. I seem to be doing that a lot lately, he thinks wondering if he should be amused or appalled at his newfound subversive behavior.

“I know it’s late, Ludwig, but I have to leave tomorrow and I didn’t want to miss seeing you. I… I wanted to let you know that this time we won’t be enemies- that this time we’ll fight on the same side and… and I’m sure that if I speak with my boss and my brother, they’ll see that joining with Germany as a friend would be to everyone’s advantage.”

His eyes are bright with excitement as the rush of conversation gushes from him like a fountain and Germany wonders if he was silent on the walk here like the rest of the city is anymore. Germany also thinks that the black shirt hardly suits his personality, but it gives him a confidence and certainty that cannot be denied.

“That would definitely please the Führer,” he answers with a smile and manages not to look embarrassed when North Italy leans in and grabs his hands in earnest. The Italian’s hands are rougher than he remembers them being but they’re still so warm and soothing that Germany finds them strangely fascinating.

“Se avanzo, seguitemi. Se indietreggio, uccidetemi. Se muoio, vendicatemi. That’s our motto now!” His head bobs excitedly and Germany finds his expression unconsciously softening as he watches him. The brothers have been working hard to try and upgrade their army; he’s heard that much from Prussia’s intelligence.

Il Duce doesn’t think they’ll have to make more than a token showing but it’ll be enough to garner the world’s respect and Veneziano’s thrilled at the idea of people looking at him and Romano as they had looked at Grandpa Rome. “If I advance, follow me. If I retreat, kill me. If I die, avenge me. Il Duce says that we’ll be as great as Grandpa Rome was! We won’t... I... I won’t let you down, Ludwig!”

His enthusiasm is infectious. Germany smiles back, the expression the most natural he’s worn in the last week.

“I have faith in you.” He has every confidence in their strength and the ease with which they conquered even Poland’s courageous fighters makes him feel as if anything is possible. He was jealous of Prussia leading the charge but he trusted his brother’s experience and felt proud as he’d ever been when they sent the telegraph back to Austria and- Austria. God, he’s right upstairs. He retracts his hands quickly and although Veneziano notices, he says nothing. The music is too loud all of a sudden and he can feel Austria next to him whispering like a demon on his shoulder.

“I don’t see how you can listen to this degenerate music.” Germany watched those elegant hands caressing the cover of the record even as he declared it a blasphemy of noble instruments. Eternally a light sleeper, the faint commotion from downstairs had woken Germany and he’d wondered what the hell his sometimes unwanted houseguest was doing. Austria was knelt down in one of his artfully arranged -or so it oftentimes seemed- positions, clad only in one of Germany’s button down white shirts. He half turned and looked up with a particular tap to the cover. Germany’s eyes fell to the fabric barely sliding off that pale shoulder and he licked his lips absently.

“So? I don’t listen to it when you’re around, do I?” His attention shifted back to the record when Austria tossed it aside with a derisive snort. He took another from the shelf while ignoring Germany’s scramble to pick up what he now realized was Duke Ellington.

“‘Boogie Woogie’? Is that even English? As if Alfred hasn’t mangled Arthur’s language enough...”

“Is there a point to all of this?” he demanded as Austria tossed that aside as well.

“These have all been banned by the Führer-”

“No doubt at your insistence.”

Austria drew himself up at that, somehow managing to look affronted while kneeling on the floor in nothing more than a nightshirt. “I assure you, had the decision been mine, they’d be playing Schubert in the streets not Wagner.” Germany snorted at that. Austria could’ve been the man’s underfed doppelganger and he started to say as much, except it was obvious that he’d hit a nerve- Austria seemed to have quite a few of those- and instead he just let the elegant tones wash over him as Austria began to tell him in rather explicit detail exactly what was wrong with the stifling music regime they’d instituted. Germany paid him little attention focusing instead on watching the clock on the wall, staring at the old paintings, really watching everything but Austria as he waited for the other to finish. As if sensing this, Austria shifted to his hands and knee, choosing just that moment to make a better study of the shelf and its contents. The retort died on Germany’s lips as he watched that shirt ride up- no, that ass was anything but underfed. The scathing musical critique faded entirely into the background as he stared temptation in the face and once again found himself lacking. Austria was a stiff puritanical aristocrat when it suited him but Germany was slowly learning he could be just as base as the rest of them- moreso even- when he put his mind to it.

“...spending so much time in those dens of iniquity like some common malefactor...” he heard Austria mutter and realized in a moment of brilliance that the aristocrat was actually jealous. Why else would he be down here using every dirty trick he had to get rid of the albums when half the time he couldn’t care less what new directives the propaganda minister tossed down. Germany watched another Duke Ellington fly across the room with a wince. Hadn’t he already assured him that he was the only one? That he had Germany’s full sworn word and devotion, that- Well, the hell with that insecure- No, Austria may have been a lot of things but insecure was hardly one of them. He was calculating or controlling or some sort of other less flattering epithet that all boiled down to wanting Germany to dance like a damn puppet.

And yet somehow even knowing all of that, even knowing that the man probably calculated every breath he took Germany couldn’t help but be spellbound when Austria turned and looked at him over his shoulder, peering over the thin frames of those spectacles with a perfect mixture of seduction and frailty even though they both knew he was anything but. He looked for all the world like he didn’t have Germany’s semen drying on the insides of his thighs and that damn shirt was slipping even further off his shoulder. Austria knew exactly what he was doing when he licked his lips like an expectant feline and blinked ever so slowly while waiting for an answer. He shifted a leg, spreading himself ever so slightly and Germany knew that it was nothing but some chess like calculation and that Austria had likely planned out every move, every last detail down to the scratches on Germany’s back and yet still he couldn’t help himself.

He could feel himself wavering, feel those eyes on him even as he shifted his gaze and looked away.

“It’s not… you know that it has nothing to do with the women…” He huffed in frustration and watched the cuckoo clock on the wall sway its pendulum back and forth. It was the last one he’d ever made and it was a reminder of the last time he felt truly free; somehow now it felt like even more of his freedom was slipping away.

“Like them or not,” Austria said as he rose with that careless air and turned around, “We have our directives that we’re supposed to follow.” He looked over the frames of those glasses again and Germany recalled Prussia telling him ages ago the man didn’t need them to see, that he only wore them so he wouldn’t look so plain; Germany wondered if it didn’t make it easier to look down on people no matter where he stood. He wielded them with more proficiency than any sword and as his fingers threaded behind Germany’s neck he could almost see his own reflection on the lenses. “You do know how to follow orders, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” He could follow orders. He could follow orders better than either Austria or Prussia could, they who adhered to the rules only when it suited them. And as he felt Austria’s body pressed flush to his, felt those bare legs against his own, warm and smooth and oddly like a woman’s he wondered just whose orders Austria was following when he lay back on the bed in 1938 and let Germany take that which even he knew to be forbidden. But Germany didn’t question. He didn’t question when that Austrian came out of nowhere and rose to lead his people and he didn’t question when people he’d known for years were labelled “undesirable” and purged from the party..

“Can you?” Austria questioned with a tilt of his head and that challenging expression which never failed to make Germany feel insignificant and young, and even though he knew it was on purpose, that the other was only trying to goad him and make him lose control he still walked right into it. “You can’t even control yourself enough to-”

“Dammit, don’t push me,” Germany growled out, looking away because looking at him wasn’t going to help.

“Can’t even control yourself enough to have a civilized conversation with your-”

“Don’t you dare say “lover” Roderich because if there’s one thing-”

“If there’s one thing you do less adequately than the rest it’s that.” And he let go and turned to leave on that last note until Germany felt more than heard the pounding, the blood in his ears and the blur of his vision and he didn’t even realize he’d moved until he found himself throwing Austria against the wall and holding him by the shoulders breathing heavily just trying to pull it together because he was better than this and it was only ever Austria who made him behave in such an out of control fashion with his damned scheming. And there Austria stood, defiant, the consummate ice prince looking through him as if he weren’t even there because when he was the one in control there was no rattling him. Germany let go cursing himself as the other just sighed like he was wasting precious time. He didn’t even need to say he was right because they both knew that he was.

Germany was out of control when the Fuhrer and the rest of them had ordered a unified Third Reich come hell or high water and thrown Austria on his knees in front of him and his brother like a dog and he was out of control when Prussia stepped back and bowed out with a small smile and left it all to him. Germany was wrong and weak and Austria always knew how to push every last button with just the smallest gesture, the most icy and disinterested look and Austria was just so coldly beautiful and untouchable that it drove him to madness some nights. And even after Germany had learned to wring those breathless sighs from him, had learned to make him scream and claw at the sheets and beg him for more it was never enough and he wished he was strong enough to stand up to the pull of the blood between them and not fall before it.

“I’ll get rid of them, all of them,” he answered firmly as the other turned his head away to avoid the mouth seeking contact against his own. Germany didn’t question orders but he did silently rebel and even as Austria whispered almost nervously not to kiss him Germany’s lips were close as he dared put themas his arms went around the waist of the man who was just that bit smaller than him but infinitely larger at the same time

“You know I’d do for you what I’d do for no one else.” Austria didn’t even bother to smile at that. He simply nodded as if he’d expected no other outcome and indulged in a breathless sigh when Germany lowered him to the floor and took him again.

Germany stands and walks over to the music player, determined to shut it off. “Surely you didn’t come all this way to listen to this tra-”

“Leave it on. Please?” Italy looks at the empty shelf next to the music player somewhat sadly. “If anyone gets mad we’ll just say it was my idea, okay?” He smiles again. “After all, they can’t get mad at a guest, right?” Although he tries, Germany finds he can’t argue with that logic. Veneziano pats the empty space on the sofa next to him. “Here, sit. I had something else I wanted to give you.” His brown eyes are completely focused on the blonde as he walks over. Germany is still only wearing a long pair of loose sleeping pants and Italy doesn’t feel guilty as he stares and imagines what it might be like to touch those hard stomach muscles; he made sure to say a few Hail Marys before he came over tonight.

Reaching into the pocket of the coat next to him carelessly slung over the sofa arm, he lingers, enjoying the warmth of Germany’s leg against his own and even the faint smell of beer and wurst that Romano can’t stand.

“Ah, hold on, hold on…” he says quickly knowing that Germany won’t even question the delay. His hands brush the soft parcel, closing around it and pulling it out triumphantly. Germany can already tell it’s likely another damn thing of pasta but as Italy unwraps it he realizes that it’s far better than just another pound of macaroni. “I thought that you liked this one the last time I made it!” The gnocchi form a nice pile, the dusting of flour keeping the soft potato dumplings from sticking together. He reties the bundle triumphantly. “Should we cook it now? I know it’s late but it’s never too late for pasta, right?”

Germany shakes his head and finds his eyes and his mind wandering from the hands skillfully retying the package to the small pink mouth pursed in concentration. He wonders what it would be like to kiss him and curses Austria for ever opening the gateway to thoughts like these. Until 1938 he’d never looked at another man with anything other than a general’s assessing eye and now he can feel his control slipping just from sitting so close to Italy on the couch. He forces himself to stop dissecting his friend with such a disgusting turn of thoughts and he almost prays -but what has a disillusioned Prussia ever taught him of prayer except that God is dead and answers no one- for Austria to come down.

Veneziano appears oblivious to the pale blue stare. Germany doesn’t see his eyes flicker up and he can’t hear his heart pounding faster. He only sees him finish retying the package and lean back to stare up at the ceiling.

“What if… what if I said I wouldn’t take no for an answer?” And for one crazy moment Germany wonders if he isn’t talking about something other than pasta but that’s an area that he knows neither of them can explore so he simply sighs and glances at the clock.

“You always make such a mess. Surely you…” And he sees North Italy still looking up at the ceiling, still not look at him with his eyes closed. Germany wonders if he hasn’t fallen asleep but his grip on the package isn’t lax. No, he reaches out and puts it on Germany’s lap, a small smile on his face as he does so and falling back into the familiar routine Germany just growls in predictable annoyance and stands. And then he feels a hand taking his and he looks down and realizes that Veneziano is looking down and not up just smiling so sadly he almost insists on cooking the stuff and letting him bake some biscotti just for a little less depressing atmosphere.

“I’m kidding Ludwig. I know that... I know that you wouldn’t want to wake up Roderich.” He lets go before Germany can say anything and although everyone assumes he’s stupid, he does have a feeling that whatever is going on between the two of them isn’t exactly normal or something that he’s supposed to know about. He’s sure it’s something that he doesn’t want to know so he just pretends that he doesn’t and wipes the sad expression from his face and half stares at the clock on the wall. “Did I ever tell you once when I was young and lived in his house that I tried to cook some tira misu in the middle of the night? And I was almost finished when he woke up and saw the mess.” North Italy laughs and shakes his head. “I think he screamed loud enough to wake the entire house.” And as he talks he also pretends that Germany wasn’t there also because The Holy Roman Empire is dead and never coming back and even if he did it would be damnation to repeat the old sins he’d committed in ignorance in the past.

“Dance with me?” Italy asks his eyes turning back to the invisible heavens. Germany isn’t quite sure that he heard him correctly, although he’s long grown used to such asinine suggestions and doesn’t even question that he probably did.

“I don’t... surely you can think of something more appropriate. Really, I could eat right now and it would probably be...” It would be far better for Austria to see one and not the other. And in one ear he can hear Prussia telling him that dancing is a waste of time for soldiers unless they’re trying to impress a woman and in the other he can hear Austria lecturing him on how such an intimate act shouldn’t be treated with such a cavalier attitude. Austria, he’s learned, will more willingly share his body for fornication than for dancing.

“Please?” he hears asked more insistently. “Just for a little bit? It’s kinda scary around here, Ludwig. At the dance halls in Munich we used to go to, they say that the Führer doesn’t want the people dancing like this. And I know you used to have the records even if you don’t anymore and-”

“Feli, forget you ever saw those.” Germany sighs and doesn’t look at the empty shelf. “Forget dancing like some...” he can’t even remember the words the minister had used but whatever it was it wasn’t what a good German did and-

“I’m not asking, now, Ludwig.” Italy stands in front of him smiling but determined as he holds a hand out. Germany takes it in spite of himself.

“There’s no girls but... it’s just us, so... that’s okay, right?” Veneziano speaks softly as if convincing himself of something as he pulls him into the center of the large living room. “Let me flip it to the B side.” He’s much happier as he turns the record over. “Ve~ I know you can lindy, Ludwig, so let’s see it.” The drums start up in a fast tempo and Germany smiles at the challenge.

“Alright, fine, you win. But do you think you can keep up?”

“Haha! You’re on Potato Head!” Germany can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous nickname and starts to swing his arms in time as the trumpets join into the song vibrantly. He feels absurd, dancing with a Black Shirt at two in the morning in his sleeping pants and bare feet but it feels wonderful and free and he feels lighter than air as his feet kick up and back and he can forget that he’s a soldier or a nation or anything but Ludwig Beilschmidt again.

In one moment Italy is next to him, their arms around each other’s waists, kicking up the steps and he can hear in his mind the raucous joy of the halls in Munich and cries of “Swing Heil” from the youth that use to gather there. Italy whirls to face him and Germany makes the first move. He steps to the side, his large hands encircle that slim waist, and with ease he flips him backwards.

“Ah!” Italy laughs as he lands and takes Germany’s hands again, spinning underneath. His expression is challenging and while Germany might have reservations about his performance on the battlefield he knows his partner will meet him head on here.

“Ve~ Ludwig~ Catch me!” he cries letting himself fly away with the melody. Veneziano releases his hands, grabs onto his shoulders, and leaps. Unconsciously, Germany finds his waist once more and lifts him almost to the ceiling. Veneziano, with legs akimbo straddles him as he comes down, letting Germany hold his weight in the backbreaking dip. Germany has no choice but to follow him down, before pulling him back up. Italy lands, not missing a beat as the song continues. “Ah, you’re so strong it’s amazing!”

“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten too fat to lift from all that pasta you eat!” Germany quips. Italy grins in response.

“I’m in better shape than you think!” He spins again, their backs flush to each other and anticipating the next move. Germany allows their arms to interlock and gives his body just enough buoyancy to be flipped over.

He lands and exhales in a rush, a rare and easy smile appearing on his face. The place where their hands meet again is warm and alive. The song winds down from a final crescendo and breathless and flushed, he pulls Italy to him. For the first time it seems that Italy realizes that his hands, sweaty and trembling are firmly on Germany’s hard chest and even as he looks at them he makes no move to step away. The music stops entirely and the only sound in the still of the night is their intermingled breathing. Veneziano still doesn’t look at him, however, instead his eyes are fixated on the iron cross hanging around Germany’s neck.

Deus meus, credo in te, spero in te... It comes to him conditioned and unbidden from so many nights sequestered away when he was young and trying to make sense of a death that seemed so senseless.

“Ludwig?” He whispers softly, still staring at the onyx symbol with trepidation. “You’re not...” he swallows, feeling his heart about to thud out of his chest. Amo te super omnia ex tota anima mea, ex toto corde meo, ex totis viribus meis... Germany doesn’t say anything and digging his fingers into the muscles, Italy finishes. “You’re not a... a finocchio, right?” He doesn’t pull away waiting for the answer, praying that Germany understands because he can’t give voice to that word again and especially not in Their language, which makes saying the word to feel like a sin in itself, not when The Holy See- who now wears a duel hat as Vatican City- always told him it was the language surely spoken by God Himself.

Germany doesn’t understand the word at first, trying to think, trying to remember. When it comes to him he immediately thinks of the man upstairs and he knows that he probably still smells of sex and Austria and that Italy has to be just so terribly naïve to ask him in such earnest. But no! No he’s definitely not a... one of those because they’re purging the Fatherland of undesirables and faggots and that was why they’d killed Rohm dammit and he’d never even looked at a man with lust until Austria had to... to... he’d never lain with anyone before and just one... just one or a hundred slip ups didn’t mean he was like that and his brother would tell him that “fucking that stupid sissy girl aristocrat didn’t count anyway” and it was his cousin and it was like having sex with himself because of the blood they shared and that just had to be the reason why Austria ran through his veins like some sort of drug whenever he was near him except that it was forbidden but everything anymore was forbidden and he wanted to kiss someone because even as he spilled his seed into Austria he couldn’t kiss him because Austria couldn’t stand to kiss anyone on the mouth and...

“No. Never.” Germany says at last and allows his arms to encircle his smaller partner’s waist. Veneziano still doesn’t look at him and it makes him wonder just how wrong this act between the two of them might be as well.

Amo te quia es infinite bonus et dignus qui ameris.

“Good. That’s good then...” He finally forces himself to look up into those ice blue eyes. Except right now they’re not ice and they’re not hard and cutting but blue like the sky in summer over Milan. “Then it’s okay if I... if we...” He stops talking and impulsively, recklessly, brings his right hand up, fingers ghosting over the corded muscle of Germany’s neck and he doesn’t think about how much his brother would hate him if he knew what he were doing now. Because Romano has always been of the mind that if he can’t have something then no one can, and this will just have to be some little secret between them because he really does love his brother above almost everything else even if he teases him and doesn’t always introduce him in the most flattering light. Et quia amo te, me paeitet ex toto corde te offendisse.

It’s his hand that guides Germany’s head down to bring their lips together because just for a few moments he can feign childish ignorance about men and women and sin and pretend that the Holy Roman Empire is marching off to war that final time to die for the both of them. And North Italy tilts his head just slightly and rises up on the balls of his feet because if he’s going to repent later he’s going to make it worth it. Both part their lips, sharing a breath, sharing life in an instant and he can feel the connection of their borders and the shared blood of their people and Veneziano thinks in this wild moment that he’s never kissed a girl with such wild abandon as the pads of his hands dig into Germany’s shoulders and he holds on for dear life. And he thinks to himself that drowning in a sea of wurst might not be so bad after all and that he could learn to love German beer if it tasted like this and he wonders why everything good seems to be wrong. And it’s then, as he feels that stirring, that awakening of his body as his every sense become hyper aware of the tick of the clock and the heavy breathing of the man in front of him that he pulls back, flushed and half terrified as the beautiful madness dies down all too soon. Italy is the first to turn away, shaking like a leaf. Miserere mihi peccatori.

“I kissed a boy once,” he says removing his hands and stepping back fumbling blindly for his coat as he crosses himself. “But he...” he trails off and swallows hard as he just can’t seem to arrange his coat the right way to get dressed. Because he can’t stay. Because he can hear Romano in one ear and the old man in the other condemning him and he can see the fire that haunted his dreams and really he just needs a little air because somehow it seems like Roman’s there even though that can’t be possible. “He burned up like a sinner. Do you think that God spares the ignorant? No, he spares no one who hasn’t been cleansed, who hasn’t repented and even we aren’t above his laws, my son.” The Holy See’s words had haunted him in the darkness and yet he found that it renewed his faith, that holding the rosary and the scapula had granted him strength in his darkest hour and if God hasn’t deserted him yet then it’s only fair that he re-devote himself in return.

“What- happened to him?” Germany asks, feeling nauseous when he hears the footsteps above them. He knows that there won’t be a dramatic confrontation this time because he knows Austria’s patterns and his habits so well it’s almost frightening. He doesn’t wonder anymore about his brother’s fixation on their cousin because he can count down the exact time when Austria will descend the stairs and shoot him just one measured look before going to the kitchen. There’s silence as Veneziano gathers his coat and walks to the door and Germany just barely stops himself from reaching out. North Italy’s hand misses the knob the first time and when he finally grasps it, he holds it tightly until his knuckles turn white, his head bowed, whispering something indecipherable to himself softy before replying,

“He died.”

This chapter occurs right after the invasion of Poland.

Black Shirts were Mussolini’s paramilitary group. They were the main tool of his political movement.

Il Duce refers to Benito Mussolini, the Italian Prime Minister who basically held all the power in Italy in WWII until his assassination (Although Victor Emmanuel was still king) The quote Italy uses was one of their slogans actually borrowed from a French general.

Nazi Music Ban- under the Nazi regime, music had to adhere to a certain “German” standard and anything that didn’t was prohibited. The three master composers that represented “good” German music were Beethoven, Wagner, and Bruckner. Jazz music was offensive to Nazi ideology as many prominent musicians were black or Jewish.

Schubert was an Austrian composer that (in my opinion) bears an eerie resemblance to Austria.

The dance halls in Munich refer to the Nazi counterculture swing movement prominent amongst German youth in the 1930s. “Swing Heil” was a slogan in answer to the Nazi “Sieg Heil”

Ernst Rohm was the leader of the SA and more or less openly homosexual. During the Night of the Long Knives, there was a massive purging of the SA in part to “clean up” the Nazi party of undesirables, and in another part to supposedly suppress a plot against Hitler.

The prayer running through Italy’s mind during this is the prayer of penance in Latin. Translated it says: My God, I believe in Thee, I hope in Thee, I love Thee above all things with all my soul, with all my heart and with all my strength; I love Thee because Thou art infinitely good and worthy of being loved; and because I love Thee, I repent with all my heart of having offended Thee; have mercy on me, a sinner. Amen.
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Who\'s Afraid of Roderich Edelstein