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Diamonds	By : LadyKnightSkye Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1119 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor am I making any money off it.

Chapter List
- 1-Diamonds
- 1
To the world at large, I am hard and cold as diamond. I have to be. I am ancient; one of the few Nations left that remembers a time when the world was big and filled with magic and danger. A time where my people had to fight everything – famine, disease, nature, and even each other – to survive.

            To the ones I ruled for a great deal of the Renaissance and early Modern period, I am as changeable as the winds. Hungary remembers when I hated her, and then when I loved her. Italy remembers me as a stern task master, and a loving father figure. Holy Rome . . . I pray that it is as Hungary and I suspect, and his soul lives on in Germany even as we both watched his body turn to dust. He was the one that I thought of as my child, the one that I loved as a son.

            Yes, to the world at large, I am as diamond, but I am not the only diamond that Germania gave birth to. There is another who is hard and cold, but he is filled with all the fire of a diamond of the first water. It blazes from his soul through his vary eyes, while mine are the cool indigo of the setting sun. My skin is pale, but mine is not nearly so pale as his. I wondered for a time after the first bit of to-do over those silly vampire novels, Sunset or Dusk or whatever they are called, if it was his skin that the author described. Certainly when he is covered in honest sweat his skin takes on a diamond glisten.

            He shines, but he is also as hard as diamond. He is almost as old as I am, but he was created a warrior. Even though I was created to help defend my people, I was not. His was a warrior’s life, a warrior’s education, a warrior’s body. I still remember the first time I saw him in clothing other than full mail. Even at formal functions he never took off his armor until just before the Silesian Wars. Dressed in the blue, red, and white of his army, his tricorn beneath his arm, I could barely contain the need to stare. He was a compelling man in armor, but in the trappings of a civilized general he was beautiful. The armor had hidden as much as it highlighted. Bulky plate and clumsy mail hid from me the truth of his broad shoulders and powerful chest. They hid the perfection of his strong legs, and they did not offer up the true innate grace he possessed.

            I also still remember the first time I was able to see his skin. It was much, much later, right after the Anschluss. We were training with one of the regiments that would become the Waffen-SS, at that time they were still called by another name, when the men began to strip. I was self-conscious because I had only begun my light physical training – Germany had already pulled enough strings with his boss to ensure that I received light duty. He argued that I had capulated easily enough, why not show mercy? As it was I was well aware of my inadequacies as a soldier and was ashamed even as I maintained that I was a musician, not a fighter. I could still remember the sting of the Great War just as well as the sibling Germans could.

            So there we were, stripping with the men, me embarrassed at my slim musculature while sandwiched between these two strapping Nations. Germany’s body, I must admit before I go on, is also a work of art. He is actually taller, broader, more powerful overall. But I cannot do anything but admire him aesthetically. He cannot excite my desire for several reasons, the first being how much he reminds me of my dear little Holy Rome.

            His brother on the other hand, I had to contain myself before I revealed how much he excites me. For over two centuries I had admired how he moved. I don’t think that in modern times the humans spend as much time admiring movement. Beauty of motion is just as important as beauty of face or body. One must be able to move with grace to truly incite lust. He is able to do that effortlessly, with an economy of movement I only see now on the very few whom excel in the most elite units in the world’s military. It is the quiet watchfulness between his manic bouts of movement. He is loud and dynamic, but I have seen him in battle where many others have not. I have seen him watching the horizon with those burning eyes like our shared emblem, an eagle of white and red and black holding a Mauser like it’s an extension of himself. I have seen him wielding a sword taller than most seven year olds, heavy and worn, with more dexterity than any great conductor wielding his baton.

            But his body took my breath away. I had an idea of his power, but not the beauty of his body itself. Before, all of his beauty I could only admire in bits and pieces, but now, here it all was laid before me! His skin glistening with sweat, not just on his face or lower arms, but on his chest and belly and shoulders causing his skin to gleam in the bright light. His belly fascinated me as I examined it. It wasn’t an overblown eight-pack or whatever the popular term is for defined abdominal muscles, but oh, could you see them! Muscles slid beneath that marble skin in graceful sync as he bent. I wanted to touch them, to caress them as they moved over me. I wanted to feel the steel of them as I became one with him. It was so hard to not give myself away!

            Thankfully, the feature that truly caught my eye and which saved me from absolute embarrassment was his scars. As I said, his is a warrior’s body, right down to the scars covering him like a roadmap. Long slashes across his arms and torso told of many encounters with a bladed weapon, a sword or rapier or bayonet. Many of them were old and faded, and layered over with newer scars. There were also various puncture scars, some from spears and arrows, other odder shaped ones from shrapnel, and not a few that were obviously healed bullet wounds. I still remember how he got the large splash-like scar on his left shoulder blade. He had taken a mortar blast for me once on the Eastern Front in the Great War. I had been foolishly paying attention to the wrong thing in battle, and it wasn’t until it was almost too late that I realized the whistle of a mortar was heading for me. I froze, and it was only his quick reflexes pulling me into the safety of his body that kept me from harm while he sustained a nasty wound.

            I’ve never forgotten the feel of his body pressed to mine, or the scent of blood, sweat, and death that clung to him. Beneath it was a spicy scent that I still recognized from another time and place where I was at his mercy, pinned beneath his powerful body. It was also the same scents that drove me wild; blood, sweat, and death.

            I came back to myself on that training field in time to watch him dunk his head into a trough of water. When he came up, he flung his head back, spraying us all with water. I made the appropriate growls of displeasure, but on the inside I was replaying the spectacle of his blissful face surrounded by flying droplets of water.

            His face was the feature that first captured my attention. France’s face is a study in artfully gruff male sensuality, Spain’s is boyishly handsome, and Germany’s is a sculpture of patrician masculinity. His face is much like Germany’s to the point where the half-truth of their sibling relationship is almost completely believable. His face is rounder than Germany’s, his nose a tad more prominent, but his lips are the same moderate cupid’s bow of his brother. I’ve spent quite a bit of time admiring those lips, wondering what they would taste like.

            However, what is the most attractive is the fire buried within his diamond ice. He has always been a spitfire, always been the troublemaker in my carefully built empire. First Brandenburg-Prussia and then the Kingdom of Prussia, and then as the major force behind his little brother, the German Empire, though that last title he gained long after the demise of the Holy Roman Empire of the German States. He is amazing in his ability to be the biggest pain in the world, and then turn around and be the gallant gentleman. That time that he saved me from possible death in World War I – that was a time of great upheaval in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In unstable times like that, it is possible to kill a Nation. That is why Rome died yet he lived past dissolution. After World War II he was safe in an American command post during the critical period – if Russia had him who knows what would have happened – and after the Wall came down he was safely ensconced in his brother’s house.

            He saved me, and asked nothing of me. He was once a Knight of the St. Maria Order, and sometimes it shows even against his best efforts. He adores small animals, children, and I remember him doting on Holy Rome. He is everything I wish I could be, everything I want, and everything I can’t have. I have survived this long with my sanity intact because I have learned to never let anyone inside my ice. I have loved - Hungary, Holy Rome, little Italy -, but I have not lost myself to them. I have not allowed them to break through, but he very well could.

            Because only diamond can wound diamond.
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Diamonds