Broken Glass {Hetalia Oneshot}

Broken Glass

The brunet slumped on his bench dismally, glaring down at the ivory and ebony keys of the pianoforte, that had a tinge of yellow age. His complexion was pale and his expression one expected from a sickly man; dead, cynical, cautious of the instrument before him.
He had not touched it since that day. The night when the glass shattered, the screams of agony and fear from the petrified civilians, alienated from society by a simple star patch on their shirt and a metaphorical label stamped to their forehead that notified the nation to be afraid. The day when he realised that this regime was anything but glorious, but in fact a target for his people, both Austrian and the Jewish race.
But of course, he could not name them Austrian anymore. From the day he allowed his annexation, to allow himself to be signed over to the clutches of evil. They were no longer his people, but German.
Even now, four years onwards, he still dared not to touch that cursed instrument, for what had he to play? Liszt was disgraced, Chopin was an infamy, the only exceptions were Beethoven and Schubert, both of which had been drilled so deeply into his ears that they were no longer of meaning, and simply a droning irritation. There was no reason behind the melodies, no deeper message written into the notes; there was merely propaganda, for an already indoctrinated territory.
Roderich hated it. He brushed a hand through his hair tentatively, his slender hand, which trembled terrifically, tangling in the dark mahogany locks. Exhaling a large puff of air, he arched his back and gazed up at the roof, the white ceiling the only thing not to be painted with advertisement. His chest heaved as he took in a sharp breath of air, exhaling it after he had held it for a few moments. When he rolled his head to the side unenthusiastically to rest on his shoulder, he glanced at the calendar and narrowed his eyes.
Early February 1944. As far as he was aware, his superior would be waging war in Anzio, and his older brother aiding the Italians further in Monte Cassino. Of course, he would be left alone in the large, yet incredibly empty house. He didn't mind; the last thing he wanted was to have to fight for such a  meaningless cause. Roderich glanced back up to that plain ceiling, before shakily getting to his feet. He may be left far from the scene of war, but he knew that he dared not to go any further into Berlin, or even step foot outside of the house. The brunet felt filthy with his guilt, and he could not tell who he was anymore.
Who was he? Roderich Edelstein? The representation of Eastern Borderlands? Ostmark? He asked this question to himself repeatedly, like one of those German radio stations that repeated the leader's speeches. The German spent all this time asking himself, but despite this, he could never find the answer. He wasn't war, death, discrimination and deception. But what he saw, no longer was himself. He didn't sit back and allow himself to be subordinate to such a dreadful cause, nor did he allow his close friend, almost family, to go along with that man as though the sins he preached were not sins at all. He wasn't himself anymore, and he hated that he could not find a way to return to that.
Just then, the creak of the door was heard from behind him and he flinched, immediately turning his body towards the noise. Before the door stood a certain blond male, and he did not appear well at all. Very ill indeed. His usually golden hair appeared grey under the dim room, and a scowl was fixed on his face as though it was frozen in place. Roderich tensed up, but eventually relaxed when he realised it wasn't anybody who he thought would harm him. The vibrant, leafy green irises pierced through the German's stern demeanour, causing him to slouch against the wall and cower as the other marched forward hastily, until he almost held the other by his shirt roughly.
"Where is he, pierdolony nazi?" Feliks spat, his intense glare never leaving Roderich. For a moment be seemed taller, stronger, and it made Roderich envious that he could still be fighting after everything he has been through.
"Do not call me that. I am far from one of those." He retaliated, attempting to sit up straight, though he was anchored down by the Pole's iron grip. "In Italy. As is his sibling." He quickly added, holding his breath. As he watched Feliks scan him up and down, Roderich couldn't help but notice how disgusted he looked at him, just like everybody else.
And then, when those same fiery eyes settled on his arm, that expression softened along with Feliks' grip, until it was removed completely and he stepped back. Roderich moved to press his hand against the fabric stitched onto his jacket, to hide it, and turned his head in shame, prompting a confused look from the other. He moved to sit down on the sofa, looking across to the German with an expression of frustration.
"Why do you not fight back?" He started, lighting a cigarette in the room. "And take that damn jacket off, I don't want to see that."
Roderich found himself obeying without question. It was something small, yet took Feliks by surprise, irked him even. "That's a death wish, and there is nothing I could do that would make a difference. I am his, I follow his rules whether I like it or not." Roderich's words were daggers and every stab ached.
"You're weak." The blond retorted, narrowing his eyes. Roderich could only reply with a nod. "You even admit to it. Our people are dying, starving, being exploited and all you can do is stand at the window and play that?" He snapped, gesturing the piano that stood isolated the corner of the room. "Where is your dignity?! You was an empire, as much as I hate it. You was a European power, and now you're going to do tricks for that bastard  like a mongrel?"
The brunet flinched, heliotrope orbs turning to glare at the piano. "I haven't touched it since Kristalnacht." He responded quietly, letting his hands drop. "I'm reliant on him. I'm not me anymore. Heck, I'm not even a nation. I... expected trust and a closer friendship from joining him. I had little choice," His voice broke and his eyes were glazed with hot tears that threatened to scold his cheeks. "I couldn't make a difference. He doesn't listen to me. I don't get any information told of the war. I serve as no use to him, and I would serve no use to you. God, what have I created!" Roderich cried, his knees finally giving way underneath him. He fell to the ground with a thud, the Polish man looming over him with uncertainty; he didn't know whether to pity the other or not.
"You act as if you are the only person occupied. Look around you, instead of mourning inside here... You and I are both suffering, along with the Czechs, the Danes, Belgians, French, Norwegians. Yet, you seem to be the only one who dares stand back and let this happen." Feliks responded, kneeling down beside the other.
Roderich held his head in his hands and sobbed, his pale face now blotchy from his tears. "If I fight him, I am a traitor to the man who is the closest I have to family. If I obey him, I am declared a villain and monster. All I am able to do is remain mute, for either outcome is dreadful for my people. Please leave me be."
Feliks got to his feet again and nodded with a defeated sigh, beginning to back away to to door. "Well, everybody else is trying to do something about this, even those countries far from us. Whatever choice you choose, please do not consider just yourself, but everybody. I.. must leave now anyway, my children cannot be left too long. I needed to speak to that bastard, but if he is not here... to hell with him." He replied, his voice gentle, and opened up the door. The way the man spoke of his people made Roderich speculate on how hopeful he could still be, despite his misfortunes. The blond was about to leave, but he quickly turned around and shouted out to the man. "Ah, Roderich?"
The brunet lifted his head from his hands and tilted his head, caring not that his glasses were askew and steamed with his hot breath and tears.
"Please get some rest. You need to be as healthy as you can in war." He replied with a sad smile, dumping the forgotten cigarette into an ashtray on a shelf. "Dobranoc."
Roderich, as he steadily got to his feet, nodded gently. "Goodnight."
He pondered over several questions that night, but he felt as though he finally knew who he was; Austrian.

-Pierdolony Nazi: "Fucking Nazi."
-Dobranoc: "Goodnight."

Anzo and Monte Cassino are both references to battles in Italy which began in January 1944.

Ostmark- When Austria was annexed into Germany, it became known as Ostmark, or "Eastern Borderlands."

Anschluss- The annexation of Austria in 1938.