It had been an unexpected day when Hungary had appeared by Austria’s side after a meeting, pulled on his sleeve, and demanded to be taught to sing. Confusedly, Austria had enquired as to why, received a rather flustered response about Seychelles sounding like an angel, and then another demand for lessons.
“Well, of course, I’d love to help, Hungary...”
“Great! That’s settled then!” she had grinned, and run off.
Sighing, Austria wondered what he had got himself in for.
But now, a few weeks on, Hungary was doing unexpectedly well. It had been a rough first week, cleaning the rust off her rather messy mezzo-soprano voice, but it had been a worthwhile cause, though Austria swore his crystal cabinet would never be the same again, and now she carried a tune gently and gracefully.
“Well, Elizaveta, I think you’ve made excellent progress, would you like me to put you in for the exam?”
She nodded, grinning, watching him over the grand piano.
“Excellent,” he signed some papers and handed her back the book of Italian Arias he had been making notes in for her, “And this week I’d like you to practice your orals.”
Hungary gaped.
“What?”
“Well, they’ll be in the exam, best to get some practice in now,” he said, firmly.
“R-right, of course! Thanks!” she rushed out, gripping her books tightly.
It was the matter-of-fact way that he had announced it that had thrown her most. Surely, if this was a main part of singing, why didn’t he tell her before?! Usually Roderich would go red and skirt around a subject like that, calling it vulgar and brushing it off, who knew they were part of musical exams!? Kinky bastard.
Hungary giggled out loud, how was she supposed to showcase such practice?! And then it hit her, and there was just one girl to see.
India was sitting in her garden, listening to some soothing Bhangra music when she heard a banging on the door.
Brightly coloured attire swishing as she walked, India wondered who could be calling now. Maybe it was America to have another laugh at her Bollywood scene. Ever since Arthur had introduced him to it, the man wouldn’t leave it alone, mocking her for all it was worth. She rolled her eyes, sincerely hoping that it was anyone else.
“Namastē,” she smiled, opening the door.
“Namastē, India!” Hungary smiled.
“Oh, Hungary, do come in,” she stepped aside to let her in, “What can I do for you, ba-hen?”
“Well, it’s sort of an odd request,” Hungary put a hand behind her head. India raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“I need bananas. Lots of them.”
India had to admit. It was, indeed, an odd request.
As Hungary sauntered back home, looking smug with armfuls of bananas, people gawked, but she was confident. This was practice, she thought, grinning, and practice makes perfect.
Those Damned Exams [1/2]
Confusedly, Austria had enquired as to why, received a rather flustered response about Seychelles sounding like an angel, and then another demand for lessons.
“Well, of course, I’d love to help, Hungary...”
“Great! That’s settled then!” she had grinned, and run off.
Sighing, Austria wondered what he had got himself in for.
But now, a few weeks on, Hungary was doing unexpectedly well. It had been a rough first week, cleaning the rust off her rather messy mezzo-soprano voice, but it had been a worthwhile cause, though Austria swore his crystal cabinet would never be the same again, and now she carried a tune gently and gracefully.
“Well, Elizaveta, I think you’ve made excellent progress, would you like me to put you in for the exam?”
She nodded, grinning, watching him over the grand piano.
“Excellent,” he signed some papers and handed her back the book of Italian Arias he had been making notes in for her, “And this week I’d like you to practice your orals.”
Hungary gaped.
“What?”
“Well, they’ll be in the exam, best to get some practice in now,” he said, firmly.
“R-right, of course! Thanks!” she rushed out, gripping her books tightly.
It was the matter-of-fact way that he had announced it that had thrown her most. Surely, if this was a main part of singing, why didn’t he tell her before?! Usually Roderich would go red and skirt around a subject like that, calling it vulgar and brushing it off, who knew they were part of musical exams!? Kinky bastard.
Hungary giggled out loud, how was she supposed to showcase such practice?! And then it hit her, and there was just one girl to see.
India was sitting in her garden, listening to some soothing Bhangra music when she heard a banging on the door.
Brightly coloured attire swishing as she walked, India wondered who could be calling now. Maybe it was America to have another laugh at her Bollywood scene. Ever since Arthur had introduced him to it, the man wouldn’t leave it alone, mocking her for all it was worth. She rolled her eyes, sincerely hoping that it was anyone else.
“Namastē,” she smiled, opening the door.
“Namastē, India!” Hungary smiled.
“Oh, Hungary, do come in,” she stepped aside to let her in, “What can I do for you, ba-hen?”
“Well, it’s sort of an odd request,” Hungary put a hand behind her head.
India raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“I need bananas. Lots of them.”
India had to admit. It was, indeed, an odd request.
As Hungary sauntered back home, looking smug with armfuls of bananas, people gawked, but she was confident. This was practice, she thought, grinning, and practice makes perfect.