The next morning, she made her way to Austria’s house for another lesson, bumping into Slovakia, who politely declined a banana.
When she arrived, she went in, hearing Austria playing the piano, like he usually did before her lessons, a nice Chopin prelude. (Or just ‘pretty music!’ to Hungary’s ears.)
“Hey, Roderich!” she bounded in, paying no heed to his unfinished prelude.
“You’re early, Hungary,” he noted, checking his watch.
“Yes, but I’ve been practicing, just like you said!” she laughed.
“You have?” he asked, standing up and taking some other music books from a pile on top of the concert grand. He sounded impressed.
“Yeah, I have! I practiced all night, I’ll be even better than I was before,” she giggled.
“Well, that’s remarkable, considering I didn’t even give you the book,” he smiled, handing her an open book and sitting back down.
“Huh?” she snatched the book away and saw the various small call and response singing exercises, “But you said...!”
Austria raised an eyebrow, “Everything all right, Elizaveta?”
She went bright red and slammed the book down onto the floor.
“No, everything is not all right, you said to practice my orals, so I did! All night! For you!”
Austria blinked. Then came the unmistakeable sound of many piano keys being hit by a forehead.
“No, Hungary,” he replied, red-faced, “I said to practice your aurals. Read the top of the page.”
She looked at the book on the floor.
“Ah.”
“Yes, Hungary,” Austria sat up, rubbing his forehead, “Ah.”
“Well, you know what I think?” she announced, folding her arms.
“Enlighten me,” Austria replied, still unable to look at her face.
“I think,” she sat down heavily on his lap, “We should practice anyway.”
Austria spluttered, “Wh-what?!”
“It’s sure to be in the exam,” she grinned, flicking a piece of broken ivory from his forehead, “Best to get some practice in now, hmm?”
Any other possible protests were suddenly silenced with a forceful kiss.
“Hungary,” he whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Yeees?” she smiled, waiting for the beautiful compliment, how her eyes look like... something of great natural beauty, or how her hair resembles... burnt music parchment? Something nice, at least, knowing Rode-
Those Damned Exams [2/2]
The next morning, she made her way to Austria’s house for another lesson, bumping into Slovakia, who politely declined a banana.
When she arrived, she went in, hearing Austria playing the piano, like he usually did before her lessons, a nice Chopin prelude. (Or just ‘pretty music!’ to Hungary’s ears.)
“Hey, Roderich!” she bounded in, paying no heed to his unfinished prelude.
“You’re early, Hungary,” he noted, checking his watch.
“Yes, but I’ve been practicing, just like you said!” she laughed.
“You have?” he asked, standing up and taking some other music books from a pile on top of the concert grand. He sounded impressed.
“Yeah, I have! I practiced all night, I’ll be even better than I was before,” she giggled.
“Well, that’s remarkable, considering I didn’t even give you the book,” he smiled, handing her an open book and sitting back down.
“Huh?” she snatched the book away and saw the various small call and response singing exercises, “But you said...!”
Austria raised an eyebrow, “Everything all right, Elizaveta?”
She went bright red and slammed the book down onto the floor.
“No, everything is not all right, you said to practice my orals, so I did! All night! For you!”
Austria blinked. Then came the unmistakeable sound of many piano keys being hit by a forehead.
“No, Hungary,” he replied, red-faced, “I said to practice your aurals. Read the top of the page.”
She looked at the book on the floor.
“Ah.”
“Yes, Hungary,” Austria sat up, rubbing his forehead, “Ah.”
“Well, you know what I think?” she announced, folding her arms.
“Enlighten me,” Austria replied, still unable to look at her face.
“I think,” she sat down heavily on his lap, “We should practice anyway.”
Austria spluttered, “Wh-what?!”
“It’s sure to be in the exam,” she grinned, flicking a piece of broken ivory from his forehead, “Best to get some practice in now, hmm?”
Any other possible protests were suddenly silenced with a forceful kiss.
“Hungary,” he whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Yeees?” she smiled, waiting for the beautiful compliment, how her eyes look like... something of great natural beauty, or how her hair resembles... burnt music parchment? Something nice, at least, knowing Rode-
“Why do you taste like bananas?”
Lololol sorry OP.