#creatorsofhetalia

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Prussia was watching Austria over the rim of his newspaper. From his position on the couch, he could see him at the kitchen counter, pouring tea from Germany’s brass kettle into a mug. Austria was wearing a white shirt—no jabot—and grey, pin-striped trousers that showed the shape of his butt so very nicely.

Prussia could have written a hymn of praise to these trousers. They were elegant and conservative enough for Austria to wear them at least once a week, and whenever he did, Prussia couldn’t keep himself from staring.

Sometimes, he fantasised about stepping behind Austria while he made tea, rubbing his crotch against…

No.

He could feel his face flush and hid behind the newspaper.

No, he couldn’t allow himself to do something so crude. Not with Austria.

Prussia had been feeling confused ever since Austria had come to live with them. At first, he had thought: What a wimp, why does he give in just like that? Why doesn’t he fight, go underground—anything? Anything that would have shown Prussia that Austria hadn’t just given up or, worse, actually believed in the shit one of his own children was pulling.

Then he had started to notice how Austria acted around Germany—or, rather, how he didn’t react to some things Germany said. How he excused himself with being tired or unwell every single time he learned of some bigwig’s visit.

One day, he had followed Austria up to his room and had seen him with his ear at the flue. He hadn’t known what to do then—whether to walk away quietly or to announce his presence and risk scaring Austria. But then, Austria had straightened up, had locked eyes with him—and had leaned down in order to press his ear against the flue again.

That incident had shaken Prussia more than he had let on.

He trusts me. He trusts me not to betray him.

Not so wimpish then, eh? Or maybe just a good judge of character, because Prussia had indeed had no intention to betray Austria.

And then there had been the flute incident—the moment when Austria had caught him playing the flute and had said something about feelings.

He was glad he had hidden behind the newspaper. Talk—even thought—about feelings was something he couldn’t handle well, not in relation to Austria.

They had even made out after that—kissed and fumbled … until Prussia had ruined it.

He had seen Austria’s hand wrapped around his cock—Austria’s perfectly manicured hand, softened from regular use of hand lotion, around his crude, red thing—and suddenly, he had remembered how he had jerked off to the thought of subduing Austria for two centuries; to the thought of taking him down until he begged—as if Austria would ever beg for mercy; he knew that now.

And he had gone soft.

And Austria had blinked in surprise.

And he had been mortified.

He had fled after that, too embarrassed to stay in the room with Austria. To his surprise, Austria hadn’t come after him; hadn’t even raised the topic since then.

And now here he was, watching Austria out of the corner of his eye—and what a fine figure of a man he was!—but not daring to make another move. He didn’t even want to think what Austria might think of him now … and even if they tried again, what if he couldn’t stay hard for another time?

Austria sat down on an armchair opposite of him, cradling the mug in his arms and watching him over the rim of his glasses. Prussia raised the newspaper higher.

“I’m not stupid, Prussia. I see how you look at me.”

Yes, that’s what I feared.

Prussia said nothing.

He could hear Austria place the mug on the table and get up. He didn’t think he had ever been so nervous.

Austria sat down on the rim of the couch and pushed Prussia’s newspaper aside.

“I think it’s about time we talk about…”

“No!” Prussia yelped. He rumpled the paper in an attempt to build a defence with it again, but Austria could be surprisingly strong when he wanted to. Holding Prussia by the wrist, he pushed the newspaper out of the way.

Prussia looked down. He knew his face was flushed and he also knew what an ugly contrast it made with his pale skin.

“Prussia…” Austria eased his grip. “I’m confused. The way you look at me tells me you still want to sleep with me, but…”

“Look,” Prussia interrupted him hastily. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how that happened.”

“Really?” He didn’t even have to see Austria’s face to know he had raised an eyebrow. “Then why can’t you look into my eyes?”

Prussia said nothing.

Austria lifted his chin, giving him a piercing stare.

Prussia’s eyes flitted to the side.

“If this has anything to do with pushing me against a wall about a century ago…”

Prussia froze.

“I thought as much.” Austria sighed. “You see … did you really think I couldn’t have pushed you away if I hadn’t wanted to kiss you, too?”

“Well, maybe, but…” Prussia took a deep breath. “That’s not all there was. I had—”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Austria interrupted him. “That was then, and now is different. I just don’t want our past to get in the way of what we might have now.”

“But I even—” Prussia didn’t know how to continue.

“Let me get this straight,” Austria said, taking his hand. “You remembered that you had fantasised about forcing yourself upon me—and suddenly, you weren’t in the mood for sex anymore?”

Prussia sat stiff and mute as a brick.

“So that means you were ashamed of yourself?”

More silence.

“You were horrified that you had ever thought that way?”

Unable to look anywhere that wasn’t Austria, Prussia closed his eyes.

The hand that had been under his chin moved to his cheek, and Austria gave him a quick kiss.

“Stop beating yourself up about this. It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is how you think now.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Prussia whispered.

“And what about me?” Austria snorted. “Do I deserve not to be with you?” He gave a bitter laugh. “You know, I probably do. But I want to be with you, and if you do that, too…”

Prussia wrapped his arms around him, pulling Austria on top of him for a desperate hug.

“I do,” he choked out.

Austria hugged him back, letting his knees slip to either side of Prussia’s legs as he drew him in for a deeper kiss.

Prussia raked his hands over Austria’s shoulders and back—man, that shirt even felt nice, like silk or very soft cotton…

Austria locked his hands behind Prussia’s neck, stroking up to the soft hair at its nape with one hand before the other moved to Prussia’s collar, opening it with experienced fingers.

Prussia gasped. His whole body thrummed and he felt the heat pool in its middle. His hands found their way to Austria’s lower back almost on their own, holding Austria on top of him.

Austria kissed the corner of his mouth, peppered kisses from his chin to the dip beneath his Adam’s apple and further down to where he had opened Prussia’s collar. He rolled his hips against Prussia’s, making him realise that they were both achingly hard.

Prussia wanted to grab Austria’s perfect butt and thrust up; wanted to press a finger between those two perfect orbs of flesh … but that would be too much to ask, wouldn’t it? He didn’t dare to do more than arch into Austria’s movements, and he didn’t even know how much of that was a conscious action and how much of it was the doing of his body seeking pleasure.

Again, it was Austria who made the next step, kneeling on top of him as he unbuttoned Prussia’s trousers. When he wrapped his hand around Prussia’s cock this time, it remained hard.

Prussia thrust up into Austria’s hand, arching his back in a way he would probably regret later. He was suffering from occasional bouts of lower back pain ever since the Great War.

As soon as it had occurred to Prussia that he might as well come like this, Austria took his hand away and got up, stepping out of his boots and trousers. Prussia was staring at every inch of skin that was revealed, especially at the skin between Austria’s legs.

Austria watched him and raised an eyebrow.

Spell broken, Prussia stood as well, getting rid of his clothes as swiftly as he could. Then he stepped towards Austria, opening the buttons of his shirt until he could brush it off his shoulders. Austria helped him take off his undershirt as well, and Prussia gently placed his hands on Austria’s almost hairless chest, brushed down to where he was sure he would have found a pouch some thirty years ago. Now Austria’s frame was almost skinny, with jutting hip bones.

Prussia went to his knees, massaging the soft flesh to the sides of Austria’s legs before he leaned forward to take the tip of Austria’s cock in his mouth.

“Let me sit down,” Austria said in a surprisingly gentle tone, brushing strands of hair out of Prussia’s face. “I feel too old to do this standing.”

Then he leaned back on the couch, opening his legs so Prussia could sit between them.

Prussia licked from the underside of Austria’s cock to its base, brushing gently over Austria’s balls. They were shaved—who even did that?—but he had to admit that it felt nice.

Then he leaned forward, taking as much of Austria’s cock in his mouth as he could.

Austria gasped, tangling a hand in Prussia’s hair as he shuddered in the attempt not to thrust his hips.

Prussia held them down, bobbing his head as he continued to stroke between Austria’s legs with his fingers, covertly brushing a finger along Austria’s perineum.

Or perhaps not so covertly, for Austria gently pulled him back and said:

“Do you want to be inside of me?”

“What?” He blushed.

“You understood me perfectly well.”

Austria reached down to the crumpled heap of his trousers, pulled out a little flask and put it in Prussia’s hands.

Prussia stared at it.

“I don’t have to explain what this is or what I expect you to do with it, do I?” There was a hint of annoyance in Austria’s voice.

“No, but…” Prussia trailed off.

“But what?” Austria didn’t let him get away that easily. “‘But I thought you wouldn’t want this’, or ‘but I thought you wouldn’t let me’?”

“Both, I think,” Prussia said sheepishly.

“Well, both assumptions are wrong,” Austria said. “Maybe you should ask the next time you assume.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries.” Austria sighed and put a cushion under his loins before he turned on his stomach and laid back on the couch. “Before you make the next false assumption, allow me to point out that I was expecting for us to have sex ever since it didn’t work out the last time. I don’t think much preparation will be necessary.”

“…Oh.” If Prussia hadn’t been fully hard already, he would have been now. Then a nasty voice inside his head asked him, …but do you think it was you Austria was thinking about when he did that? He tried to push it to the back of his mind.

Prussia opened the bottle and spread the oil over his cock until it was slick. Then he took the globes of Austria’s arse in his hands and started to knead them. They weren’t as soft as he had imagined, but felt just as nice. When he squeezed them, Austria arched up with a groan.

Unable to wait any longer, Prussia held Austria’s thighs as he positioned himself behind him. After aligning his cock with Austria’s hole, he started to push gently … and the tip of his cock went inside. Austria hadn’t boasted when he had said he had prepared himself.

When he was about halfway in, the base of his cock started to tingle. Prussia needed to take a break, holding Austria down until the sensation of an impending orgasm passed. He really didn’t need to approach sex with Austria from both ends of the embarrassment spectrum.

Austria didn’t move. If he had realised what was going on, at least he didn’t comment on it. At this point, Prussia was grateful for small mercies.

After he had caught himself, Prussia pushed inside. He needed to hold still for a moment—not for Austria to accommodate him but rather for his own sake, for coming to terms with the fact that he was actually having sex with Austria who was also letting him top.

He ran his hands over Austria’s back, caressing the beautiful shape of his body and admiring the tiny moles on it with his fingertips.

Then he started to move—gently, carefully—not that Austria was fragile, but the moment was; something he wanted to hold and write about in his diary…

“Can you turn around?” he asked nervously. “I want to see your face.”

“What a soppy thing to say,” Austria teased, but when he turned on his back, Prussia saw he was smiling. “Good thing you said it, or I would have needed to do that myself.”

Prussia couldn’t help it. He kissed him.

Austria held him close and kissed back, caressing Prussia’s neck with his fingertips.

Their bodies joined again almost naturally, as if they weren’t doing this for the first time together. It was what Prussia would have described as “making love” in his diary—their bodies gently rocking together, almost an afterthought to their kisses and caresses.

Then Austria angled their bodies in a different way. When Prussia rocked into him this time, a tremor went through Austria’s whole body, and Prussia knew what he had done. It was a bit embarrassing that he hadn’t found Austria’s sweet spot on his own, but seeing Austria come undone under him more than made up for that. It didn’t leave him unaffected. Watching Austria in extasy scored pretty high on the sexiest things he had ever seen, and he felt his orgasm build up again, this time with the inevitability of a natural force.

Austria seemed to feel it too. He reached between them and touched himself, making sure he reached his climax at the very moment when Prussia couldn’t hold it together anymore. Prussia’s orgasm overtook him, making his body jerk until all energy left him and he slumped down.

“Right,” said Austria after a moment, sounding far less affected than Prussia felt. “It seems there is something we need to work on.” He pushed Prussia’s body to the side, which slid from Austria to the couch like a rag doll. “Try not to fall down on me with your full weight. It’s pretty uncomfortable.”

“Sorry,” murmured Prussia with closed eyes. “I didn’t mean to; it just—happened.”

“It’s alright.” Austria’s tone softened. “Just try not to do it the next time.”

Prussia felt him get up, but he couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes in order to see where he was going. When Austria returned, it was with a wet cloth and a towel. He cleaned them before dumping both towel and cloth next to his trousers. Then he came back on the couch, gently pulling Prussia into his arms.

Prussia hugged him back, burying his face in the crook of Austria’s neck.

“So there will be a next time?” he asked uncertainly.

“If you want to.” He could feel Austria’s smile in the way the skin on his cheek tensed.

“It’s just … I don’t feel very … adequate as a lover,” he confessed. “It’s not only how I used to think about you. It’s also … you know exactly what you want and how you want it, and I…” He trailed off. “I just don’t think I can satisfy you very well.”

“So you think it’s better for me not to get satisfied at all?” Austria’s tone was gentle. He cupped Prussia’s head in his hands and leaned his front against Prussia’s. It was a position that made it impossible for them not to look at each other—except if Prussia closed his eyes, and he had done that one too many times already.

“Obviously not, but … Well, I just don’t know what you want with me.” He heard it himself how snotty he sounded.

“Hey.” Austria caressed his hair. “Sex isn’t just about the physical act—well, at least for me, it isn’t. It’s about being with someone you care for and about making them feel good.” He kissed Prussia on the lips. “You make me feel good, and I want you to feel good as well.”

Prussia was still sceptical, but he decided not to harp on about it.

“Speaking of making you feel good…” Now it was Austria who sounded a little embarrassed. “You know, I’m actually not set in the position I take…”

“Oh.” Prussia blushed as he realised what Austria was implying. “I … don’t know…”

“I know there are a lot of assumptions about men who prefer to take the so-called ‘female position’…” 

“That you don’t seem to care about,” Prussia pointed out.

“That I manage to ignore for most of the time,” Austria corrected him. “In any case, I realise that it may be difficult for you to take this into consideration, especially with me.”

“Been there, done that?” It was a shot in the dark, but Prussia could tell from the contrite smile on Austria’s face that he had hit the mark.

“I believe,” Austria said thoughtfully, “that if we want to make this relationship work, the both of us will need to bite the proverbial bullet in some respects.”

“So you just decided you would do that first?” Prussia was confused. “As … I don’t know, a sign of goodwill?”

“Did the sex we just had feel like a sign of goodwill to you?” Austria’s tone was sharp again.

“No,” Prussia mumbled. “It was bloody amazing. At least for me.”

“Not just for you.” Austria hesitated. “It was the way I hoped it would be. Gentle … and loving.” He blushed. Prussia realised he wasn’t the only one for whom it was difficult to talk about feelings, only Austria seemed to have more practice.

Alright, he thought. Bite the bullet. How hard could it be?

“I … can’t promise anything…” His courage faltered. “ButImightwanttotry.”

“Hmm?” There was a sly, private smile on Austria’s face. Prussia just knew he was teasing him now.

“I said I’ll try,” he blurted out.

The Russian man sighs. Another slow business day, same as usual. He gets a lot of orders around major romantic holidays, but this isn't one of those seasons. Worse yet, the landlord's jacked up the rent, and most customers to the building are actually here for the coffee shop next door. Oh, here's a customer now... Nope, they're here for Alfred's Java Jam and entered the wrong door, sigh. It looks like Braginsky Bouquets is not long for this world... Perhaps he could move into his sister's vyshyvanka shop across town, see if he'd do better in the Ukrainian embroidery market instead. He's sure Katyusha would be willing to take him in...

Out of boredom, he looks at the clock. Closing time already? Blin... Walking over to the door, he flips the sign to closed, walks out, and locks the door. The shop still needs to go through closing duties, but he needs a drink, a stiff one. There's that vodka distillery down the street... Nyet, he's not in the mood. Coffee will have to do instead. Resignedly, he enters the coffee shop next to his soon-to-die flower shop, and looks around at the place. It's fairly quiet, understandable since the dinner rush ended two hours ago. He walks up to the counter and greets the shop owner with a muttered "Privyet..."

"...Oh, hey dude! How you been? And whatcha wanna drink?" Alfred says in his perpetually cheerful voice.

After a moment, the Russian man replies, "...More customer. Also, coffee. Large. Strongest blend. No sugar." before putting $5 on the counter and shuffling his way to a table.

Alfred immediately senses something is wrong, but a customer order is a customer order, and he quickly whips it up for him. Setting the cup on his table, Alfred sits across from him. "...Something's up with you, Ivan. What happened?"

Ivan sighs. "Landlord raise rent again. Not many customer in off season. I have two month of savings left before store is closing." He drinks his coffee, eyes opening a bit as the bitter taste wakes him up.

Alfred frowns. "Dude, no, you can't quit like that! We've been neighbors for years!"

"..." Ivan sets the cup down. "Is nothing we can do, Fredka. We cannot force customer to come in, da? Actually..."

He begins to chuckle darkly, but Alfred shakes his head. "No. That breaks the very first rule of customer service: Let the customer come to you. So... what's the problem here? Why don't you have customers coming in?"

There is a soft thud as Ivan's face hits the table, nudging the coffee cup out of the way. "I am bad at market myself? Cannot get customer to realize that they are needing my flowers. Da, I have many business around holiday in February, but is September now..."

Alfred frowns. "Yeah, that's always a problem. I'm drowning in customers sometimes because I'm the only coffee shop in this part of town, and people have an existing need for it. But, flowers are kind of a special thing..." He puts his hand under his chin, thinking... "Ivan, I'm going to propose something, and you might not like it, but hear me out."

Ivan glances upward, a confused look in his eyes. Alfred pauses dramatically for effect... "We merge into one shop. Ask the landlord for permission, bust down that wall, and split the rent between us. My profits are more than enough to cover both of us, plus you can piggyback on my marketing, too! I can see it now: 'Buy a bouquet while you wait for your coffee!'"

"...Fredka, you are more crazy than my older brother and younger sister combined." He chuckles in his thick accent. "...But da. We will become one."

"Labas, you two. What can I do for you?" The landlord greets the duo as they enter his office.

"Um..." Ivan begins. "You know how you raise rent again, Tolys?"

Tolys nods, frowning. "Was forced to by the city, I'm afraid. Taxes keep going up, and I'm barely staying afloat as it is myself."

"Ivan says he can't afford to stay here anymore, and he'll have to close up shop in two months if we don't do anything! You gotta help us, dude!" Alfred's excitability was always a bit hard on the Lithuanian, but considering the income of his tenants practically doubled when the coffee shop opened, he's more than willing to tolerate it.

"I..." Another sigh. "What do you want me to do? I cannot force customers to come to you, Ivan!"

Ivan pauses for a moment... before saying bluntly, "Is only one way. Make us become one."

Tolys holds up a 'wait a second' finger, reaches for his water bottle, takes a swig, then spit-takes to the side. "WHAT?! Um... you know there is a chapel down the street..."

Alfred and Ivan look at each other, turning redder than Vargas brand tomatoes. "H-he didn't mean it THAT way, dude! He meant, let us merge our shops together!"

"Da. Fredka is saying, if we become one shop, I can... 'piggy back' off his customer."

"Exactly! My coffee sales alone would easily cover the rent of two shops, plus what income Ivan gets..."

Another sigh from Tolys. "I... I get what you are proposing, but are you really sure? There's paperwork to do, all sorts of taxes, and a thousand other things involving the legal redefinition of two suites into one..."

"Then do not do that. Just let us make two shop into one by breaking wall down. Then let Fredka cover my rent." Ivan smiles at the landlord, knowing the plan will work.

"I... ugh... fine, I'll consider it." Tolys groans. "Don't do any construction work yet! I have to have a contractor come in and verify which beans are load bearing!"

"Bah. In motherland, we do that with sledgehammer. If building falls, beam was load bearing. Then you rebuild building." Ivan's candid statement gets an eyebrow raise from both the Lithuanian and the American.

"J... just come back in a few days, please... I need a drink..."

"Ivan knows a good vodka place down the road! He never lets me have any--" "Fredka, drinking age here is 21. In motherland, you could drink. Not in Amerika." "--but he at least lets me have some of that fake-beer stuff... what's it called?" "Kvass?" "Yeah, dude, that stuff!"

Reluctantly, Tolys nods, standing up from his desk. Ivan leads the three of them out, heading for Viktor's Vodkas, where precisely none of them end up getting drunk. One isn't a legal adult, one doesn't have enough money to buy enough to get drunk, and the third is too intimidated by the second to attempt to buy vodka, so he follows the first's example and buys kvass.

About a month later, the work is finally done. Ivan and Alfred stand in the middle of their combined shop, looking out at the customers awaiting the "Grand Re-Opening".

"It sure was a fun time getting here, wasn't it, dude?" Alfred pulls out his phone, and begins scrolling through a photo album of the construction process.

"Da, Fredka, it was. But is done now." Ivan leans over, and looks at the pictures.

Alfred flips through what seems to be a "highlights reel" of the past month. Tolys and Alfred staring at the wall, trying to determine what parts are safe to break down. Ivan just sticks his foot through the wall, earning a glare. Ivan looks awkwardly out from under a pile of rubble. Alfred clears out debris while Tolys makes a phone call. Alfred and Ivan are duct-taped to a chair, while a professional construction crew makes repairs. Ivan starts painting the new wall, while Alfred lurks behind with a can of red paint over his head. Ivan, now with a paint can on his head, chases Alfred off-camera. The pair stand in front of a finished wall remodel like nothing ever happened. Everything falls off the wall. A picture that appears to be a thumb over the lens. A final picture of the finished, decorated, and furnished room.

"Memories, huh dude? Well, we better get going, the shop's gonna open soon-- URK!" Alfred says, before he's pulled into a bear-hug by Ivan. "W-Watch the merchandise!"

"Oh, is that so?" Ivan pulls the young American over to his side of the shop, before tying a yellow ribbon around his neck, the same kind he secures bouquets with. He then dangles a "Buy Two, Get One" price tag from Alfred's ear. "Now you ARE merchandise."

Alfred tries to blow the tag out of his field of view, to no avail. "Whatever, let's just get ready. I need to teach you to make coffee later, don't let me forget..."

"And I am needing to teach you to cut flower, too." Ivan grins.

Arthur didn’t bother to turn his head at Francis’ words, instead keeping his eyes fixed on Alfred. Alfred’s smile slightly faltered, as if Francis had managed to strike a cord, only for it to be back up in a fraction of a second.

Francis didn’t seem to notice. Maybe he had, though, with that smug smirk gracing his lips and a look in his eyes that had nothing but malice stewing in them. Arthur glanced over at him, cocking his head to the side. Perhaps Francis added being an asshole to his list of achievements.

He rolled his eyes. Uncrossing his foot, Arthur slightly tapped Francis in the ankle before recrossing. Arthur grinned, turning back to Alfred.

“Well, Francis.” Alfred leaned back from his seat. He dipped his chin, looking down directly at his stomach. He softly patted it, using both hands. He looked back up at them, his wicked smile growing wider. “I supposed that I’ve gained a couple pounds. You know, eating your boyfriend out six times a week is definitely delicious, but it’s not the most nutritious.” He gave his stomach an extra pat.

Arthur couldn’t help it. His lips burst open into a laugh, his stomach shaking and the corners of his mouth beginning to ache.

Several of their fellow cast members shot glares over in their direction, some almost amused-looking, but Arthur ignored it. Alfred ran his tongue over the top row of his teeth, wiggling his eyebrows with a silent promise in his eyes.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Francis sneer. “Fuck you, Alfred.” Alfred winked again, lightly clicking his tongue. “You? No. But Arthur-” He let his voice quietly trail.

An echo sounded on the stage as Francis’ ankle hit the metal leg of the chair. His wince was negated by his wrathful glare. He opened his mouth, no doubt to positively destroy Alfred, but was interrupted by the sound of the theater teacher breezing in.

Mrs. Karpusi slid into one of the blue plastic chairs, a large binder overflowing with notes held in her arms. She set it on her lap with a large thump, crossing her right leg over her knee.

She looked up, slinking observing eyes around the circle, pausing for a fraction of a second on each cast member before moving on. Stopping at the three of them, Mrs. Karpusi looked back and forth between them. She only spoke after she had continued on. “I hope that you’ve all had a nice break. I know that you three have, especially. I could hear your entire conversation, word for word, out in the lobby.”

Arthur sighed, ignoring the light burn on his cheeks. Alfred leaned forward, his chair creaking from under him. “Sorry, ma’am, we were just having a bit of fun, that’s all.” Francis said nothing, staring at Alfred as if he were imagining strangling him.

“That’s fine, Alfred.” She opened up her binder, steadying it with her left hand, licking her thumb and flipping through a few pages before stopping. “Just watch the language next time. I’ll just assume that you and Mr. Kirkland were talking about regularly going to a restaurant.”

“Oh, yes, we definitely were.” Several snickers filled the room, along with a couple groans.

Her smile tightened as she continued to flip through her binder. “If you haven’t gotten your scripts out yet- like you’re supposed to, by the way- do so now. Also, get out a pencil. If I see a pen in anyone’s hand, I’ll blow a gasket.”

Arthur smirked as he leaned to the side. He ghosted his fingertips over the surface of the stage floor, moving around until he could feel the smooth texture of paper.

He felt a slight fuzz spreading through his head as he pulled himself upright, but ignored it after shaking his head. Patting around his pants, he realized that his pockets were empty. Arthur scowled.

“Francis, dear, do you happen to have a spare pencil?” He only looked towards Francis when his words were just about finished, keeping his voice in a hushed tone as to not disturb the other cast members. No need to show off.

Arthur held out his hand expectantly, flexing his fingers, and within a few seconds, he had a pencil. He flipped it over, the grip in between his fingers, swiftly inspecting it. Mechanical, and one of the good ones, too.

He debated the prospects of pocketing it- it wasn’t as if Francis wouldn’t get it back, eventually- when Mrs. Karpusi began reading, the words spilling from her mouth at a mile a minute.

“Before the break, we finished up on the first act. Flip to the prelude of the second, page seventy-six.” The sounds of turning pages filled the room. From his peripheral, Arthur saw Alfred reach his destination on his first try, a triumphant grin spreading across his cheeks. Arthur lightly chuckled as Alfred tried and failed to discreetly pump his fist at his side.

“The same person from Act One will read the prelude for this one. I still haven’t decided who, exactly, that’ll be yet, but I’ll get back to you all on that next week. Now-”

Arthur allowed himself to ease into autopilot as she continued on, lightly tapping his pencil against the plastic cover of the script book. He crossed out parts of the script that were deemed “distasteful”, writing above it what was deemed better. By the time they finished the page, he could barely read the printed words, the scene almost completely different.

He scanned over the page, turning back and forth to glance between his current and previous work. Arthur cringed. He would have to write it all out by hand to be able to understand it later.

They continued like that for another ten minutes, page after page, sentence after sentence being revised until Act Two was finished. It wasn’t until Mrs. Karpusi mentioned his character’s name that Arthur snapped back into attention.

“Now, after Alex and Jared-” She nodded to Alfred and Arthur as she mentioned their parts- “finish up ‘This is Us’, Jared and Arlene are supposed to kiss. With the context of the song, that’s ridiculous.”

Arthur pushed his thumb against the eraser of his pencil before flipping it up-right, marking out “Arlene” from the top of the page. He looked up expectantly at Mrs. Karpusi.

She paused for a moment. They made brief eye contact before she shifted her eyes away and over to Francis. She bit her bottom lip, scraping it with her teeth, sighing and looking away. Arthur knew what she was going to say before she even said it, and by the way Francis’ eyebrows began to knit together, it was obvious that he did, as well.

“So, what I think we’re going to do-” She trailed off, her words already slow. “I think we’re going to have Alex and Jared in the kiss scene instead of Jared and Arlene.” Mrs. Karpusi put an extra emphasis on ‘Arlene’.

A band rang out through the stage, Arthur turning to find Alfred sitting there, his eyes wide and mouth gaping. His lips split into a triumphant smile, revealing rows of shiny white teeth. He lightly patted the metal seat as he cackled, his shoulders shaking as he laughed.

Arthur could only think that he sounded as if he were dying.

He rolled his eyes as Alfred struggled to speak, the latter’s face growing red from lack of breath.

He glanced over to Francis, who looked as if he was struggling to hold back a sneer.

Arthur slumped down in his chair, his shoulders rolling back and his chin almost touching his chest. He huffed.

Fuck.

Arthur knew that Francis was behind him from the moment they left the auditorium. He chose to take the back way this time, if only to prevent any listening ears from prying into the upcoming fight. And it would surely happen. That was the way they worked.

The sound of the heels of his boots echoed against the bone-white halls, mixing with the sounds of Francis’ own. Arthur started to walk faster, shoving his hands into his pockets to feign a chill composure. The blood in his veins boiled.

Francis matched his pace and Arthur knew that he was going to try and grab him. From the sounds of light squeaking against the tile, Arthur gave them an arms’ worth of space. At the very most.

“Arthur.” He kept walking, ignore the desperation, the barely contained anger in Francis’ voice.

“Arthur, please.”

He didn’t bother to turn around and look at Francis, didn’t want to see that hurt face of his. It was cruel and childish, he knew, and something small inside of him screamed for him to stop.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. Fine.

Backing up to the wall, Arthur let Francis catch up to him. They were facing each other within seconds, Francis stepping forward, their chests just barely touching. His warm breath squandered against Arthur’s cheeks.

Francis smiled slowly, a small glint of his slightly crooked teeth showing. He went in for a kiss and Arthur met him halfway, bracing his hands against Francis’ shoulders and squeezing tight. Arthur swiped his tongue along the seam of Francis’ bottom lip, slightly snickering as he did so, the laugh sounding like several huffs of air more than anything.

He pulled away, hands moving down and to the sides to grip the collar of Francis’ shirt. Arthur opened his eyes, biting his bottom lip as he glanced Francis up and down. He debated kissing him again before going in without a second thought, this time as a small peck on the cheek. And then the nose. And then, finally, back to Francis’ mouth.

It was Francis who pulled back, a small, somber grin on his face. Arthur could only think that it looked like a wince. “Arthur?”

“Hm?” Arthur took another step forward. Their chests were flush against each other, Francis wrapping his arms around the small of Arthur’s back. Arthur grinned, lightly shaking his head.

Francis leaned in, his nose breathing in a fraction of an inch away from Arthur’s hair. Arthur wrinkled his nose at the sound, but otherwise ignored it, allowing himself to savor the moment, any audience be damned.

Francis’ breath turned shaky, his shoulders tensing under Arthur’s touch. “Arthur, I want you to go to Mrs. Karpusi and ask her for a different role in the play.”

Arthur pushed himself away from Francis, stepping back and hitting the wall with a soft thump.

He frowned, letting it turn into a sneer, cocking his head to the side. “What?”

Francis sighed, shaking his head, strands of his hair lightly brushing against Arthur’s cheeks.

“Arthur, please, don’t get into it with me over-”

“And what the fuck do you mean by that? Do you know how lucky I am to get one of the leading roles? Are you not happy for me?”

Francis threw his hands up in the air, scoffing. A dismissal. “Of course I’m happy for you. It’s just that-”

“Then you would just suck it up and deal with it. Are you-” A stray thought ran through Arthur’s mind. He tried to will it away, only for it to linger. He narrowed his eyes, and when he spoke, he made sure it was as slow and as accusing as he could make it. “Are you jealous? That I have to kiss Alfred?”

The look on Francis’ face only confirmed his suspicions. He sneered. “Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly think-”

“Ok, so what if I am jealous. Is that not alright?” Francis’ hair bobbed with his head as he spoke, the bracelets encircling his wrists flicking and clattering in tune with his words. “So what if I’m-”

“Me? With that sorry excuse of a-”

“Goddamnit, Arthur, will you let me finish?”

“No, I won’t. Because if you think for one fucking second that I am so untrustworthy that I would-”

“I never said that-”

“Well, you fucking implied it.” Arthur crossed his arms, careful to hide his clenched fists. He paused, dropping them to his sides. Let Francis see them.

Francis sighed, pushing his fingers through his hair, his shoulders deflating in a way that signaled defeat. Arthur began to prepare himself for the guilt trip that was almost sure to come, racking through his mind for replies that would shut it down before he could start. “Arthur.” He let Francis move closer, trying his best to prevent his shoulders from tensing under his touch. Francis gently gripped the sides of his chin, slowly running his thumb up and down Arthur’s jaw. “Why must you be so difficult?”

Arthur gritted his teeth as he stilled, Francis’ eyes widening as he realized the mistake he made.

Good, let him wallow over it. Let him stew in it.

He quickly pushed Francis away, using all the strength he could muster. Arthur watched as he stumbled back a few steps, his back hitting the wall on the other side. Francis didn’t make a move to close the distance, a frown gracing his face. Arthur didn’t want to think about what he would do if he had.

Arthur clenched his fingers together. Perhaps he should punch him. None of the security guards ever checked this particular hallway, making it their preferred meeting place. Rumor claimed that the cameras in the corners were just for show. He could make it look like-

Francis shifted his eyes down to Arthur’s fist. Pinned them there, a questioning- no, a daring- look on his face. He wanted him to do it. To do it and reap the consequences.

Arthur huffed. “You can go fuck yourself, Francis.” He spat out his name as if it were the filthiest curse he knew.

He turned and stalked down the hallway, his blood boiling in his veins as a million thoughts buzzed through his head. Arthur didn’t turn to see if Francis followed.

Arthur took in a deep breath as the piano started the first few notes of the song’s introduction. He took in more and more, not stopping until his lungs started to ache and sting.

The piano swelled into a crescendo, minor keys ringing in his ears. He turned to Alfred, putting on a serene smile, the clip of the microphone attached to his collar slightly scratching his neck.

Arthur shoved down a wince.

Five seconds, at the very most.

Alfred met his stare, his eyes widening, lips splitting into a smile. Arthur could only think about how white and straight his teeth looked under the spotlight.

Four seconds.

He could feel Francis’ eyes raking up and down his back. Arthur tried not to think about how slimy it felt. Or that, for once, he felt almost tempted to turn around and ask him to stop.

Three seconds.

The pain in his stomach was almost unbearable, like two snakes coiling into a knot, yet Arthur forced himself to take in more air. He couldn’t afford to fall flat. Not with a starting note of eighteen beats.

Two seconds.

Arthur couldn’t help but wonder what Alfred was thinking. Wonder if he was prepared, if he felt the spiders and worms crawling through his veins. If his heart was pounding to a beat of a drum similar to Arthur’s.

One second.

He scanned the crowd, staring straight at their expectant faces, at the looks of wonder in their eyes.

The piano hit the final note of the into, and Arthur sang. Alfred joined him, his voice shooting up several notes, their voices weaving with each other. A couple measures later, the rest of the ensemble joined in.

Arthur once again looked to Alfred, taking both of the latter’s hands within his own, gripping as tight as he could. Alfred’s palms were clammy, his fingers slightly fidgeting.

He broke his left hand away, sliding it up to grip Alfred’s shoulder. Alfred mirrored him, raising Arthur’s right hand to face the crowd.

Arthur smirked up at Alfred, slowly shaking his head as the starting note came to an end, trying his best to stay in character. It wasn’t as difficult as he originally thought it to be, not with how close they were, with the way Alfred seemed to effortlessly smile back.

“I cannot imagine a time.” They began their waltz, a million thoughts running through Arthur’s head, desperately trying to remember the order of the steps. Right foot to the side, left foot following. Right foot down, left foot down and to the side. Right foot follows. Left foot up. Repeat.

“When you weren’t in my life.” Alfred finished the sentence, tossing his voice up and managing to hit a note at least half an octave higher than Arthur’s max range. The fact that he managed to make it look so careless and easy while doing it was-

Arthur resisted the urge to shake his head. No need to think about it.

They flowed through several verses, Arthur waiting several measures before starting to echo Alfred. The ensemble paused, but Arthur easily ignored their loss.

He realized then that with each verse behind them, the problem that had been plaguing him for months drew closer. They hadn’t practiced, not even a single peck, despite Alfred’s cheeky insisting. He might have rolled with it, had kissed him as many times as he could, if only to spite Francis, but the guilt of it brought him away.

They rose into a crescendo, their voices starting soft and growing to match the volume of the piano and drums pounding along with them. Arthur guided them towards the upper middle of the stage, an icy blue spotlight following them with each and every step.

Arthur stopped in his designated place, covering a black X on the stage with his boot. Alfred stepped over to his own position, marked by another X parallel to Arthur’s. The final verse had arrived.

Arthur quickly drew in another breath, making it as silent as possible. “And I- will- never let you-”

They paused for a split of a second. “Go.” They pulled on the final word as if it were a rope of salt water taffy on a hook, the piano softly playing its final notes alongside the quiet clinking of a triangle.

He squeezed Alfred’s shoulder. This was it.

Turning his head slightly to the right, towards the audience, Arthur focused his eyes on a small groove in the floor of the stage. “Alex?” Arthur looked back at Alfred, scraping his teeth against his bottom lip.

Alfred lightly shook his head, tsking in tune. He took a small step forward, and then another.

Their chests were touching, the tips of their boots sliding against one another. Arthur could feel light puffs of warm breath from Alfred.

A ball dropped in Arthur’s stomach.

Gently cupping Arthur’s face in his hands, Alfred moved forward, his eyes fluttering shut.

Arthur’s heart sped up to a mile a minute as he met Alfred halfway. It was supposed to be closed, a tiny connection, and then they would quickly pull away.

That’s what it should’ve been, but it wasn’t. The cheer of the audience was nothing less than a roar, but Arthur tuned it out, only thinking how soft Alfred’s lips were.

He pulled away when he felt a flick of a tongue against the seam of his lower lip. Alfred slyly grinned, an out of character wink following after.

“Do that again.” His voice was breathless, the line not entirely found in the script.

*

“Why do you even buy all that stuff?” Prussia threw a meaningful glance at Austria’s shopping trolley as he pushed it over the parking, towards Austria’s trusty old car. His breath formed little puffs in the icy morning air.

Typical, Austria thought. The weather had been rather warm until after Christmas. Now the streets were freezing over in the mornings, but there was still no snow.

“Because you get gift wrapping paper with Christmas motives and Christmas cards at half the original price now,” Austria said in his best Look, I’m only being reasonable tone. “It’s not as if they’d go bad within a year, is it?”

“Well, if you put it that way...” Prussia shrugged. There had been a time, not long ago, when he would have made fun of Austria’s thriftiness, but he had become more used to it over the years. “Still ... five boxes of Danish butter cookies? Surely they won’t last until next Christmas!”

“Yes, but you get them with all these pretty Christmas motifs on them for less than a euro now, and the list of ingredients is only printed on a sticker! We can eat the biscuits together and remove the sticker afterwards. Next year, I can put my own baked goods in and give the tins away as a present.”

“Oh.” Austria could practically watch Prussia’s brain cells spring into action. “Speaking of ... it’s been years since you’ve given me a cookie tin...”

Someone else might have heard Next year, I want a tin, too. Austria heard the unspoken insecurity behind the question. It was funny, really… No, funny was the wrong word. Strange. At least if you didn’t know Prussia as well as he did.

They had been an item for several years now. Rationally, Prussia knew—or at least, should have known by now—that he could rely on Austria’s romantic feelings. Austria didn’t fall in love easily, but if he loved someone, then he loved them. He would let go of them if there was no other way, but he wouldn’t fall out of love. Never had.

And yet, there was this underlying insecurity on Prussia’s part; this lingering feeling of How can someone like you love someone like me. It hurt Austria to know how bruised Prussia’s soul was.

Then again, who was he to talk? It was the exact same feeling that strained his relations to Hungary, only this time, on his own part. And unlike him, Hungary had reacted with annoyance: Stay away from me if you don’t think you’re worthy of my love! Learn to love yourself first!

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? How could you learn to love yourself unless someone else showed you they loved you unconditionally first?

A mother’s love was unconditional. That was how human babies were supposed to learn to develop trust; to learn that their mothers would always love them, no matter what. But the personifications of countries had no mothers, at least not in the sense that human beings did.

“...So why don’t I get a tin as well?” said Prussia into Austria’s thoughts.

“Oh, darling!” Austria put his gloved hands over Prussia’s that were still holding the trolley. “Of course you don’t get biscuits in a tin! You get them fresh out of the oven—once they have cooled down to edible temperatures, that is—because you’re the one who stands next to me while I bake them!”

“Ah...” Prussia coughed, looking away in embarrassment. “Well. If you put it that way...”

Preliminary notes:

This fic is set at least one year later than Krampuslauf, my other fic that deals with the Krampus tradition of some eastern Alpine regions. Several of these horned figures with long tongues and cloven hooves traditionally accompany St Nicholas when he brings presents to children. As far as this part of the tradition is concerned, the Krampus is quite similar to Knecht Ruprecht, St Nicholas’ companion in most regions to Germany that is supposed to give naughty children ashes, coal, or stones instead of presents. (In some Austrian regions, Knecht Ruprecht also exists, but as sort of a protector of St Nicholas or as the person handing out birch rods to the various Krampus.)

There are some nods to Prussia’s thoughts on Christmas decoration in Roderich’s attic that I’ve made in Christmas Baubles and Silver Tinsel, the other fic I’ve written for this year’s Hetalia Christmas Calendar. However, you needn’t have read it in order to understand the story and its pairing, Rus/Prus, is neither mentioned nor alluded to in Costumes in the Attic.

“Hey! I thought you didn’t have any of these things!” Prussia called from upstairs.

“What things?” Curiosity got the best of Austria. He walked up the stairs to his attic door, wondering what had elicited Prussia’s exclamation.

“These,” said his boyfriend, holding up a familiar-looking combination of fur, mask, and cowbells. “I thought you neither liked the smell of the fur nor how heavy this costume was!”

“Oh,” Austria said, stepping closer to examine the Krampus costume Gilbert had retrieved from a wooden chest. “That one’s really old. Must have survived two world wars. Amazing.” He held the fur to his nose, sniffing reluctantly. “I only smell mothballs, though.”

Prussia copied him.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “Still doesn’t explain what a Krampus costume is doing in your attic.”

“It’s my brother’s, actually—Don’t drop it!” Austria scowled at Prussia’s impulse to be ostentatiously disgusted at all objects Bavaria might have touched. “Yes, this is Theodor’s,” he grumbled. “But it’s a clean—well, a little dusty—costume he hasn’t worn in over a hundred years. No need to treat it as if it was poisoned.”

Prussia gave the costume a suspicious look, but there was also curiosity in his eyes. Austria smiled a tiny, private smile. Sometimes his boyfriend was pretty easy to read.

While Prussia was still fighting his inner struggle of whether his disgust for Bavaria outweighed his curiosity to try on the Krampus costume, Austria went to the crest and retrieved the other costume that he knew to be next to it.

“Ah, there’s my St Nicholas costume too!” he called out. “I’ve been looking for it for decades!”

“Then you probably haven’t been looking thoroughly enough,” Prussia mumbled. “I’ve been telling you for years that it’s helpful to have at least some sort of system of ordering...”

“Yes, you’ve been starting to tell me this decades after it might have had any practical use,” Austria countered. “Thinking about it, though, I wouldn’t have followed your advice anyway because we were still rivals at that time,” he then admitted. Prussia cackled, and Austria’s private smile turned into a real one. He found he was getting soft; occasionally letting go of the opportunity to make a particularly mean pun on Prussia’s expense. They would perhaps never stop bickering and Austria liked it that way, but he also liked the way Prussia and him sometimes showed consideration for each other’s sensibilities.

Meanwhile Prussia had made his decision.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll wear it if you put the St Nicholas costume on!”

Austria nodded, slipping inside of the long, red coat of the saint that also smelled of mothballs. Perhaps he should take both costumes downstairs in order to air them a little...

He needed to help Prussia with the fur coat, but eventually, St Nicholas with his mitre and crosier and, next to him, a Krampus with horns over a scary, animalistic mask were standing in Austria’s attic. Smirking, Austria tied St Nicholas’ beard around his mouth, hiding his expression under long, bushy white hair. His eyes, however, were still smiling.

“So, how does it feel, being inside a Krampus costume for the first time in your life?”

“Honestly? All that fur feels pretty heavy,” Prussia admitted. He shook his cowbells. “Woah. They’re really loud in here.”

Austria laughed. He wrapped his arms around the beast’s neck, still seeing Prussia’s albino eyes underneath the mask.

“They’re made for outdoors, after all!” he said, grinning under his beard.

“Still loud,” Prussia pouted. Austria nuzzled his white fake beard against the Krampus’ fur, giggling.

“Oh my God!” a voice exclaimed from the direction of the attic door. Prussia’s impulse was to jump away from Austria, but Austria’s arm held him in place.

“Friedl,” he said, scowling. “Don’t startle us like this.” Kugelmugel, for his part, was still shaking his head in disbelief.

“Kramperl and Nikolo are getting it on with each other,” he commented. “Who’d have thought that. Guess I’m scarred for life.”

Notes:

“Miss Monaco ... please, he is scaring away the other guests!”

The manager was whispering, indicating a familiar young man with tousled, chin-length hair and piercing blue eyes. Angélique sighed. This was going to be complicated. Taking a glass of red wine from the tray of the waiter that just so happened to pass by, she walked over to François and leaned against the table at which was sitting.

Why the hell are you here?

No, that would have been far too impolite. He was a valued customer, after all. One that was prone to leave quite a sum at her casino if she proceeded with enough caution. She settled for a different approach.

“François, my dear,” she began. The words were empty. He wasn’t her dear; not anymore. “What brings you here to me tonight?”

François looked up from the money and the chips he had been placing on the table, announcing another jeu zéro to the croupier. Angélique noticed a white lily at the lapel of his dapper black frock; always the elegant Frenchman, at least for as long as it was convenient to him.

“I was planning to go on holidays on the Côte d’Azur,” he said without introduction. “Turns out I won’t get any holidays anytime soon, so I thought I might as well spend my money here.”

There’s something wrong with your reasoning, she thought.

“Why don’t you just go on holiday later, dear?” she said out loud, taking a sip from her wine.

The ball fell in the tiers du cylindre, right opposite the jeu zéro section of the roulette wheel. The croupier raked the chips François had placed away from him. He didn’t even blink.

“I don’t think I’m going to get another chance for a leave anytime soon,” he said grimly. “There will be war.”

“Oh, darling, you’ve been saying so for four years—”

“So you don’t know yet,” François cut her off. “But you’ll learn about it soon.”

She glared at him. He knew very well how much she hated to be interrupted.

Would you, please, kindly tell me what the hell is going on? Angélique was running out of patience, and quickly. It was always women who got accused of speaking far too much without getting to the point. Unfair. So far, she had perceived that kind of behaviour much more frequently in men.

“There has been a disagreement between our ambassador and the Prussian king,” he said at last.

“Your ambassador,” Angélique couldn’t stop herself from pointing out. She didn’t know if the plural had indicated him and her or simply the French government, but she wasn’t taking any chances. It needed to be absolutely clear that there was no “we” between her and François any longer.

Except for the customs union. And the railway line they shared. But those were good things; good for her economy and good for her casino. Those exceptions were acceptable.

“The Prussians claim our ambassador insulted their king,” he continued, ignoring her interjection. “Actually, it seems more likely to me it was the other way round. Our ambassador simply asked him to withdraw the Hohenzollern candidate for the Spanish throne. The Hohenzollern family has no business in Spain in the first place, so it seems only fair to me to make them promise to withdraw and not to make another claim.”

Angélique raised her eyebrows; just for an unnoticeable millimetre. François had never been good at noticing what others like them would consider acceptable and what was unacceptable to them. Thankfully, the country that had shaped the language of diplomacy like no other had actual diplomats to do the job for him. Who weren’t always successful, as it seemed.

“I am astonished every time I remember Prussia, Spain and you had been friends sometime,” she commented.

I am astonished every time I remember the two of us had been lovers sometime, she thought.

“It was only for a short while,” François pointed out.

“Yes,” she said, sounding a little melancholic. “Only for a short while.” She was thinking about François, not about Prussia or Spain.

It hadn’t been that short, even. But there had to be an end to it, and now that she had finally achieved independence from all of them, there was no way of going back. No protecting powers anymore, she had vowed to herself. Just her, Monaco, standing on her own two feet at last.

“Angé?” François said into her thoughts. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should save my money for a holiday after the war.” He smiled tentatively. “After my victory.”

“That sounds good,” she told him. “I wish you all the best.” Inwardly she frowned. After my victory. That was something she would only say if she was absolutely sure it would happen, and even then she would have seen it as a statement that might conjure bad luck. But if it made him go; if it made the gloomy customer that deterred the others leave...

“Do you really?” There was a melancholy smile on his lips. “I’m sure you wish there wasn’t any war. War is bad for your business.” Angélique thought of her casino and shrugged.

“That’s true,” she admitted. “No need to pretend otherwise.” She made a pause. “But I honestly wish you good luck.”

He hugged her. She was fairly sure it was a spontaneous gesture, but it still felt oddly calculating.

“Thank you,” he said, and she knew the exact moment when the thought to kiss her crossed his mind. His hands on her hips wandered lower, touching the transition from her back to her butt, and he pulled her a little tighter.

“Good luck, François.” She pulled away, feeling a spark of regret. That was what made her cave, just a tiny bit. “Maybe come back later? After your victory.”

“Yes,” he promised. “After my victory.”

Notes:

The title of this fic refers to lyrics of the song Roulette by Bon Jovi (“Roulette you’re goin’ round in a spin / Caught up in a game you can’t win”).

On 13 July 1870, a diplomat informed Otto von Bismarck, then Minister President of Prussia, about a private conversation between the French ambassador Vincent, Count Benedetti and King William I of Prussia in a dispatch from Bad Ems. In this talk, Benedetti had asked William to order the Hohenzollern candidate for the throne of Spain to withdraw and never to renew his candidature. Subsequently, Bismarck issued a press release that made it sound as if Benedetti had insulted the king, first printed in a pro-government newspaper on that same day. In contrast, the sentiment among the French public was that Benedetti’s request had been just, and that the Prussian king had insulted Benedetti. The Ems Dispatch was the immediate cause that sparked the Franco-Prussian War … and led to a temporary closure of the Monte Carlo Casino in Monaco (from 6 September until 1 December 1870).