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Austria rarely understood children, even when Italy was young and defenseless he always left the nurturing to Hungary. The discipline was left up to him - being seen as the bad guy made him averse to children since the 900s with justifiable cause.
Kugelmugel is more or less in his care now, since the micronation appeared (out of what was assumed thin air) and had the same eye color and speech patterns as his much older neighbor. The child lived on his own but an adult nearby put his boss at ease. He’s eccentric (to say the least) and Austria’s lost as to what makes him tick. If anything does at all? Is Kugelmugel more of a child or an adult attitude in a smaller body? If he's anything like that dreadful Sealand, Austria might ship him away. Perhaps talking about art, or going into the city for new supplies. He’ll figure it out eventually. The other micronations are working on getting to know Kugelmugel via their so-called "micro-meetings".
Hungary pleads with Austria to make the same effort and he agrees at first only to appease her. Like he's being punished to make small talk and polite conversation.
Of course, there’s the ongoing joke that Kugelmugel is his and Prussia’s mysterious love child - it’s not too much of a stretch if someone glances at him and sees dusty silver hair with striking purple eyes. He is quite docile and observant, pursing his lips when he concentrates on his abstract art like Austria does. The child’s other features aren’t defined yet; he still has a baby face. He has a fondness for Prussia, calling him ‘Vatti’ and testing the boundaries of what he can get away with. Prussia adores everything that comes with teaching nations, even the micro ones, how to be nations. He was competent at raising Holy Roman Empire, so one more won’t be too much of a challenge. And this one looks like him to boot!
But sometimes, Kugelmugel likes Austria’s company.
When winter rolls in heavy snow blankets and he asks politely to play in the snow in Austria’s yard, he receives a “yes” in response and the promise of hot chocolate, tea, or something else warm when he gets too cold and decides to come inside. Kugelmugel makes abstract snow shapes instead of the traditional snow man, looking at it from every angle to see if it matches the vision in his head. Sometimes the micronation waves to Austria through the window, bundled up in hand knit scarves and mittens and jackets, wanting him to come outside too. (Maybe later, but for now Austria shrugs and watches him run around until he shivers and his nose turns red.)
Prussia and Hungary always indulge Kugelmugel if he asked; joining snow ball wars or igloo-building or giving their opinion on his latest snow creation. Austria scoffs and allows his neighbors to play house with the child while he saves himself from frostbite.
Kugelmugel uses one last futile attempt to goad Austria outside - crocodile tears. "Not working on me."
Austria is there to put bandages on cuts and keep the boy company when being left alone with his art is too much stimulation and nothing makes sense anymore. In the middle of an empty day, Kugelmugel knocks at his door and asks if he could stay for a few hours.
Large, curious eyes look around at the house and he fidgets with one of his braids. It’s a new experience, and he feels like a small kitten in a new place, walking on spotlessly clean floors with soft paw pads that still make a sound. It's nerve wracking, a big house filled with history and memories he has no part in yet.
“I was about to try a new recipe, would you like to help?” In reality it isn't a new recipe, it's something simple enough for a child to follow along.
Kugelmugel flinches at the hand on his shoulder, soft fingers curling around it. He's never actually felt the other nation's hands, he just assumed they were unforgiving and cold by how Austria acted towards him. So Kugelmugel nods yes, for once unable to find his voice and Austria shows him the kitchen big enough for two. There’s a whole house he’s never seen before and Austria never invited him over. How
un-neighborly of him. “There’s an apron about your size in the pantry, I’ll tie it for you.”
(Austria bought it for Kugelmugel specifically on one of his many trips to the city center, but he never told anyone that and hasn’t found a reason to.)
Kugelmugel tap-tap-taps over to the pantry and finds the apron, feeling delighted over the fact it fits just right.
The counter is too high for Kugelmugel to reach on his own, so Austria fetches a chair for him to stand on. Up close, Austria sees the boy’s face much better and his nose looks more like his own, even the same indifferent expression as his. He's certain they have the same laugh at this point. “Have you settled on a name yet?”
The question comes out of nowhere. Most things concerning kids do. The Italy Brothers raised too many questions, enough for a century or two.
“A name? I have one already!”
“A human name, I mean.”
“I haven’t thought of one yet.” Kugelmugel gets chocolate on his nose by accidentally bringing the spoon too close. Austria laughs and so does Kugelmugel - it is the same laugh after all. “What name do you think is best?”
"Well, nobody ever asked me. They just assumed I had one."
"The choice is all yours."
Kugelmugel naps on the couch while the cake bakes in the oven and Austria covers him with a blanket. His stray hair sticks out and Austria makes a note of another similarity they have.
As cliche as it is, having someone else around makes time pass by faster. And the ‘getting to know him’ thing is easier when Hungary isn’t forcing him to.
Kugelmugel tugs on his sleeve and rubs sleepy violet eyes awake. “I smell cake, is it done?”
Maybe there’s another day to go into the city and pick up some new art supplies after this day goes better than anticipated. “It’s cooling off, it’s your job to ice it now.” (“Make something together! And don’t hover, kids hate it when you hover!” “He’ll make a mess.” “That’s what kids do.”)
“Niklas.”
“Pardon?”
“I want that to be my name now,” He pays special attention to making the icing look clean, without bumps or flaws. It’s a work in progress, icing isn’t as easy to work with as paint. Niklas grasps the spatula and does his best to smooth buttercream, wielding it like an oversized paint brush. "Is it good?"
Austria’s watching him work, even though it takes a lot of energy to let go of control and the kitchen ends up a little messy. That's what cleaning is for.
“That’s a great choice,” There’s icing on the counter and a cacophony of colors on the cake, but he isn’t about to go criticizing it. “Niklas suits you.”
Niklas is grateful for the approval (although he doesn’t let it show at this moment).
He sits on the couch and listens to Austria play piano, drifting between awake and lulled into sleep. It’s a step for Austria to open up to someone else, albeit a small one.