#spaustria

Austria’s hands were smaller than his.

It was something Spain had known since the beginning—one of the first things he’d noticed when he’d taken Austria’s hand all those years ago and slid on the ring that would bind them inexorably to one another—but always came back to, marvelling at the difference, knowing that, despite the slender, delicate look of them, Austria’s hands were capable of bearing great weights, and clutching at tremendous burdens.

He wouldn’t have guessed that at first, not truly. They all had war in their pasts, blood on their hands, but Austria, young and frightened for all that he’d tried to hide it behind a mask of cold determination, hadn’t looked as though he’d spent his early childhood with his body encased in armour, a sword in his hands, for all that Spain had felt the calluses on his pale hands, and for all that Austria’s elevation to archduchy had proven that there was more to him than what met the eye.

Now, as the music bade Austria to turn to him once more, the room warm and full with the sound of laughter and the movement of bodies, he thought he knew the man at his side better than anyone else.

And he liked, craved, what he saw; the potential inherent in such a union, in such a partner.

The things we can do, he thought as Austria’s hand rested in his own, the calluses still there, and if Spain looked hard enough, he almost thought he could see the blood of the Turks staining the lily-white skin.

“Dance with me,” he breathed as Austria turned his face towards him, the marks of the Spanish court shallowly etched into the careful, but still incomplete, mask he wore as his expression.

“Dance with me,” Spain repeated again, and Austria raised an eyebrow as they were swept up by the music.

“I am dancing with you, schatz,” he said dryly as their hands met, German sounding strange alongside the Spanish words, feet moving in the intricate patterns of the pavaniglia. Spain grinned widely at the term, knowing how rare they were from the nation he had called husband these past decades, and his hand squeezed Austria’s lightly.

“No,” Spain said, his grin softening as he watched the light play across Austria’s face, their hands releasing so that they faced one another before they turned away, moving with the other dancers to face one another on the diagonal. Austria’s footsteps were graceful and sure now, but Spain could remember a time when that grace had been conscious and forced, not second nature like it was surely becoming. He matched Austria with confidence, flashing another grin. They glided closer before drifting away again, awash in a sea of expertly crafted skirts and careful finery. Spain turned once, and when he looked back Austria was there and they began the steps forward, teasing and light. Another turn and more distance, but then the music changed its pace as they slid together, Austria executing a graceful turn of his own before their hands met again, Spain pulling Austria perhaps closer than was strictly appropriate.

“I meant only with me,” he said, lowering his head so Austria could hear him over the music. “Dance with me forever, hold my hand in yours, and together Europe will not be able to stand against us. They tremble even now,” he said, the words soft but full of dark promise, even as he dismissed the formidable fight France and the others were always putting up against him while England switched his allegiances too often to keep track of.

Austria didn’t reply at first, his focus divided between Spain’s words and the remaining steps of the dance, but Spain knew, with the certainty of someone who had lived and grown with the still-young archduchy for decades and decades, that the red flush on his face wasn’t solely because of the heat generated by fine wine and dance. When the music finished Spain pressed a finger to Austria’s lips, lightly pulling him to the side, bending his head to rest against the other’s hair, concealing them in one of the many shadows of the court.

“Even now,” he whispered into Austria’s hair, “Europe looks on us warily. France, England, Portugal, they push at our defences and ally themselves with one another out of wariness, and yet they have not managed to take us down, for God has given us these lands, this fortune,” he finished fiercely, and if he closed his eyes he could almost see their empire stretching out before them, war and marriage and conquest and discovery bringing even more territories under his control. He could see this golden world where God’s light shined always, an empire of the true faith, the one faith, all in His name. This Spain could give in return for God’s grace, for delivering unto him all that was his, for allowing him to champion in His name, for no greater honour was there. The excitement coursed through him at the thought and he laughed, joyous and unabashed, letting his arms slip around Austria’s slim waist before he kissed him soundly, without shame, for nations were not men and women, not truly, and God would not punish him for the love he felt for Austria, for were they not His most devoted servants in all things? Had it not been God who had brought them together, who had bestowed upon them this fortune?

He felt Austria’s arms drape loosely around his neck, heard the barely audible intake of air, all these things that only Spain got to see because Austria was his, and not his like South Italy was his, or how the charming childlike Italy was Austria’s, their wards to rule over and protect. No, Austria was his equal in all things.

In the shadows of the Great Hall, shrouded by the bright tapestries that cast shadows in all the right places, Spain grinned. Austria’s eyes were heavy on him, languidly curious, and Spain pulled them into one of the adjoining passages before he could protest, their twin rings glinting in the vanishing light. There he pushed Austria lightly against one of the walls where the stone gave way to brilliant painted glass, and he easily lifted Austria towards the little alcove, seating him there with no protest. Austria’s legs wrapped loosely around the backs of Spain’s thighs as Spain leaned in for another kiss, his hands resting lightly on Spain’s shoulders, and he regarded Spain with an inscrutable expression before be reached up to brush a strand of Spain’s hair back. Spain grinned at that, and he leaned up with a small laugh, wordlessly demanding another kiss. He laughed as Austria tried to pretend he wasn’t smiling.

“Dance with me. Rule with me. Stay by my side, and only mine, as I will stay by yours,” he whispered fiercely, feeling his husband’s hands move to cradle his head, cold lips meeting his forehead like a benediction. “Only with me."  There was a rush of possessiveness, his hands tightening their grip, but never hard enough to bruise. “Please.”

“Oh, Spain,” Austria said, voice unreadable, but face softening.  He didn’t try to hide the small smile this time, eyes warm in a way they so rarely were, glinting with dangerous promise. “Ad maiorem Dei gloriam.”

“Amen,” Spain whispered, burying his head in the crook of Austria’s neck as the moonlight trickled in through the windows, bathing them in God’s approval. “Amen.”

notes

It is to the sound of hushed voices that Austria wakes, arguing voices to be precise; although the tones are not loud, disagreement is evident in the way they cut across each other. This is somewhat strange, for such muffled sounds would not normally wake him, but this does not yet cross his mind as before any semblance of thought let alone deduction can commence it's pure feeling, of dark ire, that floods through him. His mind is furious at being pulled from its rest, eyes heavy and sore in protest though they have barely even begun to open.

Nothing is wrong that he needs to be disturbed with - he would feel so ahead of them all if this were the case – and as such he’s on the verge of going to give them a piece of his mind, citing respect and courtesy and are they not supposedly professionals?, when they are saved by a new person, their hissed words curtly silencing them all; soft footfall fades away, and it is peaceful once again.

Honestly.

“You are so cruel when you wake,” Spain would often tell him, warm body curled around his back, imparting the words straight into his ear lest he tried to pretend he did not hear.

Spain had come to know him too well.

“We cannot all greet the dawn with such open arms,” he might eventually respond, on the occasions when he mustered enough effort to propel the words from his mind into the open.

“Cannot, or will not?”

“Hush,” and he would be irked, if only briefly, to feel a familiar smirk curve into the nape of his neck, to see that infuriating yet enthralling glint in those green eyes without needing to look. “The day does not need us for quite some time yet.”

And sometimes Spain would indeed cease, letting him sweeten in peace, and other times he would not, finding pleasure in riling him up in his morning fog.

Even so, he always managed to forgive him.

(He would not have to, anymore).

The reality seized at his chest so, painfully reminding him that he lay here alone, but no - it would not do to dwell. He was used to this, their existence, as living breathing beings of history.

History moves along, and they must too.

He must rise now in fact, despite his bodily displeasure, for now he feels the true hour of the day in his bones. No wonder he had woken - it was rather overdue. The heavy drapes serve their purpose well in keeping bright light at bay, but too well, perhaps, for this is not the first morning he has slept long, undisturbed, without Spain to rouse him. So ornate they are too, almost brashly, but such was the persuasion he’d succumbed to; if his spouse were to share his quarters should he not have a say in the décor?

Personally, he preferred to save their finest for spaces where eyes would appreciate it, because they would hardly take notice in the dark, not least when they slept.

But then that was a curious thing about Spain; he could count on one hand the number of times he had witnessed him sleeping. No matter how much he tried to remain awake after him, Spain simply never drifted away first. Always full of tales to share, desires to reveal, for their future and also, the more carnal kind…he had wondered many a time if Spain ever slept at all.

Glory seemed to be his elixir, voyage and victory fuelling him through night and day, ice and fire, and all the seasons in between.

“Or perhaps it is you who runs in my veins, my husband - my love, my earth and soul, my-“

He had kissed him only to stop the endless spouting.

Don’t remember. The fonder the memory, the sharper the hidden thorn.

Perhaps it would be easier to be angry with him instead. After all, if it were not for Spain’s embracing of the early hours, his later waking now would not appear as he dreaded it must; tardiness. He suspects this is what the earlier commotion related to, whether they should wait for his call to be seen to, or take initiative to check all was in order with their liege.

Whoever had said to wait had been the wise one.

There is nothing of grand importance on the cards today, but he has duties, responsibilities, to attend to nevertheless. Even if it does seem a chore merely thinking about dressing, the garments upon garments this entails.

It had come across to him that Spain had relished such rituals. He took pleasure in preparing both himself and Austria alike for the world, adorning them with a touch (or two, or three) of gold and jewels here, newly tailored materials there, admiring their finished selves with a flourish of pride that truth be told, had seeped into his spirits also. Just look at us, he seemed to say as he held himself tall, turned to hold their gaze, unwavering.

“Look at us now,” he’d said full of bitterness in a dusk towards the end, sat on his haunches as they took seclusion beneath knotted bark and veiling branches, “at the whim of these mortals who always know best.”

“Don’t,” he’d said as softly as he could, Spain’s tone sinking like lead in his stomach.

“How can I not? You may have always said this would one day be inevitable, but still I did not expect this to be so easy for you!”

“Don’t you dare,” he’d hissed this time, “don’t you dare be like that, now.”

He could see him physically stopping himself, jaw clenching tight, restraining that mouth that was equally if not more than capable of being as cruel as he himself was so often accused. But not this time. It was all he could do to rest his hand upon Spain’s, hope it would convey what did not fit into words, to stroke the gold band resting beneath his own that was always so warm on Spain’s skin, as though it weren't soon to be removed.

That's enough he decides once and for all, throwing off the sheet, standing and stretching.

To the day ahead he must go.