A/N: This short is a GerBel drabble. That's really it. This is just a distraction from my schoolwork XP
Oh, and this is the first time I uploaded a fanfic on the Internet, so sorry if I made any mistakes uploading this.
Title: Three Four Time Waltz
Rating: K+
Warning: Human AU-ish, OOCness (although there isn't enough room for personality, or I'm just not good at describing it OTL), waltzes, no plot explanation whatsoever
Pairing/s: GerBel, mentions of AusBela
Summary (excerpt): They stop dancing, but everything around them still seems to disappear into blurred movements.
Inspiration/s: Dunno, maybe the cheesy love songs that my mom kept on singing a few weeks ago (I don't know their titles, sorry). I know one of them is How Do I Live by Leann Rimes, although it's not really related to this... ^_^;
Hope you enjoy!
I do not own Hetalia.
They start to dance.
That is all they do in an empty room to themselves.
There are no hushed whispers, no stolen gazes, no still breaths.
All they do is dance, dance in quietness, dance flowingly on the floor. Their feet glide across the ground in fluid motions.
They aren't looking at each other. It's anywhere but each other, but their heartbeats and movements are the same rhythm, and their steps mirror the other as they continue to sway.
In three four time, their feet click, click, click, with no indication of stopping anytime soon.
They dance.
Yellow hair, green eyes, and blue dresses seem to dance too, as the tall man in front of her holds her close.
They inhale at the same time when he turns her and leads the pair to the next step, with a forcefulness she's willing to follow.
Because it's gentle; a gentle forcefulness that tugs her heartstrings and tugs her stomach and tugs her eyes downwards.
He looks straight ahead, right above her because she only reaches his shoulders, and her head is lowered because she'd rather stare at his feet than his face.
His dance shoes are shiny, and she thinks if she looks a bit more closely, she'll see a reflection, her lovestruck expression.
Silence fills the air as he twirls her into a spin. There is nothing to signal that they have to move at an exact moment. But she doesn't mind, because it's not needed. Not needed.
The sound their shoes emit is enough to make the music they listen to, because the steps he makes and the way he twists tells her that it's a waltz.
They dance.
He holds their hands up high.
One used to be cold, while the other warm (his was cold, because her hands could never be that icy), but they both had turned sweaty and hot ages ago.
He thinks it's because they've been dancing since the clock struck ten, and it's almost midnight, but that's only what he tells himself because he won't admit anything.
He knows the answer, truly, truly, but he rejects the fact that he does. His erratic heartbeat doesn't seem to care much about his flustered denial, though.
But they have been dancing too long and he's tired. He's too tired but he longs to dance. His burning palms are itching as he wants to finally let go, but at the same time, he thinks he's stuck.
He's too much of a hypocrite, and he silently notes that he has contradicted himself too much times in the last half an hour.
As he stares at the wall in front of him, all he has left to think about is how his left shoulder feels so heavy, and how his cheeks seem to have filled up in colour without him noticing.
They dance.
The hand on her waist makes her uncomfortable, if that's the right word to use. She's too self-conscious about it, and she feels like she's paying more attention to it than the dancing.
So she makes a misstep and laughs about it when he's thrown off, although she still doesn't look at him because she thinks he'll notice how red her face is.
Not in embarrassment, of course.
Of course it wouldn't be.
She sighs too softly, too loudly, and she bristles as he slows down a tad bit. It's too noticeable, too much, and she holds her breath until they speed up again. She doesn't want the moment to end.
But she also thinks they have to stop, before she finally gives in to the urge of resting her head on his chest.
They dance.
He doesn't actually know how to do a proper waltz, even though he should, because all he knows is that it's in three four time, and that the word comes from his native tongue, meaning to roll, to dance, to turn.
It's in three four time, and while he isn't exactly skilled in an instrument, his cousin knows it is.
He should know, because the dance originated in Austria, and he does the waltz with his unwilling Belarusian girlfriend every so often.
Thoughts swirl through his mind as he mechanically repeats the same steps over and over again, because he's trying so hard to think of anything, anyone else but her.
It's too difficult and he can't do it, so he just takes in the scent of her hair that still smells faintly of chamomile.
When she abruptly stops and squeezes his hand, he glances down at her quizzically. She sheepishly laughs at him although her eyes are directed elsewhere, and he lets their arms fall freely to their sides.
(He regrets letting go a second later)
He's about to ask what's wrong when she finally raises her head, and they stare at each other for the first time tonight. With coy eyes and a bright grin, he thinks she's beautiful, and softly smiles at her.
But then she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down, and he panics because he thinks they'll fall so she tiptoes and kisses him on the lips and he kisses her back and they stay like that in three four time for another measure, and another, and another.
They stop dancing, but everything around them still seems to disappear into blurred movements.