I wrote this in a period of about sixty minutes at ten in the evening. I'm not really sure why. I don't normally write in present tense, but don't argue with sleep-addled brains. I tried to switch back to past while writing it, but for whatever reason my mind did not cooperate. This is mostly just a tiny little glimpse into Austria and Spain's (early) married life with allusions to the Siege of Vienna in 1529. They're still quite young here, not "fully grown" as they are seen by the time the War of the Austrian Succession comes about, so I apologise if Austria seems different than what I usually write. Getting into the younger mindset (before the masks and the true flourishing success of Austria) is hard.
The title means "in the shadows of the night", because I need to practice my language skills and wrote this in the shadows of the night, I guess? Trashy night writing is an experience.
Im Schatten der Nacht
Austria wakes to nothing. The room is cold, the winter chill seeping through the stones that make up the walls, and outside he imagines the wind is tearing through the land, blanketing the city in white. He pushes himself up, hair dishevelled and mussed, but a sudden stab of pain makes him gasp, his hand fluttering up to press against his nightshirt, which covers the bandages that are wound around his chest. Smaller ones cover his arm, and he presses a hand against those, unable to stop the pained hiss that escapes him when he feels the dampness. He lights a candle, quickly and efficiently, and the first thing he's greeted with is the sight of red seeping through the bandages that encircle his arm, staining the sleeve of his sleep attire.
Next to him something moves, and Austria can hear words slurred sleepily into the air. He doesn't respond. Instead he merely stares at his sleeve, stares at the bloodstain that seems to be getting larger by the second, and this time the sigh that leaves him is irritated. He's ruined a nice nightgown, and these wounds are an inconvenience.
He does not care for inconveniences.
A hand encircles the wrist of his uninjured left arm, and he glances down to meet the half-lidded gaze of his husband.
"It cannot be morning," Spain murmurs, voice wrecked with exhaustion, and Austria shakes his head mutely.
"Go back to sleep," he says somewhat stiffly, but he can see the alertness creeping into Spain's eyes, and he knows the exact moment Spain sees the blood, knows exactly when Spain registers the red stains on Austria's left hand from where he'd touched the ruined bandages only moments before. There's alarm on Spain's face, and for a moment his expression darkens, something ugly and murky appearing in his eyes. Austria watches him silently before he pulls away, frowning when his feet hit the cold floor. There's a washbasin on the counter and he's quick to make his way towards it, ignoring the feel of his own blood trickling down his arm.
The water in the basin is cold, and he bites his lip, but he scolds himself for hesitating. Carefully, he pulls the sleeve of his nightgown up and begins to unwind the bandages, swallowing any noises of pain, his eyes narrowed and focused on his task. He almost manages to forget that Spain is in the room, but the awareness comes rushing back when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He inclines his head and continues his motions, but after a moment he can feel Spain tugging at his shoulder and he turns to face the man with an expression of pained irritation.
When he opens his mouth to speak, however, Spain presses a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. It's then Austria realises that Spain looks worried, his eyes wide and his shoulders slumped.
"It's nothing," Austria says firmly, unsure why he's even trying to explain this to Spain, unsure why he wants to remove the worry from Spain's face. They've barely been married for more than a decade, and when Spain narrows his eyes on the bloodied cloth Austria stiffens. "I have had worse," he says crisply, and he has. They all have. Besides, he cannot regret the injuries. They are the prices of victory, the prices of stopping the Ottoman advancement into Vienna. He would gladly pay them again, over and over and over, to preserve the results of the siege.
Spain smiles, but it's jarring, a strange mixture of worry and exhaustion of his own and something else, that same darkness from before that is there one minute and gone the next, like Spain wishes for nothing more than to tear out the heart of the Ottoman Empire himself.
"Let me?" Spain says softly, and for a moment Austria frowns, holding his bloodied arm close to his chest before he sighs and extends it slowly.
Spain's touch is gentle in a way that still manages to surprise Austria, who has seen the man tear through the ranks of his enemies without a thought or a care. He has seen Spain covered in blood many times before, as Spain has seen him, so he continues to frown and contain his curiosity as Spain finishes unwinding the bandages, exposing the deep gash on his arm to the air. Austria grits his teeth, but he says nothing, reaching out with shaky fingers to grasp at his dignity, which he drapes around his shoulders like armour. Spain is still for a moment, but Austria's eyes are only for the blood oozing out from the wound. It will be healed within a couple days, he knows, once Vienna starts to get back on its feet, but for now it bleeds freely.
Spain makes a small noise, and Austria almost jerks his arm away when he feels Spain dab a wet cloth against his skin, cleaning it carefully. He does little more than watch, his fingers curling into his palm before he relaxes them again, and if Spain notices (and of course he does, Austria thinks—Spain can be a fool but he's always observant, always on top of things) he says nothing. Austria's arm is wrapped back up in silence as well, and when it's done he carefully draws it back towards his chest, a frown creasing his brow.
"Austria?" Spain queries and Austria glances up, reaching to adjust glasses that he realises, with a start, are not on his face. Spain blinks, then smiles, and before Austria can say anything Spain leans over and kisses him quickly, drawing back. "Come back to bed," Spain murmurs, and when he draws Austria back towards the welcoming warmth of the blankets and blows out the candle Austria cannot find it in himself to argue, gratitude warring with the exhaustion and soreness that always follows conflict.
He does not even protest when he feels Spain's arm wrap around his waist, pulling him close; does not protest when he feels Spain bury his head at the back of Austria's neck, breath tickling Austria's skin. Instead he lets himself settle, lets himself take comfort in the proximity the way he rarely has since he and Switzerland were pulled apart all those years ago.
"Thank you," he says into the darkness, and before he falls asleep he feels Spain's arm tighten around his waist and a voice say, in the way of youthful naivety, "always."