I've had this fic in the works for about a month now? It's mostly just been something I fiddled with when I didn't want to research planets or German historians anymore. As one can expect, there are undertones of imperialism (and the glorification thereof) within. Again, these views do not necessarily coincide with my own. I made up the title because I couldn't think of anything, and my friend told me to stop fretting and post the post fic already.

Interestingly enough, I do know how to dance the Viennese Waltz. My grandpa taught me how to dance a variety of waltzes when I was younger, but he was mostly adamant about me learning it (even when my younger self whinged and complained), not that I knew what it was until much later.

While I was working on this I fondly referred to it as the walzer fic. Also sometimes der letzte Tanz when I was feeling particularly sad/annoyed at it.

-x-

In Sight of God (Oh the Kings We Were)

When Spain first asked him to dance, green eyes glimmering with warmth and amusement, it hadn't even occurred to Austria to say no. It had been a slow day, no meetings to speak of, and with the other two occupants of the house out Austria had done nothing but read until he'd heard the knock, opening the door to see Spain's smiling face, nose and cheeks red with cold.

"Buenas tardes, cariño," Spain had greeted, words muffled by his scarf, and Austria had been quick to shoo him into the house, fussing lightly, as was his wont. Spain had endured it with nothing more than a cheerful grin and a knowing look in his eyes, content to be led further into the house, the halls echoing faintly with the music Austria'd had playing in the background.

Moments later Spain had asked the question, and as he grinned and led Austria in a quick, energetic court dance from years past, lifting him by the waist with deceptive gentleness, Austria rather found he was enjoying himself.

"I suppose the effort of the basse danse is too much to emulate today," Austria said, and while some might have found that cutting Spain only laughed, and Austria's mouth quirked in the ghost of a smile. When Spain's hand found its way to his waist, pulling him in closer, breaking away from the more traditional movements to begin the first steps of a modern English waltz, Austria allowed it, lightly blowing cool air onto Spain's face when they were close enough, seeing the way Spain's eyes flared up in response, affection blending in with something else.

"Holiest of creatures," the Spain from the past said, his voice blending in with the Spain that stood in front of Austria now, teeth bared in a challenging smile, "dance with me."

Spain danced like he fought, with grace and precision and an underlying passion that always managed to bleed through into everything he did. It had been a surprise to Austria, then so young, when his new husband had smiled and offered him a hand, sweeping him into a dance that Austria had known well, their finery blending in with the attire of the court—all under the watchful gaze of Charles, who smiled somewhat enigmatically from where he sat on the united throne, now the most powerful man in all of Christendom.

He remembered also how heavy the ring had felt on his finger, alien but significant, a symbol of the union he had entered into. Though he hadn't known it at the time, that night spent twirling around in Spain's arms, the marriage would mark the beginning of their ascent to the forefront of European power. Back then, drowning in it all, he'd thought it might last forever. When he'd faced Spain on the battlefield two centuries later, he'd grimly chided himself for his naivety.

Those days were long past now, the heavy ring gone from his finger, but as Austria allowed Spain to hold him close and guide his movements he rather thought there will still remnants, however small. Spain's touch still felt the same, fleeting and heavy all at once, thoughtful in a way that many others weren't. The boyish youth was gone, lost to the years, but when Spain smiled it was still that same smile, when he laughed it was still the same laugh.

Spain's hand tightened slightly on Austria's waist, and his body vibrated with amusement before he glanced up, green eyes warm.

"A dance is no place to think," he murmured, slowing their pace. Austria's expression changed little, but whatever registered was enough to make Spain chuckle even as he slowly lifted one arm to let Austria twirl gracefully under it. "I know what that face means, mi rey," Spain continued, drawing Austria close to him again. Austria pursed his lips but, relaxed by the music, said nothing in response, which made Spain smile. "The past is gone."

"The past is never gone," came the reply, and as if to prove his point Austria let his hand slide gently down Spain's arm before his fingers curled around the other nation's hands, feeling the golden band around Spain's thumb. Spain's gaze, having followed the movement, darted back up to Austria's face. He smiled wryly.

"Perhaps not," he allowed, "but it was getting stuck in it that destroyed you, was it not?" The words were said with the slightest traces of apprehension, and Spain's grip on his waist tightened again, as if worried Austria would try to draw away. Not that Spain would ever try to physically stop him if he did; if Austria wished to remove himself from the situation, Spain would release him with a sigh and an apology.

He did not wish to. So instead of stiffening and drawing away Austria merely hummed, letting Spain twirl him again, but this time Spain's arms came down around him halfway into the turn, when his back was to the other man's chest, holding him there gently while Spain rested his chin on Austria's shoulder.

"We were gods then," Spain murmured. Austria smiled, an old smile that Spain could not see, hidden and private. He bowed his head a little when Spain turned his, and Austria could feel the other nation's breath against his neck, lips feather-soft.

"Did you not just say that the past is gone?" Austria queried gently. Spain chuckled.

"Ah, you are correct, and we sound so morbid, like old men, and this was not my intention."

Austria raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. Spain hummed agreeably at the action, and Austria knew the other man was smiling, a fool's pleased expression this time.

"I am not old," he said somewhat haughtily, and Spain laughed.

"Aye, mi rey, no one could ever accuse you of not being beautiful," he said, and that old glint was there, the serious one, the one that gave every word he spoke a hidden meaning. "We all fought for and against that pretty face at one point."

Austria's hand moved over Spain's where they rested on his waist. "Don't be vulgar," he murmured, and Spain merely huffed, turning his face against Austria's neck again. He muttered something, but the words were warm and amused, and Austria let them pass with a little hum, eyes flicking to his companion.

"Besides," Austria continued after a moment, content to sway there, "you did not fight for me so much as you all fought for what I had in my hands, and under my roof. I am no fool."

"Perhaps," Spain agreed, "but ah, Austria, you did not see the looks. Maybe you did not wish to see them, maybe they did not matter to you, but they were there, and I saw them well. You were beautiful in your power. You still are, even without it."

"I was of the opinion that they all thought me incapable of anything," Austria returned, and there was no self-deprecation in his tone, merely a note of truth. "I was something to be taken down, something to be destroyed. I was the pinnacle of European tradition, the roadblock in their paths. Or so Prussia has often told me." He inclined his head at the thought, and Spain kissed his neck briefly.

"You were," he said. "But you were more than that."

They stayed like that for a few more moments, locked in an embrace of silent understanding, before Spain spoke again. "You know, you really have them all fooled," he said with a wicked smirk. Austria gave him a level look, his expression flat as he said, "Is that so?" His answer came first in the form of movement. Spain ducked away from him, walking the length of the music room to where the stereo was. For a moment the only sound that reached Austria was Spain's gentle humming and the noises that accompanied his rummaging, and he waited patiently while Spain slid a CD into the player. When the music began to filter gently into the room Austria couldn't help the faint smile that flickered across his face, though he was quick to school his features back into a stern mask when Spain walked back over to him.

It was muscle memory after that. When Spain's hand moved up his back Austria allowed his own to slide up to Spain's shoulder, their other hands joining together away from their bodies before Spain laughed and swept them away in another familiar dance. They were far closer than they would have been in the past, for the dance had changed over the years, but that didn't bother Austria. He allowed Spain to lead him as he would in the familiar steps of the Wiener Walzer, and didn't think much of it. They both knew Austria would never truly allow himself to be controlled by anyone, not anymore.

"When I heard about this dance," Spain murmured into his ear as they moved in rotary fashion, natural for the moment, "I laughed." Austria made an inquisitive noise, and Spain continued, "I laughed because it was so very you, even if no one thought it was. I read Wolf's pamphlet, you know. We all did." Austria's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Spain's shoulder, warning and encouragement and knowing amusement. They continued to move, and Austria let the quiet affection he still felt for this man bleed into his movements. It was a waltz of sensuality, after all; he could afford to drop his guard here.

"Aah, but Prussia's face turned as red as a tomato," Spain mused, tempo never faltering. Austria matched him, as he always had. "You should have seen it. You would have appreciated it, I think. France thought Prussia would choke on his own tongue; said he didn't think you'd had it in you to bend the rules and traditions so much. It was a great scandal, some said, this new dance."

Austria felt Spain's hand push him closer, and for a moment they slowed almost to a stop, letting the music carry on without them. Then Spain lowered his mouth to Austria's ear and in a soft, edged voice Austria knew so well said, "but I knew better."

Then he swept them into another dance, and Austria could almost imagine the room melting away, could almost imagine Spain's green jacket replaced with rich, finely woven fabrics. There was an orchestra there too, if Austria thought hard enough, and he allowed himself to smile faintly at that, eyes sharp and knowing. Spain, catching the look, smiled back.

"You are a beautiful dancer, mi rey," Spain murmured. "You always have been."

"And you are a sentimental fool," Austria said in return, though the smile was still there. Of course he'd known what the rest of Europe had said about the waltz, and when it had first surface in the high-class courts he had been shocked as well, disliking the closer contact. That attitude, however, hadn't lasted long, and he had faced Europe's scorn like he had faced her armies, his movements never faltering and his conviction never wavering. Austria had never bowed to anyone else, and he had not allowed something as silly as a dance to drag at him. He had been defeated before (and at the time those many defeats were still fresh in his mind), of course, but he had still been one of Europe's glittering jewels.

And Europe's glittering jewels did not bend their knees at the beck and call of others.

The most recent century had been filled with unpleasant changes, of course, stripping from him the last of his power and tainting the lands with blackness, but that was neither here nor there.

When the music faded they stood still for a moment, as if balancing on the edge of a cliff, one step away from the great fall. Then Austria sighed and turned his head, briefly kissing the side of Spain's mouth before he stepped gracefully out of the other man's arms. He was not surprised when he felt Spain's hand grab his own, nor was he surprised when he felt a brush of lips against his knuckles.

"Would that I could bring back the past," Spain said, and there was that darkness again, the hidden tone, the deadly end of a rapier's blade—so part of who Spain was that Austria no longer batted an eyelash at it. But then again, he had never known Spain without it. In the centuries of their marriage it had always been there, lurking under the sunny veneer Spain had worn (and still wore). Austria had seen it in the way Spain waged war against his enemies, both from his formidable ships and on the ground, commander of his elements. He'd seen it in the early hours of the morning and the darkness of pure night, when there was nothing but the dim glow of a candle that allowed them to see one another.

And Austria knew that, in return, Spain had seen his own, such as it was. The refusal to back down, the refusal to stay down—dignity even in defeat. He remembered when the Ottoman's had tried to wage war on Vienna, the glimmer of triumph in Spain's eyes when Austria had held firm and refused to allow the Ottomans to advance. He'd seen Austria's strengths for what they were, had seen him both in the prime of his power, when not even Suleiman's army had been able to break through Austrian defences, and in the dark days after his empire had begun crumbling in earnest.

He had been strong, once. But those days were no longer, and could never be again. The world had changed too much for Spain to revert to the days of old, when borders had been defined by blood and ownership was defined by the strength of one's army and the ability to change the land. The old days of imperialism were gone. In its place was a new variant, a subtler one, and their world did not belong here. Times had changed as surely as the Viennese Waltz itself had.

Instead of voicing that, however, Austria merely drew Spain up, his hands resting on both sides of the other man's face. Spain's hands moved up to cover his, and Austria's expression gave away nothing in those few moments before he leaned forward and kissed Spain's lips.

"I have shopping to do," Austria said, his tone level. "Accompany me."

Spain laughed, leaning forward to kiss him back quickly before he stepped away. The good cheer was back, the sunny disposition so attributed to Spain flooding in like it had never been gone, and when they moved to leave the music room Spain spoke lazily about something Austria only paid half-attention to, Spain's hands lingering innocently where they could as Austria closed the door behind them, shutting away the ghosts of centuries past.

"Where to?" Spain asked cheerfully, green eyes heavy and affectionate.

"Surprise me," Austria returned, warmth blooming in his chest as Spain stared at him blankly before the other nation tilted his head back and laughed.

"Aah, there it is," he said with a knowing smirk. Austria raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge that was accepted when Spain slid an arm comfortably around his waist, humming the low melody of a waltz even as he deposited a quick kiss on Austria's cheek, which earned him a put-upon sigh that they both knew wasn't serious. In the gestures Austria read what Spain wouldn't say: the affection bred from two centuries of marriage, and another two of warfare. He conveyed his own by leaning into the touch, and was rewarded with another sunny smile and a new string of conversation.

It wasn't perfect, what they had now, but it worked for them in a day and age where everything changed so rapidly. Austria had come to terms with it. He was no longer one of the centres of European power, and neither was Spain, but in the other man's eyes was the same passion from centuries ago, tempered only by forced maturity and circumstance. In this modern world lay the steps to a new kind of waltz, a different kind, and Austria had never faltered in grace, in the strength of his character and the steel of his spine.

He wasn't about to now.

-x-

Historical Notes

- The line "natural for the moment" refers to the fact that you can dance the Viennese Waltz either toward the leader's right (natural) or their left (reverse).
- The basse danse was one of the most popular court dances in Europe during the 15th and (early) 16th centuries. It's supposed to be very graceful, with you and your partner moving silently, preferably without picking your feet up off the ground.
- Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and a bunch of other titles. He was the heir to three of Europe's most powerful houses—Haus Habsburg, the House of Trastámara (Castile and Aragon) and the House of Valois-Burgundy (the Burgundian Netherlands)—and held various kingships during his life. He finalised the uniting of Spain into a cohesive Spanish kingdom, instead of just a bunch of smaller kingdoms and territories trying to kick the shit out of one another.
- Interesting fact: in the original Viennese Waltz there were none of the under-arm turns that we often associate with the waltz today. Those came later, after it caught on in places like England.
- Salomon Jakob Wolf wrote a pamphlet in 1797 entitled Proof that Waltzing is the Main Source of Weakness of the Body and Mind of our Generation in response to the Viennese Waltz. It sold out multiple times.
- "—and the ability to change the land." This line is a little reference to the European tendency to believe that ownership could only be claimed by those who could physically change the land. It was an especially prominent viewpoint in Canada and the USA.