Welcome to another fic that I started two years ago while I was living in Germany, then abandoned. The difference is this time I'm finishing it in Ireland, while avoiding all the readings I have to do for my Masters degree. Who'd have thought knowing German would be so helpful for learning Old English and yet so simultaneously unhelpful?

This is basically an outtake from a larger historical spaus fic that I've been absently working on for awhile, something that I liked but that didn't fit in with the tone of the rest of the fic. As a result I removed it and, two years later, decided to tidy it up, write a better intro, and then post it. It's not very good, honestly, but it's something. For those of you who have been waiting patiently for another Hetalia fic, I hope you enjoy this, and accept my apologies for the delay. I was finishing up my BA and dealing with a lot of other not-so-fun things.

"Now, in a breath, we'll burst those gates of gold,
And ransack heaven before our moment fails."

— Alfred Noyes, Immortal Sails

Glory Be

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 ipavaniglia/i. 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

- Ad maiorem Dei gloriam (also written ad majorem Dei gloriam, but I learned Roman Latin and there was no "j" in the original Latin alphabet) is the shorthand version of the official motto of the Jesuits, meaning "for the greater glory of God." Though it is the motto of the Jesuits, I'm having Austria use it in a more general sense. Still, to those who know the early history of the Jesuits and their geographical origin, it can be considered a little nod.
- The pavaniglia was a sixteenth century dance and, according to Oxford Reference, "a subtype of the pavan and the galliard." I actually did watch a video in order to get a sense of the movements, and you can find it here. Alongside Spain's offhanded thought about the Turks, you can likely guess the general time period of this fic.
- What language are they speaking? Primarily Spanish. Both of them are, quite obviously, fluent in many languages, but they switch depending on their geographical location, and I wrote Austria's schatz in German (instead of the English darling) to specifically highlight that he was switching from their conversational language to something else. Why schatz instead of liebling? Because it's such a mushy word that I could just hear Austria saying is as dryly as humanly possible.
- The hints of religious blasphemy entirely my fault, I assure you. As for some of Spain's internal dialogue, I am firmly in the camp of human conventions not applying in their entirety to the countries, as they are concepts subject to the will of their people and monarchs. It's why they are canonically married at a time when, obviously, this would not be the norm. All this to say: I don't care if men kissing men openly was Bad Bad Not Very Good; it's done.