A/N: Drabbles, related only by theme. Different pairing for each, obviously. Austria/Hungary, America/Belarus, Fem!England/France, Fem!Germany/N. Italy, Fem!S. Italy/Spain I don't own anything.
The song plays in the background and she dances. Elizaveta Héderváry, the nation of Hungary, holds up her arms as though there is someone else there and she twirls with grace. They are not together anymore, her people rebelled and the war happened and they split. Her marriage ended and she left him. Him.
But she spins around the ballroom with shattered windows, pretending that this was one of his fancy balls and he was dancing with her.
The room is silent but there is music in her head, in her heart, and she dances. Natalia Arlovskya, Belarus, wraps her frigid arms around herself and sways to the rhythm of a slow song. The Soviet Union fell, her brother doesn't love her-she doesn't love him, and she smiles slightly. The man had grinned at her, and she could not totally convince herself that he was just grinning in general instead of specifically at her.
But for once in her life, her heart overpowers her mind and she turns slowly, imagining the blue-eyed nation that had cared so much about her.
She doesn't need music but she dances. Alice Kirkland, the United Kingdom but more specifically England, goes through the steps of an old routine. It is from the Elizabethan era, meant for large groups but still having partners. And hers is always the man that irritates her so. He's infuriating and insufferable and oh-so charming. She'll never admit it, but she loves him.
But denied feelings don't matter and she steps closer and then back again, her hand up as though she's touching his.
She does the steps awkwardly through her hallways, but she's dancing. Lorelei Weillschmidt, the country Germany, juggles her empty beer glasses as she tries to spin, succeeding only in making her feel more nauseous. Her drunken dance continues to the kitchen where she grabs a new bottle of her favorite substance. 'Ve~ you should dance with me, Doitsu!' And she would continue to drink until that voice left her thoughts.
But she complies with the request, clumsily but it counts for something, and tries to remember-forget the moves he'd once led her through.
She moves along with the fast-paced beat, and she's dancing. Lovina Vargas, South Italy, is not practicing for him, that stupid tomato bastard that she hates. He's a sorry asshole, and she'd never want to impress him. He's only playing with her heart, she knows it. All he wants is for her to fall for his tomato bastard-ness and then he'll just be as stupidly oblivious as always.
But she works harder and dances faster, the deepest, darkest part of her mind- or is it her heart?- telling her that she's learning these Latin dances to make him notice her.
Because when a girl, even a nation, is lonely and without the man she used to twirl and spin and sway with, she dances, and it's almost like he's there.