A/N: I got the urge to write this when a friend of mine proposed the headcanon that one of the Germanics taught Alfred how to waltz.
Disclaimer: Hetalia not mine.
"Wait, we're doing what?" Alfred asked, aghast, eyeing Gilbert in shock.
Gilbert laughed, playfully tapping the boy's shoulder with the barrel of his rifle.
"You heard me, boy. We're taking a break." When Alfred's facial expression did not change, Gilbert continued on with an exaggerated sigh.
"I know I'm training you hard to be a good soldier and all, but you don't have to look so surprised just because I suggested we take a break. I'm going to get offended, y'know; just because I'm an awesome General, doesn't mean I'm some sort of horrific, no-fun slave driver!"
"Sorry, sir," Alfred interrupted quietly, and Gilbert grinned.
"Besides, I'm going to teach you something good. I bet that no-good Arthur never taught you how to dance, did he?"
Alfred's expression hardened a bit at the name, but he shook his head and looked up at Gilbert.
"No, sir."
Gilbert laughed at that - a short bark of delight - and let his rifle drop to the ground, prompting Alfred to do the same.
"Drop the 'sir' for now and give me your hands," he told the bewildered younger nation, who was glancing around furtively at the rest of the soldiers that populated their small camp. Alfred's men, who had long since given up trying to make sense of Gilbert beyond his sound military advice, peered at the two of them discreetly but curiously, and Alfred's face went red all the way up to his ears as Gilbert took the boy's right hand in his own and pulled him close.
"C'mon, other hand on my shoulder," he ordered, placing his own on Alfred's back and feeling the poor boy stiffen at the touch as he tried to oblige.
"Isn't this a little…weird?" Alfred finally asked, wriggling uncomfortably in Gilbert's grasp.
"It's just dancing," Gilbert scoffed. Alfred furrowed his brows in suspicion.
"Okay," Gilbert caved, "so maybe it's a little risqué, but it's the new thing in all the fancy courts back in Europe. And," he added, quirking a brow in Alfred's direction, "that prudish, stick-in-the-mud back in London would have a conniption if he knew I was teaching you this."
Alfred's eyes lit up with a determined mischievousness and the corners of his lips quirked up into a grin as he settled his hand on Gilbert's shoulder.
"Let's do this!" he exclaimed, and Gilbert smiled knowingly. Anything to spite the great empire that had taken Alfred under his wing. Yes, Arthur was still a weak point for the boy, even if he didn't know it.
"Right, then," Gilbert said, pressing his palm to the boy's upper back and stretching their clasped hands forward. "For now, follow my steps. Once you get the hang of it, I'll teach you how to lead. Now, left, right, turn…"
Alfred followed Gilbert as he led him around the center of the camp, the other American soldiers whispering and laughing amongst themselves in turns as they watched. The boy was a fast learner, but clumsy on his feet, and Gilbert had to slow down the quick waltz after Alfred tripped over his own feet and almost fell into the burnt-out campfire beside them.
"Don't look down at your feet," Gilbert coached, letting go of the boy's right hand for a moment to tilt his chin up. "Look over my shoulder. Focus, and imagine the steps in your head."
Alfred nodded, and out of the corner of his eye Gilbert could see the boy biting on his lower lip in concentration. Alfred was already following along much better than he was at the start, and a smile graced Gilbert's lips at the sight. When was the last time he was able to smile peacefully like this, without the pressure of war and the future of an enthusiastic, untrained young nation dancing around in his palms?
Suddenly uncomfortable in the quiet, serene atmosphere, Gilbert decided it was time for some good-natured teasing, and he ran his fingertips lightly down Alfred's spine. The boy yelped, jumping out of Gilbert's grasp and falling backwards over a log by the fire pit.
"What the hell was that?" Alfred shouted over Gilbert's loud, guffawing laughter.
"I was just teasing you!" Gilbert answered, still laughing as he sat down on the log next to where Alfred had fallen. "That was some golden reaction, though! I'd love to have had that painted and immortalized on a wall back home."
Embarrassed, Alfred frowned and stared down at his feet. After a short silence, occasionally punctured by Gilbert's short bursts of laughter, the boy opened his mouth again.
"How'd I do, though?" he asked. Then, again, more eagerly, "Will it scare Arthur out of his wits?"
"You're not bad!" Gilbert answered, ruffling the boy's hair and grinning when Alfred's bright blue eyes peered out at him eagerly from beneath the mop of gold.
"Not quite as excellent as I was when I started," Gilbert offered with a cheeky grin, "but awesomeness like this is difficult to achieve, so don't be so hard on yourself! Arthur will definitely piss himself at the impropriety of it all, fancy court dance or not."
"Who taught you how to dance like that, then?" Alfred asked curiously. "You said you hated prissiness and grand balls and fancy clothes, so how do you know how to dance so well?"
Gilbert opened his mouth, ready to answer with a sharp, funny retort, but found that he didn't have one. He didn't have a fun story to tell this bright-eyed boy with his grand illusions and ideals of freedom and prosperity.
No, all he had was a warm, breezy afternoon in Vienna and a man who insisted that if Gilbert wanted to spend all his time lounging on the bench in the piano room, he might as well make himself useful and help perfect the new dance he'd been choreographing. His body still remembers the sensation, Roderich taking him and leading him to the center of the piano room, then pulling him close and placing a hand on his shoulder. He balked at the closeness then just the way Alfred had today, and Roderich had elbowed him hard in the chest and rolled his pretty violet eyes, sighing heavily and calling Gilbert crass and immature.
Gilbert didn't argue and let the aristocrat drag him around the room in broad circles, his impeccable sense of rhythm evident as his feet flew. Right, left, turn, left, slide… The pace was quick and despite Gilbert's desperate attempts to keep up, his own feet were not nearly as adept as his partner's and Roderich had no intention of slowing down to accommodate him.
When Gilbert had finally gotten a hold of the steps, Roderich stopped abruptly and demanded he lead before once more pulling Gilbert to him and sweeping across the room in elegant arcs and turns. They stayed in that secluded world of a new, dangerously intimate dance until the setting sun streamed in through the bay window, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors, and the song that was playing nowhere but in Roderich's head finally came to an end.
They did not release each other, though, and as Gilbert once again became aware of the places where he and Roderich were pressed to each other, he remembered that he had actually come to Vienna today for a reason.
"I'm going to America," he told Roderich, "I'm going to help the kid fight his war."
Roderich let go of him as though he'd been scalded.
"You're going to help that rebel brat?" the aristocrat questioned angrily, taking a step back to glare. "He and his war and his delusions of freedom? Are you really going to stand by him and lead him through the war that you know will stir up rebellion all over Europe?"
Gilbert gritted his teeth, wondering why he felt the need to tell Roderich what he was planning on doing, wondering why he thought that the nation perhaps even more in love with his royal lineage then Arthur would understand why he wanted to help that young nation across the ocean achieve his dream.
"The royalty's going to collapse eventually, Roderich," Gilbert argued, clenching his fists and shaking in indignation. "This kid's got something no one here in Europe has, and that's the guts to fight against this stupid system. But you know what? He's just the first, not the only. He'll win. I'll make him win. And then everyone else will follow. Why don't you want to see that?"
"You're wrong," Roderich answered coldly, turning his back on Gilbert and facing the sunset and the open window. "You're wrong and you won't win this fight. If that's all you wanted to say, please leave. I'd like to play the piano in peace."
Gilbert obliged, storming off and slamming the room's door so hard the windows rattled.
"Well?" Alfred asked, breaking Gilbert's reverie.
"I learned from a friend in Vienna," he finally answered, looking away. Alfred did nothing but hum thoughtfully in acknowledgement, And Gilbert hoped - prayed, even - that the boy would win his war.