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konstantyaTitle: A Perpendicular Expression
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Romance, humor.
Characters/pairings: AustriaxHungary, with massive SpainxAustriaxHungary undertones.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,100 (excluding notes)
Summary: Spain, the Country of Passion, is here to help you get over your romantic inhibitions! (Or, Austria proves that with the proper incentive, he can be thoroughly improper.)
Period: When Spain was still ruled by a branch of the Habsburgs, so sometime before 1700.
- A Perpendicular Expression -
"Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire."
—George Bernard Shaw
Austria was, admittedly, not one for swearing. It was vulgar and crass and wholly ungentlemanly—suitable for, say, someone named Prussia, but a practice that Austria considered himself to be completely above.
Still, even he had to admit that sometimes a select curse or two could convey all the emotion that a well-worded diatribe could not, and could do it succinctly, to boot. So:
Damn Spain. Damn Spain and his sunny disposition and charming personality and, most of all, damn his utterly shameless dancing. The ländler was supposed to be jaunty and informal, yes, and was certainly not meant for the courts, true—but it was not supposed to be obscene.
Even worse than all that, though, was that his dancing partner didn't seem to mind it at all—even seemed to be enjoying it.
It had started innocently enough. He had been catching up with Spain, scraping away at his violin, when his guest had suddenly jumped up and professed a desire to dance. Poor Hungary had been dusting the frames outside the music chamber when Spain had gone hunting for a partner, and he'd merrily hauled her into the room and onto the floor with barely enough time for her to drop her duster.
They had danced a couple minuets, a couple allemandes, which had been all well and good—and then Spain had suggested something 'less courtly.' Rather than be reduced to simply snapping his fingers for one of Spain's infernal flamencos, Austria had tapped into his remote mountain towns and channeled the ländler.
On the one hand, it was a delight to see Hungary dance it. She had a lovely liveliness that had always suited the spirit of the country-sides better than the reserve of the courts in his opinion, and, if her wide, brilliant smile was any indication, she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
On the other hand, she was thoroughly enjoying herself with Spain, who was just a little too friendly and charismatic, and who was holding her just a little too near when the dance called for a closed position.
Austria frowned, and almost wished he was rude enough to stop playing, right then and there, mid-measure. Perhaps he should have gone with the flamenco after all. As flirtatious a dance as that could be, he seemed to remember that there was no physical contact involved.
Spain spun Hungary around passionately, and she laughed very prettily. Austria tried not to break his bow, and couldn't help but wonder how upset his government would be if he violated peace treaties.
Finally, eventually, after what must have surely been an eternity, the song drew to its end. Spain bowed deeply, Hungary responded with a pert little curtsy, and Austria didn't think he'd ever been so happy to stop playing a piece of music.
"Ahh," Spain sighed, "that is more like it. Something fun and vivacious!" He smiled a hopeful, roguish smile at Hungary and held out his hand. "Another, please?"
"I think not," Austria said, before she could answer, and at the sharp tone in his voice, the both of them looked over. Pointedly, he set the violin down on his lap.
Spain pouted. "Ay, how cruel you are, Austria, to deny your spouse!"
"We're not married!" Austria snapped, for what was surely the thousandth time since the union between their ruling houses. "Our respective royalty did—there's a difference!" Hungary, he noticed, was trying so hard to not break out into a delighted grin at the conversation, she was practically eating her own lips. As it was, her cheeks were a very pretty pink, and her eyes were bright and mischievous, and—
She glanced at him, and he nervously jerked his gaze away.
Austria huffed, and occupied himself with placing the violin back on its stand. "You may have forgotten, but Hungary is a maid, who has work to attend to." At the words, her eyes slid guiltily over to her forsaken duster. With one half of the dancing couple taken care of, Austria turned back to Spain. "As do we. I seem to recall that you came here to discuss finances, yet we've done nothing of the sort." He hardly relished the prospect of work, but at the very least, it was a convenient excuse to fall back on.
Spain blinked at him. "Dios mío!" he suddenly exclaimed, slapping his palm to his forehead. Austria hoped this meant Spain had knocked some sense into himself; that hope died with the next words out of his mouth. "Of course! Here I am, hogging the lady to myself when no doubt you'd like a turn!"
Austria flushed. "That is not what I said—!"
"And who wouldn't, when such a wonderful partner is available!" Spain went on, gesturing demonstratively. He waggled his eyebrows at Austria and grinned an idiotic, suggestive grin.
Austria huffed again, and rose to his feet. "Now see here—" he started, all prepared to launch into a lecture on responsibility—but it was then that Spain whisked him into his arms, completely breaking the composure he had so recently regained.
"Ahh, can you not feel it, reluctant spouse of mine—"
"We're not married—!"
"—the rhythm, the grace, the passion—"
"—and I am certainly not dancing with you—!"
"Can I call in Italy to sketch this?" Hungary chimed in, a little too excitedly. Quickly, she added, "To chronicle this important point in Habsburg history, of course." (Perhaps, Austria thought, some of his diplomatic wiles had rubbed off on her after all these years.)
Mustering what dignity he could, he shoved Spain away and tugged his waistcoat straight. "That is completely unnecessary."
"Completely unnecessary because he's now going to be dancing with you!" Spain veritably sung the words, scooping an arm around Hungary and corralling her over with such fervor that they almost collided. She blushed profusely, and Austria had the sneaking suspicion he was just as red.
"Um," he said, very eloquently.
"Where is that guitar I gave you?" Spain called from across the room. Returning to his senses, Austria shot him a withering glare—a withering glare that landed right on Spain's posterior, as he was turned away and bent over, searching through instrument cases.
"I burned it," Austria said flatly. Or else he would, after today.
"Ah! Here we are!" He hauled the guitar over, took a seat, and gave it an experimental strum before fiddling with the tuning knobs. Austria suddenly, acutely, realized that this was actually happening. He was actually going to dance with Hungary. It was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking, and, oh God, why couldn't he have a pair of gloves on? He was sure his palms were beginning to sweat.
When Spain started playing, Austria found himself very grateful for all the decorum that had been instilled into him over the past centuries: Automatically, he offered his hand, and, feeling more aware of his sense of touch than he perhaps ever had, Hungary took it. And before he knew it, they had begun.
Alright, he conceded after a few bars. This wasn't so bad. It was even…nice. Very nice. One might even say 'heavenly.' As the head of an empire, he purposefully kept a certain distance between himself and those nations under his rule. It was only prudent, after all, when one wanted to cultivate a sense of authority (this, Austria often suspected, was Spain's biggest mistake when it came to Romano, but trying to convince him of this was like trying to get France to practice celibacy).
Such behavior was prudent when it came to politics, perhaps, but a perfect nuisance when it came to personal relationships—and as much as he tried to ignore it, or even outright deny it, he liked Hungary. It was almost a shame she was such an asset to his house, because sometimes Austria wished he could go to a state affair or a society ball and be able to dance with her, as an equal, just once.
So this, this was the closest he'd come to having that wish granted. And, admittedly, a music chamber wasn't a ballroom, and the ländler was no court dance, and Spain certainly wasn't a chamber orchestra, or even a string quartet, but he was dancing with her, actually dancing with her, with all the twirls and tangled arms and—
Austria missed the beat, and his boot just barely avoided Hungary's foot. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't that he had suddenly lost all sense of rhythm, but that the Iberian idiot on guitar was speeding the tempo up.
"You're going too fast!" he snapped.
"Don't be so stodgy!" Spain called back. Teasingly, he added, "If you can't keep up, perhaps you'd like me to take over again?"
Austria absolutely refused to dignify that with an answer.
He had since come to grips with the fact that he was not a great fighter by any means. Still, there was some brash, competitive streak that still existed in him, that served to make his dancing almost as much a duel with Spain as it was a duet with Hungary. There was something to prove here. A challenge to be met. And so Austria ground his teeth and boldly threw himself into the pace Spain had set. This was his own folk dance, after all. No finger-snapping, flamenco-loving fool was going to show him up at it.
He dipped, and spun, and held her closely, possessively, because, alright, yes, he'd been jealous of the brazen way Spain had put his arms around her, and Hungary's skirt flared wildly out about her legs, and her breath hitched, and their eyes caught, and Spain played skillfully, furiously, passionately, damn him, and—oh no, Austria realized too late; he was in completely over his head.
The music was too fast, and their momentum was too great, and Hungary was set on a collision course with a music stand. In a desperate, last-ditch attempt at damage control, Austria grabbed her around the waist, and, just as the song reached its climax, they descended into a flurry of close whirls.
Somehow, they slowed to a stop that managed to be vaguely elegant, and with one final, flourishing strum of the guitar, it was over.
Spain set the instrument down on his lap. "Bravo!" he shouted, clapping gaily. "Bra-vo! I'm impressed, Austria! Who knew you could be so unorthodox?"
Austria couldn't answer. He felt positively dizzy from all those turns and had the sneaking suspicion he was swaying. Hungary actually pitched to the side, her hands instinctively clutching at his sleeves for support. She had managed to keep up with him, but apparently just barely.
"Oh, dear," he said contritely, trying to steady her, and failing spectacularly. "I'm so sorry about all of this." They stumbled rather drunkenly, and he ended up with his arm tightly around her, just barely keeping the both of them on their feet. After a moment, the room stopped spinning, and Hungary blinked up at him, green eyes wide and luminous, her cheeks deeply flushed, her body pressed up against his, and oh, it was so utterly improper, and oh, he would have been such a liar if he said he wasn't enjoying it.
"I…didn't know you could dance so well," she said, a bit breathlessly.
"Well," he murmured, his gaze involuntarily dropping to her pink, parted lips, "when the mood strikes…"
A few idle plucks of fingers on guitar strings brought Austria back to reality, where he remembered that there were these things called manners, and he promptly disengaged himself from her, clearing his throat and clasping his hands behind his back for good measure. "You really should get back to your chores, Hungary," he said, so officially he wondered if it didn't come out sounding a bit brusque. "I apologize for taking up your time."
Hungary nodded a bit dazedly and dipped into a wobbly curtsy. "Y-yes, sir." Swallowing, she turned, and managed to be a little more graceful about it the second time around. "Mr. Spain."
Spain gave her a lazy salute, a crooked smile, and a cheerful wink. "Always a pleasure, Señorita Hungría."
Hungary laughed a little, self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ear, retrieved her duster, glanced once more at Austria, blushed furiously, and practically fled from the room. The heavy chamber door reverberated shut.
Spain swung the guitar off his lap and stood it upright, in between his legs. He layered his hands over the head and propped his chin on top. "Now," he said, grinning knowingly at Austria, white teeth flashing in his swarthy face. "Wasn't that fun?"
Austria leveled a dark look at the Latin branch of Habsburg territory, and couldn't decide whether he wanted to kill him, or kiss him.
-----
A/N:DON'T DENY IT, AUSTRIA. YOU WANT TO KISS HIM.
Also, SpainxHungary: WHY IS THERE NOT MORE OF THIS PAIRING?I'm convinced she could dance the shit out of a flamenco.
Some head-canon clarification: The only times I believe nations actually marry is when the official country names reflect that union—so like Austria and Hungary became Austria-Hungary, Poland and Lithuania became the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and, if they existed in Hetalia, the Czech Republic and Slovakia would have been married during their time as Czechoslovakia. So, despite how it's pretty much considered cold, hard canon, I don't think Austria and Spain were ever officially married (I always chalked that one comic where Austria tells Spain he won't permit bigamy as being For The Lulz—this is a gag comic, after all), and instead see their relationship during that time as something more like a close business partnership. (But hey, that's just me. Feel free to call bullshit on my head-canon. XD)
The ländler is an Austrian folk dance that originated sometime around 1750 (anachronisms FTW!), and is generally considered one of the precursors to the waltz—it's in 3/4 time, and parts of it are even danced in a closed position. (It was actually featured in The Sound of Music, albeit in a very choreographed form.) I'd like to think that by the end of Austria and Hungary's dancing of it here, they're doing something very similar to the close whirling you'd see in an actual Viennese waltz. (Because I'm a big, secret sap like that, and think dancing can be incredibly hot.)
Lastly, hooray for taking a break from angst and writing light pieces every now and then. :D
All other Hetalia fanfics can be found here.
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Romance, humor.
Characters/pairings: AustriaxHungary, with massive SpainxAustriaxHungary undertones.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,100 (excluding notes)
Summary: Spain, the Country of Passion, is here to help you get over your romantic inhibitions! (Or, Austria proves that with the proper incentive, he can be thoroughly improper.)
Period: When Spain was still ruled by a branch of the Habsburgs, so sometime before 1700.
"Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire."
—George Bernard Shaw
Austria was, admittedly, not one for swearing. It was vulgar and crass and wholly ungentlemanly—suitable for, say, someone named Prussia, but a practice that Austria considered himself to be completely above.
Still, even he had to admit that sometimes a select curse or two could convey all the emotion that a well-worded diatribe could not, and could do it succinctly, to boot. So:
Damn Spain. Damn Spain and his sunny disposition and charming personality and, most of all, damn his utterly shameless dancing. The ländler was supposed to be jaunty and informal, yes, and was certainly not meant for the courts, true—but it was not supposed to be obscene.
Even worse than all that, though, was that his dancing partner didn't seem to mind it at all—even seemed to be enjoying it.
It had started innocently enough. He had been catching up with Spain, scraping away at his violin, when his guest had suddenly jumped up and professed a desire to dance. Poor Hungary had been dusting the frames outside the music chamber when Spain had gone hunting for a partner, and he'd merrily hauled her into the room and onto the floor with barely enough time for her to drop her duster.
They had danced a couple minuets, a couple allemandes, which had been all well and good—and then Spain had suggested something 'less courtly.' Rather than be reduced to simply snapping his fingers for one of Spain's infernal flamencos, Austria had tapped into his remote mountain towns and channeled the ländler.
On the one hand, it was a delight to see Hungary dance it. She had a lovely liveliness that had always suited the spirit of the country-sides better than the reserve of the courts in his opinion, and, if her wide, brilliant smile was any indication, she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
On the other hand, she was thoroughly enjoying herself with Spain, who was just a little too friendly and charismatic, and who was holding her just a little too near when the dance called for a closed position.
Austria frowned, and almost wished he was rude enough to stop playing, right then and there, mid-measure. Perhaps he should have gone with the flamenco after all. As flirtatious a dance as that could be, he seemed to remember that there was no physical contact involved.
Spain spun Hungary around passionately, and she laughed very prettily. Austria tried not to break his bow, and couldn't help but wonder how upset his government would be if he violated peace treaties.
Finally, eventually, after what must have surely been an eternity, the song drew to its end. Spain bowed deeply, Hungary responded with a pert little curtsy, and Austria didn't think he'd ever been so happy to stop playing a piece of music.
"Ahh," Spain sighed, "that is more like it. Something fun and vivacious!" He smiled a hopeful, roguish smile at Hungary and held out his hand. "Another, please?"
"I think not," Austria said, before she could answer, and at the sharp tone in his voice, the both of them looked over. Pointedly, he set the violin down on his lap.
Spain pouted. "Ay, how cruel you are, Austria, to deny your spouse!"
"We're not married!" Austria snapped, for what was surely the thousandth time since the union between their ruling houses. "Our respective royalty did—there's a difference!" Hungary, he noticed, was trying so hard to not break out into a delighted grin at the conversation, she was practically eating her own lips. As it was, her cheeks were a very pretty pink, and her eyes were bright and mischievous, and—
She glanced at him, and he nervously jerked his gaze away.
Austria huffed, and occupied himself with placing the violin back on its stand. "You may have forgotten, but Hungary is a maid, who has work to attend to." At the words, her eyes slid guiltily over to her forsaken duster. With one half of the dancing couple taken care of, Austria turned back to Spain. "As do we. I seem to recall that you came here to discuss finances, yet we've done nothing of the sort." He hardly relished the prospect of work, but at the very least, it was a convenient excuse to fall back on.
Spain blinked at him. "Dios mío!" he suddenly exclaimed, slapping his palm to his forehead. Austria hoped this meant Spain had knocked some sense into himself; that hope died with the next words out of his mouth. "Of course! Here I am, hogging the lady to myself when no doubt you'd like a turn!"
Austria flushed. "That is not what I said—!"
"And who wouldn't, when such a wonderful partner is available!" Spain went on, gesturing demonstratively. He waggled his eyebrows at Austria and grinned an idiotic, suggestive grin.
Austria huffed again, and rose to his feet. "Now see here—" he started, all prepared to launch into a lecture on responsibility—but it was then that Spain whisked him into his arms, completely breaking the composure he had so recently regained.
"Ahh, can you not feel it, reluctant spouse of mine—"
"We're not married—!"
"—the rhythm, the grace, the passion—"
"—and I am certainly not dancing with you—!"
"Can I call in Italy to sketch this?" Hungary chimed in, a little too excitedly. Quickly, she added, "To chronicle this important point in Habsburg history, of course." (Perhaps, Austria thought, some of his diplomatic wiles had rubbed off on her after all these years.)
Mustering what dignity he could, he shoved Spain away and tugged his waistcoat straight. "That is completely unnecessary."
"Completely unnecessary because he's now going to be dancing with you!" Spain veritably sung the words, scooping an arm around Hungary and corralling her over with such fervor that they almost collided. She blushed profusely, and Austria had the sneaking suspicion he was just as red.
"Um," he said, very eloquently.
"Where is that guitar I gave you?" Spain called from across the room. Returning to his senses, Austria shot him a withering glare—a withering glare that landed right on Spain's posterior, as he was turned away and bent over, searching through instrument cases.
"I burned it," Austria said flatly. Or else he would, after today.
"Ah! Here we are!" He hauled the guitar over, took a seat, and gave it an experimental strum before fiddling with the tuning knobs. Austria suddenly, acutely, realized that this was actually happening. He was actually going to dance with Hungary. It was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking, and, oh God, why couldn't he have a pair of gloves on? He was sure his palms were beginning to sweat.
When Spain started playing, Austria found himself very grateful for all the decorum that had been instilled into him over the past centuries: Automatically, he offered his hand, and, feeling more aware of his sense of touch than he perhaps ever had, Hungary took it. And before he knew it, they had begun.
Alright, he conceded after a few bars. This wasn't so bad. It was even…nice. Very nice. One might even say 'heavenly.' As the head of an empire, he purposefully kept a certain distance between himself and those nations under his rule. It was only prudent, after all, when one wanted to cultivate a sense of authority (this, Austria often suspected, was Spain's biggest mistake when it came to Romano, but trying to convince him of this was like trying to get France to practice celibacy).
Such behavior was prudent when it came to politics, perhaps, but a perfect nuisance when it came to personal relationships—and as much as he tried to ignore it, or even outright deny it, he liked Hungary. It was almost a shame she was such an asset to his house, because sometimes Austria wished he could go to a state affair or a society ball and be able to dance with her, as an equal, just once.
So this, this was the closest he'd come to having that wish granted. And, admittedly, a music chamber wasn't a ballroom, and the ländler was no court dance, and Spain certainly wasn't a chamber orchestra, or even a string quartet, but he was dancing with her, actually dancing with her, with all the twirls and tangled arms and—
Austria missed the beat, and his boot just barely avoided Hungary's foot. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't that he had suddenly lost all sense of rhythm, but that the Iberian idiot on guitar was speeding the tempo up.
"You're going too fast!" he snapped.
"Don't be so stodgy!" Spain called back. Teasingly, he added, "If you can't keep up, perhaps you'd like me to take over again?"
Austria absolutely refused to dignify that with an answer.
He had since come to grips with the fact that he was not a great fighter by any means. Still, there was some brash, competitive streak that still existed in him, that served to make his dancing almost as much a duel with Spain as it was a duet with Hungary. There was something to prove here. A challenge to be met. And so Austria ground his teeth and boldly threw himself into the pace Spain had set. This was his own folk dance, after all. No finger-snapping, flamenco-loving fool was going to show him up at it.
He dipped, and spun, and held her closely, possessively, because, alright, yes, he'd been jealous of the brazen way Spain had put his arms around her, and Hungary's skirt flared wildly out about her legs, and her breath hitched, and their eyes caught, and Spain played skillfully, furiously, passionately, damn him, and—oh no, Austria realized too late; he was in completely over his head.
The music was too fast, and their momentum was too great, and Hungary was set on a collision course with a music stand. In a desperate, last-ditch attempt at damage control, Austria grabbed her around the waist, and, just as the song reached its climax, they descended into a flurry of close whirls.
Somehow, they slowed to a stop that managed to be vaguely elegant, and with one final, flourishing strum of the guitar, it was over.
Spain set the instrument down on his lap. "Bravo!" he shouted, clapping gaily. "Bra-vo! I'm impressed, Austria! Who knew you could be so unorthodox?"
Austria couldn't answer. He felt positively dizzy from all those turns and had the sneaking suspicion he was swaying. Hungary actually pitched to the side, her hands instinctively clutching at his sleeves for support. She had managed to keep up with him, but apparently just barely.
"Oh, dear," he said contritely, trying to steady her, and failing spectacularly. "I'm so sorry about all of this." They stumbled rather drunkenly, and he ended up with his arm tightly around her, just barely keeping the both of them on their feet. After a moment, the room stopped spinning, and Hungary blinked up at him, green eyes wide and luminous, her cheeks deeply flushed, her body pressed up against his, and oh, it was so utterly improper, and oh, he would have been such a liar if he said he wasn't enjoying it.
"I…didn't know you could dance so well," she said, a bit breathlessly.
"Well," he murmured, his gaze involuntarily dropping to her pink, parted lips, "when the mood strikes…"
A few idle plucks of fingers on guitar strings brought Austria back to reality, where he remembered that there were these things called manners, and he promptly disengaged himself from her, clearing his throat and clasping his hands behind his back for good measure. "You really should get back to your chores, Hungary," he said, so officially he wondered if it didn't come out sounding a bit brusque. "I apologize for taking up your time."
Hungary nodded a bit dazedly and dipped into a wobbly curtsy. "Y-yes, sir." Swallowing, she turned, and managed to be a little more graceful about it the second time around. "Mr. Spain."
Spain gave her a lazy salute, a crooked smile, and a cheerful wink. "Always a pleasure, Señorita Hungría."
Hungary laughed a little, self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ear, retrieved her duster, glanced once more at Austria, blushed furiously, and practically fled from the room. The heavy chamber door reverberated shut.
Spain swung the guitar off his lap and stood it upright, in between his legs. He layered his hands over the head and propped his chin on top. "Now," he said, grinning knowingly at Austria, white teeth flashing in his swarthy face. "Wasn't that fun?"
Austria leveled a dark look at the Latin branch of Habsburg territory, and couldn't decide whether he wanted to kill him, or kiss him.
-----
A/N:
Also, SpainxHungary: WHY IS THERE NOT MORE OF THIS PAIRING?
Some head-canon clarification: The only times I believe nations actually marry is when the official country names reflect that union—so like Austria and Hungary became Austria-Hungary, Poland and Lithuania became the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and, if they existed in Hetalia, the Czech Republic and Slovakia would have been married during their time as Czechoslovakia. So, despite how it's pretty much considered cold, hard canon, I don't think Austria and Spain were ever officially married (I always chalked that one comic where Austria tells Spain he won't permit bigamy as being For The Lulz—this is a gag comic, after all), and instead see their relationship during that time as something more like a close business partnership. (But hey, that's just me. Feel free to call bullshit on my head-canon. XD)
The ländler is an Austrian folk dance that originated sometime around 1750 (anachronisms FTW!), and is generally considered one of the precursors to the waltz—it's in 3/4 time, and parts of it are even danced in a closed position. (It was actually featured in The Sound of Music, albeit in a very choreographed form.) I'd like to think that by the end of Austria and Hungary's dancing of it here, they're doing something very similar to the close whirling you'd see in an actual Viennese waltz. (Because I'm a big, secret sap like that, and think dancing can be incredibly hot.)
Lastly, hooray for taking a break from angst and writing light pieces every now and then. :D
All other Hetalia fanfics can be found here.
