Taking Steps

Summary: Nyotalia Austria & Hungary, historic.

Hungary wondered if Austria ever really expected the carefully laid stone paving in the garden to be spotlessly clean. There was literally dirt everywhere, no matter how carefully Hungary tread the ground. Even Austria could not possibly be annoyed with him.

"Herr Hedervary?" It was as though the very thought had summoned her. "May I speak with you?"

The wording was ever so polite, but Hungary knew it for the order it was.

"Coming," he called, and made doubly sure he didn't track anything in when he returned to the mansion. It wasn't his, but he took a quiet pride in its appearance all the same. After all, he was the one who tended it. He had long since overcome the bitter years of chafing under Austria's reign.

A glance through ornate double doors left open to take advantage of the mild breeze proved Austria awaited in the salon. She was sipping tea, as prim and collected as ever. Surely she heard Hungary's boots upon the wooden floor, but she never looked over. It would be a few moments yet before her servant and ally would truly approach. Hungary knew better than to keep her waiting, but even beyond that, knew it was more important to look respectable. Austria suffered him the time required for a quick wash of the hands, combing of the hair, and a change of shirt and vest.

"One never knows," she had once said, ages ago, her tone frosty and her violet eyes iced over to amethyst, "when important guests will visit. I will not have you disgrace this house."

Since Hungary had at one point done just that -- rushed in to serve tea after exercising some of the mounts in the stables -- he learned it was a sore point for his mistress. To his shame, he had deliberately exploited it as a form of rebellion. To his credit, he never made such "errors" anymore.

With a glance in a mirror, Hungary tied back his hair, and then joined Austria in the salon, standing at a sort of parade rest. "Fraulein Edelstein," he said, "forgive my tardiness. You called?"

Austria nodded; the apology wasn't necessary, but it was proper. She was glad they could work so well together.  What she intended would never have worked had Hungary still been indignant at her ownership of his territory. She wondered, though, if Hungary was aware he was smiling at her. She even wondered at herself for noticing that detail.

"You may sit," she acknowledged, setting aside the fine teacup. This time she didn't notice Hungary's expression: he was surprised. It wasn't often she began an exchange by inviting him to be, at least physically, at her level. Even more surprising: she poured tea for him. She did it gracefully; she did almost everything gracefully. And she was no stranger to tea service; if nothing else, she regularly served herself while Hungary tended the grounds. But she had never, ever, personally poured for him.

Hungary said nothing as he accepted cup and saucer; he was dumbfounded. It didn't matter, since Austria spoke again.

"Herr Bonnefoy will be hosting a gathering at one of his emperor's palaces," she began. "We will be attending, of course."

Hungary nodded above his cup, then sipped. It would hardly be the first time he had accompanied Austria to a ball or other fete. He knew his place, even if he gave a purely mental sigh for it: he would be there as proof of Austria's dominance. He had long ago stopped bristling at this. At least it was a chance to catch up with some of the less stuffy countries. England always vascillated between being a gentleman and a downright brute; it was, admittedly, amusing.

"...and so you will be learning to dance the minuet," Austria was saying. "I also have it on good authority, namely my own," she added, with a rare lilt of humor, "that the waltz will take this continent by storm."

Of all people, Austria would have the best feel for music. If she said the waltz was to become popular, or even all the rage across Europe, doubtless it would be so. Hungary could not even fault her considerable pride. It was, after all, a dance of her origin.

But he was mildly shocked, because... well, it was a shocking dance -- for Austria. And he was to be her dancing bear? He swallowed his protest.

"Italy knows the minuet," he mused aloud instead. "As does Spain." Actually, Hungary thought, he might not mind learning steps from Spain. She was easy-going -- when she wasn't in one of her hyper-religious moods -- and vivacious. She even knew a great deal about Austria; perhaps he could glean something more than dance patterns. "Shall I pack?"

But Austria quashed those plans with a shake of her head. Hungary also noticed the furrowing of her brow; it wasn't present a moment ago. What had brought that on?

"No," Austria said crisply. Then she repeated it in a more gentle tone. "No. Herr Hedervary, do you remember when you gave me lessons, yourself?"

"Dancing? Never. How could I? You are the musician."

"No," the aristocrat said again. "Not dancing, of course." She smiled faintly, then looked away. "In combat. How to handle a bow; how to shoot a rifle properly."

Austria looked away, of course, because the memories of those lessons -- not so long ago -- could make her blush. Not only was it a reminder of how weak she'd been, but it was also a reminder of how very, very close Hungary had stood with her, adjusting her stance and her hold, teaching her to aim; lending her his cloak as darkness fell in those terribly frightening woods; mounting up behind her when he thought she might be so exhausted she'd fall out of the saddle. /That/ was a mortifying thought -- falling out of the saddle, that is. In her own way, she was as accomplished a rider as Hungary was in his. Even he, descended from the horsemen of the steppes as he was, had been impressed. But she remembered she hadn't protested when he swung up behind her.

Hungary remembered all of this, too, and blushed faintly, himself. He gave it -- and Austria's -- time to fade as he concentrated on his tea. He recognized, now, how excellent a prop the porcelain cup was. Clever Austria.

"Of course," he finally said, keeping it simple.

"I owe you a good turn, then," Austria replied, violet eyes meeting green once more. "And it may as well be the turns of the dance. I shall teach you, myself."

This time, Hungary almost dropped the cup. Austria, holding back well-bred dismay that he should come so close to ruining furniture or clothing, elected to ignore the shocked expression. She felt, however, that she was blushing again.

"It will be no trouble," she assured him in a murmur. "And this way, I will be sure you have the steps right." And sure that Spain didn't take advantage. Or worse, steal him. She knew the other fairly well. After all, they had been allied and more, at one time.

But this was not where she wanted her thoughts turning.

"We will begin tomorrow evening," she decided.

"Y-yes," was all Hungary could say. Electing to take those words as a dismissal, he finished his tea and left.

~*~

The next day was a whirlwind of activity for Hungary: he vigorously cleaned, worked off the edge of nervous energy with weeding, put hot-blooded stallions through their paces in the training rings, and finished a dozen more tasks in record time. Then he raced away: he approached Italy to ask for help. It was ridiculous, in a way; Italy was a "teenager," and had been fairly incompetent as a child, but he had proven to have a voracious appetite for the arts -- indeed, even for music, and even Austria would enjoy listening to him sing, and she had acquired some of his paintings for her home. He was the only one Hungary could turn to. Thankfully, he lived close by, and had come at Hungary's summons.

"Ve, Hungary! It is good to see you!" The charming young man swept the older in an enthusiastic hug, and Hungary couldn't help but chuckle as he returned it.

"You're growing up nicely," Hungary complimented the Italian, and it wasn't even a lie. He was adorable as a child; he was handsome as a (very) young adult, and he had certainly started to come into his own, even if he still seemed a bit lacking in the intelligence department. He was friendly and he was loyal, and that was what Hungary needed: a loyal friend.

"I'm sorry to rush," the Magyar continued, "but I need your help, and I need it right now; I have to get back to Austria soon."

Italy's expression turned fierce. "Anything!" he immediately promised.

"Teach me something about dancing. Anything at all." Hungary had had plenty of occasion to learn about music, even music theory; Austria played every day, after all. He'd even watched her dance with others at those balls and galas, with a certain sort of wistfulness. He'd never participated, himself.

Italy's mouth was a gaping 'o' for a few long seconds, and then he laughed. "Absolutely! Come!" And he grabbed Hungary's hands. For whatever reason, Italy had immediately assumed he, and not Hungary, was going to be playing the part of the woman.

Some things never change, Hungary thought.

He studied. Intently.

~*~

That evening, after a shorter dinner than Austria -- although not Hungary -- had anticipated, the two retreated to change into their respective garb. Once again Hungary stared at himself in the mirror. He was puzzled; he was worried.

"Dress festively," Austria had said, with a certain inflection, a subtle emphasis that, after decades, Hungary was able to interpret. Dress traditionally. Well, so be it. He didn't have much reason to trot out traditional Hungarian  decorations. But /why/ had Austria requested it?

With a slow shrug, he tied his hair back once again. It was the third time he'd adjusted it.

"Enough," he told himself aloud. He left his quarters for the ballroom, the fringe ties of his boots whisking quiet accompaniment to his brisk steps.

Austria was already waiting; she was sitting at the fortepiano, running her fingers over the keys in complex arrangement that, Hungary knew, was new. She was forever composing, but he hadn't heard this particular piece before. Then the music stopped; she'd either heard his footfall or seen his shadow thrown by lamplight. With a quiet scrape of the piano bench she rose and turned toward Hungary, smoothing her dress in a familiar gesture.

Her dre--

Her... dirndl?

For the second time in as many days, Hungary was thunderstruck. He knew his mouth gaped, but he couldn't close it. Since when? Since when did Austria ever wear traditional folk costume? He didn't even know she owned such a thing!

He snapped his jaw shut when Austria laughed. He heard no malice in it, however; only delight. It, too, was musical. Hungary cleared his throat. He had no prop, no teacup to hide his flush, but he thought the bow he executed might suffice, and that he'd done a fair job of composing himself by the time he straightened.

"You... ah, your dress... it is lovely." Maybe he hadn't done as good a job as he thought.  At least he wasn't the only one who blushed. Austria nodded her thanks, and her cheeks, he thought, were rather pink.

"And your costume is grand," she replied. "How come you never wear it?" she wondered.

"There was no cause," he answered honestly. "I am in the house of the Hapsburgs, now, not my own land. You told me to dress appropriately."

"Hm," said Austria, the smile that had followed her laughter fading just slightly. Nonetheless, she was not displeased or distressed, and she gestured for Hungary to meet her in the center of the ballroom.  "Thank you for joining me," she continued. "Are you ready?"

Hungary thought of his rushed lessons with Italy. "I hope so." He paused, and then got around to wondering, "Why are /you/ dressed like..." He was fishing for something that wouldn't insult aristocratic sensibility.

"...like a peasant?" Austria supplied, surprising him. "Hungary," she said, softly, "Not all of my people, not even most, are nobles. Have you noticed the beauty of the mountains? The people are beautiful, too -- and so is their music. Therefore I will dress appropriately for this dance, one of their own."

True, Hungary thought. The mountains, the people, the music, and the woman who embodied all of that and more, were beautiful. He wondered if he should say as much.

"We will not start with the waltz, but rather, its forefather. These are the steps..."

She went through them, partnerless, as Hungary watched with fierce attentiveness. He kept getting distracted, though; Austria never showed so much as an ankle, before. It took some getting used to.

"Yours are similar, but not exact, of course. Each gender has a specific role." Nonetheless, Austria performed even Hungary's part flawlessly. He hardly expected less, given her musical affinity. "So. Let us take the first few bars, and begin."

Hungary hadn't realized there would be so much... contact. The first touch sent a shock through him; he'd actually pulled his hand back, and even Austria was hesitant for a moment after that. But then he'd offered his hand again, as instructed. She took it, and she taught him.

He hadn't thought he'd react as he did, but he, once a puissant warrior and horseman par excellence, quietly confident and competent in all he did, turned into a bumbling, clumsy, gawky schoolboy. Try as he might, he could not get the steps: he twisted his ankle, he almost tripped and narrowly avoided dragging the both of them down in a heap, he turned the wrong way, he bumped into Austria with stammered apologies, and he even once -- much to his horror -- stepped on her foot. He was ready to call it quits after that, but a stern look -- and a reassuring squeeze to his hand -- stopped him. It hadn't been like this with Italy...

Grimly, doggedly, he got through the dance, and let his shoulders slump in relaxation. It was over and done wi--

"Again."

He had the temerity to heave a sigh, for which Austria smartly smacked him on the shoulder. Hungary supposed he should be glad she didn't carry her riding crop during the instruction. The only reason she didn't, he figured, was because it wouldn't be appropriate to the dance or the costume. The thought made him smile.

Austria didn't know why her dance partner -- well, student -- was smiling all of a sudden after his disastrous performance. But she admired his dedication, and she did sense a certain level of relaxation after that smile. With it came some ease of movement; he made fewer mistakes that round.

Her next strategy, once Hungary learned the steps -- however horribly they were performed -- was to remain silent; the other country was to correct himself. Austria would pause, and Hungary would realize he'd done something wrong. He would have to backtrack, perform the correct sequence, and only then could they continue. It was an exercise in patience. If she hadn't had to watch so closely, she would have closed her eyes to avoid rolling them or glaring. As it was, she learned a great deal of control, herself, that evening. She could not deny, however, that with each repetition, Hungary was getting better. In fact, she was surprised he adjusted so swiftly. If he continued at this rate, he would be an excellent dance partner. Perhaps she wouldn't have to worry about their future performance. In fact, he might progress to the point where other countries would vie for the chance to dance with him.

Her brow furrowed.

Hungary immediately paused, figuring he had done something wrong. His eyes grew a little distant as he retraced the steps, and then he, too, frowned a little. He couldn't recall making an error, and was puzzled.

"Music," Austria dissembled. "It suffers for the lack of it. Run through the steps; I will accompany." She sat at the piano, closed her eyes, and let the music soothe her. Only belatedly did she remember she was supposed to be watching Hungary, and looked over her shoulder. He seemed unsettled at first, but then held his arms to the appropriate gestures, and started moving through the steps. This time he didn't have opportunity to retread and self-correct; she wouldn't pause the song.

"This is torture," Hungary accused. Austria smiled sweetly, and increased the tempo in response.

By the third go-around, Hungary himself was humming the melody, although Austria had to stop herself from wincing when he went flat. Even when she stopped playing, he continued, having associated certain steps with the musical phrases -- which was exactly as it should be, after all. She rejoined him.

Hungary was determined to get it right this time. As soon as he decided this, of course, he misstepped and bit back a curse. Austria didn't even react, and he took heart from that, relaxing -- somewhat -- in time for the under-arm turn sequence. The criss-crossing very nearly made him dizzy, but he got through it without evidence of distress save for sticking out his tongue in concentration, which very nearly made Austria giggle; thankfully, she didn't embarrass the both of them.

The tempo slowed, and the dance came to its conclusion. Austria, pleased, smiled up at Hungary. She gave his hands another light squeeze, this time in approval.

Hungary waited. The next move was to step back and bow, but Austria had not initiated it by retreating to curtsy. Unsure of what to do, he continued to hold her hands -- or was it that she held his? -- and simply looked down at her.

"Well done," she quietly commended him. "Now, ready to waltz?"

Hungary groaned, and Austria laughed again.

"Very well. I shall take pity on you, and we may both retire," she said, violet eyes sparkling in good humor.

She was about to step back. But before she could, Hungary leaned down on impulse to kiss her cheek. He was in the middle of murmuring his thanks for the lesson when he realized what he'd done.

He was crazy; he could have kicked himself. He should kick himself. Here he was, servant in her house, treating her as though the both of them were of the peasant class they dressed as, and he'd snuck a kiss at a festival while their parental chaperones weren't attentive.

Both of them blushed crimson, staring at each other. It was the aristocrat who looked away first, reclaiming her hands and bringing one to the jewel resting low on her throat, fiddling with it nervously.

"You overreach yourself, Daniel," she whispered. Then Austria bobbed the very briefest of curtsies, finally remembering to do so. She retreated, head held high.

Hungary never did bow, or even reply. He just stared after her, unvoiced apology in his eyes. He was dumbstruck as he watched her sweep out of the ballroom, trying to remember how many centuries it had been since she'd called him "Daniel."

And trying to ignore how good it had felt when she whispered his name.