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It is to the sound of hushed voices that Austria wakes, arguing voices to be precise; although the tones are not loud, disagreement is evident in the way they cut across each other. This is somewhat strange, for such muffled sounds would not normally wake him, but this does not yet cross his mind as before any semblance of thought let alone deduction can commence it's pure feeling, of dark ire, that floods through him. His mind is furious at being pulled from its rest, eyes heavy and sore in protest though they have barely even begun to open.
Nothing is wrong that he needs to be disturbed with - he would feel so ahead of them all if this were the case – and as such he’s on the verge of going to give them a piece of his mind, citing respect and courtesy and are they not supposedly professionals?, when they are saved by a new person, their hissed words curtly silencing them all; soft footfall fades away, and it is peaceful once again.
Honestly.
“You are so cruel when you wake,” Spain would often tell him, warm body curled around his back, imparting the words straight into his ear lest he tried to pretend he did not hear.
Spain had come to know him too well.
“We cannot all greet the dawn with such open arms,” he might eventually respond, on the occasions when he mustered enough effort to propel the words from his mind into the open.
“Cannot, or will not?”
“Hush,” and he would be irked, if only briefly, to feel a familiar smirk curve into the nape of his neck, to see that infuriating yet enthralling glint in those green eyes without needing to look. “The day does not need us for quite some time yet.”
And sometimes Spain would indeed cease, letting him sweeten in peace, and other times he would not, finding pleasure in riling him up in his morning fog.
Even so, he always managed to forgive him.
(He would not have to, anymore).
The reality seized at his chest so, painfully reminding him that he lay here alone, but no - it would not do to dwell. He was used to this, their existence, as living breathing beings of history.
History moves along, and they must too.
He must rise now in fact, despite his bodily displeasure, for now he feels the true hour of the day in his bones. No wonder he had woken - it was rather overdue. The heavy drapes serve their purpose well in keeping bright light at bay, but too well, perhaps, for this is not the first morning he has slept long, undisturbed, without Spain to rouse him. So ornate they are too, almost brashly, but such was the persuasion he’d succumbed to; if his spouse were to share his quarters should he not have a say in the décor?
Personally, he preferred to save their finest for spaces where eyes would appreciate it, because they would hardly take notice in the dark, not least when they slept.
But then that was a curious thing about Spain; he could count on one hand the number of times he had witnessed him sleeping. No matter how much he tried to remain awake after him, Spain simply never drifted away first. Always full of tales to share, desires to reveal, for their future and also, the more carnal kind…he had wondered many a time if Spain ever slept at all.
Glory seemed to be his elixir, voyage and victory fuelling him through night and day, ice and fire, and all the seasons in between.
“Or perhaps it is you who runs in my veins, my husband - my love, my earth and soul, my-“
He had kissed him only to stop the endless spouting.
Don’t remember. The fonder the memory, the sharper the hidden thorn.
Perhaps it would be easier to be angry with him instead. After all, if it were not for Spain’s embracing of the early hours, his later waking now would not appear as he dreaded it must; tardiness. He suspects this is what the earlier commotion related to, whether they should wait for his call to be seen to, or take initiative to check all was in order with their liege.
Whoever had said to wait had been the wise one.
There is nothing of grand importance on the cards today, but he has duties, responsibilities, to attend to nevertheless. Even if it does seem a chore merely thinking about dressing, the garments upon garments this entails.
It had come across to him that Spain had relished such rituals. He took pleasure in preparing both himself and Austria alike for the world, adorning them with a touch (or two, or three) of gold and jewels here, newly tailored materials there, admiring their finished selves with a flourish of pride that truth be told, had seeped into his spirits also. Just look at us, he seemed to say as he held himself tall, turned to hold their gaze, unwavering.
“Look at us now,” he’d said full of bitterness in a dusk towards the end, sat on his haunches as they took seclusion beneath knotted bark and veiling branches, “at the whim of these mortals who always know best.”
“Don’t,” he’d said as softly as he could, Spain’s tone sinking like lead in his stomach.
“How can I not? You may have always said this would one day be inevitable, but still I did not expect this to be so easy for you!”
“Don’t you dare,” he’d hissed this time, “don’t you dare be like that, now.”
He could see him physically stopping himself, jaw clenching tight, restraining that mouth that was equally if not more than capable of being as cruel as he himself was so often accused. But not this time. It was all he could do to rest his hand upon Spain’s, hope it would convey what did not fit into words, to stroke the gold band resting beneath his own that was always so warm on Spain’s skin, as though it weren't soon to be removed.
That's enough he decides once and for all, throwing off the sheet, standing and stretching.
To the day ahead he must go.
He slips the ring off his finger and into its box, places it back under his pillow, until the night comes again.