Work Text:
poland, june, 1568
Lithuania swills the last of his mead in the cup and tips it back in one.
Poland's off somewhere in the crowd, perhaps doing tricks to charm ladies or telling exciting tales of his exploits to a crowd of children - when it comes to making merry, he is unrivalled.There are always eyes on him, in the torch light, how he dances like a mystic and moves like a prince, hair flying loose of its ties and hands bare from gloves, stretched up to the ceiling.
Lithuania has watched him, many times, feeling a tug low in his gut.
Then, suddenly, there are hands clapping down on his shoulders from behind, and Lithuania damn near drops his cup as Poland plops down beside him, twirling thin golden hair around his finger. He's troubled to make out his words over the din of drunks and music, but the message is clear enough when Poland stands and takes his hands to pull him closer.
Dance with me.
So Lithuania comes along, stumbling, to the middle of the hall, where the hearth fire's heat is strongest, amplified by eagerly living bodies around them, slowly forming a line and a circle as the band plays a new tune.
"That fellow isn't half as good with a lute as you are," he murmurs against Poland's ear, and gets a reedy laugh in response.
"Yeah. We all know how much you enjoy my hand's work, Liet."
He has the decency to flush, opening his mouth to protest but Poland is gone, skipped over to whisper to the man readying his flute.
The tune changes. Poland must have asked for a fast one, because people are clapping and he's back, grinning from ear to ear.
From there, it's a blur.
Blurred lines and bodies and Poland moving around him, laughing, dancing, their feet quick and voices rising in song - arms interlocked as they twist and turn. Poland is magnificent like this, twirling and brilliant bright, doing the most impulsive stunts and jumps. Lithuania lifts him by the waist and he shrieks with mirth, eyes twinkling and full of promise. It goes on and on, the rhythm, the trilling falls and leaps, the torches and candles flickering, gilding their faces and joined hands in gold.
Lithuania is terribly, dreadfully, irrevocably in love.
They sneak away as the troubadour strums up another storm, still hand-in-hand and giggling as they slip out by way of the kitchen. Lithuania's not drunk, but he might as well be with the way he clings to Poland's arm. He's taken off guard when Poland turns and pins him against the outside wall, an arm slipping 'round his waist and mouth pressed firmly to Lithuania's own.
"Hey there," he laughs when they part, running a hand into Poland's soft hair.
"Good evening, sir. What brings you outside on such a lovely night?"
"Oh, just the loveliest of gentlemen. He asked me to dance, and now, well, I believe he's about to woo me."
Poland giggles against his neck.
"You are so right. C'mon."