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Dance

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She stands on his feet at first, her little heeled shoes abandoned under a chair, her toes curled up tight in her stockings. As much as Romana tries to play the proper little lady she's unused to the finery of her new clothes, of all the people the court has in it. The Spanish spoken tonight is too fast for her to understand, or at least that's what she claims. Belgium nods his head and believes her, or seems to and that is enough to appease her.

They dance alone, having absconded to a smaller room, close enough that the music can still be heard, but away from prying eyes that hunger for gossip. They dance and it's a slow lazy waltz that has no proper steps. Romana's weight on his toes is barely noticeable through his shoes and Belgium holds her like the sister she is, slowly easing her into each step. He hums softly in time to the light strains of the violins and her head nods once, twice, before the forehead presses against his torso, Romana clearly worn down from the night.

With slow steps he guides her to the settee, nudging her onto it. When her protests start ( "I'm not tired Belgio, I'm not" ) he laughs and hushes her ( "Well maybe I am, little one" ) and with a small huff she settles. In minutes she's back to dozing, shifting until she leans against him, her eyes half closed. Another protest ( "I'm just... resting my eyes... " ) and another chuckle as he shifts her so his thighs become a pillow for her little head. Carefully he plucks jewelled hair pins from her hair and listens as the music continues and her breathing becomes even as she drifts into sleep and he relaxes. She is a warm weight and he combs fingers through her thick curls, smiling as she murmurs softly in her native tongue.

Spain finds them an hour or so later, and distrust flickers across the stronger nations face before being masked quickly. Belgium says nothing, lets Spain think what he will, and stays where he is as the man approaches. Even if he wished to move Romana's weight would stop him, the young girl having curled up, the tip of her thumb near the edge of her mouth. She's so peaceful, a total opposite to the seemingly endless energy she shows in the day, energy that is expended on beating up the local boys and not the majority of her chores.

Spain's face softens as he looks down on her, as it always does. Belgium knows, that even if his feelings for this little sister nation were more romantic, he would never stand a chance. Even as Spain refuses to admit it, the Empire loves the little girl, and will never give her up to anyone.

He wonders what will happen when Romana does what all colonies do and leaves. How much will Spain's seemingly hidden temper destroy in a quest to claim her back. How much blood. How much money will he sink into claiming, owning Romana.

Belgium's thoughts are disrupted as Spain lifts Romana from his lap, carrying her close to his chest. Without a word he leaves, and Romana sleeps through it. In the morning a maid will wake her and face a brat, but for now she is an angel. A dark haired, tanned skinned angel. An angel that will never belong to him.

Spain's angel.

Never Belgium's.

When Belgium finally goes to his room, the bed is cold, and his mind still thinks of the little nation he has become so dangerously attached to.