Author's Note: You know when you write something on a whim and then you forget about it? That's what this is. I don't know why I wrote it and I don't know when I wrote it, but I came across it today on my hard drive. I am "okay" with it. It could be worse and it could be better. It is what it is. Let me know if you come across any horrid mistakes.

Warnings: Slash. Weak ending. Historical liberties, language liberties, etc. I tried to keep them relatively in character, but eh.

Salt

"I remember when you played for me."

Austria closed his eyes and his fingers paused above the keys of his piano. He knew that voice, though he hadn't heard it in such a long time. Spain. Spain had taken the time to study and learn his native language and so spoke with such a strange accent. He used to find it endearing and had been strangely pleased when he learned of Spain's intentions. Their marriage had been one arranged by their leaders and Austria had resented it. Spain accepted such an alliance as he did nearly everything: with a cheerful smile and a promise to do his best.

"Do you remember, Roderich?"

Of course he remembered! During the earliest days of their alliance, Spain would often ask him to play. Austria would play with annoyance while Spain sat beside him in cheerful obliviousness. He didn't think Spain realized how much he resented their alliance. As soon as Austria would finish, Spain would beg for another piece. If he didn't play quickly, Spain would attempt to play his own music, with clumsy fingers and a determined face. Austria never could stand that for long.

Spain slipped down to sit on the bench beside him and offered him a tired smile. Austria didn't like that kind of smile on Spain. The tired smiles reminded him of their last years together. Spain's visits had been few and far between. Whenever he did chance to show up, he was always so tired and weary. But he could always manage a smile. Austria almost found it annoying. Insufferably annoying.

"Could you play for me?"

Obviously Spain had not been keeping up with his German. His accent was ridiculous and he had trouble discerning his words. Spain's fingers lightly touched the keys of the piano, but he did not play. Austria's jaw was set firm and he couldn't tell if he was annoyed at this intrusion or angry that it had taken Spain so long to visit. Despite their differences and awkwardness of the first months and years of their union, he had come to enjoy all the time Spain would spend with him. Spain had been true to his word – he did try his best to please Austria. He learned the language, attempted to adopt the customs and fashion, tried the food and it was only after their union ended that Austria realized he did not reciprocate in kind. Austria never attempted to learn Spanish, found Spain's customs and fashions distasteful, and the food was too bizarre. And Spain never once complained.

"What do you want to hear, Anton?"

That was another marked difference. Spain always called him 'Roderich' in the German fashion. Austria always called him 'Anton' and never 'Antonio.' Spain never said a word about it. Roderich didn't even know why he asked Spain what he wanted to hear. Spain's answer was always the same.

"Play me something beautiful."

He could play the scale, one note at a time, and Spain would call it beautiful. He used to take Roderich's hands and kiss his fingers after he played. 'Beautiful,' he would say. 'You are beautiful.' Roderich would call him obnoxious and push him away. He had secretly enjoyed such compliments from him and he was fairly certain that Spain realized this. Spain had always touched him, offered compliments and endearments, and Austria never did the same. Spain's smile never faltered, of course. If anything, Austria's aloofness only increased Spain's advances and desires. But he would always stop when Austria told him to and never pushed.

Austria huffed, trying to sound annoyed, but he really didn't mind this. His fingers glided over the keys effortlessly and he wasn't entirely sure what he was playing. But Spain sighed contentedly and he rested his head against his shoulder. "Yes. Just like this," Spain murmured.

"Don't sleep," Austria said. What was the point, though? This is often how they used to end up – Spain would come and ask for a song, then fall asleep. He couldn't blame him, though. During those last years together, Spain had always seemed so exhausted and unhappy. If his playing brought him even the smallest amount of comfort…

Spain chuckled against his shoulder and lifted his head away, mumbling a half-hearted apology. He didn't know why Spain bothered with apologizing. No matter how many times Austria would tell him not to sleep, he would end up dragging him to bed. He was convinced that Spain did this all on purpose. He had come to expect and even desire those moments between them, but now he wasn't sure what to think.

"Why are you here, Anton?"

This visit was entirely unexpected and unannounced. He could not recall the last time the Spaniard had visited his house. It had taken some time for him to forgive Spain for joining with Prussia and campaigning against him. But that was such a long time ago. They were all different now, Spain especially. His head found Austria's shoulder again. "Wanted to visit," he said. "I have been feeling…nostalgic."

Pah. Spain nostalgic? That was something rarely seen. Spain, like most of them, had a glorious past. But he never seemed to dwell despite all the hardships he faced after the downfall of his empire. So, what had happened to draw Spain back to him? His head on his shoulder was…somewhat comforting, a reminder of what they shared so long ago. "Ridiculous. Why are you here, Spain? Hm? Speak up."

Austria's fingers stilted on a single note and he wondered why he was so angry with Spain. Was it because he showed up unannounced, a break in his carefully constructed day? No. He was adept at handling such distractions and incorporating them into his schedule. No, he was angry because Spain had taken so long to visit. Angry that Spain came into his home and treated him as if nothing had changed.

"Please play for me, Roderich."

Spain's smile was gone and his head was bowed. Austria immediately felt guilt take deep root within him. Spain was in some distress – something had happened and he knew that the Spaniard would probably never tell him. He tended to internalize negativity and presented an ever positive and happy face to the world. Austria thought it unhealthy and it had broken Spain in the past. But he felt strange knowing that Spain had come to him in this low moment. Spain looked to him for comfort and peace. Why? Didn't he have France or Italy Romano to turn to for such things? "Please," Spain murmured and he slid his hand over his. Austria relented and began to play once more – a softer piece now. How long he played was uncertain. Spain relaxed against him, growing so heavy with sleep that it was nearly impossible to play.

Finally, Hungary appeared at his side and her hand was gentle and warm on his shoulder. Ah. He allowed himself to get lost in the music, to waste time wallowing in the past. "Help me with him, Elise," he said quietly. She smiled and nodded, carefully closing the lid of the piano as he shifted Spain into his arms. She went ahead of him, opening doors and turning lights on for him as he carried Spain through the house. How many times had this happened in the past? Hungary had been there, too, in those days since past. She led him to his own room, to the very bed that he shared with her – and that he had shared with Spain so long ago.

"The guest room?" he said as she drew the covers back on the bed.

She shook her head. "They aren't prepared." That was a lie, though. She ran his house with a structured efficiency. The rooms were always prepared and ready for guests. He did not question her motives and gently moved Spain from his arms to the bed. The Spaniard sighed and immediately curled on his side.

Hungary laughed lightly and went to pull Spain's boots off, but Austria took her hand. "I will. Thank you, Elise." He always would do this – make Spain comfortable. Why he still had such a desire…Pah. He kissed her hand gently and she smiled.

"Good night," she said. Did she think he would sleep with Spain? He would take a guest room once Spain was settled. She left just as quietly as she arrived and closed the door behind her.

Austria allowed himself a moment to study Spain and he reached out to rub those uncharacteristic wrinkles around his eyes. Stress and illness were always so telling on Spain's face, especially in these moments of unguarded sleep. He moved his fingers through his hair and marveled – it still felt the same, even after all these years. Spain sighed and Austria moved his hand away. He worked his boots off and set them carefully by the bed. He rose, knowing it pointless to cover Spain with a blanket. He never slept with covers if he was alone. He would, though, when they shared a bed – for that was what Austria wanted. Why Spain always gave in to Austria's wants and desires was a mystery to him. Spain was always seeking to please and placate him.

Spain's hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist. "Don't…don't go," he said. "Stay with me, please."

Wasn't this how it always was? This was always how Spain got him to stay – with those pathetic words and incessant hands. He couldn't resist him. Austria gently pushed his hand away and shrugged his coat off and draped it over the headboard. His boots were placed right alongside Spain's and he slid into the bed. Spain smiled sleepily and Austria took him into his arms. "Just like this…" he heard him murmur. Spain pressed his head to his chest and curled his arms tightly around his body.

Yes. This was how it always ended. Was this Spain's goal all along? Austria knew he should be angry and feel used, but not with Spain holding onto him with such a quiet desperation. What had happened to him? He wished Spain would tell him but knew he would never hear his hardships. So, he sighed deeply and gave into this comfort. How easily it was to slip into these long forgotten roles…

But Spain was gone in the morning and that was something he actually did expect, though it was unlike Spain to wake so early. It was as if Spain had never been there. Now Austria was angry. How dare he leave without an explanation? Without telling him? Without…saying good-bye? Austria tried to cast his anger aside. He didn't need Spain and didn't desire him. But why this anger? He tore through his household with Hungary fluttering nervously behind him.

"Be gone!" he snapped and regretted his sharp words for pain twisted her fair features. He burst through the doors of his music room and there on the lid of the piano was a tomato. It was so absurd that he nearly laugh. He gripped it tightly in his hand and turned it around. He'd recognized Spain's poor penmanship anywhere. And he really should work on his German. He spelled 'thank you' incorrectly. Damn him. Damn him and his stupid tomato.

Austria hurled it through the air and it splattered pleasingly against the wall. Damn Spain. Damn him for coming in here, for waking this feelings inside of him, and then leaving as if…as if…

He threw the lid of the piano up and slammed his hands down on the keys. The sound was horrid to his ears and he was so angry that he couldn't even play. Damn Spain. He didn't know how long he sat at his piano, his head bowed, but then Hungary was there. Her hand was on her shoulder again and she pressed a warm cup of tea into his hand.

"Thank you, Elise. And…I'm sorry for overreacting," he said. She simply smiled and sat beside him at the piano. And when she began to play, he rested his head against her shoulder and sipped his tea. This was how it always was and always will be, no matter how much Austria tried to steel his heart, to shut away that lingering affection for a man long lost to him. Hungary's fingers slipped to strike the wrong key. Austria sighed and set his tea aside. Yes, he affirmed as his hands settled beside Hungary's. This was how it always was and always should be.