Or, what happens when the hearts of nations are united by treaties.
§
Sister cities were not an uncommon phenomena for France. Across his many centuries of living, he has formed close bonds with many neighboring nations due to them. His earliest relation was with Germania back in the 9th century, when Paderborn and Le Mans became twins. Since then, he has matched with Russia, Spain, China, Canada, and — begrudgingly — England. He's even had sister cities within his own borders.
However, none of these towns meant as much to him as Paris, his heart. France embodied his nation's capital as much as his nation's capital embodied him. Every breath one takes in the city of lights is full of France; every sigh from France is filled with the smoke that floats from balconies and cafés alike. So, it was no wonder his strongest bond was created in 1956 when Paris became the sister city of Rome.
The representatives of the whole nation of Italy are funny little things. One represented the North, while the other — the elder brother — represented the South. Of course, both of them could not have Rome as their heart, so they were named accordingly. As the younger brother, Veneziano was to be of Venice, while Romano was to be of Rome.
Unions between sister cities are typically pleasant, with official government meetings where the two nations exchange greetings. The partnership between France and Romano was expected to be no different. Perhaps it would have been, if it weren't for one small issue:
Romano really does not like France.
§
“Why the Hell do I have to go?” Romano complained from the couch, dressed in only the underwear he slept in. “You like that perverted bastard far more, and we're both Italy!”
“Fratello,” Veneziano sighed as he finished pressing his older brother's suit on the ironing board. “We've been over this. You represent Rome and everything south of it. It's your heart that's being united with Big Brother France's, not mine. I wouldn't ask you to go if Milan was getting a sister.”
“Like I would ever agree to represent that mess.” Romano chuckled, only to be smacked by Veneziano.
“Be nice!”
“Fine, fine! I'll go!” He rubbed the back of his head, pouting at his brother. “But I'll be damned if I let that creep look better than me.”
§
France, unfortunately, did look better than Romano. Not to say he didn't look great — even Spain would attest he was breathtaking, if he were around — but it was nigh impossible to match the glimmering radiance France so effortlessly exuded. His hair was loosely tied up in a soft, indigo ribbon; he wore a lavender dress shirt with a deep blue vest cinching his waist; white dress pants perfectly framed his legs, almost clinging to his thighs. If Romano weren't such a petty man, he might even compliment France on his outfit. Alas, he is, so instead he stood grumbling profanities under his breath, while the press took photos of the two sitting at a conference table.
“Mon cher,” France began, a twinkle in his eye and a flirtatious grin on his lip. “There are cameras around, surely—”
“If you tell me to smile old man, I will rip your ballsac off and shove it down your throat in front of the global news media.”
France froze for a moment, as if he could ever forget how turbulent his favorite Italian was, and glanced around at the politicians excitedly talking to one another. It was obvious that despite nearly a decade since the France-Italy treaty was signed, Romano was not warming up in the slightest. Their respective government officials, however, seemed closer than ever and continued attempts to strengthen their relationships. He pursed his lips in thought, weighing out his options to solve this dilemma.
Pens hit paper and France felt his heart swell. For a moment, he deluded himself into thinking he could hear Romano's heart, his feelings, as well as his own. With these delusions, he reached under the table to grab the ever tightening fist Romano had clutching — ruining — his burgundy pantleg. For once, the fiesty nation did not startle, as if this was normal, as if it was a comfort. As if he expected it.
“Would you like to join me for lunch?” France whispered against Romano's ear. “All these stuffy suits make me want to sob terribly, and I cannot fathom letting anyone take a photo of my ruined mascara.”
Another first: Romano actually laughed at France's dramatics. “I think you could stand to be a little less pretty.” He hesitated, almost surprised by his own ease. Gracefully, he tacked on a quick “Bastard.”
§
The brain and the heart, although working in harmony most of the time, are mortal enemies. Romano often found his organs at war with each other, especially when it involved relationships. Logically, he knew that France was terrifying and he very much remembered how unsettling his obsession used to be. His heart, on the other hand, was guided by the people of Southern Italy and with them came a longing desire to be near France, to spend time with him, and — God forbid — be nice to him.
Over the years, their friendship strengthened, their bond grew deeper, and by the mid 70s they were nearly inseparable. Romano would occasionally act like he still hated France, like their monthly dinners together were a chore, like every phone call was a waste of time and money, like sitting next to France at NATO meetings was the worst possible place to be, like he found his perverse fingers repulsive when they caressed his inner thigh.
By the mid 70s, he knew better than to deny all these complicated feelings to France's face, as their hearts were united and beat in harmony. There was a mutual understanding between them, whether either liked it very much or not. At times, it felt as if the whole world washed away and left only the two of them, their two cities, their two hearts.
By the mid 70s, Romano knew he didn't have to tell France that he loved him.
