man idek Romana/Canada
Fire and ice. Two lonely nations, overlooked by brighter louder siblings. Canada doesn't know what drew him to the pretty Italian woman with the temper, because it wasn't any of those things. He wouldn't say it was like to like, though they are similar. Not on the surface of course, but deep within they share the same sentiments. They take care of those they care for. They dream of recognition. And perhaps most similar of all, they are underestimated.
For it was the way she handled herself in war and battle and times of adversity that really caught his eye. He had seen her as a child, when he was still the property of France and she of Spain. Her pigtails and proud manner had made him shyly smile, too young to get crushes, just settling quiet admiration. Now she was a woman, tall, gorgeous, and with legs that certainly drew her fair share of stares. Of course he only realize that afterward, back home. In person, it was her eyes that drew him. They were beautiful and had outward cold cruel edge to them, like she could cut right through you without a pause. Yet somehow he felt the warmth, the love and the shining overwhelming pride. She had a possessive protectiveness for her people that he could understand and the way she'd do anything, just anything for those she loved...Well. It was an understatement to say he had a crush. He did have a thing for strong women.
When the wars died down and there was enough calm to go traveling again, Rome was his first stop. His hesitance on her doorstep wasn't just him being shy, he reasoned. They hadn't spoken since they were small and even then it had been just the basest of greetings before he had been wrapped up in her game of 'Empire' and silence had been demanded of the colony. Would she even want to speak to him?
It wouldn't be off to say he was nervous, but he was practically devastated when her door had opened and the lack of recognition he was so horribly used to passed over her face. He could see the words forming, the quiet 'who' dangling unsaid in the air, when her expression both hardened and softened. He would never be sure how she managed that, to look curiously happy to see him and wary of him all at once.
"Canada. France's old colony. What are you doing here?"
"Aha, a vacation? I've always heard Rome was a nice spot?"
She huffs and turns back inside and he can almost hear the door creaking forward to slam in his face --oh why hadn't he just called ahead-- but her voice is warm even if she tries to claim an imposition.
"Tch, I wasn't expecting guests but Venezia is out. Do you want something to eat? Idiots, always dropping in unannounced. If you'd called ahead, I would have gotten something together."
"Oh Romana, you don't have to do anything really-"
The sharp look thrown over her shoulder silences his token protests and her hands have somehow taken his coat and bag and set them in a closet before he can think and she's busily pulling things out of cupboards and drawers. She looks like she's feeding twenty, not two, but he doesn't comment on that.
A tomato halfed, then quartered and chopped is more interesting. Basil torn in hand, bread toasted over an open flame. Master of her kitchen, as alive and breathtaking in her mundane tasks as in war. She lifts her eyes to catch him staring and it'd be pretty how she flushes and then throws harsh words his way if he wasn't embarrassed. A gentleman never stares.
England never did teach that lesson very well, he muses as he watches her profile, admiring the curves. He supposes gentlemen never met Romana.
For it was the way she handled herself in war and battle and times of adversity that really caught his eye. He had seen her as a child, when he was still the property of France and she of Spain. Her pigtails and proud manner had made him shyly smile, too young to get crushes, just settling quiet admiration. Now she was a woman, tall, gorgeous, and with legs that certainly drew her fair share of stares. Of course he only realize that afterward, back home. In person, it was her eyes that drew him. They were beautiful and had outward cold cruel edge to them, like she could cut right through you without a pause. Yet somehow he felt the warmth, the love and the shining overwhelming pride. She had a possessive protectiveness for her people that he could understand and the way she'd do anything, just anything for those she loved...Well. It was an understatement to say he had a crush. He did have a thing for strong women.
When the wars died down and there was enough calm to go traveling again, Rome was his first stop. His hesitance on her doorstep wasn't just him being shy, he reasoned. They hadn't spoken since they were small and even then it had been just the basest of greetings before he had been wrapped up in her game of 'Empire' and silence had been demanded of the colony. Would she even want to speak to him?
It wouldn't be off to say he was nervous, but he was practically devastated when her door had opened and the lack of recognition he was so horribly used to passed over her face. He could see the words forming, the quiet 'who' dangling unsaid in the air, when her expression both hardened and softened. He would never be sure how she managed that, to look curiously happy to see him and wary of him all at once.
"Canada. France's old colony. What are you doing here?"
"Aha, a vacation? I've always heard Rome was a nice spot?"
She huffs and turns back inside and he can almost hear the door creaking forward to slam in his face --oh why hadn't he just called ahead-- but her voice is warm even if she tries to claim an imposition.
"Tch, I wasn't expecting guests but Venezia is out. Do you want something to eat? Idiots, always dropping in unannounced. If you'd called ahead, I would have gotten something together."
"Oh Romana, you don't have to do anything really-"
The sharp look thrown over her shoulder silences his token protests and her hands have somehow taken his coat and bag and set them in a closet before he can think and she's busily pulling things out of cupboards and drawers. She looks like she's feeding twenty, not two, but he doesn't comment on that.
A tomato halfed, then quartered and chopped is more interesting. Basil torn in hand, bread toasted over an open flame. Master of her kitchen, as alive and breathtaking in her mundane tasks as in war. She lifts her eyes to catch him staring and it'd be pretty how she flushes and then throws harsh words his way if he wasn't embarrassed. A gentleman never stares.
England never did teach that lesson very well, he muses as he watches her profile, admiring the curves. He supposes gentlemen never met Romana.