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Poland — Feliks — is known for his grudges (paranoid and overly suspicious, some laugh; cautious and prepared, he says). He hates and hates and hates until there is little more of him that is not an inferno of fury, though not everyone can see that. They know he snaps at Russia, at Prussia, at Germany, and they… understand that, to a certain extent. But sometimes, he raises his hackles at Austria, and they don't bother to remember that to him, he's not much better than the former three. And God forbid he snarl at England, at France, at America, at anybody else, because how dare he believe they have ever hurt him, ever contributed to the pain his people had been put through? They fought for his freedom, the West will say, wiping their hands and history books of what they had done (or not done, rather), while the East of Europe buys him another bottle of vodka because they can actually understand, in some capacity.
There is, however, one should-be grudge that never quite stuck — not for any longer than an exhausting conversation filled with tears and apologies and explanations lasted, at least.
Hungary — Erzsébet — has always been an exception to the very core that makes Feliks, to the morals and standards he holds most dearly to his heart. He could speak hours, days, about why, but ultimately, it boils down to the simple things:
They are siblings, through sickness and in health.
Well, alright. They weren't born (created? Neither of them can recall a parent, but it is a mystery how Nations come to be, even to them) brother and sister. They do not share blood, or language, or culture. They do not even share borders, anymore.
But that does not matter, because they saw each other for the first time, a boy with silky hair dressed in jewels and a girl with dirt on her face and a sword in hand, and they decided, this is who I'm going to protect. Sure, there were bumps and bruises here and there — bordering countries in Europe did not get by without waging wars on their neighbors, after all — but it was all so relatively minor, in the end, that they simply patched up each other's wounds, took some time and space for themselves, and then… well, then they tried again, until it worked and they were suddenly attached at the hip, much to the chagrin of their bosses and caretakers when they snuck out for unscheduled meetings that could last for weeks if they weren't dragged back home by the ears. And by then, it did not matter if their kings decided to lead wars against each other, if they decided to break off all diplomatic relations and hate each other for generations — because by then, when Poland and Hungary were together, the world fell away, and they were just Feliks and Erzsébet, two kids that did not quite fit into what was deemed proper but would never make serious attempts to follow rules they couldn't care less about.
And maybe it's strange, that Feliks would forgive Erzsébet in a heartbeat for things that make him see red when done by others. And maybe it's strange, that he's closer with Erzsébet than Tolys, who he lived with and loved for two centuries, a time that the few years he spent in a union with Erzsi pale in comparison to. And maybe it's strange, that he's always preferred her over his blood siblings and cousins, even when they were just children. And maybe it's strange, that he, who lives off of the hatred burning in his veins, can ignore his anger without a single argument just because she asked.
He does not care.
He does not care, even when the Nations around him ask in disbelief about their Friendship Day. He does not care, even when England and France and anybody else he does not hide his grudges for get red in the face trying to figure out why Erzsébet gets a pass for things they are hated for. He does not care, even when others tell him their relationship is be impossible and surely, they're lying about how much they care about each other.
He does not care, as he pours two glasses of wine and crosses sabres with Erzsébet, love and laughter in their eyes and hearts.