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Prussia was fully aware of the cultural impact that France began to have on certain parts of his territory over the centuries, even if political relations were tense or relaxed indefinitely, with enlightened despotism beginning to wane on the European continent and its endless quarrels.
The reign of Old Fritz only made it more evident how some beliefs and old legends that he had never paid much attention to were slowly seeping into his very core, revealing feelings and desires he didn't know he had inside him. It was a sign that the poets and musicians of his homeland were beginning to think outside the box, and perhaps he was facing a new wave of creative sentimentality, threatening like a cautious river about to overflow.
It wasn't really a problem for now, nor was it exclusively Francis' fault and Gilbert knows that. But he needed a scapegoat to blame for the sudden pang of curiosity that had brought him here: right in the heart of the Mediterranean, at the time of year when winter was not yet over but the flowers were blooming anyway.
The church bells began to ring shortly before the sun revealed itself on the horizon of Terni, much earlier than he had expected, but that didn't stop him from enjoying the morning spectacle of February 14.
Gilbird seemed to chirp with joy on his shoulder as they walked through the streets with the same caution as an elephant in the middle of an opera. As the streets gradually filled up, he watched some children running around chasing each other and getting up after falling to the ground, women in modest veils whispering as they kept their fingers busy with embroidery, and hooded men running back and forth carrying heavy boxes full of fresh fruit.
Perhaps some talented painter would be able to capture the beauty in this everyday life that he was currently unable to describe, probably because of the time he had spent on the battlefronts of the north lately.
Gilbert continued walking through the city, finding examples of Baroque and Renaissance style on every corner, his hands behind his back and his steps slow, as if every movement contained all the tranquility in the world. Some people stopped to look at him from time to time, and he responded to their gesture with a big smile on his face. After all, not all mortals will have the opportunity to see the awesome Kingdom of Prussia at least once in their lives, and he will honor them with the knowledge that they were noticed by such a wonderful presence.
The bird on his shoulder began to sing as Gilbert whistled cheerfully.
“You love this place as much as I do, don't you?” He said aloud as he approached the cathedral.
The children looked curiously at the animal and, according to his basic understanding of the language even with this new accent, seemed to ask his permission to touch the bird. Some seem more interested in the medals on his uniform, a sudden memory of Holy Rome doing the same thing comes to mind, and when it disappears so quickly that he doesn't have time to process it: a smile has already escaped from him again.
As he was about to open his mouth to show off each one, a strong hand pulled him by one of his shoulder pads from behind, forcing him to turn around and look the guy who did it in the face. Who dares to...?
“Stop talking to it, patata idiota. You'll start scaring the old ladies who come to mass.”
Wow! How lucky he is... The cities in central Italy used to be frequented by both Vargas brothers, and although Feliciano is one of the most beautiful people he knows, it is always a pleasure to see the piercing eyes of South Italy and their wonderful combination of brown and olive green. Even though his brow is furrowed and his lips are grumbling, his hand does not move from his shoulder.
The Italian, who is dressed like a member of the church choir, continues to look at him expectantly, giving him some time to answer. Prussia tries to be prudent and looks away so that the gears in his brain can start working properly again, and with all the pain in the world, he brushes his fingers against the warm hand that held him back, only to pull it away. The other nation seems to relax at the gesture.
“Hehe. Lovino... I'm sorry for…”
“Romano,” He corrects him.
“Right, Romano. Sorry for the commotion. But you can't expect the kids not to be amazed by someone so awesome!”
Although he closes his eyes before laughing, Prussia can still feel Romano's annoyed gaze on him.
“I don't care, you bastard! Tell me, what the hell are you doing here?”
What an... interesting reaction. But to tell the truth, Gilbert is already being put in an awkward position so soon, and that's not what he wanted at all.
“I'm here as a tourist!” He replies, smiling more smugly, even for him. “Come on, you can't kick me out when I've just arrived... Have you become so unwelcoming?”
Romano crosses his arms and finally lets out a sigh, almost a pout.
“I'm not kicking you anywhere yet. But I can't let you cause a scene before the Mass of the city's patron saint.”
There was a point in their existence when they saw each other every time the Teutonic Knights passed through these territories on their way to Rome, seeking to renew their spiritual legitimacy before the Pope. Although one or two of them decided to visit other cities on the peninsula. Gilbert did the same from time to time, enjoying sitting near the port at sunset and the sparkle in Lovino's eyes as he recounted the adventures of a knight's life.
The image of the southern Italy churches was etched in his mind with affection, sometimes above other more luxurious temples he knew, which he began to despise a little after the Lutheran Reformation.
If he were still a Catholic nation, he might appreciate them more.
“Are you trying to accuse me of heresy? I thought those discussions were long gone...”
Gilbird decided to fly somewhere else in the square and the children followed him, leaving them completely alone in the middle of the street, with nothing but the Mediterranean winter breeze lifting Lovino's hair from time to time. He looks really charming, even with his fists clenched and his gaze still insistently tense.
“I'm just asking you not to make a damn fool of yourself right now, it's that simple.”
His attitude hasn't changed in centuries, what a surprise. And although he has learned to enjoy that look of apparent contempt, he misses his modest smiles, so precious and difficult to bring to the surface, like gold.
“I don't intend to ridicule the customs of your people, on the contrary. Just let me see, okay?”
He takes one of Lovino's hands in both palms, praying not to startle him with the gesture that says: “I don't want to spend all day listening to France and his interpretation of those sickly sweet verses he has to exchange with England”
Romano almost screams as he pulls away, but the slight reddish hue appearing in his ears makes Prussia think the risk was worth it.
“Fine! You don't have to cry like a baby or make those stupid eyes of yours look sad. Just keep your mouth shut while the priest is talking.”
Another victory for the already extensive list of the awesome Prussia!
“Don't you want to show me the city after that? It would be so kind of you.”
Suddenly, the expression of utter annoyance softens until it disappears, replaced by a certain surprise at the request.
“I think my brother knows this city better than I do, but...” He frowns again, but it disappears in a matter of seconds. “Fine, I'll show you around.”
Gilbert can't remember the last time he felt he had such a stupid smile on his face as the one he gives to Romano once the Italian turns his back and tells him to just follow his footsteps to the cathedral.
In the temple; the darkness enveloped him like a physical substance, the incense burning with a density that permeated the entire place, in the same way that faith spreads. Lovino told him to sit in one of the front rows while he went to the choir and that he would wait for him outside the building once the mass was over.
Blending in with humans wasn't really complicated if you managed to go unnoticed, and although the bright blue of his uniform clashed with the more sober tones of the locals and the more refined clothing of the ecclesiastical staff, no one seemed to pay much attention to it.
Romano also blended in perfectly with the choir throughout the liturgy, his voice bringing a special harmony to the choir that could only be explained by centuries of practice, a feat impossible for an ordinary man and a sound that perhaps deserved to be remembered for eternity.
When the ceremony began, although it was not as delicate as he had expected, it was still moving. The images were not light allegories as in other times and places remembered, they were martyrs with open wounds and steady gazes, the kind that achieve immortality in the human mind.
Then the priest pronounced the name of the saint being celebrated: Valentino.
Prussia snorts at the thought of how Claudius II believed that single men without families made better soldiers. To believe that men who did not fall in love fought better... Did he experience so little affection in his life to came up with such a conclusion?
In the other hand, the name of the saint wasn't pronounced in the same way that English and French poets whisper, but as one names a witness. The priest spoke of the emperor, of the prohibition, of holy disobedience, and of those couples united in sacred secret. He mentioned the act as a challenge to unjust power and as an affirmation of the divine order over the human order, an action as noble as it was divine.
Prussia felt a slight shudder when he saw Romano in the distance again, so unusually peaceful.
During the first half of this century, love was spoken of at Frederick II's court as a subject for ironic verse, for brilliant wit, and for elegant disputes, but always with a line drawn between passion and the soul, with enlightened thought elevating reason above the desires of the heart.
When was the last time he saw someone marry for love?
Of course, for nations, love did not work the same way it does for humans.
Mortals have always been more volatile, more passionate, and more cruel, but their lives are short, and no one should blame them for wanting to squeeze the vast range of sensations within them before their time comes and they rot like fruit after their season. The subject of marriage is also a problematic one. Depending on who you ask, it can be little more than a political strategy, a moral duty, or, in rare cases, the highest symbol of love for another soul.
And often, the mere fact of loving someone is not sufficient justification for marriage. This is more common among nations, whose marriages are only celebrated for reasons of political alliances.
But Prussia has loved before, that much is certain. Although he never did anything about it; he had loved the Knights Templar, he had loved Hungary, he may love Veneziano and now...
Romano is glaring at him when he notices that he is not kneeling to pray.
Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini.
The voice echoes within the sacred walls.
Qui fecit caelum et terram.
And the cathedral itself, it's people, somehow responds.
He resumes the proper position and moves his lips to the rhythm of the verses in Latin, but without making a real sound, only pretending until his presence is lost again. He observes a young woman crying silently. It does not seem to be mere sentimentality, but something deeper and more ambiguous, like hope and fear intertwined like swords in a duel. Next to her is a man, probably her fiancé, who stands with his back straight, as if about to swear before an invisible court.
He knows that Saint Valentine was not as revered as the protector of lovers in the land where his life and myth originated, but perhaps there was something about him that inevitably ends up being associated with love. Probably the influences that Italy has absorbed from time to time from northern Europeans are beginning to have other long-term effects.
His gaze instinctively sought out Romano again, who was once more singing with that beautiful voice of his to the delight of those present. Who would have thought that someone who shouts and insults like a drunken fool would have such blessed vocal cords? He laughs to himself at the thought and suddenly feels a warmth in his chest.
He wasn't quite sure what he was doing here, in the middle of a Catholic mass dedicated to a city saint after years of living under Protestantism. He had forgotten the striking contrast. His role as a spectator felt somewhat out of place, and yet he was enjoying it a little.
Sancte Valentine, martyr et pastor fidelis,
intercede pro nobis apud Dominum.
Custodi civitatem nostram et familias nostras,
et dona nobis pacem et caritatem. Amen.
The priest had spoken of Saint Valentine's martyrdom not as a tender or sentimental story, but as a saint who preferred the sword to denying a marriage blessed by God. He spoke of his act as one of resistance, how joining in marriage was to challenge the power of the emperor and was to compromise life itself, although he admitted that this particular priest seemed to have a special contempt for excessive authority itself. Gilbert watched as some couples received a special blessing and thought about how he saw them out of the corner of his eye walking across the square, with Lovino by his side.
Then the singing returned one last time, and Prussia decided he needed some fresh air. As he stepped outside, the bells rang again, and the midday light seemed too bright, forcing him to turn toward the nearest column that offered some shade. The square was full of merchants and artisans shouting and laughing, as well as couples who did not touch each other but walked as if they shared a secret heavier than any French-style gallantry, a complicity as intimate as that of soulmates.
And then Romano returned, no longer wearing the liturgical choir's clothes, but the simple clothes of an ordinary peasant. Deep down, he had to admit with some embarrassment that it suited him well.
“And?”
“What?”
Any gesture of kindness Lovino might have shown him just seconds ago vanished in that instant.
“What do you mean, «What»? Stronzo! You were the one who said you wanted to go to mass.”
“I know! I know! Give me a moment,” Prussia takes a step back as a precaution, noticing Gilbird flying closer once more, perhaps just to see his misery at seeing his owner treated with such sudden hostility. “It was… Good, it's the first time I've spent Valentine's Day in a mass dedicated to him... And it's the first time I've seen you singing in a liturgical choir.”
The Italian calms down a little with that, enough to sigh wearily.
“I don't do it often, you just arrived at a bad time.”
Why is he putting his hand to the back of his neck? Is he embarrassed?
“I mean it,” He says, laughing softly. “Let's have a drink and then show me the city like you promised.”
Romano hesitates, but finally gives in, and once again, they are walking towards each other.
Terni was not a big city, not compared to the monumental density of Rome or the courtly refinement of Naples. It was an Umbrian city, nestled in a fertile valley crossed by the Nera River and surrounded by rolling hills dotted with olive groves and vineyards. Although it was winter, the day was clear enough for the sun to bathe it in its unabashed splendor.
Romano's voice rises above the constant sound of water running in the background, the metallic blows of a blacksmith, and the occasional song humming in the distance, telling him about past ruins and people from the town he knows. Despite his usual bitter attitude, he enjoys boasting about the cultural wealth that he and his brother share.
There are traces of medieval architecture here and there that he hadn't noticed when he arrived, the streets seem narrower than before, and Lovino seems to notice his distraction.
“I still don't understand what you're doing here.”
Neither do I. But that's the stupidest answer he could give to him right now.
“What? Can't I take break and make you some company?" And that's a way to put it, honest enough not to tell the most blatant lie in the world, but without compromising anything he wants to keep for himself.
“Ugh... Of course, you just had to ruin my day. Jerk," Lovino says it suspiciously, and that makes Gilbird cry a little, while Gilbert has no choice but to bite his tongue and move on, he knows that Lovino doesn't want to feel tied down either. The rope that holds up this politeness is very loose. It is better not to speak than to risk breaking it, so they continue with their walk.
The city is quiet overall, which is perhaps why the Italy brothers don't have to worry about stopping by here so often. But despite the older brother's words, it's clear that they both know it well. Romano leads him to an osteria in the heart of the village.
The door opens with a sharp creak, a blast of cold air enters first, then they do. Inside, the light is low and yellowish; a large fireplace dominates the back wall, above which hang utensils blackened by smoke. The fire crackles irregularly, casting shadows that stretch across the stone walls, and a smell somewhere between strong wine and burnt wood floods his senses.
The tables are long and shared. He can see men with rough hands holding clay jugs, speaking in the Umbrian dialect, quickly, with short gestures. In front of them appears the innkeeper, a sturdy man with a wine-stained apron. He doesn't seem to pay much attention to Lovino, but he sizes up Gilbert for a few seconds.
“Chi è questo?” He asks.
“Uno dei miei conoscenti.” Romano replies for him, and the man stops asking questions and points them to a table on the side, somewhat secluded.
They serve them wine in a simple jug. It's rougher than he's used to, but it's still as good as his favorite wine, a Italian one —he'll never say that in front of France— He drinks it slowly, watching the nation next to him take his own sip of the drink.
He can't help but notice how the freckles on his cheeks look like stars.
“Hehe... Who would have thought we'd be having such a nice time together, Roma.”
Gilbert stretches out in his seat, as if he wants to get everyone's attention on purpose.
“You snuck into the city's mass,” He replies dryly, but with cheeks flushed from alcohol. Wait, why does he already have two more empty jugs next to him?
Prussia shakes his head, amused by how exasperated he looks.
“That's not the point, tell me... What would you be doing right now if I hadn't come to delight you with my awesome presence?”
He rocks back and forth in his seat in an attempt to get more of his attention. Despite that Romano just looks at him like a monarch looking at the court jester trying to surprise him with his witticisms.
In a deeper level, he knows him well enough to know that, in some way, they both feel quite lonely. Neither of them will ever admit it.
“I would literally be doing anything else that doesn't involve looking at your face. And I'd probably be having more fun! Bastard...” He bangs hard on the wooden table and Prussia swallows nervously.
Well... That didn't turn out the way Prussia wanted it to.
“We can still do these things, maybe I'll stay a little longer and make you some company.”
Lovino raises an eyebrow before finishing another jar of wine.
“Does this have anything to do with that writer who has grown tired of my brother's cities and is now heading to my part of the peninsula?”
Prussia can't help but smile. Something about that man tells him that he will do something that will shake his and his brother's lands to their very foundations in a humanistic sense, but he can only wait and see if it actually happens.
Right now, it's something else that drives him to be here.
“Perhaps... But the truth is that your history and your topography have always captivated me. It's not his fault,” Gilbert drinks the last of the wine in his jar. “Is it really so bad that I simply want to get closer to you?”
Suddenly, the world stops spinning and time refuses to move forward. If it weren't for the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his ears due to the sudden deathly silence, he would think he had just died.
“I'm not in the mood for your nonsense.”
“It's not nonsense,” Prussia complains under his breath before ordering another jar. “Forget it. I got carried away by the special date.”
Romano looks at him intently, his lips trembling before he starts to speak. His eyes begin to shine a little more than usual before he looks away.
“It's not the same here as it is up north.”
And that's why he loves it.
“What a disappointment. I thought we were already on a date.”
Alcohol has a powerful effect on Lovino, and the laugh that escapes him after hearing that comment echoes endlessly in Gilbert's chest, warming him inside until he melts so tenderly.
“Idiota. That is the kind of thing my brother likes... Don't do that to me,” Romano shakes his head, while his frown turns into a slight expression of apparent disappointment and then a fleeting smile, all in less than a minute. “Hearing the priest talk about the legend got you too excited, didn't it?”
Romano is a little drunk, enough to let his guard down and take away his neuroticism, but not too much to become a cannon about to explode.
“I like stories about Ancient Rome, whether they're true or not. I think all nations aspire to have the brilliance that your grandfather once had,” He's being strangely honest today and may indeed more sentimental than usual.
The Italian's gaze softens a little.
“Bah, it doesn't matter. With the passing of the centuries, I find it harder and harder to remember,” Romano sighs, his elbow on the table and his cheek resting on his palm. “He once told me how Lupercalia was celebrated... Despite preceding this day, that date was much more…”
“Wild?” he asks, with another of his big, mocking smiles on his face.
Lovino frowns and taps him on the shoulder.
“Scandalous. Men in those days thought about things differently. And I'm pretty sure they were thinking about fertility rather than love, just like it sounds.”
Prussia leans both elbows on the table, the fascination with the older world coming to him suddenly, but gently somehow.
“Fascinating... Do you still remember those times? I know you must have been nothing more than a baby, but do you still? Did you ever get to know Claudius II?”
“I hate your stupidass questions."
"It's not stupid, and you know it. Young Italian couples now ask for Saint Valentine's blessing to get married, when just a few generations before them, they couldn't see him as a protector of lovers... Isn't that a sign that you've become more romantic?”
Romano stifles his laughter again, without much success.
“You know that neither you nor I can control what our men and women want and think,” he begins, his voice calm but melodic. “We just respond to them as the stimuli they are and leave them floating there, somewhere inside us”
“And... what's floating in that part of you right now?”
Romano remains silent for a long moment before the embarrassment returns.
“Nothing that concerns you, bastard.”
The alcohol, which is finally having some effect on his blood and his head, prompts him to grab him by the shoulders in a quick, spontaneous movement, almost stumbling and clinging to his wool shirt to keep from falling on top of him.
“Please, Lovino!”
When Prussia looks up to see Romano's face, this time he really does look like a tomato, the reddish hue overpowering his tanned olive skin, although he doesn't know if it's from embarrassment or anger.
“Oh, shut up! You're going to embarrass me in front of everyone!”
The innkeeper's wife, in fact, kicks them out of the osteria after that. Not because of the scandal, but because it was already getting dark and it was time to close. Romano apologizes and they offer them the leftover wine from the day, Prussia begins to wonder where they will spend the night.
It seems like Lovino wonders about that too.
“Are you even staying at an inn?”
The door is closed behind them with a surprising calm, and Prussia whistles when he notices that Gilbird has already fallen asleep on his head.
“Nah. But I was thinking of sleeping near a tree and gazing at the stars.”
Honestly, he hasn't done anything like that in centuries. But the shapes of the constellations remain as valid as the stories of the ancient Greeks.
“Che stupido, of course only you would come up with such nonsense!” Despite hurling another of his insults at him, he is still laughing and smiling. A drunk Lovino is curiously more... Approachable.
“Come on! It's awesome... Wouldn't you like to come with me to see the stars?”
Prussia has always had to work twice as hard to uncover Romano's simple friendliness, hidden beneath all those layers of contained yet impulsive hostility. He wonders if all those men who unearthed and now study Pompeii feel the same way, if the reward for them is just as beautiful as him.
Because Pompeii is just one of the many precious things Lovino has.
Their shoulders brush as they walk side by side, so close...
“Fine.”
Gilbert feels like an excited young court lady as he rests his head on Lovino's, and is even more surprised when his gesture is not immediately rejected. Although at night the city seemed to be completely flooded with darkness, a few oil lamps in front doors allowed him to see their shadows side by side out of the corner of his eye.
The moon over the city only leaves him with the certainty that the day is about to end. They arrive at an olive tree not far from the village, but with a wonderful view of the great valley that surrounds it and the sky above their heads. It is especially beautiful tonight, as if it knows that it is the day that celebrates love and it will shine for all nightly lovers around the world.
“How much do you think this day will change in a few centuries?” Gilbert asks once they are both sitting under the tree, the sudden closeness he feels when Lovino has his head resting on his shoulder makes him ask that.
What do you think we will be in a few centuries?
“If some other French idiot comes out with some nonsense about it, I swear I'll burn France down myself.”
Gilbert lets out a loud laugh and collapses onto the grass, Lovino's body also falling on top of him more delicately, too close.
“And… Could we spend the day together again?”
He can feel his body being embraced by an unexpected warmth, Lovino's head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat without any subtlety, sleepy and drunk.
“Maybe.”
In at least a couple more centuries, there will still be masses in churches, fools will still believe that birds mate on this day, and soldiers will still fall in love.
Just like all of them, Prussia feels that he will still fall in love, and if the feeling remains intact in a couple more centuries, he would be willing to have his head cut off to marry Romano.