Circa 300, Provincia Britannia
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Gallia does not much care for Britannia.
He dislikes its bland food, dour people, and perpetually sullen skies. He despises the long sea journey he is forced to endure whenever he is dragged there in Rome's wake.
The province himself, however, is a delight, because he, in his turn, claims to despise Gallia.
Gallia appreciates most that which he has to fight for the hardest, and Britannia has proven one of his more stubborn opponents.
He meets every smile with a scowl, every kind word with a curse, and a kiss, it transpires, with spluttered vulgarities so lurid they raise a blush to even Gallia's cheeks.
Britannia's own cheeks are a deep, scalded red, even though the touch of Gallia's lips had been as soft and fleeting as the brush of a butterfly's wings. "What the hell was that for?" he demands, raising his fists threateningly.
"You looked gloomy," Gallia says.
Britannia glowers at him. "And why the fuck did you think that would help?"
Gallia had not thought, simply acted on an instinct that has always served him well before. Britannia confounds all his best intentions.
Still, Gallia will persist, as Britannia cannot continue to do so forever, surely.