A/N: Writing like this is hard to work with. The wording is awkward too. Do you know what I'm talking about? (Hint: What is the title this story? Bonus tip: The author's note doesn't count, but anything past the line break does.)

This isn't my Valentine's day gift (*cough*I'mstilltryingtopolishthosetwoup), but I'm throwing this in with the companion fics for you guys.

Title: Sans E
Rating: K+
Warning: Kind of AU, no plot, I think the writing's sorta crack
Genre/s: Romance
Pairing/s: NedSey
Summary (excerpt): Lars and Victoria don't match. It's obvious. It's impractical.
Inspiration/s: Yet again, the title. Also, you can search up 'what is so unusual about this paragraph?'

(I don't normally write like this; I'm sorry if it alarms or disappoints anyone)

Thanks for reading!

I do not own Hetalia.

Lars and Victoria don't match. It's obvious. Nobody would think that a bubbly, country girl could fall for a stoic, habitually glaring boy. It's impractical.

But it isn't so to that particular pair. Hands hold hands and lips kiss lips. Hugging is normal. Singing romantic ballads during midnight is (oddly) a common affair. From dusk till dawn, Lars sings just for Victoria, just for his charming girl, strumming his acoustic guitar until his limbs start to hurt. That always astounds many; why would a stoic boy do that? Why would a stoic boy with an unfading scowl do that? It's not typical of him.

Victoria shrugs at any inquiry about it, instantly falling into a moonstruck stupor that only Lars could crack. It is said that Lars also slips into stupors occasionally; any thoughts about his darling girl swallow up his focus for anything dissimilar.

If Victoria would bid to try and jot down how much of a darling Lars was, ink would run out in about four hours. Still, 'his hair constantly stays up' is all Victoria has to list for a flash of adoration to light up any room, and for rapt sighs and laughs to ring out.

All but a blind man could not fathom why such passion could grow into a blossoming plant. It is not flimsy in any sort; it is dainty, but not frail, akin to a swimming swan. It grows an abundant amount of fruit, and it soars aloft any tall mountain, or aloft any stormy cloud. It is strong and robust, notwithstanding any doubt that is said. To this, swaying folks ask how a bond so unusual could pull through and flourish so vigorously.

Although Lars would not normally talk at all (Lars only publicly talks if topics surrounding this confusion pop up), witticisms synonymous to an oxymoron always flit through his mouth, as if it is a critical obligation to do so: 'It knows no bounds. Although it isn't typical, it's not as if it can't work out.'

To this, Victoria would grin, slowly wrap a hand around Lars' arm, and add, 'That's right. My stomach whirls in anticipation. My hands turn warm during contact. I go crimson just thinking about him. I know any symptom it could afford, and it's a fantastic, magical thing. It has all that it could but not common logic. If it brings joy to only Lars and I, so it will.'

Lars and Victoria don't match. Nobody thinks apart from that. Why would an outgoing, young girl want to do anything with a dour, surly boy? It's unnatural.

But an undying constant is all it shall bring about, with jubilation bursting from any standpoint or position; an undying constant without any common logic is all it will bring about, that will satisfy nobody but Lars and Victoria.