Romano hated the Holy Roman Empire the moment he laid eyes on him.
Or rather, Romano hated the Holy Roman Empire the moment the fool laid eyes on his brother.
His hatred was not politically motivated, no. His hatred was on a personal level. He hated how the German bastard hovered over Veneziano in whatever he did. He hated how he'd chase his brother around exclaiming nonsense about being "one with him." He hated how he'd bring wildflowers to his brother's doorstep and run away at the first sign of intelligent life. (Veneziano? Intelligent? Pfft.) He hated his clothes. He hated his weird hat. He hated his blue eyes and blond hair.
Oh yes, Romano hated everything about the Holy Roman Empire. He made that as clear as he could. During his visits – or play dates, as Spain would like to call it – to his sibling, Romano would take infinite pains to make sure the former's attention was turned only to him and would visibly gloat at the German fool's disappointment.
(Spain, to South Italy's displeasure, found everything quite adorable.)
He continued his bratty act every visitation to Austria's house, and every time Romano would bask in Holy Roman Empire's dissatisfaction. It eventually turned into a game between them. "See who can get Italy's attention," or something like that, in which the very subject was happily oblivious. And then eventually, even though Romano still hated the Holy Roman Empire's guts, even the Southern Italian was amused by their antics.
One day, Romano found Veneziano a crying mess.
The Holy Roman Empire had left.
On August 6, 1806, the Holy Roman Empire had been formally dissolved.
North Italy was inconsolable.
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Romano hated Germany the moment he laid eyes on him.
Or rather, Romano hated Germany the moment the fool laid eyes on his brother.
