It was spring. Along with typhoid, measles, hay fever and a host of other maladies, love was in the air.
It floated along the lavender- scented wind, bringing joy and happiness and fluff trolls to the humans below. Well, all except for one. It was the author, who was screaming something about people obsessing over giant hypnotising snakes. In the DesuDesu house nearby, Romania sat on a couch at home, setting the scene for a tête-à-tête with the Treasurer of Chocoholics Anonymous. He had been exposed at an impressionable age to three young hellions and the guiding philosophies of his life had been 'Opposites Attract': 'If it's hotter or smarter or stronger than you, make it your friend' and 'Do one new thing that scares you everyday' - courtesies of the author, who still loves snakes. Labouring under these happy delusions, Romania was under the impression that, at twenty-one, he had found his soul mate in the person of one called Finland. He sighed when he thought about him - his skin like unused tissues, his eyes like Hershey's kisses left out too long under the sun, his lips like sugar-glazed strawberries, his hair like strands of lemon peals, his hyperbolic curves...
He could eat him.
On cue, the doorbell sang. Sang, not rang. It was a Christmas carol, which seemed right and proper and cheery in the balmy April weather.
"The door is open, Wendelwums!" he called and with a last, admiring glance at his artfully-arranged living room flung himself gracefully in an armchair. The chair was tastefully patterned with full moons. He heard the squeak of squeaky shoes and the scratchy sound of plastic bags rubbing against each other before the vision draped itself in the archway.
Finland the Funloving, Finland the Funny, Finland the Flerfaderf was clad from blond head to toes in leather. Every bit of extra leather floated gracefully around him, no doubt with the help of a vision-cow. Sadly, the bodice, though deeply cut, was overlaid by a fringe of black lace and the effect was less than tantalizing to a man of Romania's taste.
"You designed that yourself?" he asked politely, attempting to conceal his disappointment at the lace.
The Founder of O.L.L.F (The Oompa Loompa Liberation Front) nodded. "Ravishing don't you think?"
Romania contemplated the metal-studded jacket. "Quite certainly, oh yes, Finland. Original. Ravishing."
He dropped his bags and glanced at him - taking in the suit and neat hair. He was the ghastly spectre of the quintessential British gentleman - stiff upper lip, cucumber sandwiches, croquet on the lawn, Cheery Ho then. But within, a wild, raging, monstrous beast lurked, a storm of passion and sumptuousness, complete with coal black eyes, rippling muscles and sinews of steel. ''The absence of leather in a man's wardrobe renders his appearance worthy of the title of 'impotent'... but you look tolerable too." Doubtfully, "I suppose." Neither was enamoured with the other's wardrobe.
He waved his wand, with the elegance born of ogling the elegant Adele Adkins for hours, and a tea-tray glided into the room. "Tea?" he suggested winningly and he smiled at him. His lips were as pink as a boat of boiled sweets cruising on rivers of frothing chocolate... He poured sugar-cubes to the three-quarters brim mark of a teacup and poured tea over it, until there was a gloopy mixture of tea-moistened sugar in the cup, before handing it to the god before him. Just the way he liked it.
The Lovegoods and Wonkas who had been interbreeding with each other for generations were on good terms.
"So I was visiting Cousin Xeno and Selene, they told me all about their plan to visit Zimbabwe this summer to learn more about Fizzing Muzwumps. Temperamental things, those Muzwumps, they like to lurk in caves and they have the oddest cravings for purple cabbages-" Finland accepted the cup and then frowned after surveying its contents. "No, Romania," he sighed. "Today I'm going to have to ask you to humour me with a-" he wrinkled his nose-" regular cuppa." When Romania blinked, nonplussed, he shoved the cup at him with the air of a nicotine-addict who was trying to get himself deaddicted, on being offered a fag. Injured, insulted, and going half-mad with desire. Finland's voice came out higher-pitched as he said, "Oh please don't leave it staring at me, I'm going to do something we'll both regret unless you-"
Hastily, Romania Vanished the contents of the cup. "That's better," he murmured, sagging in his chair with the drained look of a sailor who'd come out of a battle with the Kraken with only superficial injuries.
Romania was too polite to say anything, but his eyebrows did the talking. "?" they said.
Finland pinched his fingers. "I'm fat," he said woefully. "I am morbidly obese."
"Oh of course you're not, Finnycuddles! You have such..." yummy mummers... Lusciousness! I mean, um, lustful- er, I mean you look lovely. Gorgeous. Tiptop. Shipshape. Beauty sticks to you like hair gel sticks to Germany and diapers stick to Italy."
Finland looked appeased. "Oh Rommyumpkin sugarfairy!" he sighed, "You always know how to make everything better!" And that was why he liked Finland. He made cheesy pet names cute. He was not bi, nope. Nada. Zilch. And Hungary did not have a cute butt. Her butt could not compare to Finland's (bustle-hidden) butt.
They gazed raptly into each other's eyes for a moment, blazing holes into each other's souls. Then he poured out another cup of tea and he continued, "I went to Xeno's about that interview for the cow-poo-squeezes... naturally as Founder of O.L.L.F I mustn't neglect my public relations. The plight of Oompa Loompas everywhere - and the inhuman way persons of my barbaric dog's disposition have of taking advantage of them - must not remain unaddressed. They must be hauled to the forefront. We must make nuisances of ourselves in order to be heard."
Finland paused. "I was flipping through a Finnish glam-mag Selene bought and I believe American celebrities have interesting ways of attracting attention... of course this P.E.T.A business they make a fuss about is absurd and impractical - they're against leather, for God's sake, Romania- but the methods they embrace are admirable and speak of high intelligence and practicality. I was thinking about bringing out a nude calendar, all for the sake of the poor, dear Oompa Loompas..."
He almost choked. "A nude calendar, Finnyplum? In which you would not be clothed?"
"In which I would be stark raving naked, yes." He took a dainty sip of tea, pinkie poking out; the perfect British dame. Crumpets and Sunday Bakes, knee-length skirts and a tart, no-nonsense voice. "So, as I was saying about Xeno's marvellous theories - which are frankly, not appreciated enough by the general populace (to their detriment, as they will soon find out)-"
Romania shut his eyes and tried to remember the first time they'd met. He'd called him up to do an interview for a segment he was writing on Vampires, for Lols&Luls. A human interest piece - The Man Behind the Monster. He'd only agreed because the unusual alliteration of his name and the fact that he was related to a globally-renowned chocolate tycoon interested him. They'd met in a bar, and he'd tried to pull a Rita Skeeter on him - bobbed, banged, blond, the author, yes alliteration loved her. But the twinkling chocolate bar eyes reminded him of Germania. Germania on crack, of course.
And so they'd floated through multiple beers and Finland had PMSed about how no one seemed to be interested in O.L.L.F - he couldn't imagine why - and he whined about sparkling vampires- the poor dear - and he told him how he thought vampires were misunderstood, just like Oompa Loompas, and he couldn't understand how anyone would dare make fun of his beautiful name...
"I dropped by at Pizza 73 and picked up the book you wanted," he said, emerging from the depths of his metal-studded leather tote and handing him a heavy book. "Pikachus, Mental Illnesses and the Author- Omens of Crack Fics Throughout the World. Really, Romania, you are of a most moribund mood."
By the Law of Opposites, the perky permed Pamelas of the world were drawn to the morose moody Macs. Sweden and Norway had both sought the same criteria in their men - and in the responsibility-shirking, baby-loving, creepy-axe-embracing, semi-gay, tattered Dane they were destined to find their (leaky) dreamboat.
"I must try to reform myself for your sake, Finnylicious."
"Oh but that's so sweet of you, Rommysumpcious chocopie!" And they plunged into each other's souls again. A thorough workout for the eyeballs.
Then Remus said, "I have a present for you, Finnehsnookums." Again a graceful wand-twirl and a canvas bag, artfully decorated with bloodstains, landed on the tea-table. It was Romania's handwork from the good ol' days of prepubescence when Art and Craft Time took predominance over porn. Finland contemplated it with interest until Romania pulled out a box of chocolates with a flourish. "Blood-favoured specialities from Transylvania. Just for you."
The moan that emerged from his peppermint-pink lips was positively suggesting. "Oh Romania," he choked, "Take that thing away from me, please, I can smell the calories..."
"And what's more, they're calorie-free." Romania plunged on mercilessly. "Specialities, like I said." He shook the bag and more goodies emerged - sugar-spun handcuffs, mint handcuffs studded with Smarties...
"You," Finland said solemnly, passion brimming in his molten-chocolate eyes, "Romaniasnackerdoodle Cookumsmoochum Cheerumwearum Sugapugapie, are the best boyfriend ever."
Romania smiled modestly. "Perhaps I am." If he'd been France, he would have been more enthusiastic, if England less. He was Dr Romance, he was the Serial Charmer, the Universal White Knight, the Chevalier, the Chocolate-Box Heartthrob... he was also of a most modest disposition. "Shall we..." He smiled innocently.
Finland's eyes were like those of a raunchy little bunny in breeding season. He didn't need to be told twice. He jumped up to his feet, sugar-laden items of questionable purpose in his arms, and together they ran friskily up the stairs, in the manner of frolicsome young goats, and into the sunset.