Alright, you lot voted for more of this mochi madness, and I'm more than happy to, as the good Captain Jack Sparrow would say, "acquiesce to your request". However, I got so many varied votes and PMs that I decided to mess with the Mochiverse a bit by throwing in two different stories into one fanfic.
So, the decision has been made, by the vote of the good people of , that I will write a story about MochiSpain and the Mochi-Italies (yes, that is correct, Spain and BOTH Italies get mochis!). However, as i feel that Romano, bless his eternally swearing, grumpy self, needs some more love, I will not only gift him with MochiSpain, but I'll give Spain a MochiRomano (because I like to be evil and add more DRAMA!) so that those two lovable fools can receive double the love (and I may, or may not, make a mochi-pairing out of those two)!
As for adding MochiFeliciano (yes, North Italy as a mochi will be made...and you will die of its cuteness), I will be giving MochiFeli to a certain uptight, rule-abiding cough*stick-in-the-mud*cough Germany, so that he may recieve mochi therapy on how NOT to be so boring. I've heard from England that Mochi-cuddling is very, VERY therapeutic, especially if you get to be cuddled by your crush while doing so. (America, stop grinning at me like an idiot, I know England makes a good substitute for Mr. Pillow already!)
MochiGermany will appear as an omake at certain parts of the main story as a little side-story about how Feli will deal with the world's only square mochi as his alarm clock for when Germany has to haul Prussia's rule-breaking bum out of jail... again.
I hope you lot like this, since I'm going to write this fic during Easter Break as the Easter Egg that I didn't get. I may also post next week the oneshot I've been writing about MochiBelarus and Lithuania.
So, good-bye, good luck reading this drivel, and remember your survival tip of the day: DON'T BLINK. BLINK AND YOU'RE DEAD.
OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: As always, I have not, currently do not, and most likely will not ever own the amazing goofy wonder that is Hidekaz Himaruya's lovely Hetalia series, or it's subsequent spinoffs, associations, etc.
It began on a hot day, at the height of summer, in a tomato garden in Sicily.
The human personifications of both halves of Italy were sitting cross-legged on a checkered picnic blanket on the ground, a wicker basket of fresh bread, several soft cheeses, a plastic wrap-covered bowl of green grapes, and an iced bottle of sparkling mineral water set between them. Feliciano, also known as North Italy, was munching on a crunchy rustic bread roll with melted parmesan cheese and thick-cut mild salami, idly humming "Draw a circle, it's the Earth..." repeatedly as he tapped his fingers against his left leg. Romano, known as South Italy to most (and "Lovi~" by one particularly clingy Spanish nation), was chugging down a plastic cup of the mineral water, muttering curses under his breath about the maddening heat. Even for Italy, the summer was unusually hot, and the already rather grumpy nation was feeling the effects of the savage warmth quite harshly.
The two Italians had spent the earlier part of their day with a few other nations, namely Japan and Germany (both of whom Feliciano had hugged profusely and begged to have lunch with), Spain (who'd ended up with a black eye after surprising Romano with a tackle-hug), and then by proxy, Spain's friends and fellow Bad Touch Trio associates, France and Prussia, after a recent World Meeting in their shared country. Feliciano had offered to take everyone out for lunch at one of the nearby air-conditioned restaurants, and given the painfully evident summer temperature, the offer was taken up immediately. The chosen lunch destination was a tiny little place a few streets away, called "La Piccolo Compagna", which Feliciano had cheerfully had explained to a slightly confused Japan meant "The Little Countryside". The restaurant was suitably crowded for an afternoon, the total inside space (including the open kitchen in the back) being about the size of the average classroom, with butter-yellow walls decorated with hand painted scenes of children playing hide-and-seek in a wheat field, and several windows with whitewashed windowsills and pink and yellow checkered curtains for framing. There were only a half dozen people working: a rather plump man as the cook, working diligently at making pasta dishes and cold vegetable plates, a friendly teenage girl in a blue dress who stood at the register who chattered away with tourists as she made change and rang up bills, a busboy with ruffled brown hair who balanced a stack of plates a foot high in his arms as he headed in and out of the kitchen, and several pretty college girls who took orders, brought cold drinks, and flirted with several suitably dumbstruck foreign exchange students who were seated by the door.
Amidst the rapid chatter of natives and tourists sitting at the tiny booths and crowded round tables, Feliciano somehow managed to get them the largest seating area, a round table with broken bits of smooth stained glass and pebbles decorating the top in a pretty mosaic fashion, the chairs mismatched and with well-worn cushions. France and Prussia had instantly taken to flirting with the nearest waitress, while Germany and Japan passed around cold glasses of water. Romano, who'd somehow ended up sandwiched between Spain and Prussia, ended up trying futilely to shove Spain away.
By the time that their food had arrived, Romano had been grumpier than usual. By the time the meal had been halfway over, he'd wished he'd never agreed to go out to lunch. Spain was too clingy for his liking, and Prussia had sprayed food all over the table upon eagerly digging into a fresh plate of pickled onions, black olives, and Bresaola, a meat dish originating from Valtellina, part of North Italy's Lombardy region. Romano, who unfortunately was sitting next to Prussia, was right in the proverbial line of fire, and ended up covered in olive bits and flecks of meat. After swearing half a dozen times at Prussia for being so messy, Romano had left the restaurant, causing his concerned northern twin to follow in order to make sure he was alright.
It took only a few streets worth of distance for Romano to realize he wasn't being called back. Despite claiming to himself that going back would be pointless and stupid, the fact that seemingly no one had left the restaurant to get him hurt a bit more than it should.
So when Feliciano finally arrived a moment or so later, a look of worry on his face, Romano told him that he didn't want to eat lunch anymore; Feliciano, despite seeing Romano's surly, standoffish demeanor, spotted the faint glimmer of hurt in his twin's golden-brown eyes, and told him instead that they could have a snack together somewhere else. "It doesn't have to be lunch, and it doesn't have to be with anyone else but us, ve!"
Romano had been silent for a moment, before nodding. The two nations had then gone to a nearby grocery store, gotten a few things to put in a basket, and gone back to Romano's house, where there was sure to be some privacy.
That had been several hours ago. It was late in the afternoon now, and Romano was wondering if he could convince the hot sun to go die in a ditch somewhere. It was too hot for napping without getting sunburned, too hot to clean the house or cook food, too hot to go sightseeing or hit on pretty girls, too hot for anything.
It was even too hot to pick tomatoes, and that was saying something, considering Romano had developed such a strong taste for the delicious, shiny red fruit over the years that the idea of being unwilling to get more seemed purely insane. Stupid sun, making it too damn hot for me to get tomatoes. I'm gonna bake like a damn lasagna in this heat.
Feliciano, who was less inclined to curse things over a million miles away, had fallen asleep on the picnic blanket after eating his food, and was napping curled up into a little ball, rather like a kitten, every so often letting out a soft "Ve..." as he dreamed. Romano looked at his twin in annoyance; what the hell gave his stupid brother the right to sleep when he was so uncomfortable?
Well, he couldn't let anyone else be comfortable when he wasn't. Scowling, Romano dumped some of the mineral water on his brother's head, unsympathetic when Feliciano jumped up in surprise upon being soaked. "What was that for, ve?", he said. "It's so cold!" Golden-brown eyes, narrowed in annoyance and darkened to a deep gold in the blistering heat, stared unsympathetically at into chocolate-brown as Romano deadpanned, "It's too damn hot for you to be sleeping, idiota. Why were you even napping, anyway? It's like, a million damn degrees out."
Feliciano smiled cheerfully at his brother, unfazed by the oppressive heat, or Romano's annoyed expression. "When it gets warm out, I get sleepy, ve! So I decided to take a siesta. I thought you were going to join me, though..."
Romano's angry gaze softened slightly at his brother's words. "Well", he amended gruffly, "Don't do that again. It's too hot out here for siestas; you'll end up baking in this heat, and if I don't want to hear your whining about how you forgot sunscreen again." Feliciano merely smiled again, content that his brother wasn't really that mad at him, before speaking up.
"Well, I do wish we could do something about this heat, ve", he yawned softly. "I didn't even get any gelato today to help keep cool." Romano nodded; he could agree with his twin on that one, a frozen dessert sounded amazing right about now.
There was a sudden gust of wind, blowing the corners of the picnic blanket up and upending the bowl of grapes, scattering green fruit everywhere. Feliciano let out a sudden cry of delight. Romano turned to see what had made his brother so happy; by God, if it was that stupid potato bastard again...
But it wasn't Germany. It was a huge bowl of cherry and vanilla gelato, topped with a heaping pile of chopped nuts and whipped cream, sitting right in the middle of their picnic basket. A bowl of gelato that, until a second ago, hadn't been there.
"Don't eat it, Feli!", he shouted, yanking his brother away from the bowl of dessert. Chocolate brown eyes stared at him in confusion. "Why not, ve? It's cold and creamy and yummy and right here!" Romano smacked his Northern counterpart upside the head. "Idiota!", he hissed. "We don't even know where that thing even came from! What if it's poisonous?"
"It's not." The voice startled both Italians. They knew that voice, they loved that voice, but they hadn't seen it's owner in ages. What was he doing here?
Dark, curly hair waved slightly in an unseen breeze. A deep red cape, tattered and frayed at the edges from time and countless battles. A smile, shining bright enough to blind the eyes of anyone crazy enough to look directly at it. But something was very, very off about him.
When Romano finally regained his wits enough to speak, the sentence hung in the hot air, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
"Nonno Roma," he asked questioningly, "Why are you wearing a fairy princess tutu?"
