An italian restaurant, it may seem a little cliché, something brought of one of those typical and cheesy romances, but Feliciano Vargas, who also went by the name of North Italy or Veneziano, had an idea to turn this small predictable date into a surprisingly different one.
As you might guess by now, Italy had lured her beloved (f/n), or (country) if you prefer, to one of the most prestigious italian restaurant in Venice for their dinner-date.
The place was gorgeous, decorated with vine leaves and grapes, the environment was rather decent, the tables and benches were made of carved wood; it almost made them jump back in time...
While (country) went to the bathroom, the bubbly italian made use of the opportunity to slip into the kitchen to have a word with the chef. A little of persuasion and a plea for the chef's help offering the girl he most loved the most wonderful date he could provide her with were enough for the older-looking italian to agree to do whatever he could to help.
Feliciano had found the (nationality) looking around for him once he returned to the main room. Excitedly, he pulled her along to the back of the building.
Once in the kitchen, he explained how he had convinced the chef to let them cook something themselves; the cooks had provided them with a good share of ingredients, ingredients used to cook pasta and pizza.
Feliciano was more than entertained explaining the steps and guiding her through the preparation of both plates; (f/n) was having her own fun, enjoying to see the italian like this and herself was entertained with the cooking. A little later though, a bit of flour escaped Italy's hands and covered the girl's (h/c) hair; a small food fight began between the two. Tomato sauce, flour, bread, among others covered the floor on a certain corner of the kitchen; laughter was a constant at the moment. Italy had tried for a run to cover her cheek with sauce, but he failed to pay attention to the floor, ending up slipping on a spot of sauce himself. He lost balance and fell on top of (f/n), dragging her towards the messy floor along with him.
"Ve~ (f/n) are-a you okay?" he asked worriedly.
"I-I'm fine, Feli, don't worry..." she muttered, shifting uncomfortably as he helped her up.
The italian's eyes opened, gazing directly into hers as he approached her. Out of the nowhere he said:
"Ti amo, molto, molto!" before he pecked her lips, tightly holding her hands with his.
"I-I love you too!" she stuttered, a heavy blush well-present on her expression.
"But we haven't-a even had our first-a kiss..." he mused.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "We just did!"
"No, a real-a kiss!" he declared seriously.
"And what do you consider a real kiss?" she inquired, frankly curious at his unusually serious self.
"I don't-a know how to-a explain, but-a I can-a show you, if you-a want-a!" he blurted, suddenly descending his head so they were right face-to-face.
"I-I guess you can..." she nodded, her voice strained because of the embarrassment she felt.
During the next moments, she only did as she was instructed: 'close your eyes and don't peek'. She felt her chin being tilted up before the feeling of something soft being placed on top of her lips occupied her mind. She followed his lead, their lips moved in unison; after a while, he nibbled on his lips and soon the permission was conceded. He deepened the kiss at every passing second, revealing an unexpected amount of passion and skill; he held her close, his arms tightly circling her smaller form, her hands had found their way up to tangle themselves on his short brown hair.
Almost a minute passed before they parted, arfing, a string of saliva still connecting their mouths, their gazes lovingly locked together, their forms tightly linked.
And this had been the best date they could have had...