Notes: I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar errors in this chapter. I've tried to look it over, but this may be the only chance I have to post before another crazy schedule of work, so here it is! I'll come back and correct things when I have a chance. Please forgive me!

Chapter 10

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"Ah~I want to eat... churro–churro–churros, que aproveche!"

Antonio sang as he led the way down to the kitchen, Romano following behind skeptically. The Spaniard had described churros as if they were the most amazing food on the planet, second only to tomatoes by a margin, but Romano couldn't imagine anything possibly tasting as delicious as tomatoes. Churros were sweet, supposedly like waffles, and he liked waffles, but Romano was not used to sweet foods. He'd grown up on a diet of bread and eggs and meat, and he could only remember having something sweet once, when his grandfather visited and took Feliciano away; the man had brought them little sugar biscuits. He supposed they had tasted good, but that memory was tied to a day of other bad memories, so the biscuits had never really stood out in his mind.

But everything Antonio had cooked so far was delectable, and he could only assume that the churros would be enjoyable as well.

Instead of cooking in the fireplace like they did when making stew or paella, Antonio headed for the iron stove. Wood was placed into the chambers in the front, and food was cooked on top. At least, that's what Romano had been told; he had never actually seen it in use.

Antonio grabbed the kitchen footstool from by the sink, where Romano had used it while he washed dishes the other day. He placed it in front of the stove.

"One of these days, Roma, you'll hit a growth spurt," the man told him. "But until then, you have to use this."

"I know that, bastard!" the boy retorted, fuming. "It's not as if I was going to let you lift me up or something!"

The man chuckled and donned an apron, while Romano put on his own. "That would certainly make it hard to cook, if I held you with one arm," Antonio teased, pulling at the bow of the boy's apron. Romano scowled, but the man just laughed again. "So, Roma, would you like to help me? Or would you prefer to just watch?"

"You wanted to make these, not me," Romano replied, puffing his cheeks. "You can do all of the work." Antonio smiled and poked a puffy cheek, causing Romano to deflate and yell at the Spaniard.

"Okay then!" Antonio boomed, ceasing the boy's ranting. "Let's get started! So, first we need to gather the ingredients."

Despite his verbal refusal to help, Romano was somehow manipulated into fetching things for his boss. He told himself that he just wanted to eat faster; it was definitely not due to that bastard's bright grin or encouraging words. He piled salt, sugar, butter, and chocolate onto the table next to his boss. When he went to retrieve eggs, Antonio stopped him, explaining that while waffles, cakes, and other pastries needed eggs, churros tasted much better without them. Now Romano was even more hesitant to believe that this dessert would be "magic in your mouth."

Once the stove was heated, Antonio placed a large pan with water over the heat. Next, he set a saucepan of butter over a second burner, where a smaller fire was burning. "We're melting the butter," Antonio explained, "to soften it up before mixing it in. It's going to get nice and oily."

The butter melted quickly, and Antonio then poured the butter into the pan with the water. "We'll add some sugar... and a little bit of salt... and mix them together."

Romano watched closely, perched atop the stool and much closer to his boss than he normally would stand. Antonio was still cheery and relaxed, but he was also focused, too. It wasn't the same sort of foreboding seriousness that Romano had seen at night, but rather like the mood the man had when tending to his beloved tomatoes. Romano preferred it when his boss was like this, as it meant he neither had to deal with Antonio's silliness (which embarrassed him) nor his scariness (which terrified him).

However, Romano's contentment was short-lived.

Once the mixture began to boil, Antonio removed the pan from the heat onto the other unused burner. "We'll add the flour now, piccolino," he explained, reaching across Romano's spluttering face for the bag.

The boy's brain fizzled. "Wha... What did you just call me, bastard?!"

Antonio paused in his flour-mixing. "Hmm?" he asked, tilting his head. "What did I say wrong?"

Romano flushed. "Y-you...! Why the hell would you call me that, bastard?"

The Spaniard, realizing he hadn't actually mispronounced anything, laughed openly. "Because! Piccolo means small, right? And you taught me that -ino is often used as a suffix for children, right?"

Romano's jaw dropped. Why, oh why had he ever let that slip to his boss? Now he'd never hear the end of it. While Romano had never had any nicknames as a baby, his parents had often called Feliciano by such cute names, their most frequent being carino. Romano must have accidentally mentioned something about -ino to his boss during one of their Italian lessons, though he honestly could not remember when.

"Th-that doesn't mean you can call me that! Bastard!" Romano screeched, hitting the Spaniard's arm repeatedly.

"Ahaha, well then," Antonio said playfully, hunching slightly so that they were eye-to-eye, "I suppose I'll just have to call you... mio pomodorino."

Romano's face was so hot that he feared it would burn right through his skin. This... this bastard...! It didn't help that his embarrassment and anger only caused his face to turn redder, which Antonio was now cooing over. Mio pomodorino. My little tomato.

Antonio was still laughing happily. "Oh, Romanito, you are so cuuuute~!"

"Leave me alone, you bastard!" he yelled. If not for the pan of hot flour, he would have kicked and punched the idiot. Instead, he had to settle for hitting Antonio's shoulder again. "Get back to the churros, bastard! I don't see anything edible yet!"

"Heh, whatever you say... mio pomodorino," Antonio responded, chuckling and stepping out of the way when Romano made to hit him again.

The Spaniard mixed the flour in until it all formed a nice batter mixture. "Now, Roma, we'll fry the churros! So, next we'll heat another pan and add the oil for frying. While that is warming up, let's pour the churro dough into a forcing bag."

"What's a forcing bag?" Romano asked, momentarily forgoing his anger for his interest in the churro-making process.

Antonio held out a bag made of canvas. "It's used to force food into other food... but also bakers use them for shaping dough. We're going to use the bag to force the churro dough into long pieces!"

Romano watched as his boss poured the dough into the big forcing bag. By now, the oil in the giant pan was popping, ready to fry the churros. Antonio carefully squeezed the bag over the pan, piping long strands of dough into the hot oil. Several times, he turned them over, making sure each strip was fried evenly on all sides. The light dough quickly turned a golden-brown, and Romano found himself salivating. He hadn't eaten breakfast yet, either...

After the churros were nice and fried, Antonio laid them on parchment paper to cool. Then he poured more sugar into a bowl.

"Bastard, what's that for?"

"We're going to roll the churros in the sugar!" Antonio exclaimed. "Will you help me? If you can get each churro sugar-coated, I'll make the chocolate."

While Antonio heated chocolate, milk, and more sugar over the stove, Romano gingerly dipped the churros into the bowl of sugar, one at a time. First, he had to blow on them softly to cool them off, and then he would poke the end to make sure it wasn't too hot to touch. After coating the churro, he would set it on a serving plate. It was probably due to his hunger, but Romano felt like the process took forever. There seemed to be an endless amount of churros and – how would they even eat all of these?

"You made quite a lot of churros, bastard," he commented, setting the last sugary, fried pastry onto the plate. "Do we really need this many?"

"Haha, trust me, Roma, you'll be asking for seconds," Antonio swore, setting a bowl of warm chocolate sauce on the table. He took the plate of churros to the table as well, and Romano followed.

After they were settled with the plate of churros between them, Antonio looked to the boy. "Do you want the honor of eating the first one?"

Romano eyed them suspiciously, wondering if it was possible they might be poisoned. He had watched the Spaniard add each ingredient, but... perhaps he had added something else when Romano had been distracted...

"Haha, okay then, I'll try one first," his boss amended, sensing the Italian's distrust.

Antonio excitedly picked up a sugary churro, and Romano could see the man's mouth watering in anticipation. He gently dipped the pastry into the chocolate, covering almost half of it. He lifted it to his lips, inhaling the sweet scent of his favorite food, before he popped the entire length of the churro into his mouth.

"Mmmm." Antonio's eyes closed as he reveled in the delicious, bliss-inducing taste of the magnificent dessert. Romano was watching warily, startled by just how many moans of pleasure the Spaniard was making. Didn't he eat these all of the time? And how could he eat them like that, all in one go? Antonio shoved another pastry into his mouth, and Romano could practically see the stars in Antonio's eyes.

"Mio pomodorino, you better hurry up and eat one, before I eat them all," he teased, reaching over for a third one.

Romano huffed at both the nickname and his boss's ridiculous statement. "As if you possibly could eat all of them."

The man stared at him, his churro half dipped in chocolate and paused mid-air. "I told you, Roma, I never joke when it comes to churros." Then he sunk his teeth into the pastry and all but swallowed it whole.

Slightly disturbed by Antonio's churro obsession, Romano hesitantly grabbed a churro off the plate, feeling the sugar grains under his fingers. He looked it over, inspecting it for anything unusual. Antonio was watching amusedly, so the boy gave the churro another once-over for good measure. Cautiously, he raised it near his nose and sniffed: it certainly smelled delicious. Well, here goes nothing...

Romano opened his mouth, bit into the churro, and tore it in half. He chewed thoughtfully.

It tasted as good as a waffle – no, better than a waffle. The sugar exploded on his tongue, and the pastry itself was the perfect blend of a crisp, crunchy outside and a soft, warm inside. He quickly dipped the remaining half into the bowl of chocolate before finishing that off as well.

His boss grinned victoriously. "I told you so."

Romano scoffed. No way was that annoying tomato bastard getting the last word. "Bastard, you lied," he told the man.

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

The boy snatched another sweet treat from the rapidly-decreasing pile. "These are way better than you described."

His boss's confused expression broke into a giant smile as he watched his henchman devour a third and fourth churro. Romano was almost on his sixth dessert before Antonio snapped back to attention, too busy gloating and grinning like a fool. "So you like them?" he asked, eying the boy as he slathered another churro in chocolate.

"Mmm, bastard, these are delizioso! Non ho mai assaggiato niente di più dolce," Romano sighed, licking the excess sugar off of his fingers. Spotting the empty plate, his shoulders sagged.

The Spaniard was sucking his thumb, no doubt also in pursuit of lost sugar. He caught Romano's eye. "So, Roma... do you want seconds?"

The boy just about jumped out of his chair. "You mean we can make more?!"

Antonio nodded, happy to see the little Italian's excitement. "Yes we can! Okay, then, piccolino, want to help me this time?"

They ended up making three more batches of churros. Despite the fact that Romano and his boss could no doubt polish off four batches of the tasty treats, much of the second helping ended up on the kitchen floor. Romano had been nervous about piping the dough into the hot frying pan, even though Antonio had assured him that he'd be right behind him. The first churro had been dropped too high; boiling oil splashed everywhere, and Antonio had immediately pulled Romano out of harm's way. The second churro hadn't been much better; the spitting oil had scared Romano, causing him to squeeze the bag a bit too hard, squirting half of the dough all over the floor. Frustrated and angry, Romano had tried to quit, but Antonio wouldn't let him give up, and so the Spaniard had helped him pipe a few misshapen churros into the pan. By the fourth round, Romano had done most of the churros himself.

The Italian eagerly carried the plate to the table, hopping into his chair and pulling the pastries close. Antonio laughed and sat down across from him.

"Hey now, what about my share?"

"Mmm... You can have one."

"Haha, mio pomodorino, you're so funny," Antonio replied, deftly stealing the plate out from under the boy's nose. "At least half of these are mine."

"A fourth!"

"A third."

"...fine then, bastard," Romano conceded. "But only if you shut up with the nicknames." The plate was still a bit far away, and when he went to dip another churro into the sauce, he accidentally flicked some chocolate onto his own nose.

Antonio doubled over with laughter. Romano glared, but before he could even get up to grab a washcloth, the Spaniard was already beside him. "How am I suppose to resist calling you such cute names," Antonio asked warmly, wiping the boy's nose affectionately, "when you go and do such adorable things like that, mio cioccolatino?"

Romano choked. "Smettila di dire queste cose, bastard! I am regretting ever teaching you Italian words!" Not that Antonio had learned much, just things around the mansion and garden; he couldn't actually speak Italian fluently or even make conversation, really. And although the paella was amazing, having his boss call Romano 'his little chocolate' was enough to make the boy heavily rue the arrangement.

"Starting the celebration early, I see." Emma had finally woken, or perhaps she had already been awake and was only just now coming downstairs. She placed a basket of laundry by the hall before approaching the table.

"Celebration?" Romano inquired, looking to his boss for clarification.

"It's the señor's birthday," Emma answered, ruffling the man's hair. She kissed Antonio's cheek. "Gelukkige verjaardag, liefste."

"Haha, thank you, but it's really not a big deal," he said, waving her off as she collected the dirty dishes and deposited them in the sink. "When you're as old as I am, they hardly mean anything." He met Romano's eye and blushed, turning away to scratch the back of his head sheepishly.

Romano had no idea what his boss meant by that. "Just how old are you, bastard?"

Both his boss and the housekeeper stared at him.

"Romano!" Emma scolded, having whipped around from her dish washing to shake a wet rag in his direction. "Watch your mouth!"

Antonio chuckled oddly, still looking sheepish. "Ah, I'm... twenty-five." Emma cast a furtive glance at her boss before returning to her task. The Spaniard merely shrugged and smiled at his henchman.

"Well, Roma, I think we're both a bit floury from the cooking, so how about you go take a bath, and I'll do the same," Antonio suggested. "After that, I was hoping you'd join me in a little activity... something to celebrate my birthday?"

The man's tone suggested that it would be something Romano would likely oppose, so he frowned as he followed his boss out of the kitchen. But he couldn't exactly refuse... it was Antonio's birthday, after all. Was twenty-five really old? He had no idea. He wasn't even sure how old his parents had been; he only knew that his grandfather had been younger than Emma when the man had died. How old would Antonio live to be? What would happen to Romano when the man died? The Italian shrugged off such thoughts, not wanting to worry about something so far off.

"So, how about we meet in an hour," Antonio instructed once they had reached the third floor. "Let's meet in the main dining hall, all right?"

"What exactly are we doing, bastard?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"You'll see," the man replied with a grin. "It's not just for my benefit... it should help you, Roma."

"Help me with what?"

"I'll explain later," the Spaniard said dismissively. "For now... see you in a bit!" Antonio skipped off down the hall to his own bedroom, leaving Romano standing in front of the stairwell.

What was that tomato bastard up to now?

Freshly bathed and feeling refreshed, Romano entered the dining hall an hour later, only to find a large, empty room. Upon a closer look, he noticed that the large oak dining table had been pushed against the far wall, and most of the chairs were stacked nearby. He couldn't imagine how Antonio and Emma had moved that long table; it had to weigh a ton!

Emma was sitting on a chair in the corner. She held a large box in her lap, and though he was unfamiliar with such things, its design made Romano think of the organs at church, and he wondered if it was perhaps a musical instrument of some sort. He then saw Antonio on the opposite end of the room, fiddling with something in his hand. It jingled every time he moved.

"Ah, Roma!" He spied the little Italian and hurried over. "So! Are you ready to have fun?"

Romano glared at him suspiciously. "You haven't even told me what we're doing yet, bastard. How would I know if it will be fun?"

Emma scolded him for his language again. "I swear, lieveke, if you use such foul words again..." Antonio gave him an 'I told you so' look.

Romano would have to settle for some other insult to call his boss when the old lady was around. Of course, he couldn't call the bastard anything bad in Spanish, or they'd know. And he couldn't call him anything bad in Italian, or Emma would know. He'd have to watch his tongue.

"So, Roma, do you remember how I said I would help you with your clumsiness?" Antonio suddenly asked, causing Romano to blush crimson. He was bringing that up now?

The boy scowled. "What about it?"

His boss tried to look heartening. "Well, I thought of something last night. I was wondering, Roma, did you ever have rheumatic or even scarlet fever?" Romano stared. Antonio's smile began to wane. "Um, you don't have to answer if you don't want to..."

"They're diseases," Emma cut in, sensing the boy's confusion. "Scarlet fever can develop after a throat infection, with a large rash. Rheumatic fever can also occur after a throat infection."

"I... I'm not sure," he answered truthfully. "I think I got sick once or twice... but I was really little, and I don't remember much." Antonio and Emma looked thoughtful. "What does this have to do with anything?"

Antonio shifted on his feet, the thing in his hand jingling in response. "Well, if you had one of these diseases, you may have developed something called Chorea, or Saint Vitus's Dance. Your limbs might jerk uncontrollably. I thought perhaps your jerky movements might be caused by this."

He had never considered before that his clumsiness might be a medical condition. His parents had always told him that his actions were his own fault, and that he was a naughty boy for acting out and always breaking things. Could it really all be the fault of some disease he had as a child? Romano was hesitant to believe that it wasn't by his own accord.

"I suppose..." he finally replied. "But what does this have to do with..." He gestured to the room. "...whatever we're about to do?"

Antonio smiled triumphantly. "Chorea is called such because the jerky movements of the hands and feet often look like dancing." Romano's eyes widened, but Antonio only smiled more. "Being Italian, I trust that you have at least heard of the Tarantella, yes? It's a traditional Italian dance... that has an interesting history." Romano could only stare at his boss, not wanting to panic at where this seemed to be going. Please let me be wrong...

"Getting its name from a local spider, the Tarantella was believed to cure victims of spider bites," Antonio continued. His shifting grew more fluid as he hopped from one foot to the other. "People would dance for hours in order to sweat the poison out." Romano watched the man hop around and dance to an invisible tune, his hand jingling rapidly. "So!" His outburst caused the boy to jump. "Romanito, I have a theory that... perhaps if you dance the Tarantella... you will sweat the spasms out!"

A bemused snort came from behind Romano, and the two males turned to see Emma hiding her face behind the instrument. "I'm sorry, señor, but you have to admit," she said, calming her giggles, "that it is a pretty farfetched theory. Not to mention... it has never been proven that dancing ever cured a poisonous spider bite."

"I don't have any spider bites," Romano added, hoping to kill this idea before it could take off.

Romano couldn't dance. He didn't know how and had never been taught. His parents believed that dancing was an evil, something demons did to summon the Devil. He and Feliciano had been caught dancing once (or trying to dance, since they really didn't know how; they had only seen people dancing once in Rome), and they had been severely punished with no food for two days. It was one of the few times Romano could remember Feliciano ever being in trouble. If Romano was forced to dance, he'd surely be terrible at it.

Antonio wasn't to be deterred, though. "Your lack of bites isn't a concern here. But think about it. People would dance to sweat out the poison; the dancing would cure them. Don't you think it's worth a shot?"

Emma sighed. "I think your theory has some holes, but I won't stop you from trying," she said, clearly still amused. Antonio was pleased that she had given in.

"I can't dance." Romano had blurted out the words, and he quickly slapped his hands over his mouth.

"Can't dance?" his boss asked, cocking his head to the side. "Whatever do you mean? Everyone can dance. Don't worry, I'll teach you the Tarantella at a good pace."

"No, bas-señor," he said, changing his word as he saw Emma's strict look. "I mean I don't know how to dance at all!"

Antonio's laugh rang throughout the grand room. "Well, then! There's no better time to learn!" Romano wasn't so sure. "Come on, Roma, per favore?"

It just had to be that bastard's birthday, didn't it? Romano groaned.

"All right, fine! I'll try your stupid dance. But I can already tell you, it won't help," he mumbled. "I'm just bad at housework..."

Antonio beamed. "Nonsense! But either way... I promise you, Roma, we'll have fun!"

The instrument Emma was holding turned out to indeed be something musical: an accordion. She was going to play a Tarantella tune on the accordion while Antonio taught Romano how to dance.

"Now, Roma, the Tarantella is a fast-paced dance, but we can always go slower if you like," his boss said, leading the boy out to the middle of the room. The instrument in his hand jingled again.

"What's that in your hand, capo?"

Somehow the word had slipped past his lips without a second thought. Out of the corner of his eye, Romano saw Emma's face go from confused to entertained, and he prayed that she wouldn't translate. She seemed to catch his terrified look, and Emma reassured him of her silence as she mimed locking her lips.

Antonio, on the other hand, looked disappointed. "Roma, what are you calling your poor boss now?" he sobbed. "No doubt something like bastard, but worse..."

Romano refused to answer. It was much more fun letting the bastard believe it was an insult.

"Just get on with it," he snapped, not wanting to watch the man dissolve into uncontrollable weeping. "Teach me this stupid dance already."

The Spaniard was only too happy to comply. He explained that the instrument in his hand was a tambourine, commonly used during the Tarantella. Then, before he began to teach, he showed Romano just exactly what the Tarantella looked like. To Romano, it looked like a complicated series of hops and kicks, all while flicking the tambourine. As Emma played the accordion and Antonio danced around the room, whistling occasionally to a certain part that Emma couldn't play on her instrument, the tightness in Romano's chest began to loosen. The music was lively, the hopping was fast but not too daunting, and Antonio's laugh was practically infectious. Romano thought he might actually (secretly, of course, because there was no way he was letting the tomato bastard be right) enjoy the Tarantella.

If he didn't screw it up first.

Antonio had the two of them face each other. "So, Roma, when you feel more confident, I have a tambourine for you, too, but for now, we'll just focus on you practicing the basic steps," he said, shaking his tambourine for added effect. "First, start with your hands on your hips."

Romano did as he was told. Hands on hips. Next, he was to kick his right foot out at a low angle. Antonio did the same, so that their feet almost touched in the middle. As they kicked out on the right foot, they hopped onto the left. Right kick, left hop. Left kick, right hop. Repeat.

He threw his arms out for balance. "Ah, Romano, you've got to keep your hands on your hips," Antonio teased as they went through the steps again. Romano groaned, but his boss merely shook his head. "Don't worry, Roma, you'll get there."

Left kick, right hop. Right kick, left hop. Next, they repeated the hop-kicking again, but this time with their feet higher in the air, legs curved in. "Bas-Capo, this is impossible," Romano growled, struggling to get his legs to do what he wanted. He just couldn't raise his leg that high.

"Hmm, perhaps we should stretch first?" Antonio asked, pausing in his dancing. They stopped the lesson for a bit to stretch their limbs, and Emma took the time to stretch her body as well, setting the accordion aside to get up and walk around. After almost ten minutes of stretching, Antonio decided they were ready to give it another go.

Romano felt the stretching had only made it worse. His limbs had just been pushed to their limits, and now he wanted to dance on them? His body seemed to reject the idea. But after several more attempts, Romano thought maybe the stretching did help after all.

Once Antonio felt Romano had somewhat learned the two levels of kicking, they moved on to the next part. Still hopping, they met shoulder to shoulder facing each other. Antonio's right arm was thrown out, slightly curved in towards Romano, almost over his chest, and his left arm was gracefully poised in the air with the tambourine; his left foot was kicked out and bent in towards the Italian, while he hopped on his right leg. Romano had trouble balancing on his right foot, and the height difference made it awkward for him to put an arm around his boss; he was supposed to be covering the man's stomach, but instead his arm was just above Antonio's raised leg.

"Sorry, I know I'm a bit of a tall dance partner for you," the Spaniard apologized as they hopped on their respective feet in a circle. "Hmm, maybe I should change it to where we just keep our right arms on our hips–"

Romano tripped, falling headfirst into Antonio's gut and toppling them both over. The man landed on his back, grunting when Romano landed on his stomach.

"I knew I'd be bad at this," the boy moaned. "We should just quit now and not waste the time. I know you're busy and–"

Antonio sat up and smiled. "Don't be silly, Romanito. There's no place I'd rather be."

Feeling his face grow red, Romano stood up and dusted himself off. His boss couldn't possibly mean what he'd said; anyone would rather be anywhere than with Romano.

"Do you want to put all of that together and try it a few times before calling it a day?" Antonio asked, standing. "I still have to check over the tomatoes before I go to bed."

Romano couldn't help the small frown that grew on his mouth. Was his boss giving up on him already? He had expected it, but still...

"Not that I am not enjoying our time together, Roma," Antonio corrected. "We can do this for an hour or two every day until you learn the entire dance."

"You mean there's more?" the boy asked, astonished. It was hard enough finding energy for all of that hopping. And there was more?

His boss only smiled. "Yes indeed! You're doing a fantastic job so far, Roma."

The boy snorted. "Whatever, capo. Just get on with it."

Antonio cried at his new nickname again, sobbing about how cruelly he was abused. Romano only rolled his eyes, inwardly smirking at the man's ignorance. As much as he thought this dancing idea was silly, Romano appreciated that the man was trying to help. No one had ever wanted to help Romano before. He appreciated it more than he would ever let that bastard capo know.

As they danced for another half hour, Romano found himself enjoying it a little more. The man praised him, but Romano only fought off the hugs with light shoves and "Don't touch me, capo!" causing the Spaniard to fall into another fit of sobs. Perhaps someday he'd explain to Antonio the man's new nickname, but for now, it was more fun to watch him stress out over its possible insulting meaning. Happy birthday, bastard.

Capo. Boss.

.

Que aproveche - Bon appétit! I left it in Spanish since there isn't really a direct English translation.

-Ino - Italian diminutive suffix

Piccolino - little one

Carino - cute/cutie

Mio pomodorino - my little tomato

Delizioso - delicious

Non ho mai assaggiato niente di più dolce - I've never tasted anything sweeter!

Mio cioccolatino - my little chocolate

Smettila di dire queste cose - stop saying such things!

Gelukkige verjaardag, liefste - Happy birthday, dear

Lieveke - little sweet one

Per favore - please

Capo - boss

As the author, I am not responsible for any cavities you as a reader may get from the sugary sweetness of this chapter.

The long awaited churro scene! I think churros today are usually fried in a deep fryer, but my friend and I have actually made them in a pan before for a school assignment, and I read that in the past, they cooked churros in a pan over a fire. As for the thing about not using eggs, some recipes do call for eggs in churros, but I have heard many times that eggs ruin the taste. I'm actually getting churros this afternoon, yay!

Also, the Tarantella! For those unfamiliar with the Hetalia backstory, Spain has chibi Romano dance the Tarantella to cure him of his Chorea, which is why he is so terrible at cleaning, though it is never revealed if the dancing works or not. There is more dancing to come in future chapters, and we'll just have to see if Romano is cured of his clumsiness.

I have to say, it's awfully bizarre trying to write dancing. I hope it came across all right. I watched many Tarantella videos, but if you're curious as to which exact dance Antonio is teaching Romano, it's part of this video: you tube dot com slash watch?v=cDt0mWbFHM0 (just remove the spaces and add the correct symbols back, ffnet won't let me post the actual link). Antonio whistles the flute parts~

One more note... In Italian, aside from when referring to family members, the possessive pronoun "my" is 'il mio' rather than just 'mio'. However, Antonio is not fluent in Italian, and he is thinking 'mio pomodorino' is correct, similar to how 'my tomato' would be 'mi tomate' in Spanish. I suppose, technically, he could be referring to Romano this way because he thinks of Roma as family, but... somehow I doubt he is that smart to figure that out (Romano certainly didn't tell him).

I'll try to have chapter 11 up before I go out of town for a week in early July, but I can't promise when due to my insane work schedule. Til then, ciao!