I apologize for yet more lateness. Real-life interfered yet again, so therefore this delay in your (irregularly scheduled) potential entertainment is thanks to finishing the spring school semester (but with very good grades, thankfully, despite the Erebor-sized load of end-of-semester work), going to the annual anime convention where I live (so much Hetalia...the amount of Chibi!Feli, Chibi!Romano, and in particular 2p!nations was staggering, as was a rather delightfully authentic-looking bloodied Conquistador!Spain), and of course, the usual family vacation. Also, I'm currently recovering from a recently-fixed dental issue, so if this chapter looks...off, for lack of a better word, you can at least partly blame the annoying, aching mandible and subsequent painkillers that leave me sleepy and dopey enough to give Sam Winchester a run for his money, bless his giant moose-y self.

But I didn't come post this just to rant about first-world problems, that's just rude. So, on with the ridiculous fluffy mochi madness! Prussia will be appearing in the next chapter, I promise (he isn't in this one due to refusing to leave the linen closet, given that he can't tell where Germany currently is)!

Also, given the date yesterday, happy (belated) birthday Harry Potter, may the Nargles spurn you, Dementors fear your Patronus, and your children wreak untold havoc upon Hogwarts. My childhood is being celebrated once more~

The air was fraught with tension, thicker than the layer of ice that formed over frozen winter lakes high up in the north of his country. Romano couldn't help but wish, if only for a split second, that when he'd had this house remodeled, and that he'd gotten the bathroom doors fixed to be more durable, and possibly outfitted with a master key. If he'd done so, perhaps he wouldn't be suffering from another oncoming migraine, and Spain wouldn't be on the floor, nursing a freshly bloodied nose from where he'd gotten the door slammed in his face, and still trying, despite said bloodied nose, to calm down the littlest occupants of the room.

Although, perhaps it was at least partially deserved, given that the older nation had, in his elation at discovering (as he'd come into the house, excited at the brief message They're safe. Romano's even giving Amato and your little friend a bubble bath, with little toys and everything~ that France had sent out via cellphone following the Southern Italian's arrival and subsequent bathroom isolation) that his little mochi friend and Romano's little one were safe and, in fact, happily playing, forgotten to knock to announce his arrival. Delighted that things seemed to have at least partly worked out, he'd hurried through the house, footsteps thudding, and Romano barely had enough time to slam the door shut to prevent the unasked-for entry before Spain smacked right into it.

However, the carved wooden barrier had made little difference, given that it was pitted against Spain's determination and the added advantage of centuries of experience dealing with the considerable pain caused by Romano-induced injuries of all kinds. A bloody nose was nothing in comparison to the incentive of both reuniting with his new mochi and getting to meet his former charge's little one.

So instead of going to treat his injured nose and possibly just knocking with one hand, he'd knocked on the door hard enough in his enthusiasm (and a considerable amount of unaccounted-for strength that generally came from the incentive of seeing Romano again), that he'd unintentionally knocked down the door, shocking Romano in the process enough to just barely restrain from cursing a blue streak fit to make even the saltiest of sailors blush, and startling the two mochis playing in the bathtub rather badly.

To make matters worse, the sudden, rather loud arrival of the Spaniard into the little room, complete with a shout of "LOVI!" and a grin so bright it seemed almost maniacal as he joyfully seized Amato's beloved Mama in a tight hug (to which Romano punched him in the shoulder and hissed at him to "get off, you moron! You smell like sweat!"), was so surprising and strange that the little mochi grew frightened, and before he knew it, a small whimper was heard, and then another, and then the tiny creature was sniffling in distress, big eyes bright with tears threatening to fall. Little Lovi, upon seeing this, had promptly glared at his caretaker, before shuffling over to the crying mochi and sitting nearby in an awkward, silent moment of support.

Within seconds of hearing the unhappy sound, Romano twisted himself expertly out of Spain's hold, elbowing him away with an impressively sharp jab to the ribs to keep from being trapped in a hug again, and promptly darted over to the bathtub. He scooped his little one out of the water with careful hands, checking him over instinctively for any injuries before realization dawned and he turned, eyes blazing and Amato nestled safely in the cradle of his fingers (now suitably calmed, and looking a little embarrassed for crying, even if only a bit, due to a stranger), to face Spain. The wrath in his eyes would have made even the bravest of men and women turn tail and flee, cowering and cringing, and Spain, despite his occasional misreading (or even complete lack of reading) the situation, knew well enough from centuries of experience that such a look meant the younger nation was out for blood.

If the situation was to be salvageable, he needed to act quickly.

"Romano, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare him..."

"You." The single word uttered caused Spain to instantly shut up, a shiver racing down his spine at the dark, stormy look in the golden-brown eyes that spoke of unspeakable horrors. Now you've gone and done it, a little (and sometimes ignored) voice in his head snarked at him.

"Romano, please..."

If Spain could have been incinerated by glares alone, Romano's thunderous expression would have reduced the older nation to nothing more than a pile of ashes on the spot.

"You...you...!" The words hung in the air like a weighted chandelier, threatening to drop and unleash death. "Just...just shut up. If you say one more word and he cries again..."

Golden-brown eyes, glowing an almost violent sun-gold in their molten fury, narrowed threateningly, and Romano's slender fingers, tanned to a fetching golden hue from the warm Sicilian summer, made a quick, vicious slashing motion, shredding through the air across his throat as if dragging a knife through flesh that Spain suddenly felt was much, much too close to his beloved ex-henchman's sharp fingernails.

After a moment of frigid, shaky silence afterwards, the Southern Italian's entire stance shifted. Dropping his gaze from Spain's eye-level and turning away as if he was suddenly worth the attention of drying paint, he turned his attention back to his tiny charge. Amato, eyes still over-bright and a bit red-rimmed from his earlier crying, cooed softly, nuzzling his Mama's fingers as a low grumbling sound was heard.

Romano felt his lips quirk up in a slight smile at the sound. Patting the tiny creature's little brown leaf "curls", he promptly walked back to the bathtub, moving quickly to set Amato on his shoulder, pick up Little Lovi to sit on the unoccupied shoulder, and dump out the sudsy bath water. Turning off the tap, he offered a "Let's go get you so some food, hmm?" to the two little mochis before walking out the bathroom door without a backwards glance, pink skirts swishing like ocean waves.

Spain could only blink in surprise at the sudden shift in demeanor. Little Lovi blew a raspberry at him, sticking a tiny, bright pink tongue out in a clear expression of annoyance at how badly his caretaker had bungled the first meeting with his fellow mochi.

"Oh, and Tomato Bastard?," Romano called from down the hallway. "You're cleaning up the mess that you made of my bathroom!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~IN WHICH PREPARATIONS FOR AN UNCONVENTIONAL DINNER ARE MADE, INNTERUPTED, AND HIJACKED, IN THAT ORDER~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner preparations were an...odd affair. After kicking both France and Austria out of his kitchen and telling them that, since they clearly were going to stay whether he wanted them to or not, they could be somewhat decent guests and go wait in the living room for dinner instead of further draining his alcohol supply, Romano cleaned up the worst of the clutter from his beloved kitchen and set to work on making a potentially salvageable meal from the ruins of his cooking space. Luckily, Austria had cleaned up a sizable chunk of the rubble and swept it out of the gigantic hole left in the wall by Prussia's rampage, so while the side of his home now had a mess of rubble and plaster to contend with later on, the kitchen floor was reasonably clean.

Romano set both mochis down to play in the big ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter (this time lined with soft paper towels from a nearby cupboard and with a rubber ball to play with) and turned to the refrigerator to check the contents for possible ingredient options. Given the lack of meat or seafood that could be used (and it was still rather warm for doing any sort of broiling, stewing, baking, or other sort of cooking to the none-available meat, fish, or shellfish as it was), he decided on a mostly vegetable-based "cold" meal, with salad, bread, and possibly a cool vegetable dish that could be eaten raw with a possible dressing accompaniment, or with minimal cooking effort.

Hmmm, what to make, what to make...Let's see, there's plenty of vegetables, so a cold salad with some cheese sounds like a good start. I still have some bread, too, and there's butter and olive oil from the last trip to the store. But no meat, so maybe some fish? I still have some smoked fish I could use...

Sticking his head into the cold space, he ignored the cloud of misty, refrigerated air billowing out past his waist, instead pulling out armloads of fresh greens, red onions, several containers of cheeses, a half-loaf of bread still fresh enough to crackle like static electricity when squeezed, and a rather generous collection of tomatoes. The load of food was thoroughly rinsed in the sink before being put out on the counter beside the ceramic bowl to await cutting and sorting, as deft hands opened drawers to withdraw a wooden cutting board, worn smooth from repeated usage, and a wickedly sharp knife for chopping.

When he turned around to retrieve the vegetables, there was a suspicious chomping sound coming from the vicinity of the bowl, and he saw, to his utter exasperation, that some of the smaller tomatoes were missing.

"Amato...," he muttered, "what did you just do? What did I tell you about snacking right before dinnertime, hmm? And that goes for guests, too!," he called sharply, turning sharp eyes to the ceramic bowl and staring it down with the sort of well-trained force that came from centuries of keeping Feliciano's grabby fingers from swiping freshly-made, deliciously crunchy, almond-flavoured cantucci (he outright refused to yield to America's repeated attempts to officially name it biscotti) from the windowsills before they could cool and be re-baked for maximum tastiness.

A few seconds of waiting yielded the reappearance of the two mochis, both sporting flecks of tomato skin and dribbles of pinkish-red tomato juice dripping from cherubic cheeks. There was a thumb-sized swatch of sticky tomato skin that somehow had ended up stuck in Amato's little brownish leaf "curls", a portion of it dangling down to his forehead like some bizarre hat. Judging by the splatter of juice on the inside and outside of the ceramic bowl as well as on the mochis, Amato had given his new friend a boost out of the bowl. The further trail of tomato juice implicated (judging by the slightly smaller difference in the mochis' shuffling size as well as tomato size) that Little Lovi had pushed the nearest decently-sized tomato over to the bowl, nudging and pushing it back into a "sitting" position of stem-side up, hopped onto it like a stool, used it as a launch pad to jump back into the bowl, then pulled the tomato along into the bowl by both mochis "grabbing" onto the stem by biting it and pulling back as hard as they could. By the look of the bowl, countertop, and the mochis themselves, the process seemed to have been repeated at least twice.

Leaning down to take a closer look at his two current charges, he examined both faces and took in the sight of the respective mess on each mochi's tiny visage. A low, guttural sigh issued forth as he peered at the sticky seed-and-juice mix coating. "Argh, you two are getting your faces washed before dinner, and no complaining, got it?"

Despite the unhappy look in both mochis' eyes, the twin issues of "Okay..." were enough assent for him to relax a little.

Scooping both of them up in his hands, he put them in a shallow mixing bowl and put it in the sink, turning on the faucet and running the water in a shallow stream until it was at a safe, warm temperature. The bowl was then run under the thin stream of water, Romano firmly rubbing the sticky tomato leftovers off the tiny, dirty faces with the tips of his fingers and the smallest, softest hand-towel he could scrounge from the kitchen cupboards. A simple, thorough rinsing was all the could be done if dinner was to be prepared on time, given that the kitchen soap was unsuitable for potential contact with large, fragile mochi eyes and he didn't trust the other nations not to destroy his house further somehow in the time it took to give the little creatures another proper bath.

Wrapping both Amato and Little Lovi up in a clean, relatively soft checkerboard yellow-and-brown kitchen towel, he set them back in the ceramic bowl (the paper towels were soaked through with tomato juice, and were quickly replaced with clean, dry ones). The rubber ball was rinsed clean of tomato juice, dried with a dishtowel, and put back in the bowl. Amato, clean and largely satisfied with a snack of tasty tomatoes, joyfully began nudging the ball towards Little Lovi. Romano felt his lips twitch upwards in a faint grin at the sight, knowing that, thanks to several lazy, aimless afternoons in the warm sun after the daily gardening, his little one was probably going to try playing a simple back-and-forth game of football with the other mochi.

"There, now no more snacking on the tomatoes! You eat any more and there won't be any left for anyone else."

After getting nods from both occupants of the bowl, he turned back to preparing the food. Taking a large wooden salad bowl out of the top cupboards, he put it on the counter, then began slicing the first of the vegetables evenly, leaving the tomatoes chopped into quarter-sized pieces. The red, juicy mix was placed on the side of the cutting board, and then the garlic was peeled, the slow, even stripping of crinkly greyish-white hull rhythmic and relaxing. A generous clove of the garlic was rubbed liberally all over the inside of the salad bowl, coating the surface with a thin, even coating of flavour. After a moment of consideration, he filled a small teaspoon of olive oil halfway, then brushed it all over the bowl's interior as well.

Taking hold of the bread, he lightly buttered it, then cut it into bite-size pieces. The remaining garlic was finely chopped and then tossed into the bowl alongside the bread, followed soon afterwards by a diced and peeled cucumber, a cup of chopped red onion, the mass of chopped tomatoes, a sprinkling of salt and pepper, a mixed condiment bowl's worth of mostly basil and a little thyme, and a dash of the freshly-squeezed lemon juice that originally had been intended to make lemonade with tomorrow's lunch. Mixing the clump of salad ingredients together in the bowl, he drizzled several spoonfuls of cherry-tinted balsamic vinegar and a little more olive oil over the mass for seasoning, then tossed it until the whole of it gleamed with flecks of champagne-gold oil and ebony-black vinegar spots.

Eyeing the salad with a critical air, he considered what else he had on hand that could be made. "Hmm, it needs something else..."

"How about a generous sprinkling of nuts, non?"

"AAAAAAAAAH!" Romano let out a shriek of surprise, whirling around sharply with the cutting knife still brandished threateningly in one hand. Several generously-flowing blonde locks fell to the kitchen floor, sliced off by the sudden movement of the blade. In the ceramic bowl, Amato and Little Lovi paused their game of football, peeping out of the bowl nervously and only settling back down when Romano gave a quick nod of reassurance, accompanied by a sharp look in France's direction that said both I'll take care of this, you can relax and Don't worry, it's only one of the annoying idiots who won't leave yet. Amato, before ducking back into the bowl to keep playing with his friend, took the time to look at his Mama to make sure he was okay after unleashing such a terrifying scream, and Romano's expression softened in response as he gave the little mochi a slight smile. Reassured, Amato returned to his game, although it didn't stop him from grinning when Little Lovi rebuked the French nation for the unannounced arrival by blowing a raspberry before going back to playing too.

France gave the other nation an offended look, shining blue eyes wide with shock and arms instinctively held out to protect himself. "Mon dieu, Romano, don't go waving zhat thing around! You could 'ave killed me!" Elegant fingers grabbed into the partly-severed locks and waved them about for emphasis. "Look what you 'ave already done to my beautiful 'air, I don't want zhat to be my face next!"

Romano blinked in surprise and irritation; evidently, the invasion of his and Amato's home by his overly-nosey nation neighbors was still underway. "Why the heck did you sneak up on me when I'm cutting things up, then? That was just stupid! You're lucky it was just your hair that got sliced off, try sneaking up on me again and it'll be something much, much more permanent and painful, got it?" He pointed the knife at the older nation's face, the sharp tip glinting dangerously in the kitchen lighting.

France swallowed nervously, gently pushing the knife tip away with a well-manicured finger. "Oui, oui, I understand."

Giving a sharp, tight nod in response, Romano turned his attention back to his cutting board. "What are you doing in here, anyway? I told you and Austria to stay out of my kitchen."

Blue eyes gleamed with an almost pitying shine, as France shook his head and stared at the younger nation as if he were a misunderstanding puppy that couldn't figure out why he wasn't quite the right size to get through the cat flap. "Because you 'ave an entire army of nations here to cook for, since you know zhey won't leave until zhis little matter between you and Espagne is cleared."

Drawing himself up to his full height, the normally floaty, somewhat narcissic nation stared into Romano's eyes, for once being completely serious. "Now, your former boss is an old and dear friend of mine, and I want to see 'im smiling, and happy. I don't know why, given that you are about as cuddly as a cactus, he 'as somehow, strangely enough, chosen you as the reason to be so sappy and glad. So, as both 'is friend and one with a deep appreciation of l'amour, I need to ensure that you two work zhis out. Comprendre?"

Romano opened his mouth to respond, but instead stared in utter confusion and slow-mounting dread as France promptly stepped over to the fridge and began rummaging around. "I know zhat your Italians make good desserts, but anything zhat would make a real impression is not possible to make before dinner. Therefore, I must do my duty for zhe sake of romance, and help you woo your beloved with zhat first of good seductions: food. Given zhat you 'ave already made part of dinner, we can start making a quick morsel for later. Now, where are your chocolates, your fruits, your gelato, and your most expensive bottle of wine?" The fridge made audible clinking and rattling sounds as the contents were shoved about, the air occasionally punctuated by noises of derision or vague approval as the Frenchman riffled through the bins.

Romano stared at the chopping knife still in his hand, contemplating it for a moment as he stared at France's back, clad in thin, summer-appropriate silks and all too close to being too annoying not to take a strike at.

But a giggle lit up the air from the ceramic bowl, and he decided that the knife was better suited for cutting up some olives as an accompaniment for the salad.

After all, it wouldn't do to scare the little ones.