Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

A/n1: Better prepare yourself for a very busy chapter: there will be four different narrators this time. That's right! Four different narrator! In one mere chapter! Le gasp!
I've always loved writing from the point of view from many characters. I think it's a challenge to write them in a way that the reader comes to realize who he/she is!
You might not recognize some of the narrators right away, but there's always the break sign that can help you out.
Well, do your best! Are you able to tell which characters is narrating?

A/n2: Working at my new job isn't all that difficult, but it sure asks a lot of my body. I need to walk fast, eight hours a day and sixteen hours a week (and since I sometimes work on a Sunday as well, you can add another eight hours to that sixteen to discover I speed-walk more than a fucking day per week, PLUS add some walking-hours on Saturday, when I'm delivering mail, and YOU FEEL THAT, YES, THAT'S WHAT I FEEL).
A colleague told me that some people have lost more than twenty kilograms during their work, so that was pretty impressive!
'You should look at your work as a very long exercise you're actually getting paid for to do,' he told me, and you know what – if you look at it that way, it's kind of awesome.
But MAN. My FEET. My LEGS. They BURRRRRRRNNNNNNNN.

A/n3: Thar she blows, dear peeps: Dutch saying #3!
De morgenstond heeft goud in de mond (The start of the early morning's got gold in its mouth): the earlier you get out of bed in the morning, the better your day will be.
This saying never made much sense to me (gold in its mouth – what the hell?), but as expected, now that I read it in English, it's even more stupid. XDDDDDDD Don't ask me what a "morgenstond" is exactly, because I honestly don't know. It just means 'the start of the early morning', really, and that's pretty much it.
But now you know. Party time! 8DDDDDDD

~~ And Three Makes Five ~~

Chapter 73:

It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers.
Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.
Roald Dahl
(British novelist, short story writer, screenwriter, poet and fighter pilot)

Oh god.

I was remembering something.

I-I was remembering something!

Not just random sentences or unclear mental images of smiling or frowning faces and horrible kid-clothing that would make Alejo's blood run ice-cold with disgust – no, I remembered something I myself had said back then.

No, not "said". Yelled. Screamed, from the top of my fucking lungs, while crying my eyes out.

I'd find them.

That's what I cried – I'd find them. Find and tell them.

And you know what?

I fucking would.

o\00/

No time to lose!

Now!

Where was that fucking phone?

Where was it, where the hell was it where was it where was it where the hell was it graaaaaaaah where where was it oh god where did I fucking put that evil broad way-too-big-for-my-pockets piece of shi—

Oh, there it was!

Like a goddamn majestic swan, I threw myself on my cell phone – just lying like two meters away from me, on the kitchen table – and then I went on a ferocious witch-hunt, meaning that I went to look for that piece of paper with Tosca's telephone number written on it.

I found it in the drawer of my nightstand, after having messed up all the possible drawers in the entire apartment, and instead of taking a moment and thinking about what I should say to the woman I was about to call, I impulsively dialed the number right away, like… yeah, like a majestic swan, once again!

However, I instantly regretted my rash decision as I listened to the dull beeps and I even thought about hastily hanging up again, before I'd make a fool out of myself…

…but naturally, naturally, that was the moment that someone on the other side of the line answered her phone.

'Pronto?'

…

Oh. Italian.

Well of course she spoke Italian, Luisa, you big oaf: she was Italian! God!

…

Okay. U-uh…

'H-hi,' I started – in Italian. 'Is… is this Dr. Tosca I'm speaking to?'

There was a short silence to be heard.

'Alright,' the young, female then all of a sudden sighed, her tone stern and warning me not to bullshit around with her, 'before I answer that question, I need you to answer some of mine, if you don't mind.'

'Um, no, I guess I—'

'What's your first name? When's your birthday? How old are you? Where did you grow up? How did you get this number? Who are your surrogate parents? Have you read the book before calling this number or did you call it after reading the book? Who do you think your parents are? Why is that?'

'U-uh…'

'And last but not least – do you have any special things you'd like to tell me in order to convince me you're not just some bored bitch that wants attention?'

I frowned and thought about nagging right back at her, dammit, but a voice in the back of my head reminded me of the fact that the girl – no way that voice belonged to an actual adult woman – must indeed have had quite a few annoying phone calls thanks to the popularity of the book. So yeah, it's no wonder the callers had to pass a weird quiz of some sorts first.

'O-okay,' I started, breathing in deeply and trying to remember all of the questions the girl had asked me, 'My… my name's Luisa, my birthday's the 12th of February, I'm 23 years old, I grew up (and I'm calling from) Spain and I-I got this number from my adoptive father – Ángel Hernández Delgado. Oh, and the name of my other adoptive parent is Stefano Castagnetti. Umm… I read the book, first, and I think my parents are S-South Italy and Spain.'

I thought that would be enough to do the trick, but the girl wasn't satisfied or impressed yet.

'Carry on,' was the only thing she said – but since she hadn't hang up on me yet at this point, I believed she at least was a little bit intrigued.

'I-I think my parents are South Italy and Spain because… because I recognize myself and my brothers on some of the photo's inside the book,' I explained as good as I could. 'Also, I remember some of the things they – the personifications, I mean – told me during our final goodbye. And stuff. And… um—'

'What are your brothers' names?'

'Alejo and Matteo – they're twins and one year older than me.'

'Birthday date?'

'March 17.'

'Do they speak Italian as well as you?'

'No, they only know Spanish… they're not very good with strange languages to start with. Well, but their English is good enou—'

'I can hear you speak Italian fluently. That's pretty remarkable for a person that grew up in Spain. Why is that?'

'I-I don't know… I mean, Stefano's Italian, too, and we sometimes went to Italy on holiday, so maybe that's got something to do with it, but—'

'I know enough.'

'Oh!' I paused, wondering what to say next. 'That's… good?'

'It is!' the voice replied – and maybe it was my imagination, but the tone suddenly became a lot friendlier and more cheerful. 'It's very good indeed, because I think I believe you. You know a lot of information that imposters wouldn't know about and you sound pretty sincere. And slightly stressed out.'

'I-I am, I mean… it's a lot of information to progress… I just read the book now, and I've got so many questions, and—'

'Let me answer your first question first, alright?'

'Um… sure?'

'I'm not doctor Benedetta Tosca.'

'…what?' I said, still surprised (although I shouldn't be, it was normal that such a young voice didn't belong to a woman that must have been in her forties by now).

'I'm Venetia Romana Tosca – her daughter. Hi!'

'…yeah, hi there, I guess?...'

What the fuck?

Maybe I should have asked myself this in the first place, but what the – why the hell did I get Tosca's daughter on the phone instead of the woman herself?

'I can imagine you're surprised, so don't get mad and let me just explain, okay?' the girl in the meantime said. My mother's currently on her European tour, traveling through all kinds of countries to visit programs and shows to talk about her shocking book. She gave me the task to inform and possibly guide nation-children back to their REAL parents. So it's okay! Don't be freaked out!'

'Okay…' I slowly said. 'So… what now?'

'Well, I believe you, so I guess there's nothing else for me to do than leave Germany and come flying to Spain!'

'Germany? You're Italian, right? What in the world are you doing in Germany?'

The girl snickered. 'Let's just say that you weren't the first caller I believed.'

'Oh. Aha.'

'So I'll be cancelling my plans to wander through Köln some more, looks like it. Too bad. But duty calls, and you bet it's an important duty! Hopefully, I gave Mirabelle enough information for her to find where her parents live. And what the country her other father officially is from, of course. It's one of the most beautiful countries in the world…'

She said in it in a way that told me these words should trigger something within my head, or at least they should make me realize something. And when I thought about it a bit more, they did make me realize something. And they made my heart jump up in surprise.

'Is… th-that girl, is she my…?'

'Your cousin, yes!' Venetia sounded impressed. 'Very good, Luisa! She's your cousin Mirabelle Ilse Machteld Isabellisima from Germany. But I believe her fathers and other close relatives preferred calling her Mimi.'

Mimi, huh? Well, that name didn't ring any bells in particular, but I did get the feeling I should know about her. And that she was an annoying blonde ditz with braids.

…

Wonder why that was?

'Anyway,' Venetia said, 'just tell me where you live, and I'll make sure to get to your place as soon as I can. I'll probably only be sticking around for a few days, since I'm expecting a lot of calls, as you probably are very much aware of!'

I heard how excited she sounded and I felt how excited I myself was getting. Oh god, this was really going to happen – everything that I was unknowingly looking for all those years, I was going to find it all! I was going to fill up the hole in my heart! All thanks to a giddy-sounding girl on the telephone that claimed to know everything I wanted to know, and that I was telling where I lived right on this very moment.

…

Huh…

Let's hope my unexpectedly desperate desire to trust this stranger – because that's what she was in the end – wasn't going to bite me in the ass later.

RSS

I instantly regretted my incredible dumb move of blurting out the guy's name when Spain's adult son put his daughter down and grabbed both of my hands, pulling me closer, way too close to him as tears sprung into his brown-greenish eyes.

'H-hey, let go – let go!' I feebly sputtered – but he was stronger than he looked, even though he was bawling once again.

'T-that's right, I'm Matteo! My name's Matteo! You really DO know me! T-that's so weird… I really don't recall you – I really, really don't but I – I want to! It's too sad otherwise… it's just too sad!' he said, almost pleaded to me.

I looked at him strangely – and slightly freaked out, since he had such warm hands and it didn't felt that bad and why did I notice such silly things and my god, I've never held hands with a guy before, especially not with a guy that had such warm hands.

'W-why are you…? I-it's not that special to meet someone who knows you from the past, you know – it happens all the time! And it's normal to react normal to that, not to… to start crying about it all of a sudden!' I hastily informed him, still trying to get out of his grasp.

He made a pouty face and shook his head. His glasses were getting all fogged up.

'Don't you think it's sad to meet someone who knows you, without knowing the person him or herself?'

I frowned and shrugged. 'Why would that be sad! It's a bit inconvenient, s-sure, but it's no reason to cry over. You—'

'You'd like me to remember you, though.' The florist sniffled and gave my hands a soft squeeze. 'D-don't you…?'

I opened my mouth to protest, but I didn't know what to say. Thing was that Spain's son wasn't wrong. I mean, when I was a kid and when I got to know him, his brother and his younger sister…

…I was so happy.

The three of them were the first and only friends I ever had. We only played for that one day, when their dads had to go to some meeting, but I remember that day as one of the most wonderful days in my life. Which was kind of depressing. We didn't do anything special on that day. We just played in the garden, we ate pancakes, we listened to dad's lame jokes, we watched mom as she read us a bedtime story, we all slept together in that one, huge bed on the second floor that my grandma used to sleep in when she was still alive, and we kept talking, laughing and poking each other until dad came in for the tenth time that night, telling us to please, for his sanity's sake, go to sleep already.

I liked Luisa, since she was a bit strange and awkward, just like me.

I liked Alejo, since he was rash and energetic – also just like me.

And Matteo – well, Matteo was… Matteo was nice, positive and a little stupid.

Not like me at all.

I liked teasing him during that day, because teasing him gave me more reasons to be close to him. Because I liked him. I liked him a lot. On a slightly different level than his brother and sister. I never really understood why, but… but I suppose I might had a slight crush on him. Puppy love or something like that – that's probably what I felt for him.

It wasn't mutual, though. Matteo simply was too young and dimwitted to see through my mean smiles and bitchy comments. He was four, I was six – no way a kid that young could understand a girl that didn't even know what she was doing herself.

When Matteo and his siblings were removed out of their fathers' lives and heads, I cried a lot. Out of selfish reasons – I didn't give a rat's ass about the fact that a lovely family of five had been brutally torn apart like that, I just felt sorry for myself, for losing the only friends I had. Mother called me out on that, but I didn't care.

It hurt. More than anything else had ever hurt. Well, on that very moment, at last. After hell broke loose in both the PPSS and my own household, I very easily was able to forget all about my sadness over losing my friends – I had other things to mourn about, after all.

'Wat's yer name?' a small voice then asked me, and I jumped a bit, startled. I had been lost in thoughts for a little while, so… so hearing Spain's son's daughter speak to me all of a sudden was pretty surprising.

'U-um…' I started, looking at the girl standing next to her father. It was a cute, cheerful kid, wearing a green dress and a pink hair ribbon. She had a fairly dark skin, short, bouncy, black curls and a face that didn't look like the florist's at all. But her smile did, and her eyes were huge and had the exact same color, shape and brightness as her father's.

'I would like to know that as well,' said father softly said. 'What's your name, miss Sanchez?'

'Raquel.' I paused for a second. 'M-my name's Raquel.'

Spain's son nodded. Then his eyes got all blurry and teary again. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Sorry for what?'

'For still not remembering you. I'm sorry. I… I really have no idea who you are. Please forgive me for that.'

'Look,' I sighed, avoiding to look him in the eyes, 'i-it was a long time ago, alright? We were both still very young back then. It's no wonder you can't remember. But it's not important. You, me, Luisa and Alejo just played for one day. It's nothing, really.'

'If it was nothing, then why do you still remember our names? Then why did you seem to look so… so crushed when I told you I still don't know you just now?' he wanted to know, smiling gently at me.

Was that pity?

Did he pity me?

I snorted, made my eyes hard and cold and pulled myself free with a swift movement.

'It's none of your business.'

'A-alright.' Spain's son backed off a bit and rubbed his neck. 'I just don't want you to feel ba—'

'Cut it out. It's all in the past now. I feel good enough, I don't need a florist I barely knew as a kid to look out for me.' I turned around, walked to the nearest table and sat down. 'So take a seat already and let's discuss the flowers you can offer Mr. Fernandez and his partner for their wedding anniversary.'

'Ohh!' Spain's son said, putting his daughter on his lap as he, too, sat down at the table. 'So it's a wedding anniversary, huh? That's lovely!~ I bet Mr. Fernandez and his wife must feel so very happy for getting to celebrate their love again!~'

Maybe I was too mesmerized by the fact the guy could so very breezily switch between moods and subjects like it was no-one's business (look at him – he was practically glowing with joy right now, even though he was in tears just a minute ago!), maybe I was charmed by the fact he looked kind of adorable when he gushed about his clients or maybe I was just tired – but fact is that I felt the need to correct him and tell him that the couple next door was a male couple.

'Oh, interesting!' he responded to that. 'I've arranged flowers for wedding anniversaries before, but never for a male couple. I wonder what their taste in flowers is?'

'I know,' I automatically said – not because I wanted to brag, but because I… well, I really did know.

'Of course you know – you're their loyal personal assistant!' He smiled friendly at me. 'They're so lucky!'

'Y-yeah,' I said, looking at the table's surface.

'Now, let me fetch my list of flowers I can offer you in this season… alright…'

He put a big paper on the table and scooted his chair closer to mine, until our bodies almost touched. I could feel his warmth, once again, and though I tried, I really did try hard, I didn't hear a single thing of what he told me about the colorful flower pictures his slender fingers pointed at. He smelled like dirt and daisies. He sat way too close to me. His voice was calming and kind. It made me want to cry, really.

'Do you like it so far?' he asked me.

I hid my face from him again. This situation. It was confusing. It made my heart flutter and ache. It gave me unknown chills all over my body and I longed to scream and pull my hair in panicky frustration.

It was far from pleasurable, all of this.

And yet…

'Yes,' I muttered. 'I-I like it so far.'

0\o0/

'You want me to sell bocadillos ?'

I stared at my boss until my spread-open-wide eyes were starting to burn.

'Really, Paco? Really?'

My graying, thug-faced boss sighed and pushed the last picnic-bench-set on its place. Meanwhile, people walking around the busy shopping street where the butcher shop was located, watched on curiously. It was going to be a pretty hot day today, too, so it was no coincidence Paco had decided to make some sort of mini-restaurant thing out here in the streets, close by his shop.

'Yes, Alejo! Bocadillos!' He sounded irritated and wiped his forehead. 'Lots and lots of bocadillos! You're going to make them and sell them to the people and tourists here. You got that?'

I gave Paco a nasty look. 'You told me you were going to teach me everything about the wonderfulness of pig scalding – not make me sell stupid sandwiches.'

'Okay. One: bocadillos are not stupid sandwiches, they are pieces of edible Spanish art if prepared correctly – which you are perfectly able to. Two: I will teach you more about pig scalding, just as I promised you, but not today, and three: don't call pig scalding wonderful, Alejo, out here in the open. You might creep some customers out.'

'But you think it's wonderful yourself as well!' I protested.

Paco got this distant, dreamy smile on his face. 'Ah, yes. Yes, yes. Pig scalding. Softening the skin of a killed pig to remove its hairs… oh, and its skin becomes so smooth afterwards! You know, my father and mother had their own pig scalder. We used to raise pigs, feeding them with our leftover food, and then, when the cold seasons were approaching us again, we'd slaughter our pigs and had a feast, everyday, for the rest of the winter! Ah! The cries of Elena-14 as father brutally smashed in her fat head with a huuuuge—'

Despite the fact I was breathlessly listening to my boss' amazing story, the elderly man suddenly stopped talking, noticed the horrified faces of some of the people around us, and hastily coughed, ordering me to stop slacking off already and help him readying the stall I was going to spend the rest of the day in.

'Aww.' I groaned loudly, but I didn't protest any longer. I knew my boss was an honest man: he would keep his promise and take me to the local slaughterhouse to teach me about pig scalding in time – it's just that we had to make as much money as we could, now that the weather was still good.

But man, I hated preparing and selling sandwiches in such a dumb stall all day long… I mean, ugh, I wanted to work in the cool shop, not on the damn street.

'Look at this from the bright side,' Paco tried to cheer me up as I finally went into the stall and sourly looked around, 'at least you can flirt and pick up as many boys and girls as you want now! Some delicate female tourists from Italy, or a few gay boys from Belgium…'

I snorted. 'Paco, I have a girlfriend now. I can't fool around with others anymore, I have to be faithful to her.'

'Oh?' Paco gave me a weird look. 'I had more or less expected you and your girlfriend would have an open relationship…'

I gasped, clasping my chest in utter shock. 'I'd never forgive my girl if she'd sleep with someone else! Why, Paco, why would you think we'd have a relationship like that!'

'Well, I've known you for quite some time now, and I know you weren't exactly faithful to my son.'

…

Whoops.

'Uhm,' I awkwardly grinned, 'so… h-how's Osvaldo doing, is he still dating that man from—'

'Don't.'

I cringed. 'I'll shut up, I'll shut up, please don't fire me, sir!'

'Fire you? Hahahaha!' Paco threw his head in his neck and laughed. 'You're the most promising assistant I've ever had! There's no way I'm firing you!'

I let out a relieved sigh. 'Thank—'

'At least, not as long as you keep your mitts off Osvaldo.'

'I understa—'

'Because I'll put you in the pig scalder if you ever dare to approach him again.'

'U-uh…'

'You douchebag.'

'…'

'But anyway!' Paco abruptly beamed a big smile at me. 'That's all in the past, and I'll be damned if I say that I don't like you. You're an okay kid, overall. Keep up the good work, Alejo, and who knows what great things might happen to you.'

'T-thank you!' I stammered gratefully - and successfully this time, while my boss turned around and walked back to his shop after giving me one last grin. Paco usually didn't give me compliments, so I was surprised and touched by his faith in me.

I smiled broadly, ignored the pale face the old lady in front of the stall suddenly got, and put the first pieces of bread in the oven.

Alright! I was going to show Paco what this douchebag was made of!

\0o0/

'And…?'

Antonio, who held my hand as we walked out of the area where I would definitely not see the Sagrada Família anymore if I looked over my shoulder (because I checked), looked at me expectantly. He was just as giddy and excited about our wedding anniversary as I was, and you bet his delicious ass I was radiating with fucking happiness right now.

'And what?' I asked Antonio, not even caring my voice sounded all chirpy and upbeat and shit.

'Well… what do you think?' he carried on. 'Is our 20th wedding anniversary going to be better than our wedding day, or just the second best day ever?'

'That depends. Is Hungary going to handle things again, is the Netherlands going to wed us again, is America going to arrange the fucking music again, are we going to get pooped on by dumbass pigeons again?'

Antonio chuckled. 'Let's see… yes, no, probably, and oh yes, definitely.'

'Then it's going to be a close call.' I smiled – I just kept on smiling today, look at me, world, I was smiling like a boss! 'I'm very happy we can have this party in the most beautiful basilica ever, you know? But I wonder… I-I wonder if the feelings I felt on the day of our wedding will ever be surpassed, by anything.'

'It was a lovely day,' Antonio agreed.

'It was the best.' I swallowed something. I had enjoyed my wedding day so much – so ridiculously much, there's no way I'd ever experience something that'd come even moderately close to that day. But I guess it was worth trying, right? Yeah, it was definitely worth try—

'Mama! Wanna taste mah ice cream? It's really GOOD!'

'Naah, it's all yours, Jorge – you enjoy it, kid!'

A man and a woman in their late thirties smiled at their son, an eight-year-old kid, eating ice cream and yelling about how good it tasted.

…

It was a loud little asshole, dammit, they should tell him to shut the hell up already – or make him work for the ice company that had sold them that ice, since he sure made sure everybody could hear the fabulousness of the damn ice cream. Then they could make some money, too!

He was cute, though. A cute kid.

…

…

'Lovi?' Antonio's voice made me look away from the kid.

'Yeah?'

'What's wrong? You were spacing out for a bit there.'

I glanced to the small family one last time (now the dad was cleaning the kid's face) before frowning.

'…hey, Antonio?'

'Yes, sweetie?'

'When did you stop asking me if I wanted to have kids with you?'

Antonio stopped walking for a moment and looked at me, his facial expression hard to comprehend.

'Ah… well… you always gave me the same answer anyway, so—'

'I didn't ask you that. I asked you when you stopped whining about kids.'

'I… I don't know?' Antonio scratched his head with his free hand. 'A few years ago, I suppose?'

'No, more than twenty years ago.'

'Whoa.' Antonio was impressed. 'You still remember?'

'You used to nag about kids all the time when we just gotten married, but then you suddenly stopped. And you never talked about children again.' I furrowed my brows even more and looked at him questioningly. 'Was that really because you gave up? That's nothing like you, you know.'

'Again, I don't know, Lovi.' Antonio frowned as well now. 'But… but it is strange, if what you're saying is true.'

'Don't you want kids anymore?'

'It's not that, it's just… talking about us and kids… it used to fill me with hope, but… somehow…'

I watched Antonio's face closely and noticed it got somewhat gloomy. I had seen it more often over the past years. Antonio used to be all happy and peppy around children, begging me to please, please adopt one or two or even three with him, because we were two, and the kids would be three ('Oh, so you already decided we pick three twerps?' I then complained to him), and two and three makes five!~

…and more silly, unlogical crap like that.

But something must have happened, because from one day to another, he abruptly stopped being happy around kids. On the contrary: he could get very depressed when he was around them for too long, and he had no idea why that was. I believed him. I don't know why, but… I believed him.

And he wasn't the only one. I had changed around kids as well. I used to hate kids – I loathed them and wanted them to stay away from me and my newspaper as far as possible, dammit!

But… I didn't hate them anymore. I caught myself thinking "aww, how cute!" more often whenever I saw kids playing around. I had started to like them. In fact, I… I had been waiting for Antonio to go and ask me already to have kids with him, just… once more, but…

Kids seemed to make him sad nowadays.

Also, I'd be lying if I dared to say that watching kids didn't make me feel down, too, sometimes.

So if we'd get kids in the state we were in now, we'd probably become very unhappy.

…

Why was that?

'Oh, Lovi, look – your shoe's untied,' Antonio suddenly said.

'Hm?' I looked down at my feet. 'What do you mean, none of my shoes are—'

I immediately stopped talking when I felt Antonio press a swift kiss on top of my head. When I glanced up at him again, he was grinning this fucking stupid and crazily cute smile, and all I could do was purse my lips, blush furiously and mutter he was a bastard.

'And I love you, too!~' he simply answered, bringing my hand to his lips to kiss my fingers as well.

I felt steam coming from my face when he did that. O-oh. Was he in one of his romantic moods again? Th-that was nice, I liked that a lot… Probably his way of cheering me up a bit, huh?

'You're a dork,' I mumbled, gently squeezing his hand when we walked further. 'T-the biggest.'

Antonio smiled, gleefully let me kiss him when I quietly pulled his face down a little, and then looked around the street we were walking in, as if he was looking for something.

'You hungry, Lovino? All that walking in and admiring of the Sagrada Família must have worked up an appetite, right?'

I shrugged. 'I guess I could go for some lunch, yes…'

'How about that?'

Antonio pointed to a small food stand, or food stall, or… whatever, some take-away-mini-restaurant-thingy next to a butcher shop, and started cooing about his most favorite sandwich of all time: the bocadillo.

'I love myself a freshly-prepared bocadillo every once in a while,' he rattled on, already sneakily pulling me with him over to the stall, 'baked bread with Spanish ham, pork fillet, French fries, fried egg, fried onions and mayonnaise… ohh, heavenly!~'

'Holy shit. Sounds like a well-calculated attack on your heart,' I snorted. 'I mean, goddamn, Antonio, I had no idea that favorite snack of yours was so fucking greasy.'

'Well you're always complaining I'm too skinny and should gain more weight – so I will!~ Gladly!'

You're confusing skinny with hot and surprisingly muscular, I wanted to say – but I decided to save it for tonight. Complimenting him on his good looks always made him perform very satisfyingly in bed, and I didn't really feel like being glomped here in the streets. Sure, gay people were nowadays just as accepted as every other couple, but I-I just felt a bit weird if he started acting too nice to me in public…

'I'm not sure I'm so enthusiastic about those sandwiches, though,' I said as we approached the food stand and the line of people waiting for their turn. 'You may be boney, but I'm not, dammit.'

Antonio gasped. 'No! Lovino! Don't abandon these little wonders of the Spanish kitchen just yet – you have to try one of them first before you can tell me what you think of them! Besides, they're not all dripping with fat and sauces – you can decide yourself what you want on your bocadillo! Just try it out!'

I rolled my eyes. 'Fine, I'll look – alright? I'll see what he's got.'

Antonio watched yet another customer of the food stall leave with a couple of sandwiches on a plate and sit at one of the benches, yelling to his kids to sit the hell down already and have a bocadillo.

'Oh – this is a good one, too!' he whispered secretively to me, nodding to most of the picnic-benches around the stand. 'See all those people? Looks like that guy making the bocadillos is a really experienced sandwich-maker!'

I glanced at the grim, quite frightening look on the face of Antonio's "sandwich-maker" and thought that it would be wise if Antonio didn't repeat what he had just said in that guy's face. Poor kid looked like he was slowly dying there. He also looked like… like…

…

…?

'Antonio.' I urgently pulled Antonio's sleeve, successfully getting his attention. 'Look at that guy making the sandwiches.'

'Bocadillos, you mean.'

I groaned. 'Whatever – just look. Doesn't he look… familiar to you?'

Antonio obediently did as I had hissed at him and blinked as he observed the kid. 'Yeah, now that you point it out like that… he indeed does look kind of like you when you're doing things you don't want to do!'

'What?' I glared at him. 'Are you stupid or something? He looks just like you, you dweeb – look at that hair! That face! That creepy way he's cutting the meat!'

He shook his head. 'Heh, say what you want, my love, but that grumpy expression is totally yours. Not to mention his eyes! God – I had no idea there were more people with your eye-color out there!'

'Don't be an idiot, Antonio, there are entire planets inhabited by people with my eye-color out there. But there aren't all that many people who can look so disturbingly scary yet very attractive like you – and still, that guy pulls it off!'

Antonio pouted. 'I don't look that scary!'

'Talk to me again next time you get angry and we'll continue this conversation.'

'Aww, come on – even when I'm mad, I can't possibly look as creepy as that guy! I…'

'Hey. Mean guys over there.'

The sandwich-maker suddenly spoke, looking from me to Antonio with a boorish, but also quite annoyed look in his hazel eyes.

'Are you going to order something already or are you just going to continue insulting me?'

'I'm sorry! I'll have a Bocadillo Kike, please.' Antonio quickly said. 'It's just that you… um, you happen to look a lot like my husband!'

The guy first looked at me, then stared back at Antonio like he was fucking shitting him, and why wouldn't he, dammit?

'I don't think so,' he simply said, sighing and grabbing a rather big, heavy-looking knife. If you looked at it from a certain angle, it kind of looked like an axe.

Ugggghhh. I shivered. I didn't like axes.

'What about you?' Sandwich-maker pointed his damn axe-knife at me, nearly giving me a fucking stroke.

I shrieked and jumped aside. 'Gah! I'll have whatever the crap you have! Don't swing that war-weapon of choice of yours at me, dammit!'

'He means he'll have a bocadillo with fresh cheese, oil and tomato,' Antonio said – because he had heard the impatient mutterings of the line of customers behind us as well.

'Fine with me,' Sandwich-maker sighed, cutting some bread.

As Antonio started to yap with a random person in the line about bocadillos and the magical wonders they can make happen when eaten correctly and whatever (it's not like the girl talking to him had approached him because of their shared love for bocadillos anyway – she talked to him because dat ass had caught her attention), I watched the guy making our sandwiches cutting… all kinds of things.

Meat, tomatoes, cheese, onions, more bread – chop chop chop chop fucking CHOP.

He had this – this very creepy, very scary glittering in his eyes as he sliced everything to pieces. I could even see his teeth. And that sadistic grin as he grabbed the ham, it was slightly unsettling in the least.

I still felt endeared to watch him go at it, though.

…

Wow. Fucking disturbing. What the hell, Lovino? God, I probably was hungrier than I thought – it even made me think these kind of freaky things.

'You should watch it,' I heard myself mildly scold the guy. 'the way you swing around that axe-knife of yours – you're going to end up cutting off even more fingers.'

He looked up with a jolt, his eyes burning. 'What did you just say?'

I could tell he was angry – hell, he certainly was angry – but no fucking way those eyes were going to make me scared.

'Or did you lose both of your pinkie fingers thanks to another accident?' I frowned at him. 'You should really watch out, you know? I bet life's hard enough without your pinkies – and I'm amazed you can still hold that… that tool without making mistakes. It's impressive.'

I had kind of expected the sandwich-maker to either get angrier at me or just completely ignore me from this point on, but the guy seemed to calm down and gave me a very confused look. Then, after a pause, he flushed a bit and averted his eyes.

'I'm… I'm going to be the best butcher of Barcelona one day – with or without my pinkie fingers.'

'Are you?' I felt a smile tugging on my lips. 'That's pretty cool.'

He glanced up at me again, his expression puzzled and bewildered, and he looked like he wanted to say something – but then one of the possible clients in line nagged at him to hurry up already, and our conversation stranded.

'I think that was the first time I witnessed you starting a friendly conversation with a male human being ever,' Antonio pointed out as the aspirant butcher hastily continued his work. 'Should I be jealous?'

'Not at all,' I replied, still watching the young man preparing our snacks. 'Are you, then?'

'No.' I heard the surprise in his voice. 'I'm… not jealous at all. I mean, you sounded more like his dad than a random guy trying to flirt with him.'

I grumbled. 'Shut up, you moron.'

'No, you do, you really do!' Antonio chuckled and wrapped an arm around me. 'You're a real dad, sweetie. You're a papa! You're… you're Papa Lovi, Lovi! Which would make me Papa Toni!'

'God, Antonio, I swear to Go—'

CLENG

The guy in the food stall suddenly dropped his gigantic knife – it fell right out of his hand and clattered down on the hard floor with a metallic thud. When I looked at the butcher-in-training, I saw Antonio's slighter younger lookalike was gaping at me and Antonio with huge, quivering eyes and an open mouth. His face had gotten really white, too.

'What's wrong?' Antonio asked him, since he had noticed as well. 'Are you okay? D-did you hurt yourself?'

'Y-you,' the guy stammered, breathing in and out rapidly, '…w-who… who are you guy—'

BANG!

An old, balding man came rushing into the food stand. His forehead was sweaty and he wore an apron that once used to be white, probably, but that now was splattered with filthy bloodstains. He had probably heard the ruckus around the stall from his butcher shop, and seen the customers come and leave quicker than they were supposed to do.

'Here you go,' he told me and Antonio as he hastily gave us our bocadillos, 'enjoy your meal. Alejo – Alejo! HEY! Goddammit, boy, snap out of it and come help me out here already!'

The butcher-in-training gasped, indeed snapped out of it and apologized to his boss, before he rushed to his side and carried on making sandwiches.

Antonio and I backed off to let other clients talk to the old man and his young assistant, but we didn't leave just yet. For some reason, we watched them, and especially the butcher-in training, for a bit longer. Just… just a bit longer. Just a bit.

'We should get going, Lovi,' Antonio eventually muttered, gently grabbing my arm. 'We're… I think we're distracting him. Come.'

I nodded and followed Antonio, away from the busy food stall and everybody that was part of it.

'His name was Alejo – you heard?' I said.

'I heard, 'Antonio responded.

'That's a nice name.'

'It is.'

Antonio sighed and got this regretful look in his eyes again. I could tell from the weirded-out expression on his face that he had no idea why he had gotten sad all of a sudden, but he had, and it pained my heart to see him like that.

So I shut up and silently walked next to him, eating bits and pieces of my sandwich,.

…

Oh.

It was really good.