There was a resounding crash that shook the very foundations of the house as, for the second time that day, one of Romano's doors, as well as a good portion of the wall, was broken to bits. Although, in his defense, Spain wasn't the one to do it this time...

This particular brand of trouble had started only a half hour before, when Austria had left Prussia in the car, intent on ignoring the fact that the ex-nation was happily dismantling the dashboard and all therein so as to better hotwire the car. Whether or not Prussia actually would succeed had been somewhat worrisome, given the amount of hell he was known to raise, but the elegant nation had shut the thought away, knowing there was little to nothing that he could do to stop the inevitable disaster.

However, in retrospect, surveying the wreckage before him, it was probably more honorable to have at least tried.

The kitchen damage was, as collateral damage went, rather terrible: half of the wall had been smashed through, leaving the remaining bits of wall to crumble and fall over onto the now dusty floor. There were pipes and electrical wiring exposed in the part of the remaining wall that hadn't fallen yet, and the wires were sparking every so often. Dust choked the air and coated the nations in a fine layer of powdered white, leaving them coughing and swearing in turn. The car had gotten halfway through the "impromptu entryway" that had been created, and then had stopped entirely. It was also dented in the front, the two front lights smashed in, and coated in the dust that had fallen on everything, and everyone else. Prussia, dazed but unhurt, had been saved by the emergency driver's airbag deploying and cushioning the impact of the crash, and once the airbag deflated enough, had promptly kicked the driver-side door open (and off), and had hauled himself out of the smoking wreckage, given Gilbird a quick glance-over to ensure well-being, and grinned maniacally.

Prussia, meanwhile, was also now suffering from a different problem: namely, trying to escape the half-destroyed kitchen without being suitably reprimanded and punished by a very upset looking Germany, whose shock at the sudden invasion of the car smashing through the wall had melted away, replaced instead by a burning rage that could leave the Sun freezing by comparison. Feliciano, catching sight of his friend's upset expression, immediately grabbed hold of Germany in a valiant but ultimately futile effort to help distract him. France was torn between trying to help his friend escape, laughing at the fear on Prussia's face upon seeing Hungary advancing upon him with her frying pan, or simply restraining his shock at seeing the ruination of Romano's formerly tasteful kitchen. As another piece of the wall came tumbling down onto the formerly clean floor, Prussia began backing away from his brother, hands held up in the universal gesture of placation as he issued half-hearted, nervous explanations for why he'd just driven a car through the kitchen wall. From the look on Germany's face, the rather pathetic excuses weren't working very well.

Spain, however, after his initial shout of surprise upon witnessing a car smashing through the kitchen wall, took off into the fields outside the house, his eyes burning with fire as he let out a battle-cry. Hungary spun around in place, her camera whipped out of her apron pocket and held firmly at the ready as she tore off after him, frying pan swinging back and forth like a sort of demented pendulum.

In the nation community, it was normal to know several basic facts about each representation. For example, England and America didn't always get along but had a bizarre sort of friendship where attention on each other was a universal must, Belgium was friendly and had seemingly endless supplies of tasty chocolate, Russia loved vodka and sunflowers and scared people whenever he came near, Cuba had a liking for ice cream but reportedly couldn't get along with America, and Spain had a liking bordering on obsessive extremes for three things in this world: turtles, tomatoes, and Romano.

Really, it wasn't creepy, as one might expect. Spain had known the Southern Italian for centuries, ever since he'd gotten him as a spoil of war from Austria, and from the moment he'd been handed that tiny, foul-mouthed, scowling little nation child, and gotten his finger bitten for smiling too much, he'd known that it was meant to be. Although it was true that Romano wasn't the most efficient "maid", and didn't like his henchman uniform, and frowned and swore quite a lot, and had even peed on the floor once when he'd been new to Spain's house and hadn't yet memorized how to get to the bathroom, Spain still liked him. The enjoyment he got out of the simple things in life (namely, siestas, good food, and pretty girls), the little half-smiles he'd get when he tended Spain's tomato fields and thought no one was looking, even the tiny, almost inaudible, genuinely happy squeak that he'd make when first biting into a particularly tasty tomato...

All the more reason to check up on him. Lovi's too special to end up with a jerk. I wonder what his kid looks like...

The reason he was even out in these fields in the first place instead of searching the rest of the house was simple: it didn't smell right. Now, this may seem strange to some, but to Spain it made perfect sense. Romano had a very distinctive smell, one that Spain had grown used to over the years enough to track it easily, rather like how Germany always remembered that Feliciano smelled like garlic and freshly cooked pasta all the time. Romano, he remembered, smelled like fresh, sun-ripened tomatoes, roasted fish with a bit of lemon, the warm, salty sea breeze of Sicily, and a hint of some sort of musky, spicy cologne that he dimly remembered the Southern Italian finding back in the 1920s, along with a hint of gunpowder and hot metal from the guns he wielded in the days of the Italian mafia empire.

The house had numerous traces of Romano's scent throughout the rooms, but the smell was fading, hours old already. When Prussia had driven the car through the wall and cracked Romano's kitchen open like an egg, Spain had felt the sudden rush of blinding hot late afternoon sun, and the scent of the retreating Southern Italian had hit his senses like an oncoming truck. His legs started moving instantly, instinct driving him to throw himself fully into the hunt, now that the scent had been caught. He barely registered Hungary trailing behind him, apron fluttering wildly, one hand clapped to her headscarf to keep it from flying away. In her other hand was, naturally, her trusty camera, which had been hastily refitted with some fresh batteries thanks to some deft maneuvering while she tore after Spain.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Spain couldn't help but notice, at least in passing as he homed in on the smell, that Romano's property actually looked quite nice. The vegetable garden and fruit orchard, despite Romano's harvests and preserving efforts, still boasted some mouthwatering fruits and vegetables, lush in both color and flavor. Overhead, the sky was a warm, cornflower blue, the sun a huge, golden orb, slowly lowering itself down as time went on. There were no clouds to be seen, it was if the sky and the sea had exchanged places, leaving the water as the sky, a tranquil, endless stretch of blue with no ripples. The soil was rich, moist, and dark, ladybugs and dragonflies landing on deep green vines and leaves as a bird chirruped somewhere in the distant reach of the branches of an orange tree. As he ran faster, the scenery blurred around him, like an artist's palette smudged together in the rain; dimly, he registered the sound of the wind shrieking in his ears, the sun beating down on his skin, the sweat beading against his face and the back of his neck...

But that didn't matter. He'd found the source of the scent. He'd found Romano.

And from the sound of it, he wasn't alone. Spain came to such an abrupt stop as he heard the second voice that he almost tripped and fell; instead, he managed to recover quickly enough to come to a hasty, but effective stop, flailing his arms out in a panic for a few seconds as his body righted itself. eyes closing automatically to keep out dirt in case he did lose his balance completely and fall.

When he opened his eyes, he almost fell over again. From where he was standing, the kissing gate of Romano's tomato garden stood directly in front of him, only a few feet ahead. Spain looked in disbelieving awe at the glorious sight before him, at the beautiful garden enclosed in a white-washed picket fence, big as a stadium-size football field, with dozens of fruit-laden tomato plants peeking up above the tops of the fence boundary, with tomatoes of every shape and size and shade of red he could think of, all mouthwatering-looking, glistening slightly in the shining sun. He ran up to the fence, peering in.

Such a beautiful place...

Inside, he could faintly hear voices, both of Romano, and what was unmistakably the voice of a child, a small boy from the sound of it, perhaps that of a toddler's age. To his surprise, Romano's voice was soft, and rather gentle, without so much as a single curse word. The child's voice was high and sweet, like a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer's day.

"Now, remember what we practiced. Say it with me, okay? A is for..."

The younger voice laughed. "Arancia, Mama! Yummy oranges!"

"Yes, now what's B stand for?"

"Budino, yummy pudding!"

Spain had to force himself from running over to see what was happening, it was just so strange. The urge to listen in on such a bizarre occurrence was far too tempting, after all. Lovi's teaching the little one the alphabet? In Italian? How cute!

Still blissfully unaware of the Spaniard hiding just beyond the fence, Romano continued with the lesson, Amato sitting on his lap, with the tomato snack handkerchief serving as a makeshift blanket. When he'd come out here, he'd been intent on hiding from the idiots who had invaded his house and wrecked his front door, but as time went on and no one found them, boredom had set in. Amato had asked if they could play a game, and while wracking his brains for suitable game ideas, had gotten the magnificent idea of teaching his little one the alphabet, while having him learn some Italian at the same time.

The game was quite simple, really: Romano would teach Amato a letter of the alphabet, going from A to Z at a slow and steady pace. With each new letter, Amato would learn a word from Romano, and if he could pronounce it correctly on the first try, he'd get a little cherry tomato (half-smashed, of course, Romano still wasn't sure if Amato could eat a whole, non-squashed tomato yet), and if he needed help, Romano would help with sounding it out for him, but then he'd only get half the tomato. With such a delicious prize at stake, Amato quickly learned to say each word like a professional, and then would happily devour his treat with gusto.

"And what does C stand for, hmm?"

"C for Cass...cass...cassa..."

There was a moment of silence as Amato got a look of childish concentration on his face, big green eyes narrowing as he sounded out, "Ca...cass...ca.."

Romano sighed slightly, heaving out a reminder of, "Remember, if you can't say it without help, you're only gonna get half a tomato..."

Behind the fence, Spain was praying to God. Please, please, let the little guy get it right. Somebody that cute deserves a yummy tomato!

"Cassata! C's for cassata, Mama! Yummy cake!"

There was a barely audible sigh of relief on the other side of the fence, before Romano responded. "Not just cake, cake with cream in it, Amato. That wasn't the whole answer."

A faint sniffling noise could be heard, as the Amato responded in childish horror, "N...no tomato, then? Please, Mama!"

Spain's silent prayers promptly began doubling in begging force.

Another sigh could be heard, before Romano spoke, half-amused, half-resigned to his fate. "Alright, one whole tiny tomato, then. Open wide..."

Spain grinned happily. Haha, it worked! Thank you.

Hidden in the shadows of a tree on the other side of the tomato garden, Hungary was also giving thanks, albeit for a different reason. How cute, who knew Romano would make such a good parent, and one called "Mama", no less! Now if I could just get a photo of the kid...