A/N: Apologies for a hundred lifetimes for the wait. Real life caught up with me and fought me like a wild animal for about five months before I could get away. Also, there's a new school semester beginning next week, so I've no idea when I'll be able to get anything out again, though I'll do my best to make the wait shorter this time!

NOTE #1: All the dishes mentioned here do actually exist (and though I haven't tried all of them, I have no doubt that they're quite delicious), but Romano, being the lovely contrary grump that he is, has to add his own little quirks to the meal to make everything a little different.

NOTE #2: Zio (or so the internet tells me) is the Italian word for "Uncle" (thought it technically means "The uncle"), and in Sicilian it's Zu.

NOTE #3: Prussia gets kind of busted up in this chapter. Nothing too serious (nations are tough after all) and it will be fixed soon, but just to warn you: mild bloody injury ahead!

Dinner was proving, so far, to be an unusual affair, even by nation standards.

The food was, as could be expected, delicious: the salad, which had taken several cues from the delicious central Italian salad Panzanella, was a tasty affair accessorized with some added salt, pepper, and some pieces of washed, spun-dry basil leaves, with a little bowl of olives to be sprinkled in at each person's leisure. The bread, still gifted with a nicely crunchy crust, turned warm and a bit nutty when heated in the oven, releasing soft clouds of fragrant steam when pulled apart, and the assortment of cheeses (bought from the local market) were aged to perfection, with hot-smoked salmon and a freshly-washed cucumber both thinly sliced and added to a neighboring plate as possible sides. Mineral water sat in tall glasses at each place, cold and fresh enough to condensation to appear (Romano had refused to let anyone drink any more of his alcohol after taking stock of the sheer ridiculous depletion of wine that had occurred). For the sake of less whining (as he knew better than anyone, even Germany, that if there was no pasta present in some form that Feli would not be happy and he really, really didn't want to have to endure an entire dinner of being asked by the other nations why an Italian household wasn't serving pasta), he conceded to the demands of fate, and thus there was also a big, steaming bowl full of spaghetti con le vongole, a long-standing Southern Italian staple full of clams, garlic, olive oil, and white wine (France and Austria had left no red wine bottles from his refridgerator unopened, so it was a matter of necessity for both his eardrums and his remaining alcohol supply). Appetisers came in the form of the classic-to-a-fault but nonetheless crowd-pleasing (and thus mercifully nation-quieting) bruschetta al pomodoro, where more bread (this time dug out of the pantry) was toasted and topped with tomatoes, basil, and some salt and pepper.

The dinner table, which, until Amato came along and unintentionally cemented the existence of regular Vargas family meals, had previously only been used for either important nation meetings wherein establishing goodwill with an ally or possibly ally was necessary, or for when Feliciano came to visit and wanted to have a sit-down family dinner together. Either the counter or the kitchen table (which by now was also a routine dumping and pick up spot for gardening tools every day) was the usual place to eat when he'd lived alone, as the cleanup was easier and he didn't have to face the uncomfortable enormity of the emptiness of the dining table each time he had dinner. As such, every time before Amato had come to stay, the actual dining table and the meal settings had been used with a measure of care, as Romano didn't often have visitors and, even he even more rarely wanted to outwardly make an effort, he still felt a need to impress.

Now, however, the time spent so far with his tiny charge, short though it was in comparison to his actual lifespan as a nation, had left a much more active role for the table: a place to play. The tiny mochi had taken to the table rather like one would a large, particularly interesting playground, complete with the dishes being makeshift obstacle courses and jungle gym sets, and had happily zoomed up and down the length of the table with Little Lovi shuffling gamely along, offering explanations and questions about each dish to his tiny friend (granted, being so young and being somewhat handicapped in matters of cooking due to having no arms or legs, most of these explanations revolved around what little he did know and how yummy everything was, but the other mochi, having been hand-fed by Spain for most of his life and given treats by Rome before that, didn't mind a bit). Romano had only allowed this with the conditions that both mochi were careful so that they didn't bump into anything or get accidentally hit by tableware as he put down each part of dinner, and that once everyone was present, that they stop playing so he could put them on their own chair (Feli had begged to be allowed to sit next to his "nephew", and having two pairs of huge, unnaturally-adorable puppy eyes trained on him was too hard to resist, so he'd reluctantly agreed and the Northern Italian nation had promptly made a makeshift high-chair for them out of a half-dozen cookbooks stacked up on top of one of the dining chairs, and covered with a dishtowel for softness and to protect the books from food splatter).

Taking a look at the situation at hand, an outsider might think they had stumbled into an odd play, or perhaps the rehearsal for an eccentric family sitcom.

Amato had, as Romano had already expected (as everyone tended to do once they met his brother), taken to his new uncle like a duck to water. As Feliciano had asked to help make dinner to do his own part to repay the damages done since the house had been invaded, Romano had reluctantly offered his younger sibling the relatively safe and clean duty of putting out place settings for everyone. He'd taken to the task with his typical cheer, putting out butter-yellow placemats and softly shining silverware out. Amato, however, had overheard the conversation from the ceramic bowl, and promptly begged to help out. Despite his initial reluctance to let his tiny charge interact with his often clumsy sibling, Romano knew it wasn't entirely fair to deprive his little one of an uncle, and so he'd picked up the mochi out of the bowl, mustered his most serious expression, and told Feliciano that "This is Amato, he's...well, he's mine, okay? So you'd better be good to him, or I'll never have pasta for you ever again, got it?"

Wide golden eyes had turned, if possible, even bigger, accompanied by frantic nodding, and it was only by the sincerity in them that he allowed himself to hold out his interlocked hands (that were not shaking, thank you very much) and allow Amato to peek out from behind his cupped fingers to get his first proper meeting with his "Uncle".

After staring at the cheerful Northern Italian with big eyes for only a split second, a sweet, shining smile spread across the tiny visage, Amato looking up in awe before abruptly jumping out of Romano's hands as if imitating a tiny cannonball with a sharp cry of "Zio!"

The answering cry of surprise and delight as Feliciano caught the tiny mochi in his hands, drawing him up to his face and nuzzling him with a happy "It's so nice to me you, ve~" was enough to unravel the knot in his chest, and he had finished the dinner preparations feeling a bit better.

Since that had occurred, Feli was now sitting in his chair, with Amato and Little Lovi sitting side by side atop their ridiculously tall towel-covered makeshift high-chair and listening (intently, in Amato's case, and not so intently, in Little Lovi's case) as the hyperactive nation babbled questions about the two of them, as "Fratello never told me he'd had a bambino, ve, and I didn't know Nonno could get one for Big Brother Spain either, but I can't imagine why, you're so cute!" Spain was happily listening as well, soaking up the sight of the tiny, cheerful creature that he'd previously only met when the little mochi was scared stiff; despite wanting to walk over to the high-chair and apologize properly, he had a feeling Romano wouldn't like him talking to his little one without him supervising first, and as such, was choosing to take in the adorable family-bonding scene before him from the relatively safe distance of a seat at the far end of the table. Austria, the only mostly social normal nation left present at the table (Germany had gone to drag Prussia out of whatever hiding place he'd found, as he didn't want his sibling to miss dinner, even if that meant watching him like a hawk so he wouldn't cause more property damage), was sitting next to his ex-wife and sipping his glass in agreeable silence, having gallantly agreed to listen to Hungary's theories as to how Romano was going to properly introduce Spain to his purported "offspring", with France interjecting his own commentary as to the likelihood of success when both parties hadn't even properly confessed their feelings yet.

Romano, for his own part in the situation, had been faced with a different task: getting Prussia to the table. Under normal circumstances, he had no desire whatsoever to have the excitable, often-reckless older nation present for dinner, knowing that there would inevitably be some sort of chaos unfolding. However, it was either having Prussia present where he could be watched over so he didn't cause further damage (or at least have said damage reasonably reduced from what it otherwise would be if he was left alone), or let the ex-nation continue to hide in some unknown part of his property, and cause a complete ruckus when Germany tried to retrieve him.

The choice, though unpleasant, was thus simple. Romano knew his home better than anyone else, save for Amato and Feliciano, and Germany would need help rounding up his older sibling without alerting Prussia to his presence. There were plenty of places around here to run and hide in, after all.

With a sigh, he'd given instructions to Austria and Hungary that they were in charge until he got back and that, given that part of the meal was to be served warm, they could eat, but they had to leave enough for those dragging Prussia out of hiding (granted, the instructions were reluctantly given, but he knew from experience that it was much better to trust them to be the adults in this situation than Spain, who was still starry-eyed at the existence of Amato, or France, who had consumed a good deal of wine earlier and who had already told Romano he'd owed him a favor for "helping you out with your affections for mon ami", or even Feliciano, for as much as Romano dearly loved his brother, he didn't trust him to look after so much as a goldfish, much less an entire table of nations and the mochis).

Hopefully I don't come back to find my table in pieces, or Amato crying.

Given past experience with his fellow nations, however, he couldn't help but doubt it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ONCE MORE, BACK INTO THE CLOSET!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prussia was getting a cramp in his left leg.

This was not as unusual as one might think, given that Prussia had been hiding in Romano's tiny supply closet for the better part of several hours now (Germany had not managed to comfort Feliciano enough for them to leave the area until Prussia had been bored enough to fall asleep), and not even the discovery that his best friend's former henchman still kept mementos of his cross-dressing days was able to make up for the fact that he was tired, hungry, and unspeakably bored.

There's generally little to do, or even nothing, if you had to spend long periods of time in a closet, as such closets were generally meant for storage and to visit to get things in and out of said storage, not for entertaining someone who had the misfortune of being stuck in one because he's hiding from his uptight younger brother.

Thus, Prussia was not having a good time of things, and while this could be considered entirely his own fault, as he had hidden himself in here after causing an obscene amount of structural damage to Romano's kitchen, he could also not be entirely blamed for what happened next.

Standing up slowly to straighten out and move his cramping limb, the ex-nation gingerly moved himself into an upright position, letting out a sigh of relief as the pain in his leg slowly began to ebb away...only to let out a fresh shout of pain as his head smacked into the dangling, naked light bulb hanging down from the ceiling. The bulb flickered on, brief but eye-watering in its brightness, when Prussia, dazed by the sudden impact, accidentally seized the chain in his hands, and then yanked it sharply as he tried to find something more solid to hold onto, forcing the tiny chamber back into darkness.

Letting out a startled "Ouch!" from the bright light burning his eyes, he blinked pinpricks of stars out of his eyes, dazed and with a new bruise forming on his forehead, and so he didn't quite see the mop, the brooms, or the sizable mass of Romano's lock-picked supply chest half-hidden under the bottom shelf, the wooden container now open and spilling out a huge quantity of faded pink cloth that Prussia's curious hands had yanked out to examine. The cloth, pulled out and then dumped back in, flowed onto the floor, leaving an almost ridiculously perfect place to slip. In the dark, however, it wasn't that easy to

In a series of events that would, from an outsider's perspective, look almost comical, Prussia, eyes still screwed shut from the attack from the light bulb, put his scrambling feet on the cloth, and slipped, falling backwards into the mop, brooms, and even a little yellow water bucket that Romano used to help rinse soap off Amato during baths. Landing so abruptly left him smacking headfirst into the hard floor, leaving his head throbbing painfully as he wriggled around, trying to get free of the mountain of cleaning supplies he'd become buried under.

Unfortunately for Prussia, this left him subject to rolling himself haphazardly into the bolts of pink cloth that he'd left spilling out of the chest, and no matter how hard he wriggled or tried to pull free, it only got worse. Before he could even fully grasp what had happened, the ex-nation was bound from the chest down in pink cloth, like a mummy made from a little girl's dress-up doll.

One of the handy things about living for so long is that nations tend to pick up a lot of swear words. Given that, small mercy that it was, he hadn't also gotten his head completely wrapped up as well, Prussia chose to use quite a lot of these swear words as he tried, without success, to untangle himself. Despite succeeding (and earning several bruises for his efforts) in getting himself upright again, it was considerably more difficult for him to free himself when the cloth had gotten wound all about his body, to the extent of pinning his arms to his sides.

"Dammit, this is so not awesome! I can't even get my hands free, it's so tight!"

Squinting as best as he could (there was no use trying to turn on the light bulb when he couldn't even reach out an arm, much less a hand), he peered about for something sharp to cut the cloth off with. Come on, come on, I've faced worse enemies in my life than a piece of stupid fabric! There's got to be something here I can use...

There was, unfortunately, nothing. Stuck in the pink monstrosity that was his currently mostly-mummified state, Prussia decided to do something else: if he couldn't get out by himself, perhaps getting out of the closet and finding the other nations would get him a helping hand. But since he couldn't open the door with his hands stuck to his sides...

Mind made up, he bunny-hopped to the door, angled his shoulder out, and began slamming his body against the hard surface repeatedly.

Behind the door, muffled yelps and curses could faintly be heard, along with a slowly-growing guttural noise that, while borne of the pain that generally tends to happen when one tries to break down a door with their whole body as the battering ram, could easily be mistaken for the unnerving moaning and groaning of the undead...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~BACK WITH ROMANO, GERMANY, AND THEIR QUEST TO FIND AN IDIOT~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was uncomfortable silence, and then there was really uncomfortable silence.

Of the two, Romano would pick neither, and instead substitute his own input: really, really, really uncomfortable silence.

It was no secret that he didn't get along with Germany as well as his bubbly northern sibling did, though their interactions since the second World War ended were generally alright, if not vaguely uncomfortable since he didn't like the uptight nation. Contact usually came from either mandatory World Meetings, or from when Feliciano decided to drag him along to "come out and have fun, you never hang out anymore!".

Thus, as they walked out of the dining room area and began searching the house, there was really nothing more than awkwardness on both sides. Romano was hungry, and very much wanted to eat something, not go off on a hunt to help find the idiot who'd driven a car through his kitchen wall. Germany was in agreement with this, as dealing with too much of his older siblings shenanigans gave him headaches and he already had a terrible feeling that he would be made to pay for the damage done to Romano's kitchen.

Checking each room yielded no results, other than to make Romano gruffly tell him that if anything was missing or misplaced due to his reckless brother, he would be sending him poisoned tomatoes in bulk for years. Time dragged on with the feeling of being slow as dripping molasses, and with every room turning up bereft of Prussia, Germany could feel a migraine building.

Finally, when they'd checked the whole span of the house, Romano decided he didn't want to wait for dinner anymore. Throwing up his hands in the air, he scowled at the blonde nation, hissing "Well, screw it. If he can't be bothered to come out of wherever the hell he's holed up, he can just stay there until dinner's over. At least then I won't have to worry about him destroying my house some more-"

Crash.

"Wh-What was that!?" Golden eyes widened with surprise and fear, hands automatically going for the kitchen knife still stashed in one of his apron pockets. Dammit, I wish I'd changed earlier, running in a dress is stupidly difficult.

Germany shrugged, as clueless as the other nation in this case. "I don't know, but it's probably Prussia, judging by zhe amount of noise."

"Ooooooh...ooooooohhhh...!"

"What the-?" Romano whirled around, knife in hand, a wild look in his eyes as he shifted his posture to something akin to a crouching predator, and Germany was reminded for a split second that, despite all the accusations about the Italy brothers being cowardly, the legends of the old Italian mafia had to have had some merit.

Taking in the sight before them, Romano and Germany could only stare in shock for a split second, wide-eyed, before the Southern Italian let out a horrified scream that would put his brother's to shame, dropping the knife in the process, and ran sprinting back down the hall.

"Romano, vait, no, dammit, Romano stop running-!" But the terrified nation didn't listen, and so Germany only sighed before running after the fleeing man, hoping he didn't cause anyone else to panic.

The cause of the whole disturbance wasn't too difficult to understand. After all, the sight of Prussia wrapped up like a gangly pink mummy would make him run for the hills, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~PRUSSIA FURTHER COMPLICATES THINGS, AND WE LEARN WHY YOU DON'T DROP YOUR KITCHENWARE AND LEAVE IT~~~~~~~~~~~

Prussia was getting a headache.

He was tired, hungry, and now he had a new problem: being stuck like a mummy reject while no one seemed to want to help him.

Shambling along seemed the only way to move, as the cloth had wrapped so tightly around his legs he couldn't walk properly, and with the new headache he'd gotten from both Romano's shrill screams and forced readjustment to regular lighting after being trapped in a dark closet for hours, it was unsurprising that he didn't pay complete attention to where he was going.

Stepping on the knife wasn't his proudest of moments, nor was the resultant muffled, curse-filled yelling as he pulled away, only to find a long (though thankfully shallow) down the front of his foot, where the knife had pierced through his shoes and socks.

Verdammt. Maybe Romano's got a first aid kit somewhere. Under the bathroom sink, maybe?

It was best to find out, for his foot's sake.

Shuffling along, he continued on his way, and as a result, unintentionally disregarded the bloody footprints and reddened knife left behind...