Gift for kenzi_chi
Title: Christmas Eve Vigil
Author: webcomix
Recipient: kenzi_chi
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Romano, Spaincat, Veneziano, Finland, Sealand, and of course, Spain.
Word Count: 5109
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Feline religious sacrilege, micronation vandalism, and food porn.
Summary: After being “challenged” to do so by Spain, Romano is determined to create the most spectacular Christmas dinner. However, not all goes according to plan.
Silent night, Holy night. Stars twinkled roguishly down at the man seated at his dinner table, who had a foot casually propped up upon another chair. A finger lazily rubbed the rim of a half-filled glass of spiced rum, which had been placed next to the remains of what was clearly a scrumptious spread. In a single glance, one could easily identify some of signature dishes of the Feast of Seven Fishes: broccoli rabe, roasted eel, vermicelli alle vongole. A chubby cat waited with devoted veneration beneath the table, hoping for some tasty morsels of caponata di pesce, fish salad, to drop down from the tablecloth of Heaven.
As the clock struck ten thirty, the young man sighed contentedly and finally placed his plate on the floor, where the cat delightfully attacked the leftovers with relish. He stood up and began to collect the rest of the dishes. As the simple chore preoccupied his hands, a memory wandered into his mind still fresh from last week.
“Thanks again for coming over!”
Romano had, as usual, dropped by Madrid without previous notice. Luckily, Spain loved unannounced visits and insisted on playing the generous host, which always involved a grand meal. Bringing out a platter of Iberico ham, he slid it onto the side table between them before flopping into the other armchair.
“What, you’re still trying to stuff me?” In spite of the scoff, Romano couldn’t resist picking up one of the salty slices. “
Spain grinned. “No, but I know just how much you like my food.”
“Mmf.” Romano feigned indifference as his taste buds praised the Saints for pork. “Not as good as it is in my house, but nice try.”
“Oh, come on!” Spain nodded his chin back at the towering stack of dishes behind them in the sink. “Even when you were little, you always badgered me to cook for you.”
Romano felt his face heat up at the memory of his childhood. Out of the many things about Spain that irritated him, his ill-timed reminders of bygone years were near the top of the list, especially whenever it was in regards to their time together. “Because it was your job to take care of me, dumbass. I was making sure you were fulfilling your duty!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Spain said lightly, stretching out comfortably, like a cat in a sunbeam. “But even now, you’re always coming around in time for a meal. So either it’s my exceptional talent in the kitchen or my charming personality that draws you back here. Personally, I think it’s both…”
Romano nearly choked on his wine. Spain didn’t notice, still sprawled out in his chair. He was really beginning to resemble a cat, almost making purring noises. Romano carefully set down his glass and wiped his mouth before speaking calmly.
“I can totally cook a full course dinner. Neapolitan style. Alone. Gourmet.”
Spain cracked one eye open with interest. “Really?”
“Yeah. And I’ll prove it. Christmas Day, Il Pranzo. I’ll blow your taste buds out of the water, you clueless jerk!”
The reaction he received was somewhat unprecedented - Spain sat up at once, eyes sparkling and clapping his hands together as he laughed.
“You’re making a Christmas dinner just for me? I can’t wait! How exciting!”
“Ugh, don’t get all teenage girl on me!” Romano snatched up another slice of ham and chewed on it. “I’m defending my honour, here. Don’t get any ideas that you’re particularly special, or anything.”
“But…Christmas! Oh, this will be so fun!”
Oh, will it ever, Romano thought to himself as water gushed from the tap and over the full sink. A plate squeaked anxiously from the ferocity of how he scrubbed it clean with a washcloth. Falling into a rhythm, Romano mulled over the anticipated menu in his head: minestra maritata, the “perfect wedding” of meat and leafy greens in soup. Timballo di riso, a cake of baked rice filled with a treasure of meatballs, mushrooms, and peas. A roasted capon, its flesh so tender and juicy, with lentil beans on the side. And of course, struffoli, deep fried doughnut balls slathered in honey and multicoloured sprinkles…
As he listed and imagined, Romano’s stomach felt like it opened up just a little more, in spite of the incredibly hearty supper it had just finished. As the cleaned dishes stood drying on the rack, he puttered around the kitchen and the pantry adjacent, checking that all ingredients, utensils, and anything else required were safe and accounted for. After being assured once, he started over and checked again. This was an event of astounding importance…well, to Romano. Finally, Spain would bend the knee and proclaim him as a culinary master. And he would do so with a fork in his mouth, a full platter in his hand and tears of pure gastronomical joy streaming down his face.
It would be better to get a full night’s rest, considering the epic morning he had waiting for him. Romano flicked off the light switch in the kitchen, stepped over the cat that had laid itself out luxuriously on the carpet, and headed up the stairs towards his bedroom. After changing into nightclothes, Romano was enjoying a full body stretch while wriggling beneath the covers when a shrill ring pierced the air.
Naturally.
Rolling over and snatching up the phone, he first took in a deep breath before stating calmly, “Pronto.”
“Merry Christmas, brother!”
Naturally. Veneziano would think that calling well past eleven was perfectly fine. To him, going to bed early for such a festive occasion could not be anything less than a complete tragedy. Romano suspected that this was just his way of making sure his brother would not commit such a crime.
“Sure, happy Christmas. Now, if that’s all you that you want, I’m going to -”
“Ahhh, how was your dinner? We had a great one! You really missed out!”
Veneziano had made the infuriating habit in recent years to spend his winter holidays up North with the Germans. He claimed that he liked their decorations and the “fun family atmosphere,” which didn’t make Romano feel inadequate about his own brotherly services, no, not at all. Once, Veneziano had, by some miracle, convinced Romano to tag along in a previous year. It was a total disaster. The two of them got stuck in a blizzard as they were walking there, and when Germany had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to fetch them, the blond and blue-eyed nation had instantly demanded that they strip. If that wasn’t freaky enough, his brother had complied automatically and Romano was forced to show everybody his chest, which for some reason had been deemed incredibly significant…
With a jolt, Romano suddenly realised that Veneziano had been rambling his ear off for the past few minutes, describing the food and festivities and all the fun, fun, FUN they were having. For a moment, guilt began to set in, but he grumpily pushed it away when he remembered shivering in the snow.
“It’s eight feet tall and the branches are so thick, you can’t see to the other side! I’ll send you a picture, so beautiful with the bows, candles and bells…” Veneziano was cut off when there was a commotion in the background. “Oh! They’re bringing out the champagne. Perfect! Romano, we can bring in Christmas day together!”
He was right. It was only a few minutes to midnight. Romano propped himself up in bed with one elbow. “Okay, whatever.”
“Did you put up your presepi?”
Any self-respecting Italian - well, a Catholic one, anyway - should have a Nativity scene in their home, so of course Romano had one. It was an old and elaborate set, hand carved and painted brightly, nearly three feet tall in complete height. Families loved to compete for the best and most beautiful Nativities, and Romano often felt that he was the champion whenever these little contests were held. Not only did he have Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus, but also angels, the Magi, the shepherds, and a host of farm animals, all placed carefully on a wooden hill with steppes cunningly cut so all the figures could pose perfectly. There was real hay in the stable and manger of the set.
“You should put the Christ child into the manger right now!”
It was tradition to bring out the most important piece on the stroke of midnight, at Christmas. Romano sighed and wriggled his way out of the blankets, the phone still clutched in one hand. Making his way downstairs over to the table where the scene was proudly placed, he reached out and placed the tiny wooden doll into its bed of hay. “Done. Happy now?”
There was a huge cheering noise from the phone, and the sound of a tinny trumpet blaring. That was probably Prussia, the troublemaker. Veneziano’s voice barely made it through.
“IT’S CHRISTMAS! HAPPY CHRISTMAS!”
“Yeah, happy Christmas,” Romano replied, privately glad that his brother couldn’t see the ends of his mouth twitching as he listened to the raucous glee.
“Okay, it’s time to drink the champagne. Bye for now, and have fun with brother Spain tomorrow!”
“Wait! How did you know about -”
There was a click as Veneziano hung up. Romano grumbled to himself as he headed back towards his bedroom. Spain had to go blabbing about the whole thing to just about everybody, didn’t he? Pulling the covers up to his chin, the last thought Romano had was that it meant, more than ever, that tomorrow’s meal had to be absolutely perfect.
He dreamt of preparing the timballo di riso. Parmesan cheese was required for both making the meatballs and cooking the rice, so he was grating diligently over a bowl. As pale yellow curls fell from the metal grooves, he could hear the loud scratching noises it made…except that cheese wasn’t supposed to make such noises.
Romano awoke in confusion. From the door, incessant clawing was heard. His stupid cat had finally decided, at one thirty, that it wanted to come in. Mildly cursing the feline under his breath, Romano lurched towards the door and yanked it open. The brown and white cat trotted inside, the little crucifix on its collar swinging perkily.
“What’s that you’ve got?” Romano watched as the cat placed a tiny item at his feet, and then looked up at him with happy green eyes. “What…”
Reaching down, he lifted it to eye level. The infant Jesus stared morosely back at him. Christ had suffered a trip on the warm, wet, rough tongue of a cat in celebration of his birth.
Cursing a little louder this time, Romano stomped past the inappropriately pleased cat and went straight to the Nativity. He stopped short at the horrific scene that met his eyes: a presepi in pieces. Shepherds scattered, sheep overturned. Joseph was being flattened by both a donkey and an ox. The angels, supposed soldiers of God, had fallen to the floor, a fate only slightly better than Lucifer’s. The gifts of the Magi were strewn away of their generous hands. But worst of all, the empty manger lay on its side, hay spilled everywhere, with the Virgin Mother Mary lying face down, clearly mourning the loss of her precious child.
Romano glared at the chubby cat that had followed him down. “You damn puss.”
There was no way he was leaving this, his pride and joy, in shambles. Romano pulled the donkey and ox off of Joseph, allowing the carpenter to breathe freely again. Herding both the sheep and their minders back to the right place, he knelt and scooped up the angels so they could declare the good news once again. The Magi were reunited with their camels. Romano carefully swept the hay into his palm and spread it gently across the stable. He then placed Mary beside her baby again.
“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly to her. Then he snatched up the cat. “And you’re in big trouble.”
The cat merely licked his nose fondly. Romano refused to be swayed by such affection. With an expression that could curdle milk, he marched the tubby tabby into the open air, locking the door behind it. Ignoring the mews of protest, Romano pulled himself up the stairs once again. He was already asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.
This time, Romano found himself standing atop a huge mountain of struffoli. The small doughnuts were like huge boudlers, covered in sticky rainbow-coloured stones of sugared candy. Even when he peered down the sides, the bottom of the mound merely transformed into endless plains of honeyed glaze. Romano shrugged and sat down on a ball.
The effect was immediate. A deep rumbling from within the struffoli mountain burst forth, breaking the sticky desserts apart. Romano was falling, tumbling, losing his grip as he was pelted with sprinkles…
His eyes snapped open, saved once again by the rule of never hitting the ground in a dream. The clock blinked a cheerful two forty-five. Was there any rest to be had? Sighing and yanking the covers back up again, Romano was about to roll over and get back to sleeping when he heard voices.
“Hey! It’s completely dry here! Where’s the snow?”
“Shhhhhh!”
Romano stiffened. Now he was aware of the shuffling of boots on the flagstones of his garden, just outside. A soft tinkling of bells accompanied soft snorts and hushed whispers.
“Ooh, the back door’s unlocked. Lucky for us, isn’t it? Be careful, now.”
At that, Romano shot out from bed and was downstairs in a flash. Throwing open the back door before these thieves could even turn the doorknob, he scowled murderously at the intruders.
Finland stood frozen in the doorway, dressed in a bright red suit with immaculately white fur trimmings. The force of Romano’s appearance had seemed to intimidate the matching cap on his head to slide back a bit in retreat. Finland’s hands were placed around the shoulders of a wide-eyed and curious Sealand, who in turn was clutching a garishly wrapped present. Behind them stood a large sleigh, with six robust-looking reindeer shaking their belled harnesses and pawing the dusty ground. The nations stared at each other in surprise.
Romano was the first to speak. “What the HELL?”
“Er…Merry Christmas!” Finland quickly regained his composure and gave Sealand a small push forwards. “What good timing! Now we can deliver this gift in person.”
Sealand did not waste any time with greetings. “Hey mister, why don’t you have any snow yet? It’s Christmas!”
“It’s the Mediterranean,” Romano replied bluntly.
“Well, that REALLY sucks for you!”
Romano frowned, but Sealand did not seem to consider the statement offensive, his face contorted into an expression of deep thought. Then he brightened. “Oh, don’t worry! I can fix that for you! Hold on just a tick!” He shoved the gift into Romano’s hands and hurried back towards the sleigh, making a beeline for the bulging sack in the back.
Finland chuckled and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, causing the cap to tip even more dangerously off to the side. “Sorry about that, especially if we woke you up! He just enjoys coming along so much that I couldn’t really say no. And trust me when I say that he’s actually quite helpful with the job!”
“Yeah, sure,” Romano mumbled. He spied a wiggling brown and white tail disappearing out the corner of his eye. “Oh no, you don’t!”
Finland was inspecting his reindeer when Romano emerged again, hefting a large cat in his arms. Romano shooed the creature away from the doorway with his foot, grumbling.
“It’s only ten degrees; you can deal for a few more hours.”
“But still, ten degrees isn’t exactly tropical,” Finland admonished kindly, reaching back into his sack. “And with wind, it could feel even chillier. I’m shocked that you would come out here without a shirt on - say, why don’t you open that present?”
Romano wanted to protest that he had meant to be sleeping, and it was only the loud clumsiness of certain Santa Clauses that brought him out here like this…but it was probably wiser not to argue with a guy armed with six large animals who had spiky bones growing out of their heads. Retrieving the gift reluctantly, the silver wrappings fell away to reveal the fuzziest sweater Romano had ever seen.
“Thought it would suit you - and seasonally appropriate too!”
”
“All done!” Sealand’s bright chirp broke out of the darkness, and the boy trotted over, waving a can triumphantly. “Now your house has snow! And I made some really great designs too!”
Romano and Finland exchanged looks before the two of them raced to the other side. Sealand had vigorously used white spray paint to spruce up the simple country house’s walls. At first, it seemed that he had been dedicated to sticking by his White Christmas theme, creating huge, six-pointed snowflakes and stick reindeer pulling a dripping sleigh, but by the time they reached the eastern wall, it had turned into rocket-wearing robots and a ridiculous piece of propaganda stating, “THIS HOUSE OFFICIALLY RECOGNISES THE PRINCIPALITY OF SEALAND.”
“It does not,” Romano said through gritted teeth.
Finland plucked the spray can out of his young ward’s hands. “I’m very disappointed in you, Sealand. You promised to behave and help me out tonight…what am I going to tell Sweden?”
“You can tell him I was only trying to spread Christmas cheer! How can it be Christmas without any snow?”
“This was part of the reason why I brought you along, so you could see how it’s like in other locations,” sighed Finland. “I’m so sorry, Romano…do you need help cleaning up?”
“No, no, forget it. I’ll just deal with it myself. Just…go,” he replied wearily. It was well past three, and Romano did not feel like he had any more courtesy left to spend on two unannounced guests, regardless of good intentions. There would be an actual guest arriving in less than twelve hours. He would need all the concentration he could get.
There was a jangling of sleigh bells as the reindeer cantered away, casting a shadow in the moonlight. Romano reached for the hose and a long-handled scrubbing brush as a chilly breeze swept through the area. Perhaps this was indeed necessary, he begrudgingly thought as he pulled the sweater over his head. Now sporting a festive pattern of green and red holly sprigs on a cream-coloured background, Romano diligently set to work at removing the paint.
Turning around the first corner, he spied his cat curled up in front of the electric heater, with its paws tucked neatly beneath a twitching nose and tightly shut eyes.
Romano took in a deep breath, and kept scrubbing.
***
Spain was delighted with the weather that greeted him as he ambled down the path towards Romano’s house. The sky was a pale blue, with cotton-spun clouds drifting across the sun, making the air brisk but gentle at the same time. He’d finally made an effort with his wardrobe, imitating Romano’s favourite dress blazer over buttoned shirt style, although it was probably a good thing nobody really looked at feet. Pink snowmen socks were not exactly the biggest fashion statement. Coming to the gate, Spain nudged it open with his elbow, careful not to upset the domed box dangling from ribbon handles at his fingertips. The house looked a little different, perhaps cleaner than usual, though Spain didn’t really notice.
He opened the front door without much difficulty, being familiar to where the spare key was kept.
“Hola! Merry Christmas!”
Silence greeted him back. Spain was surprised. He couldn’t smell anything in the air, either.
“Ehh…hello?”
He wandered into the sitting room. The first thing he spotted was the presepi, carefully organised and perfectly in place. Next, he noticed a very plump cat, stretched lazily across…across the stomach of an exhausted looking young man, dressed only in boxers and a Christmas sweater. Both were fast asleep on the couch.
Spain allowed himself a few minutes of nostalgia, recalling another time when he would enter a house and find Romano napping. Then he put down his presents, walked over to the couch and gingerly took a seat on the edge before leaning over the unconscious Romano.
“Good morning, Roma…”
Hazel eyes blinked open to stare directly into green ones. For a moment, Romano assumed they belonged to his greedy cat, but a half-asleep swat quickly changed his mind.
“Ow! Why did you slap me? I was just saying hello!”
“Hell!” Romano scrambled into a sitting position, the sunlight catching the stray hairs of his bedhead. He had gone from groggy to wide awake in seconds. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”
Spain flicked his wrist around to look at his watch. “Almost 11:30.”
“Ele-seriously? Oh, damnit. God damnit!”
“Er, please don’t say that…it’s Christmas…”
Romano leaped to his feet and ran to the kitchen. It was, of course, as spotless as he had left it last night, save for Finland’s Christmas gift still sitting on the table. Nothing was ready. Not the soup, the timballo, the capon, or any of the side dishes he had planned to make. Noon was nearly upon them, and the scrumptious feast he had intended to make was still hours away from being done.
It wasn’t really the end of the world, but tears still sprang to his eyes. “Oh, damn it. It’s…it’s not my fault, first the cat, then that kid…”
Spain walked in after him and observed the empty space. “Hm, I guess you slept in, huh?”
Romano gripped the edge of the table, feeling the corner cut into his palm. Spain smiled. “That’s okay! It’s not even noon yet. We can do this.”
“We?”
“Yeah, me and you.” Spain gave him a funny look. “Who did you think I was talking to, the cat?”
“But…” Romano felt his heart sink. “I was going to do it. It’s my dinner!”
“It’ll be a lot faster if we work together.” Spain was shrugging out of his blazer. “I don’t mind.”
“I mind!” Romano glared and folded his arms. Spain had already wandered over to the fridge and was peering at its contents. “Wasn’t the whole point of all this was to prove I could cook it myself?”
Spain turned to look back at him - and naturally, bumped his head on the shelf above him. Gingerly touching it, he blinked a few times. “Oh? I never thought of it that way. I was only looking forward to spending Christmas here.”
Romano did not want to lose this argument. It was already unfair that he had been beaten, his dreams crushed like garlic against a knife. Spain always won without even trying, standing there in his olive-coloured shirt and looking far too innocently eager to help. Then again, it was Christmas day. There was a rooster that needed to be roasted, soup to simmer, rice to bake, lentils to fry and doughnuts to roll out. Finally, he caved.
“Fine,” he snapped, jabbing a finger into Spain’s chest. “But you better not screw it up and blame it on me, because even if I’m a bit late, it will still be the best meal you’ve ever feasted on, got it?”
Spain brightened instantly. “Yes! Let’s do it!”
The next few hours filled the kitchen with the hustle and bustle of the mastery of chefs. First, the capon was to be gutted and cleaned, then seasoned with fennel and oranges, which Spain took to with gusto. Romano had already kneaded the struffoli dough into a smooth, stiff lump when he noticed that the oven wasn’t even turned out. The agitated shouting match that was instigated was thankfully short-lived, and soon the bird had been shoved in after being slathered in garlic butter. Spain’s fondness for meat was stopped short by disappointment as Romano hoarded the soup’s stock, such that the older nation could do nothing but stand by the soaking vegetables. Later, when his host’s back was turned, he snuck a taste. Who could blame him - the tantalising smell of pork and cheese floated around the kitchen. The cat mewed longingly from the doorway.
Preparation for the timballo di riso required use of the entire stove, so the soup was transferred to the back burner. There it bubbled enticingly as the two men busied themselves with stirring sauces, frying meatballs, sautéing diced onion with bacon, and preparing the risotto. Romano’s hands shooed Spain off to the side as he took charge of this difficult step; best leave the Italians to their own inventions. Spain leaned against the counter and grinned as his former charge skillfully stirred the rice and added more stock when necessary. Romano didn’t need to prove anything, in his opinion. He already knew what he was capable of.
Romano finally returned the stove to Spain’s domain, instructing him to begin cooking lentils for a side dish as the rest of the timballo was prepared. As he bent over a cake mold with breadcrumbs, Romano’s auburn bangs swayed back and forth while he applied the layers of rice, sausage, vegetables and meatballs into the tin. Spain had just finished draining the beans when it was finally ready for baking. Carefully sliding the heavy dish into the warm cavern of the oven, Romano was once again grateful for his large kitchen.
All that was left was the struffoli. The dough had been put to the side, but returned to the worktable as the center of attention. As a large pot of oil boiled and popped on the stove, Romano and Spain plucked, rolled, and cut pieces of the dough to create the perfect struffoli-sized pieces. All memories of a “challenge” were forgotten as the two talked, laughed, and criticised each other’s work while the doughnuts kept on spinning around and around in the sizzling oil.
Finally, when it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, it was done. Romano sighed and gazed at his dinner table brimming with homecooked Italian goodness. Spain flopped into a chair and grabbed a spoon.
“Wow, all that work really pays off in hunger. I’m starving.”
Romano pulled out the chair across from him, smirking. “Yeah, because hovering around taking tiny tastes of everything when you thought I wasn’t looking was surely a good way to curb your appetite. Don’t you think that I didn’t notice…you’re terrible at lying, did you know that?”
Spain laughed into his soup.
Two hours later, Romano was in his back garden, sipping wine from a glass in one hand and chewing on sprinkle-covered struffoli in the other. He was feeling very satisfied from their spectacular feast, slowly beginning to understand the concept of a “food coma.” The remains were still littered all over the table - neither one of them felt up to all that washing. Just because Romano felt full didn’t necessarily mean that there was any reason to stop nibbling on the last of the dessert. He was also still wearing only his boxers and the sweater, since Spain had begged him not to change, finding the outfit hilarious. Romano reluctantly agreed, but spent most of the day looking over his shoulder to make sure that no camera lens would ever spot him in it.
“Okay, I don’t care what you tell me. Your legs have got to be really cold by now. Bundle up.”
Spain had returned with a tray and a blanket, the latter which he tossed over to Romano. The Italian wrapped it snugly around his lap. “Hey idiot, what else do you have there? Still thinking of stuffing me?”
The domed box from before was sitting smack in the middle of the tray. Spain undid the fastenings at the top, grinning. “Just a present. It’s Christmas!”
The box revealed a tall, leavened bread cake. One glance and Romano knew it was studded throughout with raisins and other candied fruits. As Spain began cutting slices, he sniffed and drew the blanket up to his shoulders, feigning disdain.
“A failure on your part, Spain. Panettone comes from Milan. This is Napoli.”
“I didn’t get it because of its physical background,” Spain answered. “But because of the story. You know it? A baker named Antonio fell in love with a princess, so he invented a delicious cake to impress her. Right?”
Romano snatched up the offered plate, wrinkling his nose to hide his embarrassment. “That’s completely wrong! Panettone just literally means ‘a large cake,’ so stop spewing out nonsense.”
Spain brushed off the rebuke good-naturedly, having already taken a few bites. “Eh, fine. It was just a nice story…”
He trailed off and they continued eating in silence. The sun was finally beginning to descend, streaking the sky with a dark orange before giving way to a deep blue. A few stars glimmered. Snug in his blanket, Romano did not feel like moving at all. Spain sighed.
“That was a really good dinner. Like, one of the best I’ve had in a really long time. Really good job, Romano.”
His former charge grunted beneath his blanket. “It would have been better without someone trying to undermine me in my own kitchen.”
“Aw, really? I thought it was fun. Wasn’t it fun? We make a really good team.” Spain stretched happily. The cat, also full from the remains of their meal, imitated him on the flagstones. “Tell you what, how about next time we can cook at my house? Like for new year’s, perhaps.”
It took a few moments for Romano to reply. Then he said slowly, “Fine. But back here for Epiphany.”
Spain’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, why not.” Romano kicked at a pebble. “We do make a good team…”
He turned his head quickly before Spain had any time to begin sighing and getting misty-eyed over the invitation. Without thinking, he recalled his conversation with Veneziano the night before and wondered when he would actually call. Sometimes it seemed like his brother preferred the company of others. Going to Germany’s for the winter holidays already seemed like a solid tradition for him. Spain had wisely kept quiet, so Romano snuck another glance at him. It was an endearing sight, almost - ugh - cute, if Romano had to pick a word, watching him lean over to rub that lazy cat’s full belly. Well, if Veneziano was going to go off and create new traditions…Romano could do it too.
He stood up with a bit of difficulty; allowing all that food to settle in his stomach was not conducive to moving around and the blanket slipped dangerously.
“Come on, lazy ass. Dishes.”
Author: webcomix
Recipient: kenzi_chi
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Romano, Spaincat, Veneziano, Finland, Sealand, and of course, Spain.
Word Count: 5109
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Feline religious sacrilege, micronation vandalism, and food porn.
Summary: After being “challenged” to do so by Spain, Romano is determined to create the most spectacular Christmas dinner. However, not all goes according to plan.
Silent night, Holy night. Stars twinkled roguishly down at the man seated at his dinner table, who had a foot casually propped up upon another chair. A finger lazily rubbed the rim of a half-filled glass of spiced rum, which had been placed next to the remains of what was clearly a scrumptious spread. In a single glance, one could easily identify some of signature dishes of the Feast of Seven Fishes: broccoli rabe, roasted eel, vermicelli alle vongole. A chubby cat waited with devoted veneration beneath the table, hoping for some tasty morsels of caponata di pesce, fish salad, to drop down from the tablecloth of Heaven.
As the clock struck ten thirty, the young man sighed contentedly and finally placed his plate on the floor, where the cat delightfully attacked the leftovers with relish. He stood up and began to collect the rest of the dishes. As the simple chore preoccupied his hands, a memory wandered into his mind still fresh from last week.
“Thanks again for coming over!”
Romano had, as usual, dropped by Madrid without previous notice. Luckily, Spain loved unannounced visits and insisted on playing the generous host, which always involved a grand meal. Bringing out a platter of Iberico ham, he slid it onto the side table between them before flopping into the other armchair.
“What, you’re still trying to stuff me?” In spite of the scoff, Romano couldn’t resist picking up one of the salty slices. “
Spain grinned. “No, but I know just how much you like my food.”
“Mmf.” Romano feigned indifference as his taste buds praised the Saints for pork. “Not as good as it is in my house, but nice try.”
“Oh, come on!” Spain nodded his chin back at the towering stack of dishes behind them in the sink. “Even when you were little, you always badgered me to cook for you.”
Romano felt his face heat up at the memory of his childhood. Out of the many things about Spain that irritated him, his ill-timed reminders of bygone years were near the top of the list, especially whenever it was in regards to their time together. “Because it was your job to take care of me, dumbass. I was making sure you were fulfilling your duty!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Spain said lightly, stretching out comfortably, like a cat in a sunbeam. “But even now, you’re always coming around in time for a meal. So either it’s my exceptional talent in the kitchen or my charming personality that draws you back here. Personally, I think it’s both…”
Romano nearly choked on his wine. Spain didn’t notice, still sprawled out in his chair. He was really beginning to resemble a cat, almost making purring noises. Romano carefully set down his glass and wiped his mouth before speaking calmly.
“I can totally cook a full course dinner. Neapolitan style. Alone. Gourmet.”
Spain cracked one eye open with interest. “Really?”
“Yeah. And I’ll prove it. Christmas Day, Il Pranzo. I’ll blow your taste buds out of the water, you clueless jerk!”
The reaction he received was somewhat unprecedented - Spain sat up at once, eyes sparkling and clapping his hands together as he laughed.
“You’re making a Christmas dinner just for me? I can’t wait! How exciting!”
“Ugh, don’t get all teenage girl on me!” Romano snatched up another slice of ham and chewed on it. “I’m defending my honour, here. Don’t get any ideas that you’re particularly special, or anything.”
“But…Christmas! Oh, this will be so fun!”
Oh, will it ever, Romano thought to himself as water gushed from the tap and over the full sink. A plate squeaked anxiously from the ferocity of how he scrubbed it clean with a washcloth. Falling into a rhythm, Romano mulled over the anticipated menu in his head: minestra maritata, the “perfect wedding” of meat and leafy greens in soup. Timballo di riso, a cake of baked rice filled with a treasure of meatballs, mushrooms, and peas. A roasted capon, its flesh so tender and juicy, with lentil beans on the side. And of course, struffoli, deep fried doughnut balls slathered in honey and multicoloured sprinkles…
As he listed and imagined, Romano’s stomach felt like it opened up just a little more, in spite of the incredibly hearty supper it had just finished. As the cleaned dishes stood drying on the rack, he puttered around the kitchen and the pantry adjacent, checking that all ingredients, utensils, and anything else required were safe and accounted for. After being assured once, he started over and checked again. This was an event of astounding importance…well, to Romano. Finally, Spain would bend the knee and proclaim him as a culinary master. And he would do so with a fork in his mouth, a full platter in his hand and tears of pure gastronomical joy streaming down his face.
It would be better to get a full night’s rest, considering the epic morning he had waiting for him. Romano flicked off the light switch in the kitchen, stepped over the cat that had laid itself out luxuriously on the carpet, and headed up the stairs towards his bedroom. After changing into nightclothes, Romano was enjoying a full body stretch while wriggling beneath the covers when a shrill ring pierced the air.
Naturally.
Rolling over and snatching up the phone, he first took in a deep breath before stating calmly, “Pronto.”
“Merry Christmas, brother!”
Naturally. Veneziano would think that calling well past eleven was perfectly fine. To him, going to bed early for such a festive occasion could not be anything less than a complete tragedy. Romano suspected that this was just his way of making sure his brother would not commit such a crime.
“Sure, happy Christmas. Now, if that’s all you that you want, I’m going to -”
“Ahhh, how was your dinner? We had a great one! You really missed out!”
Veneziano had made the infuriating habit in recent years to spend his winter holidays up North with the Germans. He claimed that he liked their decorations and the “fun family atmosphere,” which didn’t make Romano feel inadequate about his own brotherly services, no, not at all. Once, Veneziano had, by some miracle, convinced Romano to tag along in a previous year. It was a total disaster. The two of them got stuck in a blizzard as they were walking there, and when Germany had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to fetch them, the blond and blue-eyed nation had instantly demanded that they strip. If that wasn’t freaky enough, his brother had complied automatically and Romano was forced to show everybody his chest, which for some reason had been deemed incredibly significant…
With a jolt, Romano suddenly realised that Veneziano had been rambling his ear off for the past few minutes, describing the food and festivities and all the fun, fun, FUN they were having. For a moment, guilt began to set in, but he grumpily pushed it away when he remembered shivering in the snow.
“It’s eight feet tall and the branches are so thick, you can’t see to the other side! I’ll send you a picture, so beautiful with the bows, candles and bells…” Veneziano was cut off when there was a commotion in the background. “Oh! They’re bringing out the champagne. Perfect! Romano, we can bring in Christmas day together!”
He was right. It was only a few minutes to midnight. Romano propped himself up in bed with one elbow. “Okay, whatever.”
“Did you put up your presepi?”
Any self-respecting Italian - well, a Catholic one, anyway - should have a Nativity scene in their home, so of course Romano had one. It was an old and elaborate set, hand carved and painted brightly, nearly three feet tall in complete height. Families loved to compete for the best and most beautiful Nativities, and Romano often felt that he was the champion whenever these little contests were held. Not only did he have Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus, but also angels, the Magi, the shepherds, and a host of farm animals, all placed carefully on a wooden hill with steppes cunningly cut so all the figures could pose perfectly. There was real hay in the stable and manger of the set.
“You should put the Christ child into the manger right now!”
It was tradition to bring out the most important piece on the stroke of midnight, at Christmas. Romano sighed and wriggled his way out of the blankets, the phone still clutched in one hand. Making his way downstairs over to the table where the scene was proudly placed, he reached out and placed the tiny wooden doll into its bed of hay. “Done. Happy now?”
There was a huge cheering noise from the phone, and the sound of a tinny trumpet blaring. That was probably Prussia, the troublemaker. Veneziano’s voice barely made it through.
“IT’S CHRISTMAS! HAPPY CHRISTMAS!”
“Yeah, happy Christmas,” Romano replied, privately glad that his brother couldn’t see the ends of his mouth twitching as he listened to the raucous glee.
“Okay, it’s time to drink the champagne. Bye for now, and have fun with brother Spain tomorrow!”
“Wait! How did you know about -”
There was a click as Veneziano hung up. Romano grumbled to himself as he headed back towards his bedroom. Spain had to go blabbing about the whole thing to just about everybody, didn’t he? Pulling the covers up to his chin, the last thought Romano had was that it meant, more than ever, that tomorrow’s meal had to be absolutely perfect.
He dreamt of preparing the timballo di riso. Parmesan cheese was required for both making the meatballs and cooking the rice, so he was grating diligently over a bowl. As pale yellow curls fell from the metal grooves, he could hear the loud scratching noises it made…except that cheese wasn’t supposed to make such noises.
Romano awoke in confusion. From the door, incessant clawing was heard. His stupid cat had finally decided, at one thirty, that it wanted to come in. Mildly cursing the feline under his breath, Romano lurched towards the door and yanked it open. The brown and white cat trotted inside, the little crucifix on its collar swinging perkily.
“What’s that you’ve got?” Romano watched as the cat placed a tiny item at his feet, and then looked up at him with happy green eyes. “What…”
Reaching down, he lifted it to eye level. The infant Jesus stared morosely back at him. Christ had suffered a trip on the warm, wet, rough tongue of a cat in celebration of his birth.
Cursing a little louder this time, Romano stomped past the inappropriately pleased cat and went straight to the Nativity. He stopped short at the horrific scene that met his eyes: a presepi in pieces. Shepherds scattered, sheep overturned. Joseph was being flattened by both a donkey and an ox. The angels, supposed soldiers of God, had fallen to the floor, a fate only slightly better than Lucifer’s. The gifts of the Magi were strewn away of their generous hands. But worst of all, the empty manger lay on its side, hay spilled everywhere, with the Virgin Mother Mary lying face down, clearly mourning the loss of her precious child.
Romano glared at the chubby cat that had followed him down. “You damn puss.”
There was no way he was leaving this, his pride and joy, in shambles. Romano pulled the donkey and ox off of Joseph, allowing the carpenter to breathe freely again. Herding both the sheep and their minders back to the right place, he knelt and scooped up the angels so they could declare the good news once again. The Magi were reunited with their camels. Romano carefully swept the hay into his palm and spread it gently across the stable. He then placed Mary beside her baby again.
“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly to her. Then he snatched up the cat. “And you’re in big trouble.”
The cat merely licked his nose fondly. Romano refused to be swayed by such affection. With an expression that could curdle milk, he marched the tubby tabby into the open air, locking the door behind it. Ignoring the mews of protest, Romano pulled himself up the stairs once again. He was already asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.
This time, Romano found himself standing atop a huge mountain of struffoli. The small doughnuts were like huge boudlers, covered in sticky rainbow-coloured stones of sugared candy. Even when he peered down the sides, the bottom of the mound merely transformed into endless plains of honeyed glaze. Romano shrugged and sat down on a ball.
The effect was immediate. A deep rumbling from within the struffoli mountain burst forth, breaking the sticky desserts apart. Romano was falling, tumbling, losing his grip as he was pelted with sprinkles…
His eyes snapped open, saved once again by the rule of never hitting the ground in a dream. The clock blinked a cheerful two forty-five. Was there any rest to be had? Sighing and yanking the covers back up again, Romano was about to roll over and get back to sleeping when he heard voices.
“Hey! It’s completely dry here! Where’s the snow?”
“Shhhhhh!”
Romano stiffened. Now he was aware of the shuffling of boots on the flagstones of his garden, just outside. A soft tinkling of bells accompanied soft snorts and hushed whispers.
“Ooh, the back door’s unlocked. Lucky for us, isn’t it? Be careful, now.”
At that, Romano shot out from bed and was downstairs in a flash. Throwing open the back door before these thieves could even turn the doorknob, he scowled murderously at the intruders.
Finland stood frozen in the doorway, dressed in a bright red suit with immaculately white fur trimmings. The force of Romano’s appearance had seemed to intimidate the matching cap on his head to slide back a bit in retreat. Finland’s hands were placed around the shoulders of a wide-eyed and curious Sealand, who in turn was clutching a garishly wrapped present. Behind them stood a large sleigh, with six robust-looking reindeer shaking their belled harnesses and pawing the dusty ground. The nations stared at each other in surprise.
Romano was the first to speak. “What the HELL?”
“Er…Merry Christmas!” Finland quickly regained his composure and gave Sealand a small push forwards. “What good timing! Now we can deliver this gift in person.”
Sealand did not waste any time with greetings. “Hey mister, why don’t you have any snow yet? It’s Christmas!”
“It’s the Mediterranean,” Romano replied bluntly.
“Well, that REALLY sucks for you!”
Romano frowned, but Sealand did not seem to consider the statement offensive, his face contorted into an expression of deep thought. Then he brightened. “Oh, don’t worry! I can fix that for you! Hold on just a tick!” He shoved the gift into Romano’s hands and hurried back towards the sleigh, making a beeline for the bulging sack in the back.
Finland chuckled and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, causing the cap to tip even more dangerously off to the side. “Sorry about that, especially if we woke you up! He just enjoys coming along so much that I couldn’t really say no. And trust me when I say that he’s actually quite helpful with the job!”
“Yeah, sure,” Romano mumbled. He spied a wiggling brown and white tail disappearing out the corner of his eye. “Oh no, you don’t!”
Finland was inspecting his reindeer when Romano emerged again, hefting a large cat in his arms. Romano shooed the creature away from the doorway with his foot, grumbling.
“It’s only ten degrees; you can deal for a few more hours.”
“But still, ten degrees isn’t exactly tropical,” Finland admonished kindly, reaching back into his sack. “And with wind, it could feel even chillier. I’m shocked that you would come out here without a shirt on - say, why don’t you open that present?”
Romano wanted to protest that he had meant to be sleeping, and it was only the loud clumsiness of certain Santa Clauses that brought him out here like this…but it was probably wiser not to argue with a guy armed with six large animals who had spiky bones growing out of their heads. Retrieving the gift reluctantly, the silver wrappings fell away to reveal the fuzziest sweater Romano had ever seen.
“Thought it would suit you - and seasonally appropriate too!”
”
“All done!” Sealand’s bright chirp broke out of the darkness, and the boy trotted over, waving a can triumphantly. “Now your house has snow! And I made some really great designs too!”
Romano and Finland exchanged looks before the two of them raced to the other side. Sealand had vigorously used white spray paint to spruce up the simple country house’s walls. At first, it seemed that he had been dedicated to sticking by his White Christmas theme, creating huge, six-pointed snowflakes and stick reindeer pulling a dripping sleigh, but by the time they reached the eastern wall, it had turned into rocket-wearing robots and a ridiculous piece of propaganda stating, “THIS HOUSE OFFICIALLY RECOGNISES THE PRINCIPALITY OF SEALAND.”
“It does not,” Romano said through gritted teeth.
Finland plucked the spray can out of his young ward’s hands. “I’m very disappointed in you, Sealand. You promised to behave and help me out tonight…what am I going to tell Sweden?”
“You can tell him I was only trying to spread Christmas cheer! How can it be Christmas without any snow?”
“This was part of the reason why I brought you along, so you could see how it’s like in other locations,” sighed Finland. “I’m so sorry, Romano…do you need help cleaning up?”
“No, no, forget it. I’ll just deal with it myself. Just…go,” he replied wearily. It was well past three, and Romano did not feel like he had any more courtesy left to spend on two unannounced guests, regardless of good intentions. There would be an actual guest arriving in less than twelve hours. He would need all the concentration he could get.
There was a jangling of sleigh bells as the reindeer cantered away, casting a shadow in the moonlight. Romano reached for the hose and a long-handled scrubbing brush as a chilly breeze swept through the area. Perhaps this was indeed necessary, he begrudgingly thought as he pulled the sweater over his head. Now sporting a festive pattern of green and red holly sprigs on a cream-coloured background, Romano diligently set to work at removing the paint.
Turning around the first corner, he spied his cat curled up in front of the electric heater, with its paws tucked neatly beneath a twitching nose and tightly shut eyes.
Romano took in a deep breath, and kept scrubbing.
***
Spain was delighted with the weather that greeted him as he ambled down the path towards Romano’s house. The sky was a pale blue, with cotton-spun clouds drifting across the sun, making the air brisk but gentle at the same time. He’d finally made an effort with his wardrobe, imitating Romano’s favourite dress blazer over buttoned shirt style, although it was probably a good thing nobody really looked at feet. Pink snowmen socks were not exactly the biggest fashion statement. Coming to the gate, Spain nudged it open with his elbow, careful not to upset the domed box dangling from ribbon handles at his fingertips. The house looked a little different, perhaps cleaner than usual, though Spain didn’t really notice.
He opened the front door without much difficulty, being familiar to where the spare key was kept.
“Hola! Merry Christmas!”
Silence greeted him back. Spain was surprised. He couldn’t smell anything in the air, either.
“Ehh…hello?”
He wandered into the sitting room. The first thing he spotted was the presepi, carefully organised and perfectly in place. Next, he noticed a very plump cat, stretched lazily across…across the stomach of an exhausted looking young man, dressed only in boxers and a Christmas sweater. Both were fast asleep on the couch.
Spain allowed himself a few minutes of nostalgia, recalling another time when he would enter a house and find Romano napping. Then he put down his presents, walked over to the couch and gingerly took a seat on the edge before leaning over the unconscious Romano.
“Good morning, Roma…”
Hazel eyes blinked open to stare directly into green ones. For a moment, Romano assumed they belonged to his greedy cat, but a half-asleep swat quickly changed his mind.
“Ow! Why did you slap me? I was just saying hello!”
“Hell!” Romano scrambled into a sitting position, the sunlight catching the stray hairs of his bedhead. He had gone from groggy to wide awake in seconds. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”
Spain flicked his wrist around to look at his watch. “Almost 11:30.”
“Ele-seriously? Oh, damnit. God damnit!”
“Er, please don’t say that…it’s Christmas…”
Romano leaped to his feet and ran to the kitchen. It was, of course, as spotless as he had left it last night, save for Finland’s Christmas gift still sitting on the table. Nothing was ready. Not the soup, the timballo, the capon, or any of the side dishes he had planned to make. Noon was nearly upon them, and the scrumptious feast he had intended to make was still hours away from being done.
It wasn’t really the end of the world, but tears still sprang to his eyes. “Oh, damn it. It’s…it’s not my fault, first the cat, then that kid…”
Spain walked in after him and observed the empty space. “Hm, I guess you slept in, huh?”
Romano gripped the edge of the table, feeling the corner cut into his palm. Spain smiled. “That’s okay! It’s not even noon yet. We can do this.”
“We?”
“Yeah, me and you.” Spain gave him a funny look. “Who did you think I was talking to, the cat?”
“But…” Romano felt his heart sink. “I was going to do it. It’s my dinner!”
“It’ll be a lot faster if we work together.” Spain was shrugging out of his blazer. “I don’t mind.”
“I mind!” Romano glared and folded his arms. Spain had already wandered over to the fridge and was peering at its contents. “Wasn’t the whole point of all this was to prove I could cook it myself?”
Spain turned to look back at him - and naturally, bumped his head on the shelf above him. Gingerly touching it, he blinked a few times. “Oh? I never thought of it that way. I was only looking forward to spending Christmas here.”
Romano did not want to lose this argument. It was already unfair that he had been beaten, his dreams crushed like garlic against a knife. Spain always won without even trying, standing there in his olive-coloured shirt and looking far too innocently eager to help. Then again, it was Christmas day. There was a rooster that needed to be roasted, soup to simmer, rice to bake, lentils to fry and doughnuts to roll out. Finally, he caved.
“Fine,” he snapped, jabbing a finger into Spain’s chest. “But you better not screw it up and blame it on me, because even if I’m a bit late, it will still be the best meal you’ve ever feasted on, got it?”
Spain brightened instantly. “Yes! Let’s do it!”
The next few hours filled the kitchen with the hustle and bustle of the mastery of chefs. First, the capon was to be gutted and cleaned, then seasoned with fennel and oranges, which Spain took to with gusto. Romano had already kneaded the struffoli dough into a smooth, stiff lump when he noticed that the oven wasn’t even turned out. The agitated shouting match that was instigated was thankfully short-lived, and soon the bird had been shoved in after being slathered in garlic butter. Spain’s fondness for meat was stopped short by disappointment as Romano hoarded the soup’s stock, such that the older nation could do nothing but stand by the soaking vegetables. Later, when his host’s back was turned, he snuck a taste. Who could blame him - the tantalising smell of pork and cheese floated around the kitchen. The cat mewed longingly from the doorway.
Preparation for the timballo di riso required use of the entire stove, so the soup was transferred to the back burner. There it bubbled enticingly as the two men busied themselves with stirring sauces, frying meatballs, sautéing diced onion with bacon, and preparing the risotto. Romano’s hands shooed Spain off to the side as he took charge of this difficult step; best leave the Italians to their own inventions. Spain leaned against the counter and grinned as his former charge skillfully stirred the rice and added more stock when necessary. Romano didn’t need to prove anything, in his opinion. He already knew what he was capable of.
Romano finally returned the stove to Spain’s domain, instructing him to begin cooking lentils for a side dish as the rest of the timballo was prepared. As he bent over a cake mold with breadcrumbs, Romano’s auburn bangs swayed back and forth while he applied the layers of rice, sausage, vegetables and meatballs into the tin. Spain had just finished draining the beans when it was finally ready for baking. Carefully sliding the heavy dish into the warm cavern of the oven, Romano was once again grateful for his large kitchen.
All that was left was the struffoli. The dough had been put to the side, but returned to the worktable as the center of attention. As a large pot of oil boiled and popped on the stove, Romano and Spain plucked, rolled, and cut pieces of the dough to create the perfect struffoli-sized pieces. All memories of a “challenge” were forgotten as the two talked, laughed, and criticised each other’s work while the doughnuts kept on spinning around and around in the sizzling oil.
Finally, when it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, it was done. Romano sighed and gazed at his dinner table brimming with homecooked Italian goodness. Spain flopped into a chair and grabbed a spoon.
“Wow, all that work really pays off in hunger. I’m starving.”
Romano pulled out the chair across from him, smirking. “Yeah, because hovering around taking tiny tastes of everything when you thought I wasn’t looking was surely a good way to curb your appetite. Don’t you think that I didn’t notice…you’re terrible at lying, did you know that?”
Spain laughed into his soup.
Two hours later, Romano was in his back garden, sipping wine from a glass in one hand and chewing on sprinkle-covered struffoli in the other. He was feeling very satisfied from their spectacular feast, slowly beginning to understand the concept of a “food coma.” The remains were still littered all over the table - neither one of them felt up to all that washing. Just because Romano felt full didn’t necessarily mean that there was any reason to stop nibbling on the last of the dessert. He was also still wearing only his boxers and the sweater, since Spain had begged him not to change, finding the outfit hilarious. Romano reluctantly agreed, but spent most of the day looking over his shoulder to make sure that no camera lens would ever spot him in it.
“Okay, I don’t care what you tell me. Your legs have got to be really cold by now. Bundle up.”
Spain had returned with a tray and a blanket, the latter which he tossed over to Romano. The Italian wrapped it snugly around his lap. “Hey idiot, what else do you have there? Still thinking of stuffing me?”
The domed box from before was sitting smack in the middle of the tray. Spain undid the fastenings at the top, grinning. “Just a present. It’s Christmas!”
The box revealed a tall, leavened bread cake. One glance and Romano knew it was studded throughout with raisins and other candied fruits. As Spain began cutting slices, he sniffed and drew the blanket up to his shoulders, feigning disdain.
“A failure on your part, Spain. Panettone comes from Milan. This is Napoli.”
“I didn’t get it because of its physical background,” Spain answered. “But because of the story. You know it? A baker named Antonio fell in love with a princess, so he invented a delicious cake to impress her. Right?”
Romano snatched up the offered plate, wrinkling his nose to hide his embarrassment. “That’s completely wrong! Panettone just literally means ‘a large cake,’ so stop spewing out nonsense.”
Spain brushed off the rebuke good-naturedly, having already taken a few bites. “Eh, fine. It was just a nice story…”
He trailed off and they continued eating in silence. The sun was finally beginning to descend, streaking the sky with a dark orange before giving way to a deep blue. A few stars glimmered. Snug in his blanket, Romano did not feel like moving at all. Spain sighed.
“That was a really good dinner. Like, one of the best I’ve had in a really long time. Really good job, Romano.”
His former charge grunted beneath his blanket. “It would have been better without someone trying to undermine me in my own kitchen.”
“Aw, really? I thought it was fun. Wasn’t it fun? We make a really good team.” Spain stretched happily. The cat, also full from the remains of their meal, imitated him on the flagstones. “Tell you what, how about next time we can cook at my house? Like for new year’s, perhaps.”
It took a few moments for Romano to reply. Then he said slowly, “Fine. But back here for Epiphany.”
Spain’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, why not.” Romano kicked at a pebble. “We do make a good team…”
He turned his head quickly before Spain had any time to begin sighing and getting misty-eyed over the invitation. Without thinking, he recalled his conversation with Veneziano the night before and wondered when he would actually call. Sometimes it seemed like his brother preferred the company of others. Going to Germany’s for the winter holidays already seemed like a solid tradition for him. Spain had wisely kept quiet, so Romano snuck another glance at him. It was an endearing sight, almost - ugh - cute, if Romano had to pick a word, watching him lean over to rub that lazy cat’s full belly. Well, if Veneziano was going to go off and create new traditions…Romano could do it too.
He stood up with a bit of difficulty; allowing all that food to settle in his stomach was not conducive to moving around and the blanket slipped dangerously.
“Come on, lazy ass. Dishes.”