Family Dinners ( APH Italy + German Brothers )

Germany cleared his throat. “Perhaps my brother and I should make dinner.”

Veneziano blinked, then grinned. “No, this is my brother’s and my house! You’re our guest, we can’t just have you cook for us, that’s just rude. Besides, you guys visit our house for our cuisine—it wouldn’t be very fun if you cooked for us.”

Prussia clapped Germany on the back. “Yeah! I can’t remember the last time we call got together. Relax, West.”

Germany glanced between Romano and Veneziano. “I… suppose.”

Romano rolled his eyes, already washing his hands. “Don’t make it sound like we’re pulling teeth.”

The kitchen, Germany observed, was spacious. Plenty of counter space. More than the last house. He sat next to Prussia at the island counter. Double stove, a bath of a sink. It would be fine.

Veneziano danced in front of them, clapped his hands together. “Alright, what are we in the mood for, gentlemen? From the master of Italian cooking—and Romano!” He laughed. “Fully stocked fridge, at your command.”

Germany glanced at Prussia.

“Seafood,” Prussia decided. “We don’t have anything good at our place that has fish in it.”

Veneziano nodded. “Ah, good choice. Romano, what do you think? Swordfish? Cioppino? Some vegetables? I think we have something for peppers.” Veneziano skipped over to the fridge.

“Wow, you really gave me the option for some input.” Romano crossed his arms. “Apparently,” he said, turning to Germany and Prussia, “you’re having swordfish and cioppino.”

“We have everything for those dishes, Romano,” Veneziano said over his shoulder.

“We could do something other than the stew. I want the swordfish—I’m the one who suggested buying it.” Romano began to pull a pan out, a large pot. “What are we doing with the peppers? Stuffing them?”

“That’s a lot of work.” Veneziano laid out the food on the island. “Why not just grill them quickly?”

“Why do swordfish?” Romano shot back.

Veneziano didn’t answer, but he slid the peppers across the island, and Romano barely got his hand out fast enough to stop them from falling from the floor. The temperature in the kitchen dropped ten degrees, and Germany cleared his throat.

“Dessert?”

Romano and Veneziano turned to him quickly. Veneziano smiled.

“A pastry, maybe?”

“Why not a fruit dish?” Romano asked.

“Because the fish will be light enough for the second course so they can have something heavy for dessert.” Veneziano hadn’t looked away from Germany. “How about a spin on tiramisu?”

Romano glared at Germany. Prussia nodded, slowly.

“Whatever you guys want.”

Romano grunted. “Veneziano, you can do that, then.” He took the peppers out of the bag and began to chop them. “You want to get started on that cioppino? You always take too long with the spices.”

“That’s because I care about how it tastes,” Veneziano said brightly, chopping onions.

“Are you just going to throw the whole onion in the pan?”

“Sorry, did you want to chop them?” Veneziano offered the knife, and Germany and Prussia flinched back. “Because I’d be happy to stuff the peppers you insisted on.”

“So,” Prussia said loudly, “is there anything West can do to help?”

“No,” Veneziano and Romano said.

Prussia held up his hands.

Veneziano set a pan on the stove, threw the onions in. “Did you buy garlic?”

“We have some.” Romano was digging through a cabinet for a cooking sheet.

“Why didn’t you buy cloves? You know the ones that come from the box taste funny.” Veneziano had found the garlic, and he clicked his tongue. “Well, I’m sure Germany and Prussia won’t mind.” He pulled out a wine.

“You’re complaining about boxed garlic and you’re using the cooking wine?” Romano abandoned the peppers, reached by Veneziano to grab another bottle. “Use this one.”

“It burns off, Romano. We did a taste test.”

“Yes, and I could figure out which one was cooked with the shit wine.” Romano tried to put the wine in Veneziano’s hands, but he refused to take it.

“You guessed.”

The brothers stared at one another for a long moment. Slowly, so slowly, Veneziano replaced the cooking wine and took Romano’s.

“Do you two cook together often?” Germany blurted when the silence became to uncomfortable.

Veneziano glanced up from the shrimp. “Oh, not too often. I think the last time was—”

“1994.” Romano put the pan of peppers into the oven. “We don’t talk about it.”

Prussia frowned. “What happened?”

Veneziano shrugged, gave a weak smile. “We don’t talk about it.” He moved to a cabinet and opened it to reveal shelves full of spices.

Romano whipped around. “I’m not doing this again.”

“Do you want to flavor it with bitterness?” Veneziano asked lightly.

“Just pick. Don’t take samples, don’t compare them, don’t call France to ask what’s better—pick the spices and get going on the broth.”

Veneziano sighed deeply. “Romano—”

“Don't Romano me.”

“Look, just because you only believe in salt and pepper doesn’t mean you can stop the rest of us from seasoning.” Veneziano picked a spice. “Try to have fun.”

“Fun?!” Romano laughed.

Veneziano turned. “Yes! Fun! We’re cooking for fun! If I want to season the broth with ten spices, I can, because it’s supposed to be fun!”

“I'm having fun!”

“Then let me spice!”

Germany cleared his throat. The brothers jumped and turned. Veneziano smiled and gave a little laugh, and Romano just crossed his arms.

“Ha, sorry about that!” Veneziano turned and grabbed another few spices. “Romano forgets that family has to share the kitchen!”

“Veneziano forgets that you don’t need to overload food with seasoning for it to taste good.”

Veneziano turned and threw the spice bottle. It bounced off of Romano’s shoulder and hit the ground with a plastic thunk. Romano slowly turned, looked at Veneziano, at the spice bottle.

“You little shit.”

“Oops.”

“Oops my ass,” Romano snarled. “Get out of the kitchen.”

Veneziano frowned. “You can’t kick me out of our kitchen.”

“I just did.” Romano put his hands on his hips. “I’m the eldest.”

Germany felt he had to interject. “That doesn’t really say anything.”

Both Prussia and Romano glared at him.

“We’re closer north than we are south,” Veneziano countered. “I kick you out.” His cheeks were flushed.

Romano reached blindly for the counter and threw the first thing his hand found. A shrimp bounced off Veneziano’s head.

“Romano!”

“You fucking started it!”

“I didn’t throw a fish at you!”

“A shrimp isn’t a fish, stupid!”

A headache pounded against Germany’s temples. “Enough.”

…

The doorbell rang. Romano answered it.

“You ordered a pizza?”

“Fuck you.” He threw the money, grabbed the box, and slammed the door shut.