How to Woo A Tomato

Summary: You know it's crazy when a school is made for Truth or Dare and a Spaniard is trying to court you. Written with Data and Spot.

Many thanks to my co-author/beta, Data and Spot! Sorry I kind of took over this chapter and wouldn't really let you write anything. orz

Lovino Vargas had learned that you couldn't trust anyone, not even your own flesh and blood, the hard way.

Exhibit A: His childhood crush, Bella, was responsible for breaking his heart at the tender age of eleven. He hadn't even asked her out, for God's sake! Since boys and girls obviously couldn't be just friends, their peers had regarded them as in denial for their feelings. One day, they were particularly harsh, so Bella stood up, all four feet and eleven inches and seventy pounds of her, and told them, "I don't like Lovino and I never will! I like 'Toni!" That day, Bella broke his poor fragile heart (no matter how unintentionally), and he vowed to never love anyone again, lest the same thing happen, however unlikely. (Are you calling him too sensitive? LOVINO VARGAS WAS NOT "SENSITIVE." He will throw tomatoes at you if you call him that, and then bitch about you making him waste perfectly good fruits. Or vegetables. Or whatever the hell they are.)

Exhibit B: He had been responsible for his brother, Feliciano, for as long as he cared to remember―since their grandfather had died―and now, three years later, Feliciano had a new 'bodyguard'. Oh, and it was a German. He wasn't usually biased to nationalities (he wasn't racist, Goddammit), but when he actually met the guy, he supported his thoughts whole-heartedly. The potato bastard was a complete jackass, with slicked-back blond hair and a stern demeanor. He was probably into bondage or something, the kinky fucker.

Exhibit C: His own goddamn grandfather hadn't wanted him. He was all for putting Lovino in a fucking orphanage and keeping Feliciano because, oh, look, Feliciano was an artist. Fuck that. So what if he didn't have any skills and his brother did? He was still his grandson! What kind of man forsakes their relative because they can't draw? He was glad the bastard was dead. Who needed him? He and Feliciano were doing just fine on their own!

(So what if they rely on this old guy who was also their sort-of guardian? Their grandfather died when they were thirteen, dammit! He could have at least waited until they weren't minors before deciding he should bite the dust, the inconsiderate bastard. They had to move in with his best friend slash maybe-husband when he adopted them. They could never remember his name so they just called him Germania. Lovino had the sneaking suspicion he and the potato bastard were related in some way.)

Those three cases sealed his fate. He was always more of a loner, anyway. What was this thing you called "friends"? He had Feliciano and Bella, thank you; he didn't need anyone else. He was perfectly content to be lonely forever.

Now, let us review. His name was Lovino Vargas and he was sixteen years old, making him a junior in high school. He was bitter about the issue with his dear grandpa and really, really hated that guy Feliciano was hanging out with recently. He also couldn't draw for the life of him. He was fond of tomatoes, as well, if you couldn't tell (oh, look, a rhyme).

The majority of his school considered him something of a wild child, someone to stay away from. He would probably be voted Most Likely to Be In the Mafia or something. Most kids were afraid to approach him. A few times, a freshman would be forced in his way, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He just needed to glare at them and they'd run the fuck away, like he'd eat them if they didn't or something.

It was really all quite silly, to be honest.

He was, in fact, the least terrifying of nearly everyone in the school. He wasn't as scary as Ivan Braginski, a Russian with a fetish for scarves and lead pipes, or Arthur Kirkland, an irritable Briton with a penchant for violence. Thinking of the crazies made him glance at another table that held only three people, all laughing at something or other.

He stabbed his pasta with his fork, resting his chin on his free hand. The Bad Touch Trio was quite famous around the school for their antics and their individual personalities. Francis Bonnefoy was a pervert and was perhaps a playboy, but made a point of never cheating. He did, however, flit from girl to girl without care, fancying the idea of love (or "l'amour," as he called it). Gilbert Beilschmidt was a menace to the surrounding populace. He was out of his fucking mind and carried around a yellow bird he had nicknamed Gilbird. He called himself "awesome" and in fact over-used the word to an extent previously unknown to man. Antonio Carriedo was possibly the most normal of the threesome, with a quick smile and a cheerful demeanor. He was the guy Bella had liked when she was a kid. Lovino had never really forgiven him for that.

Together, the three were batshit insane. They did wacky pranks to get back at people. When Elizaveta Héderváry had rejected Gilbert in favor of Roderich Edelstein in freshman year, they had managed to pants him in the middle of lunch. It had been the perfect form of humiliation. Elizaveta still tossed glares in their direction every time she walked by them with the musician. The same year, they pelted Arthur with tomatoes, forced Alfred F. Jones to eat Arthur's cooking, had made the entire cafeteria dance with them in a perfectly choreographed version of High School Musical's song Stick to the Status Quo, had enacted several Twilight scenes (the horror), and performed revenge on more than one occasion.

That had just been during lunch in freshman year; in the following years, they had done things to earn them reputations that varied from person to person. Some said they were cool, others said they were mean, and still more claimed they just didn't realize how much the effects of their tricks damaged the recipients.

Lovino really didn't know what to think of them. They had only spoken to him once, and had been completely civil, only asking him to review their Italian homework so they could be sure it was right. They weren't really bad, per se, but Antonio had kind of scared him with his lovestruck expression, and Francis had tried to grope him, the bastard.

A sigh escaped his lips before he took a bite of his food, revelling in its flavor. Fuck, if pasta wasn't the most delicious thing in the entire world (besides tomatoes). It was the best goddamn thing ever.

Bella followed his line of sight, and smiled slightly when her eyes found Antonio. "Ah," she said, spinning her spoon. "How you likin' the view?" She giggled, somehow connecting the sentence to a Twilight one ("How you likin' the rain, girl?"), always amused by her ability to unintentionally make (obscure) puns of the (shitty, creepy-as-fuck, morally wrong) saga.

Lovino rolled his eyes, swallowing. "What view?" he asked darkly, reaching for his water bottle. He took a quick sip, half-lidded eyes glaring mildly at his friend. "For the last time, I don't swing that way." He really didn't appreciate Bella making assumptions on his sexuality. It wasn't his fault none of the girls were interesting enough to date, let alone have romantic feelings for. He had already sworn off love, anyway, and whose fault was that again, hm?

The blond shrugged, scooping yogurt with her spoon, and sticking it in her mouth. She pulled it back out and jabbed the air in his general vicinity, narrowing her bright eyes at him playfully. "That doesn't mean you can't enjoy their good looks or notable features." She then motioned to another table with the utensil, indicating the Russians (or, well, the Russian, the Ukrainian, and the Belarusian. Although they were siblings, they all claimed to be different nationalities, though he considered them the same thing. They should just give up before they confuse everyone.). "For example, just 'cause I'm straight doesn't mean I can't admire Katyusha's amazing chest. I mean, just look at those things."

The Italian resisted the urge to roll his eyes again, choosing instead to twirl noodles. "Only you would actually admit to looking at them," he muttered almost fondly, and no, he was not smiling, you fools, it was merely a trick of the light.

Bella grinned back, scraping her cup for the remainder of her snack. "Anyway, I digress." She paused to lick her spoon. "I suppose you don't like anyone this year, either? Maybe a girlfriend would be good for you, like making you less pissy and less likely to be Mount Vargas, the exploding volcano of doom and despair and... Tomatoes. Yeah."

"Sounds exciting," Lovino drawled, focusing on eating his meal. Damn, it was tasty. Why had he even been talking when food fit for God was right in front of him? Jesus Christ. He would never choose chat over this ever again. Feliciano had outdone himself yesterday. He took back all the hateful thoughts he had ever directed at his brother―he made the very fucking best pasta.

The Belgian frowned, put off by his sudden disinterest. "Sarcasm isn't very attractive." When she received no response, she laughed, leaning her elbows on the table to lace her fingers together, putting her chin on them. "Is it really that delicious?"

Lovino's expression was that of calculated condescension. "Yes," he replied stiffly, looking at her with raised eyebrows. "Have you known me to eat anything less?"

Bella's lips quirked upward in bemusement. "Do I really need to answer that?"

"No." The brunet returned to the dish in the fashion of a true pasta-loving Italian.

Around them, people were sitting with their friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, talking and laughing. For one pasta-filled moment, Lovino felt a stab of jealousy, but he forced it away. He didn't need anyone. All they did was cause problems, and he had enough of that as it was. Besides, they would make his image less badass, and he wasn't one to disappoint the crowd.

(He had disappointed his entire family already, so why should he care what others thought? They were all people he would never see after high school. He didn't want to see their ugly mugs longer than he had to, anyway. They were all stupid fucks that deserved getting hit with cars. That is, everyone but Bella, because she had stuck with him forever, even though he was the lowest of the low―and that's what friends did, right?―and Feliciano, just because they were blood-related. If he kept hanging around the German, though, he would have to rethink this, because he didn't want a Nazi in the family. Oh, what was that? The shithead wasn't a Nazi? Fuck you, he'll think what he wants.)

Bella smiled again, watching him. She was like his older sister, always looking after him and giving him advice. She was more of a sibling than Feliciano in that sense. She was the one he came to with his problems (not all of them, though, because he didn't want to burden her that much); she was the only one that knew of his fears, his hopes and dreams, the real Lovino that was hidden underneath the insulting mask.

She was a miracle, that girl, an honest-to-goodness wonder. Despite everything, she was still there for him, and he loved her for it. He had long since gotten over his crush, and they were as platonic as can be. He often wondered if he was blessed or cursed with her presence. Was she there because he had no one else, as a gift from God, or would she end up betraying him in a tragic 'et tu, Brute' fashion?

("Et tu, Bella?" he asked desperately, resignedly, and she nodded, normally warm eyes as cold as the emeralds they resembled, driving the knife into his heart, twisting and wrenching, and her expression was of the deepest remorse, having betrayed her longest and most trustworthy friend for the good of the people, as he crumpled, lips curved into a smirk stained red by his blood and that of the ones he has killed with his foolishness―

Truly, he had an overactive imagination.)

He remembered, perhaps a tad too late, his number one rule: Don't let anyone get close. With a more subdued air, he finished his pasta. If you let anyone get close to you, they will end up hurting you. It was better to be alone. That way, you couldn't be hurt. Whoever invented the phrase "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me" should have been shot. It was such a fucking lie. Words could cut like a blade or soothe burning wounds. More often than not, they were the former.

As if sensing his thoughts, Bella said, softly encouraging, "It's alright." And it was, wasn't it? He was just being silly, having such insecure thoughts.

He flashed her a hesitant smile. "Yeah." Any chance of them continuing the conversation ended when the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch. They grabbed their stuff and threw them away, falling in step with each other as they exited. They parted ways briefly as they approached their lockers, but quickly rejoined on the way to English.

When the bell rang again and everyone was in their seats, waiting for the teacher, Bella turned to Lovino. "So, I heard the guys were playing Truth or Dare yesterday, and the Icelandic guy was dared to do something weird this period," she whispered conspirationally, pointing at the white-haired male currently having what looked like an argument with his blond companion. "Alfred's is next period. Bet you ten bucks he says something about b―"

"No," he interrupted, effectively cutting her off. "I am not betting anything. We all know he'll say something stupid about his fucking hamburgers. You are not swindling my money out of me again." He stared resolutely ahead until their teacher arrived.

Halfway through the lesson, the guy from Iceland (why could he never remember that kid's name?) stood up after some urging from the fair-haired man beside him, and declared, so swiftly he tripped over the words, "I'm on a moose." His face flushed and he sat back down, glowering at the snickering Norwegian. There was a single round of baffled laughter, and then there was silence again.

The game of Truth or Dare was popular, for some reason Lovino couldn't fathom. The dares were eccentric and altogether hilariously embarrassing. The year before, the Bad Touch Trio had been dared to declare their love for the next person to walk in the classroom; the Danish guy had been dared to fuck a fish (he didn't do it, and was proclaimed the chicken of the game); Vash Zwingli had to end every sentence with "in bed", making for some funny statements; and many more. Too much to list, really.

Lovino tapped the eraser side of his pencil on the desk, already bored with his half-done paper. He gazed down at it in vague frustration. Fucking English. Fucking... Everything. He wrote down another answer, and continued staring at it, poking his cheek with the eraser. Oh, how he loathed English. It was annoyingly easy. Couldn't there be something that challenged their intellect? Then again, Alfred probably wouldn't be able to pass the class if that were so. He suppressed a snort at the unkind thought.

He finished the assignment and turned his head to stare at Bella's ribbon. It was scarlet that day, bright and attention-grabbing on her otherwise plain attire. She was dressed in a forest-green V-neck with a pale cami underneath and a dark grey swishy skirt. She caught his eye and threw him a smile, pointing with her pencil at the Bad Touch Trio, and turned back to her paper.

With a sigh, the Italian looked at the three, seated diagonally behind Bella. As expected, they weren't writing, but there was a different aura about the group. Francis and Gilbert were speaking to Antonio in low tones, looking both confusedly amused and slightly distressed. Antonio's hands dangled off the front of his desk, his chin resting on the cold wood, appearing to be attempting to ignore them.

Lovino raised an eyebrow at that. Wasn't Antonio the fucker who was always so happy, it was like he was on fucking ecstasy? He'd have to find out what the hell got him so down. It wasn't that he cared or anything―because he didn't―but it would have to take something ridiculously absurd to actually dampen the tomato bastard's spirits.

He hid the smirk playing on his lips and went back to peering at his paper, wondering if enjoying the douche's pain made him a sadist.

Soon enough, the bell rang, and they filed out of the classroom, chatting inanely with each other. Lovino was one of the last to leave, waiting for Bella to give her paper to the teacher. He leaned against the doorway, deriving mild enjoyment from tripping people and whistling innocently when they glared at him accusingly.

They arrived at math, and it was all well and dandy until the class ended. Alfred strode up to Arthur, stopping everyone in their tracks, and grabbed him by the shoulders and dear God were they kissing? Elizaveta's camera was out like a flash and she was taking pictures as if her life depended on it. Alfred pulled back, blushing heavily, and without looking at the incredibly shocked Arthur, quickly fast-walked away, exclaiming, "Uh, off to the burger mobile!"

Bella grinned at Lovino victoriously. "Told you."

He scoffed in reply.

"Darn it, Alfred!" Elizaveta shouted, hand itching for her trusty frying pan as she realized something. "If you're going to do that, at least kiss him for real!"

The rest of the day passed uneventfully; evidently, there weren't any more dares to be enacted during school. Bella drove him home, and departed after promising to call him later, smiling secretively. He shrugged it off, unlocking the door and coming inside the house.

He didn't bother greeting Germania, choosing instead to jog to his room to start on homework. He pulled out his algebra textbook and notebook, determined to finish it before Feliciano came back from his date. (Date? Date? IT WAS NO DATE WHEN THE POTATO BASTARD'S THERE. The Nazi probably had Feliciano strapped to the bed and was holding a whip or something in leather. Oh, Jesus, the mental images were fucking nasty. German bastard better not make him puke on his goddamn assignment.)

When he lifted his pencil from the final problem, his phone vibrated. Raising his eyebrows, he pushed his phone open, clicking the message. Bella wasn't one to text when she could just call, and Feliciano didn't know how to text, so who the hell was―?

In the event of World War III, do you think that, when it finishes, Iceland will prey upon the weak countries to gain more land and basically be the new Russia (without the communism)?

He stared at the question, bewildered. What kind of shit query was that? Was it really so important, they had to ask Lovino, of all people? Never mind that―how did they get his fucking number? Only Germania, Feliciano, and Bella knew it, and he was sure at least two of them knew not to give it out. That left only Feliciano. He would kill the traitor when he got home. Perhaps whoever it was had just entered a random number, he allowed, but he'd still kill Feliciano for going out with the potato bastard.

Despite himself, he was impressed by the lack of chat-speak. It was so easy to use "u" and "r" to save your thumbs from certain doom (or early arthritis, or gaining unattractive thumb muscles), but evidently, this person took the time to actually write everything out and capitalize shit.

He clicked "reply" and typed, No. Obviously Italy would do that, not Iceland. He pressed "send", vaguely amused. He didn't like admitting it, but it was an unbelievable thing to ask; quite funny, really. He supposed that if he had been someone else, he would have laughed at its absurdity.

The new text came relatively quickly. Okay, Italy doing that is more plausible. How about Spain?

Lovino pursed his lips. Spain, huh? He didn't have anything against the country. They had given Italy tomatoes, after all, and that was something he could never begrudge. Spain would probably be conquered by Italy.

It would definitely be the other way around.

Spain may have had control over south Italy at one point, but the situation would be reversed in WWIII.

Are you sure about that, Italia?

Lovino hesitated, his finger hovering over the reply button. Italia? He leaned against his bed, thinking. He didn't want to be called "Italy"―too obvious of a hint to his nationality. Rome was the capital of Italy, and their grandfather had been named for it... It was time to apply Italian to get a new name. Yes, I'm sure. And call me Romano.

His lips twitched upward at the reply. Then I guess I'm Spain. Call me 'boss'!

No way, I'm not your henchman.

You're south Italy, though, so you used to be~

Lovino rolled his eyes. Whatever, Spagna. I'm going now.

Okay~! Bye, Romanito!

His brows furrowed as he pushed the keyboard under the top half of the phone. That was possibly the weirdest conversation he had ever had. He was still staring at his cell when Bella called.

"Hey, you wouldn't believe what just happened..."

"It can wait," Bella informed him with a sniff. "I have called you to inform you of the most heart-rending of incidents." She paused for dramatic effect. "In a secluded and lonely park, a certain Spaniard was caught staring desolately at the cobbled road, with his sidekicks nowhere to be seen. It is presumed he has ditched them momentarily for some peace and quiet. The Spaniard reportedly sighed a sad, sad sigh, as seen only on soap operas, and was assumed to be lamenting something. On what, reporters are not sure, but they will find out sooner or later."

Lovino straightened, digesting this piece of news. Well, well, well. "I wonder what he's so angsty about," he mused. "Also, stop referring to yourself as a reporter before you let it get to your head."

"Psh, you worry for nothing. I'll be on the newspaper club soon enough, so why not refer to myself as a reporter early? Anyway, you're missing the whole point. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, a man we have gone to school with for years, was distinctly melancholy today, a word we have never applied to him before. Are you not seeing how important this is?"

"... No?"

"It's very important because we are going to investigate it! Oh, what a story to join the club with! It'll surely make the front page! Do you think I should tell Elizaveta or maybe Yong-Soo? Am I over-using exclamation points?"

"Um." Lovino had to wait a moment for his brain to catch up with the new information. "Don't tell them yet, or they'll report the news to... The newspaper. You're definitely using too many exclamation points. Why, exactly, are you assuming I'm going to help you when it's likely that his dog just died?"

"If his dog died," Bella said patiently, "he wouldn't be on a park bench at approximately 6 PM with figurative violin music in the background, enhancing the sadness of the scene. He would be bawling in his house, cradling his poor dog's body as it stiffened with the spirit of death. It would not remind me of the phrase 'star-cross'd lovers'."

The Italian frowned. "Have you been reading Romeo and Juliet?"

There was a brief second of silence. "Maybe. But it's not because of Romeo and Juliet's tragic affair! He looked as though a thousand angels had crushed his tender heart and shattered his very soul and then trampled them into heart-dust and soul-pebbles!"

"... You're making this so over-dramatic."

"No such thing in this industry."