APH: Foreign Relations
Title: Foreign Relations
Characters/Pairings: Brazil/Argentina, Spain, South Italy, Portugal, Australia and sea turtles
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Violence and swearing (and the horrors of tomato sauce)
Summary: There is nothing quite as terrifying as the Italian mother-in-law. Surprisingly Romano fits this bill a lot more than anyone had originally bargained for.
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There was a turtle in the bathtub. There was a turtle in the bathtub crawling up between his thighs and watching him with its beady little eyes jesus fucking christ -
Brazil screamed. He would later deny doing anything of the sort but at that moment his yell was definitely loud and unmanly and when he tried to scramble out of the water he slipped and banged the back of his head against the side and motherfucking oww
"You have a pest problem!" he told Argentina some minutes later, red-faced and dripping water all over the tile as he stormed into the living room holding a rather confused turtle at arms-length.
Martin looked up. His eyes widened. And then he said "Oh Bologna, there you are," in mild surprise and went to gingerly take the wiggling creature from Brazil's hand. Brazil, who was now looking at him in nothing short of shock.
"You didn't scare her did you?" Argentina demanded, tucking the turtle close to his chest and walking towards the kitchen. "God she'd better not have contracted anything off you, I'll hold you entirely responsible - "
"Bologna?" he demanded. "You named a turtle - wait, since when have you had any pets?"
"Since I'm looking after them for the weekend you idiot," Martin replied flatly and bent over to put the turtle down on the kitchen floor. "And for your information they're not mine."
There were six more turtles at his feet, and bowls of lettuce besides. Luciano wondered when the situation had gone from surreal to downright bizarre.
"They're cute though, right?" the other nation added, smiling in such a blatantly honest way that Luciano began to severely fear for his sanity. Especially after he bent over on his haunches to gently pull one of the turtles away from the other's lettuce bowl. "Lucia, what did mama tell you about picking on Totò?" And they listened to him. God maybe he was the one that needed therapy. He was starting to imagine things. Sea turtles. What next.
Brazil shook his head and went for the fridge. Well if nothing else he could steal a couple of beers to make up for it. However when he went to open the door he noticed a small post-it note had been pinned there. And since Martin was not the type to collect silly magnets or pin sheets of paper all over his fridge it stood out like a sore thumb. He leaned closer to take a better look.
Mino
I need you to look after the kids for the weekend. That bastard Spain won't go anywhere unless he knows they're being well looked after. You know what they like, their bedtime hours etc. you know where we are if there's any trou -
Take good care of your brothers and sisters okay mijo? Play nice now! :D <3 \o/
Dammit Antonio stop writing all over my fucking post-its you son of a -
And it was there that the brief note ended, hastily scrawled with Lovino's name printed at the bottom, along with a phone number.
Brazil stared at it. Then he stared at Argentina, who was being chummy with sea turtles of all things and god, he could just feel his headache increasing.
Honestly, and he thought his family had issues.
---------------
Luciano had nothing against South Italy, hell, he had just as many people who claimed descent from his part of the world as much as Martin did, but for reasons he could not quite fathom, the European nation just didn't like him. And boy, did he make a point of showing it.
"He's not good enough for you Mino," he heard him telling Argentina sternly one day, to the splutters and blushing remarks that it wasn't like that, "Honestly, he's late all the time, his head might as well be a football and he can't fucking cook to save his life." At that point he had flourished an immaculate handkerchief emblazoned with the initials D&G and crooked his finger commandingly at Martin. "Now bend over. You're just like that jerk Antonio, honestly. Your face is filthy."
Australia had needed to physically restrain him after he had tried to pounce on the Italian and knock his head askew. What the hell was that bastard's problem anyhow? Like he was one to talk, the way he and his brother took their damn siestas without fail in every meeting! So he wasn't up there with the 'great' Romance nations and their prowess in the kitchen, so what? He could cook! It wasn't as though his food turned out like England's, god forbid.
It couldn't have been that he was one of Portugal's former colonies. No, as far as Luciano knew Lovino and Gabriel got along swimmingly, especially when the topic came to Spain. He didn't know what it was; and the fact that he couldn't put his finger on it was beyond frustrating.
Then Martin had gone and said, "Come on, it's not that bad. Give him a chance?" and made a show of pouting and putting on airs with those big green eyes. It was no surprise that South Italy crumbled. He heard Portugal muttering in the background that he really was a lot like his brother, more than he looked at any rate. Though what this had to do with Spain he had no idea either. Spain never spoke to Argentina on anything but a business-level from what he had observed over the years.
Either way, Lovino relented. "Alright," he grumbled, but set off scrubbing Argentina's face with his handkerchief anyway, despite the protests. "But one chance is all he gets."
Bring it on, Brazil thought hotly.
This was before he got 'that letter' in the mail.
At first he had refused to touch it, going so far as to poke the envelope with a stick just in case it was hiding a bomb or anthrax or something, until at last Argentina grew fed up with his nonsense and opened it for him.
There was no note. No letter of any sort. Just an old, crumpled yellow sheet of notepaper on which there was scrawled...
"A recipe for tomato sauce?" Luciano repeated and turned the sheet over in disbelief. "Is he fucking serious?"
But Argentina had paled considerably on seeing the contents, so much so that Brazil realized yes, he really was.
Fuck.
****************
Australia read the recipe over with raised eyebrows, and when he had finished he proclaimed "You're doomed mate," handed it back, and went to fetch them a couple of beers.
"Thanks a lot," Brazil grumbled, folded his so-called death sentence and put it back in his pocket. "So am I going to go in blind or is someone going to tell me what exactly I'm dying for?"
Jacob handed him a cold one and flopped back down on the couch to ponder over his own. "Mother-in-laws," he said with sympathetic feeling. "It happens."
"What?"
"I heard the Pommie saying once that he was glad he never had to meet Port's himself; heard the woman was a right terror. God what I would give to have seen her kick his arse - "
"Lovino is not my mother-in-law," Brazil said flatly, wrinkling his nose and making a face. "Where did you even - ugh. What the hell."
Australia blinked. "He's all up in your face isn't he?"
"Well..."
"And he seems to harrass Marty more than the average nation doesn't he?"
"That's..."
"And now he wants you to prove yourself by making this sauce. Hell that thing is probably older than I am," Australia remarked and waved his hand at the sheet of paper, which looked innocent enough, sitting on the coffee table between them. "You fuck this one up and he'll make your life hell."
He hadn't signed up for this.
"Fuck," Brazil said again and collapsed back in his seat.
****************
Going to Spain would have been pointless, because even though he was the self-proclaimed tomato expert among them, if Martin was more or less invisible to him, then Luciano would be nothing but a hole in the wall and he probably couldn't care less if Brazil's house was invaded by angry Italians in the coming months.
Argentina had made the effort of backing him and Brazil promised to kill him when this was all over, but in the short term, the way South Italy kept smirking triumphantly at him was getting beyond unnerving. To think that his future (and his sex life) rested on a pot of fine Italian tomato sauce was more than he could bear, and rightfully so.
He hadn't wanted to go this far but there was no other option. Romano was about as terrified of France as Brazil was not, and going to him for help and advice would no doubt backfire spectacularly. Veneciano would no doubt support his brother no matter how ridiculous his ideas were. And America, friend though he was to both of the Italies...well, his idea of tomato sauce was to pack it all in a preservative-free easy squeeze bottle to use as a condiment on burgers. Luciano wasn't quite ready to kill himself over the challenge yet, thank you very much. But he was getting close to wanting to try.
"I said chop them finely," Portugal said tersely, leaning over his shoulder and scrutinising the onions as though they were diamonds rather than vegetables. "What is that? You're not making a peasant's dish."
Brazil considered gutting him with the knife but that wouldn't have gone over well either.
"I have," he said through gritted teeth and swept them off the chopping board into the big pot bubbling on the stove top. "Back the fuck off already."
Gabriel pressed his lips together in the usual way he did when he was about to say something that he thought was no doubt superior to Luciano, his methods, and whatever the hell else he could dish out. "You wanted my help," he told him. "I'm giving it to you."
"Why the hell did I even ask you - you don't know anything about Italian cooking!"
"I know Lovino well enough to understand what he looks for," Portugal replied and shoved a couple of tomatoes sidelong at him. "Now dice."
Brazil grimaced. "Oh I'll bet," he said. "You're just lapping this up, aren't you?" Portugal turned his head with narrowed eyes.
"If you're going to be a child I'll leave," he said and when Luciano opened his mouth furiously to retort he cut across with, "No, listen. I'm not the only one in this family who can cook. You could have asked any one of your sisters."
Brazil's mouth snapped shut. He glared balefully; but he did not tell Portugal that yes, it was all very well and good that his siblings could cook and they would have helped, probably a sight better than Gabriel did coupled with half the criticism, but it just wouldn't work. He wouldn't give his former guardian the satisfaction of saying that the Romance nations were in a league of their own and that he needed Portugal's experience, if not his close relationship with his Latin brothers if he was going to do this and make it work.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then a sigh.
"...You're very brave for going through with this," Portugal said at last, and Brazil realized that he'd had to work himself up to say it aloud. But then Gabriel had to ruin it with, "That or ridiculously stupid." He half-smiled ruefully. "An Italian mother is a very terrifying thing. Any other man would have run for the hills by this stage. He'll see that, even if all else fails."
Brazil's cheeks grew warm. "I'm not doing it for him," he said sharply, and started dicing the tomatoes with vigour. "What kind of a fucking...I'm not. Don't even think it. That upstart little Italian just needs to be taught a lesson that's all." He gripped the knife handle harder. "He doesn't know me." You don't know me either, he wants to say, but doesn't.
Portugal gave him a long look. "Olives," he murmured and when Brazil gave him a funny look he shrugged and said it again. "They'll need to be pitted. Lovino always adds olives and capers to his sauce. He likes it better that way."
Luciano scrutinised the recipe, which he had propped up against a tin of shortbread Gabriel had no doubt taken from England's house. "But it doesn't say anything about - "
"I know," Portugal said. He was off to the side now, feigning nonchalance and pouring himself a glass of wine. "It doesn't need to be said. He knows what he likes. You can follow the recipe right down to the letter," he held out a glass to Brazil, "but in the end it's the little things that make the dish."
The wine was a peace offering; the hint was something else. Brazil took both. They stood there in the kitchen, leaning on the counter side-by-side as the brunt of their efforts simmered behind them.
"Angola wants to have the family over for Sunday lunch," Gabriel said after a while. "I presume she's told you already." Luciano looked up, broken from his thoughts.
“Yeah,” he said offhandedly, “yeah she did.”
Portugal made a sound of acceptance. “You know,” he said slowly. “The table is always open for guests if you ever wanted to…”
Brazil swirled the wine around its glass and didn’t look at him. “Nah,” he replied. “Nah I don’t think so. He’ll only embarrass me in front of everyone because that’s the kind of bastard he is.”
“Is that so,” Gabriel said thoughtfully. “Then I should probably tell you that Mozambique has already invited him. Well,” he went on to Luciano’s outraged expression, “you know the time and place in case he changes his mind. Tell him to bring a dish. Oh and Luciano,” he called, turning back to the pot and stirring the sauce as Brazil curled up on the floor with his hands in his hair bemoaning his fate, “How good is he at cooking cod?”
Brazil blinked. He turned and stared at Portugal’s back. They didn’t get along at the best of times, that was for certain, and he knew that well enough by now to have stopped trying to prevent an argument from happening. There was always a sense of uncomfortableness there, but…if he hadn’t known any better he would have thought…
“Awful,” he blurted out. “Absolutely fucking terrible. He has no idea what he’s doing. You know how Spain is, he goes about frying everything. Cod included.”
Portugal ‘hmm’ed. He didn’t turn around. “I see. Well if he’s going to be coming to dinner from now on we can’t let that slide can we?”
And all Luciano could think of was that his sisters were going to murder Martin. Or if not that then at least make him cry like a little girl and he would not miss that for the world. He could not stop the grin that threatened to split his face and really, this made the whole sauce making disaster worthwhile.
“No,” he said cheerfully. “No of course we can’t.”
Gabriel dipped the spoon into the sauce and tasted it. He handed it over to Luciano with raised eyebrows. There was a spark in his eyes that was there one minute, but gone the next as soon as Brazil had blinked. “And tell him we don’t go out handing over recipe cards.”
Brazil knew that only too well; god only knew he’d been trying to get his hands on Portugal’s for centuries and the bastard still wasn’t letting up. “Awesome,” he breathed, and took a taste himself.
“Not quite, no.” Portugal pointed imperiously at the chopping board. “Not until your dicing becomes more decent than the average soup kitchen’s.”
“You are such a twisted bastard Gabi,” Luciano told him, but it had been a long time, longer than he cared to admit, since he had last said those words as cheerfully as he did.
Well, he thought. If he was going to go down, at least he would be taking Argentina with him.
****************
The end of the week arrived sooner rather than later. Argentina was sitting on the other side of the kitchen counter looking at the pot of sauce there as though it would implode on itself just from the way South Italy was staring at it.
Brazil crossed his arms over his chest and beamed at him; Martin put his head in his hands and sighed. Lovino took up the wooden spoon and tapped it against the side of the pot. Then he dipped it in and stared at it some more. Luciano really wished he would get on with it already.
“Are you just going to look at it?” he demanded before he could stop himself and really, Portugal always had said he’d had a habit of sticking his foot in his mouth. And he’d done it again it seemed, judging by the way Martin sighed again, as though it was the end of the world and South Italy levelled him with one of the ugliest glares Brazil had ever seen in his life.
“It’s too thick,” he said flatly and Luciano’s mouth dropped open.
“It fucking is not - ” he started to say but clamped shut when Argentina made violent ‘cutthroat’ gestures behind South Italy’s back telling him to quit while he was ahead. Brazil pursed his lips together.
“…I suppose it is,” he relented grudgingly. “A little. But you know, there’s a first time for everything right?” he put on his most winning smile.
“Hrm,” Lovino conceded, giving him another poisonous look. “Mino, how often does he cook when you’re over?” he called back over his shoulder and Argentina immediately sat up straight, looking hunted.
“Er… as often as he can?” he offered, as Brazil knew full well that he did not dare tell the other nation that whenever he stayed over the only thing on the menu happened to be sex, a lot of it, and not much else. Lunch and dinner dates weren’t exactly confined to their households as far as those things went.
“Do you have any children?” the Italian nation went on and Brazil almost toppled sideways off the counter he was leaning on. He looked up wide-eyed. Children? No one had ever mentioned anything about him needing to have a child over to sweeten the deal. Or a colony or an empire or anything…fuck. He should have asked Portugal if he could have had East Timor sleep over.
“Um…I share a pet snake with my brother…”
"Are you going to have any children?” Lovino demanded, palming the wooden spoon in his hand as though he would very much like to beat Luciano over the head with it. He took an involuntary step backwards.
“He helps me look after the turtles when you’re out,” Martin cut across suddenly, the moment Luciano looked as though his knees would fail him. There was a determined set to his brow now. “And…I - that is we… there’s the Malvinas,” he finished lamely, as though he had to bite his tongue before saying it, because that issue was still causing problems with England and had been for years as Brazil well knew, so he didn’t know if he could count it as his…
But South Italy stopped treating the spoon he was holding like a weapon so he supposed that was a good of a sign as any. “Is that all?” he wanted to know and Argentina floundered for a little, his eyes darting to Brazil, who looked back at him a little desperately.
“I, er… I have a portion of Antarctica and a few other islands?” he ventured. Lovino stared at him long and hard. Luciano half considered reaching for his crucifix. Then the other nation sighed.
“Just like fucking Gibraltar all over again,” he muttered, more to himself than to them then levelled Argentina with another look. “Names,” he said. “You had better give them to me later.” Martin nodded furiously.
“You remember Sicily, Mino?” South Italy turned back to the stove, much to Brazil’s utter relief. “Sicily is full of pretty girls. Why don’t you find a girlfriend there?”
“I had a girlfriend there,” Argentina protested, and frowned when Brazil shot him a look. “What?” he demanded. “It was a long time ago, stop looking at me like that.”
“I liked her,” Lovino said, going back to his stirring. “Spain liked her. And you know how fussy he can be.” Martin looked torn. Luciano knew how much the other nation sought out his former guardian’s approval, let alone his recognition.
“She was a mafioso’s daughter,” he said at last, sounding strained.
Lovino nodded. “Exactly,” he replied, and Brazil wanted to hit him over the head with a colander. He balled his hands into fists.
Don’t argue with him, Portugal had warned him sternly before leaving the other day. For the love of God, I know how much you like to but don’t. It’s not going to help you any and you can say goodbye to your chances. That is if you had any to begin with.
And so Brazil pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and held them there until colour began to bloom in front of his closed eyelids. Looking back on it all he would wonder just why the hell he was trying so hard. Was it even worth it?
“Hey.” He looked up. Argentina was giving him an impatient look, but there was concern in his green eyes and god he was such a bastard for making him do this but he couldn’t help but feel that it was worth it. It would be so worth it.
So long as he managed to survive at any rate.
“Right,” Lovino said at last, bringing him back down to earth with an unpleasant bump. “Let’s get this over with.” And then he brought the spoon up to his mouth to taste the blood, sweat and tears that had been Brazil’s efforts this past week of torture.
There was a moment when the world stood still. Then his face invariably darkened.
Luciano thought that life had been sweet while it lasted.
****************
“What the fuck is this?!”
His ears were ringing. He was being beaten with a wooden spoon. And Argentina was just sitting there watching the whole display like a train wreck. His mouth was hanging open.
“You call this tomato sauce? A ninety year old grandmother with arthritis could do better!”
Brazil brought his arms up to shield himself, stunned and scrabbling for the lid of the pot. “Ow hey, what the fuck? There’s nothing wrong with it! What the hell is your problem? Ow!”
South Italy shoved the spoon in his face. “Olives!” he snarled. “Why the fuck are there olives in this? Did you even read the recipe?” He smacked Luciano on the forehead with the spoon. “And you call yourself a cook!”
Oh Brazil was going to kill Portugal on Sunday.
“I never said that!” he responded, falling flat on his arse and raising the lid between them like a makeshift shield. The next hit clanged against the metal so hard it shuddered. “Jesus fucking Christ will you get a grip?!”
“Has Gabriel taught you nothing?” Lovino demanded, leering down at him. Lord what Luciano would have given just to trip him up and give him the smack down of his life. But he had a feeling that Argentina would never forgive him and what was worse he’d have Spain breathing down his neck for it and that would set Portugal off -
“Yeah he was a pretty shit parental figure if that’s what you’re getting at,” Brazil growled, scurrying backwards and trying to get back on his feet, “and he’s petty enough that he doesn’t even hand out his cooking secrets so yeah, he sucked balls in that department. Give me a break already!”
There was no sound. He chanced a glance around the side warily. The spoon was hovering in mid-air as South Italy looked down on him with furrowed eyebrows. “He hasn’t taught you anything?”
Brazil narrowed his eyes a little. “Yeah well…enough to live on. He keeps all that fancy crap to himself, but you know I think he’s just doing it to lord over me. He can be bitchy like that,” he paused. Then he grinned. “Not like you.”
“Not like me,” South Italy repeated flatly. It was more of a statement than a question. Brazil took the opportunity to get back on his feet.
“Sure,” he said, still holding the lid between them out of fear for his life, even though the smile on his face had grown earnestly. “I mean it’s not like he ever sends me recipe cards in the mail because he’s trying to make me into the best cook possible; that was a pretty swell thing you did there by the way,” he added, nodding his head in Argentina’s direction, who was now looking at him in something akin to complete disbelief. “That guy over there is pretty damn lucky to have you looking out for him. I mean wow, I thought all of you Romance nations were jerks.”
South Italy stared at him. Then he came after Brazil with the spoon once more. Argentina groaned into his hands. Fuck, could he get nothing right with this guy? Brazil squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for another assault.
The spoon was shoved into his hands. He was so surprised he almost didn’t curl his fingers around it until the last moment.
Lovino was still frowning at him, though the set of his shoulders and the shine in his eyes made Luciano realize that his blatant praise had worked after all. The bastard was preening.
“It wasn’t bad,” he said grudgingly, giving him a once over and putting his hands on his hips. “Next time, follow the recipe first before you get it into your head that you want to be fucking creative. What kind of idiot doesn’t even follow the basics?”
“Oh a real idiot,” Luciano said seriously, about ready to consider fainting with relief. “Really you don’t get much more idiotic than me. I could hang myself.” Martin rolled his eyes.
“Hrm,” Lovino said again. “Then I expect we’ll be seeing you on Sunday for dinner. And you will follow the rules this time,” he waved his finger threateningly in Brazil’s face. “I’ll make fucking sure of that.”
He blinked, “Sunday? Oh but I have…” South Italy glowered at him. “…S…Sunday sounds fine,” he said meekly. “Great! I’ll be there.”
That seemed to be the right answer after all. “Good,” Lovino said. He turned to Argentina, who was still staring as though he could not quite believe it was over. “Mino I expect to see you in your best. You know where to find us.”
Argentina shook himself. “What? Oh, yeah…of course!” he said. “Sunday, the usual. I’ll be there. I promise.”
South Italy’s expression softened; though it was so imperceptible that Brazil almost missed it entirely. “Right I have to go,” he said and exited around the kitchen counter. “Have to make sure that bastard Spain knows there’ll be an extra mouth to feed. Not that he cares, he makes enough to feed an entire fucking army as it is.” He patted Martin on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, Mino.”
“Yeah,” Argentina said and touched his hand briefly, though he looked a bit embarrassed by the gesture. “Yeah you too. Bye.”
He left, shooting Brazil one last ‘I’m watching you’ glare as he did so, and with him he took the last of Brazil’s energy and adrenaline, like a miniature European whirlwind.
He collapsed against the countertop and groaned loudly. “You love me,” he said to the open air. “You love me so fucking much right now like I don’t even know. And if you don’t I’m moving in with Australia,” he said pointedly. “At least he doesn’t go around taking the years off my life by making me meet the in-laws.”
Martin snorted. “In-laws,” he repeated. “Right. You did fine you know,” he told him, coming around the other side once he was sure Lovino was out of the house entirely. “He thought it was great, I could see it in his eyes. Not that he’d ever tell you that. But you know, it’s the principle of the thing.”
“You owe me,” Brazil said darkly, and held out his hands to him. Argentina pulled him off the counter and enveloped him in a hug. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed it until then. “You fucking owe me and I expect compensation as soon as possible.”
“You’re fine,” Martin said, but he gave him a kiss on the mouth when Brazil leaned up on his toes anyway. He kissed his forehead and pressed his cheek to his hair. “You’re not bleeding or bruising or anything. Don’t be a crybaby.”
“I’m psychologically traumatised,” Brazil said and beat a fist against his chest. He face was pressed into the juncture between Argentina’s neck and shoulder. “You are paying for my sessions with Austria and don’t even try to get out of it.”
Argentina rolled his eyes again. “You are such a drama queen,” he said and rested his chin on top of Brazil’s head. “It could have been so much worse, you know. That wasn’t even half of it.”
“Oh I know,” Luciano said and looked up at him airily. There was an utterly beatific smile on his face. “Didn’t I tell you? Lunch comes before dinner. And guess who’s invited?”
Argentina looked down at him. “You didn’t.”
“Bring a plate,” Brazil told him and ran a hand lazily through the other nation’s hair. “And your balls. Because you are in for some fucking pain.”
-
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A/N:
Disclaimer:
Brazil (Luciano) belongs to hina_teh_shitz
Argentina (Martin) belongs to rowein
Portugal (Gabriel) belongs to candesceres (me)
Australia (Jacob) belongs to Himaruya, but his name belongs to candesceres (Me)
God I love the Argentinian family. ;A; Martin has the best parents ever. Even if Spain doesn't know he exists orz.
And Romano? Totally his mama. Because there are SO MANY Italian-descended people in Argentina like you don't even know. The only place that has more Italians? ITALY ITSELF. BDb
"Mino" is a pet name for Martin/Martino in Italian btw.
Buenos Aires (Spanish for: Fair Winds or Good Air) was originally named after the sanctuary of "Nostra Signora di Bonaria" (Italian for "Our Lady of Bonaria") in Cagliari, Sardinia. <----- so as you can see he was named after his mama ahaha. XD
lol no historical notes for this one but there are are few things:
The turtles: Spain and Romano's other kids lololol. I'M SERIOUS. So Argentina is a good big brother? Ahaha of course he is. WHAT ARE YOU SAYING.
There is nothing more terrifiyng than an Italian mother in law. The men are mama's boys. And this is why I will never date one EVER. Because tears sour the tomato sauce. ;A;
Anyway all of Lovino's and Luciano's interactions are based on this hilariously true article How to Relate to Your Italian Mother-in-Law.
Not that Brazil's family is much better but you know... there is no contest. They're both godawful. God I want to write more of this now ahahaha. XDDD I HOPE YOU ENJOYED. o/
Characters/Pairings: Brazil/Argentina, Spain, South Italy, Portugal, Australia and sea turtles
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Violence and swearing (and the horrors of tomato sauce)
Summary: There is nothing quite as terrifying as the Italian mother-in-law. Surprisingly Romano fits this bill a lot more than anyone had originally bargained for.
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There was a turtle in the bathtub. There was a turtle in the bathtub crawling up between his thighs and watching him with its beady little eyes jesus fucking christ -
Brazil screamed. He would later deny doing anything of the sort but at that moment his yell was definitely loud and unmanly and when he tried to scramble out of the water he slipped and banged the back of his head against the side and motherfucking oww
"You have a pest problem!" he told Argentina some minutes later, red-faced and dripping water all over the tile as he stormed into the living room holding a rather confused turtle at arms-length.
Martin looked up. His eyes widened. And then he said "Oh Bologna, there you are," in mild surprise and went to gingerly take the wiggling creature from Brazil's hand. Brazil, who was now looking at him in nothing short of shock.
"You didn't scare her did you?" Argentina demanded, tucking the turtle close to his chest and walking towards the kitchen. "God she'd better not have contracted anything off you, I'll hold you entirely responsible - "
"Bologna?" he demanded. "You named a turtle - wait, since when have you had any pets?"
"Since I'm looking after them for the weekend you idiot," Martin replied flatly and bent over to put the turtle down on the kitchen floor. "And for your information they're not mine."
There were six more turtles at his feet, and bowls of lettuce besides. Luciano wondered when the situation had gone from surreal to downright bizarre.
"They're cute though, right?" the other nation added, smiling in such a blatantly honest way that Luciano began to severely fear for his sanity. Especially after he bent over on his haunches to gently pull one of the turtles away from the other's lettuce bowl. "Lucia, what did mama tell you about picking on Totò?" And they listened to him. God maybe he was the one that needed therapy. He was starting to imagine things. Sea turtles. What next.
Brazil shook his head and went for the fridge. Well if nothing else he could steal a couple of beers to make up for it. However when he went to open the door he noticed a small post-it note had been pinned there. And since Martin was not the type to collect silly magnets or pin sheets of paper all over his fridge it stood out like a sore thumb. He leaned closer to take a better look.
Mino
I need you to look after the kids for the weekend. That bastard Spain won't go anywhere unless he knows they're being well looked after. You know what they like, their bedtime hours etc. you know where we are if there's any trou -
Take good care of your brothers and sisters okay mijo? Play nice now! :D <3 \o/
Dammit Antonio stop writing all over my fucking post-its you son of a -
And it was there that the brief note ended, hastily scrawled with Lovino's name printed at the bottom, along with a phone number.
Brazil stared at it. Then he stared at Argentina, who was being chummy with sea turtles of all things and god, he could just feel his headache increasing.
Honestly, and he thought his family had issues.
---------------
Luciano had nothing against South Italy, hell, he had just as many people who claimed descent from his part of the world as much as Martin did, but for reasons he could not quite fathom, the European nation just didn't like him. And boy, did he make a point of showing it.
"He's not good enough for you Mino," he heard him telling Argentina sternly one day, to the splutters and blushing remarks that it wasn't like that, "Honestly, he's late all the time, his head might as well be a football and he can't fucking cook to save his life." At that point he had flourished an immaculate handkerchief emblazoned with the initials D&G and crooked his finger commandingly at Martin. "Now bend over. You're just like that jerk Antonio, honestly. Your face is filthy."
Australia had needed to physically restrain him after he had tried to pounce on the Italian and knock his head askew. What the hell was that bastard's problem anyhow? Like he was one to talk, the way he and his brother took their damn siestas without fail in every meeting! So he wasn't up there with the 'great' Romance nations and their prowess in the kitchen, so what? He could cook! It wasn't as though his food turned out like England's, god forbid.
It couldn't have been that he was one of Portugal's former colonies. No, as far as Luciano knew Lovino and Gabriel got along swimmingly, especially when the topic came to Spain. He didn't know what it was; and the fact that he couldn't put his finger on it was beyond frustrating.
Then Martin had gone and said, "Come on, it's not that bad. Give him a chance?" and made a show of pouting and putting on airs with those big green eyes. It was no surprise that South Italy crumbled. He heard Portugal muttering in the background that he really was a lot like his brother, more than he looked at any rate. Though what this had to do with Spain he had no idea either. Spain never spoke to Argentina on anything but a business-level from what he had observed over the years.
Either way, Lovino relented. "Alright," he grumbled, but set off scrubbing Argentina's face with his handkerchief anyway, despite the protests. "But one chance is all he gets."
Bring it on, Brazil thought hotly.
This was before he got 'that letter' in the mail.
At first he had refused to touch it, going so far as to poke the envelope with a stick just in case it was hiding a bomb or anthrax or something, until at last Argentina grew fed up with his nonsense and opened it for him.
There was no note. No letter of any sort. Just an old, crumpled yellow sheet of notepaper on which there was scrawled...
"A recipe for tomato sauce?" Luciano repeated and turned the sheet over in disbelief. "Is he fucking serious?"
But Argentina had paled considerably on seeing the contents, so much so that Brazil realized yes, he really was.
Fuck.
****************
Australia read the recipe over with raised eyebrows, and when he had finished he proclaimed "You're doomed mate," handed it back, and went to fetch them a couple of beers.
"Thanks a lot," Brazil grumbled, folded his so-called death sentence and put it back in his pocket. "So am I going to go in blind or is someone going to tell me what exactly I'm dying for?"
Jacob handed him a cold one and flopped back down on the couch to ponder over his own. "Mother-in-laws," he said with sympathetic feeling. "It happens."
"What?"
"I heard the Pommie saying once that he was glad he never had to meet Port's himself; heard the woman was a right terror. God what I would give to have seen her kick his arse - "
"Lovino is not my mother-in-law," Brazil said flatly, wrinkling his nose and making a face. "Where did you even - ugh. What the hell."
Australia blinked. "He's all up in your face isn't he?"
"Well..."
"And he seems to harrass Marty more than the average nation doesn't he?"
"That's..."
"And now he wants you to prove yourself by making this sauce. Hell that thing is probably older than I am," Australia remarked and waved his hand at the sheet of paper, which looked innocent enough, sitting on the coffee table between them. "You fuck this one up and he'll make your life hell."
He hadn't signed up for this.
"Fuck," Brazil said again and collapsed back in his seat.
****************
Going to Spain would have been pointless, because even though he was the self-proclaimed tomato expert among them, if Martin was more or less invisible to him, then Luciano would be nothing but a hole in the wall and he probably couldn't care less if Brazil's house was invaded by angry Italians in the coming months.
Argentina had made the effort of backing him and Brazil promised to kill him when this was all over, but in the short term, the way South Italy kept smirking triumphantly at him was getting beyond unnerving. To think that his future (and his sex life) rested on a pot of fine Italian tomato sauce was more than he could bear, and rightfully so.
He hadn't wanted to go this far but there was no other option. Romano was about as terrified of France as Brazil was not, and going to him for help and advice would no doubt backfire spectacularly. Veneciano would no doubt support his brother no matter how ridiculous his ideas were. And America, friend though he was to both of the Italies...well, his idea of tomato sauce was to pack it all in a preservative-free easy squeeze bottle to use as a condiment on burgers. Luciano wasn't quite ready to kill himself over the challenge yet, thank you very much. But he was getting close to wanting to try.
"I said chop them finely," Portugal said tersely, leaning over his shoulder and scrutinising the onions as though they were diamonds rather than vegetables. "What is that? You're not making a peasant's dish."
Brazil considered gutting him with the knife but that wouldn't have gone over well either.
"I have," he said through gritted teeth and swept them off the chopping board into the big pot bubbling on the stove top. "Back the fuck off already."
Gabriel pressed his lips together in the usual way he did when he was about to say something that he thought was no doubt superior to Luciano, his methods, and whatever the hell else he could dish out. "You wanted my help," he told him. "I'm giving it to you."
"Why the hell did I even ask you - you don't know anything about Italian cooking!"
"I know Lovino well enough to understand what he looks for," Portugal replied and shoved a couple of tomatoes sidelong at him. "Now dice."
Brazil grimaced. "Oh I'll bet," he said. "You're just lapping this up, aren't you?" Portugal turned his head with narrowed eyes.
"If you're going to be a child I'll leave," he said and when Luciano opened his mouth furiously to retort he cut across with, "No, listen. I'm not the only one in this family who can cook. You could have asked any one of your sisters."
Brazil's mouth snapped shut. He glared balefully; but he did not tell Portugal that yes, it was all very well and good that his siblings could cook and they would have helped, probably a sight better than Gabriel did coupled with half the criticism, but it just wouldn't work. He wouldn't give his former guardian the satisfaction of saying that the Romance nations were in a league of their own and that he needed Portugal's experience, if not his close relationship with his Latin brothers if he was going to do this and make it work.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then a sigh.
"...You're very brave for going through with this," Portugal said at last, and Brazil realized that he'd had to work himself up to say it aloud. But then Gabriel had to ruin it with, "That or ridiculously stupid." He half-smiled ruefully. "An Italian mother is a very terrifying thing. Any other man would have run for the hills by this stage. He'll see that, even if all else fails."
Brazil's cheeks grew warm. "I'm not doing it for him," he said sharply, and started dicing the tomatoes with vigour. "What kind of a fucking...I'm not. Don't even think it. That upstart little Italian just needs to be taught a lesson that's all." He gripped the knife handle harder. "He doesn't know me." You don't know me either, he wants to say, but doesn't.
Portugal gave him a long look. "Olives," he murmured and when Brazil gave him a funny look he shrugged and said it again. "They'll need to be pitted. Lovino always adds olives and capers to his sauce. He likes it better that way."
Luciano scrutinised the recipe, which he had propped up against a tin of shortbread Gabriel had no doubt taken from England's house. "But it doesn't say anything about - "
"I know," Portugal said. He was off to the side now, feigning nonchalance and pouring himself a glass of wine. "It doesn't need to be said. He knows what he likes. You can follow the recipe right down to the letter," he held out a glass to Brazil, "but in the end it's the little things that make the dish."
The wine was a peace offering; the hint was something else. Brazil took both. They stood there in the kitchen, leaning on the counter side-by-side as the brunt of their efforts simmered behind them.
"Angola wants to have the family over for Sunday lunch," Gabriel said after a while. "I presume she's told you already." Luciano looked up, broken from his thoughts.
“Yeah,” he said offhandedly, “yeah she did.”
Portugal made a sound of acceptance. “You know,” he said slowly. “The table is always open for guests if you ever wanted to…”
Brazil swirled the wine around its glass and didn’t look at him. “Nah,” he replied. “Nah I don’t think so. He’ll only embarrass me in front of everyone because that’s the kind of bastard he is.”
“Is that so,” Gabriel said thoughtfully. “Then I should probably tell you that Mozambique has already invited him. Well,” he went on to Luciano’s outraged expression, “you know the time and place in case he changes his mind. Tell him to bring a dish. Oh and Luciano,” he called, turning back to the pot and stirring the sauce as Brazil curled up on the floor with his hands in his hair bemoaning his fate, “How good is he at cooking cod?”
Brazil blinked. He turned and stared at Portugal’s back. They didn’t get along at the best of times, that was for certain, and he knew that well enough by now to have stopped trying to prevent an argument from happening. There was always a sense of uncomfortableness there, but…if he hadn’t known any better he would have thought…
“Awful,” he blurted out. “Absolutely fucking terrible. He has no idea what he’s doing. You know how Spain is, he goes about frying everything. Cod included.”
Portugal ‘hmm’ed. He didn’t turn around. “I see. Well if he’s going to be coming to dinner from now on we can’t let that slide can we?”
And all Luciano could think of was that his sisters were going to murder Martin. Or if not that then at least make him cry like a little girl and he would not miss that for the world. He could not stop the grin that threatened to split his face and really, this made the whole sauce making disaster worthwhile.
“No,” he said cheerfully. “No of course we can’t.”
Gabriel dipped the spoon into the sauce and tasted it. He handed it over to Luciano with raised eyebrows. There was a spark in his eyes that was there one minute, but gone the next as soon as Brazil had blinked. “And tell him we don’t go out handing over recipe cards.”
Brazil knew that only too well; god only knew he’d been trying to get his hands on Portugal’s for centuries and the bastard still wasn’t letting up. “Awesome,” he breathed, and took a taste himself.
“Not quite, no.” Portugal pointed imperiously at the chopping board. “Not until your dicing becomes more decent than the average soup kitchen’s.”
“You are such a twisted bastard Gabi,” Luciano told him, but it had been a long time, longer than he cared to admit, since he had last said those words as cheerfully as he did.
Well, he thought. If he was going to go down, at least he would be taking Argentina with him.
****************
The end of the week arrived sooner rather than later. Argentina was sitting on the other side of the kitchen counter looking at the pot of sauce there as though it would implode on itself just from the way South Italy was staring at it.
Brazil crossed his arms over his chest and beamed at him; Martin put his head in his hands and sighed. Lovino took up the wooden spoon and tapped it against the side of the pot. Then he dipped it in and stared at it some more. Luciano really wished he would get on with it already.
“Are you just going to look at it?” he demanded before he could stop himself and really, Portugal always had said he’d had a habit of sticking his foot in his mouth. And he’d done it again it seemed, judging by the way Martin sighed again, as though it was the end of the world and South Italy levelled him with one of the ugliest glares Brazil had ever seen in his life.
“It’s too thick,” he said flatly and Luciano’s mouth dropped open.
“It fucking is not - ” he started to say but clamped shut when Argentina made violent ‘cutthroat’ gestures behind South Italy’s back telling him to quit while he was ahead. Brazil pursed his lips together.
“…I suppose it is,” he relented grudgingly. “A little. But you know, there’s a first time for everything right?” he put on his most winning smile.
“Hrm,” Lovino conceded, giving him another poisonous look. “Mino, how often does he cook when you’re over?” he called back over his shoulder and Argentina immediately sat up straight, looking hunted.
“Er… as often as he can?” he offered, as Brazil knew full well that he did not dare tell the other nation that whenever he stayed over the only thing on the menu happened to be sex, a lot of it, and not much else. Lunch and dinner dates weren’t exactly confined to their households as far as those things went.
“Do you have any children?” the Italian nation went on and Brazil almost toppled sideways off the counter he was leaning on. He looked up wide-eyed. Children? No one had ever mentioned anything about him needing to have a child over to sweeten the deal. Or a colony or an empire or anything…fuck. He should have asked Portugal if he could have had East Timor sleep over.
“Um…I share a pet snake with my brother…”
"Are you going to have any children?” Lovino demanded, palming the wooden spoon in his hand as though he would very much like to beat Luciano over the head with it. He took an involuntary step backwards.
“He helps me look after the turtles when you’re out,” Martin cut across suddenly, the moment Luciano looked as though his knees would fail him. There was a determined set to his brow now. “And…I - that is we… there’s the Malvinas,” he finished lamely, as though he had to bite his tongue before saying it, because that issue was still causing problems with England and had been for years as Brazil well knew, so he didn’t know if he could count it as his…
But South Italy stopped treating the spoon he was holding like a weapon so he supposed that was a good of a sign as any. “Is that all?” he wanted to know and Argentina floundered for a little, his eyes darting to Brazil, who looked back at him a little desperately.
“I, er… I have a portion of Antarctica and a few other islands?” he ventured. Lovino stared at him long and hard. Luciano half considered reaching for his crucifix. Then the other nation sighed.
“Just like fucking Gibraltar all over again,” he muttered, more to himself than to them then levelled Argentina with another look. “Names,” he said. “You had better give them to me later.” Martin nodded furiously.
“You remember Sicily, Mino?” South Italy turned back to the stove, much to Brazil’s utter relief. “Sicily is full of pretty girls. Why don’t you find a girlfriend there?”
“I had a girlfriend there,” Argentina protested, and frowned when Brazil shot him a look. “What?” he demanded. “It was a long time ago, stop looking at me like that.”
“I liked her,” Lovino said, going back to his stirring. “Spain liked her. And you know how fussy he can be.” Martin looked torn. Luciano knew how much the other nation sought out his former guardian’s approval, let alone his recognition.
“She was a mafioso’s daughter,” he said at last, sounding strained.
Lovino nodded. “Exactly,” he replied, and Brazil wanted to hit him over the head with a colander. He balled his hands into fists.
Don’t argue with him, Portugal had warned him sternly before leaving the other day. For the love of God, I know how much you like to but don’t. It’s not going to help you any and you can say goodbye to your chances. That is if you had any to begin with.
And so Brazil pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and held them there until colour began to bloom in front of his closed eyelids. Looking back on it all he would wonder just why the hell he was trying so hard. Was it even worth it?
“Hey.” He looked up. Argentina was giving him an impatient look, but there was concern in his green eyes and god he was such a bastard for making him do this but he couldn’t help but feel that it was worth it. It would be so worth it.
So long as he managed to survive at any rate.
“Right,” Lovino said at last, bringing him back down to earth with an unpleasant bump. “Let’s get this over with.” And then he brought the spoon up to his mouth to taste the blood, sweat and tears that had been Brazil’s efforts this past week of torture.
There was a moment when the world stood still. Then his face invariably darkened.
Luciano thought that life had been sweet while it lasted.
****************
“What the fuck is this?!”
His ears were ringing. He was being beaten with a wooden spoon. And Argentina was just sitting there watching the whole display like a train wreck. His mouth was hanging open.
“You call this tomato sauce? A ninety year old grandmother with arthritis could do better!”
Brazil brought his arms up to shield himself, stunned and scrabbling for the lid of the pot. “Ow hey, what the fuck? There’s nothing wrong with it! What the hell is your problem? Ow!”
South Italy shoved the spoon in his face. “Olives!” he snarled. “Why the fuck are there olives in this? Did you even read the recipe?” He smacked Luciano on the forehead with the spoon. “And you call yourself a cook!”
Oh Brazil was going to kill Portugal on Sunday.
“I never said that!” he responded, falling flat on his arse and raising the lid between them like a makeshift shield. The next hit clanged against the metal so hard it shuddered. “Jesus fucking Christ will you get a grip?!”
“Has Gabriel taught you nothing?” Lovino demanded, leering down at him. Lord what Luciano would have given just to trip him up and give him the smack down of his life. But he had a feeling that Argentina would never forgive him and what was worse he’d have Spain breathing down his neck for it and that would set Portugal off -
“Yeah he was a pretty shit parental figure if that’s what you’re getting at,” Brazil growled, scurrying backwards and trying to get back on his feet, “and he’s petty enough that he doesn’t even hand out his cooking secrets so yeah, he sucked balls in that department. Give me a break already!”
There was no sound. He chanced a glance around the side warily. The spoon was hovering in mid-air as South Italy looked down on him with furrowed eyebrows. “He hasn’t taught you anything?”
Brazil narrowed his eyes a little. “Yeah well…enough to live on. He keeps all that fancy crap to himself, but you know I think he’s just doing it to lord over me. He can be bitchy like that,” he paused. Then he grinned. “Not like you.”
“Not like me,” South Italy repeated flatly. It was more of a statement than a question. Brazil took the opportunity to get back on his feet.
“Sure,” he said, still holding the lid between them out of fear for his life, even though the smile on his face had grown earnestly. “I mean it’s not like he ever sends me recipe cards in the mail because he’s trying to make me into the best cook possible; that was a pretty swell thing you did there by the way,” he added, nodding his head in Argentina’s direction, who was now looking at him in something akin to complete disbelief. “That guy over there is pretty damn lucky to have you looking out for him. I mean wow, I thought all of you Romance nations were jerks.”
South Italy stared at him. Then he came after Brazil with the spoon once more. Argentina groaned into his hands. Fuck, could he get nothing right with this guy? Brazil squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for another assault.
The spoon was shoved into his hands. He was so surprised he almost didn’t curl his fingers around it until the last moment.
Lovino was still frowning at him, though the set of his shoulders and the shine in his eyes made Luciano realize that his blatant praise had worked after all. The bastard was preening.
“It wasn’t bad,” he said grudgingly, giving him a once over and putting his hands on his hips. “Next time, follow the recipe first before you get it into your head that you want to be fucking creative. What kind of idiot doesn’t even follow the basics?”
“Oh a real idiot,” Luciano said seriously, about ready to consider fainting with relief. “Really you don’t get much more idiotic than me. I could hang myself.” Martin rolled his eyes.
“Hrm,” Lovino said again. “Then I expect we’ll be seeing you on Sunday for dinner. And you will follow the rules this time,” he waved his finger threateningly in Brazil’s face. “I’ll make fucking sure of that.”
He blinked, “Sunday? Oh but I have…” South Italy glowered at him. “…S…Sunday sounds fine,” he said meekly. “Great! I’ll be there.”
That seemed to be the right answer after all. “Good,” Lovino said. He turned to Argentina, who was still staring as though he could not quite believe it was over. “Mino I expect to see you in your best. You know where to find us.”
Argentina shook himself. “What? Oh, yeah…of course!” he said. “Sunday, the usual. I’ll be there. I promise.”
South Italy’s expression softened; though it was so imperceptible that Brazil almost missed it entirely. “Right I have to go,” he said and exited around the kitchen counter. “Have to make sure that bastard Spain knows there’ll be an extra mouth to feed. Not that he cares, he makes enough to feed an entire fucking army as it is.” He patted Martin on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, Mino.”
“Yeah,” Argentina said and touched his hand briefly, though he looked a bit embarrassed by the gesture. “Yeah you too. Bye.”
He left, shooting Brazil one last ‘I’m watching you’ glare as he did so, and with him he took the last of Brazil’s energy and adrenaline, like a miniature European whirlwind.
He collapsed against the countertop and groaned loudly. “You love me,” he said to the open air. “You love me so fucking much right now like I don’t even know. And if you don’t I’m moving in with Australia,” he said pointedly. “At least he doesn’t go around taking the years off my life by making me meet the in-laws.”
Martin snorted. “In-laws,” he repeated. “Right. You did fine you know,” he told him, coming around the other side once he was sure Lovino was out of the house entirely. “He thought it was great, I could see it in his eyes. Not that he’d ever tell you that. But you know, it’s the principle of the thing.”
“You owe me,” Brazil said darkly, and held out his hands to him. Argentina pulled him off the counter and enveloped him in a hug. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed it until then. “You fucking owe me and I expect compensation as soon as possible.”
“You’re fine,” Martin said, but he gave him a kiss on the mouth when Brazil leaned up on his toes anyway. He kissed his forehead and pressed his cheek to his hair. “You’re not bleeding or bruising or anything. Don’t be a crybaby.”
“I’m psychologically traumatised,” Brazil said and beat a fist against his chest. He face was pressed into the juncture between Argentina’s neck and shoulder. “You are paying for my sessions with Austria and don’t even try to get out of it.”
Argentina rolled his eyes again. “You are such a drama queen,” he said and rested his chin on top of Brazil’s head. “It could have been so much worse, you know. That wasn’t even half of it.”
“Oh I know,” Luciano said and looked up at him airily. There was an utterly beatific smile on his face. “Didn’t I tell you? Lunch comes before dinner. And guess who’s invited?”
Argentina looked down at him. “You didn’t.”
“Bring a plate,” Brazil told him and ran a hand lazily through the other nation’s hair. “And your balls. Because you are in for some fucking pain.”
-
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A/N:
Disclaimer:
Brazil (Luciano) belongs to hina_teh_shitz
Argentina (Martin) belongs to rowein
Portugal (Gabriel) belongs to candesceres (me)
Australia (Jacob) belongs to Himaruya, but his name belongs to candesceres (Me)
God I love the Argentinian family. ;A; Martin has the best parents ever. Even if Spain doesn't know he exists orz.
And Romano? Totally his mama. Because there are SO MANY Italian-descended people in Argentina like you don't even know. The only place that has more Italians? ITALY ITSELF. BDb
"Mino" is a pet name for Martin/Martino in Italian btw.
Buenos Aires (Spanish for: Fair Winds or Good Air) was originally named after the sanctuary of "Nostra Signora di Bonaria" (Italian for "Our Lady of Bonaria") in Cagliari, Sardinia. <----- so as you can see he was named after his mama ahaha. XD
lol no historical notes for this one but there are are few things:
The turtles: Spain and Romano's other kids lololol. I'M SERIOUS. So Argentina is a good big brother? Ahaha of course he is. WHAT ARE YOU SAYING.
There is nothing more terrifiyng than an Italian mother in law. The men are mama's boys. And this is why I will never date one EVER. Because tears sour the tomato sauce. ;A;
Anyway all of Lovino's and Luciano's interactions are based on this hilariously true article How to Relate to Your Italian Mother-in-Law.
Not that Brazil's family is much better but you know... there is no contest. They're both godawful. God I want to write more of this now ahahaha. XDDD I HOPE YOU ENJOYED. o/