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"Veh~ I'll be right over, (name)! Give-a me ten minutes! Ciao!"

Your lips spread into a pleased smile as you hung up the phone, gazing around your kitchen with hope. It was well known throughout your circle of friends that cooking and you had a love-hate relationship—food loved to burn under your not-so-watchful eyes, and you hated every notion of having to prepare meals for someone other than yourself.

However, today would be different. A good friend of yours had promised to come over in an attempt to assist you concoct the easiest of dishes (or so he proclaimed) in the world—pasta.

You weren't that surprised, considering it was Feliciano Vargas. He was Italian through and through, and pasta sauce ran through his veins.

"Oh, Feli," you sighed warmly as you bustled about the kitchen, hoping to get it a little more clean before the Italian arrived. The two of you had met during high school when his family had moved from Italy, and you had both instantly connected. He was such an enthusiastic and kind person, though he did have the tendency to be a bit of an idiot. It was that flaw in his personality that you absolutely adored, in all honesty. He could always make you smile, even on the darkest days, and he never failed to make you feel special.

Now at the age where both of you had places of your own, it wasn't uncommon for Feliciano to invite you over to his house for an evening of pasta and movies. Apparently, however, he had decided enough was enough, and came to the conclusion that you needed assistance in the cooking department.

"Feliciano is such a sweetheart," you laughed to yourself, feeling your spirits rise. "He's willing to take on such a hopeless case like me! I really hope I don't mess anything up…maybe with his help, I'll be able to actually make food for once!"

Truth be told, throughout your years of friendship, you had developed a small yet sincere crush on the lovable and slightly ditzy Italian. Feliciano was always eager to help you in any way he could—admittedly, his help backfired, but you couldn't blame the boy for trying—and, well…he was Italian. It stood to reason that with his silky brown hair accompanied by that strange yet adorable curl, his beautiful brown eyes (on the rare occasion he opened them) and his endearing accent, it was quite easy to slowly gain an affection for Feliciano that was a bit more than just friendship.

"(Name)! It's-a me, Feliciano! I'm-a here~!"

Speaking of accents…

Feliciano had wasted no time in getting here, most likely breaking the speed limit yet again with his insane driving skills. That wasn't much of a surprise to you, really; he always pulled that sort of thing. Yet, at the sound of his cheerful Italian accent seeping in through the door, you couldn't help but do one thing.

You burst into laughter, clutching your sides as they began to ache with the pain of much-too-hard laughter, doubling over and gasping for air. You could hear Feliciano's anxious and distressed voice from outside yell out, "V-Veh?! I-Is something wrong, (name)? Do you-a need me to-a help you?"

His accent just sent you into another volley of laughter, this time with tears leaking out of the corner of your (e/c) eyes. By now you were literally rolling around on the tiled floor of your kitchen, desperate for air like a fish out of water.

Feliciano took matters into his own hands and yanked open the door, rushing into the kitchen uninvited with a concerned expression plastered to his handsome, smooth features. Seeing you on the floor in such a state of mirth made him stare at you in confusion, unsure as to what to say.

"Um…(name)? What's-a wrong…? Why are you-a laughing…? Did I-a do something?"

Inhaling in an incredibly derpish manner, you managed to get back on your feet and stop laughing long enough to gasp out, "I-I'm sorry, Feli, it's just that…you sounded like…like…like Mario!"

With those words, you fell back into a state of uncontrollable laughter, clutching your sides yet again and leaning against a counter to avoid falling back to the floor.

Feliciano continued to stare at you, bewilderment still etched into his face, before he cocked his head in a questionable manner. "…veh? Mario? Do you-a mean that video game character? The one-a that's a plumber and he and his-a brother Luigi fight scary monsters and-a cook pasta?"

"Y-yes, that's the Mario I'm talking about," you giggled out, wiping tears from your eyes and at last managing to calm down. "I-I'm sorry, Feliciano, the thought just ran through my mind as soon as I heard your voice. I guess my brain is a little wacko because I'm nervous about learning how to cook pasta…I really am sorry! Can you forgive me? I was just being an idiot."

The Italian brunet instantly lit up, grinning that dopey yet endearing grin of his that made you melt a little on the inside. He nodded in understanding, giving a little laugh of his own. "Si, si, it's-a perfectly all right, bella! Don't-a worry about it, I understand. You are mi migliore amica—my best friend! I'll always-a forgive you~"

"Thank you very much, Feli," you heaved a sigh of relief, the laughter at last completely gone from your system. Now, all you wanted to do was learn how to cook some delicious pasta, and have a lovely dinner with Feliciano—but this time, with you being the host. "So you'll still help me to cook pasta, right?"

"Si, of course!" Feliciano gave you yet another dazzling grin, before suddenly it turned into what could only be a…smirk. The action was so uncommon on his childish face that you faltered slightly—and even more so when Feliciano was suddenly right in front of your face, his arms on either side of you so that you were pinned against the kitchen counter with no means of escape.

"On-a one condition, (name)," he flat out purred in that delectable, exquisite, and completely un-Mario accent of his.

"W-what w-would that b-be?" you stammered out uncertainly, your face flushing as bright red as the tomatoes Feliciano grew in his garden for his homemade pasta sauce.

"Oh, nothing much~" Feliciano purred again, smirking wider and now gazing into your (e/c) eyes with his own deep brown ones, which were full of…something you had never seen in the Italian before. Something you couldn't exactly describe. His breath fanned across your neck as he brought his face down to your throat, lips barely brushing against the skin as he whispered the next words in a tone that literally made your legs wobble out from under you.

"You-a let me-a check your plumbing, bella (name)…~"

That was the day you learned something very, very, very crucial about Feliciano Vargas.

To never associate his accent with Mario's, for you would pay the dire consequences…

…and such heavenly consequences they were.