AN : "Insanguinato" means "Bloody" in Italian. I still don't know if I should make this AU this way : Gakuen AU and then 8 years later with a Police AU/something, or 8 years later with flashbacks. Tell me what you think would be better!
So, a somewhat summary : An organization few people know about, those who do usually end up being silenced. Who works for them? Maybe is it the new pianist at the bar? Maybe the rich guy nobody really knows? That policeman over there? The innocent little sister? The chief of that restaurant? The guy without identity?
Later couples should include :
Romano/Spain ; China/Japan ; Switzerland/Liechtenstein ; Austria/Hungary ; America/England ; Poland/Lithuania ; and a VERY healthy dose of crack. I swear.

Characters and genre will concern the latest upped chapter.

'Piccolo' - Tiny (Italian)

There were the kids who were never satisfied ; those who always cried, were never content, always annoyed, always had something to reproach, hated everything. Whatever it is, they would go to someone and complain, needing everything to be on their standards and the world to belong to them. Some kids are born difficult, others grow into complicated and unsatisfied figures over the years.

Nobody had ever deigned to think about what category Lovino Vargas belonged to.

Actually, he belonged more to the second group than to the first. Admittedly, he had always been a difficult child, and he wouldn't remember anyway, but there was a time where he was seeking for attention just like every other normal kid of his age. At the beginning, he wanted to play with others and others wanted to play with him too, he wanted to hug and others didn't mind in the slightest, he wanted to laugh and they liked to see him smile.

But when Lovino Vargas was five, his younger brother happened to somehow gain more attention than him. When they were drawing, there wasn't a huge difference in his child's eyes, but adults would usually look at Feliciano's drawing first, cooing about how adorable it was and at how he managed to make so forceful colors with just crayons and did you see how realistic it looked? They would then have a look at Lovino's drawings, but wouldn't praise him the same way, and never say anything more than 'it's adorable Lovino! Did you learn that from your brother?'. He had no idea what that feeling was when it bubbled up inside of him at the time, why he wanted to tear the drawings his brother had done apart, why he just wanted to scream 'Why don't you look at what I do too?', why he wanted to cry and run away ; he didn't know, he didn't understand.

It was the first step to his attitude, and the first time he wondered if he had done something wrong.

The first lonely night he thought about it, Lovino cried.

He would go to his room, paper, crayons and pencils in hand, and lock the door behind him (as he was tall enough to reach the lock). He would then draw, sometimes for hours, running the colorful sticks over the paper in grand concentration, sticking out his tongue at the most difficult parts. His chubby face turned into a pout when he wasn't entirely satisfied, his fingers were getting tainted in red, blue, green, brown, or whatever color he had been using, his long shirt was getting wrinkled and stained as well, his back hurt (since he was drawing on the ground), but worst of all, he didn't feel like he was doing any real existing progress. He would sit there, contemplating his work, and sometimes he even felt proud, and thought that maybe that one time, his parents, his brother, and everyone else, would look at his picture first. Only once! When somebody finally noticed his absence (usually his mother or his brother) and told him that dinner was ready and that everyone was waiting for him, he never said 'I've been in my room for really long and you didn't care', because Lovino was like that back then, he didn't want to hurt people, and answered with what he hoped was a cute 'Yes!' instead. Most of the time, when he had arrived downstairs, they would all act as usual, and sometimes, it even happened to make Lovino forget that bitter feeling inside of him.

One day, he had drawn a picture he was particularly proud of – a house near the sea, with high waves crashing against the cliff and dark clouds in the sky – and wanted to show it to his parents, so that at least the both of them could finally, finally be proud of him. When he went downstairs, with his drawing nervously trembling between his little fingers, he saw them looking in amazement at a painting his little brother had just done. Both their pictures where still the drawings of kids, but it was evident that Feliciano's painting had the technique of those who were destined to become great masters. His, on the contrary, … Was just a kid that had thrown colors together in an attempt to give them a shape and look good. When Lovino silently stepped out of the kitchen the three other members of his family had gathered in, he just as silently made his way back to his room. He wasn't even angry at his brother – his drawing had truly been amazing! - but at himself, because he had lost all this time, because he had been stupid enough to think he could be better at something than his sibling, because he had hoped to be the pride of his parents, and he realized now that they needed nobody but Feliciano for that.

Once he had stepped back into his room, he locked the door, and gave one last look at his drawing : he had been proud of it, he really had! But now, the only thing he could see was his vain attempts at getting recognized for something he obviously was terrible at. He wanted to be an adult already, because adults are always great at what they do! He looked down at the paper and than at the hands holding it, and bitterly noticed how small they were.

He sighed, wiped a menacing tear from his eye before it could hit the floor, lifted the sheet in the air, still in his hands, and tore it in millions of tiny shreds with his still so tiny fingers.

The second hardest blow in Lovino's young life was when he was announced that his grandfather Dante Vargas, famous painter-musician- and whatever sort of other artistic stuff he did, would come over to their house.

He was seven years old, and Feliciano five.

He knew he was always left in the corner, sulking, when it came to his grandfather. He would never admit even to himself, that he was impressed by the man and the way he lived his life ; so carefree, he was able to just be like he wanted everyday, without worrying about others...! When he had stepped through the front door, Feliciano had ran towards him, been grabbed in a tight hug, and spun in circles enthusiastically. Lovino has just watched them from afar, and didn't move even when his old man had greeted him with his usual "Lovi, come on! Give your grandpa a hug!". He knew why he was here ; he knew he would come over for a very long time now. His parents had been talking about his little brother's ability to almost everyone, proud parents they were, and the eldest Vargas had probably felt the need to stop his current world tour to check on the younger's skills. Lovino had locked himself up in his room again – and event that happened more and more often – in hope not to hear the conversation in the kitchen below, but he still managed to get the main lines. He jumped on his bed, buried his face under the pillows, and started to cry, soaking the fabric.

"Feliciano's talent is evident!"

"You are such a cute and clever little kid, Feli!"

"You know what? You should follow me around."

"This way you'll become the person your parents can be the proudest of!"

Everyone had forgotten about Lovino, they probably thought he wouldn't hear them anyway. He had never felt so useless in his whole life, as short as it was.

The last promise he made himself that day was that he would never draw in front of anyone ever again. Nobody would like his drawings anyway.