Lovino walked slowly through the bustling museum, ignoring passersby until their sound was just a steady hum behind him.
He watched the paintings he passed silently, taking in the colors and the strokes.
He stopped when he saw a familiar painting.
Bright oranges and yellows were spread about on the trees, drifting in the light breeze.
Autumn was full of warm colors and biting cold, and near the clear pool sat a boy in blue.
He held a sketchbook and a charcoal, and other materials were scattered haphazardly around him.
He looked at peace, keep safe from the sting of frost by the brown coat around his shoulders.
Lovino sighed.
That was his work from years ago.
A painting of his brother and his lover, who had recently passed.
He was the only one left now.
The countries had been dying one by one.
Prussia had been the first, taken by a horrible sickness.
Germany had followed, and from there it spread.
The governments have found humans to replace them, but things will never be the same.
Once a paint is mixed and put to canvas, the artist, no matter how they may try, will never have the same color again.