a/n: To anyone who wishes for love everlasting.

Painting Smiles

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Because somewhere between the Venetian gondola rides and the painted landscapes, she had fallen in love with his genuine smile. SeychellesItaly

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It was in the early hours of the morning, in the tangled sheets of the bed, that she realized just how hopeless her situation was.

Wrapped in his arms, all she could smell was the scent of perfume that wasn't his, and the strong scent of wine that he had had the night before. She was so used to the smell of his strong aftershave, the scent of the roses he would scatter around the house, that for some foolish reason, it came as a shock to her for him to smell like anything else.

But she should have been used to it by now. It was like this every night.

The person she had so admired and loved would come stumbling through the front door, his hair a mess and his clothes rumpled, and he would expect her to help him to his bed, just like any other night. He would hold onto her waist and beg for her to stay, and she would give into his request, because she couldn't resist the eyes he would give her; the eyes that looked like French skies in the summertime, or the fields of flowers he would take her to when she was a little girl with dreams of hanging onto his hand forever. His arms would stay wrapped around her for the whole night, and she would stay awake, wishing for dreams of the long forgotten past when he would devote all of his time to her. He would wake up late in the morning, and see her in his arms. He would smile tenderly at her, kiss her head in the affectionate way she had always loved, and he would murmur a 'Bonjour, ma cherie,' while she would just smile in the childish and naïve way she had used to smile when he had loved her more than the foolish women he would wrap around his finger every night.

His smiles used to be genuine and bright, but now they only seemed to be painted and given to her only when he needed her most.

She would make breakfast for him every morning; fish as usual. He would laugh lightly and wrap his arms around her from behind, and say that he loved her fish more than his own cooking, but they both knew that that was a lie. But she would just smile gently and say a 'thank you' nonetheless, because it was him who had given the compliment and whispered the lie.

She could not say that she hated the women who so desperately sought for his company, because she did the same thing, if not for a different reason. She wanted desperately for him to give her a smile; not the ones painted over with charm and languid romance, but the ones painted with genuine affection and bright summer days. She wanted him to sit with her outside and listen while she babbled on about something or other, while he twirled a strand of her hair and listened patiently, every so often giving her a soft compliment that ended with her blushing and smiling shyly in self-doubt.

He knew what to do to make her feel like she was someone special, even when she did not believe it herself.

It was a quality of his, being the country of France himself. He could make anyone feel special and believe it wholeheartedly. She truly believed that he saw something special and beautiful in everyone, and she had admired that quality about him ever since she had met him.

But, she also knew that he was as lonely as any of the other countries, and that he needed someone to make him feel special as well.

Ever since she had realized this, she had made it her duty to make him smile. She wanted him to know that she thought he was special and beautiful, even if no one else did.

And, yet, she also found herself becoming jealous of anyone else who received his gentle smiles, and it was selfish of her and pathetic and she knew this, but she could not bring herself to care any longer.

She needed to get away.

"Italy?" France frowned, causing a sinking feeling to appear in her stomach. "Why on Earth would you want to go there, Seychelles?"

She focused solely on cutting the fish, not wanting to see his expression any longer. "I… have heard you speak about him often," she replied quietly, not daring to look him in the eyes, for fear of losing her resolve. "I've heard that it is beautiful there, and I would like to see it for myself. I've heard many of the countries talk about him and his country; I would love to go there and visit as well." She turned around to face him, watching guiltily as his cerulean eyes turned troubled. "You speak of him with great warmth," she added softly. "Surely I would be in good hands if I were to stay with him for a while."

France's frown deepened as he crossed his arms over his chest, examining her. "You don't have to speak so formally with me," he said gently, although his face held a frown. "You're starting to talk like Angleterre again."

She frowned slightly at the remembrance of the island nation, but said nothing of it. "Will you let me go?"

He examined her for a few moments, as if trying to discern her real reason for leaving. "If that is what you want," he replied finally, although he did not look fully convinced of his statement. "I have no control over you."

A feeling of nostalgia swept over her for a moment, but it quickly disappeared as fast as it had come. "Merci," she said softly, causing a small smile to appear on his face. "I will be back soon."

Because, no matter how many times she might have told herself otherwise, she knew that she could not live without seeing his smile, even if it was painted and coated with lies.

"Ve~ Ciao, bella!" The moment she had stepped off of the plane and taken her first step onto Italian ground, he had run up to her in earnest, more excited to see her than anyone had ever been before.

She quickly examined him, her eyes straying to stare for a few moments at the almost comical curl of hair at the side of his head, and finally ending up to examine his bright amber eyes, as bright as his country and as bright as the sun.

He wasn't France. His eyes were a clear statement of that, but it was not his eyes that drew her in, but his smile. It was bright and genuine and full of optimism and colorful sunsets. It was a smile of innocence and joy.

It was so unlike France's in so many ways.

He had left her bags to a driver to take to his home, saying that 'it's only right for you to stay with me, because you're a guest, and Big Brother France is expecting you to have a good time, so we can't waste any time, right?'

He had grabbed her hand in his and had dragged her swiftly through the airport and out into the Italian sunshine, watching gleefully as her eyes widened comically at the sights and sounds of his country. "It's beautiful, right?" He gestured excitedly around, his smile growing even wider at her awed nod. "We're in Venice right now, but we can go wherever you want! Not everything is in Venice, even though there is a lot of neat stuff here. We can go to Florence and Milan and San Marino, and we can even visit my fratello in Rome or Sicily or anywhere you want! You're staying for two weeks, right?" At her timid nod, his smile became brighter, and he let out an excited laugh. "We can go visit the Colosseum or the Torre pendente di Pisa or the-" She let him babble on, trying not to smile as he slipped in and out of his native language of Italian in his excitement.

He turned back to look at her, making sure that she was keeping up with him. His eyes widened and he tightened his grip on her hand, his grin stretching further than she thought was physically possible. "Have you tried pasta before, bella?" She shook her head, growing slightly alarmed at the distressed look he sent her at her answer. "You must try pasta! I cannot let you leave here without ever having a taste of it!" He tugged on her hand, causing her to stumble clumsily after him as he navigated them around the streets of Venice. "I know a great place that makes pasta! Of course, every restaurant here makes great pasta, because this is Italia! But I will take you to this one, because the man who makes the pasta there is very nice, and-"

She let him babble on, and pretended not to notice that he still had not once let go of her hand.

"What did you think of the pasta, bella?" They had arrived at his home in Venice just an hour before, and he had quickly shown her her room and waved off her exclamations of gratitude. 'Pretty room for a pretty lady!' he had said, causing her cheeks to turn pink, making him laugh lightly. But it wasn't in mockery or in any way offending to her, because in the few hours she had known him, she had realized that he never intended to hurt anyone's feelings with whatever he said or did. And she admired that about him.

"It was good," she replied, smiling slightly when his smile brightened considerably. It was strange for her to feel happiness at making someone other than France smile. But her heart somehow started to feel lighter when she saw the way Italy's smile would widen or brighten further at something she had done or said.

"I want to show you something." He grabbed her hand and tugged her up several flights of stairs, his feet moving swiftly and confidently up the winding stairs, while she barely managed to keep up with him. Italy led her down a hallway, gently pushing her in front of him and covering her eyes with his hands. "Close your eyes, bella!" She still had not learned what that word meant, but she thought that it sounded pretty and kind coming out of Italy's mouth. She closed her eyes obediently behind his hands, walking forward slowly as he led her to what she assumed was the end of the hallway. He lifted one hand from her eyes and quickly opened the door, gently pushing her inside. Lifting his hands from her eyes, he instructed her to open her eyes, and she did so, almost not believing what was in front of her. "Tada!"

It was what Seychelles assumed was an art studio; the room was covered with finished paintings and rough sketches, spread out unceremoniously on the ground and around the room. And, yet, she could tell that he meant for everything to be in a specific place, in an order of sorts. A blank canvas stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by paintings full of radiant flowers and cool sunsets, lovely days of sun and dark days of rain. Some paintings seemed to have a deeper and hidden meaning, others seemed to be meant to be simplistic and pleasing to look at.

Seychelles examined the studio in awe, taking care to look at each painting carefully. There was a painting of a man with corn-yellow hair, standing alone in the rain near a bus stop, a black umbrella held over his head. His head was down, leaving no room for his face to be seen. The skies were dark and gray, and the streets were glistening with dew. It seemed as if no one would be coming for the man anytime soon. He reminded her of a certain island nation. Could Italy have drawn this, thinking of the exact same person Seychelles did not want to remember?

She shook her head slightly to rid herself of those thoughts, and rested her eyes on another painting, not too far from the first. A casually dressed man stood in a field of vivid colored flowers, his arms spread out and his head raised up to the sky, bright blue and swarming with white clouds. Seychelles found herself taking an intake of breath at the sight, her eyes widening slightly at the painting of the man.

He was France.

It looked exactly like him; it was as if Italy had taken a picture instead of actually painting him. It was real and vivid, and Seychelles found herself remembering times when he would take her out to see his gardens and the beautiful flowers of his country, languidly leading her along and putting flowers in her hair and smiling like she was the only person in the world.

"Do you like it?" Italy's voice brought her out of her reverie. She turned around to face him, watching as he nervously wrung his hands together and looked at her with anticipation.

He wanted her opinion.

Even after her nostalgic thoughts, she managed to easily bring a smile to her face, and say that she had never seen anything more beautiful.

She watched him paint for the majority of her stay.

When they were not out in his country, she would sit patiently in his studio, watching as his hands masterfully chose the right colors and easily painted the scene that he wanted. He would sometimes ask for her opinion, ask if she wanted anything in particular to be painted, and she would smile softly and say that she enjoyed watching him paint whatever he wanted.

'Anything you paint is beautiful, Italy.'

Everything about the country himself was beautiful as well.

The way his posture would relax when he painted, the way his eyes seemed to show beautiful images of his country when he picked up a brush; when Italy painted- when Italy made art- Seychelles could see him as the magnificent and beautiful country he was- as the individual he was. He shared his country with his brother; if his brother felt pain, he did as well. He was the northern part of his country, but most seemed to forget that it was not just his; it was his brother's too. But Seychelles could see an individuality when he made art. He was not anything like his brother; Seychelles had heard that enough times from France. But he was not just a country when he made art; he was himself.

He was human, just like all of his citizens. He had feelings; he could experience love and hate, pain and sorrow, happiness and affection. And he had for as long as he had been around. He had experienced every emotion capable, and had seen things only some would ever dream of seeing, but he was just as human as all of his citizens.

It was as if he were art himself.

"What are you doing up so late at night?" Italy flipped on the light switch, looking confusedly at the girl sitting at the kitchen table all by herself. Seychelles looked up at him in surprise, loosening her grip slightly on the glass of water in her hands. "Ah, Italy," she said, her eyes slightly wide in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly!" He smiled obliviously at her, making her unsure of whether or not he was teasing, or answering her seriously. He sat across the table from her, allowing her to see that his auburn hair was messy and his clothes were rumpled. She hid a giggle behind her hand, causing him to tilt his head in her direction, obviously curious to know what she was giggling at. She gave him a small smile, showing him that it was nothing to worry about.

"What are you doing up at three in the morning, bella?" Italy asked, his head still tilted in curiosity.

"I couldn't sleep," she replied honestly, watching the water ripple in the glass clutched in her hands.

"Well, that's no good!" Italy cried, throwing his arms up dramatically for effect. "It's not good if pretty ladies can't go to sleep. They need their beauty sleep." He frowned, startling her. "Not that you need any beauty sleep, bella signora." She flushed at his comment, seeing his eyes looking intently at her. He looked completely sincere with his comment, not at all aware of her embarrassment.

"But you should still get some sleep. Did you have a nightmare? I remember when I used to get nightmares a lot. I got so scared and woke up. But I couldn't get back to sleep, so I had to go sleep with Germany. He was really nice and let me. You can sleep with me if you want, bella. I don't mind." Her face turned an even darker shade of red, but he looked completely sincere with his offer.

"…Really?" she asked hesitantly, looking down at her glass of water.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, looking surprised at her hesitance. "I know it helps me to sleep with someone if I have a nightmare, so if it will help you, too, then I don't mind." He gave her a genuine smile. It was soft and kind, and she found herself becoming increasingly surprised at his behavior. When she was just a little girl, France would insist that she sleep with him, saying that he was 'Papa France' and would protect her from any nightmares and anyone who would come to try to harm her. But as they both grew older, she slept alone, and grew to miss the warmth and tenderness that he emitted. And, many years later, when she decided to stay with him again for just a little longer, he started going out late at night and leaving her to an empty house, only to arrive hours later, expecting her to take care of him and stay with him 'till dawn.

Italy's offer was much different. He was asking her if she wanted his company, asking her to allow him to protect her from her nightmares.

She wanted to cry, and allowed several tears to appear in her eyes.

"Eh?!" Italy looked at her in alarm, his eyes panicked. "What's wrong, bella? Did I say something to make you sad? Please don't cry! I don't like it when pretty girls cry!"

She let out a little giggle, somehow managing to keep the tears at bay. "I'm not sad, Italy." She gave him a small smile, watching as his shoulders slowly relaxed, although his eyes remained worried. "I'm… I'm happy." She didn't explain to him her feelings; she didn't need to. With a sudden burst of courage, she reached over and put her hand over his from across the table, trying not to flinch in nervousness when he looked down in surprise. "Do… Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?"

He blinked at her blankly for a few moments, giving her the impression that he was about to say no. She tried to calm her erratically beating heart, watching as his lips slowly spread into a kind smile. "Si! Of course you can!"

There were no nightmares that night, and the next morning, she awoke to the smell of cologne and pasta and something other than France.

"Do you ever feel sad, Italy?" The question came out innocent and naïve, but Seychelles had another motive. She gazed at him with interest, watching as he paused in the making of his pasta.

"Eh?" he murmured, looking at his guest from over his shoulder. "Why would you ask something like that? Italy is always happy!" He smiled in a convincing matter, but she could see through it. She had spent enough time with him to see through his mask.

He put on a cheerful and happy façade for everyone to see, and most were fooled. Seychelles herself had been fooled by it at first, but spending all of her time with the nation had given her the ability to examine him and look deeper into his façade. It was a carefully and tightly placed mask that he put on for everyone. It was the façade of a clumsy idiot that had no idea what he was doing, and had no skills other than cooking and making art, but she knew that that wasn't entirely true. Yes, he was clumsy and could be oblivious at times, and, yes, he was cowardly and spent his time waving the white flag, but she also knew that there was more to him than that. He was also genuinely kind, and truly wanted to help others when they needed it. He did not intentionally mean to hurt anyone, and when he did, he did it for a cause that he truly thought was right.

He was much more than just the bubbly and oblivious idiot that others made him out to be, just like she was more than just the naïve and easily taken advantage of girl that many others thought of her.

They were both much more than that. And, somehow, between the late night talks and the painted scenes, he had managed to make her feel more special than she had in years.

She wanted him to be able to share his pain and sorrows to her. She wanted to be able to make him smile after rainy days of color and tears.

Perhaps then she would be able to smile again too.

She timidly took a few steps toward him, hesitantly putting a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for letting me stay with you, Italy." And she gave him a smile that she hoped looked thankful and genuine.

He blinked at her owlishly, obviously confused by her question and behavior, but, slowly, a smile appeared on his face.

"Ve~ You're always welcome here, bella!"

It was the last day of Seychelles' stay in Italy, and they had still not yet gone on one of Italy's famous gondolas.

'We have to go on one today! It's your last day after all!'

He showed no sign of sadness at the fact that she was leaving in just under twenty-four hours, but she did not expect him to. His mask was still firmly in place, and he was much too excited about taking her out on a gondola to be sad about her rapidly approaching departure.

Still, it did not mean that she wasn't sad that he did not show more remorse.

"Come on!" He encouraged her to walk faster, tugging her hand excitedly through the twinkling streets of Venice. Tourists took pictures of Venice at sunset; couples ran through the crowds, laughing and excited to get to their destination; friends stayed together in groups and talked animatedly to each other, carefree and used to the wonders of the city around them.

Seychelles' dress twirled around her legs as she was swiftly pulled along, her brown hair bouncing behind her back, matching the dancing lights of the city. Italy had insisted early on during her stay that she needed to get new clothes, earnestly encouraging her to try on anything and everything that he threw her way. Afterwards, he had insisted on paying for everything, much to her embarrassment and dismay. But she accepted his gifts with a grateful smile, and wore all of the clothes he had bought for her on her days out in the city.

She would miss his contagious energy and breathtaking smiles.

"Here we are!" He pulled her to a stop, allowing her to take in the sight in front of her. They stood in front of what she remembered was called a 'gondola' and it rested on the water of what was part of one of the canals in Venice. The water sparkled and danced with lights, reflecting hues of bright yellows and dark blues.

She had never seen anything like it.

"Come on, bella." He stepped eagerly into the canal, too swift for the gondolier to help him in. Italy sent her an excited look, gesturing for her to get in. She accepted the help of the gondolier, and managed to step in without losing her balance.

Slowly, they moved forward through the water, Italy flailing his arms and pointing things out to her as they moved along. Seychelles smiled at his antics, nodding her head every so often and asking questions when she had them. Behind them, the gondolier smiled at their antics, but said nothing as they moved along, allowing Italy to point everything out.

"Isn't this great?" He turned his head to face her, a massive grin on his face.

"Yes," Seychelles agreed, looking around in awe at Venice at sunset. "Your country is very beautiful." She took great care to avoid saying his true name, glancing quickly at the silent gondolier.

Italy let out a laugh, causing a smile to unconsciously break out on Seychelles' face. "I'm glad you are enjoying it." And, when he looked at her, it almost took her breath away. It was not just genuine and bright like his usual smiles were; it was also soft and gentle, held with tenderness and what she thought was… affection.

But it was not like the ones that France had given her when she was a little girl. It was a different kind, but she could not place what kind it was.

His smiles were so different from France's. They were painted with sincerity.

She gave him a radiant smile, not realizing just how bright it really was. "Thank you for taking me here."

He gave her a nod and murmured, "It was my pleasure."

She woke up early the next day to find Italy in the kitchen, sitting silently at the kitchen table. When he looked up at her, there was no cheerful smile or brightness to his eyes. His face was solemn, almost… sad.

"Italy?" Her confusion was evident in both her voice and her facial expression. "Are you alright?"

"You're leaving today. I almost forgot," he murmured, looking at her in almost a daze.

She flinched at the reminder, but nodded nonetheless. "Yes," she replied softly, trying to not let him see just how much she was going to miss him and his home. "My flight leaves in a few hours."

He stood abruptly, causing the table to shake slightly. "A few hours? Do you want pasta then? I can make you pasta. Oh, no, but you won't have time to eat it here. I can pack it up for you and you can take it with you to eat on the plane! Oh, but, they don't allow you to bring food on the plane." His façade was slowly crumbling, and he deflated visibly at the revelation.

"Italy?" Her voice was gentle as she took a few steps toward him. "Are you okay?"

For the first time since she had met him, he let his distress break through his mask. He ran his fingers through his hair, making it messier than it already was. "No! No…!" She flinched in surprise at his outburst, looking at him with wide eyes. "You're leaving. It's only been two weeks! Can't you stay longer?" he pleaded, his amber eyes wide. "We still have so many other places we can go! You've only seen Venice; I can take you to other places here too! We can visit fratello if you want; I'm sure he'd love to meet you! And you can try other food besides pasta. We have a lot of different food here that you can try! You can stay longer, right? Big Brother France surely won't mind!"

"Italy, please." Her pleading voice stopped his babbling. He looked at her, disheveled and distressed. The moment they locked eyes, it seemed his energy deflated, and his shoulders dropped. "Please don't go," he murmured, looking down at the floor. "I'll miss you."

She blinked rapidly, not allowing the tears to spill from her eyes. France had told her that she got emotional and attached much too easily, and she knew that she did. Seeing Italy so despaired and sad made her want to take his offer of staying longer. She knew that she could. France held no control over her; she could do whatever she wanted. She could easily extend her stay.

But France needed her too. He had always needed her.

Seychelles reached over and took Italy's hand in hers, giving it a small squeeze. "You know I can't," she murmured. "France-"

"He doesn't have control over you anymore," Italy interrupted, his eyes suddenly serious. "So why do you stay with him?"

Her heart clenched and her breath hitched at the question. "He… He needs me," she answered, swallowing. "They left him all alone."

Italy did not ask who.

"You have your brother," she said, trying to convince herself that that was true. "You have Germany and Japan, Spain and Austria and Hungary… France has no one." She searched his eyes desperately for any sign of understanding. "I can't… I can't just leave him."

Italy tightened his lips, and slowly nodded, dropping her hand. "I understand," he said softly, his voice almost pained. "Germany… He once had no one either." He closed his eyes for a few moments, as if remembering. He walked past her toward the door. "I will take you to the airport."

Those words hurt more than any of the silent days in France's house.

Because somewhere between the Venetian gondola rides and the painted landscapes, she had fallen in love with his genuine smile.

He sat next to her until they had received the news that she had to board.

They had said their goodbyes earlier on the ride to the airport, so no words needed to be said at that moment. Seychelles grabbed her two duffel bags, reluctantly turning away from the country she had stayed with for the past two weeks. But, before she could walk any further, a hand grabbed her shoulder. She gasped in surprise, turning her head slightly to see Italy, his face determined and set.

"Italy-?"

"Ti amo." Her breath hitched, eyes widening comically. During her stay with him, she had asked him to teach her a little of his language, so she would know the basics of what everyone was saying. 'I love you.' "I really wish you would stay." She supposed that he meant to sound blunt or sincere, but his voice came out nervous, his laughter forced. "But, you're right, Big Brother France needs you." She bit her lip, wanting nothing more than to stay with him and wish that France didn't need her. "Will you come back to visit?"

"I…" She vaguely realized that others were staring, but she felt no embarrassment or insecurity. All she could see was him. "Of course. Of course I'll come back to visit." Adding on a little hesitantly, she said, "You could always visit me as well. I-I wouldn't mind at all."

He smiled.

a/n: So…

This took a while. I apologize if I totally butchered Italy's, France's, and Seychelles' personalities. This is the first time that I have ever written about them. I hope to improve with time.

Nevertheless, I sincerely I hope that you all enjoyed this one-shot anyway. :)