It had been three days since Italy had found out about his beloved pasta being taken away from him. He didn't want to bother Germany again so soon, so he tried this best to resolve the problem himself.

First, he tried to find any pasta in the country that Russia may have left alone. He frantically searched all his pasta cabinets in hopes of finding a half-empty bag of penne at the very least, but alas, there was none.

Italy ran three blocks to the nearest restaurant faster than he had ever run before and burst through the doors. "Excuse me but by any chance do you serve pasta?!" he shouted.

All the Italians looked up wearily from their drinks. The store owner said to him with a glum face, "I'm very sorry, sir. But the pasta shortage has affected us as it has all the other restaurants in the country. All the pasta just mysteriously disappeared one night as if some scary ghost had taken it!" Italy's shoulders slumped as he gave the owner a look of despair. He nodded and left.

"ROMANO," he shouted through the phone when he got home, "Vee, please tell me you have some pasta to spare! Scary Mr. Russia took it all away when he realized he didn't like it because he was staying here which he really shouldn't have been but I signed something and now all the pasta's gone and there's nothing I can do about iiit!" Italy sat sobbing in a pool of his own tears as he waited for his brother to respond.

"Look, Veneziano, I don't know what sorta stunt that vodka-lovin' bastard pulled on you but the pasta is your problem, not mine! We were running out as it is, goddammit! So why don't you call on your potato-sucking bastard friend of yours and whine to him, I'm busy here!"

"Oh Romanoo~" Italy could hear in the background, "Come back to uncle Spain, si? I brought another box of tomatoes for youuu!"

"Oh, shit, leave me alone you bastard!" Romano shouted to Spain. Returning to the phone, he spat, "Goddammit, Veneziano, I gotta get this douche bag off my back so good luck with all that." He slammed the phone down.

Italy didn't know where else to turn. He just didn't want to be yelled at any more, and he wanted his pasta back. Was that too much to ask? His stomach rumbled. He was craving it again. That was it, he decided. He was going to try to confront Russia about it once more.

Italy slowly approached Russia's new summer cottage. Trembling, he reached for the doorbell, then stopped. He could hear yelling coming from inside.

"Please be stopping the calling me, little sister!" It was Russia. "I cannot stand having to keep repeating myself; how many times have I told you?" Russia sounded angry, but there was something else in his voice that Italy had never heard before. Fear. There was a pause while the nation on the other end of the line spoke. Russia made what sounded like a yelp then shouted again, "STOP IT." Another pause. "Please… What, no! NO. As if I would be doing the telling you. No I am happy here where I am. Yes I'm eating. NO I DON'T NEED YOU."

Italy cautiously peeked into the door.

Russia threw the phone out the window and sat in the corner with a terrified look on his face. He took a deep breath. "No," he was muttering to himself, "there is no way she could be knowing where I am currently. It does not matter, I will not be marring that psycho…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "Why won't she just leave me alone, da?" And they wonder why I am always trying to leave.."

The little Italian was frozen in shock. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Russia's lip was trembling. And if his eyes weren't deceiving him, he could see the intimidating country's eyes get blood red. A single tear fell to the ground as he laid his head on his knees, buried in his long scarf.

"Keep it together, Ivan," he whispered to himself. "You've held out this long. You're safe here."