"Remember when you were young?
You shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky. "

Veneziano greeted her happily from the kitchen, turning away from the huge, steaming pot on the stove to smile at her. "Ciao, bella ragazza!"

"Hello, Mr. Italy," she replied, returning the smile with only half the cheerfulness, placing the empty beer mug on the table for the time being. She would much rather be in the same room as the sweet, bright-eyed Italian than Ludwig, who had been in a particularly dark mood that evening.

"How's Germany? He wasn't happy today, so I decided to make some pasta. Pasta always cheers me up," Veneziano told her, turning back to the stove. Three large empty packages of spaghetti lay on the counter—he must have filled the entire pot with enough pasta to feed fourteen people. Sighing, she picked up the empty boxes and put them in the trash bin, scanning the kitchen for any other messes. There were none yet, so she reluctantly picked up the mug again and went to fill it for Ludwig. As she stood with her back to him, Veneziano walked up to her and pulled her bangs away from her eyes.

"Mr. Italy?"

"Why'd you cut your hair, Ukraine? I liked it when you first came here."

She turned to him, the mug full of amber beer. "I'm sorry, Mr. Italy, but I think it's better short."

"Why?"

"W-Well, it would be easier to work like this," she lied. In truth, she had been trying to make herself look as unattractive as possible around Ludwig; the less he looked at her, the safer she felt. The Italian frowned, his eyes analyzing her own.

"Okay, well tell Germany I'm here and I say 'hi'!" he said, his mood lightening again.

"I will," she promised, feeling more and more anxious with each step towards Ludwig's study. He must have been drunk by now—she had made this trip more than enough times that evening to know that. The door creaked slightly as she opened it, revealing the large, neat room that always gave her an aura of power and danger, in which Ludwig waited. He sat on the sofa, very focused on a paper that lay on the small coffee table in front of him. She couldn't read it—it was entirely in German, which she had only learned to speak, and the very basics of at that. He didn't seem to notice her at all until the mug was placed on the table, making a small thump that Yekaterina hadn't meant to make. His eyes first went to the beer, and then up to her. His gaze made her uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry for bothering you, Herr Germany," she said quietly, eager to leave the room. As she turned to go, he spoke.

"Stay here." His voice was very calm and clear for being drunk, she noticed. Sometimes, especially after a war, she would visit Ivan and he would be pathetically intoxicated. His words were always slurred, and he was often violent—never to her, though. It was amazing how different this man was from anyone she had known before.

She nodded without speaking and waited.

"Come here, Katya," he said after a few seconds, standing and making a beckoning gesture. Despite feeling weighed down by dread, she obeyed him, her hands clutched together in front of her. She refused to look him in the eyes, staring instead at the Knight's Cross at his throat. Her eyes then wandered to the armband he wore, the swastika in a circle of white standing out as a symbol of hate and power, the background as red as the blood of so many people murdered. Anger pierced her heart as well as fear, along with an odd tingling feeling she couldn't place.

"Herr Italy wanted me to tell you he's making dinner," she said softly, finally managing to glance up at his face. His expression was unreadable. He continued staring at her, his icy blue eyes narrowed.

She would have fallen backwards when he suddenly stepped forwards if he hadn't caught her, one arm around her waist and the other on her back, his hand on the back of her neck. She struggled a little, but gave up as she realized that she had only succeeded in giving him a reason to pull her body impossibly close to his own, touching his lips to her ear.

"Don't leave," he demanded in a whisper, as if she could have it she wanted to. Every place where he was touching her felt terrifyingly electric, and she couldn't stop herself from letting out a whimper.

He's touching me with the same hands that murdered millions of innocent people, she thought, her mind panicking. Her eyes closed, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. She didn't, though, even if unconsciousness might have been more bearable than this mad rush of emotions.

He moved his head away so he could look at her face. He had that same hungry expression she had seen occasionally when they were both in the house alone.

"H-Herr Germany—" she began, only to be cut off.

"Be quiet," he murmured, before leaning forward. She knew what he was doing, how could she not? But yet, she didn't try to stop him when he caught her mouth with his own in a surprisingly gentle kiss. His hand left the back of her neck and went to her face, pushing her bangs away like Veneziano had done only five minutes before. Then it returned, the pads of his gloved fingers grazing the side of her neck and making her shudder. His mouth tasted like beer.

"Hey Germany! I was making the sauce for the pasta and I couldn't find the tomatoes and—" a cheerful voice called from the hallway, getting closer until it stopped altogether. Veneziano gasped a little, his figure freezing in the doorway. Ludwig pulled away from Yekaterina, breathing hard, his face reddening.

"And I was wondering where you kept your tomatoes," the little Italian finished, as if he hadn't noticed the kiss at all. Ludwig stared at the man incredulously. Yekaterina felt so wonderfully relieved that Veneziano had such good timing.

"Katya, help Italy," he muttered, dodging his ally as he left the room, "I'm going to go to bed."

"But you'll miss—" The rest of Veneziano's sentence was muffled as Yekaterina ran forward and covered his mouth with a shaking hand. The Italian's golden-brown eyes darted down to her, questioning.

"Shh."

When she heard a door close, she let him go.

"What's wrong, Ukraine?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but she found herself unable. He kissed me. The thought seemed to freeze and burn her at the same time. Confused tears pricked at her eyes as she stared at Veneziano, who stared back with childish concern.

"I'm sorry I interrupted you guys, but the door was open so—"

"I'll help you in the kitchen now, Mr. Italy," she whispered, walking past him just as tears began to fall.