Oh hai there c: hehe, so it has been a while since I updated this story huh? Well, I don't really have a good excuse except for that I looked back and cringed at my writing. But then I found the first few paragraphs to this on my computer and I was like- well, this seems rather acceptable. And I liked where I was going with it, so I finished it. Also it gave me a good excuse to blow off some steam with this type of story. And writing November made me miss writing this story^-^ So... Um, 'kay.

Chapter 8
Like a Candle

Naturally, it could only be so long before it all began again. It was a simple fact that lived in the back of Italy's mind like a ringing in his ears. It buzzed like a swarm of bees, growing like a wave and washing over his being. A wave of fear, and pain. Exactly a month had passed, just a month, but it felt both like years and days. Things were falling into place, not perfectly, because so many pieces of the puzzle had been taken from the board, but there was nothing that both humans and nations craved than normality: routine. In the wake of the returning sense of normal, Italy was drowning. He floundered because they flourished, for it could only be so long. He could imagine their hurt, and their fear, so much like his own.

Despite everything however, he still found himself shocked when he felt the weight of the presence awakening his mind, blooming like a weed in his subconscious. It was deafening, like the roar of an ancient beast pounding in his ears, but it didn't make a sound. Not a word. Neither occupant of Italy's mind had anything to say. There was no need for explanations anymore, no need for words to taunt.

It was going to kill again- No, they were going to kill again. There was no getting around it, it wasn't it. Italy was a weapon in its hands, so it became they. This was as much Italy's doing as the presence's. Those words... They were a void of emotion. There was nothing to do about them anymore. They were empty and hopeless. Devoid of anything.

When it happened, Italy was alone, in the dead of night sitting against the wall across from Germany's bed. There was no room for sleep anymore, and it only brought nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes a corpse would smile back at him. The silence was as loud as a scream, and it weighed him down. Still he stood. Not of his own accord. Never of his own accord.

A month was a long time to wait, but it waiting was crucial, for that night. July the 3rd. The impact the chosen time would make was simply marvelous. Italy stood, sliding his back up the wall and leaning against it for a moment. America had better be grateful for the trouble this was going to take. Oh, how his corpse would be patriotic! Red blood, white skin and blue lips. Or well, maybe not red blood, but there was be red, for sure there would be red. Now, there had been a lot of time to consider this murder in particular, which gave way to what Italy hoped would be a nice surprise for America, whom he assumed would be unable to sleep. Unable to wait as it were. Patience was however, was a virtue. One that the Italian would bestow upon him rather forcefully.

Leaving the house was no issue, no locks to fumble with anymore. The murderer was dead after all. Ha... If only those innocent nations had any idea that they were being stalked by someone so... helpless. The one that Germany went to such lengths to protect, the killer. Italy couldn't wait for that particular murder. The look on his face would be... killer. But that was for another day. Tonight he would center his mind on the murder of a certain Alfred F. Jones. Maybe he'd find out what that stupid F stood for anyways. Probably failure. Italy chuckled blandly at his own horrible humor. Or maybe it stood for finished. Get it...? Because he was... finished? This one Italy didn't laugh at, instead he frowned as the warm night air played with his hair. He paused for a moment in his stride, then shook his head and picked up the pace.

He didn't reach America's house until Five AM, as he had to stop at a 24/7 bakery- who would have ever thought such a thing so useful?- and the sun was already peaking over the horizon and giving the sky a painful glare, a blurred mix of white and blue. Italy himself would take the initiative and add the red. Now he smiled.

The lights were on, which meant that, unsurprisingly, a certain nation had probably stayed up all night in anticipation. The slightly crooked and most definitely twisted grin on Italy's face only grew as he approached the door. His screams would be more lovely than anything else he had heard in the last month. Of course, this murder would not be a bloody one- let the nations wonder whether it had been an accident. Let them hope, as it were, that they had been right about France. He glanced at the bag he had brought with him, a cheap confectionery was within it, along with a candle and a pack of matches to light it, an innocent little gift. He was sure that America would find the outcome rather surprising.

The doorknob was cool under his fingers, but when he twisted, he found it disappointingly locked. But the door was one of only many options. And anyways, if he couldn't find a way in, he'd find a way to do the deed from right outside. There was always a way to get things done. The next logical option on his list was a window. It wasn't hard to find a fair-sized unlocked one. He supposed that locking the door had seemed prudent enough for the excitable American.

Italy heaved himself in almost effortlessly, not that the window was far off the ground anyways, and it led into the kitchen. The Italian couldn't help his excited smile as he approached the stove. It was a gas stove, exactly what Italy had hoped for.

Yes, Italy was going to light up the night the best way he knew how. What better way to celebrate such a... momentous occasion. And he didn't mean July the fourth. That was small fry. His newest victim was really the object of celebration. There was no better way to celebrate than fire. He could already hear the excited scurrying footsteps on the floor above.

turning the knob on the stove, he let out a satisfied sigh as the flame came to life, then he frowned. He'd need to put out the pilot light for his little surprise to work. So, from the handle of the oven, he grabbed a towel, and wet it in the sink, hoping that America was too busy to notice the Italian rooting around downstairs. He placed the damp cloth carefully over the burner, cutting off the pilot light's air supply. When Italy removed it, there was no flame anymore, and now the gas was free to spill into the room instead of being burned off. He repeated the same for the three remaining burners.

Now, there were only a few steps left. He closed and locked the kitchen window, not letting any of the precious gases escape, and preventing a possible escape route. He then casually put the bag he had brought with him on the counter beside the stove, removing a brightly coloured cupcake from it, and sticking a candle into its center. Lastly, he removed the pack of matches, placing them carefully beside the pastry and opening them invitingly, pulling one part way from the pack before stepping back and nodding. Then, he snapped his fingers with a grin, strolling casually around the kitchen searching through drawers for what he wanted, before he finally pulled out a pad of paper and a pen.

Thought you might like a birthday cupcake. Light the candle for a surprise I arranged just for you(;

He thought about signing his note, but the Italian preferred a bit of mystery for this little gift. And so that was it, everything was set up. It was lucky that he had patience, because with such a method of murder wasn't even a sure-fire- hehe, fire- way of killing. But it would be very gratifying if it paid off. As he sauntered through the house towards the front door, he paused thoughtfully and picked up a doorstop from the floor in the front room. Might as well block another exit, yeah? He unlocked the door, stepped outside into the muggy July night and softly closed the door behind him, kicking the door stop into the door. It was no deadbolt, but it would make it harder if America survived the explosion that Italy hoped would come sometime in the next few hours.

Italy wasn't disappointed. A few hours later, as Italy waited excitedly across the street, sitting patiently, the kitchen window he had entered through blew, fire spilling out.

A lovely sight, it really was.

He wished there had been a scream though.

Alright, so we are suspending our disbelief and pretending that America's stove doesn't have FSD, or that it was faulty or something. Cool? Cool. Yeah, and then I realized this chapter has zero dialogue and it actually not very impressive, so I apologize. At least we got to play with fire? :3