A bunch of hetalia oneshots/ drabbles i guess?

Lovino

"That's it! I give up trying to think creatively. Fuck it all," Lovino said, exasperated. He slinked back into his chair. It was too much. This writer's block, if you could even call him a writer. He only wrote whenever inspiration struck, which was once in a blue moon, and this was another slump. The last one lasted about a year or more. The days that creativity struck and left all in the span of a minute was exhausting. He made sure that he always had a notebook on him but it wasn't helpful. Then the worst part was having an idea taunting him, but the execution. Good god the execution was horrible. He felt like a monkey on cocaine trying to repaint the Mona Lisa. He had been in his room for hours, sitting in front of a computer screen and still having the world's hardest time coming up with something to write. When he was bored in class, it was a different story. He would just let his hand and pencil flow in any direction he wanted and it didn't matter, it was something to do. But this? This was something that was excruciating. He looked back at his other works, which were written a while ago and just thought, 'is that really how I write? Dio, that's fucking awful.' He soon heard a knock at his door.

"Who is it?" he asked, not really caring who was there, only wanting them to leave.

"It's Romeo, I need your help," he said.Lovino walked to the door. Normally Romeo would go to Feliciano, but this time he knew that he had a good reason to not go to Feliciano.

"Spill," Lovino said rather bluntly.

"How do you not fall in love?" he said staring into his big brother's hazel eyes.This was a question Lovino had asked himself time and time again but the answer was the one he never wanted.

"You can't stop it from happening, no matter what. Believe me I've tried. You just have to let it happen, and unless they are in a relationship, always act on it. You're gonna wish you had." Lovino said, getting lost in his own thoughts. Romeo thanked him, he realized that his brother was speaking from experiences having several ones that got away. They both knew that if Feli overheard, he would barge in and tell him all the joys about love, not mentioning the bad parts. That isn't the advice Lovino gives. He lives by a motto of not sugarcoating anything because he doesn't want to be responsible for metaphorical type 2 diabetes. He realized that he found the inspiration he so desperately craves. He realized that he just needed to write, so what better than a rant. A thing that just blows off steam, lets words flow, no creativity, no plot development, no thinking of a story idea that somehow can't be written out on paper. Just simple words aimed at a target that is meant to express opinion no matter how much or how little it matters. So that's what he wrote. Soon all his family heard, if they were close enough, was the clattering of keys on a keyboard being pressed with such vigor, that they were afraid that they were going to have to buy another one. After a good 30 minutes, all that was heard was a long, self-satisfied sigh. Content with what he wrote, he gets up, and stretches. A few bones crack and soon after a window opens. Fresh night air creeps in and engulfs him in a refreshing scent. The cold, being shielded by a tomato comforter, forced the thick, heavy air out. Finally, something that was just for him, something that released tension and stress. Something cathartic.