Lovino is not good with his hands. He's not that creative, he can barely hold on to a brush without his wrist cramping or the paint simply won't cooperate, and by the damned Holy Roman Empire, don't even try to ask him to keep his hand steady for anything. It's not tremors or involuntary muscle contractions, he's just not destined to create in the way Feliciano does. Lazy bastard. It's likely from when he was diagnosed with Chorea as a kid, but that was hundreds of years ago, why would it still affect him now?

Either way, it doesn't matter. Every other moon or so he'll get himself wiled up by trying to create something. A dumb painting, clay figure, marble sculpt, name the art medium and he's tried it at least once. Nothing ever comes out of it and he certainly hasn't told anyone, not Feliciano, especially not Antonio, nor those damn Germanics. Even now as he attempts to put together a ship in a bottle, arguably one of the most time consuming and gentle art practices ever invented and Lovino's hands continue to wobble as though his life was on the line. His hotel room lit purely by the vintage table lamp beside him and the empty box that the kit came in. The world conference screwed him up, that's it, everyone's yelling and dumb comments threw him off.

"Oh, I'm the hero so of course I wanna make the decisions." "Why are we always talking over each other?!" "Shut up these are dumb decisions, why is America the one acting like he is in charge" Blah, blah, blah.

Crack "CAZZO!" Lovino felt the snap of the mast as the pieces fell from the tweezers onto the deck. He slammed his head on the desk and clenched his hair between fingers while grumbling into the woodwork. Another sound quickly interrupts his mental tantrum as a secondary voice, muffled by the door calls out.

"Romano? Are you alright?" Lovino recognizes the voice as the familiar country, {{user}}, causing an uneasy groan to leave his lips.

"I'm fine!" He barks, stopping himself short to relax his tone somewhat. "Just move along."