It was all a flash before his very eyes. One second his life was perfect; the next, his heart felt like it had been torn out.
Spain didn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. What had happened that day was a constant, ever repeating nightmare that followed him even in his waking hours. His stomach felt noxious thinking about it. He was light-headed. Closing his eyes, he re-lived the day once again. And again. And again. The memory clung to him, filling him with the deepest despair.
He saw the smoking gun of the Mafia member. In a cowardly act, the man handling it turned to run. However the bullet had a destination. The sight of blood made the man feel faint. He had seen a lot of blood in the hundreds of years he had been alive. He thought he was prepared for anything – any hardship and misery. But that was because of one person. The person coughing up scarlet blood. The Italian's olive eyes were wide open, shock written on his features, a trail of blood on his lower lip.
He fell onto his hands and knees, clutching his side in desperation, his hands coated in crimson.
"Oh God," Spain whispered, rushing to Romano's side. He lay the younger man's head on his lap, clutching at him desperately.
"Hey, bastard," Romano chocked. The Spaniard looked at him horrified.
"This can't be happening. It's impossible. Tell me this is just some terrible nightmare I can wake up from."
Romano smiled weakly, reaching for Spain's hand.
"It was just a matter of time," he whispered.
Spain's whole body shook. A tear fell from his eye, landing on Romano's cheek before gently rolling down.
"You're a country..."
"Was a country," Romano sighed slightly, "There can only be one Italy, and Veneziano is that one Italy. It's over for me." He looked down. He gasped gently, startled. Spain followed his gaze. His heart stopped beating for a brief, painful moment. The tips of the Italian's feet were fading, turning into close to invisible though sparkling shards. His hand shook as he raised it to Romano's face, caressing it slowly.
"Spain?" he was struggling to speak now, his words broken, "I'm not ready to go." Spain listened to him quietly, tears staining his cheeks.
"Stay with me," Romano cried, "Until I fall asleep. Please, stay with me."
Spain nodded, too shell shocked to say anything. No words came. No words but two.
"Te amo," he sobbed, squeezing Romano's pale, cold hand.
"Antonio... kiss me. Kiss it all better."
He leaned in close to the Italian's face. He could feel the last of the warmth in his cheeks, feel his shaky breath on his skin. His beautiful eyes were glazed in tears. He gently pressed his lips to his. He could taste the metallic taste of the man's blood as the fleeting, desperate kiss lasted. And ended.
He pulled away. The last light of light had left from his eyes. His chest no longer rose and dropped. He couldn't feel his shaky heartbeat.
"Stay with me," he cried, cradling the still body in his arms, "I need you."
He looked at the face of the love of his life which was the colour of parchment. He closed Romano's lifeless eyes before pressing soft kisses on both his eyelids, and another, more gentle and scared than the others on his lips. The man stayed limp in his arms.
He pressed his forehead into the Italian's neck.
"I'm sorry, Lovi. I couldn't kiss it better."
He cried as Romano faded into the last sparkling wisp that floated away into the sky. If only a kiss had the power to make everything better.