Update: Hi! So, I went over this story and corrected a couple of errors with the pronouns I used and grammar errors in general. I didn't change any other aspects of the story. I also ended up writing another multi-chapter story called Inkling of Regret that shows how the events that happened here affected Romano's brothers and friends, so please go and check it out if you feel like it. Thanks!
Hey! I was bored, I decided to write this! This story is a one-shot based off of Hetalia headcanons. If you want to read more stories like this I may write more chapters. Enjoy! Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or its characters. All credit for that goes to its creator, Hidekaz Himaruya. Also, potential-trigger warning. This story includes self-harm, depression, and suicidal thoughts, so if you are sensitive to any of these things, please, please, please stop reading this right now.
Second-Best
Romano
Lovino burst into his room and slammed the door, tears freely streaming down his cheeks, as he promptly sunk to the floor. Sobs racked his body as his back pressed against the door, causing it to shake."Dammit. Dammit. Dammit." He choked out in between sobs. "Dammit..." Why did he say that? At the meeting, what had possesed him to say that? After all the work he had done to preserve his secret and hide his pain, how could he have just so blatantly said that and destroyed years worth of careful hard work with a few life-destroying words? How could he have been so damn stupid? "Dammit... this is why you will never amount to anything." He muttered to himself in between racking shakes as he remembered the things he didn't want to remember.
These memories... as a child he was always the isolated one. Grandpa Rome had always favored Feliciano. There was no denying or questioning that. Whenever he had wanted Grandpa Rome to pay attention to him, he always seemed to have to beg for it, and even then he didn't always receive it. More tears spilled down, tracking the drawn and pallid recesses in his cheeks as they made their way, spiraling downward, hitting the floor with a quiet and yet, so heavy splash.
As he got older and Antonio took him in, that was the first time he had felt loved by someone who wasn't his brother or expected to love him because of shared blood, nothing more. He had felt cared for, happy, and wanted, and he had tried to show his gratitude for it. But Antonio never had seemed to understand that when he had called him a jerk-bastard, he was really calling him a friend, and he wasn't the best in social situations, hence the reason he lashed out out at so many people. He just never understood how to connect with them. So when Antonio had attempted to trade Lovino for Feliciano, Lovino's heart broke. He had never felt to alone and dejected before, even when Grandpa Rome had seemed to forget all about him. He became depressed and cut himself in places people would ever see, and relished in this sort of relief.
This had continued on for a couple of years, until Feliciano had accidentally walked in on him watching his blood drip into an old pitcher, watching it fill up drip by drip with his own blood, a bloodied knife a few feet away. Feliciano had flew into a frenzy, freaked out, unleashed waterworks, and begged him to stop until Lovino had promised that he wouldn't. And he hadn't since that day, for his brother's sake, as he never had intended for Feliciano to cry. Feliciano had kept his secret and never told a soul, and neither did Lovino, but Lovino could always feel everyone's eyes upon him, boiling with suspicion at why Feliciano would tense whenever Lovino used a knife and why Lovino would tense when Feliciano was particularly depressed. And what were those meaningfully sad, melancholy, looks sometimes shared between the two about? Though Lovino had stopped cutting himself, on the inside, the depression remained. It was a constant, nagging feeling that he wasn't good enough, that he was the freak, the bastard child, that he was undeserving of life itself.
He had continued on like this for so many uncountable, interminable, years and today, when he had accidentally let it slip that at one point, he had resorted to self-harm of which the depression still remained, all hell broke loose, even though most nations have resorted to such methods and shouldn't be suprised by now. But still, there was something unnerving that Feliciano's own brother, the one who called everyone a bastard, and constantly lashed out at everything, could be undergoing such pain. Lovino had run as quickly as he could, in tears, never stopping to check behind him. Then, when Lovino had reached his home, he had locked every window, every door, every possible passageway leading into his house and had bolted into his room where he lay now, sobbing to himself.
Alone and uncontrolled, his thoughts drifted, until he had settled upon one. Shortly after Feliciano had found out about Lovino's depression, he had asked, "Ve, Lovi, what is it like to have depression?" Lovino didn't have a good answer at the time, but he most certainly did now. Depression was like drowning on land, above water, but whenever you look around to see if anyone else is drowning too, you just see that everyone else is acting normal, that they can breathe just fine, so you are pressured to act like that too. It was like slowly, over a period of time, everytime you woke up, things just got blander and blander until it was just you alone, in a sterile, colorless room that you once might have taken comfort in, now reduced to something unthinkably boring and tasteless, with nothing to do but wallow in your own depression.
And that room was Lovino's bedroom, now. Lovino frantically looked around now, panicking with the realization that it was just him alone now, with no reason to live on. Tears still pooling underneath him, he pulled himself over to the top dresser drawer, where he had stashed his knife long ago, when he sworn off self-harm. "I'm sorry Feli..." He murmured apologies to Feliciano as tears slipped down his cheeks. He never had wanted to make his little brother cry, he still didn't want to, but he just didn't see the point in living anymore. As he pulled the knife out, he looked at his own reflection in the once-silver but now stained-pink knife, coloring left over from past blood, when he had last wielded it against himself. Lovino's face stared back at him, his eyes red, cheeks flushed and tear-stained, and his lower lip trembling. He looked absolutely ridiculous, like an absolute mess. His hand, still with the knife, fell to the floor before pulling himself together and holding it ponderingly against the skin over his wrists. Should he cut here? Before Lovino had cut where no one would see, but did it really matter now? Everyone knew anyway. It didn't.
Loud yelling and banging noises aroused from the front door, as the creators tried to find a way in. Feliciano and Antonio. They were screaming, in tears begging for me to come out, but they'd never get in and I'd never come out. The door was locked shut. Taking in a deep breath, he raised the knife and drew a long cut first along his right wrist and then his left. It didn't matter now. More tears spilled over. He drew another cut, this one longer and more jagged. Then again, had it ever mattered in the first place? Another line, this one thicker and deeper, joined the others. Yes. It never did matter. More blood spilled, and uncountable amounts of tears fell, bringing with them great, big, racking sobs that made it harder to hold the knife steady. Oh well. It was too late now anyway. Shaky cuts, some straighter than the others, some longer, some shorter, some deeper, some shallower inked my arms now and spilled over blood that got everywhere. He had cut with silver, and watched, with great anticipation, as they turned a deep, dark, red until Lovino had gotten dizzy from blood loss and dropped the bloody knife on the floor, where it was met with a resounding clack. Shit. He sunk to the floor, cradling my arms as he curled into the fetal postion, a drowsy smile adorning his face as he watched his wounds bleed out until his eyes hurt too much to keep open. Suddenly the front door burst open, and no less than a minute later, Feliciano's, Antonio's, and a few other voices that Lovino was to drowsy to connect with surrounded me, all crying out and screaming his name and begging him to open my eyes. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. They hurt too much. He smiled inside, taking comfort in the fact that they are too late, he will die here, and they shouldn't be sad. After all, they don't need him anymore. Not when they have Feliciano, who doesn't need him anymore, not when Feliciano has his own friends instead.
After all, who needs second-best?
A/N: I hope you liked this! Let me know if you want to see stories similar to this, so I know whether or not to write more like this! Thanks for reading this, I hope you have a great day! Ciao!
Also, as a bit of an afterthought, I'm sorry if the characters seem a little O.C.C. Like I mentioned earlier, this story was based more off of headcannons, and less off of Hetalia's actual storyline. In this story Romano is suffering from depression because of events that took place as a child and just doesn't see the point in living anymore. I don't think that Spain actually meant to hurt Romano this much when he wanted to trade him for his brother, but it scarred Romano a lot more than intended. Also, Romano really doesn't want to hurt Italy, after all, it was Italy who originally got him to stop self-harm, but after many years when his depression still hadn't gotten better, he just didn't see the point of life anymore and he believes that Italy doesn't need him because Italy has his own friends (Germany, Japan, etc) to take care of him, so Italy won't hurt as much. This is a story. Author-chan did not write this with the intention to offend or to set people off. If you have depression, suicidal thoughts, or if you cut, please tell someone and let them help you. I promise there is someone who cares.