He sighed, his hazel eyes shifted around the street. The smell of food hit his nostrils, the people walked around, he could feel everything. Soon these people wouldn't be his anymore. Soon he would rip his frail body from the strings he was tied to. He had nothing to lose anymore.
But his brother, his poor brother, the crushing weight of people that weren't necessarily his suddenly be part of him. To be representing all of the pain and misery his people went through. He vaguely remembered what it was like. When grandpa Rome ceased to exist, he had to take on the weight of Rome.
His brother was always stronger than he was. As air headed as he was, he was unrelenting, the true essence of Italy, he wasn't infested with fugitives and organised crime syndicates, poverty and desolation, his brother knew how to make Italy as sophisticated as France, as passionate as Spain.
Walking home, dreaming of the sweet sound of "fratello" and "tomato" made him feel light. Mortal wounds could kill nations in isolated events. He would live regardless of battle and poverty, a curse. Such a cruel curse. But it could work. He could be free and human. Lovino instead of Romano. Italian instead of Italy. Mortal instead of immortal. Himself instead of his people.
"Lovi~" Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he stood on the pavement. Spain rapidly approaching him.
"Antonio." Not Spain, not tomato bastard, just Antonio.
"Lovi what's wrong?" Lovino went to ignore him and walk away but Antonio grabbed his arm. He winced at the strong grip.
"Lovino, tell me whats wrong." Lovino could hear the authority in his voice.
"F-fuck off, you bastard, go plant some tomatoes or someshit!" Lovino felt like he was swallowing a piranha, the need for air was taking over his body.
"Lovino, that isn't going to work this time, who did this to you?"
"M-me." Using Spains momentary shock and confusion, he launched into a sprint, ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring the pain in his legs, all he felt was the excruciating desire to run, if he didn't move, he felt like he would've collapsed and screamed out. If this was what life was. He wanted out.
Fumbling for his keys, he ran into his house and turned around to lock his door.
His knees buckling. He felt like he couldn't move, like he would be left to starve in the dark corner of his mind. He needed to do it now, it couldn't wait, it was the last thing he would ever do so he needed to do it right. He used his hands and knees to crawl into the bathroom and reached towards the razor blades, his hand could not reach them, like something was holding him back, like maybe he was going to regret it, like this could hurt something bigger than him. Like how Spain would cry, how Italy would wail and scream for him back. But Italy would have better things, for once Potato Bastard, no matter how much pain he had caused as The Holy Roman Empire, would look after him. Spain had the Bad Touch Trio. Both had the whole world loving them.
But he had no one who would miss him. Only he could put himself out of his misery.
Edging the blade closer, it dug into his skin, he took a deep. Breath and dragged it down his arm. He screamed out in pain. Ugly sobs racked his body, the garnet colour seeping through the cracks in the tiles. He did another and another and another. The sobs got louder. The white hot pain engulfed his senses as he glanced at his mangled wrists, the greasy muscle and tissue created a grotesque caricature. It looked ugly. No amount of gothic poems could make the sheer horror of the situation beautiful. It was never supposed to be so ugly. Romantic like the renaissance, bloody like the war.
He leapt into a pit of cold, unforgiving obsidian