Romano sits alone in his room. The blind is down, all is silent. He can hear yelling from people in the street. He wants to open his window, yell at them and tell them to shut up, but he doesn't. He's afraid the sudden light might blind him.
He's been like this for a day at least. The lights off, the blinds down, clothed in darkness. At first he liked it, lulled by the false sense of security that the dark and the warmth brought. Now, he feels smothered.
His phone, on a table on the other side of the room, lights up with another call from Veneziano. He scowls, and his face hurts from the sudden flexing of muscles.
At least twelve hours ago, he started calling. Romano never answered. He knows his brother is worried about him, and could probably cheer him up and bring him pasta, but he won't give in. He tells himself he likes this, that he prefers the feelings he knows right now. He tells himself he doesn't care about his pride, but he knows it isn't true.
For weeks now he has felt depressed. And it's all because of that tomato bastard.
Spain doesn't care about him, he knows that. Spain raised him, knew him when he was a child. How can you possibly fall in love with someone whose relationship with you is so complicated? And doubly so, because of Romano's disposition.
Romano always covers up his true feelings with that mask of sarcasm, rudeness, and swearwords, but it's more intense around Spain; simply because his feelings for him are more intense. The truth is, for his whole life he has been slowly falling in love with the bastard. He just denied it until now.
Romano's phone, which has been silent for a bit, starts up again. Veneziano. Probably leaving annoying voice messages, too.
Veneziano never understands, never will. Ever since they were children he was always the favourite, the golden child. And when he grew up and fell for the potato bastard, he got his love right away. In Romano's mind, Veneziano has never had to fight for something, let alone his own sanity.
Romano moves one leg, slowly stretching it out. It's been hours since he has last done this.
He feels as though he is bleeding. Not anywhere on his body, not in the physical sense of the word. More like he is bleeding lies and sin, like his entire life is leaking from him. With every second he sits there, every minute and every hour, more of himself leaves him and floats away. The flow is heavy, and it feels impossible to make a tourniquet. Soon, he will be nothing but an empty husk.
He looks down, and his hands clutch each other. Bruises ghost themselves over them, and he doesn't know if the bruises are real or just a hallucination.
Romano is weary of this. Yet he still can't force himself to get up and change it.
When he first realized he was in love with Spain, it was the strangest feeling he's ever had. It was almost like seeing his soul for the first time, knowing that what he felt was no mere phase, something he could shake off or would go away with time. It has always been following him, he realized, like a spectral dog in the night. He can see it, he can feel it, but it will never bark.
He turns his head, and catches a glimpse of himself in his mirror. At first he doesn't recognize himself, his hair messy and mutilated, eyes hollow and cheeks sunken. He doesn't look human. His eyes fill with tears, knowing that if he were to go to Spain now, he would never accept him.
With that thought, his vision starts clouding over, neon green and purple stars blink before his eyes. His ears start to ring and his head buzzes. And it's suddenly like he can see his life going in rewind.
WWII, WWI, 1800s, 1600s, his time with Spain.
He sees it now from a different point of view, a outsider's perspective. His memories are always warped, for when he was a child he believed Spain was only after his inheritance. But he sees it now as it really was-and finally understands that Spain truly did like him and enjoy having him around. Indeed, the child Romano was always spoiled and ungrateful, and Romano now cringes at his younger self.
His muscles twitch and his vision clears, and all he can see again is himself in that mirror.
Mirrors used to be looked upon as magical devices, showing the future or communicating over long distances. Who's to say that isn't true? This mirror just showed him the error of his ways, and captured the ridicule of everyone. Romano shivers, suddenly feeling even more alone than before.
He wants to change it, change what he feels. But he's tired of trying, trying so hard and nothing ever happening.
How does nobody know why he's gone? Have they all been as blind as he, sleepwalking through the days? Pretending not to care and wasting away? Perhaps everyone is like this inside, broken dreams and doubts clouding their thoughts so that they can hardly breathe. Perhaps everyone is not as much of an asshole as he thought.
Romano decides he is going to change this. Because he's open for a new way, and there's not much more that he can fake.
He can't fake it...
All of a sudden, Romano's legs jumped, and he fell off his bed. Every single muscle buzzes. He slowly picks himself up off the floor. His brain, his muscles, his bones, his everything is telling him to stop moving. But he keeps going. He can't fake it any longer.
When he reaches his cell phone, he sees there's twenty-seven missed calls from Veneziano. Twenty-seven from him alone. And... Yes, there's just as many from Spain.
Romano almost smiles. The damn bastard did care.
Limping over to his window, he yanks open the blind and the light strikes him at full force, like a slap in the face. His vision comes back into focus and he is suddenly acutely aware of everything. It is 2:38 exactly. It is 16 degrees Celsius outside. He can see everything in his room from where he stands. His shoes are by the door. All he needs is to slip them on and go.
And he's off, shoving his feet in shoes and running, out of his room, out of his house, and across Europe. Straight to Spain.
"Spagna you bastard!" He yells, reaching Spain's place. The door flies open immediately, and it's Spain there. He looks so worried and relieved, it almost brings Romano to tears again.
"Roma!"
Before Spain can react, Romano launches himself on Spain. This is such bizarre behaviour, even if Romano has been depressed. "Roma, what are you doing?"
"Ti amo, you bastard."
"Yo también te amo, Romano."