It started with a little 'Wow, I suck' and 'Bet Feli could've done better' and 'I bet everyone really hates me.' Then it escalated further and further. It wasn't all the time, at first. Every few months or so, he'd get this numb, painfully empty feeling in his chest and stomach. Then it would leave after a while and everything was fine again.

But one time it didn't leave. It stayed and it stayed, and it wouldn't let him go, and it was just so exhausting. He slept a lot. It was too much effort to stay awake. He didn't hurt when he slept. Then Feliciano started 'hug therapy' and it annoyed the shit out of him, so he acted normal and cursed and acted like an asshole. If he could pretend everything was normal, then it was. He didn't have depression or anything equally as pathetic as that. He wasn't going to let himself hurt just because he got a little blue sometimes.

It started with scratching and pinching. Just a little bit, just to hold back and not scream or cry or quite possibly both. Then one day... He'd used a knife. He'd been horrified and disgusted after, but... peaceful. Ish. But he didn't draw blood. He wouldn't draw blood. And he'd only do it once in a while.

Well, that whole grand fucking set of rules dissolved pretty quickly once he found the wonders of a razor. Just a little blood, though, just enough for a real taste of physical pain. And only on his upper forearm, never his wrist. Never, ever, ever. Why did he even bother anymore? The first few cuts on his wrists were shallow, hardly enough to draw blood. For a little while. Then one day he was just so angry, and so upset, he needed a bit more pain. He'd cut through the skin, and the skin parted, allowing him to peek in and see white muscle or tissue or whatever the fuck that was and veins. Then he cried, because he was fucking scared and he really cut deep.

Then he did it again and didn't cry. And again and again. Then he wondered... How far could he go? Nations don't exactly die easy, if at all... How far could he go? And then he wondered, what would it take to kill him?

So he set up a bucket-list of suicide attempts. He'd tried hanging, but even though it had snapped his neck and he couldn't breathe, he didn't die. He just fell into unconsciousness and woke up on his couch feeling dizzy. (Still scares the fuck out of him, because who the fuck got him down and did they tell anyone?) He tried to drown, but alas. It seemed oxygen wasn't all that necessary and all it did was cause him immense pain and lots of unconsciousness before he managed to use his flexibility to untie himself from the ropes and forced himself out of the bathtub. There were still more ways on the bucket-list, however, and he came up with more every week to add onto it.

...

Romano stared down at his mostly normal arms in disappointment. Approximately three hours before, they were torn to red ribbons with a sharp razor. Now, they just had pink scars. Damn nation healing. Romano clicked his tongue with a frown and opened his phone. He searched down a list before marking an 'x.'

"Slice arms open and bleed to death. X."

Romano looked down at the blood surrounding the floor and sighed. "Damn." He murmured. "I'll clean it up later." He shrugged, always the epitome of procrastination, then stood, stumbling slightly as he felt mildly light headed. Romano looked down at his phone again. 3:12. "Guess I'll take a nap then." He muttered, exhausted.

...

"Lovinito~" Spain sang as he knocked on the Italian's door. He waited all of three seconds before deciding to let himself in. Spain hummed happily as he pulled his key out of his pocket- Romano hadn't given it to him, per se, but it was totally okay! (Prussia had actually stolen Italy's key to Romano's house and duplicated it, then gave the duplicate to Spain.)

"Romano!' Spain called, putting the key back in his pocket. Spain curiously noted an odd smell in the air as he passed the bathroom. Like... Not gross, but... Irony? Spain shrugged to himself as he continued on his merry way to his favorite angry Italian's room. "Romano, are you taking a siesta?" Spain whispered as he entered the dark room and closed the door silently behind him.

Romano didn't respond as Spain curiously peered down at him. Romano slept with a blank expression, chest rising and falling ever-so-slightly. Romano looked pale, other than the dark bags under his eyes. Spain frowned. Romano didn't look so great. Spain brushed Romano's bangs out of the way of his face slightly and put a hand on Romano's forehead. He didn't feel clammy or anything like that, just... kind of cold. Spain beamed silently as he decided to make Romano some food for when he woke up and would hopefully look and feel better (and not yell at him too badly for coming in the house without explicit permission.)

But first, he had to take a bathroom break.

...

Romano awoke abruptly at the sound of his door being slammed open. He jerked up in surprise and his wide eyes landed on Spain, who was currently freaking the fuck out and wailing something incomprehensible for the newly-awake Italian. Spain wasted no more time at the door flailing, and instead took it upon himself to storm over to Romano and lift him to sit with his legs off the bed. "What the fuck-" His angry sputter was cut off as Spain tore off the smaller man's shirt.

Romano gasped and flushed slightly. "Wh-What the Hell, you-" Romano breath stuttered to a stop as Spain looked down at his body with tears welling in his eyes. Romano self-consciously curled in on himself. Spain's eyes had already taken everything in by then, though. From the now pinkish-white scars that had obviously tore into his arms not too long ago, to the small scars and nicks on his chests, then down to his stomach, where a white 'Fuck You' had been carved deep.

"Tell me someone else did this. Anyone. Please. Let it have been the mafia or some punk, or an alternate personality of your brother or the mail man. Please." Spain begged and Romano couldn't hold his gaze, instead dropping it to his lap. "I'm sorry." Romano instead whispered. The strangled sob that ripped out of the larger male's chest forced Romano to close his eyes as a torrent of self-disgust and loathing filled him. Look what he'd done now. He'd gone and made- Made fucking Spain of all people cry. Shit, what else could he possibly fuck up?

"Promise me," Spain choked out, gripping Romano's arms tightly, "Promise me you won't do anything like this again. Please, please, please." Spain sobbed harshly, full of so much raw pain that Romano began to cry as well, out of guilt more than what he had done to himself. "I love you, I love you so much!" Spain choked on sobs, kissing every part of Lovino's face.

"I promise." Romano lied. He didn't know it yet, but he had lied. He could never stop, would never even want to stop. Not really. Not until he loved himself as much as Antonio loved him.

It wouldn't stop until all life left him, and he could finally fly far, far away.

The reason Romano is so extreme is because subconsciously, he knows he can't die. So he's being his usual rebellious self in a sense, and trying to prove that wrong. He no longer fears death, and is searching for it, because he thinks that it is his only way out from the hurt and pain he feels. He can't deal with his emotions, because he feels too much and too hard.

Just because someone may confess their love- platonic or not- doesn't mean that it will "fix" the person that is depressed or whatever immediately. Any fic that portrays that is inaccurate. Healing takes time, and not only Antonio's love for Lovino, but Lovino's love for himself, too. Review, please.