::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia

Well, this is my first solely Spamano story. Which is weird because I love them almost as much as I love PruHun.

In the end, it was the fucking labels that got to me. Depressing, lazy, selfish, angry, rude, obnoxious, whiny, failure. They were all so ridiculously ignorant. And all the mouths they came out of? Even worse.

So high and mighty; somehow above who I was, who I am. They didn't like what they saw, and they made sure to express it at any given moment that even hinted an opportunity. It always made me want to laugh at these fucking morons who thought that anyone gave a damn about their random ass shit. I sure as hell couldn't have cared whether or not rain was expected for Tuesday, if so-and-so had awful hair, if that particular fruit cocktail had a fucking cherry pit, if good-for-nothing Lovino Vargas was a disgrace. It didn't matter! None of it ever mattered, and yet, they treated other people like the idiots. Takes one to know one.

Honest to God, I think it was because they were scared. It didn't take a genius to assume they disliked who I had become.

The funny part? When they got down to it, they all knew I was just like them. Only, in certain ways, better. At least I could be honest with myself. At least I could look in the fucking mirror every morning, and I didn't have to pretend that I liked what I saw. And they did. They kept pretending that their fake faces, and their naive thoughts, and their pointless worries actually mattered. So when they saw me, someone who had fallen past the pitfalls of denial and moved on to fucking "enlightenment", they were scared. Obviously, "enlightenment" had very little to do with the light, and a whole hell of a lot more to do with fighting the dark. Artificial lights are better than nothing, some say.

And so, Lovino Vargas became the epitome for all depression. He became depressing.

I was lazy because I no longer gave a fuck about what was going on around me. How the hell was I supposed to care about somebody else, when getting through a fucking conversation made me want to kill myself?

That fact alone was what made me inconsiderate. How could I be so selfish by not stopping every few feet to smile like everything was okay? How could I ruin other peoples' nights by being angry?

I became rude, obnoxious, and whiny. People hated that I was so able to be outwardly unaffected by what they said. My whole life had been full of degrading shit heads: I wasn't about to worry about a few more. Existence had already thrown it's curve balls, and if those ass holes thought they could do any better, well, that was just something else they were kidding themselves about.

I was already the other half of Italy, the darker half, the more dangerous half, the half with the Mafia, the half that couldn't sit through a meeting, the half that was an obnoxious brat, the half that didn't know when to shut up, and then, once again, the half that wouldn't give a fuck if you were about to be shot through the head. That amazed me. I turned from something immature and nasty to something scary and warped to something shaming and stupid in the length of time it took for three different people to express their opinions.

All those people: countries, and humans, and politicians alike, were so easily molded, so easily bent. They said one thing, and within the next five seconds it changed to something else equally stupid, and yet, even more so because suddenly, it wasn't their own idiocy speaking, but someone else's.

They were still pretending, and I hated them for it. If I could be so honest with myself, if I could endure so much suffering, then so the hell could they.

Eventually, after days in the dark, nights in the haze, forgetting to sleep and eat in between, I came to admire them. I admired their adamant shirking from the truth. They refused to see themselves as they really were, and in the long run, it was saving them. They were happier in delusion, happier in the artificial lighting, happier to remain naive. Yet – yet – they insisted on continuing to degrade me.

Years of blissful ignorance hardened their resolve that indeed, I was the freak, the outcast, the self-destructive whiny brat. I was a shame on Italy, a shame on my noble family, a shame on my friends. Somehow, I was alienated for being exactly the same as every other twisted soul, only, I was honest. Aren't we all fucking beasts on the inside?

After several years, my facade was born. I was never one to share, I hated fucking vulnerability. It had never been my salvation to talk out my problems, seeing as the next day they were the topic to talk about. I was alone, and I preferred it that way. Or, really, I just saw it as inevitable. It was easier to say that it was preferable.

Eventually, this flawed system began to work. I was hiding my scars, all of my scars, and nobody was asking questions anymore. I wasn't the talk, just the old topic: Lovino Vargas, still can't grow up. And that certainly was preferable.

.

During all that time, I really was the stronger half of Italy, despite being a nation never renowned for being a fucking hero. Rather the opposite, something my fratello seemed to have no personal qualms about. "Fight, ve? But it's lunchtime and I want pasta! Lets run away for the fifth time this week!" I'm no warrior, either, and fighting alone? Half of Italy? The odds were not in my favor, and I fucking high tailed it too. Only, I had to carry the weight of the blame as well.

One thing I had always succeeded in alone was handling the Mafia. They were broken people acknowledging the actual cruel ass ways of life. They got it. I got them. We reached an understanding. The Mafia was always "under control" to the outside world.

Of course, nothing stays in its prime forever and the Mafia died out. They never experienced the golden age they once had, and suddenly, I had no purpose anymore. I couldn't handle the meetings, I certainly screwed over all diplomacy, and I laughed in the face of "important" economic problems. I was useless in the government. Feliciano on the other hand, wonderful, angelic, cooperative Feliciano was perfect. He just nodded and yawned and didn't pay attention. Eventually, he was invited in my stead.

Dio, at that point... at that point it should've been easy. I had no responsibility, I was shunned, I was finally, thankfully alone.

Alone all except for him.

.

Along with the labels, it was him who ruined me. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. Everyone left me eventually... except for him. He never gave me any fucking room to breath, and because of that, I slowly, disgustedly came to like him. Another human being. There was only one human being in the entire fucking universe I could tolerate; Fratello, and that was fucking mandatory.

But there that tomato bastard was, always with me, always cooing, and making those ridiculous shit noises that came from the back of his throat and gradually rose to the roof of his mouth and exploded in a sing-song lyrical tone that should have been directed at a two-year-old. At first, I thought he was just another idiot, somebody else demeaning me. Soon enough I came to realize that the actual toddler between the two of us was him. Hands down.

He was a fucking moron. Not only did he blatantly not understand who I was in society, he didn't figure it out. I was a failure when he took me in, and I was a failure when I left him all those years later. He still didn't get it, even when I started to physically abuse him, and when my especially brilliant swears were saved solely for him, and when every opportunity that presented itself to me was another opportunity in which I tried to shove him away. I could have drawn a fucking picture and he wouln't have got it. He just refused to see anything bad about me. Never before had someone found their way into my heart.

That affection was the end of me.

I should have been content when they kicked me out of my job. I was no longer responsible for anything but the occasional economy report, a few signatures here and there, a few honorary words at this or that. At any other point in my life I would have whooped for joy. Instead, I was horrified.

Compared to stupid Antonio, fucking perfect, tan, happy, decent Antonio, who ran a country all by himself and still treated every person in a five mile radius like they should be worshiped for breathing, I really was stupid, and lazy, and a failure. I couldn't handle my own job, half a job at that, and I was now practically unemployed. I would be if I wasn't the walking embodiment of 50,000 square kilometers. In a situation like that, it's hard to have all 116,000 if half of it no longer exists. I was honorary only, like the retarded English monarchy.

And it was fucking embarrassing. Antonio, who had always believed in me, had always told me to never give up on myself, who had always showered so much love sometimes I thought I was literally dripping with it, had finally been proven wrong.

I was worthless, made so by none other than myself.

...

The sea wind blows through my hair as I think back on all of this.

It's interesting, what comes to you in the last moments before a life-altering decision. It's nothing profound, or thoughtful. It's the stupid little things. Like how Antonio's breath smelled after he ate a fresh tomato on a sunny day. The way fratello smiled when I actually graced his pasta with a half-satisfied grunt. That hilariously flustered face of the potato sucker whenever I called him out on railing my brother. The way that Liza still gets me Christmas and birthday presents even though I haven't got her anything in centuries. Bella's infectious laughter when we go bike riding by the sea. All those things they did for me... I'm not going to miss never being able to give anything back. It's hard to love someone like me, someone who can't love conventionally. Loving me was never a lucrative business.

It crosses my mind that this is all so ironic. That for being a selfish brat, I'm really doing this for no reason in particular. It's as though I've gotten to a certain place... and I'm never going to move forward unless I do something. Maybe this is an unorthodox kind of something, but at this point, I don't believe it's fair to label me again, one last time. Call me the ultimate coward, call me selfish, and foolish. Call me ignorant. At the end of the day, I'm no different from the rest of you. You're all nasty people. You're all evil, soulless bastards. If that's the case, and I can do nothing right ever, what's the loss of one more stupid kid?

There are only a few people in this world that actually do good.

Fratello. He couldn't sow a bad seed in his body if he tried.

Liza. She was always so kind to me, even though Feliciano was the one like her son.

Bella, who was always the older sibling I couldn't be.

Antonio. Dio, there was Antonio. He was certainly the most... unique.

I gaze out over the lip of the jagged cliff, and smile at the way the waves dance together hundreds of feet below. The ocean is absolutely beautiful today. The clouds look painted by God. The sun kisses my skin. Fitting scenery

With a finalized sigh, I stand, pop my back, stretch my aching limbs, and I take in the view once more, knowing I'll never see it in this light again. I breath out slowly, letting my fingers play with the foreign piece of metal in my palm.

Can I do this? Can I really throw myself over the edge like this? Can I really end everything? Can I put faith in such an intangible future? Fuck, can I put any stock in heaven?

But no, now isn't the time to question myself. I didn't spend the last 27 nights sleepless to chicken out now. It's time to make the right decision. It's time to jump.

With a sense of beginning I turn around, back towards my car, back towards Antonio waiting in the driver's seat, not really processing how far out of my comfort zone my next move is going to be. I'm going to start over. For the first time in centuries, I'm going to be happy, and I'm going to get there on my own. No crutches, or fucking "handicap" signs plastered to my forehead, or codependency hidden by wrath. I've fucking got this one because it's my last chance, and even I can't pass this up, this chance for my own personal heaven.

Toni smiles, relieved almost, at the sight of me coming towards him, biting my lip, nails digging into my palm, surrounding that bizarre object. A bizarre object for a bizarre moment. With numb fingers I open the car door, and I sit down solidly, eyes blankly glaring at Antonio. He fidgets nervously.

"Lovi... what are you doing, querido? Are you all right? You worried me when you said you were going to the cliff all by yourself, and you were so close to the edge, and you've seemed a little off recently, and I want you to know that if you ever do anything to yourself like that, I would follow you, because I love you and-"

"Marry me, goddammit."

"Q-que?" he yelps, so startled I want to change my mind, throw this fucking, sweat-coated ring into the ocean, and follow it over the edge for good measure. I take a deep, shuddering breath. This is the start. This is going to be the new start.

I manage to choke out the five words through gritted teeth, practically melting into the custom leather of this car made prison. "Will you please marry me... Antonio?" The extra word is fucking bonus.

"'M-marry'?" He says it as though this is a vocab exam in school, and he didn't realize he'd completely forgotten to study one of the required words.

"Marry, Antonio. You know this word, come on, you fucking idiot."

His eyebrows scrunch together, and my heart explodes to knew levels of chest-shattering convulsions. Was 'fucking idiot' a bad thing to include in a proposal?

Finally, with everything in the balance, his brain finally catches the drift, gets the memo, stops jumping the fucking shark, and his emerald eyes soften. "On one condition."

"WHAT?" I scream, feeling tears teetering on the edges of my lids, tears that come when witnessing the early stages of a train wreck. "What the hell bastard, love isn't supposed to know limits, or restrictions, or fucking conditions! It's a fucking yes or no question, you-"

"Only if you marry me, too."

Then he does something that makes me want to kill him. He pulls out a ring. That bastard beat me to my own fresh start.

And it's a fucking gorgeous gold ring, in a fucking amazing box, and like usual, I feel like I've come up short, but in a good kind of way. And instead of cursing, I start to cry. I snatch the box from his hand, mumbling sort-of confirmations, rip the ring out, and shove it on my finger. Dio, that finger, the finger I never associated with myself. I quickly wipe his stupid ring of sweat on the fabric of my tee shirt. I fit it carefully into the re-gifted box, and give it back to the beaming man.

"You're a fucking moron, Antonio. Marriage kind of works both ways," I sob, still finding a way to question his sanity... and the double proposal to boot. But I have to say, this is probably more traditional than my original plan where I was going to just shove the boxless ring on his finger or down his throat, depending on his answer to the question.

He gives me that fucking shit-eating grin, the one that just swallows me up, and he takes his own ring out of the second-hand box and puts it on his fourth finger.

I smile, and I can't help but let the thank yous and gratitude pour from between my lips, that this man, this most amazing, beautiful man saw me, and didn't wake up every morning in an illusion, and he never questioned me, and he showed me that sometimes there's still that one person who's just right for you, even when everyone else isn't.

Sí, in the end... it was the labels that got to me. And the label that affected me most of all? Husband.

::A/N:: Well, there it is! I wanted to shake up something that might have been cliche, so tell me your thoughts!