"I can't do it. I can't do... this," he whimpered, closing his reddened eyelids tightly. "I can't be like this any more. I can't..."
He was met with silence, his words echoing only through his own ears. The house was bereft of any company other than his suffering self.
"Am I just so artless, I can't control these feelings," he whispered. Or perhaps he hadn't whispered? Sometimes he wasn't sure what he said aloud and what he cried within the cage of his skull. In sad times the two sensations would clash.
"There is nothing I can do..."
He felt his lips move with this one, and knew it was aloud. Throwing his figure atop the bed he'd barely temporarily vacated, the young man considered his situation.
Where had he gone wrong? What, really, was wrong? There was no reason for his body to be so tired, for his emotions to be exhausted, to feel this extent of pain, tugging at his flesh from all directions. Nothing was so bad.
What an idiot, he thought, I'm such an idiot, I can't deal with myself even on fine days like this. Look at the sun! Isn't it beautiful? If I wanted, I could go play in that sun...
It was a lie. He could not visit the sun. He could not move from his bed, and there was no good reason.
...He was almost always this way when alone. A sad old man! That's what he felt like, a decrepit, feeble old man, with nothing to bring his heart to joy. His demeanor changed around Ludwig, as well as the other nations. What a change it was, from a sad, wobbly creature to a stupid child. At least, then, he was happy, but the personality came with its costs. He wasn't taken seriously by any of the nations, and he couldn't take on responsibilities without relapsing into his depressed state again. If he contradicted that childish thing he became, if he stopped playing, it would vanish, and the exhaustion would return.
Ludwig probably didn't know. Ludwig just thought he was lazy. Perhaps he was, perhaps he was really just stupid and lazy and whiny. As much as he'd tried to stay positive, and convince himself that he wasn't any of these things, the hard evidence said otherwise. He'd been spoiled, right? Even if sometimes he'd had bad times, he'd always been picky, and always an artist, not a hard worker.
Now Ludwig, there was a hard worker. Look at what an adult that man was! Ludwig didn't lay around all day feeling ill and drained. Ludwig didn't complain. Ludwig did his duties, and was stellar at them. Feliciano couldn't believe he was still allowed to live in a house with such a decent man. What could he offer? He wasn't special. He was lazy and did moronic things. He dinked around with art, and sometimes made food, but that was because he was too picky to eat what was provided, not because of any drive to contribute.
He wanted to sleep, to temporarily relieve himself from his mental burdens, but he couldn't. He hated that he was such a miserable being. If he couldn't get himself to do anything damn useful, couldn't he at least sleep? But no, not even could he accomplish that most simple of human feats. What a dramatic, ridiculous, loathsome sort of child he was! But he didn't know what to do, other than mull over his bad feelings. It would be hours of this. Nobody would be around. His thoughts circled within his brain, back and around the rickety passages of well-worn, joyless sentiments.
Feliciano's face was somber by the time Ludwig was back home. He'd quit crying a while before, so it didn't show on his face. He didn't turn and say hello when Ludwig came into his room. He was ashamed.
"Were you in bed all day?" asked his housemate, raising an eyebrow.
"Mm hmm," he said. His voice was muffled by the sheets.