"The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief.
But the pain of grief
Is only a shadow
When compared with the pain
Of never risking love"
~ Hilary Stanton Zuinin
It was a gloomy day. The sky was a dull grey colour, the usual crystal blue clarity having been lost to the menacing clouds above. It was going to rain. That was easily visible. In the past few hours, the clouds had swollen up greedily, heavy with the water that hung within them, getting slowly darker and more threatening as time passed. They had appeared on the horizon in the early hours of the morning and had rolled over the hillside until the entire sky had been engulfed. It could be any second that they would let go and pour their contents onto the world below.
Spain lowered his head. Honestly, the sky held little interest to him. It was a terrible distraction, so grey and monotonous; it wasn't worth trying to keep staring at it. His eyes landed upon the hole in front of him again – it was the only thing he could look at – and the tightly fit, burgundy red casket inside. It was closed, thank heaven, the perfectly polished lid reflecting the clouds' glare back into his face, but it still brought back everything. The waves of pure agony washing over him, crushing every single cell in his body, his very own soul until it was nothing but dust, blown in the desert wind, his heart being ripped from his chest and torn apart over and over until the pain was utterly unbearable.
Spain screwed his eyes shut. A single tear slipped down his cheek.
The priest's voice had become a distant mumbling long ago. Everything seemed distant now a days, fuzzy, out of focus, like it wasn't really there. They were all just ghosts on a shadowy night. He would fade out from the world, stuck deep in his mind, in his own world of nothing but pain. The only thing that could bring him back was the mention of him.
"Italy Romano."
Spain's mind snapped back on track instantly, being forced back into reality at the mention of his name. He glanced around him, sobbing and crying mourners standing everywhere. They held no interest to him, no sympathy. Their tears were just petty compared to real feelings, to the pain he held. He tried to feel disgusted but he had nothing left within him to do it. He was completely numb.
He could imagine clearly what the Italian say if he were here, complaining about the every little detail as his eyes would shine in that way that show...ed how he truly felt.
'Look at this. Call this a fucking funeral. Those guys aren't even crying. When you're at my funeral, I want you fucking mourn, dammit! And where's all the girls? There should be hundreds of cute girls flocking in to appreciate my amazing, sexy presence in their lives. And what the fuck is this! Lilys! Well, I guess their not that bad – they are our national flower – but I wanted tomatoes buried with me so I could eat them when I'm dead. This is the crappiest fucking funeral ever!'
Spain might have smiled. His mind could make a pretty good version of him. But it wasn't him. It never would be again.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The burning pain in his chest flared up again, eating away at him slowly from the inside. It wrenched at him, everything nothing but pure agony. Just a memory, just hearing his name, his voice, was excruciating torture.
Why did he have to leave? Couldn't he have just stayed for a little while longer? Couldn't he have stayed just to say goodbye?
"He will be missed greatly, but now we can be sure he is heading on to a better life. God bless him."
'Better life my ass.'
The priest closed his bible. He nodded discreetly to the two men beside him and they began to slowly, respectfully, lower the burgundy coffin into the ground. Spain opened his eyes to watch only.
The coffin sank slowly into the ground, giving people around them time to say their final goodbyes before he was to be buried and gone forever. The Spaniard felt his heart, his life, sink into the earth with it. It would be buried and, Spain knew there and then, he would never get it back. All he wanted to do was throw himself in there with the sinking coffin and spent the rest of his days there. At least then the pain would stop.
The procession ended. People began to take their leave. Spain could only assume they were heading to the reception. Some people lingered, paying their last respects and sparing a few comforting words for Spain himself. Spain didn't care. Their words were like snowflakes against a window, completely useless at getting through but pretty to look at from a distance. They eventually left as well. ("We can't be late. It would seem dreadfully disrespectful.")
Spain drew a deep shaky breath. He was alone, at last. He could finally say goodbye the way he wanted to.
The silence of the graveyard rang in his ears. It surrounded him in a rush, swallowing him in its huge jaws, along with the last of his sanity. The wind blew. The trees rustled. Spain still stared down at the grave, dead stiff.
Without any warning, the Spaniard turned so his back was facing the grave, not able to look at the life ending pit. He began to walk, his numbness controlling him. He wasn't going to the reception. He couldn't. He didn't understand how people could eat and celebrate after someone had just died – especially someone as important as him. Honestly, he didn't know where he was going. He just needed to go, to get away from the empty graveyard.
Within seconds, Spain was running.
He didn't look back.
An hour later, the bloated clouds finally poured their contents onto the world below, relieved at the chance to finally empty themselves again. It began slowly, drop by drop, the fat, splattering drops of summer rain, but it quickly got harder, until it was the kind that had you soaking to the bone in seconds. The constant battering of rain became a thick mist, distorting the surrounding scenery like frosted glass.
The cemetery was deserted. Even in the light of day no one would come visit the dead, not that they could complain.
Spain was walking, slowly and stiffly. The cold rain drops hit his face, sharp as pricks from a needle, and slowly slid down to the ground. His clothes were sodden and hung heavy on his body. The wind controlled his soaking hair, blowing and battering it around, the most fun it had had in days. The constant pounding of rain drummed rhythmically on his head. In his hand, he held a white, plastic bag. It was dripping wet but the plastic covering had safely protected what was inside. It shook violently as the wind gusted, trying to escape from its place in his grip.
He didn't notice the rain or the wind. Nothing. He just walked.
The grave drew up in front of him, his grave, and Spain suddenly stopped. The crunching of his shoes against the grass ceased. He was enveloped in silence once again; the only sound the constant hum of the driving rain. He stood numbly beside it, staring wide-eyed down at the grave.
It was filled. The fresh dirt covered his only, and last, passage to his love.
His legs gave way, collapsing into a trembling mess on the muddy ground. He couldn't stand anymore he felt so weak. His hands shook, his breathing quickened. He couldn't believe... It was really real. Everything was really happening. All of it.
He couldn't tear his eyes from the grave in front of him, he didn't dare to, the fear of losing more of his love after the last time gripping him strongly, not even to study the newly erected headstone. Salty tears, ones of silent torture, streaked down his face, mingling with the heavy rain drops before falling to the muddy ground, insignificant amongst everything else. Then the sobs came. They tore through him as the world as he knew it crashed and burned maliciously around him. They echoed out across the empty graveyard, cutting through all other noises, reflecting back to him as if shove in his face the heart break and sorrow that filled his screams. Each one that rattled through him only got more and more desperate as he knelt, alone and soaked, in the surrounding mud.
Alone.
The word echoed over and over agonisingly through his mind. It wouldn't stop. He couldn't make it. He was alone. Always.
Time was not something that Spain took notice of now a days. The sun set and, a little while later, it rose again. Sometimes it was dark, sometimes it was light, sometimes it was nothing. And so was each day.
He didn't know how long ago the funeral had ended when his sobs finally stopped. The sun was still up, that was one thing, but only just, the day's sunset evident over the horizon. The rain still poured lightly onto his head. The graveyard was still empty.
Spain lifted his tear stung eyes, staring into nothing for a moment before slowly focusing on the freshly filled, muddy grave. It looked bland, as dull and grey as the sky above. A different sort of sadness began to fill his hollow inside, one of almost disappointment. He could not bear to see his grave in this way.
He remembered the plastic bag, lying strewn out and wet across the muddy ground where he had mistakenly dropped it. Spain panicked. It couldn't be ruined, could it? The rain had been hammering down for hours now and he didn't even know how long it had been since he dropped it...
Spain hesitantly removed the plant from the bag. It was still standing, although the healthy gleam it had had when he'd bought it had all but vanished, and the leaves were still the beautiful, bright green colour he had known and loved for most of his life.
Spain was careful as he placed it back on the ground, not wanting the disaster of having his present actually be destroyed. It stayed upright, just, and, with a satisfied, yet broken, sigh, he turned to the grave and began digging a small hole in front of the headstone. The freshly laid soil made it easy to manoeuvre with his hands. Becoming dirty to him did not matter right now. But as he dug, the pelting rain managed to fill every inch of the hole as he spooned more and more dirt out.
Spain stopped digging a few minutes later, satisfied, and went to pick up the plant beside him. He turned back to it, plant in hands, only to find it was nothing more than a muddy puddle. He didn't care. He placed the plant in the hole, the water that splashed onto his face being run off almost instantly by the constant rain, and filled in the remaining space with soil, pressing it down firmly so nothing would come loose. The dirt felt grainy in his fingers. It crumbled at a single touched, leaving brown tracing behind on his fingers. He was finished in minutes.
The rain quickly darkened the soil around the plant, dripping from its green leaves onto the ground underneath.
Spain stood, his eyes never leaving the plant. He might have smiled. Romano would have liked it.
Agonising pain fired up in his heart at the mention of his love's name, not that he had a heart anymore. Shattered to pieces, torn from his chest, buried with the body. How it happened Spain would never know, but it was gone now, leaving only a hollow emptiness, as empty as the graveyard around him.
Spain turned and walked away for the second time that day, leaving the empty graveyard behind him.
The sun was setting, stealing the last of the light from the world. It cast an eerie, orange glow over everything, including the newly dug grave. The plant Spain had planted still stood above it, bending and swaying as the wind ordered it too, feeling the wrath of the heavy rain upon its bright green leaves. If one were to study it closely, small, green baby tomatoes would be visible amongst the leaves and braches, noticeably lighter compared to their own colour. With the right love and care, they would soon grow to become healthy ripe tomatoes.
'Thank you.'
Spain might have smiled.
Hey everybody! I'm back :) And this time, it's personal. I've done a lot of work writing this fic so I hope you like it :D I'll be updating weekly and I'll make sure I stay on schedule for you guys. Cos you are amazing! If you liked it, feel free to leave a review just in the box below. If you didn't, do the same (I need to learn how I can improve :D) Thanks!