"The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to them alone, absolutely and irretrievably lost"

~ Arthur Schopenhauer

The cold, morning sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, the curtains still wide open from the night before – they were never closed – lighting up the room with a dull light that only a hazy day can shine. The sunrise today had been no different from any other. It was always the same sun, rising in the same place after all, so why would today be any different?

Spain lay, eyes closed, deep in sleep, on the large double bed centred in his room. Although people say that sleep is the most peaceful time of the day, for him it certainly wasn't. His face was contorted, warped into a mask of worry. He tossed and turned persistently, changing restlessly from his side, to his back and to his side once again. Indiscernible mummers escaped his lips, sometimes barely audible, sometimes becoming moans and cries of pain tearing through him. He still slept though.

A nightmare. Another one. It had to be. He had woken up every morning since the funeral in the same way, stiff, frozen with fright, his breathing heavy and his eyes wide and staring, fear pooling within them, the fear of reality, the fear of waking and having to face another day. But it always came; realisation, the truth, always eventually came.

This was the fifth day now; the fifth sunrise that had risen. The nightmares had been battering him every night with no rest.

At least the dream world held a place he could escape to, a place he could be without pain for an inkling of a moment. It wasn't peace but it was better than reality. Reality was nothing. All he did was lie, dead –or as good as – lifeless beneath his protective sheets. He was a motionless creature, always staring with a blank expression into nothing. He never ate. He never washed. He never moved. He wasted away his days, his life, and filled them with emptiness. They floated past him like beautiful, pure feathers caught by the wind.

His expression was vacant, always vacant, not even a slither of emotion spreading onto it. It was as if he had no emotion left in him to feel.

"Romano."

The word was barely audible, his stifled mutters for once forming a single coherent word. It made Romano's heart ache, like it could shatter at any moment, crack into a million tiny, glistening pieces. It hurt too much to see him like this. Spain shouldn't be this way. It wasn't right. To see the Spaniard, once bright and happy, that perfect smile never leaving his face, to have fallen so deep, was more than Romano could bear. So much pain, so much depression surrounded him, it crushed him, bearing down on him (down and down) until even lifting his head was an arduous task.

It's a miracle he even wants to live...

It occurred to Romano then and there, as the thought flitted through his mind, that he didn't. But Spain was country, and countries couldn't commit suicide. That was something Romano would be forever grateful for.

Romano had been with Spain continuously for the past five days; always invisible, always dead, simply watching, hoping, as the days passed over the Spaniard one by one, as he slowly deteriorated lower and lower into depression. The pain washed over him, wave upon wave, and the whole time he managed to keep a straight, dead face, as if he were doing it for him, for Romano. Only the night gave an insight into how Spain truly felt. He could only imagine the agony he was going through.

And all Romano could do was watch.

Many people had attempted to consol Spain in the days that had passed. Distant knocks (for the doorbell had been long out of use) had echoed through the large house many times, making it to the bedroom only as quiet taps. Usually it had been France or Prussia, they're worried voices travelling through the silent halls more than others, sometimes together, sometimes alone, begging desperately for Spain to let them, anybody, in.

'You need to talk to someone, mon ami.'

'You're going to die if you spend the rest of your life like this.'

Spain had done nothing. He remained silent, unmoving, undisturbed by frantic calls echoing through the corridors, his lips pressed together firmly in a tight line. They always turned bleach white while his friends voices could be heard.

Belgium and Austria had visited too, although they were less vocal than the Spaniard's best friends, and once the gruff voice of Spain's anxious boss had come through the front door. Although Romano had no clue as to what was being said – Spanish had always been a hard language to understand – he sounded genuinely concerned, more so than other bosses, and had talked to Spain in a respectful, sympathising voice, as though he were his friend and not his employer.

But they all eventually left and the world fell into the dark abyss once again.

"Romano!"

This time it was louder, more definite, and the pain in the cry stabbed straight through Romano's unbeating heart. Another crack, ever fragile, ever crumbling.

Romano sighed. He would give anything, everything, if only Spain to hear his voice. He desperately wanted to say something, to try and comfort him, to help him. It was too painful just standing there, as black and useless as a clouded sky on the new moon.

It fucking sucks being a ghost. At least in all those movies and stuff people could hear them.

Romano sighed again (he was doing that a lot lately) and looked down to the sleeping Spaniard below him.

"If only..." he muttered.

Spain's eyes snapped open. It made Romano jump, startled, and back away a few steps. In his eyes, the emerald green sparkle that usually shone so brightly was back for once, a flickering candle in the windy darkness. But they were wide, fright and terror flooding into them, clear on his face. His breathing was quick, heavy. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

And in an instant the flash had gone and the sparkle in his eyes faded, leaving only dull, glazed ones behind.

"Good. You're finally awake. I've been fucking bored out of my mind waiting for you. Watching you sleep isn't as much fun as you'd think it is." Romano paused for a second, wondering, hoping, if Spain would say anything. He didn't. "Well... don't just lie there. Get off your fucking lazy butt and cook some breakfast, dammit!"

Spain stayed unmoving, his blank eyes staring out the window at the grey morning. Romano huffed, irritation beginning to grate at the edge of him. He took a determined step in front of Spain, blocking his line of sight, and crouched down so his eyes were directly level with the Spaniard's. The pain and agony every day brought with it was unmistakable in the perfect forest green of his eyes. They didn't focus, remaining glazed and distant as if Romano wasn't even there.

He wasn't.

"Are you even listening to me, bastard?"

He wasn't.

"I said stop lazing about and go make some fucking breakfast! You can't just spend your whole life in bed."

Silence echoed through out the room. Spain blinked, his expression empty, almost bored. He stared straight through the Italian and out the window, not even acknowledging him. Not that he expected him to. He would never acknowledge him.

After a moment of nothing, Spain let out a long, heart wrenching sigh and turned to lie on back his so he faced the ceiling. It was as if he couldn't bear to look at Romano, but the Italian knew that was just his own imagination.

Romano scowled.

"Dammit Spain, you haven't eaten anythingin, what, a week? You've barely even moved. You can't just waste your whole life lying in bed and doing nothing..."

It was comforting to Romano, talking to Spain, yelling at him, the closest to joy he had felt since the funeral. It had began a few days ago, when he had accidently spoken to Spain out of habit ("Well, at least it's raining. You won't have to water that damn tomato plant."). It had caught him off guard, the words had felt so natural as he said them that he hadn't even realised he had spoken until it was done, but, even though he knew Spain would never say anything back, he got an unexplainable urge to keep going. He soon found that it gave him a sense of purpose, like he actually existed, instead of being an unreal presence, a cold patch in a world of warm sunshine. It was like he was finally doing something, actually being useful in spite of everything, watching, waiting, hoping

At least I can lie to myself.

Everything he said though was immediately lost, nothing more than a silent breath on a windy day. He heard his voice but it would quickly become mixed and muddled with everything else, scattered into the wind of the noisy, real world. It would never make it beyond his ears.

Spain didn't respond – of course he didn't respond – he just lay on the bed, dead in soul, heart and everything that was worth living for, only an empty shell left, his ever staring eyes and blank expression making him look like a cold corpse. It sent a shiver slithering down Romano's spine. The only thing that comforted him was the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Spain's chest.

Romano counted the hours that passed by, every one seeming like ten. It was four before Spain moved from the position he was in; another three before he changed again. It almost undid Romano.

If he could do anything to help... He had to at least try.

"S-Spain..." His words lodged in his throat. His knees buckled and the ground rushed up to meet them. There was no sound when they hit the floor. "P-please Spain. Get up. Eat something. Do anything. Do it for me, please." His voice was soft, desperate, not like his usual self. He felt his hands clasp together and rise up to his chest. "You shouldn't be like this. You can't spend the rest of your life lying in bed, dammit! You'll waste away into nothing!" Spain remained lifeless, never acknowledging him. Romano felt his heart splinter. "Spain... please... I-I wouldn't want this. I don't want this. You can't keep doing this. It'll break you. It's just... you... I-I can't see you like this anymore!"

Spain sighed. His eyes fluttered shut. Romano could only assume he was asleep.

Hello everybody again! Thank you for reading this far in my story cos if you did you really are awesome ^_^ And thank you so so much to everyone who reviewed! You guys are awesome as well! I hope this chapter wasn't too depressing again, but I've heard it is... OH WELL!

Just one thing, someone in a review said that it wasn't clear in the previous chapter if it was the nation Romano or the human version that died. It was the nation. I'm following the idea that because there are two versions of Italy for one country, one of them can actually be killed.

Again, thank you so much for reading and favouriting and reviewing and everything! Please feel free to leave another if you liked it