What if I wanted to fight? Beg for the rest of my life? What would you do?
Was fighting back even really worth it? Every time he fought he put Italy more at risk. But he was a nation; he couldn't just take what was given him and accept it.
He decided. He fought. He had to.
Perhaps it wasn't the best idea. After all, his fighting only made the pain that much worse. But Italy. He had to do what he could for Italy. He had forced the other away from him, back to his own country and his brother and safety, and now he had to fight to make sure that his hurting Italy as much as he had had not been in vain. It couldn't have been in vain.
Pride. He was a proud nation. He knew that much. But if there was any hope, any chance-would begging make a difference, help Italy?
He didn't want to beg, of course. But then it just got to be too much.
He blinked blue eyes-they were so heavy; he was so tired; why couldn't he just sleep, sleep forever and ever and never hurt again. The damned angel-he was a devil, not an angel-loomed over him, pressing for the information he refused to give. Damn it damn it damn it.
"Please...bitte," he managed. "Don't. Stop. I can't…"
The grin on the monster's face would haunt him for years to come.
