Hey! Another update! XD Heh, now I need to finish the final chapter...please tell me what you think of this one...

Chapter Four: Depression

Italy was still cleaning at three in the morning. But it was different. His hair hung limp by the sides of his face, his cheekbones were beginning to poke through, and his eyes were duller than ever. The cleaning was ritualistic, done for the sake of doing something, whatever that something was. He knew he should sleep, but he couldn't, hence the dark rings that were rapidly forming under his eyes. He stands up straight, discarding the washcloth.

The bathroom is clean. He has cleaned it three times since Midnight. Italy drops the cleaning products, and returns to bed, not bothering to get under the blankets or get ready - he just lies on top and closes his eyes. There was no point in cleaning anyways these days - his brother said he was getting depressing to be around, and generally avoided most rooms in the house. Japan was dealing with politics (Italy had a feeling that was a polite way of saying 'I want to be left alone'), and Germany wasn't going to pop round to visit.

But once the thought entered his mind, he knew he had to do it. Which was why he needed to get to sleep. Because once he was asleep, he couldn't use up the energy that he didn't have doing useless chores. Sleep was little comfort though - dreams full of demons that chased him, long staircases that he'd run down, because he could see Germany, and yet no matter how hard he ran, or how long he ran for, he'd never catch him up before the dream was over.

This dream was one that left him in a very dark room. Was it even a room? He had no way of telling, he just knew that it was dark, and he couldn't see very much. He would hear someone calling his name, and stumble forwards, blindly trying to find his way in the dark. As the dream progresses, the voice becomes clearer, louder, and even angrier. "Italy! Italy!" He recognises the voice; it's Germany. He tries to yell back, to say that he's trying, but his voice catches every time.

He is silent in this dream.

When he wakes up, he doesn't get up. He can hear his brother in a nearby room, shouting about how the place stinks of bleach. At least it's clean, thinks Italy, not caring enough to get up. Germany liked it clean, and even if Romano would never admit it, he preferred it to be clean as well. Italy could care less about germs and dirt and dust and all the rest of the mess that trailed over the house. But on his better days, it gave him something to do.

"Italy! Italy!" he blinks, before recognising that this voice belonged to Romano, not to Germany. He shifts his weight onto a few pillows, lifting himself up. "…Si?" Soft voice; quiet, hoarse, unused for so long. "Oi, Veneziano! Why the fuck are you still in bed?" Italy blinks, turning his head to see the clock. Ah, it was nearing midday. He shrugs. "I don't feel like getting up," he mumbles. Romano glares at him. "Veneziano, the world meeting is in less than an hour," he snaps.

Italy shrugs, curling up under the blankets. "Don't wanna go," he mumbles. "You have to go!" yells Romano. "No…I don't. There's two Italies, and they only need one. Go yourself," he mutters, clenching his eyes shut. Don't cry, don't let the tears flow. He was right, of course. Only one Italy was needed for the world meeting. And Italy Veneziano sure as hell wasn't going. There's a moment of silence, where Romano debates this internally.

"…Fine," he mutters, then turns and walks away. Sometime later, Italy hears the front door slam. He sighs, closing his eyes tightly. They only need one Italy. They don't need me. It was true, wasn't it? There were two Italies. What was the point? Why did they act like he was needed, like they cared? They shouldn't care. Without Germany, Italy wasn't even sure if they did care. Sure, he had friends - Poland, Japan and Spain, for example.

And those same friends made a pretty pathetic attempt to be there for him. They had pretty much abandoned him, and although he felt he should hate them, he didn't really blame them. He curls up tighter, clutching the blankets and pillows. I'd abandon me if I could. Could he? He blinks in surprise as the thought arrives. He tries to think of what the world would be like without him. Well…Switzerland would be less annoyed…

That was true - no more Italy to run across his lawn. Japan wouldn't have to get nervous. Yes, he wouldn't have Italy trying to hug him and invade his personal space. Romano would be the main Italy. He'd love that, surely. Prussia would be happy. Italy was partly responsible for Germany's death, right? Prussia would be glad to see him go. Spain never really cared. I bet Poland didn't either… Italy moves slightly under the covers.

But how could he abandon himself? Well, he supposed…Germany had died from a gunshot. Could a simple bullet kill a nation? He frowns. It was probably different - Germany had a brother who could take over for him. And now he thought about it, so did Italy. He hesitates. A gun? Would I be able to do it? He didn't want to back out at the last minute…he hesitates. At least if he died, everyone would be happier…and he could see Germany again…

He sniffs, then forces himself up out of bed. He feels heavy. Did I gain weight? Forcing himself back to the bathroom, he lifts up his top. He's lost a lot of weight, with no appetite. He's underweight as well, weighing only seven and a half stone. He frowns. He hadn't expected that. But the ribs beginning to stick out show him that yes, that is indeed his weight. He sighs - no wonder everyone kept telling him to eat.

Not that it mattered anymore.

He searches for a piece of paper and a pen. He needed a note, right? Just a note, to tell them that he was sorry…for everything…his spine hurts as the skin stretches over it when he leans over the page, scribbling a brief note - I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore. You'll be happier without me, anyways. Don't blame yourselves either. It was short, but he knew he'd cry if he made it any longer or any more detailed, and damn it, he didn't want that!

Now…where to find a gun…he racks his brain, his thoughts fuzzy and his head pounding. He begins searching - they had to have one somewhere…

"Damn it! Why the hell isn't he picking up his phone?" snaps Romano, causing Poland, Japan and Prussia to turn to him. "What's wrong?" asks Japan. "He can't get a hold of Italy," explains Spain, "he's tried calling him about eight times now…" Poland's eyes widen, and Prussia speaks up. "Hey…is Italy even ok? He's been unawesomely sad recently…" he says, trailing off, "I mean…I know why, but do you think we should check on him?"

"Like, totally!" declares Poland, then he pauses, as they all turn to Romano. "What do you think?" asks Japan quietly. Romano hesitates. "…I don't want to fucking barge in on him," he mutters, "…but I'm worried. He always picks up…" He thinks for a few moments. "Alright, let's go. If we're quick, we should be able to make it back within half an hour…" Japan nods. "I'rr drive," he says quickly. Regardless of the situation, he was not letting an Italian drive.

Italy was shaking as he loads the gun. He didn't want to mess this up. He had just one chance. Eyes closed, he raises it to his head. He rests his finger on the trigger, and he stops shaking. A wave of calm rushes past him, along with a sudden reluctance. No…I have to…I have to…he takes a deep breath, then blinks, feeling a tear on his cheek. More importantly was why that tear was there. Opposite him on the wall was a photograph. It was quite old - taken back before world war one had started. Before Italy had been Germany's enemy, even.

It was of him, his brother, and Germany. And Germany. Photographs, Italy thinks, are funny. They never change, and they remain as they are forever. They age, the corners wrinkle, they can smudge and fade, but they're the same. The Germany in the photograph was not dead. He was not bleeding. There was no bullet through his chest. In fact, it was a rare picture where you could say that Germany was smiling. (That alone, Italy felt, was worthy of a photograph.) There was Italy, clutching Germany's arm and holding up his other hand in a peace sign. He was grinning. His brother was merely scowling at the camera, pointedly standing about a foot away from Germany with his arms folded.

Italy lowers the gun. His brother had been in a bad mood that day. Sure, he was always in a bad mood, but that day had been different. "He's my brother, but I never get to see him! That makes me so fucking angry!" He had said to Germany. "And why don't you keep a better eye on him? He's always coming home with bruises from that damn torture you call training!" Italy's eyes dart down, another tear slipping. His brother did care, yes. Romano had always been there. Except for recently. But no, that wasn't true. Italy doesn't reply, and so Romano hesitates, before pulling him into a close hug...

Romano cared about him, for reasons that Italy, quite frankly, could not understand. For all his yelling and shouting, when push came to shove, Romano loved him, and for the first time in a long while, Italy felt happy. Happy, because he finally realised that someone cared. Someone still alive, someone who would scream and shout and cry if he wasn't there. Because if his brother found him dead...

Well, Italy knew what it was like to lose someone you loved.

And who else? Italy couldn't think straight. Tears were running down his cheeks, he was shaking, the gun discarded. He couldn't think of anyone else. Was it worth living purely because one person cared about him? Italy swallows, then nods, answering his own question. He didn't care about people who wouldn't care. But they would. But he cared about the person who would. Who does.

He turns away from the gun, walking out the door just in time to hear the front door open. "Veneziano!" His brother. "Itary!" Japan? "Hey! Italy!" Was that Poland? "Boss Spain is here!" "Spain, shut up!" Spain as well? He squeezes his eyes shut, careful not to cry. "I'm here," he calls, his voice cracking, "I'm here..." He hears footsteps, and sees his brother running over, hugging him - hugging him - tightly. "You stupid...stupid...why the fuck didn't you answer? I was so fucking worried!" yells Romano.

Italy doesn't answer, the others coming over and asking him questions - how he was, why he didn't answer, what was wrong, why was he crying...

Italy swallows, then pushes away from Romano. "Fratello, I..." He needed to tell Romano. About what he had been about to do. About everything that lead up to where he was. About how he felt when he lied and said he was ok. "...I need to tell you something." Romano nods, making eyes contact. "I understand." I care.

And he did. Because Italy was his brother, and Romano would go through hell and back before he stopped caring.

Heh...hope that ended ok. It was going to end with Italy being interrupted, but then I decided I'd rather have Italy make the choice to stay alive himself. Hope it was ok! Or good. Or better than good! Hopefully not bad...