First off...fifteen freaking reviews! Wow! Thanks soo much, it made me grin my ass off. No lie. I've been mulling it over for the last few days and I'm going to end this...unexpectedly. I'll probably write a multichapter sequel to this, as well. You know, if you brolios want it :)

Warning: PLOT TWIST :P And, this epilogue mostly focuses on Spain, no flames bout this chapter even though it'll probably p*ss a few of you off! ;)

Disclaimer: I most certaintly do not own Hetalia, and Santa didn't bring the deeds to it last night...maybe cause it's August...

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It had been four months since the 'incident', as Spain and Italy preferred dubbing it. Through many tears and therapy sessions, they had been coping with the recent death. Spain, of course, had been taking it hard. He hadn't progressed as much as Italy in those months, and was dangerously close to isolation. He hadn't left his house in a month and a half, but on a certain Monday things seemed to go...particularly odd.

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Spain woke to the sound of breaking glass. Not something he wanted to wake up to, but nonetheless he stumbled out of bed and grabbed his head, swaying. He had been drunk the previous night after trying to drink his sadness away, and was now stuck with a hellish-like hungover.

Trudging through his house, he winced when he stepped lightly on broken shards of a plate. He bent down to pick them up, then saw something out of the side of his eye. He looked up quickly, then glanced around, eyes bloodshot and wide.

"I-I could've sworn it was...no...I must be seeing things..." He muttered, picking up and throwing the bits of glass in the trash can.

For the next four hours, Spain sat on his couch and cried. He could just picture the angry-eyed Italian sitting next to him, telling him to turn on the television. The therapist had said that he needed to forget about Lovi and move on.

The therapist was sent to the hospital for multiple contusions and a broken arm.

Standing up, the spaniard realized he needed to eat. He shuffled to the kitchen, grabbing a tomato and biting into it. Turning around, he shut the fridge and leaned against the counter. Staring down at the tomato, he sighed. Then he saw a flash of green in the corner of his eyes. He looked up quickly, only to discover nothing was there.

Strange.

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The next day, Spain was sleeping soundly in his bed. He snored lightly, and he woke up, hearing a young child's voice.

"Hey, bastardo! Che palle, breakfast!"

Jerking up, he looked around, eyes wide and panting heavily.

"L-lovi?" He cried, clutching the sheets. He could've sworn he heard him, sworn on his own life. But...it was impossible. The Italian was gone, dead, high up in the sky. Finally calming down, he laid back down but did not go back to sleep.

"Why am I seeing him everywhere?" He said quietly, staring up at the ceiling. It was as if his own mind was torturing him, teasing him with images of his beloved.

He hoped it would stop soon. He had no idea how much more he could possibly take.

...

By the time Friday had finally rolled around, he was slowly going crazy. Each day, multiple times, he swore he saw Romano standing there, giving him that loving glare like always.

He was about ready to kill himself, if it happened just one more time...

Walking into the kitchen for some breakfast, he grabbed a few churros from the fridge and plopped down in a seat. Sighing, he took a few bites and then dropped one. Grunting, he leaned down to pick one of them up. Out of the corner of his eye he could have sworn he saw Romano standing there. That finished it. Spain jumped up, eyes clenched shut, tears threatening to fall.

He reached in the the drawer, pulling out a knife and pressing it lightly to his neck.

"I c-can't take this anymore..." He whispered shakily, gripping the blade tightly. He was pressing the knife closer and closer until a gentle hand was laid on his shoulder, and an Italian accent rang through his ears.

"Don't...you promised, bastard."

His hand shakily uncurled, letting the knife fall to the ground with a loud clank. He slowly turned around, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. His eyes met with a familiar pair of hazel ones. It was Romano. He was wearing a green coat, with black pants and had on no shoes. The edges of his body were slightly distorted and blurry.

Spain broke.

He attacked the Italian with a large hug, letting the sobs loose.

"L-lovi! Y-you...you're not dead! I...please, don't leave me again! I can't live without y-" He was shushed as Romano pushed him away and stepped back with a serious expression on his face.

"Spai-...Antonio. I don't have a lot of time, bastard! He'll notice I'm gone! Antonio, I was wrong...you do love me, I can see that now. I felt like a bastard for putting you though everything I did. After a lot of talking...Spain, I'm going to be reincarnated." He finished, looking out of breath but anxiously awaiting the spaniard's reply.

"Y-you...what?" Spain said, trying to piece together everything Lovi had just said.

"I'm going to be reincarnated, born again." Romano replied, hands in his pocket and clenched into fists. "I just...as punishment for what I did, I won;'t remember anything...Spain, in six years, I want you to promise me something. I want you to try to find me. Just try! I...I'd want to be with you, bastard, even if I couldn't remember you."

"Ok-okay...te amo, mi tomate..." Spain whispered quietly, wiping the tears off of his face.

"T...ti amo, pomodoro bastard." Romano said, a light smile playing at his lips. Then Spain looked down.

"Will...you still be a nation, Lovi?" Spain asked, a little bit curious. Romano sighed lightly.

"Yes, but I probably won't know it...I-I have to go, bastard! Remember, six years!" He said, pointing at him and beginning to disappear and fade around the edges. Spain gasped, reaching out for his arm but his hand going through air.

"N-no! Lovi, don't leave me! Please!" Spain cried, salty tears bubbling up into his eyes again. Romano shook his head.

"Arrivederci..." Romano called quietly, then disappeared fully/ leaving Spain standing alone, awestruck, in his kitchen. He could harldy believe anything he had just heard or seen. Yet somehow, he did. He believed it all, one hundred percent believed it.

And he knew, in six years, he would be attempting to find his love again.

In six years, he would be happy again.

He remembered what the Italian's last word to him had been. Arrivederci. He thought and thought, trying to remember the exact meaning of that word...

-FLASHBACK-

"Hola, Lovi!" Spain said happily into the phone, balancing a book in his other hand.

"Si, bastard, what is it you need?" Romano said from the other end of the line, slightly annoyed. He had been in the middle of sleeping, and wasn't pleased about being woken up at three in the morning.

"Oh, I just wanted to know the meaning to this one word...I know it's Italian...but what does arrivederci mean?" He said, looking down at the spot where he'd spotted the word in the book and listening for the response.

"Arrivederci? Oh...it means, roughly, 'goodbye, but I hope we meet again'". Romano said, stifling a yawn with his hand. "Speaking of which...arrivederci, pomodoro bastard." Then the line went dead as the Italian man fell back to much-needed sleep. Spain smiled and put his phone away, going back to his reading.

-END FLASHBACK-

"Arrivederci, mi tomate..."

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And...completo! Yes! I was thinking of a sequel, but I don't know. Maybe. I'll definetly do it for...twenty reviews? I got fifteen this time, twenty shouldn't hurt! X3

Thanks for reading! I really enjoy tragedy writing, so you can expect more from me in the future! :)

SEQUEL NOW UP: MI TOMATE

FIN