So I was reading some fic with depressed!Romano and i thought: "Romano is just perfect for suicidal fics, but what if Spain wanted to commit suicide?" And bum! - the idea popped out, even if, at first, I didn't know, why exactly Antonio would want to kill himself. Also, I'm aware that he isn't the suicidal type, but - oh well - many things happens in life.
Anyway, review. Pretty please~.
Spain opened doors to his house. The only thing that greeted him was silence. He could only hear his own footsteps as he was walking through the hallway. Sun was shining outside the window, where tempting red tomatoes were growing in the garden. Antonio seized with sad gaze an empty living room and then he slowly went up the stairs, to his bedroom. He wanted nothing else than just lie on his bed and think about random things. When he finally approached his room and wooden door cracked open, he didn't even looked at the place, he just entered. His legs moved on its own to the bed's direction and soon Spain fell numbly on the white cover, like cut tree.
Silence. His house was so silent… Sun was shining through the curtains to the room and its rays were spotlighting the wooden floor. Normally he would love it. After all, there was nothing depressing in spring sun, right? No, there was. Right now the sun only annoyed him, just like everything else. Just like tomatoes, just like people, just like World Meetings, just like other nations.
He was returning to this empty, silent place after day full of the same antics, repeated on and on, day by day. Breakfast, work, siesta, work in garden, Bad Touch Trio bar meetings, returning home, supper, bath and sleep. Sometimes World or EU Meeting, sometimes visit from Romano, who was demanding food or money; sometimes call from his boss. But in the end, when Antonio was returning from meetings; when Romano left his house; when he and his boss dealt with problem, they've had – in the end Spain was once again alone in his big, silent home.
Nothing was making him happy, anymore. Nothing, even going out with France and Prussia, South Italy's visits, harvesting tomatoes, listening cheerful music or reading books. Everything, which he was always enjoying, now he was doing without enthusiasm. When Francis and Gilbert was taking him out to the bar, he was grinning and laughing like always, but he knew that after further examination everybody would knew, his smiles were fake. But to France, Prussia, South Italy and everyone else, he was still just happy-go-lucky, dense idiot.
Spain clenched his teeth, but then gave a sigh. They didn't know what was spinning in his head lately. They didn't know, what he was doing, when he was completely alone in those four walls of his empty house. Not that he ever cared to tell them. He couldn't imagine Prussia or France to help him. They seemed to be not mature enough to understand. Oh, come on! A loud, self-centered ex-nation, who keeps playing pranks, and pervert, who can't keep his hands away and love to argue with England over stupid things. They were always cheerful, always absorbed by some unimportant things. Yeah, sure Francis was the country of love and was great, when it came to relationship advices, but the thing Antonio was feeling inside was far from Frenchman's "area".
So the only one person left – Romano. If Antonio wanted to tell somebody about it, then thought about Romano was immediately popping out in his mind. And there was a lot of occasions to tell him, after all Italian's visits was pretty frequent. But every time Spain wanted to say something about his mood, South Italy was ordering him to do something, or just started to talk about how pissed he was lately. Of course. Why he would bother about "dense idiot Spain"? Why would he ask: "Hey, Antonio, how are you doing?", since the only reason to come here, was to get something for himself? Romano never even liked him and he was always showing it pretty well. If he was coming to Antonio, he was doing it only because he wanted something, not because he cared the man, who was loving him as his own child.
It was another reason to feel gloomy. Ungratefulness of Romano was painful. Romano was sick, Antonio was taking care of him. Romano cried, Antonio comforted him. Romano was attacked and captured by Sadiq, Antonio immediately ran to save him. Romano needed parent's love, Antonio gave it to him with all his heart. And now, the only thing South Italy was saying to him was: "Give me some churros, tomato bastard!" Spain could be really patient, but this aggressive and demanding tone wasn't helping him at all to deal with his depression.
Suddenly Spain felt the great wave of anger. Damn Francis! Damn Gilbert! Damn Romano! What kind of friends they are?! He was crying here. He needed help and he knew it very well. He was in deep depression. Was it so hard to be seen? He felt another wave of anger and tears that ran down his cheeks. Was it so hard to imagine him depressed? No, because he was dense Spain. For them he was just cheerful idiot. How could he have any emotional problems?
Oh, yeah?! Let's find out!
He quickly stood up and marched downstairs, to kitchen. Smoothly opened the drawer, where his kitchen knives was and he took the one that he generally was using to cut tomatoes. He tackled the right sleeve of his white shirt, uncovering forearm with lots of little cuts. There was still some free space on his long, tanned arm. He put the knife tightly to waist and sharp blade left on his body another mark. When he was doing it for first time, Spain bit his lip, feeling the pain, but now he only observed how cut was opening, forming small eclipse. He made another, deeper and bigger cuts near that one. He even opened wounds that were starting to heal. Soon red liquid ran from his arm on the floor. Like from leaking pipe, the drops of his blood was rhythmically tapping, leaving on clean, kitchen floor. He observed it with numbness, still holding the knife few meters from his forearm.
Sometimes Antonio was hoping that Romano, Gilbert, Francis – or just simply anyone – will see something strange in his behavior. That someone will see his not-so-cheerful-as-usual grin, or sad gaze. He hoped that during another visit of Romano, his sleeve will accidently move down itself a little and then his baby brother will notice cuts on his waist and ask: "What the hell is that?! You will doing it to yourself, tomato bastard?! Why?" Spain hoped that during another bar conversation France or Prussia will suddenly say: "Hey, Antonio. You look a bit gloomy today. Is everything OK?" He hoped that maybe just one person will come to him on World Meeting, put hand on his shoulder and with smile say: "Hi, you seem depressed. How are you doing?"
But they never noticed anything. He was alone with his depression.
He clenched his teeth with anger and started furiously cutting his arm on and on, only by miracle leaving veins merely touched. Finally Spain stopped and, breathing deeply, looked at what he had done. Red rivers was absconding in one stream and kitchen floor was even more dirty than before. There was one big flood of his own blood. Antonio's anger flew away, there was only despair. He put the knife on the nearest table, took his wounded arm with his good hand and pulled it closer to his chest. Then he slowly sat on the cold ground, curled knees and started to cry. He didn't bother that blood was soaking into his shirt. He was only weeping quietly, so quietly that even if somebody actually came to him, he could hear his cries only few steps from kitchen's door.
After few minutes of crying, Spain wiped his eyes and, not standing up, opened the nearest cupboard, where was bandages. He unrolled it and covered with cloths around forearm. Then he cut off bandage and tightened it so firmly that he felt pain. After fixing his arm, Antonio was still sitting on kitchen's floor, eyes turned on space before him. He felt weak, old and unwanted. His arm was aching him and he wanted to cry more. Maybe he was living too long. Maybe it was time to disappear like Rome. Nobody won't be crying after him anyway.
Of course he was considering suicide many times during all those months (yes, he was actually sulking into this depression for months), but when he was going to do something – cut his veins, jump from bridge, drink wine with antibiotics, shoot himself – there was always moment of hesitation. He suddenly didn't want to die. Or he wanted, but had not enough strength and courage to kill himself. So he was retreating and going back to life. Of course, no one even had seen it, so no one ran to him and tried to stop him.
Tomorrow is another World Meeting. If nobody comfort him or even show some interest in his sadness, Antonio will commit suicide. It will be their last chance to save him.