So this is an attempt to finally do (and complete) a fanfiction. Seriously, I won't abandon this one. ;~; *will also try to go back and update the other two.* Thanks for reading and as always~ Reviews are welcome.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, if I did, there'd be more sex. Much, much more sex.

The rough material ran through Lovino's hands, twisting into a knot and turning it over in his grip, the Italian nodded to himself in content. His eyes were an unusual grey. It was hard, excruciatingly so, to watch his own people suffering, dying, burning. He could practically taste the smoke in his lungs, feel the burns and whips on his flesh, hear the scorns and ruthless anointments. If given the choice, he wouldn't trade places with them. He loved his people, but he loved himself more. How disgusting?

He couldn't stand it; the war was at a standstill...Germany had accomplished in conquering most of Europe, and he was just a chess piece...Spain was bombed the other day. He heard it was devastating, people were running around burnt in the streets, limbless children dead, never knowing that it was coming for them. He tried to imagine the anguished faces of mothers. He nearly cringed at the thought of what it would do to the happy go lucky bastard. Spain was too fond of his people. No doubt, he'd do something stupid. Something ridiculously, dangerously, and touchingly stupid.

Death. It was inevitable, and no one knew when their time was to come. He was an internal clock, ticking towards it's detention, but he's already blown. Lovino wanted out. It might have been cowardly, or selfish but, he wasn't needed, no one was finding use in him for the war efforts...the world hated him, loathed Italy...The brunette trailed his blank orbs around the rim of the stool.

It was funny, to think he'd finally be done in by a rope. He'd always imagined it would be something exiting. Like an explosion- you know, going down in a blaze of glory? But why would something like that happen to him? A mediocre death for a mediocre life. Fucking perfect.

The thick tendrils of non-existent smoke filled his lungs, just as the screams filled his ears. To be so surrounded engulfed, never alone… he had his blaze- his flames. Those grappling hands of death that wrapped around his own fire, smothered it. How many dead? How many who wished they were dead? Would it be so cruel as to wish death upon them, his own people? His family? It had to be better than… Anything was better than this. Crushed by a falling beam, nailed by bullets, shells clattering to the ground, strung up by their own fear and left to rot. He couldn't fight back, and that hurt the most. He smiled through it all. He smiled at the meeting the next day. Antonio had smiled at England, America, France, China, Italy, Germany even. When Antonio had looked at him, he looked away. How could he? That must have been the thing going through his mind, jumbled with chaos. How could Romano do this to him? He'd been asked to join both sides. Declined both. He had been given a choice, unlike so long ago. Lovino could remember it so clearly, even to this day. A soft breeze blew in from the south. The Spanish sun was warm and bright, as if welcoming the newest arrival to Spain's home, and Empire, Italia Romano..Romano, Roma, Lovi..He had cursed, toppled over a bookshelf, flipped the Spaniard an obscene gesture and told him to " Fuck off, bastardo!". Antonio must have been thinking. 'Why are you so harsh, so clumsy, so dirty mouthed? Why can't you be sweet, helpful, kind? Why can't you be more like your brother?' He'd given Romano everything he could have possibly wanted, spoiled him. Over time, they grew closer. He even liked to think they were friends, family! But look where he was now. Choices, or no. He was stuck where he had landed himself. He couldn't complain. So he smiled, but not at Lovino.

It hit Lovino hard, to be at those meetings they called peace war efforts. He didn't want to join either side, he'd rather seclude himself into darkness, wanted to be convicted of the wrongs he'd caused over the years to so many innocent people. And for what? Believing in something? It was disgusting how that blonde's head worked, searching out the weak first to only eliminate them immediately. He then thought of his brother as he finally picked up the foot stool. The bubbly little piece of shit that he called his fratello was probably off skipping somewhere with his gorilla psychopath of a partner. He'd suffered so much for his brother, given up so many things, so many luxuries. But that's what was expected, right? He was enough of an ass to do something selfless, to do sometheing out of love. Antonio flashed before him as he set the stool below the dangling loop in his dimly lit closet, the wind outside was soft and quiet, gently kissing the bright blue sky that shone cruelly on his beloved people, who were being exterminated and killed. He just wanted this whole thing to be over. It was pointless really to keep on living, right? If he died then he'd save his people, he'd disappear, Germany and Italy would lose a great amount of support and America, the democracy ass would definitely swoop in and take his chance already... right? Or maybe...Spain would come and help? He doubted that one right of the bat and felt his bare feet pad against the rough wood of the stool. He felt his eyes tearing slightly, tearing for the ones he'd killed, millions he'd ruined and the one he'd never be able to get back. He'd rather be dead than to see him smile at the coward he was.

"Mi dispiace..." He murmured, tortured hazel eyes stared at the doorway to his bedroom from atop the stool he stood on; a soft bed, rich, warm colors and the smell of lilacs were the last things he saw and smelt before reaching up to grab the hand-made noose above him. Some say that your life flashes before your eyes in your last moments, it lets you see how you made out in life, if you were successful or a total failure. The petite Italian had always been horrified with this thought and he shook as he brought the rope around his throat. He'd loved Antonio with all of his heart, and he'd ruined everything like he always does. The Spaniard was beautiful, charismatic and way too good to be anywhere near him. He was a father, brother, first love...a friend who he could complain to, hit when annoyed, cry to when he was shuddering from the simplest of thunder storms, or even hush and comfort him when he doubted himself, always cooing and showing off his blinding smile that made his very existence make sense. His body was filled with nothing but respect, adoration and the swelling, throbbing desire to love, and be loved by him in a way that wasn't companionship, but simply a lover's duty to always be there for the other. What would Antonio think when he didn't show up to the meeting tomorrow? Would he be worried his little tomate wasn't there? Lovino's feet shakily guided themselves blindly to the edge of the stool, his tears making everything look like he was drowning in the most tragic of seas. And before he stepped forward, before the weight of his body fell, and before he was choking and gasping for air, the Italian had cried like a child and selfishly yelled at the doorway, cursed it for not loving him. But he was unable to break his neck immediately, so there he hung, eyes drooping in depressed fear, throat constricting his life, and his heart beating ferociously, struggling for everything and nothing at all.

Lovino was practically torturing himself, this ongoing pain he felt in the crook of his neck, the chocking sound slipping from his lips. The whole time, he was begging, begging god to end his life, he couldn't stop thing of Antonio. He was blinded by visions, and he desperately groaned, seethed at the relinquishing memories. His childhood. He was sitting in the middle of the kitchen, picking up a broken glass, "M-Mi dispiace Nonno..." the young boy pleaded, his eyes splayed open nervously. He received a kick in reply. That night, which was forever burned into his memory, would be long, painful and bloody. The worst experience of his life, besides watching Antonio walk away, refusing to look at him. "C-Chnnkg...a-ahh-" His desperate choking soon dwindled, and he began to hear voices...he stopped struggling at the warmth the voice brought to his chest...Antonio...if he was going to die with Antonio's voice then...he couldn't complain. His vision started to blacken, shifting from being conscience to flooding in pure dark, inevitable, black.