This is a companion to my other peice, "Fear", which is basically this story from Veneziano's point of view. I've written a sequel with a somewhat happy ending, it's called "Hello Again."

Disclaimer: This fic is based off of a prompt I saw somewhere on Tumblr, but I can't find it for the life of me. If someone can find me a source, I'd love to include it. Author "xxCharmspeakerxx " has already posted their rendition of it, called "Veneziano is Not Weak." It's a very good read and I'd recommend it to anyone looking for an extra dose of angst.

It was always him.

Little Italy, the beautiful, vibrant youth who could make even Sweden smile. He was talented, kind, generous, and oh God, he was everything Romano wanted to be.

He might be the older one, and he might be the wiser and more stubborn of the two, but what was that compared to his charming, lovable younger brother? After all, what had Romano offered? He was sarcastic, he was bitter, he was lazy, he was spiteful, but he was trying.

He really was.

It didn't matter at this point, Romano thought as he began to tame his wild bedhead, he hadn't slept at all the previous night. The ceremony would start in a couple of hours, and there was no way around it. Besides, if he backed out now, that would only create a larger scene than he desired. A decision would have to be made, a decision that had been at the back of everyone's minds for years now. It was a choice that for him was never present.

Because it was always Veneziano, and it always would be.

With a sigh he pulled on the carefully tailored suit that hung in his wardrobe. It had been made for him many years ago as a gift from Spain, though he had yet to wear it. He wanted to laugh at the irony of it. After all, it was in this elegantly sewn suit that he'd die.

Romano didn't know the specifics of the process, he had only been told that it was a quiet, reverent affair, and that he wouldn't feel any pain. More than anything else, he'd feel as if he were falling asleep. Then they would close the coffin and his friends would cry for a bit while some sad music played, and then they'd go home and drag their feet for a few days, but they'd surely recover before the week was out.

Yes, he assured himself, they'd be fine. The only ones he really had to worry about were Spain and Veneziano.

He felt a lump in throat, but quickly shook his head. He'd already cried about this, far too many times. There was no need to trouble anyone with it now.

A knock sounded on his door, though it opened before Romano could answer.

"How are you?" Spain asked as he stepped inside Romano's modest bedroom. Though they no longer shared a house, they often visited each other. His friend knew exactly where he kept his spare key, and Romano was never surprised when he showed up at random.

Today however, wasn't random. The moment it had been decided that he'd be the one to die, Spain was there. He was always there, Romano marveled. He was always bringing him meals, offering him words of compassion, giving him soft touches and sweet kisses without the slightest coercion. It kept him grounded as his death date drew near, because he wasn't gone, not yet, not for the next few hours at least.

Spain wept for a long while when he got the news, and Romano couldn't help it, he joined him. Every inch of him hurt, and part of him was glad for it. After all, he'd soon be feeling nothing at all.

"I can't get this damn tie to work with me." He said, holding it up in frustration.

Spain offered him a soft smile. "Allow me, mi amor." He said, stepping closer and nimbly fitting the tie around the younger man's neck.

Romano knew how to tie a tie, he'd worn one every day for several years, and Spain knew that. He went through with the task regardless.

"Lovely," Spain said, taking him by the shoulders and turning him towards the mirror. Normally he'd roll his eyes at such behavior, but today he relished it. It could have been the silliest, cheesiest thing in the world and he would have allowed it, drawn it out, even.

Spain's hands never left his shoulders, the man's normally bright emerald eyes were now a dull jade. There was no smile gracing his lips, but his voice was as warm as always.

"Lovi…"

He knew it was coming before the word had even left his mouth. Tears began to well up in the man's eyes as he tenderly kissed his hair, holding himself there for a touch longer than usual.

Everything today was a bit slower, it seemed.

"Don't cry, bastard." He said, turning around. He began to realize just how much the man's smile meant to him. "For my sake, Antonio, wait until after it's done."

Spain rubbed at his eyes, willing the tears away, and Romano searched for something, anything that could turn the tides. God, he needed that smile.

"I want my tombstone in the shape of a tomato." He said, and at that the corner of Spain's lips tugged upwards, and his tension started to ebb away.

"What type of tomato?" the older man asked, "Roma tomato? Get it Lovi, your name…"

"I get it, you idiot." Romano said. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. He should have left ten minutes ago. He would be taking a separate car, accompanied by Veneziano. These were their last moments.

"You'll be there?" he asked, not liking how his voice shook with fear. But God help him- he was terrified. No circumstance, no trial, no battle could compare to this.

Suddenly Antonio had his arms around him, and Romano could only comply, resting his face against the taller man's chest and focusing on how it expanded with every breath. Yes, he was still alive, he was still there, he could still touch things, feel things, smell things, hear things, but it only heightened his dread. There was more he had to experience, there were places to go and foods to try and dances to learn and people to meet and dear lord, he just needed more time. Was that too much to ask?

"I'll be standing by you." Spain assured. "I'll be there the entire time."

He let out a soft breath, trying to absorb everything about this moment; the color of the carpet, the paintings on the wall, the smell of Spain, holding him so tightly that his chest ached, the sound of the fan in the other room, the quiet hum of wind against his windows, and Spain, gentle, warm Spain. The man who laughed at everything he could and smiled at the rest. The man who'd cried more in the past week than Romano had seen him do his entire life.

"You won't forget me, will you?" it was a stupid question, one he'd already asked several times, and it was met with the same answer it had been given before.

"As if I could, Lovino."

Veneziano didn't shed a single tear, which was something that left him relieved and worried at the same time.

It's not like he wanted the younger man to cry for him, but this stone faced, quiet façade left him feeling rather empty. After all, if Veneziano of all people wasn't upset over his death, who would be?

Romano shook his head. Even now he wanted attention, starved for it even. Of course he was lonely, hurt and neglected; he'd always been that way. But what was the use in licking his wounds now when he was bound to die before the end of the hour?

They were only a few blocks away from the little chapel where the ceremony would take place. The drive there wasn't what he expected. He didn't want to see Veneziano cry, and he didn't want a long, drawn out conversation about love and life and what not, but something, anything was better than this silence.

"Veneziano…" He started, though not sure where he was going, he soon found himself steered in the direction he always fell back on when with his brother. "Will that German bastard be there?"

For some reason the question made his brother tense up, and his eyes suddenly flicked to Romano, then to the road, then back to Romano.

"I don't know." He said; his voice cracking. Romano didn't want to admit how glad he was that his brother had finally showed some emotion.

"Really?" the elder asked, hoping he could lighten the mood. "What an asshole. You two are engaged aren't you? And he doesn't even bother to show up to the funeral of his own brother in law? Really Veneziano, I question your decisions…"

The younger man hunched over, his face buried in his hands. Alright, he thought to himself. This wasn't working how he'd hoped.

"Hey," he said, placing a hand on his brother's back. "I didn't mean it. I know Ludwig is going to give you the best life he can. I'm happy for you."

"And what about Spain?" his brother spoke. Romano was puzzled. He didn't seem to be crying, just holding incredibly still and taking deep, shuddering breaths. Was he ill?

"Spain will be okay." Romano said, forcing himself to believe it. "And you'll look after him won't you? For me?"

To this, Veneziano only nodded numbly, still refusing to meet the elder's eyes.

"It's better this way," he continued, wishing that he could stop himself somehow. "Everyone loves you Veneziano, they want the best for you. You'll be taken care of. I'm not too worried."

That at least, was true. Though Spain's well being plagued him, Veneziano's bothered him less. Since the day he was born, there wasn't a single person who didn't adore his brother, who didn't kiss his cheeks and offer him sweets. He was treasured, he was worshiped, and he was valued.

Romano merely existed.

Even that privilege was going to be taken from him, he mused as the car pulled to a stop in front of the little chapel.

The ceremony wasn't attended by everyone, and he didn't expect it to be. France, Prussia, Germany and Spain were there, as well as Hungary, Belgium, England, the Netherlands and even Japan. There were a few others that he'd met in passing, and to his surprise he saw America of all people sitting in the front row. Until today he doubted the man knew who he was.

From the corner of the room Austria played a soft, drifting melody that seemed to anchor the atmosphere. Everyone turned when he opened the door, and slowly they all stood. Romano began his walk toward the coffin at the front of the pews. France was crying, and Prussia seemed on the verge of tears. Germany frowned and Spain simply stared at him, a soft smile on his lips. He could almost hear him say, "It's alright, mi amor."

It was alright, he convinced himself as he reached the front of the church. It would be okay. Spain would eventually recover, and Veneziano wouldn't want for anything as long as he lived, and he, Lovino Vargas, would fall asleep, and it would be over.

The priest that stood before him instructed him to turn and face the audience, and then invited all who wished to come forward and say goodbye. He was grateful only a few stood, he didn't know how much longer he could take this before he broke down. The coffin was at his left, it was a deep red wood with plush cushions inside and lovely roses adorning its edges. It was beautiful, it terrified him.

America was the first person there. He shook Romano's hand and offered him a humble smile. "Thank you, South Italy. I will look after your brother."

Something caught in his throat. America had called him "South Italy." He couldn't for the life of him remember being called anything but Romano. He'd almost forgotten that he too, was a nation.

"Best of luck, America." was all he could say in response.

The next person to stand in front of him was France, who soon caught the smaller man in a swift hug.

"Bless you, petit frère. Oh how dearly I will miss you."

Romano didn't respond, though he wondered why he hugged the man back with such ferocity. He seemed to be clinging to any touch, any sight or smell that kept him on this earth.

"You'll damn well take care of him, potato bastard." He said when Germany approached. The blond nodded, looking as severe as ever. He held out a hand to shake, and Romano took it, finding it warm and trembling.

"I'll protect him with my life." He promised. "Goodbye, Romano."

When Spain reached him, Romano couldn't hold back a few tears. He kept it together however, because for his sake Spain didn't cry, and he could at least try to return the favor.

It took only a moment for Spain to kiss him. It wasn't hard, it wasn't messy, it might have been the most chaste kiss they had shared, and for some reason it left him shaking and breathless.

"Te amo," he said, pulling him into a tight hug. "Oh how I love you, Lovi."

"Antonio…" he held the man closer. "I love you too." He managed to say, still blinking back tears.

Nobody rushed them, but Romano drew back before too much time could pass. If he dragged this out any longer he'd never be able to let go. Spain seemed to understand. He squeezed Romano's hand, smiled softly, and then moved away.

Last came his brother, and though the younger of the two had yet to show much emotion, the moment he stood in front of Romano he began to cry. Violent, wet sobs overtook him, and he quickly drew him into a hug.

"It's going to be okay, Veneziano." Romano assured, rubbing his back. "Toughen up a bit will you? There's nothing to be sad about."

A minute or so passed, and the sobs diminished into quiet sniffles until only silent tears made their way from his eyes. He held his brother by the shoulders and took a step back, trying his best to look confident.

"It will all be alright." He said. "I love you, brat."

"Fratello," Veneziano began, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand left his brother's back and went into his pocket. There was a distinct click in the moment that followed, one that Romano couldn't quite place. But as he removed his hand from his pocket, taking with it a nine millimeter, it all made sense to him. If only a little too late.

"I love you too." His brother said, putting the gun to his temple. Romano screamed, and he pulled the trigger.

Hands wrenched him back, and he let them, his eyes fixed on the puddle of blood that began to pool around the body of his younger brother. At first he couldn't hear a thing, only the ringing from the gun and distant, muffled shouts. The hands continued to pull him away, and his mind barely registered that they were Spain's.

Germany entered his vision, sprinting to Veneziano's corpse and shouting in mangled German as he choked on tears. It was Prussia who tried to pull him back, but the blond wasn't having it, holding the dead man in his arms with an almost savage look on his face.

Spain was saying something to him, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from the scene before him. Part of him was glad that the German bastard took up the majority of his view, he didn't know if he wanted to see what his brother looked like. There was blood everywhere. More than he ever imagined to be in a person. It pooled in every direction, it soaked Germany's trousers and stained Prussia's hands. A moment passed before he registered that it was on himself as well, as he had to blink it out of his eyes.

Then he was doubled over, throwing up violently on the side of his coffin. Spain had his arms around him, no longer saying anything but keeping a steady grip on the younger man regardless. He was still as warm as ever.

His vision was marred by the scene of panic; everyone was running, calling someone, screaming, or all three. Blood was everywhere, good God it was everywhere. The priest had fallen to his knees reciting a verse of sorts with a strained, breathy voice. Germany was still shouting, though his harsh curses were replaced by one word.

It was his brother's name.

Everything was overstimulating, every shout made him wince and every sight hurt his head. The scene before him was so breathtaking and horrifyingly real. It harassed him, it wounded him, it opened every scar that he thought had healed. It was all there, every feeling, every thought, every sense. Everything had a presence. Everything existed.

Even him.