Oh dear me... it's been a while, hasn't it? (sSrew you, school). I am awfully sorry for the wait. This chapter, albeit short... was hard to get into the inspiration for who knows what reason /is brain dead from testing. Anywho, thanks for being so patient. I am truly sorry about the wait and I'll try my hardest to get the next one out ASAP. No guarantees though...

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warnings: Blood, language, etc.

Chapter Four

Antonio stared at the bright color soiling the carpet. It was one he encountered before… one he despised. It had once covered the walls, the floor… everything. It had covered his hands and stained his clothes and shoes. He was seeing it everywhere again, his vision becoming nothing but a filter of it.

The knife in his hands was caked with the color but he had cleaned it off, humming a weary tune to himself. He had to fix things. Lovino was still alive. Lovino was the cause of all this despair. He didn't hate the Italian. He hated these feelings he harbored and wanted nothing more than solace. It had to end. It had to end now. There was no other choice.

He needed a new pain.

His heart needed time to heal.

The color red dripped onto the floor from his wrists, trickling warmly from his fingertips. He hissed, eyes shut, not wanting to see that distasteful hue that burned so brightly in his memory. He needed this to be fixed.

He needed to get to Lovino so he could end it all.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he knew what needed to be done.

It was nice here. The pain was gone. The sadness was gone, too. He was unaware of how long he had been floating aimlessly but he was content. There was no more suffering—no more enduring. He was at peace. The voice had kept its promise. It took all his misery away. He entrusted his life to that voice. It had saved him.

Antonio.

The Spaniard hadn't been plaguing his thoughts as of late. He wondered why. Was the voice responsible for this as well?

I'm trying to protect you, it whispered as soon as Antonio's beautiful smile flashed in Lovino's mind. All he has done is cause you pain. I took that pain away, did I not?

Lovino couldn't help but agree. All that was left was a blissful numbness he cherished. It was sweet detachment. Sweet, sweet nothing. Antonio wasn't here. He didn't need to worry if the Spaniard trusted him or not. In fact, he had nothing to worry about. Here he was a free man with no ties to anyone.

He left you alone. He let you get hurt by that madman. He let you go. He's worthless. He's nothing to you but the dirt on which you walk on!

The voice was a menacing growl, spitting out the accusations with venom. Lovino mulled this over. Antonio… did leave him after their fight. Antonio didn't come back for him. Antonio left him there, bleeding and helpless on the cold, hard ground.

Yes. That's right. Stay here with me and be safe and happy. I will be here for you. I won't hurt you. I won't leave you. I will protect you. As long as you're here for me, I'm here for you. Let him go. Let him suffer as much as you have! Leave him to die!

Lovino agreed all too quickly. As long as this numbness remained, there would be no quarrels. He trusted this place. He trusted that voice. Maybe it was because the voice sounded like someone he knew. And in that familiar voice, Antonio's face dissolved into the abyss he was falling in.

Don't let go…

Who was that?

It, too, sounded familiar. He couldn't pinpoint who though. It was on the tip of his tongue. It pained him how much he recognized this voice but couldn't say the person's name.

He knew this person.

He loved them with all his heart and soul.

He loved them because they were keeping him in this perfect place of shadows.

Feliciano tossed and turned in bed, sleep fleeing from him as he chased it. Ludwig watched him restlessly, dark circles staining underneath his eyes. Being the light sleeper he was, the blonde couldn't be in peace with Feliciano squirming every few seconds. This had been going on for two weeks straight and neither were benefitting from it. The Italian was usually so serene whilst sleeping, never moving save for the occasional shift.

But this… this was different.

Ludwig assumed it was a nightmare with the way Feliciano's face was scrunched up in pain and/or fear. But Ludwig was at a loss this time. Every time his lover had a "nightmare," the Italian would be covered in sweat yet was shivering and he would get a fever that spiked between 100 and 104.

This was all normal to the German. What caught him off guard was when Feliciano had woken up with coffee brown eyes and an era of pride about him. The shorter man's was, if not slightly, deeper than usual and arrogance was dripping from each word he spoke. He wasn't as chipper as per usual and moved with confidence rather than clumsiness. That Feliciano worried him. He didn't like waking up to that Feliciano and said man had made an appearance at least three times for a week straight.

It was beginning to make Ludwig anxious; more so than normal.

He could only hope that when Feliciano woke up, those amber eyes would be gazing at him with happiness and not those dark ones that burned with contempt.

Arthur sighed heavily. He didn't know what had gotten into him, just disproving Antonio's guilt like that. The higher-ups would definitely not approve of this. He had been working practically non-stop for two whole weeks to try and verify Antonio's innocence. There was nothing he could go on, though. The crime scene had been placed perfectly to frame Antonio as the culprit. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Englishman pushed back the wave of guilt struggling to crash against him. He just had to show that Antonio was innocent. There was no other option.

Maybe this was because he wore his heart on his sleeve more often than not. Those emerald eyes held so much sorrow, so much pain and… love. The way that Antonio kept Lovino's hand in his, never holding it too tight in fear of breaking the fragile bedridden man—it was almost as if the Italian was Antonio's lifeline. The fretful Spaniard was terrified to let Lovino go. That much was certain. Antonio must've thought that if he freed that lukewarm hand, Lovino would be lost in slumber forever.

Arthur didn't blame the man for thinking such thoughts as he travelled to the window and stared into town. It was natural—to him, anyway-for the person you loved to become a part of your heart and soul.

Arthur Kirkland understood all too well. There was only one person in his life that gazed upon him with eyes so full of love. Even if said person was a man, he didn't mind the stares others gave them as they would walk through town, hands intertwined, or when his lover would kiss him tenderly in the middle of a crowd. He was happy—they were happy.

Alfred F. Jones made his life whole.

He couldn't imagine not having the American by his side, grinning and stuffing his face with hamburgers or just holding him tight to give off the feeling of security and warmth. If those sparkling eyes ever closed… death just might be better than enduring. It might. But Arthur was not a weak person. And neither was Antonio.

"…tie. Artie! Arthur!"

"Huh?" the Englishman returned from his thoughts.

"You all right? You zoned out for a minute there," ocean eyes glittered in concern.

"Oh, I do apologize. I'm perfectly fine, love. Just tired and a little stressed out is all," Arthur gave a soft smile and kissed Alfred's cheek and pat gently at it.

"And this is why I tell you to take breaks and not bring your work home with you," Alfred embraced his lover with a smile, pulling him close.

"Says the lawyer with a 97% conviction rate," Arthur chuckled.

"It's actually 98%," Alfred corrected.

"Ah, 98? Forgive me for my misconception," a smirk made itself visible on the shorter man's face.

"Mhmm," Alfred nuzzled his face in the crook of Arthur's neck and pressed his lips to the shorter man's neck, sending chills of pleasure through the Englishman's body.

He knew he had to get some more work done but Arthur figured he could use one little break. By the time he had buried his hand in Alfred's sandy hair and the American had slipped his hand under his shirt, Arthur had thrown all hesitation out the window. He tilted his head up to meet Alfred's warm and inviting lips in a fervent kiss.

The phone ringing shattered the romantic atmosphere and Arthur considered ignoring it until he realized it was his work phone. Aggravated, the Englishman pulled away mid-kiss and rushed to answer it. He raised an eyebrow upon seeing that the number was unrecognized.

"Who is it, babe?" Alfred was more than a little miffed that someone interrupted their moment (though someone had yet to fail in doing so).

Ignoring the nickname he detested, Arthur merely shrugged, "I'm not entirely sure. I should probably answer it just in case…"

The thought went uncompleted and the phone trilled for a few more agonizing seconds before Arthur finally put it to his ear, "Hello?"

"Is this Arthur?"

"Yes. Who might this be?"

"You know who this is…"

"Mr. Carriedo? Are you all right?"

"I tried calling 911 but I called you instead, I guess."

There was something off about the Spaniard's voice. It was callous and hoarse but still carried apprehension and despair. Arthur didn't like where this was going. His stomach was tightening unbearably and his heart sank into his stomach.

"Why would you need to call 911?"

"I need an ambulance."

"What's wrong?"

"There's been a suicide."

"Who's the victim?" Arthur choked.

"…I am."