You Promised.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or its characters.

Warnings: Character Death.

A/N: I…really don't know what to say about this story. I felt like I was writing it intentionally, but at the same time, I was just writing. Nothing more, nothing less. But I guess I like it, seeing as of that I see nothing wrong with it. I just don't have an opinion on this one, but:

Enjoy.

Moonlight filtered in through the parted curtains, illuminating the figure who was sitting in the middle of the floor. It was cold in the bedroom, its icy still air causing small hairs on Romano's arms to stand up, and caused Goosebumps to arrive on his smooth skin. He was holding his knees close to his chest, his breathing labored.

Romano never felt so abandoned in his life. Even when Nonno left him, and took Veneziano with him only, Romano never felt his world crumble so fast, so quickly, so silently. He felt like screaming, out of frustration, until his throat was raw, but every time he opened his mouth, no sound came out. His words were swallowed, being smothered into the pit of growing emotions that were rolling around his stomach like a jagged stone.

What has caused this emotional havoc within Romano? Romano didn't know when it started, only that it had happened, and now he could do nothing about it. Realization hit him like a punch that had been restrained with impatient anger.

Spain and Romano did not have what they would call a great relationship, all their encounters usually ending with Romano walking away, angry at this, or that. Spain would watch sadly as Romano disappeared, and sighed, and went back on with life.

Soon, their relationship started disappearing, vanishing before their unseeing eyes. Romano found himself not seeing Spain for longer and longer periods of time, his confusion growing until today, until realization hit him like a punch that could cause someone to stagger. He realized this when Spain, along with Gilbert, accompanied Germany to talk to Italy, Romano hearing their conversation from the shadowed hallway.

Spain didn't even once ask about him. Even his brother seemed to forget about him, when Germany asked Italy if they wanted to do something. Veneziano more of squealed with joy, and agreed quickly, all while Romano heard him shuffling around to find his shoes. All four of them left soon, leaving Romano alone in the house.

Leaning against the hallway wall, Romano stared at the ground, frozen in slight shock at what happened, but after a minute of thinking about it, he wasn't surprised. How could he? It felt like he was subconsciously preparing for a day like this, when Spain forgot about him.

Did he forget? That was what was bothering him, more like he was hoping. Spain wouldn't forget about Romano; nations can remember a lot of things. So, with that in mind, Spain couldn't have forgotten about Romano, whom had lived with him for a few hundreds of years. The answer was there, all Romano had to do was acknowledge it.

Spain didn't forget; he just didn't care anymore.

That truth itself was its own shock, causing tears to spill over. Romano's heart constricted painfully, his gasping breaths felt like the only thing that kept it forcefully beating, with painful thumps that caused more tears to well up in his eyes.

Silent conviction trembled through Romano, accusing the Spaniard of many things. Tears were leaving wet streaks down his cheeks, as he silently wept into his arms and knees. What happened to being there for me, Spain? What happened to that stupid promise of protecting me? His thoughts were frantic, his judgment surely being soured by them.

Finally, his mind was made up. Hazily made up, hastily made up, but made up. Romano wanted to do it quick, his breathing catching as he slowly crawled over to the far side of his bed. With a trembling hand, he reached under the covers, his fingers dancing across the cool floorboards until it touched something cold, and metallic.

Pulling the gun from under the bed, Romano sat down heavily, his back resting against the side of the bed. He tilted his head back, until the winkled flat of the bed prevented him from moving his head back any further, his eyes staring at the cracked ceiling greeting him. Its cracked surface seemed to expand and contract, dizzily swirling, until Romano blinked.

What was he doing? What was he about to do? Fear rose bile to his throat. Was he truly this pathetic to do this? The sad truth, he was. Romano honestly couldn't think of waking up tomorrow, he didn't even see himself going to sleep in his bed.

All Romano could see was small monochrome memories of his past, his times with Spain, like his mind was tainted in red dirt, even if he shook off the memories, they remained. Instead of shaking them off this time, though, Romano listened, and watched, his eyes closing in slight comfort.

Romano remembered one night in particular in which started the habit of Romano and Spain sleeping in the same bed together. He remembered that he felt the strong desire to dance (1), to move, his mind freaking out at the unwanted feelings. Instead of moving, he cried. Spain found himself coming into Romano's room, and holding him, whispering soothing comforts into Romano's ear to get him to sleep.

He remembers one whispered sentence that Spain whispered to him over and over. "Don't worry, Romano, go to sleep. Fusososososo~" A small pause. "I'll be here when you wake up, I promise." Romano fell to sleep, being rocked back and forth in Spain's arms.

Now, reality being harsh as it was, Romano regained his hazy resolve. Sitting up straight, Romano pressed the gun to his temple. His eyes were closed, his breathing soothing down into deep even breaths, as he braced himself for the unknown. All he could see behind closed eyelids was Spain, and that night.

His finger trembled on the trigger, his mind racing as he slowly evacuated pressure onto that trigger, feeling his heart starting to speed up. As a small bang went through the empty room, Romano felt a sudden relief, no pain.

Just like going to sleep, his whole body slipping into darkness, his thoughts growing groggy and soft. He felt warm, like someone had wrapped a blanket over him, for his final rest. Still, drifting into that fragmented memory, he found himself wondering.

Will Spain be there when I wake up? Will you Spain? You promised…

(1): Tarantism- the uncontrollable urge to dance. Believably caused by a spider bite (Can you guess? A tarantula!), and most commonly occurred in S. Italy during the 16th and 17th century. It was stated that people who had Tarantism needed to dance a frenzied dance, most particularly, the Tarantella. If you want to know more, something called Google. (Did I teach you something? I hope I did. I'd feel like I'd contribute to something in someone's life. )

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-BMTM