'ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ' || ʜᴇᴛᴀʟɪᴀ

16

Antonio stared at the wall, his expression vacant, his mind empty and his breathing inaudible. Anyone observing would've mistake him for a mannequin, or a dead person whose body had been propped up in the middle of his room for some bizarre reason. He felt dead, after all, so why not act it?

The clothes he'd worn earlier were strewn across the floor; he had neither the care, the energy or will to pick them up and dispose of them in some way and make the room seem presentable. There was a tickling in his throat, and that was all that mattered. In the past half an hour, ever since he'd shut himself in a sort of quarantine, both Prussia and Romano had tried to speak to him. He hadn't opened the door to either of them. He didn't want to face them. He didn't want them to see how far he'd fallen.

There was a round of gentle knocks at the door. Prussia's knocking had been hasty and panicked, whereas Romano's were stern and slow. These new ones were calm, perhaps even a little reluctant and nervous.

'Feli,' Spain told himself, and he didn't move a muscle until the sound of footsteps walking away faded into the distance.

He rubbed this throat, as if it would ease the pain or make it all go away, and he set off another series of coughs that made him wince and his eyes tear up. It was horrid; the cough had progressed to a barky, chesty one, and each time his body rattled with the pain and force, Antonio felt ready to just collapse in on himself and let it be over quickly. He couldn't take it for much longer.

Once he'd stopped, he wiped his face in paranoia, and was glad to find that there was no trace of blood on his hands anywhere. Maybe that was a good sign, he figured, and he glanced at the clock in the room, moving with his will finally. It read 5pm. Antonio wondered if Germany had spoken to any other nations since his little adventure earlier on. Did they know what had happened? Had Ludwig spilt the beans? Antonio dreaded to think what they thought of him.

'They think you're a coward.'

"I thought I told you to leave me alone," he muttered with a sigh.

'They also think that you're pathetic, but you already know that.'

"Yes, thanks for reminding me. Now piss off!"

'Trying to be a pirate again? You were as terrible pirate, it's no wonder that the English sank your ships.'

"I returned the favour! Now go away, already!"

Worried knocking sounding against the door. Spain's interlocutor vanished for the time being, waiting until they were alone again. Antonio cursed under his breath, wishing he didn't sound so vulgar, and he stepped over to the door without really thinking about it. He grabbed the handle, twisted it and pulled, revealing Romano and a confusing whirlwind of emotions. Anger, worry, fear, concern, impatience, frustration . . . Antonio regretted opening the door.

"You need to stop this," the Italian said with a frown. "This isn't good for you,  and I'm fairly sure the others don't want to hear you yelling at the walls."

"Lovi, two things. One, I'm not so much worried about my little enemigo as I am my physical health right now," Antonio replied quietly. He felt bad--of course he did--but he'd been living with the voice for just over a year . . . "Two, you know I can't help it . . . You know that . . ."

"I know . . ." Lovino sighed. "I know, I'm sorry, but you scared the shit out of all of us . . . Me especially, you bastard."

Antonio backed away a little bit. "I'm sorry, I caused a lot of problems . . . I didn't mean for anyone to worry, o-or for anyone to think I was . . . Gone, I just . . . I had to get away! B-Being confined here makes me feel sick, I c-can't keep doing this! . . . Ay, pero no te importa nada . . . No tú o los otros, porque estoy loco, ¡y lo sabéis!"

Lovino stared, conflicted. Antonio had just gone from apologetic, to the point where he'd actually started to cry, then he'd grown frustrated with his condition, and now he was yelling--in Spanish, no less--at Romano! The Italian wasn't going to stand for that, no matter how much Antonio had gone through. He was growing impatient, intolerant . . . He didn't have to put with it if he didn't want to.

'Good job, you just scared him off. He was right to call you a bastard.'

Antonio scratched the side of his head, screaming for it to stop talking back when it wasn't meant to. At that moment, he wondered how much it would hurt to stab his head and how quickly he'd die. In the end, it seemed too slow, and his ideal faded into nothingness. The Spaniard looked at Lovino. He couldn't even remember what he'd said, but it looked like it had pissed Lovino off a lot.

"For the record, Spain, hablo español," he eventually said, eyes boring into Antonio's fiercely. "Y, así sabes, no estás loco. Solamente un idioto."

And with that, Lovino left. Antonio would normally have gone after him; an apology was in order, and maybe something to make it up to Romano, but he didn't budge. He just quietly shut the door and glared at the brown wood. He hated himself. He had done for a long time, but in that moment, it felt as though all the hatred he'd ever felt--that towards England, or France, dictators, politicians, or even conquistadors like himself--reversed its polarity and came back to him at full throttle.

Spain sunk to the floor. He was a mess, a fool, and he felt sorry for the four people downstairs who were waiting around to see how he was doing. They didn't have to be there. They could all be at home, all of them! He wished that they would leave so they could spend some time in peace, without worry and without concern, living their own lives! But they wouldn't do that, and as much as Antonio knew it and thanked them for it, he couldn't understand why. Why did they stay? Why did they stay for someone like him?

Downstairs, Lovino was trying to wave off the others. They wanted to know what the shouting had been about, but he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing. It wasn't their place.

"Fratello, please! If it's something important and serious, you have to--!"

"Of course it's serious!" Lovino interrupted, his voice growing louder. "He's been coughing up blood, he looks like shit and I swear to God he'll be crawling up the walls next! Yes, Feli, it's serious! . . . We just . . . We don't know what to do about it, OK?"

"Then let us help! He's our friend, and we had have every right to at least see him and try to make him feel better!" Gilbert chimed in. "I'm no doctor, but if laughter is the best medicine, he needs to be here with us, not hiding away in his room like a moody teenager."

"Drag him down here, then, because I'm not going to," Lovino said, his arms neatly crossed. "He probably won't open the door to anyone again today, anyway."

"Then I'll just kick the door d--"

"Perhaps we should just leave him to it," Ludwig said as he stopped his brother in his tracks. "Spain knows what is best for himself. You can try to talk to him later on, if needs be."

"Right," Gilbert muttered.

"But he'll be OK?" Italy questioned, glancing upstairs. "Nothing bad is going to happen to Spain, is it?"

"I hope not, fratellino . . . I really hope not . . ."