As a warning, this does contain mentions of suicide. And also attempted suicide. And character death. I'm really very sorry.

Yes, this is the end of this okay I can't focus anymore. I have tried for months. So I rushed the ending, finally finished this fic, congratulated myself, and moved on. It is only a tiny baby chapter please do not be angry. unu

France knocks gently on the white metal door, hand already on the handle. "Antonio? I'm coming in."

Silence.

He expected no different, but it would still be nice to have the comfort of his friend responding to him for once. He knows what to expect, though. The same as always. But perhaps it was more creative this time. He's managed to give the doctors a few good scares over the past weeks, so France really wouldn't put it past him to keep doing so.

That's not his goal, of course. And he knows that; when he opens the door only to be greeted by a pair of feet directly before him, he only sighs.

"This can not be healthy, Toni," he murmurs, pulling a chair across the small room to stand on while he unties the sheet from round his friend's neck. Surely, despite his immortality, his constant suicide attempts were doing some damage to his body.

With some awkward shifting and shuffling, Spain ends up on the bed and France has, surprisingly, not fallen and injured himself. He moves the chair back beside the bed and sits in it, staring at his friend who lies completely still, and waiting. One minute. Two. Five. Ten. The clock on the wall in its metal cage (in one of his first attempts Spain had shattered the glass on the old one and used it to slit his wrists repeatedly) ticks calmly and quietly. Fifteen.

He can't help but wonder if perhaps Spain has really succeeded in dying this time. The thought only festers for a few short moments before the supposedly dead Spaniard coughs loudly and raises a hand to his throat. As thought the pain shocks him at all. If anything, he's more shocked to find himself alive.

And he really shouldn't be.

France wants to take him by the shoulders and explain firmly that he is immortal, that he can never die, not unless his land is taken away. He wants to, but he already knows it won't help. Spain is too far gone, and he is so lost in his own mind and his own insanity that he is one breakdown away from a strait-jacket. He'd be in one already if it weren't for his status as a nation.

"Antonio? Are you okay?"

He stares at nothing as he gasps for air.

"...Antonio?"

"Lovi?"

France reaches out to him hesitantly. "No, Antonio. It's me, Francis."

He blinks, swivels his head to look at his friend. "Francis...Where's Lovino?"

How is it, France wonders, that every time Spain almost dies he forgets the reason he tried to kill himself in the first place? He sighs and withdraws his hand.

"Are you hungry?" he asks as he stands. "I'm sure a nurse would be happy to get you something to eat."

"Where's Lovino?" Spain persists, too calm.

"Really, Antonio, you should be resting-"

"Where is he?" he roars, grabbing France's arm roughly. "Where is Lovino!?"

It hurts, but France doesn't fight against his grasp, instead kneeling slowly beside the bed and using his free hand to cup Spain's flushed cheek. "Oh, my friend, I am so sorry. Please, just rest for now."

The redness of his anger drains from his face, and France can see all the years he's lived in those dull green eyes. "I need Lovi," he whimpers, relinquishing his grip. He draws himself away from France, closer to the head of the bed, and curls up on himself. He begins to tremble; slowly at first, then the whole bed is shaking as he cries.

"I'm sorry," France repeats. And Spain knows. He remembers, and the next time France comes to visit will certainly be the same. "Do you need anything?"

Spain shakes his head.

"Do you want to be alone?"

Tentatively, he nods, and even while France knows his friend should not be left alone, he obeys his wishes and takes his leave.

..

Spain is having his stomach pumped. France waits outside, stack of papers in hand.

Apparently, rather than take his pills, the Spaniard has been hoarding them. The doctors had obviously seen no point in pumping the stomach of someone who was already dead, but they hadn't protested. He wonders only how long it will take him to wake up this time.

In the whole six hours, France does not move from his spot. The doctors have gone. He occasionally peers through the glass on the door to see whether or not Spain is stirring. The moment he does, France is inside, taking his hand and trying to keep him calm.

"Antonio, I need you to listen to me carefully."

"Where's Lovino?"

He closes his eyes and sighs quietly before opening them again. "Antonio, please."

"But I need-"

"You can see him. You can see him if you just listen. Please," France feels a dull aching in his heart as the reality of the situation, of the option he's presenting, sinks in. "I've spoken with our bosses. They agreed to let me do this. If you sign your land over to me, you can...die. If you sign these papers, you can see Lovino again. Antonio, you are my best friend and I want you to be happy, so if death will make you happy, then I'll help you."

Slowly and so, so hesitantly, Spain nods. As though he isn't quite aware of his situation or the proposal but he feels that whatever it is will help.

"Antonio," France says firmly, and when Spain looks at him it's with a clarity he hasn't seen in months.

"I know. Every time I wake up, I know. But I think just maybe it was a nightmare and it never is and please, please, I want to go to him." His voice is absolutely broken; his eyes shine with tears, and he looks so distraught that France thinks he might cry, himself.

He swallows heavily. "Then please, mon ami, sign these." It takes more effort than it should to place the pen and papers in Spain's trembling hands. He clings to death, smooth and compact and full of words, for a few moments before surrendering and allowing his dearest friend to take it for himself. As the pen scrapes across the pages a few times, a lump grows in his throat.

But when Spain visibly relaxes; when he sighs contentedly and smiles for the first time in so long, France knows that what he's doing is right, if not for himself then for his friend.

He rests a hand on Spain's hair and kisses his forehead. "Good luck, cher ami. Goodbye."

As he leaves the room, papers once again clutched in his hands, he hears Spain say quietly, "Thank you."

And the tears fall.

..

France feels stronger. He knows why, of course. And he's all too aware that as he grows stronger, Spain grows weaker. So he ignores the sudden energy, and everything that comes with it. He pretends it's not happening.

He doesn't visit Spain again, either, because he isn't sure he can handle the guilt when it's already so strong and so debilitating.

He regrets that decision when the hospital calls him to inform him of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo's passing. Of course he does. There have been so many opportunities to see him again, to give him a proper farewell, and he's ignored them all.

There was a time, many years ago, when he could simply drown out his sorrows by dragging his two best friends off to some bar they'd never been to in a town they'd never heard of. When he could drink and dance and laugh and forget. Instead, he opens a bottle of wine at his own dining room table and spends the evening alone.

By the time he's given up on refilling his glass repeatedly and opted to drink straight from the bottle, he sees Prussia and Spain sitting across from him, and he's either more drunk than he can ever recall being or he's begun to lose his mind as well. They're blurry and they don't move or speak, but he speaks for them, of how immortality isn't all it's made out to be and how unification is such an awful, awful thing that catches up with everyone at some point. He must cry, too, because his throat aches and his eyes burn. But then, it might be the burn of the alcohol in its endless flow.

He wakes up alone on the cold floor, surrounded by the bottles he's emptied, and even when he's done retching into the toilet and he's told himself over and over again that what he did was right, he still opens a new one and continues to drink.

Because the words he shared with his dearest friends in the darkest hours of his existence are true.

Immortality is not what anyone might hope for.