[Event 6] Match up 1: North Italy vs. Spain Closed

[The First Inhabitant]

It was ever so easy to manipulate these bent and broken Nations to their whims, all it took was a bit of their master’s vast power and they moved how them like pieces on a chessboard. Now for instance was a good example. For their new surprise for them, the Inhabitants needed them to sleep before everything could get set up, so they made it so. They themselves went and knocked out North Italy and Spain for this little game and brought them to the room. It was a plain, decent sized room that was lined with mirrors with only two chairs that faced away from each other and one lone wall sconce that illuminated only partially illuminated the room. Shadows lined the corners, leaving the nations to wonder just what could be hiding in the room with them, potentially watching everything that took place.

Looking at the unconscious nations that were loosely bound to the chairs with their hands tied behind their back, the two skeletal inhabitants, brothers by life and brothers in death, looked at each other and grinned. With a snap of their fingers, an envelope appeared before each of the brothers. Breathing a mist of cold air over the paper, the words appeared.


Greetings, North Italy/Spain,

As you may have noticed, you are trapped in a room with another vermin just like you. For what purpose, you ask? Yes, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you have been lucky enough to be chosen for a very, very special game, along with your little friend over there.

The door to the room is locked, and no amount of force can pry it open. But be not alarmed; there is a key, a key to your salvation. I will even give you a hint, as I believe an insect like you would never figure it out on your own. Spain/North Italy, that other vermin in the room,they know where the key is. All you have to do is ask them. Simple enough for even you to accomplish.

Or is it?

You would do well not to communicate about this letter to them; should you attempt to, you would be faced with an unfortunate, immediate death. And that would bore us immensely.

Oh, and please do try to hurry. We would not want either of you to face the consequences of dilly-dallying.

Good luck, worm
The Inhabitants


The paper folding and on the outside, readable to only the intended Nation,For Your Eyes Only North Italy/Spain appeared in neat cursive print. Tucking the letters into each of the Nations clothes, they grinned at each other again. The nations would find them and then the game would commence. Snapping one more time, unearthly music filled the room.

”Think they’ll like our little song Second?

“Indeed First, creates the perfect atmosphere.”

Vanishing from sight, the brothers muttered a single word simultaneously before they vanished from the room.

"Awaken"

---

((In case it was not clear, both North Italy and Spain are loosely bound and the letters in their clothing is addressed to them only. The posting order will be North Italy then Spain. Responses must be posted within two weeks of the last post or it will be considered a refusal to participate and consequences await. ))

[Italia Veneziano]

A throbbing ache pounded between his temples. Music sang through his ears, raising the hair on his arms and putting his nerves on edge. it was an eerie, almost painful sound, the potential cause of his headache. A quiet groan escaped a scratchy throat, all but drowned out by the harpsichord. Feliciano wanted to stay asleep--he didn't want to wake up, not now. This sleep hadn't come naturally; the heaviness of his mind meant that he'd been dragged from the nook he'd hidden himself in. He was being dragged into another game, and if he stayed as he was, he could end up dying. He didn't want to play like a puppet on a string, but he didn't want to die. Reluctantly, hazy eyes slid open.

The light of a small lamp greeted him, gratefully without any additional pain. Using the dim light illuminating this prison, he looked around. There wasn't much to see, shadows hiding most details from his gaze. The only thing of note were floating balls of light hanging above him, fading into eternity. Whether those ghostly lights were a sign that the room was much larger than it seemed, or they were a figment of his imagination, the brunette didn't know. The sight, coupled with the eerie music, only grated more upon his nerves. He twisted restlessly in his seat, attempting to break free of the rope binding him to his seat. The soft rustle of paper was masked by the creak of rope as he struggled. Surprisingly, his arm slid free almost immediately, not even a scratch on his skin. Another rough wriggle later and he pulled his left arm from the loosely looped rope. Quickly, he rose to his feet and stepped away, as if afraid the rope was going to come to life and attempt to strangle him. "V-Ve, I don't want to be here..." He murmured, biting his lip. Even free from his chair, his nerves were on edge, fingers twitching in spastic agitation.

A quiet rustle echoed in the room behind him. A sharp jerk freed the black-barreled Smith&Wesson from its impromptu holster. In the same motion he twisted around, light gleaming off dark bloodstains as he aimed the weapon at the sour-- Harsh words died in his throat when, instead of some terrible creature approaching from the darkness, the back of a head peeking over the back of a chair greeted his gaze. Apparently he wasn't the only one stuck here, though it was hard to decipher who the man with curly brown hair was amidst these dark shadows. Feliciano bit his lip again, hand trembling slightly. He'd almost gone and shot someone, completely unprovoked. Without even knowing what had caused the noise, the Italian pulled his weapon with the intention to shoot. To kill. Before the other nation could notice, the boy backed up a few steps more, hurriedly tucking his weapon away. This time, he heard the crinkle of parchment, the brush of paper across the pad of his fingers. After sparing the other nation another short glance, he turned his attention away to focus on the letter he'd extracted from his clothes. "For Your Eyes Only, North Italy", the envelope read, causing Feliciano to grimace slightly. This didn't help his nerves at all, but if this letter was only meant for his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to share it. What if doing so ended poorly for the other nation? He has enough blood on his hands. Turning his back on the nation fighting his own bonds, he quickly tore open the parchment to read the letter within.

Greetings, North Italy,

As you may have noticed, you are trapped in a room with another vermin just like you. For what purpose, you ask? Yes, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you have been lucky enough to be chosen for a very, very special game, along with your little friend over there.

The door to the room is locked, and no amount of force can pry it open. But be not alarmed; there is a key, a key to your salvation. I will even give you a hint, as I believe an insect like you would never figure it out on your own. Spain, that other vermin in the room, they know where the key is. All you have to do is ask them. Simple enough for even you to accomplish.

Or is it?

You would do well not to communicate about this letter to them; should you attempt to, you would be faced with an unfortunate, immediate death. And that would bore us immensely.

Oh, and please do try to hurry. We would not want either of you to face the consequences of dilly-dallying.

Good luck, worm
The Inhabitants

Feliciano's blood ran cold. A game, it's all just another stupid game, just like he'd feared. He swallowed back a quiet whine, clenching his fists so tight small tears formed in the paper. "N-No, no, this isn't fair..." The words left his lips unbidden, so quiet they were hardly spoken at all. Not this, not again. Memories of the last "game" flashed through his mind, of begging violet eyes and a superpower kneeling at his feet, begging for the chance to speak; memories of twin steel barrels pressing into pale skin, the crack of firing pins and blood splattering over his hands. Amber eyes clenched shut against the onslaught of images. It was hard to breathe around the growing knot in his throat, each inhale trembling and weak. The Italian didn't want to do this--he didn't want to play along with the Manor any more. Composure eventually came to him, after a difficult fight reigning in his emotions. He scrubbed away the few tears that had spilled down his cheeks and blinked away the rest. No, this wouldn't end like the last time, he told himself as he stuffed the letter back into the remains of his shirt. It couldn't. With that thought in mind, he hurried towards the closest wall, ignoring the other nation. There was a door, the letter said, a door that he could at least try to open. Nothing here was absolute--even if the force keeping the door shut was powerful, it couldn't hold forever. And the longer he ignored the other nation, the longer he could refuse to play this game and the less likely the situation could end with blood.

A pale face with sallow cheeks and dark-ringed eyes greeted the brunette as he hurried, the strange sight making him pause. Only that moment of revulsion kept him from walking smack-dab into the mirror before him. He grimaced upon realizing that image was himself, slim past the point of healthy and exhausted past the point of sleep. All along the wall the mirror continued, following along the length with his eyes. There wasn't even a door for him to see here, let alone force open.

"W-What are we supposed to do now, ve..?"

[Deleted]

Spain probably could have continued sleeping if he’d tried really hard. The simple command of “Awaken” didn’t phase him too much: it brought him to consciousness, alerted him of his migraine, and made him decide that more sleep would do him well. As such, he ignored this expectation that was set upon him, turned his head, and tried to fall back into his slumber. The music provided a problem, albeit not a terribly large one. He loved music greatly, but what was echoing throughout the air around him was both too loud and too oppressive. It had no joy to it, nor any peace. Antonio did not appreciate it. He also was not particularly fond of the fact that his hands were tied behind his back, thus securing him in a cold chair. Even that he could have ignored and fallen back asleep on a normal day.

But no. What drew him out of his sleep was something else entirely: someone else was in the room with him. He first could tell by the movement he heard behind him. At this first notice his eyes darted open, and immediately closed again. He didn’t need to see yet: listening was currently sufficient. Much to his delight, it didn’t take him long at all to discover who the other person was. ”V-Ve, I don’t want to be here...” Upon hearing this sentence, he immediately knew he was accompanied by Italy Veneziano, someone who probably would not bring him immediate harm. So, for the time being, he decided to keep to himself, and deal with figuring out where he was.

He opened his eyes. This time he looked all around him, taking everything then: the eyes staring back at him from the shadows, the soft lamp on one wall, Italy behind him, the high ceiling, and the lack of a doorway out. At first he was disturbed by the hard emerald eyes cloaked in darkness that stared back at him wherever he looked, until he realized that they were indeed his own eyes that were partially hidden by his own brown curls. Once that realization was made he stared deep into the reflection for a couple minutes while he gently tugged at his hands to undo the ropes. Spain’s thoughts wondered to pondering the reflection of his eyes, truly this manor does drive people mad...if eyes are the windows to the soul, I must surely be damned so long as I stay here.... He shook the thought out of his mind and smiled softly, watching his face change in the mirror. If possible, the smile made him look less sane, what with the blood that partially caked his face and the fact that his eyes remained cold and empty. He blinked and tried again. Again and again he tried until light entered his eyes––by now his hands had long since been freed. It was faint, just a very slight glimpse of hope held deep in his heart. There, now he could get up and talk to Italy. For Spain could not to stand to talk to the Italian if he could not give him hope.

As he started to stand, he heard paper rustle somewhere in his lap. Settling back into his seat he found a letter tucked into his leather war skirt. Upon pulling it out, it didn’t much surprise him that it was labelled “For Your Eyes Only Spain.” With a silent sigh he flipped open the letter and started to read:

Greetings, Spain,

As you may have noticed, you are trapped in a room with another vermin just like you. For what purpose, you ask? Yes, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you have been lucky enough to be chosen for a very, very special game, along with your little friend over there.

At this point Antonio folded the letter back up and placed it back where he had found it. I really do hate games sometimes...[/i] He took a deep breath. At that moment, he could think of nothing he wanted less than to play a game with the younger of the Italy brothers...except possibly playing one with the older of them. He looked back in the mirror, a defiant glint in his eye. At least there was a strong emotion present now, he thought. I will not play this game...they can’t make me. It was then Italy caught his attention again with his soft and scared voice.

"W-What are we supposed to do now, ve..?"

Spain stood up and stretched for a moment before turning to look at the Italian, ”Italy, are you okay?” His companion’s health was certainly the first thing on his priority list. That, and finding a way out of the room without allowing anyone to play around with their heads...at least, not if he could help it. Allowing a comforting smile to stretch across his face Antonio opened his arms wide to Italy, inviting him in for a hug.

”I am not sure what we are going to do...but we will figure something out, and we will get out of this place.” ”...I promise,” he refrained from saying this last bit out loud to his friend and instead kept it silent for himself only. The reason for this remained quite simply: he could not promise anything to anyone in this place.

[Italia Veneziano]

The Italian was more than happy to turn away from his reflection and look over his shoulder at Spain. Despite the bit of dried blood along the man's temple, the other nation looked relatively well. Still, though, he gave the man a thorough looking over, attempting to see if there were any injuries or troubles lurking behind the customary smile Spain sported. Only when he felt that nothing was out of the ordinary, other than everything, Feliciano relaxed, the sharp edges of his shoulders slumping down. He didn't hesitate to hurry over to the other nation, latching onto him with fervor. Spain was alright, a fact that comforted him immensely. Lovino would be happy to hear that their fellow Latin nation was in good health, relatively unharmed by the Manor and its creepy-crawlies. Feliciano buried his face in Spain's shoulder, absorbing the warmth only another person could provide.

...For how long would Spain stay this way, though? It'd been so long since the Italian had felt even comfortable in his own skin, how did Spain manage to stay so unmarred by the darkness around them? What made the Spaniard so special that he could walk these halls, virtually unscathed? A slight scuff on his forehead was nothing compared to what the others, what Feliciano had gone through during his incarceration here--why was Spain so special? Something grossly akin to jealousy bubbled up in his stomach, partnered with a sense of disgust that soured the back of his throat with the bitter taste of bile. There wasn't anything that made Spain special--he had simply been lucky, or he was more adept in staying out of trouble. He couldn't begrudge the Spaniard simply because he wasn't hurt. Amber eyes clenched shut, and the brunette attempted to burrow deeper into that warm embrace. He could only hope the stab of cold steel didn't press into Spain's ribs like it was jabbing into Feliciano's. To be honest, he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd have to be pried off by this point.

"V-Ve, I'm alright, Spain," he murmured, the half-lie passing over his lips as easily as breathing. There was no reason to lament over his troubles now--who knows what kind of incident that could lead to. The Spaniard was notoriously protective, even if that guardian-streak was generally aimed at Lovino rather than Feliciano. He didn't want to rile the Spaniard up, nor did he want to share just how weak he'd been, how low he'd sunk since being trapped in this dark, unforgiving place. The very memory led him to tightening his white-knuckled grip all the more, fingers trembling with the effort of staying connected to his surrogate elder brother.

Please don't leave me. Don't make me play this game again.

"...Do you know how to get out of h-here, Spain?" He couldn't help but ask--he had to at least see if that letter had a hint of truth. If they were telling the truth, and that Spain had the key, then nothing bad would happen. Spain may be more protective of Lovino, but he was still one of Feliciano's big brothers--he would help them get out immediately, no bloodshed to worry about. "I-I want to go and find the others, but I can't see a door anywhere... Can we go, please? I-I don't want to be here anymore."

[Deleted]

A sharp stab of guilt penetrated Antonio’s heart as he looked down at Italy. The poor Italian was clearly terrified, and too inexperienced to quite know how to cope with the fear. Absentmindedly he let one of his hands rise up to stroke Feliciano’s hair. His eyes scanned the room again, trying to find a possible hidden door. Sadly, he did not have much luck with that. A soft sigh escaped his lips before he bent down and kissed the top of Italy’s head.

"...Do you know how to get out of h-here, Spain?"

“I’m afraid I do not know how to get out of here, no. I suppose it’s possible that we could break the mirrors and possibly get out that way...though I assume the manor would expect us to try that,” a small part of Antonio wished he’d finished the letter given him. But, he reminded himself, it probably gave no information that would actually be of any use to him. Just giving him the kind reminding him that he was nothing more than a toy to the manor and it’s occupants. Not something he needed constant reminding of, “I suppose it is safe to assume that you have already looked about the room for hidden doors, sí?”

Spain of course already knew the answer to his question. He had heard him walking around the room, and surely there was not much he could have been doing other than looking for a way out. Unless Italy already knew the way out...? No. This was Italy, he couldn’t keep secrets. It just wasn’t at all in his nature. Romano? Romano could possibly pull a stunt akin to tying Spain up in a mirrored box and pretending to not know anything about it. But not his little brother...unless it wasn’t really Italy? Spain shook his head sharply. He wanted the music to stop...it was effecting his reasoning skills. This was Italy, and he was Spain. They were in a manor that wanted them dead. Simple as that. There were no false identities. Everything was exactly as it seemed: terrible, with a chance of death.

"I-I want to go and find the others, but I can't see a door anywhere... Can we go, please? I-I don't want to be here anymore."

Spain shook his head sadly, indicating he didn't know when they would be able to get out, but he kept his mouth shut. He was thinking deeply about all the different possibilities of what could have happened. Taking Italy’s chin in one of his hands he raised it so the Italian was looking into his bright eyes, “What is the last thing you can remember before waking up in here, niño mio? Do you recall where you were? Or what you were doing? Is there any recollection of how you came to be here? If we can only find some way of recalling how we came here...perhaps we can get out...”

His eyes looked up into the darkness above their heads. There was sadly not much chance that they would be able to climb out of the room. A small idea crept into his head...but he pushed it aside as it was doomed to fail. He looked back down at the Italian. Could he know a way out? He certainly was very shaken...it was possible that he could have forgotten because of a traumatizing experience and just needed the right coaxing to get it out of him...then again, it was equally possible that he himself had forgotten something. Nevertheless, he figured it couldn’t hurt to ask him if he knew anything, right?

”Italy, are you certain you do not know how we got into this place?”

[Italia Veneziano]

Feliciano could only bear staring at Spain's calm green eyes for a few seconds before he dropped his gaze, swallowing thickly. It felt like the other nation was peering into his soul, searching for things he desperately wanted to hide, even from himself. "I-I don't remember much," He murmured, torn between hiding back in the Spaniard's warmth and retreating from it, where the man couldn't interrogate him with a glance and dig up things Feliciano wanted to forget.

Fallen rafters and shattered stained glass glittered against a backdrop of stars and a grinning moon as the sky was set ablaze, Lovino's tear-stricken face meshed horridly with Russia's, Prussia's painful disinterest clashed against soothing words from a sympathetic Germany; images swirled in his mind and paved a road to Memory Lane and he just wanted it to stop. It had been a mistake hunting his memories back down--his chest ached with every thought back. Every recollection reminded him of how many people he'd hurt since he'd come here, how far Feliciano Vargas, Italia Veneziano, had fallen from the path he'd chosen for himself several centuries ago.

Reluctantly, but quickly, the Italian disentangled himself from Spain. To accommodate the distressing loss of warmth and sense of safety, he wrapped his arms around himself in a meager attempt at comfort. "V-Ve, I didn't see anything when I was looking around, a-and I don't know if there'll just be walls behind the mirrors or not. They're all connected to each other, s-so I don't think one of them is a hidden door." 

[Whether there's a door or not is irrelevant. You've had plenty of chances to escape, but you never took them. You just stand there and watch people die, whether you're pulling the trigger or not.]

Slim fingers tightened upon his upper arms, tearing further holes into the ratty fabric. Finally Feliciano looked away entirely, staring down at the floor because stone couldn't judge him. It couldn't tell him he was fifty shades of disgusting and awful and wrong. So long as he kept his gaze away, Spain couldn't see past the shoddy wall he'd built up against his inquisitiveness. "...I just want to leave, Spain," he reiterated, lips thin and trembling. It was so hard to stay calm between the nerve-wracking music and the Spaniard's gentle questions. "I don't know how we got h-here. I-I just know I don't want to be here, I don't want to do t-this again." Snot began to clog up his sinuses, making it hard to breathe. Tears wanted to follow, dampen his eyes until he gave in and let them fall, but the Italian stubbornly held them back. "I just want to go h-home."

[The First Inhabitant]

The light was the same as it always was, dim, not allowing the corners of the room to be seen, but enough to let the mirrors show their reflections. The temperature was a constant temperature, but it started increasing. Out of the corner of the mirror closest to the nations, fire spread across it, slowly forming words.

"Not like the rules do we? Let us spell it out. You have the key at your fingertips. War was your past time, time to bring out that hatred again and fight to survive, otherwise...."

And the text trailed off. A small sound was heard and the walls started moving, a loud grinding noise sounded and echoed through the room, stopping after the walls had moved about a foot inward.

[Deleted]

As the younger nation looked down, Spain’s heart sank. He could see the fear, and hurt, and misery in his friend, and it pained him like nothing else could have. Hope was scarce, and Spain had none to offer. As Feliciano pulled out of his grasp, he was reminded painfully of the last time Lovino had turned away from him, and his eyes were filled with unshed tears. He turned away from the younger brother. Sure, there was not easy mistaking him for his older sibling, at least not for Spain, but still...he couldn’t bear to look at him. Not like this...so forlorn and broken. He just couldn’t.

The mirror was taunting him. It distorted his image into that of a psychopath, and it irked him. Once again his eyes blazed with fury. Then they were filled with fear. No distinct emotion was his. Even his feelings were no longer in his control. After awhile he realized he had tuned the Italian out, and caught his last pained words: "I just want to go h-home."

He choked. The sorrow of this place was too much. He’d tried to stay happy for everyone else. But in a closed, dark, hopeless room, with a depressed person he knew to be even happier than himself, it was more than he could do right now. Reaching out, he touched his reflection. The glass was cold. Leaning forward he pressed his forehead against the mirror and breathed deeply, letting some of the tears he had bitten back fall to the group making soft splashing noises that he was pretty sure only he could hear. Time was unknown. He could have stayed like this a few seconds, or hours. Neither he, nor Feli said anything. Except for the sound of his heart, his tears falling, and the other nations hitched breathing, nothing could be heard.

Nothing would have changed had the mirror not started to burn his forehead. After awhile it got too hot for him to just ignore so he stepped back from the mirror and, looking at it, noticed a flickering flame blaze inside of it. His eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Was the way out to get in to the mirror? Then could they escape their cage? No. That couldn’t be. He shook his head and watched the flames spread out, forming menacing words that chilled him to the core, despite the heat now flowing form the walls.

"Not like the rules do we? Let us spell it out. You have the key at your fingertips. War was your past time, time to bring out that hatred again and fight to survive, otherwise...."

Antonio’s eyes froze over with hatred as he glared at the words. He suddenly knew, without a doubt, what the letter meant by “game” and he most certainly was not amused. Stealing a glance at Italy, his eyes burned with a fury he couldn’t hide. He wasn’t mad at him, he just was furious it was HIM. Had it been another nation, he probably could have killed them...but Italy was one of the few that were off limits. It was a line he simply couldn’t cross: he couldn’t kill Romano’s baby brother. His icy stare went back to the mirror. The words were fading, but not fast enough. Antonio turned, grabbed one of the chairs, and threw it at the mirror.

The sound of the impact echoed throughout the small room. The iciness in his eyes faded to shock as the mirrors started moving closer. Fear help him in place while the walls moved closer. They stopped. He could breath again. But he still felt dead. He was dead. It was time to say goodbye. One of them had to...and it couldn’t be Italy. Not at his hands. Romano would kill him. It had to be Spain that died.

“Italy...” his voice cracked, he couldn’t say it. At least...not bluntly, “You know what to do.”

[Italia Veneziano]

As much as the music scraped horridly at his nerves, Feliciano was happy that Spain didn't press the issue. The silence between the two of them gave him ample time to calm down; blink away the tears and choke down the hitch in his throat. Now wasn't the time to let his upset, his lack of control, get the best of him. Not when it would affect not only himself, but the older nation as well. He knew his fellow Latin nation tried his best to be happy more often than not, and not just because he wanted other people to be happy, but because he was simply a happy person. Like Feliciano tried to be. He couldn't let his own doubts, fears, and pain hurt the other nation as well; the Italian has hurt enough people as it was.

Once sure of his composure, he glanced up from the floor at the other. The taller brunette leaned against one of the mirrors, too close for Feliciano to catch his reflection. The slump of his shoulders, though, gave away the mood Spain was in, that this place--no, that  Feliciano had put him in. Guilt welled up in the boy once more, but before he could step over and apologize, the other nation jerked upright. Darkening his back in shadow, yet highlighting a strange, flickering halo of an outline, a red glow emanated from the mirrors before them. As Feliciano stepped forward, Spain jerked back, giving them both a clear view of the growing words:

"Not like the rules do we? Let us spell it out. You have the key at your fingertips. War was your past time, time to bring out that hatred again and fight to survive, otherwise...."

The Italian hardly had the time to comprehend the words spelled out to them. Icy trepidation gripped his heart, but he couldn't keep his gaze from turning to the older nation. Green, green eyes fixed on him in return, and what hope for reassurance died within him. Anger illuminated those eyes, flickering along with the fiery words dimming beyond them. Anger tensed his jaw, a twitch visible from here as white teeth clenched behind thin lips. Anger was everywhere in this man, clad in the armor of their shared grandfather and re-painting a picture of a far-gone past Feliciano didn't want to see. Spain looked away quickly enough, but that gaze still raged against his skin in an inferno. Goosebumps rose along his arms, and he couldn't stop staring at the older nation.

"War was your past time, time to bring out that hatred again and fight to survive."

Had those words truly engulfed Spain already? Was he really going to have to fight for his life, fight and maybe kill a nation, again? Agitation and fear clawed against his insides, amber eyes watching as the Spaniard snagged a chair in between his hands and chucked it at the wall. The sound of glass shattering, of wood splintering against stone, made him cringe--until he realized Spain was backing away and the sound grumbling against his ears was stone against stone. It seems both Spain's anger and his own worry about those words got swept away and drowned with the realization as the walls moved closer. Trembling fingers nearly caught hold of Spain's sleeve before he managed to stop himself, his breath trapped in his lungs. What if they were crushed? What if the walls moved so close the light was put out, trapping them in darkness until the oxygen was finally squeezed from their lungs, temperature rising if only from their own bodies as the darkness pressed into them harsher than any glass and stone. Crushed down, deep in the black, never to be seen. Buried alive, all over again.

Only when the walls rumbled to a stop did he finally breathe, shoulders stuttering with the exhale when the lights stayed lit and the two of them were safe. For the moment. "Fight to survive."

Survival of the fittest. Snarling, red eyed beasts smiled maliciously from far below the chain-mesh floor. Their tongues grazed the soles of his shoes, twisting lewdly against the blood staining him. Russia's dead body laid before him, eyes half-open and mouth parted in unuttered words. Half his skull missing, probably food by now. A thousand regrets in a Russian man, a thousand more crushing down on slim shoulders as the Italian turned and walked away.

It really was the same game, all over again. The exact. Same. Game.

Feliciano wasn't going to play.

His mind was whirling with too many thoughts, too many emotions. Spain himself was far away, an existence not worrying about because he wasn't part of the game, either. Neither of them was going to play. Calloused fingers wrapped around the grip of that black Smith&Wesson and pulled it free from his ratty shirt. It felt light, for once; its sins easier to bear with the brunette's sense of purpose steadying his hands. All it would take was one twitch, tightening of a single finger and this would all end, again. Feliciano didn't want to die. Not again.

"Italy... You know what to do."

Feliciano froze.

Spain sounded like he'd given up. Like he'd spent a millenia debating his life, and there wasn't anything in it worth keeping himself around. Amber eyes lifted to stare at the other brunette once more, trying to get the man to look at him. Green eyes were downcast, his face had paled--that earlier, inhumane rage was gone. All the Italian could see was defeat; plain and simple.

His fingers tightened around the grip of his gun. One breathe to steady his nerves, still his hand. The boy didn't dare speak, not yet--he didn't trust his voice. Stepping a bit closer, the barrel of that black-metalled pistol glimmering ominously in the light, he lifted his hand and used the sight to prod the Spaniard's chin up. He wanted those green green eyes looking at him. He took a moment to ensure that the older nation wasn't going to move, to shy away at the last second.

Then Feliciano twisted the gun in his hand, pulled back his fist, and punched Spain in the face.

"Y-You self-centered jerk!" The smaller nation shouted, amber eyes narrowed in agitation as he kept his throbbing hand raised, ready to swing again. "What, because Big Brother Spain can't bring himself to play the game, he's going to make me?! No! I'm not playing their games, not again, ve!" As much as Feliciano didn't want to die, why was he always the one expected to live through these games? Why was he he the one expected to pull the trigger without a fight, to carry the guilt of another nation's death upon his shoulders? Did the others really think him so noble that he'd take such sacrifice without a word? Or were they really that selfish? "I don't want to die, ve, but I'm not going to kill you! I don't want to kill you! I don't want to kill anyone, ve!"[/color] It was getting harder to breathe, and his hands shook, and it was all he could do to not throw his weapon at Spain, as well. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes, and he irritably swiped them away.  "I'm not some...some toy that you can use however you want, Spain! You can't choose to give up and be guilt-free by making me your weapon for suicide! I don't want to be your murderer! I don't want to have to hurt you! How is it fair that you get to decide to die but I have to be the one to kill you?! Do you know how upset Lovi would be if you died?! Y-You're his best friend! You're his big b-brother, a-and--"

He had to cut himself off a moment as his words warped into a harsh half-sob that he couldn't deal with right now. He needed to be angry, and strong; breaking down into frustrated tears wouldn't prove his point. It'd only make him weak, something to pity, and strengthen Spain's resolve to go through with his actions. He twisted away from the brunette because looking at him made it worse. He stared at his own reflection, instead--it was still that same sickly, pathetic image it was before. It was something Feliciano could draw strength from; this place had knocked him down, degraded him, turned him into something he desperately didn't want to be. He was a murderer, a coward, and weak. That's what this place had made him. But he could be better than that.

All he had to do was start now.

Feliciano tightened his grip on the weapon in his hands, until his knuckles strained and creaked beneath his skin. His voice had softened, but even with those tears still clinging to his lashes, it had steadied again. "Lovi's already killed himself because of me, Antonio. I never, ever want to see that happen again. I'm not adding his blood to my hands a second time just because you're a coward."

He was tired, he was tired, he was sick and tired of this place. The Italian turned back to face Spain once more, no longer glaring but staring at the brunette in both disappointment and exhaustion. "I just want to go home, ve. I don't want to do this anymore. But I'm not going home if that means I have to kill you, too. So grab your sword, ve." He gestured irritably to the short sword attached to Spain's waist, ."If you really want to die, Antonio, then do it yourself. I'm going to figure a way out of this place--if you care about my brother, or me, or anyone but yourself, then you'll help me. If we have to fight, then we'll fight, ve. But I'm not going to just kill you and go. I'm not your easy way out, ve."

[Deleted]

He didn’t want to look into Italy’s eyes. He couldn’t. Although Italy and Romano were entirely different, they still bore a slight similarity that at this precise moment Spain couldn’t bear to see. But he still could not refuse when the younger nation lifted his chin up, and he looked straight into Italy’s eyes. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t do it. Italy was too kind to just kill him. Hope was all he could have, that maybe his friend would slip up in agitation and actually pull the trigger. What came next, though, was not something he expected, and he stumbled backward as the impact came.

"Y-You self-centered jerk! What, because Big Brother Spain can't bring himself to play the game, he's going to make me?! No! I'm not playing their games, not again, ve!"

Shame filled his heart and he looked away. In the mirror he saw himself, and he knew he didn’t see what the younger nation saw. He saw a man who was at a loss. A standstill. He could not kill Italy, for it would certainly insure his own death. And yet at the same time, he could not force the other to kill him, for it would be cruel. His eyes drifted back to italy and lingered. A smile crept to his face. Not like the one everyone associated with him, but a sad and sick smile. For when he looked at the brunette in front of him, he saw the little boy he had doted upon, wishing he were his own child. And now, that boy he so wished to have live with him, he was asking to kill him. Certainly, this place, this hell they were in was ironic in the most sadistic sense.

"I don't want to die, ve, but I'm not going to kill you! I don't want to kill you! I don't want to kill anyone, ve! I'm not some...some toy that you can use however you want, Spain! You can't choose to give up and be guilt-free by making me your weapon for suicide! I don't want to be your murderer! I don't want to have to hurt you! How is it fair that you get to decide to die but I have to be the one to kill you?! Do you know how upset Lovi would be if you died?! Y-You're his best friend! You're his big b-brother, a-and--"


With those words Spain stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the little italian. Lovi would indeed miss Spain, but nowhere near as much as he would miss his brother, and sadly his baby brother didn’t appear to understand that. His arms tightened around Italy, and he held him close.

“Niño...you do not understand. I cannot kill you. And we cannot both live. You misunderstand, I do not want to die. But...I could not face Lovino, and tell him that I...that I killed his baby brother” Spain pulled away and held Italy by the shoulders, his eyes were calm, and his face expressionless. How could he express his point in a way that could be understood? Surely he didn’t know how. With a swift motion he leaned in and kissed the younger nation on the forehead. It was a gesture he could afford to give, something that might could express how he felt, without words. For words were failing him.

"Lovi's already killed himself because of me, Antonio. I never, ever want to see that happen again. I'm not adding his blood to my hands a second time just because you're a coward."

The Spaniards senses of right and wrong froze in the moment. And rage filled every fiber of his being. Lovi could not be dead he had just been with him, he was alive, and well. He had to be. His eyes closed as he remembered the encounter. It was very vivid. The flour, the sauce, the anger, the singing. All of it. Perfectly clear. it was all there. He was fine. But he couldn’t remember everything....how had they been separated? That he could not remember. But he was alive. And he could not have died since then. it was not possible. His eyes flew open. The rage vanished when he realized he had shoved Italy against the wall in his anger. He quickly backed off and turned away. His voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it was steady “You’re wrong, niño mio...Lovi is fine. He is alive. He has died neither because of you nor because of anyone else. I was just with him. He is fine. You are mistaken.” If the Spaniard were to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that he did not know if the words he spoke were to soothe the heartache that burned inside of himself, or the guilt and grief that lay within his friends eyes. Chances are, he would never be able to know whether he spoke for his own benefit or for that of the other nation’s. But it mattered little, for what he spoke was true. It had to be. He drew small circles in the ground with his feet to distract himself. ”I’m sorry, Italy....I don’t know what got into me...”

He looked up at the ceiling. Still, it was just darkness, without appearance of a way out. But just the same, it did not promise complete hopelessness either. Spain kindled the little flame of home that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way out through the top. Every now and then, he found himself in situations where he just didn’t know how to see if something was possible. But this time, he knew a way to test to see if there was in fact a ceiling. A deep breath, a stern scolding, and a light shake of his head, and Spain found himself turning around to face his friend with a very slim smile.

”You want out of here alive, mi amigo? Well, while you think of a plan, answer me one question.” Spain casually walked over to the lantern, pulled out the letter in his pocket and held it over the flame until it caught fire. Italy called this a game, so did the letter. Perhaps The younger nation had a letter of the same fashion. It would only make sense. For it is only fair if everyone playing the game knows the rules. Yet, by this same logic, perhaps Italy didn’t have a letter, for the demons of this house did not like to play fair. Nevertheless, he himself would never read the rest of the letter. Games were for people who knew the rules, and surely, the rules were in the letter which now flamed in his hands. Watching it burn gave him a sense of satisfaction. They couldn’t control him. Not with a letter at least. As the flame grew close to his hands, he bent down and set the note on the ground to finish burning. When the flame died he kicked the ashes away with his foot and turned back to Italy.

“Tell me, Feli, how many bullets do you have?”

[Italia Veneziano]

A startled sound of pain escaped him as Spain's hands clenched tight enough to bruise his shoulders, slamming Feliciano back harsh enough to crack the mirror as his body crashed against it. Honestly, he wasn't expecting such a...harsh response to his words; surprise, denial, pain were the norms, to hear the death of a loved one. Being assaulted wasn't in the agenda, though. With confusion and pain blatant upon his face, amber eyes tilted up to stare at Antonio, catching sight of the fire burning in the Spaniard. Green eyes were narrowed as well, a snarl on his face and fists squeezing painfully at his skin. That inhuman rage roared in Spain's eyes, and for a moment Feliciano honestly thought the brunette believed him. Believed that the Italian had, accidentally or not, led his elder brother to taking his own life. And that belief, paired with the strength of the man's bond with the deceased, filled him with such a righteous anger that he...wanted revenge.

Those eyes tore into him, giving him a glare so vicious the Italian had to turn away, eyes clenched shut. Sure, he wanted to be the strong one here. Sure, he wanted to be better than the cowardly...thing he'd turned into, once again. Sure, he wanted to tear away from the normally kind Spaniard before the other made a move against him. However...Felciiano couldn't bring himself to. The grip on his arms was tight, already leaving bruises against pale skin and ripping already tattered sleeves from the rest of his hole-infested shirt. Still, though, if he struggled enough he was sure to break free. But...He didn't deserve to break free, did he? Not after everything he's done. Spain was rightfully angry at Feliciano's words; what right did he have to turn away and run from the consequences of his actions? None, none whatsoever. If Spain wanted revenge, the brunette would let him have it.

It was about time someone hurt him back, anyway, after all the things he's done.

Just as quickly as that rage turned on, however, the flames died: that infuriated, defiant snarl faded into a deep frown, the Spaniard blinking a moment or two in confusion. When the other jerked away, hands releasing him as if he'd been burned, Feliciano didn't stop him. He let his head fall back against the broken mirror behind him, eyes still closed. "You're wrong, niño mio," the man muttered, confident despite the quietness of his words. Feliciano grit his teeth, nails digging into his palms. "Lovi is fine. He is alive. He has died neither because of you nor because of anyone else. He is fine. You are mistaken."

He had a hard time figuring out whether Spain said those words to reaffirm the knowledge in his own mind, or to comfort Feliciano. Especially considering the man's reaction--if he was so sure that Lovino was alive, then why had the man lunged at him like that, practically growling like a beast? Why did he have painful red welts and darkening bruises where nails and fingers dug into flesh? Why were the remains of his sleeves littering the floor where they had been torn away?

Why was everything Feliciano said questioned? That was the real question, here. The Italian bit the inside corner of his lips, hands clenching into fists as Spain spared him one last glance before turning away. Being beaten up for his wrong-doings would hurt less than this. Was he really so incompetent? Was he so weak, so idiotic, that everything that came out his mouth had to be questioned? Prussia failed to believe him when Feliciano had first told him his tale. Prussia lashed out at him in agitation and coarse honesty when Feliciano tried to explain to him that the spirit "pass on" and that finding his body was "too difficult to handle at the moment". Lovino...hadn't even believed he was real, the second time they'd met. It wasn't much of an improvement from Lovino shooting himself in the face, either.  "I knew you weren't real--" he'd said happily, smiling smugly to himself--

--words crack harshly as he shrieked, spitting dark blood upon pale lips,  "--it’s your own stupid fault I’m in this fucking place, that I’m bleeding like this and.... questa è la tua colpa troppo!"

Feliciano's heart hurt.

Sain was speaking again, but the younger nation couldn't bring himself to pay much attention. The broken mirror did wonders to keep him supported, the Venetian slumping back and listlessly watching Spain step away towards one of the lamps. Sure, he wanted to get out of here, more than just out of this disorienting, never-ending room with the eerie, nauseating music. He wanted out of this stupid place entirely, with his delicious pasta and his war, safe home and the unpredicability of the world to keep him entertained. But...could he really handle the derision of his fellow nations to get to that point? Feliciano knew he wouldn't leave any of the others behind, but who even wanted his help? What if him sticking around made things worse?

What if he got someone killed? He'd been lucky with Prussia--even if he'd lost his temper and nearly severed the man's thumb, he reminded himself queasily--the monster had chosen to go after the weakest link. He might've weighed the other nation down long enough for them to get caught, but his error hadn't ended in the Germanic's death.

That might change next time around.

Aha, what was he even saying? Feliciano dug his nails into his palm once more, now the one to glance away as Spain stared at him expectantly. His own, selfish actions had gotten someone killed. And he hadn't even listened to Russia's last words. And if he couldn't figure a way out of this game, he'll be deciding if he could handle listening to Spain's.

It's not like Feliciano would be able to pass them on to Lovino.

"Tell me, Feli, how many bullets do you have?"

Amber eyes flickered over to the Spaniard a moment before they slid down to gaze at the Smith&Wesson in his hand. The lantern light shimmered over the polished black metal, seeming to linger on dark maroon stains he's spent hours desperately tried to scrub away. How many bullets did he have? The first time he'd touched the weapon, so soon after it'd taken the life of his brother [guns don't kill people, people kill people, Feliciano, dear] the brunette had emptied the cartridge in a fit of rage. Or he thought he'd had. This model weapon could only hold six bullets [do you know that, or is that America's spaghetti Westerns misleading you?] but...Feliciano's never refilled the cartridge. One of its bullets was in his brother's skull, another settled deep in Russia's as well. How many did he waste trying to defend himself throughout his lengthy stay in this horrid place? Dozens?

What does it even matter? Absently, Feliciano twirled the gun with his finger stuck in the trigger guard. One, two, three, seven-- around and around it went, until he clenched tightly at the grip once the weapon slammed its weight comfortably into his palm. When he'd slid to sit upon the ground, Feliciano couldn't quite remember, but that wasn't a necessary fact, either. "...Lovino killed himself with this, ve," he murmured, lifting his free hand to trace over those rich bloodstains. "And I killed Russia with it too. ...That's why I don't want to kill Antonio with it, too."

[There's no reason to freak out-- you inadvertently killed your brother, practically assassinated Russia, tried to kill the guy you killed yourself for--is one more bloodstain on your gun that big a deal?]

Signore Muerte was expecting a game out of them. He wanted these tears, indecisions, arguments...all of it. If he really wanted to get back at the place that's hurt him and his own so badly; twisted Feliciano so badly he couldn't even recognize the coward in the mirror...then how could he let himself play right into their hands? Why was his skin still so thin that Spain could burrow his way in with a few words, which he probably didn't even mean?

How many bullets do you have? I don't want to die. You know what to do. Italy, are you okay? I could not face Lovino and tell him that I...that I killed his baby brother.

[He doesn't have to kill you for you to die.]

"...I have enough bullets to end this, ve." The metal muzzle was cool against his temple, a ring of ice chilling pale skin. Feliciano let his eyes close, not wanting to see the look on Spain's face, resting his elbow upon one bent knee, keeping that gun-toting arm supported. Not that recoil will matter much. He couldn't help the amused little huff at that, a faint smile flitting over his face as he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

[Cerys]

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