I...created this for a very lovely author. She's seriously amazing and I feel insulted that her story hasn't gotten any reviews. It's beautifully written and it's AmericaxRomano. Really, what more could we possibly ask for? Anyway, this first chapter is actually really personal and I felt that Romano might be going through the same things so I decided to vent out my feelings. Normally I don't do multiple chapters, since most of the stuff I write out look better as a one shot, but I'll make an exception for this.

Warnings: Language, sad stuff, and thoughts of suicide. Plus shonen-ai. Can't forget the shonen-ai. Also, feel free to tall me if Romano is OOC, but I probably won't listen to that piece of information.

Looking at the mirror, Romano could honestly say out loud that he hated himself.

How many times has he stood here in this same spot, eyes never once looking away from his naked body, and wanted to scream and cry out in frustration because he wasn't good looking enough for anyone, let alone the one he loved? When was it the last time he actually felt loved? Truly loved, and not forgotten and left in the back of someone's mind, left to wither away and collect dust? Was he ever remembered as someone special? Or just someone annoying, rude, and worthless?

How many times has he looked at his twin and felt envy and jealousy at his little brother Feliciano, who was always so happy and bright around everyone? His fratello was the first one that came up in a nation's mind when they thought of visiting Italy. It was always North and never South. No one ever liked poor South and it's horrible personification.

Even his own grandfather never cared about him. It was always 'Feli~ this' and 'Feli~ that'! Not once has he ever heard his grandfather praise him or tell him how proud he was of him. Not that he cared. It was just another slap in the face that he was named after the great Rome when it was obvious who his grandfather favored more.

He remembers once, a conversation he had with Rome. It was just a passing statement, but Romano could never forget the hurt that stabs him when he remembers it.

"Ah, Mini-Roma! What are you drawing?" Rome knelt by his older grandson as the child continued to paint a sort or abstract view of the land.

"The tree," Romano replied, looking up at the man with a rare shy smile. 'Maybe he'll like it and say something!' Romano thought, hope shinning in his eyes.

"Oh that's nice," Rome didn't even glance at the picture and was instead looking around the place. "Have you seen Italy around here? I wanted to take him somewhere for a little bit."

Romano shook his head no and ducked his head so that Rome would not see the tears that threatened to fall. 'I'm Italy too... What about me?'

He could feel his heart dull, but not shatter. No, it wasn't until years later did he realize why it wasn't broken. It was because it was never healed to begin with.

Romano wasn't stupid. He knew perfectly well his grandfather died while spending his last moments with Feliciano, the only grandson he ever bothered to call Italy.

"I hate you." Romano stared at the dull eyes staring back at him. They didn't blink. "I hate you so much. Why are you so damn pitiful?"

Nothing. Not even a feeling passed through those eyes. Romano hated it. He hated this. This feeling of darkness was overpowering him, rising up his throat and threatening to choke him. He screwed his eyes shut, effectively blocking his view of those dark eyes.

"Fuck..." Romano could feel his shoulders shaking and he leaned his forehead on the mirror. It felt cool against his flushed face and it calmed him somewhat. "Why the fuck is this happening to me... What the hell did I ever do?"

As he wasn't expecting an answer, Romano found those dull eyes looking back at him. He glared at them, and they glared back.

Face, so much like his grandfather. His hair and voice, so much like him too. Heart... What heart? He was the side-kick to North Italy. The bubbly-Italians' sour brother. The guy that shared blood with the adorable, loving, perfect Feliciano. How can he have something so innocent like a heart when his brother was the one that was obviously loved by everyone and anything?

"I hate you." It echoed all around him.

Not bothering to change into his usual sleepwear, Romano stepped out of his bathroom in nothing but the towel he used to dry out his hair. Flinging the towel to the floor, Romano crawled under the covers of his warm bed and snuggled his face into the pillow. Forcing himself to go to sleep, he tried to ignore the tears that made trails down his cheeks.