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No country is perfectly stable mentally, it’s just not possible. All of them go through things that affect them. Each one has the understanding that what they go through can’t be helped.
Since lots of these things happen frequently, and because they are immortal, some have.. unconventional coping mechanisms that they do to themselves behind closed doors.
Most of those with these tendencies have a silent understanding between each other of what they do. Some don’t, and some don’t realize their mistakes fast enough to help their friends when they need it.
- Japan POV -
‘9+ messages from: “MEGA COUNTRY GC” ’
The usual. With a quiet exhale, he unlocks his phone and scrolls.
Everyone talking over each other, nothing of value being said. As expected.
He sends a message anyway. Italy responds immediately.
Italy - “no one is ever nice to me”
Japan - “am i not nice to you”
I - “ JAPANJAPANJAPAN HAIIII HELLLOO HAII HAII HAIII HOWA RE YOU JAPAN”
J - “answer the question..”
I - “well letting me move in with you is very nice of you, so yes you are nice to me!”
J - “IM NOT LETTING YOU MOVE IN.. I NEVER SAID I WOULD LET YOU”
I - “oh right! i’ll move in for a singular day”
J - “one day. and not moving in. just sleeping over for one night. or ill never speak to you again.”
Why can’t Italy understand something so simple?
The words were clear. They always are. Sure, he exaggerated that last bit, but he wants Italy to understand.
And yet, Italy brushes over it. Normal, but irritating.
It's been days since their initial disagreement over their sleepover. Surely he'd understand by now.
…Right?
Wrong.
I - “WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT yk im starting to think you don’t rlly mean that ‘itallyyy stop hugging meeee’ ‘itallyyyyy stop sleeping under my floorboards every night’ but i still do them and we still talk”
J - “you what.”
I - “?? i hug you all the time !!”
J - “the other thing.”
I - “that you still talk to me after ?”
J - “ . italy im blocking you”
I - “NO NO NO NONONO NONONO NO NONO PLEASE PELASE EPLEASEE”
England - “Dear god”
I - “I HAVE NO ONE ELSE IN MY LIFE NO ONE WHO LOVESME NO FAMILY NO BROTHER”
Hungary - “Wow…”
I - “NO ONEEEE”
E - “It is day 109363 of dealing with these idiots Make it stop”
J - “italy if you get your act together then i wont block you”
I - “MY ACT IS IN A SINGULAR PIECE”
He stares at the screen. That is not… that cannot be literal. Italy exaggerates. He always exaggerates. It is a joke. It must be a joke. There is no evidence otherwise. No sounds, no disturbances, nothing out of place in the house at night.
…And yet the thought lingers.
He locks his phone.
Can Italy please just be quiet? Just once?
He won’t actually block him. That would be… excessive. Unnecessary. He just wants silence. Just a moment where Italy listens instead of blabbering.
That is not unreasonable.
He sets the phone aside, forcing himself through small, methodical tasks—straightening objects that are already straight, adjusting things that do not need adjusting.
It helps him calm down. A little.
Eventually, he checks his phone again.
I - “THATS NOT NICE FRATELLO anyways i miss japan he blocked me forever”
J - “i havent yet”
I - “OHHH THANK GOODNESS”
A pause.
Relief flickers. Perhaps that is the end of it. A minor disruption, now resolved.
I - “i want to be your best friend like you’re my best friend”
That’s normal. Italy says things like that often. It is meaningless. Random, normal Italy behavior.
He scrolls.
Stops.
What was that Romano said?
He goes back.
Italy.
Watching him.
At night.
His grip tightens around the phone. He doesn’t remember seeing that message before. Did he miss it? How many messages did he miss? How long was he not looking?
How long has that been happening?
No, that’s ridiculous. It has to mean nothing.
It has to.
J - “italy, you do what.? just.. don’t come to my house anymore. please, thats creepy.”
I - “NONONOJOONO HES LTING HES LYING”
He can already picture Italy bursting into tears—loud, frantic, overwhelming, bleeding through the screen.
He always overreacts in situations like this.
Oh? A voice message.
He doesn’t need to listen to know what it is. Still, he plays a few seconds.
Ten minutes of Italy crying his eyes out.
Regret is immediate.
He stops it.
Why is he like this?
Why is he always like this?
Philippines - (replying to the voice message) “What is assaulting my ears??”
I - “MY FAVORITE PHILIPPINES EVER IM CRYINGGFHUSSYGA CAUSE JAPAN HURT MT FEELINGS”
Of course.
Of course he drags someone else into it.
I - “i guess i’ll live in the philippines since japan hates me”
Hates.
The word sits wrong.
He doesn’t hate Italy. He never said that. He has been clear. He has always been clear. Why does Italy insist on changing things? On twisting them into something… else?
Something harsher.
The conversation shifts without him.
Easily. Effortlessly.
P - “We should go out to a karaoke bar together!!!”
I - “AS FRIENDS ?!?”
P - “yes!!”
I - “AHHHH”
Japan watches it happen in real time.
No resistance. No friction. No correction needed. Just… ease.
It's strange.
He sets his phone down again, but this time it doesn’t help.
The quiet is louder now.
He stands, moving through the room without fully registering it. America is in the kitchen—talking, maybe, or eating, or both. Japan doesn’t acknowledge him. There is no need.
A drawer slides open.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The object is small. Familiar. Comfortingly so.
It disappears into his pocket as if it belongs there.
America glances over, brows furrowing slightly. Something is off. He can feel it—like static in the air—but he lets it go.
Not his business.
I - “I HAVE FRIENDS!! who dont hate me.. @japan… WHOOPS TYPO”
Japan’s vision sharpens on the screen.
Typo.
Of course.
J - “ok, rude”
I - “QUICK PHILIPPINES ACT LIKE BEST FRIENDS WITH ME”
There it is.
Replacement.
So easy. So quick. As if he were nothing more than a placeholder to be swapped out the moment something more convenient appeared.
It shouldn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
…Then why does it feel like it does?
Oh great. France, Hungary, Spain—laughing. Betting. Turning it into something trivial. Something entertaining.
A joke.
He is a joke.
All he wants—no needs is quiet.
All he needs is someone to do acknowledge him positively.
I - “don’t worry piri you are my best friend, but i need my OTHER friend to understand my worth”
J - “I UNDERSTAND YOUR WORTH OH MY FUCKING GOD.”
The words come out harsher than intended.
Too late.
They continue without him again.
Ranking. Comparing. Choosing.
Each message lands heavier than the last, stacking, pressing, suffocating.
Why didn’t he choose him?'
J - “Italy. I’m sick of being replaced so blatantly. Have fun with your new bestest friend or whatever. Don’t expect to hear from me again. Goodbye everyone. I’m done.”
He turns off his phone.
Silence, at last.
It doesn’t feel like relief.
The room is too still. Too quiet. His thoughts fill the space immediately, looping, tightening, distorting—every word from the chat replaying, overlapping, louder each time.
Hate.
Replacement.
Typo.
Watching.
Under the floorboards.
He exhales, but it doesn’t steady him.
Nothing does.
The blade feels right in his hand. Grounding. Simple. Something that behaves exactly as expected when pressure is applied.
Unlike people.
Unlike Italy.
He doesn’t think—thinking only makes it worse.
By the time he stops, his arms are a mess of uneven lines, red and trembling. It barely registers. The sensation is distant, dulled, like it belongs to someone else.
There’s still noise in his head.
It won’t stop.
So he reaches for something stronger.
The rope is rough against his hands.
Finally, something certain.
Is it adrenaline that keeps him moving through the pain? Or is it his lack of care for anything else? It doesn’t matter. Everything is meaningless at this point.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor.
For once, there are no messages.
No misunderstandings.
No ignorant Italy.
Just quiet.
- Italy POV -
The chat goes quiet after Japan’s message.
That’s the first thing he notices.
No new messages. No typing bubbles. No responses from others, no anything. Odd.
Italy stares at his phone, waiting for the next message to pop up.
It doesn’t.
His fingers hover over the keyboard, then type, erase, type again. Nothing feels right enough to send.
Before he can decide on something, his phone rings.
America is calling.
Italy blinks, then answers almost immediately.
“Helloooo? Americaaa?”
There’s a pause on the other end. Not the usual loud, overconfident greeting. Just hesitation.
“Hey, uh—Italy. You busy?”
Italy swings his legs idly, forcing a laugh. “Nooo, not really! I was just talking in the group chat—well, trying to, but Japan is being all grumpy again—”
“Yeah, I saw.”
Another pause.
Something about it feels… off.
America isn’t usually quiet.
“Listen,” America continues, voice lower than usual, “can you come over? Like, now.”
Italy tilts his head, smile faltering just slightly. “Eh? Why? Did something happen? Is this about the chat, because I didn’t mean to make him that mad, I was—”
“Just—” America cuts himself off, exhaling. “Just come over, okay? Please.”
America doesn’t say please. Not like that.
Italy’s stomach twists, tight and uncomfortable, like he swallowed something wrong.
“…Okay,” he says, quieter now. “Okay, I’ll come over.”
—
The walk feels longer than usual.
Too long.
Every step is accompanied by the same thought, over and over, growing louder each time:
He didn’t reply.
Japan always replies.
Even if he’s annoyed. Even if he’s mad. Even if it’s just a short, clipped response.
He replies.
Italy pulls out his phone again while walking, scrolling back through the chat like he missed something.
The last message.
Goodbye everyone.
Italy’s grip tightens around the phone.
“Ah… he’s just being dramatic,” he mutters, forcing a small laugh that doesn’t sound right. “He does that sometimes, right? Right…?”
—
America is already at the door when Italy arrives.
That’s wrong.
America doesn’t wait at doors.
“America!” Italy calls, trying to sound normal, waving as he approaches. “I came as fast as I could! What’s going on? You sounded kinda weird on the phone—”
“Hey.”
America doesn’t move aside right away.
He just looks at him.
Really looks at him.
Italy fidgets under the gaze, smile slipping. “What? Do I have something on my face or—”
“He’s not answering,” America says.
The words land strangely.
“…Huh?”
“Japan,” America clarifies, jaw tightening slightly. “He went to his room. Locked the door. He’s not answering me.”
Italy lets out a small breath, tension easing just a little. “Ahh, that’s all? He’s probably just ignoring you! He does that when he’s mad, you know—”
“I know.”
America’s voice is sharp now.
“He’s not ignoring me.”
The knot in Italy’s stomach tightens again, pulling harder this time.
“…Oh.”
Silence stretches between them.
Then America steps aside.
“Go talk to him,” he says. “He listens to you more.”
Italy laughs weakly. “Ehhh, I don’t know about that after what happened in the chat…”
He inhales nervously.
“…But okay! I’ll try!”
—
The hallway feels too quiet.
Italy’s footsteps echo softly as he approaches Japan’s door. It’s closed, just like America said.
Of course it is.
He raises his hand and knocks.
“Japaaaan?” he calls, light and sing-song, like always. “I’m here! America said you’re being all quiet again, that’s no fun, you know—”
No answer.
He knocks again, a little harder this time.
“Heyyy, don’t ignore me! I said some dumb stuff earlier, but you know I don’t mean it, right? You’re still my best friend and everything, so you can’t just—”
Nothing.
Italy’s smile falters.
“…Japan?”
He tries the handle.
Locked.
Of course it’s locked.
He laughs again, softer now, more strained. “Ahaha… you really are mad, huh…? That’s okay! I’ll just come in anyway, okay? Don’t be mad if I do!”
He doesn’t wait for permission.
He never does.
He steps back slightly, hesitates—just for a second—then forces the door open.
—
At first, his brain doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.
It tries to make sense of it. To rearrange it into something familiar. Something normal.
It can’t.
The world goes very, very quiet.
“…Japan?”
His voice is small.
Wrong.
Everything is wrong.
He takes a step forward.
Then another.
His hands tremble, reaching out without knowing what they’re supposed to do.
“…Hey… this isn’t funny,” he says, a weak smile pulling at his lips, desperate, fragile. “You can’t just… you can’t just do something like this to scare me, that’s really mean, you know—”
His voice cracks.
The smile breaks.
“…Japan?”
No response.
No correction.
No annoyed sigh.
Nothing.
Italy’s knees hit the floor before he realizes he’s fallen.
“Hey—hey—” his words tumble over each other, frantic now, hands shaking as they hover uselessly, afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Wake up, okay? I get it, you’re mad, I’m sorry, I’m really really sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean any of it, you can be my best friend again, I won’t joke like that anymore, I won’t—”
His breath stutters, choking on itself.
“I won’t replace you, okay? I won’t— I won’t talk to Piri if you don’t want me to, I won’t say anything dumb anymore, I’ll listen this time, I promise, I promise I’ll listen—”
His hands finally make contact.
Cold.
Too cold.
Italy freezes.
“…No.”
The word comes out as a whisper.
Then louder.
“No—no, no, no, no—!”
His voice rises, breaking apart completely now.
“This isn’t—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go! You’re supposed to yell at me! You’re supposed to tell me I’m annoying and then still talk to me after, that’s how it always goes, that’s how it has to go—!”
Nothing changes.
Nothing moves.
Nothing answers.
Italy folds in on himself, shaking.
“I didn’t mean it,” he sobs, over and over, the words dissolving into incoherent pleading. “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it—”
Behind him, somewhere far away, he can hear footsteps.
America, coming over to see what the screaming was about.
But it doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
Because Japan isn’t answering.
And he’ll never answer again.