"A Mask" A Germany x ClinicallyDepressed!Italy Fanfiction

Canvas

To some, it is satisfying to put a comb through your emotions and thoughts and organize them into small stacks and neat rows to understand the importance of each individual thought and feeling. For others, the more creative beings, it was more satisfying to slide a brush through paints and across a canvas. Colors from blue to black and back again creating a gentle silhouette of a young man standing on a pier, looking over an ocean past sunset. Beneath the waters in a darker shade you may see the demons of the sea, but to him it was symbolic of the demons in his mind. Holding that brush is a pale olive hand, stained past the elbow with acrylic as it moved on its own against its canvas.

It was peaceful, only the dim light of morning illuminating the world around him, and the canvas as his side. The birds chirped their soft morning melodies from the bushed outside his house and created the only music he could listen to. With this, he said nothing.  His eyes of amber where filled with various ideas, various plans, but the will to do very little of them. His hand faintly shook, but was stable the moment ot touched parchment. The only human made noise was the brush creating art.

And connected to that arm, was the emotionless face of an Italian. Amber eyes which were once the color of a roaring fireplace had drifting into its own mind. Flicking around but without a place to land besides the brush in his hands. With a stroke of pale yellow over where the sun could have been, he pulled away and sad down.

Hair curled to the side of the painting, showing the person only in black. His arms were crossed and he was facing the viewer, their eyes closed peacefully. Its heels were so carefully set over the edge of a dark brown pier, overhanging the water where they would easily fall in.

It was just what Feliciano wanted, but he never saw it as good enough. He walked out of his room itching at hid arms; not because of the paint but because of the will to feel something other than exhaustion. He ate leftover pasta on his paint stained couch. His eyes closed as he continued along basic chores robotically. His heart wasn't in this like his heart was his canvas, his actions were almost lacking. His sounds strewn with old sculptures and paintings as well as dishes he never seemed to get around to cleaning. His heart and mind where in a different world.

His cope, his alternative world, a new breathe at life and a vast world for his own aspirations to start and to create.

That is what it meant to him.

That is why he didn't like it.