::A/N:: Italic sections are flashbacks; Gil's memories of himself and Liza. There are little clues that hint at their ages, but nothing obvious.

"What do you mean we should quit spending time together?"

"I mean, I don't think this is working."

"Just fix your attitude, Gilbert!"

"It's not my attitude, Eliza."

I slam my hands against the table, sending pens clattering and drawing reproachful stares. "Tell me which room, damn it!"

"Sir, how are you and Miss Héderváry related? Are you family-"

"Gott verdammt, I know how serious this is! It won't matter if she has family or not!"

"Now, sir, please calm down, you're making a scene. If you begin to feel dizzy, remember to take a seat and place your head between your knees."

"I don't feel dizzy!"

"The patient you have requested to see came in barely ten minutes ago. She's not ready to have visitors. In fact, how did you even know she was here, sir?"

The cars honk in a cacophony of angry dissatisfaction. The traffic can't even be called traffic anymore. It hasn't moved a centimeter in ten minutes. All hopes of missing the 5 PM rush hour by 8:30 are lost in the New York chorus of irritation as ten minutes steadily slips to eleven and then twelve. I sigh, twiddling the radio dial to turn up the German rock, wondering vaguely if these blatantly myopic Americans will even recognize the language. Probably not, over their own equally loud, but way less awesome music.

After another playing the same song on repeat twice more, the frustration is starting to boil over. I'm literally thirty seconds from my flat. If it was legal to abandon this car in the middle of the road and walk there, I would. Fuck mein Bruder for giving me the crap automobile out of the two.

Nein, on second thought, fuck my grandfather for getting us one awesome car and one piece of shit on wheels. It's times like those where I'm forced to admit Ludwig might be a tiny bit stronger than my awesome... when automobiles are on the line, at least.

I glance around, trying to figure out if anyone else is confused by the hold up. Has anyone called the police yet? I mean, it's New York City for fuck's sake. Shouldn't the masses be rioting by now? Come to think... it probably is some kind of riot. I sigh fondly, remembering my history of protesting. It usually boomed right after April vacation, when all of us college kids had milked school to the point of a drought.

Not to my surprise, I see a large sized crowd assembling about twenty meters up the road. Both the cars to my left and right are void of human occupancy, so I decide to join the deserters. More interesting than sitting around, at any rate. There really is only one awesome song on that album...

I open my door, and immediately the noise intensifies, but now it's mixed with sirens and panicked yelling. Curiosity caught, I pick my way through the crowd with whispers of "Oh god, she's so young" and "I don't know if the paramedics will arrive in time, there was so much blood, did you see?" tickling my ears. An accident, huh?

I reach the outer ring of the mob and force my way through into the center, noticing with exasperation that the ambulance has already arrived. Americans are so blind. I fixate on the scene before me, taking bets on how much alcohol was involved. Based on the amount of wreckage and shrapnel, I wager way over the legal limit. I wager on the usual suspect as well; middle-aged white man, clearly unhappy with his life, fat and most likely balding.

But when I check the gurney being wheeled into the back of the ambulance, my heart stops at how wrong I truly am. I barely register the details of what, or rather who, is the center of attention before I'm sprinting back to my car, fear never having felt so tangible.

"That doesn't matter! What matters is the fact that a guy can't even go see his injured friend without a truckload of fucking morons standing in his way!" I shout, jaw tightening.

"Sir, try counting to twelve while taking deep even breaths-"

At this point, I'm not listening anymore. "Look," I barrel on, "all I want to do is visit her. Please," I implore, desperately trying to keep my raging emotions in check.

For the first time all night, she regards me with more than professional detachment, her short, bobbed hair cut moving up and down as she nods, slowly thinking me over. "I- sir, I don't know, it's against protocol..."

"Please, Mrs. Braginski," I murmur, glancing briefly down to read the name scratched into the metal plate above her left breast. Katuyasha Braginski.

The woman lets out a pained breath, then, "All right. Room 24, ER, first floor."

"Danke," I sigh, gratitude short lived as the fear takes its place.

"Please be quick!"

Without a moments hesitation, I'm flying from the desk, pushing aside patrons and employees alike. The halls are stark, white, and painful to look at. The weak fluorescent lighting reflects sharply off the sterile metal tables and ugly neon white walls, burning these painful memories into my mind with an effective sealant.

Finally skidding to a harried halt, I locate room fifteen. My gaze moves to the opposite wall. Room sixteen. I follow north, muscles tensing , as I tell myself simultaneously to go on, and to just fall back now, before I can't back out.

Room twenty-four.

The door is identical to every other door on the floor, probably every other door in the entire building. For a moment, I try to convince myself that the poor sucker behind this door isn't my childhood friend. It isn't Liza and she hasn't just been in a fatal accident. In fact, she hasn't been here since she broke her right arm so many years ago.

"Uh, you sure you can do this?"

"Of course I'm sure," the girl snorts, tucking her hair into a knot behind her head. Lately, she's been letting it grow out.

"But.. uh, you're not awesome enough!"

"Gilbert, just because you're too much of a coward, doesn't mean I am!"

I grumble softly, "Fine, just don't get hurt. It's kind of a high jump."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

A tight-faced nurse emerges tapping something out on an iPad. My hyper-alert senses don't read the name on his tag, so much as absorb it: Matthew Williams. He smiles softly, apologetically, when he sees me hesitating on the accursed threshhold. "Here for Elizaveta?" he asks, using her name like he knows her personally.

"Uh, ja," I croak.

"Are you her late husband, Roderich Edelstein?" he queries as he double checks this against the data stored in his tablet.

The message light blinks, and an easily recognizable voice issues forth, into my darkened apartment. "Gilbert, uh, hallo. I just wanted to let you know... um, I'm getting married, and uh, I know we haven't spoken in a while... but I just thought you should know. You're- um - invited, if you want... To the wedding, that is. ...Roderich doesn't mind-"

Beeeeep. "Message deleted, no new messages".

The pale hand retracts from the machine and disappears.

"Um-"

"Well, if you have a moment, you should call 'Gilbert'. We found this on her when she came in." He hands me a crumpled slip of something that feels like paper. "We're lucky she kept a hold of her wallet. This could have been a Jane Doe."

My face must have been good because Matthew winces, a light blush coloring his cheeks. "Ah, sorry... Don't know a Gilbert? Well, take care. Just- just don't expect much, eh? Doctor Jones hasn't really had a chance to look at her."

I nod jerkily, not really sure of anything, niether what to make of that cryptic remark, nor where to go from here. I feel frozen, caught between a rock and a "hard place", ja? Only here, it feels like that hard place in front of me is pretty much impenetrable. I only have the courage to enter her room because of that stupid nurse. He just stands there, holding the door open expectantly, like he sees this every day, and he has the time to wait a few more.

As I walk across the brink, the first thing I think of is 'generic', and it seems fundamentally wrong. Liz isn't generic, this can't be her room. It shouldn't be what she'll wake up to.

"So this is your new room?"

"Yup!"

"I still think it's really unawesome that your parents made you move up to the attic."

"Oh, it's okay, my grandpa needed my room, and this has more space and privacy anyway."

I shrug, glancing around. "What's THAT?" I question teasingly, smirking at what appears to be a death metal poster taped haphazardly to the green wall.

"It's a Hungarian band!" the young woman huffs, looking ready to throw a punch into my very vulnerable facial area.

"And that?"

"An anime poster!"

"And that...?"

"...A yaoi anime poster..."

"And THAT?"

"That's just a picture of me and my parents, Gil!"

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize that little troll was you..."

"GILBERT!"

I hold up my hands in position of surrender, laughing all the while. "Just kidding, you're so pretty."

This time, she does throw a punch. And it's fucking awesome... apart from the fact she probably just broke my face.

I peel my gaze from the posters of herbal medicinal practices and signs saying 'Ask People To Wash Their Hands, It's Okay', wincing at how unfamiliar it all is. This is not how I imagined being reunited with Liza. Not at all. Everything I thought I would say, everything I imagined myself doing (from the wildest fantasies to an awkward handshake) all evaporate into the paralyzing atmosphere. Slowly, I stop obsessively scanning the room, and move onto the center show piece. Her.

If this was a movie, I would say that the actress was poorly casted. Her face is too pale where it's not stained by red, her expression too lifeless, her position too weak. They forgot to capture the vivacity, the flame of her personality. She's still in the clothes she crashed in, but they're hardly recognizable, covered in black dust and red paint. The set-hands have carelessly pulled the actress's hair back from her face, making her look strangely put together, like a doll and not a person.

In a moment, I'm going to wake up from this fever-induced dream and vomit. In the meantime, I carefully sit down on the edge of the actress's bed, feeling acutely aware of the ridged texture of the blanket under my shaking fingers.

She doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge my presence, and I find that strange. She's not really asleep, just acting.

But then I mentally slap myself. I ought to reach out and touch her face, run my finger along her cheek to make sure she's real, but I don't.

I haven't in a long time. Something inside me breaks, and I feel the first pricks of tears, my body betraying me when it allows the emotion to leak through.

I round the school building to see a girl standing alone in the chilly night, hair loose, dress hiked up to her knees, revealing the emissary combat boots. I chuckle, recognizing her immediately.

"What are you doing out here?" I ask once I'm in hearing range.

She doesn't even look around. "Escaping Roderich," Liza sighs, less leaning up against the wizened tree and more trying to become a permanent part of it.

"He being prissy again?"

"He was trying to ballroom dance. To the Dropkick Murphys."

I snort, eyes lighting up, finding great satisfaction in Roderich's failures.

She looks up at me, clearly questioning why I've given up on the train wreck that is Senior Prom. "Too many slow songs," I say easily. I don't point out the fact I'm dateless, and she doesn't either.

"Yeah, no kidding. I think I'll never waltz again. I mean, what's the problem with just awkwardly rocking back and forth?"

My chance looms on the horizon. I grin, and approach her, arm out in invitation. "My lady, would you care to rock back and forth with me?"

She lets out a peal of laughter and adopts a snobby upper class demeanor. "Why good sir, you came at the perfect time. I was worried I would leave this dashing ball without being able to rock back and forth with someone as charming as you!"

"Well, we must rectify this wrong! Come, let us awkwardly begin!"

My partner makes a great show of twirling her way to me, gently coming to rest in my arms. As if we have music to cue us, I begin swaying her to the imaginary tempo. I can feel her shoulders shaking against my chest, and I know she's finding just as much mirth in this as I am.

After the minutes have stretched on long enough to claim sufficient awkward-ness, I pull away, hold her at arm's length, and sweep her a dramatic bow.

She laughs, weakly smacking the top of my down-turned head. "Arise, fine gentleman!"

"As you so wish it, dear lady!" I stand to my full height and sweep her into my arms, eliciting a squeal. But she doesn't demand to be released.

"Going a little far with this role play, aren't you?" she needles softly, moving a few strands hair out of my eyes.

I can feel my face heating up, and I know it's wrong. It's wrong to want her so badly when she's with my cousin.

So, despite my screaming desires, I settle for simply brushing my fingers against her cheek, before letting her go. "Ja, I guess I am."

She almost looks disappointed. Too bad I don't have the luxury to kid myself.

She's so fragile, for once in her life, that it makes me feel fragile too. I've always lived off her energy and she mine. It's strange supplying the energy when you're meshing gears are stalling.

Some people say that at a certain point, visiting sick people is like watching a film. You cry because you know you're supposed to, not because you truly feel attachment, and as you watch what you remember to be real life, feeling those same false tears and loathing yourself for them, you begin to forget all the awesome times, all the real times and the heart racing times you shared with the fading person.

Looking at Liz, I can't help but recollect, as though my mere memory will bring her back.

"G-Gilbert?"

"Ja?" I question, lifting my head slightly from the chilled grass to look at the seven-year-old boy leaning over me.

"I... I wanted to ask you something, I guess," he mutters, plopping down on the ground beside me. I glance back up to the night sky, failing miserably to count all the stars. "Okay, what is it?"

"Well... you know how Mom doesn't like you?"

"Ja," I sigh, feeling that knot of angry feelings creep up in my chest.

"Well... we were fighting earlier, and she said I should stop hanging out with you."

I feel sick at his words, and I look at him, terrified of the coming answer. "W-what did you say, Eli?"

"I said I would never stop being your friend!"

I sigh in relief. "Oh, well, that's good-"

"Wait."

I freeze again, regarding the brown-haired boy warily. "Okay..."

"Well, after I said that, she said that I should stop being your friend because... because you were just going to forget about me eventually! Is that true? Are you going to forget about me?"

Startled, I look at Eli, who looks the most upset I've ever seen him. "Was? Nein! I will never stop being your friend!"

"Is that a promise?" the boy yells, uncertainty written all over his young face.

"You could change into a girl, Eli, and I wouldn't leave you."

"Well, good thing I'm not a girl then!" His green eyes flash happily. "You won't forget about me?"

"I will always remember you!" I pledge, hand on my heart. "You're my best friend, Eli Héderváry."

Eli beams, white teeth flashing. "Good, I won't forget you either. I promise."

Something jabs into my palm, and I glance down into my fist to see the edges of the paper ball peeking through. I unfold it with shaking fingers, realizing as I do that it's been ripped in half.

The half that's left doesn't say much, but I recognize it immediately. On the back side, the plain white side, is my awesome name hastily scrawled by none other than my own hand. I already know what's on the other side. I flip it around anyway, not unwilling to believe in miracles, but it still shows the same frozen image. It's me at 18, eyes screwed shut, laughing at some perverted comment made by the photographer, Francis. My right arm extends outwards, away from my body, and disappears at the elbow, vanishing into the other half of the picture, the one that was ripped from its yang. The missing half should be Liz. The half that's sitting on my dresser at home.

My fingers clench around it, wrinkling it further as my eyes shut tight against the world. Now they are closed in denial, in pain, because this is all my fault.

It all started that day in high school, when Liz became a stranger I didn't understand, nervously twirling a lock of chestnut hair around a dainty finger.

I see her standing there, back to me, obviously waiting for someone. I quickly excuse myself from Francis and Tonio, and make my way over to Liza. As I near her, I see the way her eyes are downcast, how her finger is compulsively twirling her hair, the nervous set of her shoulders.

"Has yaoi become illegal, or something? I've never seen you so jittery."

Her eyes narrow at my voice. "Nem, Gilbert. Now go away, I'm busy."

Instead, I come to stand alongside her. "Who you waiting for?"

"That's none of your business," she hisses, turning her glare on full force.

I laugh. "Are you secretly doing drugs, Lizzie? Or are you waiting for night to fall, so you can visit with your creepy Romanian boyfriend?"

"Neither!" she groans, exasperated. "If you must know, I'm waiting for Roderich."

I raise an eyebrow. "What, did he steal something of yours before the break up?"

She sighs. "Not quite. I actually want to give it another try, you know? Do you think that's a good idea?"

My heart plummets, but it's been a long time since Liza's asked my honest opinion. I struggle between living up to that expectation, and saying what she wants to hear. The former wins out. "I think that aristocratic ass hole is fucking Vash behind your back, and neither of you deserve that. Let him be happy in his gay little world."

It comes out harsher than intended.

She snarls, obviously ticked off by this.

"What, it's the truth," I smirk, gazing down at her.

"No, it is not, Gilbert. Get out of my way, I don't want you here."

"Gladly," I reply, watching this stranger turn her back on me.

Now, clutching the last picture we ever took together, I know who became the stranger in our relationship, and it wasn't her. But maybe, I can finally have a second chance.

I brush something wet from my cheek and hear a commotion outside. Her scans are back. Drunk. Heading east. Side swept. Concussion.

Waiting for Eli- no, Liza, now, I guess- is turning out to be really annoying. I huff, piling more snow on my booted foot, wishing he- no she, now– would just hurry up and get here already. What's she afraid of?

Eventually, I hear the crunching of snow, and I glance around excitedly to see her trekking up the hill, looking the same as she did two days ago, when she was a he named Eli. "Took you long enough!" I laugh, waiting until she's standing a few feet away.

She looks anxious. "Ja... sorry."

I raise a nervous eyebrow. "Hey! Are you sick or something?"

"What? No!" she says, bewildered.

"Then what was that apology? The Eli I know never apologizes!"

Her eyes narrow and her mouth pinches. "Ja? Well I'm not Eli anymore! I'm Eliza!"

I shake my head stubbornly. "Nein. You're just Liza. It's better."

A tiny smile starts inching its way up her face. I pat flat the patch of snow beside me and she thumps down, eyes on my face. "What?"

"Well... now that I'm a girl, I just want you to know that I'll still kick your ass if you abandon me! This isn't a chance for you to escape!"

"Kesesesese! I'm not leaving. Remember my promise? Even if you're a girl I won't forget about you. I didn't realize you were gonna go be annoying and turn into a girl... but I still meant it!"

"Even if you're friends make fun of you?"

I don't answer that, instead turning to look out over the little city, wondering what to do. After a tense moment, I begin. "Well... I've been thinking, Liza."

"Uh-oh."

I stick my tongue out into the frigid air. "Not awesome. But I mean... girls are supposed to have cooties, right?"

"I don't have-"

"And I know you don't have cooties, because I would be able to see them if you had grown them over night. Best friends can tell those things."

She nods, seeming unsure.

"But what if other people pretend you have cooties just because you're a girl?"

"I hadn't thought of that!" She looks horrified, and I continue before she can do something weird, like cry. Or hit me...

"But obviously our dads don't think our moms have cooties, right?"

"... Right..."

"So, I realized, that those rings they wear and that whole 'married' thing must make people lose all their cooties! So, lets get married and that way we can be friends forever!"

Liza looks ecstatic. "That's the best idea you've ever had!"

"Well, I am awesome!"

"So, we'll always be together now?"

"Yup," I confirm. "Hey, you want to sled?"

"Hell yeah! And I'm going to beat you to the bottom like always!"

My eyes widen as she takes the sled and jumps. "Not fair! False start!"

"Excuse me?"

I look up from Liza's face. "Yes?"

"You're not Roderich Edelstein, are you?" Matthew sighs, resignedly.

I wince. "Uh... no... About that-"

The nurse shakes his head. "Actually, that's good. We just got Roderich on the phone, and he isn't interested in coming to speak for Elizaveta. Would you mind-?"

The fury quickly turns into eagerness. "Ja, oh Gott, ja-"

Matthew nods, expression turning somber. "Then there are some things we need to talk about."

"Ja, okay, anything."

"We won't know for sure until she wakes up... but we believe that Elizaveta's suffered from a form of amnesia," Matthew says, keeping an entirely neutral face.

"Amnesia? What does-?" Matthew places a hand on my shoulder, violet eyes filled with pity. It only serves to harden my resolve. I'm not leaving her again. "I want to know what that means," I repeat, shaking off his solace. "You're a nurse, it's your job to translate the doctor's shit."

Matthew sighs. "It means she could experience a majority of her memories repressed, we can't know until she wakes up-"

"She won't remember me," I whisper, feeling everything come crashing down.

"It's all hypothetical, but... she probably won't remember anyone."

"Good, I won't forget you either, Gil. I promise," the voice of Eli murmurs with heartbreaking naivety.

I glance down at the girl, the forgotten girl, and think what perfectly fucked up second chance this is.

...

Police/Medical Record: Héderváry, Elizaveta
25, Caucasian, 5'7", brown hair, green eyes, weight 115 lbs,
In transit to 267 Frederick Avenue, flat newly purchased by one Gilbert Beilschmidt, on Thursday, December 17, Elizaveta Héderváry crashed at 8:34 PM, over the legal alcohol limit, clutching half of a photograph of a man (albino-caucasian), also the owner of the destination in question, dated 12/17 five years previously. The other half of the photograph, showing the victim's likeness, was in Mr. Beilschmidt's possession.
The victim suffered retrograde amnesia, two broken ribs, and a concussion.
The victim is currently under the care of Gilbert Beilschmidt, of whom she has no recollection.

::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia or IPad

Okay, well, I think this is going to be a two-shot and the next chapter will be posted soon. I know I should probably get back to my other stories first *shame face* or you know, start studying for my midterms...

Anyways XD If you want it, I will certainly have the second chapter up soon. I just love this pairing so much, and I wanted to do something a bit different than I normally do.

Things will be explained more in the next installment.

Alert/Review/Favorite: most of all, tell me if you want this to continue.