Germany's storage room was, as expected, immaculately tidy.
It wasn't to say that it was empty, far from it. It was impossible for nations not to have the odd antique somewhere, considering how long they had lived. Items upon items were stacked neatly on shelves or tucked into cabinets.
Considering that two nations shared the same storage, the level of tidiness was almost unnatural. But then again, that was simply how the brothers were, as anyone who knew them could tell you.
Naturally, a good amount of the things belonged to Prussia, but not as much as one would expect considering the difference in their years.
He had mentioned it once, in curiosity, and his brother had chuckled and explained that during his days as a roaming nation, one had to travel light. His memories were stored in the journals that he kept, which he kept locked away as their pages were exhausted, the bulk slowly filling a cabinet all by themselves.
The other things were mostly gifts – from Hungary, France, Spain, Austria and the human he affectionately called Old Fritz; and of course the presents from Germany himself, including a few hand-drawn birthday cards that Germany had many times blushingly insisted Prussia throw out, but his brother never did.
Then there were Germany's. Little things, like his brother's – gifts and nostalgic baubles and photos ranging from black-and-white to colored.
He only kept things closest to his heart, and sometimes when the pressure started getting to him he would venture into the room to browse through the things there, just to remind himself of the good things that he come to him in life.
Some old weapons sat in a chest (guns mostly, but no match for Switzerland's collection) carefully tended to so that they posed no accidental danger. Those he kept for the opposite reason, to remind him of the bad things. He had mentioned this once, with his friends – Italy's brow had creased a little, no doubt in worry; but Japan had smiled oh-so-wistfully and said that he understood, for he did the same.
He remembered the origins of each item he kept. All, except for one.
Tucked perfectly upright in a corner, propped up by the tall shelf beside it, was a broom, the type one would scrub floors with. It was a strange, rickety old thing, with a charred handle that told of it surviving fires and more.
Its presence was odd, because it was far too fragile to be of any practical use. Yet he never made to throw the broom away, even after long perplexed moments staring at it, wondering about its significance.
Sometimes he considered asking his brother about it. After all, if he couldn't remember, surely the item must be one of Prussia's mementos, right?
But something would stop him every time, something deep within that whispered that Prussia wouldn't know of its meaning, that it wasn't Prussia's, that it was his.
It was his, even though he couldn't remember. It was his, just like the nostalgia of flowers and paintings and soft, warm smiles like the morning sun.
Like the feeling of loneliness, loss and a sweet emotion he didn't dare give a name to.
And there was that name that he whispered in his sleep, a whisper that he never heard himself – and so just like the rickety old broom, it lay in his memories, forgotten yet not forgotten.
Because even as the mind forgets, his heart still remembers every moment since the 900s.
I just love the Germany-is-HRE theory so much.
Hope you liked this drabble as much as I enjoyed writing it! Please review!
