Hi guys! I'm alive!
so yeah, this is a thing that's been floating around my head for a while. I'm not really even sure what it is?
but that's one less thing unfinished in my Hetalia folder now. So maybe I can finally get back to working on my other fics. :(
Hope someone enjoys this. Sibling bonding is something I found out I enjoy writing.

Also the song that inspired this is by Florence+the Machine. Only if For a Night is gorgeous and you should all listen to it.

and I had a dream

about my old school

and she was there all pink and gold and glittering

I threw my arms around her legs

…came to weeping.

And I heard your voice. As clear as day

and you told me I should concentrate

it was all so strange and so surreal

that a ghost should be so practical

only if for a night

He opened his eyes in the dark and didn't know where he was. There was nothing but black there, pressing against his face, suffocating. No. This wouldn't do. He shouted out at the emptiness until it backed away, leaving him on some unnamed grassy hillock. He plopped himself down in the scenic space, and didn't care to wonder what or where or when this was.

He watched the birds swim through the sky and thought briefly on how he'd like to paint the scene. And before he knew what had happened he was standing before an easel with a palette in one hand and a brush in the other.

There was something familiar about these grasses and these hills, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what. He'd been here before. Or dreamed it once. He didn't know. He set about trying to memorize it all through art. His paintbrush scratched quietly against the surface of canvas, tracing out the shifting lines of his landscape. It took him some time to realize that his work was erasing itself as he went on—each new start a painting that could never be finished. A memory never recalled.

For some reason, he thought he might be fine with that.

"Hello, Italy." Feliciano turned, smiling toward the voice. The sun had started setting as he worked, and sat at just the perfect spot to blind him when he tried to make out who'd spoken. His addressor was a stark silhouette against the backdrop of dazzling pinks and oranges.

"Hello." He chimed in return, but didn't hear himself speak. The world was close to drifting out of focus. "How are you?" His audience chucked.

"As well as I can be." The stranger intoned, his familiar voice rife with sarcasm and double meanings. Feli wasn't sure if his frazzled mind could piece any of them together right now.

"That's good!" He smiled and shouted, tilting his head. He knew it should probably bother him that he didn't know who he was talking to, but somehow he was sure that he didn't want to know. He turned back to his project, content to let the silence hang comfortably around them. Feliciano got the idea that this person was someone he knew well; he didn't feel awkward when they stepped behind him to watch.

"Italy," his mystery guest called, just as he managed to highlight the furthest hill in the perfect shade of magenta. "Italy," he tried again, in perfect timing with the last stroke of a purple cloud. "Italy," the third try was the first dot of a starry sky. The stranger punctuated his attempt by grabbing the brush and Feliciano's wrist. His grip was gentle, but too strong to pull free from.

There was a tiny voice bubbling from the center of his soul that screamed against the idea of jerking away anyway.

"Y…yes?" He mumbled, cringing as he turned his head. He didn't know what he was so afraid of. He didn't know why he was so terrified to see the face of his friend.

"Maybe you should ask yourself. It's been a long time since you last did." Feli's brow furrowed. It felt like his neck was moving in slow motion, but the words came at regular speed.

"I don't under—" and he had to cut himself off with a gasp because that was when he finally caught sight of crystal blue eyes and flashing blond hair. And even in the dim starlight, even wishing to forget, he couldn't deny knowing who he was talking to now. He couldn't breathe, lest it shatter the beautiful image before him.

"Maybe you should ask yourself, Italy." He repeated, and it made no more sense than it had the first time. He looked serious, he looked like this was something Feli really needed to know. But somehow, Feli couldn't care about that because God, it was really…

"I…. how…." He didn't know what to do with himself—he didn't know whether he should reverse their current roles, take his dream by the hand and never let go, or whether he would shatter everything just trying. He blinked, just for a moment, and his dear one was gone. He didn't have time to feel upset before, in the next instant, the teen was back again; his nose barely an inch from Feli's own.

"Are you okay, really?"

And then he woke up.

Feliciano cried.

He wept a long while in the dark of the pre-dawn morning, shaking and sniffling and wondering just what it was about that dream that had hurt so very much. Seeing the ghost of the Empire had shocked him—knocked the breath from his lungs and left him reeling. He hadn't had a dream about that person in a while, but just as every time before it had scraped something open within him, left him raw and now he couldn't stop the deep, bittersweet ache and he didn't know why.

It didn't take him long to realize he wouldn't get back to sleep. His heart was fluttering too quickly in his chest to try. Cringing away from the bed, he slinked to the kitchen like a man half-dead. His limbs trailed leaden behind him as he moved, eyes tear-swollen and half-open. It took him a couple tries to get the coffee started. He spilled water everywhere twice and managed to distribute a liberal dusting of coffee grounds on the counter, but he had a respectable espresso brewing before too much time had passed.

As he waited for the caffeine to finish percolating, he had nothing to do but think. His only recourse was to hide his face in his shirt and try to stopper the tears. They soaked his hands regardless. He hadn't thought of his dear Empire in quite some time. He didn't know what reason he'd have to think of the teen now, either. He'd stayed away from the history programs on TV after that special on Charles V managed to make him think too much last time. He hadn't listened to any old, old music, or made any of His favorite foods. Honestly, he'd been so tied up in this mess of protests and economy and corrupt bosses that he'd scarcely had time to think, let alone fall prey to self-pity.

He had no reason to dream of the Empire he'd once loved. Just as little reason for it to hurt like this after so many years, but he knew better than to question that. He could watch Holy Rome leave a thousand times, and he would feel his heart tear from his chest for every single exit. It wouldn't matter how many centuries had passed between now and then—Holy Rome's was the death that had hurt the worst. In part because he'd spent so long pining after the teen before he marched off to his end. In part because he'd only gotten a tiny taste of what their love could have been before he was thrown into waiting and then mourning. And he was sure he couldn't have a perfect memory of what that face had looked like after so long, but he still knew intimately and exactly all the feelings they'd shared. He knew what he was missing—that he was bereft of a huge part of himself.

Maybe that was why he found himself huddled, sitting on the floor with his face pressed to his knees when the coffee finished brewing. Maybe that was why, despite everything else, every time he thought of that clear blue gaze his lips still trembled stubbornly into a smile. Because as much as it hurt—as much as he didn't want to remember—at least he'd caught a glimpse of someone he'd loved. At least he'd gotten to see a friend long gone.

He didn't know what to think about it. He wished he could just stop thinking at all, but that wasn't going to happen with memories running so vivid through his mind. He settled for rising, wiping the tears and the smile away and hoping the world might seem lighter if he were more awake to see it.

Caffeine worked its magic on his over-tired mind once he'd finally managed to pour himself a dose, and he slowly brought his emotions under control. He stood at the counter, leaning heavily with his back against it, and sipped at the hot, life-saving drink. He'd managed to calm down by the time he was half-way through his first cup. And by the time he'd moved on to the second, he'd managed to limit the damage to nothing more than a slight sniffle and a far-off stare. He was not, however, recovered enough to respond when Romano came lumbering in.

"What'd you have to wake me up for." His brother grumbled, pouring himself a cup of espresso with his characteristic clumsiness and sloshing a bit too much on the counter. "S'not even 7:00 yet. And it's Saturday." He continued, plopping down on one of the nearby barstools. The irate eldest continued to grouse, mumbling uncomplimentary things under his breath between every careful draught of his beverage, drinking ever so slowly so as not to burn himself. He was so focused that it took him until about the sixth swallow to realize that Feli hadn't said anything in return.

"Hey, you gonna answer me?" he prodded. Or at least, Feli was pretty sure he'd said something to that effect. He wasn't really paying so much attention. He took another half-hearted draught from his cup, frowning at the porcelain when he realized it was empty. When had that happened? He could have sworn—"Feli." Romano's voice had gained the edge of frantic worry. "Were you… were you crying?" He was dimly aware of everything around him, but it just wasn't registering. "Feli!" The world had narrowed down to the plain white of his cup. He saw memories playing out over its smooth surface. His life in enamel. Honestly—his time with Holy Rome had been so long ago. Why did it still bother him, even now? Why had he spent so much time turning it over in his head? It wasn't like he hadn't had other people to care for, nor even more painful events in history. Why should it still feel as though his heart had been stolen away? Maybe fondness and sadness rose to fill the hole where love used to be. Maybe he was broken. He closed his eyes and welcomed the dark.

"Italy. You need to stop this." The voice filled all his senses, jarring him out of his daydreams with a gasp. It was a waterfall of sound resounding inside of his very being—filling him to the brim with the echoes of a ghost of a memory.

"Feliciano!" Romano's shout was just audible over the sound of Feli's cup shattering on the tile floor. The world came back with all the force of a freight train, flooding him with sensation and reality again. If his brother's hands hadn't been twisted so tightly in the fabric of his shirt, he might have collapsed.

"What?" He choked, swallowing. "What's wrong?" Romano's face was hovering close to his own. Their tear tracks were mirror images.

"I've been calling your name for the last five minutes," Roma gritted, wiping his eyes with one sleeve. The other hand never left Feli's shirt. It never ceased to amaze him how his twin could go from tragic to furious at a second's notice.

"Oh."

"Don't 'Oh,' me!" He was far too loud and far too close. Feli's ears rang with the sound. "What's wrong with you?" He chose to punctuate his shouting by kicking the shards of broken cup across the room. Maybe he saw the way his younger brother was wavering and didn't want him to fall on the sharp pieces.

"You shouldn't do that. You'll hurt your foot," he barely heard himself mumble. He was stalling now and he knew it.

"Feli, seriously, what's going on?" Romano had completed his safety measures, and switched to searching every inch of exposed skin, his fingers pressing to pulse points and finding no fever. "I know nothing happened last night. I would have felt it…right?" Feliciano stilled his brother's frantic, wandering hands with his own.

"Nothing happened, Roma. There's nothing wrong." He smiled, tilted his head to the side for emphasis. His trembling chin must have ruined the effect somehow, because the older Italy wasn't buying.

"Bullshit. Come on, I'm not that stupid." He moved as he spoke, his hands drifting to cup Feliciano's own shaking ones. "Seriously. What happened?" He was so wide-eyed and earnest, despite his feigned anger. Feli wasn't sure what to say.

"Just a—just a dream Roma." He murmured, and smiled. It couldn't be called a nightmare. Not when he'd longed to hear that voice for so long. It had hurt to be sure, but he'd rather hurt than forget. "I'm just tired. I couldn't go back to sleep."

"You—" Romano began, and then cut himself off with a string of curses. He looked so genuinely furious for a moment that Feliciano thought he was about to be hit. But nothing came of it. Romano exhaled and his anger seemed to fizzle. "Alright, fine." He grumbled, turning to march toward the living room and dragging Feli along with him.

"What are you—"

"Shut up." Feliciano shut his mouth with a snap. He knew better than to say anything when Romano got in one of his moods. "Sit." The eldest of the two commanded, pushing Feli insistently toward the couch. He could only watch as Roma fussed around him, flipping the TV to a mindless documentary on animals and tucking him in near-violently with a nearby blanket.

"Romano, I'm not—" he tried protesting again, watching his brother head back to the kitchen. The tension in Romano's shoulders visibly tightened.

"Just watch the goddamn TV." He gritted. Feliciano took the hint and sank back into the couch cushions. He tried to focus on the colors and images on the screen, but his mind was racing too quickly. All he could think about was the echo of a voice long gone—audible even over the sound of his cup shattering on the floor earlier. He didn't know what it meant. He thought maybe he might be going crazy if he was starting to dream awake. Maybe he just needed more sleep.

He passed a few minutes like that; staring blankly at the blaring TV, swimming in and out of his own thoughts. When he found lucidity again, he was facing a scowling Romano with two fresh cups of coffee.

"Take one before I fuck up and spill, please," he grouched, rolling his eyes. Feliciano did as he was bid, wondering what his brother was thinking. Romano didn't reveal anything. Just grabbed the remote and curled into an awkward position barely close enough on the couch for Feli to reach. He propped his coffee awkwardly on the couch arm beside him and used the remote to navigate to the DVR list. Feliciano realized belatedly that the menu was flipping through recordings of some of his favorite shows—things he hadn't remembered recording. He still hadn't really figured out how to use the DVR yet, in all honesty. Romano, on the other hand, had taken to it like a pro. "You haven't seen this yet, right?" he asked, selecting a raunchy comedy Feli vaguely remembered Alfred recommending. He hadn't felt much like watching it. He still didn't, really.

"This is nice and all, Romano, but I don't really want to watch anything right now." He struggled with the blankets tied about his waist, had only just managed to get free when he was pinned by his fuming brother. "Roma," Feliciano wined, sing-song, trying to force his usual cheer. "Let me go." He just wanted to sit and think for a while. Maybe cry all he needed until he could close his eyes without his heart aching, sleep the rest of the day, and hope that particular dream didn't come back. (Even if he was secretly hoping that it would.)

"I wasted enough of my life watching you pine after that asshole to know what that look on your face means." Feliciano froze, his heart in his throat. The lingering taste of coffee was far too bitter in his mouth. Was it this dark this morning?

"Am I that transparent?" He somehow managed to keep his voice from shaking. Romano scoffed in answer. "Right well…" He trailed, eyes closing. He didn't want to think right now. He knew what Romano was hinting at—he'd spent far more time than was healthy agonizing over this particular wound. Feliciano didn't understand why it still hurt either. It was like an old battle-scar. It was a pain that flared and ebbed. Feliciano had learned to deal with it—quietly and alone. "Then you'll know I don't really feel like doing much right now, I guess?"
"Feliciano," Roma's frustration was drawn out in every syllable. Which was odd. Why would Romano have cause to be frustrated? Did he just really want to watch this movie? "I'll be damned if I ever understand why you even still think about the Holy Roman—"

"Don't!" Feliciano was shouting before he could stop himself. "Don't say it, please. I don't know why but I can't—it makes it too real and I can't—" His breath was already hitching, caught in his chest. This was the epitome of pathetic. All the years his childhood love had been gone, and he still couldn't stand to hear that blasted name. He felt ashamed that Romano even had to see him like this. He didn't want to face anyone. He tried to run.

"Feli! Would you just listen to me!" Romano managed to keep him from escaping again. Feliciano tried to glare in annoyance, but only wound up allowing his lip to tremble. Damn it. He wasn't going to cry in front of Romano. He wasn't even sure what exactly he was crying about. "Even if I don't understand why you still think about that douchebag, I'd be a complete failure of a brother if I kept letting you tear yourself up over it alone, okay? This has gone on long enough. It's stopping now."

Feliciano blinked, taken aback by his brother's declaration.

"I can't… I can't just stop thinking about it," he offered, not quite understanding what Romano wanted from him. "I've tried, but I can't make it stop." Roma's eyes flashed with pain before hardening again behind his favorite mask of anger. His grip on Feliciano loosened.

"I didn't mean it like that. I meant I was going to help. Tch. Honestly. I try to do something nice for you, and you don't appreciate it at all."

"You're going to help?" Feliciano repeated, confused. He didn't understand how Romano could possibly help him run from dreams or block out the voices in his head. "How?" Roma swore colorfully in Spanish, which he only did if he was irritated enough to forget all sense of pride.

"I don't know, just watch the fucking movie!" He growled, flopping back to his spot and making his coffee slosh precariously on the couch arm. Feliciano was too confused to remember to run. He hugged his own half-spilled coffee to his chest and tried to piece out what had just happened.

They watched the movie. Or rather, they both sat in the same room and stared at a screen. Feliciano was too hyper-aware of Romano and his own thoughts to pay too much attention. Still, the easy rhythm of his brother's breathing nearby lulled him into a sense of complacency and he found himself pleasantly numb. Maybe a little warm and mindless.

When the first show ended, Feliciano expected they'd have to get up and face the day, but his brother proved him wrong. With a not so gentle shove to keep him pinned to the couch, Romano got up and put in an old DVD. Apparently they were making a day of it, though Feliciano still wasn't quite sure what this was. Somewhere between the second movie and the third he realized he'd fallen asleep. He woke up during the credits with his head just barely resting against Romano's knee. He might have been imagining it, but he thought maybe he might feel someone's fingers threaded through his hair, gently combing. The pain was still there if he searched it out, but it was ebbing at the back of his mind, shrinking to a more manageable grief.

"Roma?" He questioned, his words muffled by sleep and Romano's pant leg. Immediately the coming stopped.

"What." His brother snapped, fully hidden behind his angry persona, maybe a little embarrassed to have been caught in the act of something so sentimental. Feliciano wondered what their relationship might have been like if they hadn't both been raised to hide every emotion and bottle every hurt. Maybe days like this wouldn't seem so alien.

"Thank you." He offered, and kept his eyes closed.

"Don't mention it." Romano grunted in return as the credits rolled to a stop. His tone was terse, but Feliciano knew better than to trust the sound. Before long he even felt fingers resume their combing.

He fell asleep to the endless loop of a DVD menu and dreamt of nothing.