Germany tapped his foot nervously. Despite the generally comfortable atmosphere, his body felt outrageously stiff with unease. He gazed at his empty plate that was set neatly in front of him. His warped reflection glinted back at him from the shining surface of the white plate and he grimaced. Now that Germany thought more about it, he realized that he was rather touched that the usually irritating nation was going through all this trouble to make him dinner.

Even if it was the usual pasta.

Yet the usually comfortable and casual air was strangely sharp as Germany felt his breath growing shallower with each second. Why had that strange moment between he and Italy affected him so? For all he knew, his mind could've just synthesized those images.

But no. That wasn't it. Those images were lucid, yet illusive at the same time. They struck a strange chord of familiarity in Germany's mind. A sense of strange unnerving familiarity that could only be obtained through a sort of memory.

Did he just witness a memory from his forgotten childhood?

That would be…quite unusual.

No one seemed to know where Germany came from. Well, no one ever bothered to tell him who he was. He remembered asking his brother Prussia about his childhood a long time ago. Prussia just shrugged and said that he had found Germany wandering around the western border of what were once the old severed territories of Germany before its unification sometime after that perverted frog bit off more than he could chew back in the good old late 1700's. Or was it the 1800's? Oh, how the time flies.

Germany cursed himself. Why had he never bothered to ask Austria if he knew anything? He annexed the pompous aristocrat before without force. He had all the chance to at least mention it, didn't he? But then again, how would he have known that it would've been convenient to ask the insufferable piano playing schwein about his forgotten childhood?

And then there was the other part. That little girl. That sweet little girl whose face seemed so clear, yet so unclear at the same time. Germany grunted in frustration as the image of the little girl violated his mind. There was a kiss. He was absolutely sure of it. There was also a lot of sadness and nervousness. Frustration perhaps…

"Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you…"

Had he said those lines? Germany internally shuddered at the thought. That little girl must've really grasped onto his little heart with iron claws. Only a strong attachment would enable words of that nature to slip from his lips.

Also, there was that other unsettling thing.

He saw it. That copper curl.

A curl like that could only belong to an Italian.

Did Italy have another sibling besides that dummkopf Romano? Was there ever a sister that he never mentioned? If so, what happened to her?

Germany mentally reeled. He couldn't let his mind run off like that. He had to proceed with precaution. He really had nothing to work with here. He saw a few hazy images. Although very unsettling and significant images, they were just some hazy snapshots. He couldn't even be sure if any of this connects with him at all. Germany has always had this obsessive curiosity about his childhood. He would never admit to it.

He never did anything to enlighten himself. He always hid behind a mask of duty and indifference. He tried to tell himself that it doesn't matter where he came from. What matters was that he had strength as a nation.

So what if he was just blowing this all out of proportion? What if there was no significance whatsoever?

Nein. For some reason, Germany knew for sure that he had just experienced an attack of forgotten nostalgia.

And now he had to talk to Italy. Maybe the man knew something. Germany never talked to Italy about childhood before, but Italy has referenced his own young days, before.

With a small, but significant "Veh!" Germany knew that Italy had arrived.

He looked up to see the Italian man, a huge smile plastered on his bright face, and his hands occupied with a huge bowl of...pasta.

"It's done! I made pasta with tomatoes. I also put white cheeses on it. I also made potatoes for you, Germany, because I know you like them," Italy announced with a bright voice.

Germany was surprisingly touched by the Italian's consideration. Veneziano has always been rather considerate, but Germany never really let it affect him emotionally…with a few very rare acceptions. He won't deny that he has a special place for Italy somewhere deep in that heart of his.

"Um…Thank you, Italy," Germany responded stiffly, his foot still tapping. He kept his blue eyes on Italy, who set the bowl of pasta in the middle of the table. Germany opened his mouth to say something, but a small ding erupted from the other room.

"Veh! The potatoes are ready!" Italy announced with a bright jump before scampering back off into the kitchen. Germany faltered and sighed. He glanced at the pasta bowl. Hmm…it did look pretty good.

A few seconds later, Italy came back in with a tray full of what looked like sliced seasoned potatoes covered in cheese. The smell was rather delicious.

"There," Italy announced. "I'll go get the wine…and I'll get some of the beer for you, Germany. I know that you left some of it in my refrigerator last time you were here…"

Once Italy had managed to get the wine and the beer, he took his seat opposite Germany and started to scoop some pasta into his plate.

The two ate in silence for a few moments before Italy piped up, "I love making food. Especially pasta. It's absolutely delicious. Don't you think so, Germany?"

"Vh-Oh. Yeah," Germany spluttered. Despite his frenzied thoughts, the pasta was actually quite tasteful. The potatoes were also delicious as well. The Italian was quite the cook.

"I invited Japan over earlier today, but he said that he was tired! He keeps complaining about his legs hurting and how he old he is! I don't think he's that old. During training, he's kind of slow sometimes, but he still works hard. I don't know how you do it, Germany! You are always so fit and robust and strong!" Italy ranted with a big smile, his squinty eyes making Germany's lips to unconsciously turn up.

"Italy…uh…I need to talk to you about something," Germany started tentatively, setting his fork down.

"Veh, alright," Italy responded. "What do you want to talk to me about?"

Germany sighed slightly before responding, "I know this may seem a bit abnormal for me to ask, but uh…vhere did you grow up?"

Italy looked a bit taken aback at the question. But the smile was still plastered on his face. "Why do you ask, Germany?"

"It's…sort of complicated."

"Oh, okay!" Italy answered with a dazzling grin. "After Grandpa Rome fell, I was bullied by a lot of mean people. But after a while, I lived in Austria's house. I was there for a very long time."

Germany almost choked on his beer when Italy said Austria's house.

"Romano was raised by big brother Spain so I didn't see him very much," Italy continued, oblivious to Germany's mild panic attack. He took a drink from his wine glass. "Austria was very good to me. Not as good as you are to me, of course. He was a little bit mean to me sometimes and the food there was terrible, but it was okay. Austria played the piano very well and sometimes even let me sit with him on the bench. Hungary was always very nice to me as well."

So, Italy was raised by Austria? Why was this never mentioned before?

But…

"Eh, Italy…Did anyone else live in Austria's house vith you? Like…perhaps a little girl?" Germany questioned, taking a swig of his beer.

Italy frowned slightly. "Veh, no. There was no little girl that I know of. But there might've been. The house was very big. The only other child who lived with Mr. Austria that I know of is Hol-"

Italy suddenly froze. The smile slid off his face and his eyes widened. His face drained of all color and a surprisingly stricken expression inhabited his features.

This sent a feeling of unease through Germany. He has never seen Italy react this way to anything. He can't even really remember a time where the pasta-loving nation ever showed real pain or genuine seriousness.

"Are you okay, Italy?" Germany asked nervously.

Italy sighed and shook his head, a gloomy expression replacing the stricken one. "Yes, yes. I'm okay. Just…an old memory that's all."

"Who else lived with you?" Germany pressed, his curiosity reaching its climatic point. He was leaning forward, his hands placed on either side of the table.

Italy just shook his head quickly and answered, "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago. He was just a close childhood friend."

He gave a crestfallen laugh that suggested the desire to drop the subject. Germany stared at his friend, perplexed. He has never seen Italy with this mood before.

The usually boisterous nation's eyes were wide open and shadowed. His face was white and his shoulders sagged. He stared at his pasta blankly, making no movement to grab the fork and continue eating.

That's not a good sign. A plate of unfinished pasta plus Italy equals absolute and unadulterated heresy.

Germany felt a strange sensation. Like someone was pulling at a painful section of his heart. The overwhelming urge to comfort and console overtook him.

"If you don't van't to talk about it, ve don't have to," he said in a low voice.

Italy smiled half heartedly in return before sighing and answering, "Veh, I'm sorry for dampening the mood, Germany. I think it's best that we don't talk about it anymore. I won't be able to finish my pasta!"

Germany watched with amazement as the copper-curled nation quickly shook himself out of the somber mood. His bright smile returned as he took his fork and started to eat his food once more.

But Germany couldn't eat anymore. His stomach was fluttering and his limbs were shaking. Why did seeing Italy so sad affect him so? Everyone gets sad once and a while, right? And who was this mysterious childhood friend? What happened to him?

"Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you."

The unknown voice filled his head again and he mentally slapped himself. This was just getting ridiculous.

He knew one thing for sure. He would be paying Austria a visit tomorrow.