Hundreds of boots thud in the dirt, their marching growing more faint as the troops began to set out. Germany opened his eyes and the world appeared before him, the leaves of the trees blurring together like a Monet painting. The outlines of every cloud and person wobbled like a shaky hand scribbled the world into existence, and when Germany looked down towards his hands, he realized he was Holy Rome.

"Holy Rome! Wait!" a voice called.

He watched as Italy scurried towards him, the wind ruffling the pleats of his skirt. Teardrops raced from his cheeks and flew into the air behind him as he approached. Italy held his pushbroom out, his small fists grasping it with all his strength.

"I'll give this to you," he squeaked, his voice quivering as the severity of the moment set in, "think of it as me and take it with you, Holy Rome."

Holy Rome racked his brain for why Italy would offer a broom as a parting gift. He began reflecting on every moment they'd been together, every time they chased one another through the meadow, every time he blushed from something as simple as his touch, and only then did the significance of the broom dawn on him: when they first met. He remembered opening the door and watching Italy sweep the floor, and the way Italy bounced with each movement made his heart flutter. The recollection of that memory brought upon the first sense of self-doubt: was the war worth it? Was he making the right decision? He juggled both possibilities, one being to stay home, the other to fight for more, and when he returned to reality to see Italy's trembling hands offering a piece of their lives for him to cherish, he knew he needed to fight. He wanted to come home with enough territory for Italy to frolic through flowers and paint every inch of the landscape for the rest of his life. Leaving would hurt in the moment, but only for a moment, and when he came home, it would have been worth it.

Holy Rome took the broom into his own hands, spinning the handle as he took in every sense of the scene: the wood felt smooth against his skin, the wind sent flurries of leaves through the air, the smell of the freshly trodden earth swept through his nose. He eagerly looked forward to his return.

"Thank you," he smiled, "I accept your feelings. When the war is over, I'll definitely come see you."

The world crumbled into a black abyss beneath his feet and Holy Rome fell backwards into it, the passage of time slowing as he frantically waved one arm in an attempt to steady himself, the other tightly gripping the broom. Above him, he could see a clone of himself still standing with Italy, the sky slowly fading to nothing. The two embraced and somehow, on his own shoulder, Holy Rome could feel the tears soaking through his cloak. The air left his lungs and he gasped for air. When he hit the floor of the abyss, he jolted awake.

Germany lay on his back, the covers of his bed kicked to the floor. As he opened his eyes, he felt beads of water trickling down his temples. Bringing the back of his hands to his eyes, he rubbed them to reveal the tears his eyelids had harbored while he was asleep. The last line that escaped his lips twisted his stomach into knots: When the war is over, I'll definitely come see you. He never came home. Italy waited for him. The rose-colored dream of flowers and painting and a lifetime of unity shattered when he was informed that Holy Rome didn't make it. He pictured Italy snapping every paintbrush into slivers of broken promises and his broom being stuffed into the farthest, most forgotten corner of the basement, never to see the light of day again–was the war worth it in the end?

He typically left the curtains slightly parted so the sunlight could beam into his room in the early morning hours, but with the weight of his discovery dragging his soul further into darkness, he drew them shut the night before. The sun attempted to peek through the fabric to no avail. Germany rose from his bed and walked to the dresser, pulling out another tank top and pair of sweatpants. He'd left the broom, cloak, and photo album on the dresser top, and as he stared at his folded cloak, he had no desire to don his military uniform. Choosing one outfit or another felt like choosing between which identity he would embrace, and with his soul split in two, neither felt right. After changing and grabbing his phone from the charger, he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and style his hair.

He brushed his teeth first, toothbrush in one hand and his phone in the other. He slid open the group chat that Prussia titled "Beilschmidt & Idiot," a household thread between himself, Austria, and Prussia. Any time Austria attempted to change the name, Prussia changed it back. Austria gave up after the third try. Austria had sent a text 30 minutes prior: Germany, Prussia and I will be back in a few hours. Please remember to stay home. Prussia sent a random reaction meme a few minutes after. Austria responded a minute later: Prussia please stop. Prussia sent one more image. That was the last message.

As soon as Germany turned his back to the two on the previous night, he knew he needed to tell Italy his true identity, regardless of what the consequences may be. Unlike the others, Germany couldn't live with himself if he concealed the truth any longer, but as he spit into the sink and rinsed his toothbrush, he asked himself once more if he was making the right decision. It could be a relief to know the truth, but it would tear open old wounds. It could be exciting to finally have answers, but the sense of betrayal that washed over him might overtake Italy, too. The black and white lines between right and wrong blurred into a world of grey, a suffocating, dense fog that clouded his judgment. Every decision felt right and wrong at the same time.

Germany stared at his reflection in the mirror. The color returned to his complexion, but the dark circles remained, a permanent side effect of his exhaustion. His hair, messy from sleeping, fell forward in choppy pieces and concealed most of his forehead. Suddenly, his eyes watered and his vision began to blur, every object and color in the bathroom melting together. He scrunched his eyes shut for a moment and when he opened them again, he was Holy Rome. He stood in the same place and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The step stool's rubber top squished under his feet as he looked at himself. His hat sat nearby on the counter. Holy Rome raised his hands to his forehead, ready to brush his hair backwards as he typically did, but he paused. There was no work to complete for the day, and his schedule only consisted of spending time with Italy. He fantasized about the way Italy's fingers would sweep across his forehead and push the hair away, only for each stubborn piece to slip back down, and Italy would giggle as he pushed it away, watched it fall, pushed it away, watched it fall; when Holy Rome returned to reality, he lowered his hands and smiled. Today, he would let himself feel free. He left his hair alone

Germany blinked again and he found himself back in the present day, his hands raised to his forehead to instinctually flip his bangs back. All those years ago, he allowed himself to feel free, unbeknownst that he would soon fall to oblivion, his memories wiped to force him into submission, his "free will" only an illusion of choice. Today, he wouldn't just feel free: he would be free. He left his hair in its natural state. He was reclaiming his life.

Germany returned to his bedroom and retrieved his mementos, stuffing them into a large duffle bag. He figured the physical evidence would improve his believability, because if someone had revealed the truth to him a week prior, he wouldn't have believed it himself. He made his way down the stairs and left through the front door, the sunlight nearly blinding him as he stepped into its full blaze. The ominous rain clouds from the previous day dispersed, now replaced with fairytale-esque, cumulus puffs. He unlocked his car and sat in the driver's seat, slipping the bag of belongings into the passenger side. He texted Italy similarly to the way he'd texted England:

I'm coming over right now. Don't tell anyone. Top secret.

He needed to do this, yet as he pulled out of the driveway, his nerves devoured his stomach and ushered in a new wave of nausea. He couldn't anticipate how Italy would react to the news, and in this new era of uncertainty, Germany craved predictability. Though his primary reasoning for telling Italy the truth was because he deserved to know for his own sake, a thought crept into Germany's brain that made him consider a secondary reason: dating might be a possibility. Italy previously made it clear that he couldn't commit to a serious relationship because he was still healing, but if he was the person Italy was healing from, would that change things? Admittedly, though Germany was previously fine with whatever decision Italy made, he found himself longing for him more than ever before. Uncovering his identity unlocked the suppressed romantic feelings for his childhood friend, and as more memories revealed themselves, the feelings grew stronger. He remembered every moment he blushed at Italy's touch and it reminded him that he'd been in love with Italy his entire life, and even when he had no recollection of their previous relationship, Germany fell in love with him all over again. That was the definition of soulmates, wasn't it? Germany found his soulmate, and this time, he didn't want to let him go.

Germany pulled the car into Italy's driveway, his nausea now worse than ever. The Mediterranean-style home glistened in the sunlight as Germany grabbed his bag and exited the car. The tan stucco and red-tile roof complimented the subtle warm tones of the stone that adorned the entryways of the garage and front door. A rainbow of flowers lined the walkway towards the front door, and as Germany mounted the few steps that led to the door, he marveled at the two bloodgood Japanese maples sitting on either side. Italy's house oozed the romantic aesthetic and this only amplified the anxiety nipping at him.

Germany rang the doorbell and fidgeted with the strap of the duffle bag. He wrung his hands around the nylon, the rough texture of the fabric grounding him as he waited for Italy to open the door. At long last, the door swung open and Italy smiled at his companion, his frame backlit with the warm light that emanated from indoors. He wore a pastel pink dress shirt and white jeans, every aspect of his appearance complimenting the sunny nature of the day. Germany gulped nervously.

"Germany!" Italy exclaimed, "your hair!"

Germany smiled, now easily swayed by Italy's happiness. "I'm trying something new today."

Italy reached forward and ran his open hand through Germany's bangs, his fingers hooking every piece. He pushed it back and as soon as he let go, it fell forward again. Italy giggled and tried again, repeating the cycle like a cat pawing at a ball of yarn. With his fantasy coming to fruition, Germany blushed, and when he realized how warm his face was becoming, he used every ounce of strength to force his heart back into submission.

Italy retracted his hand and stepped back through the doorway, leaning against the door to open it further. "Well, I like it! Come in! I just made coffee."

Italy bounded through the entryway towards the kitchen. Germany shut the door and trailed Italy through the house, all the while wringing his hands around the strap of the duffel bag. The sunlight bounced off the white cabinets and shimmered against the polish on the wooden floor, reflecting the bright energy that Italy embodied in that moment. Germany sat at the island in the center of the room, setting his bag down on a nearby chair. He stared at the sink on the other side of the island, its metal basin sparkling from the sun. Italy walked past it to the espresso machine perched on the counter next to it. Of course Italy had a special machine for coffee. He packed the espresso into the top and began pulling a shot into a mug. The mechanical hum filled the silence of the room. Italy moved towards the fridge and opened the door in search of milk.

"Thank you," Germany said, "I appreciate it."

"No problem!"

Germany watched as Italy retrieved the milk and walked it back to the espresso machine. He poured the milk into the small metal pitcher and plunged the steaming wand into it. The wand whirred with great intensity, a reflection of the way Germany felt in the moment, but while the machine slowed to a muffled hiss, Germany's stomach continued knotting itself up. How would he even begin to say what was on his mind?

"It's a really nice day–wanna sit outside on the terrace?" Italy cooed. He slowly retracted the pitcher from the wand and poured the steamed milk into the mug. The steady stream of milk gradually turned into a ribbon of froth, each bubble like a grain of sand slipping through someone's fingers. With a flick of the wrist, Italy coaxed the foam into the shape of a leaf on the surface of the latte.

"Uhm," Germany stammered, a lump emerging in his throat, "Maybe we should, uhm, stay inside for this.

Italy tilted his head and furrowed his brow. "Is everything okay?"

Quick to reassure, Germany nodded his head vigorously. "Yes!" he lied, his voice like a yelp as it leapt from his chest. He didn't want Italy to know about the romantic feelings fighting their way to the surface. He didn't want to overwhelm Italy. He didn't want to look overwhelmed, himself. The embarrassment crept to his ears and they grew warmer with each stupid sound that tumbled out of his mouth. He needed to pull himself together.

He cleared his throat, attempting to start over. "Yes," he repeated, regulating his tone, "yes, everything is fine…but you need to promise me that you won't tell anyone about this conversation, okay? No one can know."

Italy leaned forward on the island's countertop, shifting his weight to his elbows and forearms as they pressed firmly on the table. "Not even Japan?"

"No. No one at all, not even Japan. No one can know I was even here today."

"Why?" Italy asked anxiously. His fingers curled and he pressed the nail of his index finger into the side of his thumb, a habit he exhibited when he felt uneasy. He kept his head down as he fixated on the sensation of picking his skin. Great, Germany chastised, now he's nervous, too. Pull yourself together, Germany!

"Because I'm going to tell you information that I'm not supposed to know," he spoke slowly, his voice wavering, "and I could get in trouble for telling you. I need you to promise me that you will keep this a secret."

A moment of silence passed in which Italy remained focused on his hands, but when he finally looked up and locked eyes with Germany, Germany's heartbeat intensified. His nerves and suppressed romantic feelings were overtaking any sense of composure he typically had. Italy always found a way to fluster him without trying, a trait he shared with France, but while France wound him up in the worst ways, Italy reverted him to an awkward teenager once more, one whose social ineptitude and lack of experience rendered him a bumbling mess.

"I promise," Italy nodded.

Germany opened his mouth to speak, but the weight of the truth kept him tongue tied. He spent so long building up this moment in his head, rehearsing the way in which he would deliver his lines, but all the pre-prepared words disintegrated before him. What was he supposed to say? What words could somehow summarize the roller coaster raging within him? What if Italy became belligerent, catatonic, responded uncharacteristically in some way, and in his own shocked stupor, all he would do was stupidly stumble through his script? On his way to Italy's house, Germany assumed some semblance of competence would come to him: now, in the moment, he was rendered speechless. He had no idea where to begin.

Italy, sensing his nerves, leaned in towards Germany. "You can tell me, Germany," he reassured with a small smile, "I'm good at keeping secrets."

Germany concluded that showing Italy would be a more viable option, considering he felt as if his entire vocabulary had vanished from his brain. All he could do was reach for the duffel bag and slowly unzip it with trembling hands. His story had little believability without physical evidence. Germany's hands felt stiff as he forced them to move, his brain suddenly telling him to stop, but he knew he couldn't. Europe saw no issue in concealing his identity, but Germany deserved the truth. Italy deserved the truth. You're doing the right thing, he reassured himself. The rest of the world might not take issue with burying his true identity, but he did. Unlike the rest of Europe, he was going to do the right thing, and if he could find no words to speak the truth, he would use his shaking hands to show it.

Germany gulped and, at long last, took the cloak from the bag. He moved his mug aside and dumped the heap of fabric onto the counter. He pushed it towards Italy. Italy, puzzled, felt for its collar and, when he found it, pulled it upwards. The collar nestled into his hands while the rest of the cloak sat bunched up on the countertop, his thumbs slowly glossing over the material.

Italy was quiet for a moment, merely inspecting the cloak before he spoke. "What is this?"

Germany's eyes frantically searched Italy's for any sense of recollection. It's too late, Germany panicked, he doesn't remember, does he? This was the end, wasn't it? With the years between them, the memories of Holy Rome were faint enough to become mere dreams. No, it couldn't end like this, not after everything Germany went through to discover the truth. It couldn't end like this.

Suddenly regaining strength,Germany snatched his hat from the bag and pushed it into Italy's hands, forcing him to drop the cloak. "Look at this," Germany croaked, desperate for a sign of familiarity.

Italy turned the hat over in his hands and slowly ran his fingertips across every inch of its surface. He traced the golden trim across the top with his index finger and remained silent for what felt like an eternity, but in reality, was only a minute or two.

"Where did you find this?" he finally whispered.

Germany cleared his throat. "From the basement," he paused, "in a box of…my…old things. It's…"

His nausea was at its peak, yet he fought the urge to throw up. This was the moment that would change the course of history. He barely had the composure to force the words from his mouth.

"…mine."

Germany watched as Italy's grip tightened on the hat, his fingers pressing harder into the fabric. Italy's face was typically easily readable, but for the first time in his life, Germany couldn't read his expression. His eyes slanted and his brow furrowed, making him appear both sad and angry at the same time, and yet the way he held the hat suggested a sigh of relief, a glimmer of recollection, a hint of…hope? No. Grief? No. Joy? No. He couldn't tell. Germany hated feeling like he had no control. He was much more at ease when his routine was predictable and his friends responded the way he envisioned, but with the uncertainty of the moment, his mind raced as he attempted to piece together what Italy was thinking, what he would say next, how the rest of the conversation would go. Italy would become belligerent, he was sure of it…maybe catatonic was closer to the truth…he couldn't tell, and his inability to predict the future gave way to a new wave of panic. Maybe this was a bad idea, after all, he realized.

He was so focused on psychoanalyzing the next probable move that he didn't realize Italy had dropped the hat on the ground and moved towards him. Germany didn't snap back to reality until he felt Italy swooping underneath his arms. Alarmed, Germany raised his arms. Italy hugged him tightly, burying his face into Germany's chest. The only thing Germany was sure of in that moment was that this hug felt different than any other.

Though his face was nestled into his clothing, Italy's muffled voice wasn't difficult to hear. "It's you," he said.

Italy wasn't merely hugging his physical form, he was hugging his soul. He was hugging all the way through to the Holy Rome inside him, a hug that felt as if it were reaching through the past and scooping up his small frame, a hug to make up for all the years they were separated. The alarm Germany first experienced now dissolved into relief. Italy remembered him. That was all he'd hoped for. Italy's embrace connected his two selves, and for the first time in days, for the first time in his life, he felt complete. Germany blinked and was teleported back to the autumn afternoon captured in the photo album, holding hands with Italy, only this time, they were the adults watching their younger selves frolic down the dirt path. Holy Rome looked to young Italy and Germany looked to adult Italy, both his identities admiring the rosy cheeks and innocent smiles, and after realizing how much lost time stood between them, he resolved to never let it go. We're going to live in this moment forever. I won't let you go again.

Germany blinked again and he was back in the present, reciprocating the emotionally-charged hug. Italy pulled away and Germany slid his hands down to the back of Italy's elbows, gingerly holding his arms. Both had tears welling in their eyes, something Germany wasn't aware of until he felt them inching down his cheeks.

"W-what happened?" Italy stuttered, the hint of tears turning into full waterworks.

"There was a treaty put in place," Germany explained, "the Imperium Declaration. I was growing too powerful and about to be dissolved, but when I lost my memory in the war, Austria and Prussia raised me as Germany. That's how I was able to stay alive, but I remember everything now, I remember who I am."

Germany glossed over most of the details, wanting to stay focused on the pure joy overtaking him. It felt foreign. With his two lives connected, Germany felt whole again. The secrecy of his brother, the romantic undertones with Italy, everything made sense for the first time in his life. After experiencing the lowest possible point his psyche could sink to, he welcomed the uncharacteristic euphoria. He clung to it like his life depended on it. And then he laughed. He laughed at how unbothered he was, how free he felt. Germany slid his hands up to Italy's shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze, shaking him ever so slightly to emphasize how much weight had been lifted from his own shoulders.

"I'm home, Italy," he grinned, "I'm here now. I'm home."

Germany pulled him into another hug. Every moment of childlike excitement and unbridled eagerness that was forcibly repressed now spilled out of him as if his amygdala kicked into overdrive to make up for lost time. Italy, finally beginning to soak up the overflowing happiness, leaned back to look Germany in the eye and smiled.

"I…I waited for you," he said.

Germany nodded. "I know," he crooned.

"No, I…I mean," Italy blushed, "like…I waited…for you."

It was now Germany's turn to adopt the rosy cheeks. He was so caught up in reconnecting with Italy that all the typical embarrassment and hesitation fell to the wayside, but as the stress of his reveal subsisted, the embarrassment returned. As a child, his love for Italy paralyzed him; as an adult, his love for Italy typically rendered him a bumbling mess.

"W-what do you mean?" Germany sputtered.

Italy gripped Germany's arms the way his were held a few minutes prior. "Do you remember," he spoke bashfully, "when I said I wasn't ready?"

Germany held his breath and nodded. His stomach twisted once more and he fought his brain's faulty alert that he would be sick. This is it, this is it, Germany! Stay calm, don't do anything stupid—

Italy brought his hand up to Germany's cheek and gently traced his cheekbone with his thumb. "Everyone told me that you were dead," he said, "but something inside me told me that I needed to hold onto hope, that a part of you was still out there somewhere. You didn't feel dead to me—and I was right. You're here."

As a child, Germany's biggest fear was being rejected by Italy. His crush gripped his heart so strongly that a simple touch made him blush instantaneously, and the longer he let himself fantasize about finally gathering the courage to ask Italy to be with him, the more flustered he became and the more debilitating each new touch was. With his two lives connected once more, his passion for Italy was reignited, and after losing so much time to be together, Germany wasn't going to let him slip between his fingers again. He summoned every ounce of courage in his soul. No more waiting: they'd waited long enough.

Germany leaned into Italy's face until their lips were nearly touching. "I'm here now," he cooed, his voice rolling out in a smooth, deep rumble. Before he had more time to anxiously overanalyze the situation, Germany leaned in and pressed his lips against Italy's.

All his life, Germany longed to be this brazen, but fear and embarrassment always held him back. With his sense of self restored and his soul now whole once more, his confidence and joy were at their peak. He kissed Italy with a gentle-yet-passionate air, his heart fluttering from the metaphorical fire rekindling in his chest. He tasted like chocolate and coffee. It was better than Germany could have ever imagined.

When he pulled away, Italy's face flushed beet red. Germany couldn't help the smirk that rose to his lips. Finally, it was his turn to fluster his friend. The confidence surging through him empowered him to continue his confession.

"We're soulmates, Italy," Germany said, echoing the thoughts tumbling through his brain on his way to the house, "do you know how many times I've heard people say that they would find each other in a second life? It's only words with other people, Italy, but we were given that second chance and we did it, we found each other again and now we're here, together again, together at last. That's the definition of being soulmates. We did it."

Italy sniffled and smiled as Germany pulled him close once more. After the years between them, Germany refused to let Italy go, even as they moved throughout the house while the hours ticked by. They talked on the couch, they bounced back to the kitchen, they made their way outside, they returned to the couch once more, and all the while, Germany never took a reassuring hand from his best friend, his lost love, his soulmate. To avoid raising suspicion, the pair resolved to dating in secrecy in an effort to maintain the status quo, then reveal the true nature of their relationship when the chaos of the current situation subsided. On any other day, Germany would have spent every waking moment reconnecting with Italy and reminiscing on their childhood, but knowing that Austria and Prussia would soon be home, Germany knew he needed to leave. As he gathered his things and hugged his boyfriend goodbye, Germany felt like he was submerged in the morning's dream once more, the earth crumbling beneath his feet as he told himself to let go.

Germany, with great resistance, let his grip of Italy go and turned his attention to wrestling his bag. He kept his head down to avoid the pain of eye-contact, but Italy, sensing his anxiety, gently tilted his head upward with a curled finger beneath his chin.

"I know you'll be back, Germany," Italy smiled.

Germany sniffled and nodded, fighting the tears that begged to well up in his eyes. "When I'm able to leave the house again, I'll definitely come see you."

"I'll be waiting."

Germany returned to his car and plopped his bag into the passenger seat once again. As he shifted the car in reverse, he watched as Italy leaned in the door frame and waved. Germany sighed with relief, reminding himself that he would stay true to his word this time and return when he could. As he pulled out of the driveway, he wondered if his family was already home and wondering about his whereabouts, but strangely, he didn't really care. The pure euphoria, amplified by the picture-perfect weather, cast a ray of joy and hope across his psyche. He felt like he was on top of the world. Truthfully, after hitting rock bottom, any vision of his future shattered before him. He wasn't even sure if he would live long enough to see any future come to fruition, but now with the reveal of his true identity, the unity of his memories, and the reciprocation of the man he'd yearned for all his life, an even better future now forged a path through his mind. He knew he found his soulmate. He knew he found himself. What more could he ask for?

Though he swore it didn't matter, Germany still held his breath as he turned into his neighborhood and watched his house come into sight. Thankfully, no cars sat in the driveway and the house appeared just as he'd left it–he beat them home. Grabbing his bag, he parked his car where he'd previously left it and darted inside. He slinked up the stairs and back into his bedroom, determined to conceal the fact that he'd even left at all. Though he thought it strange that they had been gone so long, Germany hardly had room in his mind for doubt to set in. He wanted to live in the joy of the day before another force attempted to rip him from its clutches.

Germany stuffed the bag beneath his bed and pulled the curtains back, the light instantly filling the once-shadowy room with newfound happiness. Germany fell backwards onto his bed and sighed, outstretching his arms and letting his hands dangle downward. He wanted to live in this moment forever, basking in the bliss of resolve. He thought back to the moment he trotted down the autumn path with Italy, the leaves swooping through the breeze and gently gliding to the ground. Now, he really could live in that moment forever, and this time, no one could take it from him. The childlike joy coursed through his veins–at long last, he was complete.