Talking to Italy about his feelings was a major step out of Germany's comfort zone. Exercising was his foremost way of working through any difficult emotions, but without the possibility of training, Germany knew that his next best option was to attempt to discuss it, and who better than Italy? Italy's strong suit was acting as a sounding board to throw ideas at; he knew his place in the conversation, and especially in a conversation with Germany, he knew to not overstep. Germany did not want to talk to someone who would psychologically pick him apart as Austria had tried to do in the morning, or brush him off as Prussia had always done– with Italy, Germany knew that he had a safe space to speak without interjection or avoidance of the subject. Perhaps he would feel more open to talking about his thoughts if his family seemed more open to the idea as well, but Prussia shied away and Austria never knew what to say. He was slightly more open than Prussia, but Austria's gaze made you feel as if one slip of the tongue or one moment of weakness would give him an unknown advantage over you in the future. Italy was safe.

"Vee~," Italy cooed, practically bouncing in the booth, "thank you for taking me to lunch, Germany! I like spending time with you."

Germany nodded and pulled his water closer to him. Another disappointing aspect of the dream dilemma was that his head now hurt every day. He often awoke in extreme pain and remained that way for hours before the headache eventually died down to a dull throb, yet no matter what he did, the pain never completely subsided. It was most likely a headache from the constant stress he was under, yet he resolved to drink more water in the hopes that it would keep the unbearable pain at bay.

"I'm glad you're okay," Italy said as he swirled a spoon in his coffee, "I was worried. You always text me at the same time every morning, so when I talked to Prussia before I talked to you, it made me nervous."

"I'm sorry, Italy, I know it's out of character for me. I have a lot happening right now."

Germany sighed and moved his hands under the table, wringing them in his lap so Italy could not see how vulnerable he truly felt.

"That's...actually why I wanted to take you to lunch," Germany muttered, bowing his head down to avoid eye contact, "I don't often say this, but I...want to talk to you about something that has been bothering me, which I don't normally do, but...I don't have anyone else."

"I'm honored, Germany," Italy smiled, "It makes me happy that you feel like you can talk to me."

Germany nodded once more, the lump in his throat keeping him from speaking. This act felt so foreign to him, always feeling the need to keep his emotions close to his chest. Growing up in a culture where questions weren't answered meant that questions shouldn't be asked. He had to continuously remind himself that not everyone responded in the same manner as his family, especially not Italy.

As Germany opened his mouth to speak, the waitress came to the table and delivered their meals. Italy settled on a breakfast platter with all the staples: eggs, bacon, pancakes, hash browns, fruit, toast, anything he could have wanted. Italy wanted to try everything, a lifestyle perfectly represented in the eclectic smorgasbord of food. Germany, the opposite end of the spectrum, settled for a toasted sesame bagel. His headache came accompanied with a stomach ache and nearly non-existent appetite.

"The truth is, I don't have anyone else I can talk to," he said as he watched Italy drizzle syrup on his pancakes, "Austria and Prussia have this way of...I don't know, walling you off from being able to talk about anything. It's like their own Iron Curtain, if you will."

Italy kept his eyes fixated on his plate, dedicating his attention to mopping up a pool of syrup with one perfect swipe of his pancake-filled fork. "You're like that too, Germany."

"I am?"

Italy popped the fork in his mouth, nodding as he chewed. He swallowed the food and set the silverware down. "You've always been that way. I feel like I can talk to you, but other people don't feel like that."

Germany exhaled deeply and took a sip of his water before continuing. He knew that Italy was right.

"Well, I've been having this strange dream every night for the past week and I don't know why. It seems important, but I have no idea what the significance behind it is-when you have the same dream over and over again, it must mean something, right? That's what I'm looking for, I want to know what it means. The first night that I had this dream, I remember feeling something smooth in my hands, but I couldn't tell what it was, and on the second night, I realized that it was a piece of wood, and with each night comes more details I have to force myself to focus on for answers. It's a broom in my hands-"

Germany watched Italy tilt his head in confusion as he continued,

"I know, I don't know why I'm holding a broom, but I am, I'm holding this broom and all of a sudden, I get a terrible pain in my head, a headache so sharp that it forces the the broom to fall out of my hands,"

Germany felt his head pounding in more pain than the usual dull throb,

"and as the broom falls, I can feel my heart beating. It's faint and feels as if it's beating miles away from me, and a voice says in my ear, 'Don't worry...you'll be okay…,' and I hear someone repeating a name, but I can't make the name out, and I'm telling myself, Ask for the name, figure out the name, but the pain is growing worse and I'm trying to push myself to scream for the name, and when I do-"

Germany leaned back in the booth and exhaled deeply. "-I wake up without any answers."

Italy did not let much stop him from eating, but as Germany spoke, he felt the need to keep the fork on the plate. Germany felt a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead as he realized how worked up he'd become-his voice rose as he relayed the dream, his tone becoming more desperate as the words tumbled out at a quicker pace. Relaying something so personal after concealing his feelings for so long made his words fly out in a flurry, racing to get them out as if Italy would strike his own Iron Curtain across the table and cut the story off.

Italy remained speechless, something as uncommon as how much information Germany just dumped into the conversation. Germany took the silence to add an afterthought.

"The dream itself bothers me; it wakes me up abruptly, it confuses me because it's so seemingly random, it gives me headaches to experience and talk about, but the strangest problem with the dream is how frustrated I am at letting the name escape me."

"Why does it make you upset?" Italy asked quietly. He kept his volume low as if this refraining of sound would open the floor for Germany to spill more of his thoughts. He sipped his coffee and maintained eye contact in his soft, non-threatening way. Austria could take a hint from him.

"I don't know," he said, finally relaxing his hands, "I don't know why it's so important to me. I don't recognize the broom, the voice, or the name, but something about the dream seems so familiar to me. The way everything feels has some sick sense of familiarity that I can't place. I know I have a terrible memory, but you would think that being exposed to the dream over and over again would help me pinpoint why it makes me feel the way it does. I have no leads and no one to talk to about it; like I said before, Austria and Prussia don't exactly 'talk.'"

Italy slowly picked up the fork and stabbed a cluster of hashbrowns. He tucked it into his mouth and nodded intrinsically, contemplating everything Germany had lay before him. Germany took the moment of silence to take another gulp of water. The headache became increasingly worse, now beginning to make his eyes sensitive to the bright lights of the cafe. This was definitely a migraine brought on from dehydration.

"I'm not really sure what to say, Germany," Italy finally resolved, swallowing another bite of hashbrowns, "I don't know what any of that could mean. You know what I do know, though?"

Germany leaned forward, his eyes alight with a glimmer of hope. "What?"

Italy grinned. "That I care about you very much, and so do Prussia and Mr. Austria."

Germany groaned and fell back into the booth, making Italy giggle.

"I know that's not what you want to hear," he smiled with a slight blush, "but it's something I think you need to hear."

"It can be hard to feel that way when no one will answer your questions," Germany blurted out. His eyes quickly shot from Italy to the floor. He was surprised that the emotions now slipped out nonchalantly after having been so guarded just a few minutes before. Italy always proved to be easy to talk to, hence, his popularity. Though many countries could easily overpower him, something about the way Italy interacted with others could lull them into going easy on him. He naturally had a way with people that helped them open up, something that Germany discovered the longer their friendship grew; Italy coaxed Japan out of his shell without even trying, which spoke volumes for his communication skills. For being such a lackadaisical country, Italy knew how to play to his strengths when he needed to.

"It's hard when no one will talk to you," Germany continued, "especially your family. That's all I want. I want to talk to Prussia and Austria about how I feel without the defensiveness. I want to bring up the dream to them, but I know that if I mention that it feels familiar for an unknown reason, Prussia will rush to the defense and reiterate that he has no interest in discussing the past, and the conversation will end there."

"Family is complicated, isn't it?" Italy chuckled, "My brother and I are expected to be perfect global leaders because we're descendants of Grandpa Rome, but no one thinks about how we aren't our Grandpa. Being a country is tough. Our families and friends are split in strange ways, relationships grow and fall apart, we go to war and are expected to fight as hard as we can or bad things will happen to us and our people. I moved to many different homes. It's stressful. That's why I try to relax and do things that make me happy, like trying new foods!"

Italy resumed sampling his plate while Germany pondered what he said.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Prussia is reluctant to talk about the past because of the fragmentation, the splitting, the relationships," Germany mused, "I don't know much about what that's like. My home and my family have always been intact, but as for what came before me, I have no idea what Prussia or Austria have been through."

"Mr. Austria would know a lot about that," Italy nodded with a mouthful of eggs, "his properties and boundary lines changed a lot over the years. I watched many people come and go. I can see why he wouldn't want to talk about it."

Germany's headache increased in intensity, the pressure pounding against his temples. He winced slightly at the pain, but resorted to massaging his temples and continuing the conversation. Germany knew that if he lost momentum in the discussion, it would be difficult for him to feel open enough to reach this point again.

"Who lived with Austria?" he asked.

Italy paused for a moment, staring at his hands as he swallowed the food in his mouth. He didn't speak. Germany sensed his sudden reluctance and felt guilty for pushing his friend into an uncomfortable subject.

"I'm sorry," Germany interjected, "I didn't mean to push you too far."

"Don't be sorry," Italy smiled faintly, "it can just be hard to talk about sometimes. I moved from house to house, always serving someone else, never staying in one place for a very long time. It was hard to watch people come and go. Some countries grew up and left, fighting for their freedom and never looking back; some countries just...never came back."

Germany's headache suddenly ramped up in pain, this time bringing his hands to his head as if he were in the dream once again. He winced harder and clenched his teeth, groaning as he doubled over the table. Italy gasped, the color draining from his face.

"Germany," he exclaimed, "are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I don't know," he muttered, "I think my migraine just got worse."

"What do we do? What should I do?" Italy bumbled, "Should I take you home? Do you want to go home?"

Germany slowly nodded. The pain was debilitating, almost blinding as he struggled to even keep his eyes open.

The following events were a blur to the country doubled over in pain. He felt Italy's arm around him as his feet glided across the ground, guiding him from the cafe to the car. Italy gently nudged him into the passenger seat and hopped behind the wheel. Germany had never felt a pain this excruciating in his life. The pressure building in his head made his brain throb as if knives were stabbing his temples. He kept his eyes shut tightly as his body wobbled in place. No headache resulting from the dream had been this horrific before, but the more he strained to think about its origin, the worse the pain became.

In an instant, Germany heard the car door slam, followed by his door opening. A set of arms coaxed themselves around his waist. A high pitched voice chattered nervously while two deeper voices attempted to remain calm. We must be home, Germany realized as he recognized the voices. He didn't want to open his eyes for fear of the pain becoming worse.

"We were just talking," the words tumbled out of Italy's mouth in an anxious garble, "and then he started grabbing his head and moaning in pain, and I said 'Are you okay, what can we do, what should I do?', and then he said-"

"Thank you, Italy," Austria cut in, "thank you for bringing him home. You did the right thing."

They entered through the front door. Austria and Prussia moved into the living room and helped lay Germany on the couch. Germany opened his eyes as much as he could bear, his eyes still in slits as he observed the scene around him. Prussia knelt beside him and stared at Germany's face solemnly, expressing concern through the way his eyes darted to scan every inch of his face, almost as if he hoped to diagnose the problem by merely looking at him. Italy, tears welling at the corners of his eyes, sat slightly behind Prussia with a hand gripping the back of his shirt. Germany hated seeing Italy cry. Austria stood next to Prussia with the tip of his thumb in his mouth, biting his nail as his brow furrowed. When Prussia noticed that Germany's eyes were open, he inhaled sharply. Italy held his breath.

"Can you hear me, West?"

"Yes," Germany managed to mumble. His voice sounded feeble.

"Italy said that your head has been hurting all week. Is that true?"

Germany slowly nodded.

"And has it been this bad before?"

"No," Germany breathed.

"What happened right before the pain became this serious?" Austria asked, his voice sounding monotone and meek.

Germany meant to mouth "the dream," but the pain increased to the point where he had to shut his eyes again. He whimpered and curled into a ball.

Prussia gently tousled Germany's hair and spoke softly to him. "Don't worry, Westie, you'll be okay."

That voice. Germany's mind flashed to the dream and he relived the experience of it as if it were a memory. Through the darkness and unbearable pain, a calm voice cooed in his ear to not worry, that he would be okay. The disembodied voice had no face, no name, but in this experience so akin to the original, he recognized it for the first time. Desperation washed over Germany amidst the blinding pain and he knew that if he didn't act quickly, the moment may never come again.

Germany's eyes shot open and he grabbed the front of Prussia's shirt. Alarmed, Prussia froze as Germany pulled himself into his brother's face. Germany lay teetering at the edge of the couch as he gripped the shirt with every last fiber of strength left in his body. Italy fell backwards and crawled away while Austria stepped back, his cheeks void of all color.

"You…," Germany whispered. He locked eyes with Prussia, his eyelids fluttering as Prussia's irises looked alight with fervency. "It was you."

The unbearable pain seized him, the pressure in his head reaching an indescribable level of agony. His vision became completely white and he heard himself scream without feeling it emit from his chest. He felt his body fall, but lost consciousness before he hit the floor.