His next move required absolute thought and precision. One incorrect movement or one slip of the tongue meant discovery, and with the amount of turmoil he'd already inflicted, Germany did not want to cause any more. He decided that France would be the most knowledgeable person of Italy's past; he and France were acquaintances during that time period and he and Prussia's friendship went back about that far, as well. If France were aware of Germany's true intentions, he would certainly alert Prussia, giving him more grounds to pick a fight like he had attempted the previous night. Germany figured that if his intent were framed as being worried about Italy's well-being and seeking help from a third party, France's defenses would be lowered enough to leak some useful information. Knowing Prussia would be sleeping off a hangover, he arranged to meet France at Cafe Spain for breakfast, hoping they could talk before Prussia relayed last night's events to anyone.

France waited patiently in a booth, holding a cup of coffee in his fingertips and gingerly sipping it. His honey blonde hair was tied back with a burgundy ribbon, yet a few wavy curls remained free, framing his cheeks and stubbled jawline. As he lowered the mug, Germany noticed the few buttons undone on his lavender dress shirt, partially exposing his chest. His relationship with France was practically nonexistent, their differences making it impractical to develop a close friendship, and one of these differences included Germany's bafflement at France's boldness. France's relationship with Prussia began to make more sense.

Germany reached the booth and sat down across from France. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me here," he said, making himself comfortable.

"Well, I can't exactly say I was expecting this, but I'm always up for a rendezvous," he smirked, "how's your brother?"

Another reason as to why the two were not close became evident: nothing made Germany feel more awkward than France's flirtatious nature. Germany was not one to openly express feelings to that degree, and in these instances, he froze. France intentionally slipped euphemisms and suggestive vocabulary into conversations, enjoying what it felt like to fluster others. The last thing Germany wanted to do was show any weakness, so he pushed his tongue into the nook of a canine tooth and swallowed any signs of folding.

"He's fine," Germany lied. He wondered if Prussia spilled his woes to his friends on the night of the fight. He took a page from Austria's book and analyzed the nuances of France's face as he spoke, the ways in which his eyes flickered, the way his mouth shaped each word.

"So what is this about, mon amie?"

"I've been a bit concerned about Italy lately. I know that you've known him longer than I have, so I was hoping to gain some insight from you as to how I should handle it."

France furrowed his brow. "Why are you concerned?"

"He's been acting a bit out of character: quieter, more serious, less energetic."

The waitress visited the table and brought a cup of coffee for Germany. He declined cream and sugar while France loaded his own with both. "You and I don't have much in common," he said as he swirled the cream through his coffee, "but we are bonded by our love for Italy, and that transcends all else–except mine is familial because he's my petit frère, and yours is sexually."

Germany choked on the sip of coffee he'd accidentally inhaled. "More like platonically," he sputtered.

"Right," France nodded all-knowingly, the smirk returning.

"What you said leads into what I was going to ask you. How close were you and Italy?"

France sighed, his breath rippling across the surface of his mug. "We didn't live together, but I visited him frequently. He was so cute: so small, so full of life. Every time I visited, he would have a stack of paintings waiting for me, all the things he'd created for me while I was away. I'm sure I still have them somewhere, I kept everything he gave me. That was his way of showing love, and if every man did that for the person he loved, the population would be out of control."

Germany was determined to not let France's comments detour his purpose. "You cared for him deeply, then," he asserted. France smiled when he spoke, his cheeks slightly pink and his head resting in one hand, propped up by an elbow on the table. Germany focused on his twinkling eyes and knew his relaxed state would cause him to accidentally falter, and when he did, he would mentally log whatever info spilled out of him. The more he reassured France, the more information he would glean from the conversation.

"I did," France cooed, "I wanted to take him home with me, but it never worked out. Not with the–"

He paused for a minute. Germany calculated the look in his eyes. He nearly slipped on the metaphorical cliffside, the pebbles skating beneath his feet as he regained his grounding.

"-politics of the time. It was best to leave him with Austria."

"He had a good life with Austria, then?"

France now sat at full attention, sipping his coffee with both hands around the mug. "Yes. While I would have loved to have him live with me, he had more company at Austria's. He's never done well on his own, so when you say he's quiet, I'm concerned that the energy he usually puts into conversations is being used to overthink. I just want what's best for him, as do you."

"He told me that people were often in and out of the house– a revolving door, he called it."

France shrugged and Germany watched his body relax, his posture less rigid as he sipped from the lukewarm mug. "That's just how the times were. Everything shifts with time, though, it's only natural…like how you're definitely a homosexual now."

Germany fought the redness creeping across his face, but no matter how hard he pushed his tongue into his teeth, the blush wouldn't back down. His face grew warm and France grinned, knowing he'd bested Germany in that moment. France grew more comfortable, his expression softening as he continued. "Italy struggled with the way things were, you know. He hated watching people leave. He made friends so easily, which helped when new countries came to stay, but tore him to pieces when they left."

"It seems like he's kept in contact with everyone. He's on good terms with practically everyone, and it's something I admire him for."

"You know why he's friends with everyone?" France chuckled, "It's because he hates saying goodbye. If he makes a friend, he will keep it for life, and the only thing that could separate him from that friend would be death."

"Death?"

France opened his mouth to continue, his smile still curled at its corners, but as the reality of his wording set in, the smile faded. His mouth closed and he pursed his lips. His eyes locked with Germany's momentarily, yet in that moment, Germany could see his pupils shrink. France whipped his phone out and feverishly typed a message to an unknown party while Germany sat back. He returned to his neglected coffee, gingerly taking it in. France fell into his trap and they both knew it.

France set his phone next to his mug, its screen face down to conceal whatever he had typed. "So what did you want from me," he continued slowly, each word carefully articulated, "advice on how to make him feel better?"

"Yes," Germany shot back. Realizing his response looked too eager, he cleared his throat. "Yes, anything will help."

"Just spend time with him. That helps him the most. It always has."

France's phone vibrated, its power reverberating off the wooden surface and amplifying its volume. He quickly answered. The voice on the other end spoke so rapidly and muffled that Germany could not decipher a single word being said. France jumped in with a few short phrases: "Yeah…mmhm…got it…okay…I'll be right there."

France stuffed the phone into his pocket and quickly downed every last drop of his drink. "Sorry, I need to go," he asserted. The fluster he normally projected on others now caught up to him as he nervously shot up from his seat. "Keep me updated on how he is."

Before Germany could grant a proper goodbye, France scurried out of the cafe. Germany now stared at the empty space before him. He was sure the mention of death was in reference to Italy's past relationship. In all the years Germany and Italy had been friends, he couldn't recall a single death that had occurred, and though France's body language didn't lie, death almost seemed implausible. Italy was the type of person to bring flowers on the person's birth and death dates, to have picnics in the graveyard and talk up a storm to the stone in front of him, to have that person's picture framed in his house and stories prepared for reminiscing. To lose someone in that way and never acknowledge it in all their years of friendship didn't make sense. And yet–

He looks loss in the face every single day. Germany never considered the possibility of relatives. Could Italy be in touch with this person's family? Could he be with them so often that he looked in their eyes every day, falling prey to catching flashes of the person he'd once loved? His head spun as new questions arose. He slowly finished his mug of coffee, his thoughts simmering between each sip, and when his cup ran empty, an epiphany suddenly filled it. He needed to return home immediately.

Germany burst through the front door and flew up the staircase before anyone could stop him. Once in his room, he locked the door and snatched his laptop from the top of the nightstand. Sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, he lifted the lid and watched the screen come to life, its glow becoming his path to truth. He had little information to work with, but devised a plan nonetheless. He knew Italy's birthday and remembered becoming friends with him as a teenager. He decided to start his search with countries that had passed away between Italy's birth and teenage years, hoping to uncover more information that would connect them to Italy; if that didn't work, he would search for countries that had passed away between his adolescence and present day, and if that didn't work, he would have to devise a new plan.

Open discussion of fallen countries proved to be taboo all throughout history; when a country collapsed, their territory was split between the conquering parties and they simply disappeared. Many felt that discussing their fallen brethren brought bad luck upon them, but while the others saw it through the lens of superstition, Germany saw it through the lens of fear. He'd never witnessed a country's fall, but he imagined the emotional fallout to be shattering. To take over someone else's territory, to watch them crumble at your feet as you grew stronger, to know you had disrupted the higher order of the globe and that person would fade from existence like they'd never been there at all? The greatest fear of a country was being split and dissolved. It felt unnerving to search online for lists of fallen sovereign states, to know that these names had not been uttered since their deaths, to know that no one else could ever know what he was doing.

Germany scrolled through the list hoping that one would be familiar. His headache droned on, increasing in severity the longer he clicked through articles. The medicine he'd taken to counteract the headache only spared him from the severe vision loss and dizziness he often experienced. His searches came up unsuccessful thus far, but he remembered one word from his dream that might help him. He added "empire" to his search. That narrowed his results significantly.

He scrolled through Africa. The headache rhythmically thumped in his temples. Asia. The pain began to pierce all sides of his head like an ice pick was being thrust into it. The First French Empire. A tsunami of nausea raged through his stomach and he nearly ended his search there, but the endeavor couldn't be in vain. He needed to push through it. Modern Germany. Then he reached it: the Holy Roman Empire.

Holy Roman Empire. Hardly were those words out when Germany couldn't push away the nausea any longer. Knowing the sound might alert Prussia and Austria, he quickly slammed the laptop shut and slid it under his bed. Now kneeling on the ground, he reached for the small garbage can near his bed and vomited into it. The headache halted in severity long enough for Germany to throw up, long enough to lull him into a false sense of security, but when the vomiting ceased, the stabbing pains returned, rendering him blind. Assaulted by his senses, Germany lay on the floor sputtering for breath. His vision fell to whiteness like the light of an explosion decimating the land and he felt his mind crumbling, reality slowly leaving him, his only tether being the searing pain still stabbing through his temples.

The white light transformed into baby blue, though he still could not fully see. He felt a wooden handle being pushed into his palms, and in that moment, it felt like the single most important thing in the universe. I'll give this to you, a quivering voice squeaked, think of it as me and take it with you, Holy Rome. As his brain raced to place the voice, he felt his mouth opening. Words emitted from him without thought: Thank you. I accept your feelings.

Red light flashed through the blue like lightning, the baby blue now overtaken by scarlet. The headache finally began fading as his limbs fell to numbness one by one. The more numb he became, the more distant he felt from himself, giving him the sensation of watching his soul fade from his physical form.

He was floating. Don't worry, another voice cooed, you'll be okay. You're going to be okay.

His grip on consciousness began slipping. Holy Roman Empire, the voice mumbled in his ear. He finally succumbed.