The dull roll of thunder roused Germany from unconsciousness. His eyes slowly opened as the sensation in his limbs returned. The grey light from the overcast sky left his bedroom void of all color. Sitting up, he fumbled through his pocket for his phone. Evidently, his lifetime-long float through limbo only lasted 15 minutes. He texted England:

I'm coming over right now. We need to talk. Urgent. Don't tell anyone.

As his sense of smell returned, he quickly tied the garbage bag of vomit shut and opened the window. Prussia and Austria could not find out what had happened. Germany needed to ventilate the room as quickly as possible and he hoped the storm would bring gusts of wind through the open pane. The coolness of the rain drops finely sprinkling his hands made him realize how clammy his skin felt. He decided to change his clothes, hoping that shedding them would help rid him of the sensation. He slipped into baggy sweatpants and a black tank top, clothes he seldom left the house in, but he no longer felt like his usual self. Picking up the garbage can, he quietly exited his room, softly shutting the door to avoid making a sound. Germany then rushed to the bathroom.

Setting the bin on the floor, he avoided looking at the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Even when his head rose to return his toothbrush to the cup near the sink, he avoided eye contact. It was only when he finished splashing water on his face and reached for a towel that he caught a glimpse of a ghastly face he assumed was his own. Finally giving in, he stared at the person before him. His hair, normally slicked back, fell in choppy pieces across his forehead. The dark circles beneath his eyes tugged his skin downward to create sullen shadows. His complexion ran void of all color. He appeared as horrible as he felt.

Stumbling on Holy Rome and falling into debilitating pain granted him an out-of-body experience that continued even in consciousness. When he lay on the floor, his soul detached itself from his physical form and stood outside himself. He watched his body writhe in pain, saw his vision fall into flashes of color, listened to voices paint themselves in the crevices of his mind. His soul felt child-sized as it was crushed into submission by the dream occurring in real-time. Even now, restored to his body and able to move, his mind felt disconnected, almost like it had not been plugged back into himself.

The dream. It appeared to him clearer than ever before, the dialogue longer and the visuals more concrete. The voices repeated the long-forgotten name of Holy Rome. Holy Rome. It didn't make sense. How could he know himself as Germany, yet mindlessly respond to a name he'd never heard before? How could he hear Prussia's voice utter the name of someone he'd never known? The man in the mirror was no longer his complete self. He was split in two, his physical form a shell of Germany and his mind an amalgamation of fading senses, despondency, and distrust. His faith in the truth faltered with each passing day. His relationship with Prussia fell farther into ruin. His grip on reality, his life as he'd known it, further slipped into limbo. He was nothing. He didn't care how forlorn he would appear to England. What did it matter? He was nothing.

He double-bagged the garbage bag and rinsed out the bin with soap and water. Collecting everything he needed to bring outside, he swiftly escaped the bathroom, bolted down the stairs, and made it out the front door without seeing Prussia and Austria. Throwing the bag in the outdoor garbage bin on the way to his car, he tossed his small can in the backseat and jumped into the driver's seat. As the car sprung to life, its wipers went to work in clearing droplets from the windshield. The clear glass only remained pristine for a moment before more splatters appeared, their tails trickling down and warping the perception of the world. In Germany's eyes, everything was warped.

He backed out of the driveway and made his way towards England's house. He was chosen for a myriad of reasons, one being that England was one of the wisest and oldest countries in Europe. Germany was certain he could shed more light as to who Holy Rome was and what happened to him. The rivalry between him and France was also well-known and Germany sought to capitalize on their discrepancies: if France stood to profit from concealing information, England would surely undermine his upper hand. It was one of the only options Germany had left.

Germany was sure his anguish was becoming more and more apparent to his peers. His hygiene, daily activities, and relationships were typically in top-notch order; now, his training sessions became sporadic. His ghastly reflection cracked the mirror, his soul crumbling to pieces. His sociability sputtered as his relationships with his family and friends became strained and disconnected. He imagined Prussia drinking with France and Spain as he spilled his woes, spinning the tale of how West spiraled into despair by lashing out at everyone closest to him, how all Prussia wanted to do was protect him and West fought him every step of the way. He knew he looked like a crackpot as he contacted everyone out of desperation, frantically relaying his thoughts like his ability to speak would be the next thing he lost. At this point, he felt like he would die if he didn't find answers. He didn't care how disheveled he looked as he weaved through the rain. All he wanted were answers.

Germany finally pulled into England's driveway. The Georgian-style home sat perfectly symmetrical, its multitude of windows adorned with white trim and powder blue curtains. The shrubs that lined the front door were soaking up the rain, each drop splashing on the leaves in such a way that they appeared to be dancing. As Germany parked and made his way to the front door, he admired the red brick and slate shingling that lended to the house's elegance. He was on lukewarm terms with most of the Allies, but while England and Germany didn't interact much, they got along well. England's sharp tongue meant that he spoke his mind, something Germany needed in this moment, but his gentlemanly disposition meant he could also be discrete, also something Germany needed now. No one could know the true nature of Germany's visit.

He rapped a finger on the door and waited for a moment. He listened as a pair of footsteps approached and the door clicked to signal its opening. Germany took a step back before England opened the door. The light within his house cast a warm glow around his body, a color complimenting his dark chino pants and fern-colored cable knit sweater. His gaze darted across Germany, quickly picking up how disheveled he seemed.

"Come in, old chap, come in," England said, stepping aside so Germany could enter. England kept an arm outstretched behind Germany, almost as if he were waiting to catch him if he lost his balance.

"Thank you. Thank you for meeting with me."

England nodded and hurried to the bathroom, raising his voice so Germany could still hear. "Well, you didn't exactly give me an option, did you?" he chuckled. He returned with a washcloth and gave it to Germany. "I'll be honest, mate, you look like shit. I bet a cuppa would do you nicely. Come sit."

Germany followed England into the kitchen, using the washcloth to dry his face and hair. He ruffled his hair and let it fall across his forehead once more, giving up on restoring his slicked-back style. The wooden kitchen table was the first furnishing in sight, the warmth of its aged boards contrasting with the window it was pushed up against. The rain still poured down, its droplets sliding down the glass. To the right, the kitchen featured two long counters on either wall and a doorway that led out to the garden. Surprisingly, England could keep plants thriving; he only botched it when it came time to cook the veggies he'd grown. The countertop featured a few small pots with various herbs growing, the largest being the mint plant in the window by the sink. The pastel peach walls contributed to the nostalgic, comforting atmosphere of the room, and as England pulled out a chair and Germany sat, he felt his nerves begin to loosen.

He sat directly across from the window and watched the storm clouds rolling by, casting their own gloomy mood upon the land, and Germany felt as if the sky were validating him. The illusion of perfect weather was struck down with a flash of lighting, the drum roll of thunder, the water washing away any remnants of happiness. In Germany's world, his life of contentment was struck down by glimpses of what he now assumed to be memories, their discovery triggering the collapse of his family and loss of himself. His mind felt walled off from his body and every fragment of his fractured self felt walled off from the rest of the world. Much like the clouds' tears trickling from above, his mood was surely readable from his sickly expression.

"You're making me nervous," England finally spoke.

Germany looked in his direction and watched as England poured boiling water into two mugs, then dripped a dollop of honey into each. He swirled each dollop in with a spoon, the delicate clinking against the ceramic filling the void that Germany's response was intended for. His soul fell into an exhausted heap. His response times lowered with his dwindling energy.

England set a mug in front of Germany, then sat at the end of the table and faced him. Germany brought the mug to his lips and the sweet honey steam wafted into his nose. He carefully sipped it, its taste reminiscent of standing in a meadow in the peak of spring.

"Honey vanilla chamomile," England smiled.

Germany nodded.

"So what can I do for you?"

"You need to promise me that this will stay between us," Germany spoke. His voice crackled from remaining silent for so long, monotone and morose like his appearance.

"I promise," England replied. He crossed his heart with one hand and held his mug in another. "A gentleman never goes back on a promise."

"I need you to tell me everything you know about Holy Roman Empire."

England's complexion immediately became pallid and his eyes widened. The pair stared at one another for a moment, Germany too tired to try to pick him apart. England's reactive eyebrows spoke volumes in and of themselves, one arching and the other plateauing in shock and suspicion. England broke eye contact and stood, bringing his mug back to the counter. He spooned more honey into his tea. Germany watched his hands move with a slight tremor, his fingers unstable as the honey dissolved. England kept his head pointed downward, his telltale eyes now fixated on his drink.

"You do know it's bad luck to speak of fallen countries, right?"

"I don't believe in superstitions."

"You're taking the piss."

"I'm serious. I just need to know what you know."

"Why?"

For once, Germany wished for the headache to tether him to reality, to give him a sign he was still alive. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, a thought nipped the back of his brain since the mirror reflected a cracked version of himself: was he Holy Rome? He couldn't fathom how else he would respond to the name or experience pieces of dream sequences in such great detail. When he'd lost consciousness, each sensation felt so realistic, like he was reliving deep-seeded memories long buried, but falling into this tract of thinking only raised another question: how could he not remember being Holy Rome? Yes, his memory was admittedly poor– he remembered nothing earlier than his teenage years, and even that era felt fragmented and foggy– but how could he forget his own name? Why would he know himself as Germany if that was not his name? Too many questions spiraled through his head, questions he hoped this conversation would answer. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Because I think that's me, in some way," he spoke slowly.

England returned to the table, sitting as he had before. "And your proof is?"

Germany began to recount the events of the past few days: he spared no details, relaying to England every pain-stricken moment he endured the headache and knotted stomach, every word of mass destruction that waged across his house, the silent moment of reconciliation with Austria, the way in which France slipped death into the conversation and dodged explanation by fleeing, the way the flashing lights blinded his vision, the way the dreams dragged him into despondence as he desperately struggled to understand their meaning. He let the weight of the world tumble from his shoulders with enough force to tear apart the tiled floor, hoping it would lessen the profound sense of loss that dwindled in his exasperated heart– it didn't.

"That's my proof," he finished.

England listened intently, his body rigid, his expression appearing defeated the longer Germany spoke, all the while sipping his Earl Grey. When Germany concluded his speech, England set his mug down to rub his eyes in circular motions. He remained quiet for a few moments, his hands still concealing much of his face.

He sighed. "I can't speak of it."

The bitterness Germany had become accustomed to began bubbling in his chest. "Can you at least confirm or deny if I'm Holy Rome?"

England paused once more. "No."

"Why not?"

England lifted his head, his eyes on their way to looking as sullen and dark as Germany's. "The politics are more complicated and nuanced than you think."

"That's all anyone says, that the politics are 'complicated.' All I want is the truth. I just want to know how I'm connected to Holy Rome." Germany's anger worsened, fed up with the deception he'd been spoonfed his entire life. The veil of secrecy was coming undone, whether Prussia, Austria, France, or England liked it or not.

"Have you looked at yourself, mate?" England snapped, his cynicism seeping through each word, "You have any idea what you look like 'finding the truth?' Everyone's saying you've gone crackers and I can see why. You need to stop this now, before things get any worse. It's for your own good."

Germany stood abruptly, the force of his movement pushing his chair backwards. "Everyone suddenly thinks they know what's best for me," his voice rose to yelling, "First Prussia, then Austria, now you? You know what would really be for my own good? If you told me what you know."

"Right, you wanna threaten me, then?" England shot back, his voice still at conversational volume. He stood and stepped closer to Germany, close enough for him to see England's brow twitch. "Tell you what, you're acting like a plonker, and if you're going to talk to me like that, you can go."

Germany pursed his lips and sighed deeply, slowly exhaling his accumulating anger. Since starting his crusade for answers, he found himself losing his temper at the drop of a hat. He was seen as aggressive to begin with, but a new kind of frustration grew within him, one rooted in rage and vengeance, one focused on annihilating anyone who continued to conceal information from him. He was the one who showed up uninvited. He was the one who initiated the taboo topic of conversation, and to the most superstitious country, nonetheless. He was the one that integrated anger into the tone of their dialogue. England had listened to Germany's entire tale, and while he continued the tradition of keeping the truth tongue-tied, he still listened longer than anyone else. Germany pushed his chair back in, gripping the back of it as he looked at his feet.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I'm just so frustrated. I just want to know who I really am. I want to feel like myself again."

England placed a hand on his shoulder and Germany looked up, the two locking eyes. England's face softened, his irises twinkling with sympathy. Outside, the rain continued, its pitter patter coaxing the long-warranted tears from Germany. They welled in the corners, yet refused to fall.

"Germany, I'm bound by law. I cannot say another word on it, but I need you to trust me when I tell you to leave it alone," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "because pushing the matter further will only unravel the fabric of your life as you know it."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Do I look like I enjoy telling you this?"

Germany said nothing. He continued to analyze England's eyes, the reflection of rain on the windows casting a speckled glaze over them. He, too, looked like he was stifling tears.

"I don't enjoy this," England continued, "and I don't enjoy the politics of it, either. Forget the formalities, forget our alliances, I'm telling you this as a friend. From one friend to another, please, don't push it."

For the first time since the saga began, Germany trusted his word. Every conversation since the arrival of the dream felt stilted and fabricated, nothing but words carefully stitched together to hem the jagged edges of the truth. Prussia masqueraded under the guise of protection while Austria argued he couldn't say why he was sworn to secrecy; England relayed his regret with sincerity. He was known for speaking bluntly, so when he asserted that he was bound by law, Germany believed it. Though the honesty was appreciated, the disappointment rippled through him all over again. The cyclical nature of the whole ordeal became apparent: every step forward resulted in three steps back as his relationships and health crumbled. No matter which direction he stepped in, he hurt someone he loved and another piece of his soul shriveled up. Each raindrop that smacked the pavement was another piece of himself drowning in limbo, another fragment of everything he'd ever known falling down around him. He couldn't take any more.

England walked Germany back to his car, this time toting an umbrella to keep the pair dry. England pulled Germany into a hug, something seldom given to anyone else. He gave Germany's back a reassuring pat. "Drive safe and get some rest. You look knackered."

Germany nodded and forced a small smile, the last ounce of joy he could muster. The thunder continued rumbling in the distance, the rain still streaming as steady as before. Germany reeled at the fact that his visit accomplished nothing but a slightly stronger bond between himself and England. He was gutted. He pulled out of the driveway, the pair waving to one another as Germany began to make his way down the street. He failed to notice France's car parked a few houses down, the country's seat leaned back to make it less obvious that he'd seen everything unfold.