Germany must have laid in bed for hours, his eyes fixated on the ceiling as his thoughts fell into spirals. Disappointment spiraled to disillusionment, disillusionment spiraled to longing, and longing spiraled back into disappointment. He knew information was being withheld from him, but the more he sought answers, the more disconnected he became from himself, and in the moments his brain and body felt like completely different beings, he longed for the life of simplicity he'd left behind. He reflected on his silent drive home from England's and hoped he would keep his promise. The split-second emotional connection between himself and Prussia made Germany realize how void his heart had become, how comforting it felt to be connected again, and if Prussia knew the nature of his conversation with England, he would surely cut him off once more. Prussia's near touch reminded him of his humanity. Germany clung to the memory like his life depended on it, and in a way, it did.

Germany pushed the covers off himself and slowly sat up, letting out an exasperated sigh when he became upright once more. The physical weakness, the result of him vomiting, refused to subside no matter how much time had passed. His strength withered with each passing day, and as his shell of a body rose to a standing position, he yearned for physical and mental strength once more. He finally exited his bedroom, leaving the door open as he made his way down the stairs. With one hand firmly gripping the banister in case he lost his footing, Germany reached the bottom of the staircase without incident.

On his way down the stairs, the sound of Austria's piano grew progressively louder. Germany shuffled towards the drawing room to witness Austria sitting at the piano's bench, his body swaying with each stroke of the keys. The rain lightened up, its stream only barely streaking the windows. Each of Austria's fingers alternated between arcing and falling flat as he played, his hands moving across the keyboard. His curl drooped in his field of vision. Germany quietly stepped into the room and came closer to the piano, watching the hammers rise and fall with each stroke of the hand. Austria noticed Germany's entrance and finished the measure he was in the process of playing.

"How are you feeling?" Austria asked warmly.

Germany feigned a small smile in return, not wanting to cause more concern. "Not great. A bit better, though."

"Do you need something?"

"No. Just listening."

Austria nodded and resumed where he'd left off, his previously stoic expression now curled into a smile. Thankfully, he seemed normal once more, no longer the crumpled heap cowering on the floor. His orderly nature meant that Germany always had an inkling as to where he would be and what he would be doing, and with Italy's existence being akin to a wild card, the consistency was a breath of fresh air. Witnessing Austria reduced to rubble, a far cry from his usual self, rattled Germany into a newfound appreciation for his predictability. With every other aspect of his life reeling, he was thankful for the sonata serenading his ears, the predictable sound from his predictable pseudo-parent bringing him another sliver of happiness.

Germany gave Austria's shoulder a light pat to indicate he was leaving, then made his way towards the kitchen. This seemed like the perfect time for a beer. He opened the fridge and, to his dismay, there was not a single beer left. Prussia had, most likely, finished every last bottle on his most recent bender. Germany figured there may be some in the basement's refrigerator. The entrance to the basement resided near the opposite end of the living room. Germany walked through the living room and opened the door, its creaking a result of its infrequent use. He gripped the railing once more and slowly inched his way down the steep staircase, their narrow width ensuring that his feet would only fit halfway on each step. He reached the bottom and flipped the only real lightswitch on.

The basement was not finished, its primary purpose being a storage room. The walls were lined with shelves packed to the brim with boxes and plastic bins. Bins with seasonal decorations were labeled in Austria's cursive scrawl while cardboard boxes were merely marked with room names or their contents. Larger boxes sat on the floor next to the shelves, and at the far corner of the room was the refrigerator, its barely-audible hum giving the room a subtle breath of life. Germany often had no reason to venture into the basement, the refrigerator being for overstock and the storage only combed through by Austria. The light bulbs in the ceiling could be switched on using the strings dangling from them. He pulled one as he walked, illuminating the area in a cream-colored tinge. When he opened the fridge door, he found exactly what he was looking for. Knowing his strength still faltered, he only grabbed two beers. He made a mental note to ask Prussia for help in restocking the upstairs stash.

As he slowly shuffled back towards the staircase, Germany gazed around the room. In the other corner of the basement, an old loveseat he didn't recognize sat in front of a pool table, its sticks and balls packed in another box somewhere. His eyes fell upon a box nearby that said "Prussia" in thin capital letters, the contents prodding their way through the cardboard flaps on top. He knew he needed to sort through his own belongings soon, lest his storage look like his brother's.

An old memory suddenly resurfaced: football. In the recesses of his teenage memories, he recalled spending many afternoons kicking it around with Prussia, and as they grew older and better at the sport, each brother developed their own team. Prussia, the Bad Touch team captain, took on France and Spain as players, and Germany, the Triple Alliance team captain, took on Austria and Italy. He could still picture everyone running beside him to steal the ball, Italy struggling to keep up with the others. He could hear the huffing for breath and names being called across the field as someone swiped it from between his feet, then the eruption of laughter as Austria miraculously slid across the grass to defend their goal. Austria, often stuffy and reserved, would cast aside every concern with getting dirty if it meant helping Germany win against Prussia, and at the end of the game, both teams would be laughing in the grass, their clothes streaked with grass stains and their hands frozen from holding popsicles as they celebrated another successful match. One year, on Germany's birthday, Austria commemorated this era of their lives together by gifting him a customized football. The ball featured the team and player names stitched into the material, each stylized in their own handwriting. The memory brought tears to his eyes and he whisked them away with his free hand. He wanted to find the football and show it to Prussia to remind him of all the great times they'd had together, how great things had been before the fight, how great things could become again. Germany knew it had to be in the basement somewhere. He set the beers to the side on the concrete floor.

Starting with the bottom shelf and working his way up, Germany picked through a few boxes to no avail. Many of them featured random assortments of decor, clothing, art supplies, and other oddities. He combed through an entire shelving unit, then moved to the next one. Germany pulled out a box near the top of the second shelving unit and carefully combed through its contents. Towards the bottom of the box sat a wad of clothing, and as Germany went to pick it up, he felt a hard mass in the middle. He shed each layer of fabric from the object until reaching the center, and when he removed the last layer, the football was revealed. It was exactly the way he remembered, each country's name etched in aged embroidery thread. The headache began to return, nipping at the front portion of his skull as he set the ball down and refilled the box. Since his earlier fainting spell, the headache had mostly subsided, but as it creeped its way back, he realized that it might be wise to return to his room soon.

As he prepared to return the box to its rightful place, he caught a glimpse of a long, flat box towards the back of the shelf. He tilted his head and peered at it, trying to determine what might be in it, and that's when he noticed something strange sticking out of it: a wooden handle. Something about its shape felt eerily familiar to him, and with his curiosity peaked, he needed to see what it was. Germany stood on the tips of his toes to reach it and grabbed hold of the handle, using it to pull the box closer to him. As the wood turned over in his hands, he froze. He realized where he knew it from.

He carefully ladled the box in his arms and set it on the floor, kneeling before it in shock. His hands trembled as he pulled the handle from its cardboard encasement. A pushbroom. The pushbroom. The voices from the dream reverberated through his mind like they had just been spoken aloud: I'll give this to you. Think of it as me and take it with you, Holy Rome. It was real. The pushbroom was real and he twirled it in his hands, gripping the handle like his sanity depended on it. His headache gnawed at him with more aggression, spreading across every inch of his head. He ignored it.

Germany carefully opened the box. It was not very full, only containing some child-sized clothing and a book. With his hands still shaking, he held the largest piece of clothing up to the light. It was a black cloak, its fabric billowing from the movement of his hands, the dust particles it harbored now freely floating through the air. He set the cloak aside and picked up the book. The powder-blue cover featured the forbidden name in Austria's cursive, the one that sent shockwaves through England as soon as it escaped Germany's lips: Holy Roman Empire.

He peeled back the cover, its long-dormant pages crackling as they were flipped through. The only picture on the first page featured a teenage Prussia cradling a small child in his arms, his red eyes blazing with excitement and his teeth sparkling as he grinned. The child looked up at Prussia, his ice-blue irises wide with awe. His blonde hair was styled similarly to Prussia's as his bangs fell across his forehead. Germany had never seen this child before in his life.

When he flipped to the next page, his lungs felt as if they were on the verge of collapsing. There were five people squeezed into the frame: Hungary's head leaned against Austria's shoulder, the position of her arm and her face partially cut off indicating that she had taken the picture. Hungary's honey-colored dress directly contrasted the royal purple cable-knit sweater that Austria donned. Austria grinned at her and his cheeks flushed with a rosy hue. He held Italy in his arms, his curl brushing against Austria's chin. The skirt of his sailor dress fluttered in the wind, its movement forever captured in the photo. Next to them, Prussia smirked, his hair and oversized hoodie matching in color, his eyes once again alight with passion. The same child sat atop Prussia's shoulders and wore a hoodie in a similar style to Prussia's, yet its color matched his arctic-blue eyes. The golden sunlight danced across their faces, giving the photo a heavenly glow as Germany stared in disbelief. He recognized the photo.

The fog that plagued Germany's mind like clouds in a stormy sky suddenly lifted, the headache subsiding for good. The golden sunlight overtook all his senses and when he blinked, he stood in that moment once more, listening as the leaves crunched beneath Austria's feet. Prussia's laugh filled his ears and he felt his small body lowered to the ground. Italy was set on the ground a second later and the pair held hands, trotting down the dirt path while the setting sun kissed their faces. The pebbles skated beneath their shoes as they broke into a run, the autumn leaves spiraling from above and landing on the path for them to step on. Italy began panting and they stopped moving, hands still pressed together as Italy took in the fresh air, and Germany looked over at his rosy cheeks and innocent smile and thought to himself, wouldn't it be nice if we could live in this moment forever?

Germany blinked again. He was back in the dim basement, shivering from the sudden lack of sunlight on his face. He brought a hand to his cheek and felt the tears unconsciously rolling down to his chin. The truth unburied itself from the recesses of his subconscious, bridging the lost connection between his body and mind. At long last, his soul reunited with his physical form, the two halves of himself embracing their long-lost counterpart, one clad in his tank top and sweatpants, the other draped in a black cloak pooling at his feet. He had been reunited with himself.

"West?" Prussia's voice faintly called out. He had just reached the foot of the stairs.

Germany, transfixed by the monumental discovery, could do nothing but watch as Prussia approached him.

"What are you d–" Prussia began, but at the sight of tears cascading down Germany's face and the photo album open in his hands, he fell silent. The fire blazing in Prussia's eyes extinguished and his skin fell pallid. His mouth gaped and his body grew rigid, the life draining from his soul the way Germany's had when he eyed his fractured self in the mirror. Both brothers, frozen in their places, stared at one another dumbfounded. Germany finally broke the silence between them, his voice faltering as he whispered the long-lost truth to his all-knowing brother.

"I remember who I am. I'm Holy Rome."