Chapter 5: The Spat

Germany waited in the guest room in tense silence. His thoughts were moving far too quick for him to examine any of them as the phone rang once, twice, three times. Just as the fourth ring was about to finish, the phone was picked up.

"West! Tell me, why have you called your awesome brother?" Prusia greeted in German.

"When did you plan on telling me I was Holy Rome?" Germany was surprised by the steely sound of his own voice. The harshness.

There was a staticky silence.

"Who told you?" All senses of bravado were gone, replaced only with some emotion Germany was unable to place.

"Italy."

"Of course he did. I thought I told him to keep it quiet." Prussia spat.

"You what?" Germany's voice was barely audible, dripping with malice.

"Ludwig, you have understand. You were a child. How was I supposed to tell you then, huh? With all those wars going on… the last thing you needed was to hear that."

"And now? Now that I'm all grown? When did you plan on telling me?"

"You're only 148 years old, Ludwig, it's a miracle you aren't learning to walk right now."

Germany splayed his hand on the surface of his bedside table. "I'm not a child!" He was surprised at his volume.

"Give me a break! It's not like I've done this before!" Prussia said. "They don't exactly make manuals for this kind of thing! What should I have done?!"

"You should have told me before I had to watch my best friend beat up France over my own death! My entire life changed in a span of a day! Do you even regret it?" Germany shouted.

"You think I don't regret it now?!" Prussia bellowed.

Germany pulled the phone away from his ear.

"Not now that it's my fault you're so confused?" Prussia's voice sounded unusually fragile. He sighed. "Ludwig, you are… the best thing that ever happened to me. At the time you came, I was alone, and… a little brother… you, my little brother. I had to raise you by myself. I'm the least qualified person to do that. But to see that you've grown up to be so good, so strong… better than me in every way not just as a country, but as a person? Ludwig, you are my greatest pride. I didn't tell you because… I didn't want you to lose that. Maybe once you had a stronger sense of self, maybe when you were stronger as a country. But I was scared. Totally un-awesome, huh?" Prussia declared in halfhearted humor.

"Gilbert…" Germany sighed. He was taken aback by the surprising amount of honesty Gilbert was communicating. The two of them were never the kind of people who engaged in heart-to-heart conversations. "God, I'm so tired. I'm just… confused. We can talk when I get back home."

"Okay, West. I'll be waiting. We'll both clear our heads."

"Okay. I'll see you at home."

"Bye. Oh, and West?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm proud of you. I don't feel like I say that enough, but I am."

A weak smile spread across Germany's face. "That's unusually sappy."

Prussia gave a short chuckle. "Yeah, well I have to actually act like a big brother sometimes."

"I'm proud of you too, Gilbert."

"Yeah, yeah. Take care of yourself, West."

"See you at home, Gilbert." He hung up the phone. He scrubbed a hand down his face. Touching as that moment was, he was still so confused. And outside the door of the guest room were all the answers he wanted. He paused for a moment before deciding that now was the time for comfy clothes. If there ever was time for them at… here he checked his watch… five p.m. in the evening, it was now. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open and he went into the hallway. Before he even entered the room, he heard Italy.

"How was it?"

"Why are you so nosy?" Germany asked, fully aware that he was attempting to deflect. He left the hall and got to the living room, rounding the couch and sitting down. Despite what he said, he freely gave an answer. "We'll talk about it when I go home."

"Oh." Italy nodded. "Will you be going home soon?"

Germany took a deep breath and sighed. "No. I'll probably stay, if it's okay with you. Home is the last place I want to be right now."

Italy nodded again. There was a long pause in which both of their minds were reeling. "I know you probably have questions." Italy finally admitted. "If you want, I can answer them the best that I can."

"Okay." There was another silence as Germany collected his thoughts. "Is this why you didn't let me touch you yesterday? Because of what happened?"

"I… was conflicted." Italy answered hesitantly. "On one hand I knew who you used to be. But you didn't. For whatever reason, that scared me all over again. I usually don't have a problem with that, of course, but figuring out that France did it… like I said, it opened an old wound for me and got those feelings back in my brain all over again."

Germany nodded. "Does Japan know? About who I used to be?"

Italy shook his head. "I don't think so. He was so far away from the action at the time… he was never really involved with the 30 years' war anyhow. And he's always been so closed off."

Again, Germany nodded. Despite Italy's assurances, Germany couldn't help but remember Japan's face when Germany had asked him about what had happened. His assurances that it wasn't his place to tell him what happened.

"Are you going to tell him?" Italy asked.

Germany tapped his fingers on his knee. "Probably not. Maybe. I'm not sure. He wouldn't know what to think. It may be best that I just keep it to myself."

"You're taking this remarkably calmly." Italy said.

"Well I had a feeling I wasn't like the other nations," Germany said, leaning back in the couch. Though his exterior appeared unbothered, he was unsure. He was on uneven ground and it startled him to an alarming degree. "I was born in warfare and yet people looked at me in a certain way. Even when I was young. Like they expected something from me. I have seen the births of many countries, and none of the other nations have ever looked at them like that. I always felt like there was something they knew about me that I didn't."

Italy reached onto the coffee table, which Germany now noticed had two canvases. They were stacked so the images were facing each other, effectively blocking them from his view.

"What's that?" He asked.

"Paintings from when I was little." Italy answered, pulling them into his lap. He handled them with unusual gentleness.

Germany nodded. "You want me to see them?"

"If I were in your shoes," Italy began, his eyes not leaving the canvas. "I would want to know everything. I would be scared, and confused… I don't want you to feel like that. So I'm going to tell you everything and help you get your memories back." Here he handed him the first canvas.

Germany took it, unsure of how to hold it. An irrational part of him was worried that he would ruin the paint, so he just held it by the wooden framework on the back. He looked down at the painting. On the canvas was the image of what looked like a little girl, maybe seven or eight, curled up on a chair with a velvet seat cushion and taking a nap. A little handkerchief was tied over her head, protecting her short auburn locks. She wore a dress with a matching apron. "This is you." His heart swelled with affection as he looked at it. He briefly wondered if this feeling was from the present, or from some unremembered past.

Italy nodded. "I did it for him once during the Christmas holiday and I gave it to him. He said he would treasure it forever."

Germany nodded, his eyes raking over the painting. He looked back up at Italy. He hadn't appeared to have changed all that much. He had grown taller, of course, and he had some lean muscle from the workouts Germany forced him into. But age had chiseled his features, giving him cheekbones and a narrow but strong jaw. His hair still lay the same, with that silly curl that was poking out of the handkerchief standing at attention. Germany's only wish was that he could see the eyes in this painting. So he could compare them. Part of him wondered what he would see.

"This doesn't bring back any memories." Germany admitted.

"I thought so." And yet Italy looked disappointed. He outstretched his hand in a silent request for the painting, and he swapped it out for the other canvas. "This is Holy Rome."

Germany looked at the painting. It was of a boy in a dark black cloak and a black hat, standing at attention like a soldier. It was an odd posture for a young child. His blue eyes seemed to piece Germany as he gazed through the paint and up at him. Germany was struck by just how similar the two looked. He recalled how he looked during childhood and saw that they could have been the exact same two people… but then again, he supposed they were. "This is him?"

"Yes." Italy smiled slightly. "The day I painted that, I said I wanted to paint a soldier. A warrior. I knew he would like to hear that. Especially knowing that he would leave for the war soon… I asked him to smile for me to paint it, and he said, 'A soldier doesn't smile'. He wanted me to paint him like that. Standing at attention."

Had Germany been paying attention, he would have seen Italy staring at him. He would have seen him consider the man in front of him with his hand leaning against the palm that was propped up on the back of the couch. He would have noticed the loving air that surrounded him as Italy mused that while there were many differences between the two, some core aspects remained the same.

But Germany was not paying attention. Because at that moment he felt an empty longing. An excitement as something at the base of his skull fought to be noticed. Fought to be remembered. He closed his eyes, furrowing his brow.

Long green grass rippled in the wind. It was cold for summer, but only cold enough for a thin coat. But there they were, him standing in the sunlight as he faced an easel.

"Smile, Holy Rome, I want you to see how you look when you smile!" The voice was squeaky. So much lighter than his own.

"A soldier doesn't smile." He answered. His voice even at his age was rather low. With a smooth timbre.

A small face poked around the easel and grinned at him. "You're not a soldier until you leave for the war!" Italy pointed out.

Holy Rome didn't even have the heart to fight against the smile that rose from deep within him. He had heard about this from Ms. Hungary. An affection so deep for someone where you felt you would do anything for them. He knew it was love, but he had no idea how to communicate it. He had never been good with emotions.

"You should smile more, Holy Rome, you're so much more handsome when you do!"

Holy Rome snapped out of it, his smile dropping. "Well you wanted to paint a soldier, so paint a soldier!" He snapped. Realizing what he said, he was disappointed in his temper yet again.

Italy giggled behind the easel, putting him at ease. A couple moments later and Italy poked her head back over. "You can come see if you want!"

Holy Rome rounded the easel. He caught sight of Italy with the paintbrush, stroking at the canvas. Before he could see the painting, the memory faded.

Germany opened his eyes to the painting again. The painting of Holy Rome. Of him.

"Germany?" Italy asked quietly.

Germany blinked, trying to make sense of what he just saw.

"Germany," Italy tried again, laying a hand on his leg.

Germany's gaze snapped to Italy. "I… remembered. When you made this painting."

"You did?" Italy asked, sounding like he hardly dared to believe it.

Germany nodded.

"And?"

"It was warm. And windy. And you were wearing a dress." And I wanted to be with you. Even back then. It was a loud thought that never escaped past his pursed hips.

Italy nodded reminiscently. "That sounds about right…"

Germany leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, once again scrubbing his hands down his face. "This is so…"

"Complicated?" Italy supplied.

He nodded, staring ahead at the surface of the table. "You could say that."

Germany continued his thousand-yard stare, his thoughts moving too fast for his brain. "This is just so much." He put his forehead in his hands again. After a moment of tense silence, he heard Italy's clothes rustling on his side of the couch. He felt a weight settle next to him on the couch and he felt a gentle, timid hand splay its fingers between his shoulder blades. For whatever reason, Germany ached for the touch. Even though their lives were both so entwined, it was like there was a chasm of unremembered history stretching out between them. Like there was a separation that couldn't be fixed. The touch of Italy's hand was like a reminder that he was still there. Despite what had transpired, Italy wasn't going to leave him. Not yet.

Almost as if Italy had sensed the thought, Germany felt Italy's arms wrap around his broad shoulders. He felt Italy burrow his face into his arm. For once, Germany didn't feel taken aback or shy at this touch. It was like it filled a new void in his heart. The void where he thought he knew what everything was and what it meant.

"I know it is. I… I'm sorry, Germany." Italy said, his voice muffled by the fabric of Germany's black t-shirt.

Germany at last removed his hands from his face, letting them fall between his knees. "What for?" He asked, trying to distance himself from the situation as Italy withdrew his arms. He was never one to run away, but there was so much going on in his head. He needed to escape it somehow. Even if that meant distancing himself from the situation. "I know something new about myself. Things are starting to make sense. Why I kept you around after the first world war even when you annoyed the Scheiße out of me, why my brother treated me like I was about to break… he was worried I would remember. Maybe- maybe it was repressed memory that made me keep you around." He was unaware of how hurtful these words were, just trying to sound like he didn't care. Just trying to sound like he was looking at this logically.

Italy faced his lap, barely registering the hurtful words. "I'm sorry Holy Rome died. I'm sorry I kept this from you for so long. I thought it was fairer to you because… you're not Holy Rome anymore. You're Germany. It wouldn't have been fair to tell you who you were once. What I… what Holy Rome and I felt for each other at the time. It's not a fair expectation for anyone." He finally looked up at Germany, his eyes swimming in tears. "I… I didn't want you to- I didn't know what to do. I didn't want you to feel pressured, or- or like you had to be someone who you're not. Because you're not Holy Rome. Not anymore. You're Germany."

Germany straightened his back, the two considering each other. Their faces were now maybe a foot apart. Germany noticed as a ray of sunlight filtered across Italy's eyes that they were almost honey gold in the sun. Even through tears. Germany felt such a storm of emotion. A blend of anger. Sorrow. Relief. Maybe even a little bit of happiness. But more than anything, he felt too much. And to add to that? Here Italy was apologizing for trying to protect him. He had honored the promise he made Prussia until he felt that Germany was ready. He blinked and wondered what Italy was thinking. He wondered if Italy shared the strong urge he had to lean over and close the short distance between them.

Gott, what was he thinking? He turned away. "Wipe away the tears. It's a waste of time. You did what you did because you thought it was right, but it's time to move on." He stood. "We should probably think about dinner."

Italy stood, wiping his eyes with the hem of his untucked shirt. "Okay. Yeah, you're right. What do you want?"

Germany looked back at his friend, watching him clean himself up. He watched as Italy repaired himself to help him. To heal Germany, completely and unselfishly. Gott, it was a miracle that he ran into this man. Thinking about this, Germany felt a small smile come through. "I'm thinking pasta."

Italy gave a watery grin as he swiped away the last tear tracks.