Germany has a routine.
It is rare that he breaks it. True, there are special occasions, where he allows for his routine to be altered. But still, he chooses this. It is very rare indeed that someone interrupts him, after all. His boss is predictable, and if anything big is happening in his country, he feels it before the boss calls him about it, anyway. So often Germany can go through certain parts of his day on autopilot, thinking of something entirely different as muscle memory guides him through cooking or a morning work out.
Sometimes, though, he catches himself. His routine has not changed much in the last few years, not that he can remember, but sometimes he looks down at his lunch, only to realize that he has set the table for two. The other plate glares at him, just as full as his own plate is, and he struggles to figure out why he's served it. Extra food was just a waste, after all. And Germany was not one for waste.
He eats his own plate. Then stares at the other, waiting for much too long. He almost disrupts his whole schedule because of it, this one oddity. Then, shaking his head, he puts the extra in a container, and stores it away in his fridge. Perhaps he'll eat it for dinner.
He does this every time he makes extra, which is at least once a week. He never gets around to eating the leftovers.
Morning workouts are also strange. There is something off about them. They feel too easy, like he is hardly working at all. So he adds extra laps, trying to push himself. Slowly, the feeling of not doing enough, of it being too easy, disappears between his laboured breathing and straining muscles. But he makes note of this, all the same.
If only he could recall when these things started occurring, the extra plate and the easy workouts. Then perhaps he could pinpoint what had changed. But there is nothing. Germany hardly ever changes his routine, after all. So he continues, thinking that perhaps it was just a hint of confusion, after the stressful, unsure transition into this millennium. He hadn't thought the world was going to end, of course. But enough of his people had to have made him uneasy. Nothing had changed, but maybe just that expectation had been enough to throw him off.
Everything would be okay in a month or so. Everything would go back to normal.
A mop that he doesn't remember ever receiving sits in the back of his closet. He makes and eats pasta every Friday night. He, as far as he remembers, never was taught how to make pasta. He never liked pasta. But things change. People change, even if they don't remember it.
And yet, some people do.
Some people remember that they have changed, even if they don't remember how. Some people lay in bed, staring out at their country, clutching their pillow, because they know they are supposed to be holding tight to someone, not something. They just can't remember the person's name.
They loves their country, they really do. They doesn't want to ever leave Italy, not for the world. But it feels like they're forgotten something outside their borders, in a land they've never been. And they know they are forgetting something inside their borders, but are too afraid to check. In fact, they can hardly even bear to look in a mirror. Sometimes, they close their eyes, and they catch a glimpse of the people they are missing. Bigger bodies, caring, protecting. But this can't be right. So they cook and they garden and they sometimes think of visiting the other half of their country, but something in their blood freezes at that, frightening them.
It takes a few months. But eventually, one wanders north and one wanders south, and they meet in the middle, eyes wide as they stare into the mirror that is each other.
The North blinks, feeling very confused, and reaches out to poke the South in the shoulder.
"Idiota! Stop that..." He pushes the finger aside, and then his eyes go wide. Because he's starting to remember, and he can see in his brother's eyes that he is, too.
South tenses, as North lunges at him, wrapping his arms around him tight.
"Fratello! Fratello, I missed you!"
Because North did miss his brother. He just hadn't realized this is what he's been missing. His other half. Of course! It makes so much sense.
And South can't help but return the embrace, because there's no one else who knows them, and he has nothing to hide from his other half, not really. Sure, he pretends to be a little reluctant, but North doesn't even seem to notice.
"Idiota..." he mutters, but he doesn't mean it. He never does.
And so Italy reunites. The two halfs laugh softly, wondering secretly how they could ever forget about each other, even if it was only for a few months. But the idea that they ever had forgotten is already slipping away. Lovino and Feliciano Vargas, South and North Italy, are together again. There is nothing forgotten, here.
Germany stares at that extra plate of pasta, and tries to remember why he served it. And Spain stares out his window, waiting for it to be warm enough for tomatoes again, but forgetting why it is that he is looking forward to it in the first place. And months pass. And nothing changes. Not in this part of the world.