For #geritaweek on tumblr!

When he woke up, he was Holy Rome. No, that was the wrong way to put it. He we no more the Holy Roman Empire than he was Austria, but at the same time, he was Holy Rome. After all, it was his name, or had been. He was Germany and he was Holy Rome. He remembered being Holy Rome. It wasn't a surprise, not really. It felt as natural as if he'd never forgotten in the first place. His life felt a little clearer, more nostalgic, somehow.

A soft sigh came from next to him, and that was when it hit him. Not that he was Holy Rome, and not that he'd forgotten- but just what that act of forgetting had done. He vaguely recalled conversations where people said, in wistful and remembering voices, "Oh, the Holy Roman Empire. Whatever happened to them?" and clinked their cups in hopes that wherever the little boy had gone, he was happy. Italy had always looked away during those conversations.

He rolled onto his back and started up at the white plaster of his ceiling. Yes, Italy had always looked away, his smile faded a little. He'd sip from his cup and close his eyes and Germany would get the distinct feeling that he preferred to wonder in private for a little while before he started back into reality and clicked his cup against the others. "Holy Rome, may he be happy." And even the occasional "To the Holy Roman Empire... May he rest in peace." Well, he thought. He was quite a heavy sleeper. Better blame the toasts for that.

But Italy. What of Italy? He was ever changing. He was a rock. He woke up at every sound. He snored. He was dead silent. He had no dreams at all. He woke up shaking from nightmares. Once, his scream had snapped Germany awake too, and once he had stopped Italy's tears he asked what was wrong.

"Oh, just a bad dream."

"What was it?"

"Nothing," he would brush hair from his eyes and smile sadly. "I was just alone."

That was his fault. He had caused this.

As if on cue, Italy mumbled something and put his arm around Germany. It didn't sound sad or scared. It sounded as if he was telling a waiter he hadn't ordered the Alfredo. He even shook his head a little.

He always had loved his pasta. He had cried about it to him, more than once. Much more than once, he now remembered. Wasn't that his main complain about Austria's house? Ah. Austria. The bastard, he had probably known. All those times spent in his home, before and after- there was no way he didn't.

"You idiot, how could you form an alliance with Italy?!"

Those words held new meaning, now.

Once again, Italy whispered that he didn't want the Alfredo, he'd ordered the Parmesan, and his hands dug into Germany the way they did when he murmured that name at night, his lovely face stretched with anguish, his eyes screwed shut- and suddenly he had to wonder if Italy was awake or asleep in those moments. He could be whispering the truth to Germany as a prayer that he'd answer and remember. Or maybe it was just a memory come back as a nightmare. There was no way he could really know.

He rolled over instinctively and would've locked eyes with him, were he not asleep. Just what had he done to him? Just what had he done to his Italy?

There was no comfort in knowing he'd returned. How could there be any warmth with the realization that he had met him with fury and clenched fists? Italy, the one he loved? The only one he'd ever loved. How could he console himself with the thought, it's alright, I did come back, I only hated him for a short while and I didn't get as mad as I could. It's alright, I was only so annoyed when my loved one came back to me. I only scared him so much so often.

Ah, but he'd always scared him, hadn't he? Little Italy would gasp and blush. Little Italy had screamed when little Holy Rome would try to get him to come over to his house, and then he'd run away, and he would chase after him. When he caught up with him, he'd always looked terrified, so much so that he'd give up for another day and tag him instead. And then they would laugh and he would let Italy win.

"Hey," Italy said, quite clearly. "What do you want, Germany?"

Germany regarded him before answering, "I'll have what you're having."

"Okay." Italy went on to order before adding, "And make sure it's not the Alfredo!"

"What's so bad about the Alfredo?" Germany asked. Italy snored loudly, and he almost laughed. He was quite sorry it had taken him so long to come back. He lifted his hand to brush the hair out of his eyes and could almost see his silly bonnet. He pulled his hand back.

Italy opened his eyes and looked at Germany in confusion. "Eh?"

His eyes were just like they'd always been, innocent and beautiful, curious and full of wonder at the world that spun around him. He was just like he'd always been. Silly, pretty, perfect.

On an impulse, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over his cheek. "Eh?" Italy repeated. Germany smiled. Italy was starting to look a little frightened. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, Italy."

There was a heartbeat where nothing happened. And then Italy's eyes widened with memory, his jaw slackening and he asked the same question he always did.

"H-Holy Rome?"

He nodded shortly, and he was shocked for only a moment more, and then his expression changed as the corners of his eyes crinkled and his cheeks went pink and the smallest of smiles slipped into his face. He held tightly onto Germany and buried his face in his neck. He cried a little, and laughed. Germany held him back, his smile fixed for once, as it always was with his Italy. They held each other and didn't let to.

And it was just like it'd always been.

A/N: To be truthful, I think Italy would probably believe it was a dream afterwards. Germany would have to talk about living with Austria and the day they said goodbye (Italy would cry) and then kiss him and Italy would make him treats, then they'd live happily ever after.