OH MY GOD IT'S FINISHED! and what a finish it is! This chapter is a veritable MONSTER. It could almost have been split in two!

Holy crap. I'm actually crying right now. I'm not sure I like it but…. It's my baaaaby!

Well guys, it's been fun, but we've finally come to the end! I can't believe I actually finished a story! Haha! (is far too proud of herself) Hope that the ending is up to your standards.

This story was greatly inspired by Nico Nico videos, in particular 真っ赤な糸、ギブス、and Persona Alice. If you haven't seen them, I highly suggest that you go watch them IMMEDIATELY! :D

Note about the chapter: I'm aware that some people say that HRE thought Italy was a girl, but it's really quite vague and for sake of ease, I'm just gonna say that he doesn't. Sorry if that tees some people off, it just didn't fit in the story.

Huge shout out to my marvelous repeat reviewers, especially Full Shadow Alchemist. You guys were the reason I could keep going! If it weren't for you, I would never have gotten this done. Italy REALLY didn't want to be written, there at the end….

Thanks for everyone's support, and please enjoy the last chapter!

Don't own, don't sue.

PLEASE REVIEW!

oh! Almost forgot. Anyone who read the last chapter early on, might want to go back and check the very end. I added an extra scene with Germany there because it didn't fit in this chapter. *sweatdrop* sorry for the inconvenience!

Germany drug himself off the plane, fully intending to get home, make sure Feliciano was ok, and then pass out. It had been a long day, first because of the hangover, then his confusion over the Holy Roman Empire and now all this mess with Italy… Any time he tried to rest, he only came out of it more tired than before; worry and lingering depression made his dreams more like nightmares. He was exhausted

.

The blond pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked, turned it back on more out of reflex than anything. He immediately wished he hadn't. "10 missed calls" flashed blaringly up at him and Germany groaned. If one more thing went wrong today, he was going to kill someone. He was just about to check who'd been calling him when the blasted thing started ringing again.

"Hello?" He answered it without looking at the caller, ducked into a nearby waiting area to try and filter out some of the noise. Even though it was getting closer to one in the morning, there were still way too many people roaming the airport halls to have a decent phone conversation.

"Ringrazio Dio! Finalmente ha risposto!Ho provato a chiamare tutto il giorno, dove—"

"Romano?" Germany used process of elimination to figure out who was calling him: there were only two people who ever began a phone call by shouting in rapid Italian, and he had it on good faith that one of them was currently asleep in his bed. "English, please?" It wasn't that he didn't speak Italian, Feliciano had been teaching him for years and he was pretty confident in his skills. But something obviously had the older Italian brother upset, and that made him talk much faster than normal. As it was, Germany had no idea what he was currently being accused of.

"Germany, you had better tell me you know where the hell my brother is, or I swear to God—"

"He's at my house." He heard Romano heave an audible sigh of relief and then he knew something was wrong. The day Romano was glad to hear his brother was staying with the famed "potato bastard" was the day hell froze over. "He got there about six or seven hours ago. Why, what happened?" Romano uttered the Hail Mary in Italian under his breath and somehow seemed to make the prayer sound more like a curse.

"I expected my brother to be here waiting for me to get home," Germany could hear the exhaustion in Romano's tone, knew that the other nation must have had just as long a day as he had. "Instead I found the place a complete mess. Pills all over the kitchen floor, and—there's broken glass in the sink! I thought he'd been kidnapped!" The worry in Germany's chest only deepened with each word; Feliciano would never leave his kitchen like that. "Did you… why is he at your place? Did you just… steal him? Is that what happened?" He could actually hear the glare in Romano's voice.

"No, I've been at Austria's house all day." He wondered how long the brunette had spent trying to get a hold of him, worrying over his absent brother. In all honesty he was surprised that Romano hadn't called the police. "I don't know much more than you do. Prussia called me to say Italy had wandered to the house and passed out on the front step, so I—"

"What?!" Hmm…. Perhaps mentioning Feliciano's illness to his over-protective, currently frantic brother had not been the smartest of ideas. "I knew it! I knew it, goddamn it all! I never should have left him alone last week!"

"You left him for a week?" Usually when Romano took off for any amount of time longer than a day, he would have his arms full entertaining one lonely Feliciano. That the Italian hadn't called him lately was strange enough, now that he thought about it, but for him to stick it out on his own was even more… god he must really have been sick to decide to stay home. Italy hated being alone more than anything in the world.

"Idiot convinced me he would be fine. Besides, I thought he'd go visit you." They both sat in silence for a minute, trying to figure out just what had happened to Feliciano. "…wait a minute. Why didn't he go visit you?" It was a question Germany wished he could answer himself. He shifted the painting and bag in his arms before sitting down on a nearby chair. It didn't look like he was going to be getting out of this conversation any time soon.

"I don't know." He sighed, turning the portrait away from himself so he wouldn't get lost staring into it again. Romano growled.

"What the hell did you do to my baby brother." Germany was a bit confused by the rapid change in emotion. Romano's tone was back to the way he usually heard it, angry and unforgiving, but this time he didn't have a clue what he'd done wrong.

"I don't know what you're talking abou—"

"The hell you don't!" Romano sounded close to tears. "Feliciano hasn't even been eating. There is a stack of rotten ingredients in my fridge right now, exactly where I put them before I left. He let the tomatoes rot, Germany. The tomatoes! You are the only person with that kind of power over him!" Germany felt fear run down the back of his spine, guilt overwhelming him even if there was no real reason for it. He didn't want to hear that, didn't want to know Italy had been so upset that he wouldn't eat his favorite food, when he still didn't know what the heck was wrong in the first place.

"I agree that it's worrying, Romano, but I honestly—"

"He was crying." His heart skipped a beat. He closed his eyes against the image that statement brought and forced himself to think clearly.

"Well he… Feliciano cries about a lot of things, it could have been—"

"No, Bastard. Really crying." Germany swallowed thickly. "He was trying to hide it from me, but I could hear it in his voice. I could tell. I can always tell." The evidence of Italy's pain was just building and building… why hadn't he realized that something was wrong? Why hadn't he figured it out sooner? If Italy hadn't have fallen unconscious at his door step, he would be oblivious still… had he really been that self-absorbed? "Now, Germany, you are going to think, real hard, and then you are going to tell me exactly what you did to make my brother cry."

"I haven't—" Germany choked on the lump in his throat, had to start over again. The mental images of sick, heartbroken Italy were piling up faster than he could bear. He didn't even like watching Feliciano cry over untied shoelaces. To know that there was actually something worth crying over made it a thousand times worse. He wished he had been there. He should have been there. "I haven't even talked to him in a couple months, I couldn't possibly have done anything." A strange silence fell over the line. Then Romano started cursing up a storm.

"Cretino! Pezzo di merda bastardo! Don't you understand anything at all?" No, Germany thought resentfully, he didn't. But he wished more than anything that he did. "You can't just ignore him like that! Did you ever stop to think how much that would hurt him?'

"I didn't ignore him," He protested, though his heart secretly agreed with Romano. He was feeling more and more that this whole thing was somehow his fault. "He just… stopped calling."

"And you didn't think that was strange at all?" He'd been too wrapped up in his own problems to think much of it, to be honest. But Romano was right. If he had been thinking at all, it would have worried him. "Look, Germany, I will say this once and once only. I absolutely loathe you, but even I can see how much my brother needs you." He didn't quite know what to think about that. Feliciano depended on him a lot to be sure, but… that was all for silly things; the "can you tie my tie for me?" sort of requests that anyone else could have done just as easily. It was nothing that Feliciano actually needed him for—needed Ludwig and not just some other person.

"That's not… I'm not that important. He has lots of people he—"

"Has your brain finally been completely replaced by muscle?!" Germany's frown deepened. Usually Romano's insults didn't faze him, but he was tired, and irritable, and he really just wanted to get home.

"Romano, I don't care what you think. I have no idea what is wrong with your brother except that he has somehow managed to get himself very sick. And I can't tell you anything more than that until I actually get to see him. So I am going to hang up, and I will call you if I find anything out." The brunette scoffed.

"God, you really don't get it do you?"

"I mean it. I am hanging up in five seconds." This conversation was going nowhere, all it was doing was make him feel more guilty and worried and sorry for himself than he already did. He'd call Romano back in the morning if he still had questions.

"Fine, I'll say it so that even an idiot like you can understand." Germany rolled his eyes and started counting.

"One… two…"

"Feliciano is in love with you, Germany." His mind screeched to a halt. "Even I can see it. Why the hell can't you?" That wasn't… it wasn't possible… Feliciano had only ever shown a friend's interest in him before, anything else and he was just fooling himself. Italy would never…

But then he was seeing flashes of Italy's smile, of all the times Italy had trekked up from Rome for no other reason than he wanted them to have dinner together, of the way Italy was forever clinging so tightly to his side, and no one else's. Maybe… but that was just—

"I'll wait. I'll always wait."Italy looked so happy, face covered in a cheery blush that he knew he must be mirroring. He almost couldn't believe that this was real. He'd been afraid for so long of telling Italy how he really felt, that he was completely blown away when his feelings were returned. He only wished now that he could have admitted it sooner. They'd both been dancing around each other, wasting time for ages and ages. Maybe if he'd gotten over it and stopped trying to scare Italy into liking him they could have been together all along.

He felt like jumping for joy—he'd kissed Italy!—but even still, his heart ached. What if this was the last time they ever saw each other? What if—

"Germany? ...Germany? …Godamnit, the bastard hung up on me!" Romano's dulcet tones brought him back to earth, and it took him a moment to remember where he was and what he was doing.

"No," Germany coughed, shook his head to get the delusions out of his mind. "No I'm still here, sorry." Having crazy painting-influenced visions while asleep was one thing, but he had never been one to daydream. "What were you saying?"

"Oh, screw you. I'm not saying it again." The blond blinked and tried to remember what they had just been talking about. Oh right, that Feliciano…loved… The sight of the Italy in the painting looking up at him in adoration flashed before his eyes, and it was almost enough to make him break down. He couldn't admit to himself how much he wanted that.

"Not possible," he whispered, trying to get his emotions back under control. Whether he was talking about the memory dreams or Romano's accusation he wasn't really sure.

"God, you are so dense. No wonder my brother is upset." Romano sounded ready to scream. "Don't you think if there was even a little bit of doubt, I'd be the first to deny it? I hate you, but it's the truth. He's sick, and who does he go to? Not me, not anyone else, you. Even though he had to go through half of Europe to get there. He always goes to you, have you not noticed at all?" Germany frowned and covered his eyes with one hand. He'd never even allowed himself to think of Feliciano in such away; the Italian was too important to him to lose. But the thought of Feliciano caring about him was… emotions he wasn't even sure he had were stirring in his chest, and he knew that if this all turned out to be a cruel joke he would never be able to put himself back together.

"Why are you telling me this?" he choked, ignoring how much like a girl he sounded right now. He blamed it on those psycho dreams for putting feelings that weren't his own in his head.

"Because as much as I hate it, he needs you more than he needs me," Romano mumbled, sounding as though he would rather be anywhere else. "Look, that's all I'm saying, alright? You'd better fix this, Bastard. Fix it now or I will do everything in my power to see your entire country fall, do you understand?" It wasn't a very effective threat at the moment, but it didn't have to be. Germany would do whatever he could to make Feliciano happy, no coercion required. It had always been that way.

"Italy," he called frantically as he ran through the house, his small feet pattering against the expensive rug floor. Austria would scold him for "acting in a manner unbefitting of a nation" he was sure, but he didn't care about that at the moment. He hadn't seen Italy in nearly four days, not cleaning the floors, or fetching water or even stealing food from the kitchens, and he was starting to feel that something was very wrong. "Italy!" he shouted again, making himself sound as imperial and frightening as possible to disguise his worry. He heard a small, weak sound from the door he'd just run past—the door to Italy's room. Frowning, he twisted the handle and stepped inside.

"Hi, Holy Roman Empire."Italy greeted, usual cheer strangely absent. The brunette was still in his night clothes, laid up in bed with stacks of pillows and blankets. "Is something the matter?" Italy coughed, whole body shaking, and he felt all the blood drain from his face; he'd never seen his friend like this.

"No, I just wondered where you…" He stopped himself before he could say anything too revealing, twisted his hands in his cloak and blurted, "What's wrong with you?"

"The plague, I think." Italy coughed again into his hand. He looked so pale and fragile against the white sheets that it hurt to look at him. "It happens every once in a while."Italy shrugged, but the blond knew there was more to it than that. He knew intimately how it felt when so many of your people were dying all at once and you were powerless to do anything about it. He didn't like the thought of Italy going through that kind of pain but he could see the agony reflecting out from amber eyes plain as day.

"You—do you…" He swallowed his pride and forced himself to say it. Maybe he would get yelled at for this later, but he hated to see Italy unhappy. "Do you think if I helped you to the kitchen, you could teach me to make pasta?"Italy's expression lit up like it was Christmas morning and he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

"You would do that for me?"He nodded; face a brilliant shade of red that he would completely deny later, but for now it was worth it. And even though the dish they'd made had proved too rich for Italy's sick stomach and he threw up all over Austria's favorite chair, even though he'd been scolded by Austria and Hungary and had been forced to do Italy's chores until he got better again, it was totally worth it. Anything was worth it to banish the pain from those eyes.

"Hello…? Hello! Are you even listening to me?!" Germany growled out a yes and wondered whether he was losing his mind. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep. "You know what, screw it. I take back everything I said. I don't trust you with my brother. I am coming there right now to bring him home." He very much felt like bashing his head into the nearest hard object. The last thing he needed now on top of everything else was an angry Romano tearing through his house. "Ow! Goddamnit Antonio, put me down." Germany blinked. He heard what sounded like a bit of a scuffle on the other side of the line. "I do not need to sleep. I am perfectly capable of—hey!" He had to hold the phone a bit away from his face as the altercation apparently grew violent. Romano shouted a few times, growled out angry insults in Italian and Germany wondered what on earth was going on before everything went suddenly quiet. He gave it a few more seconds, figured that someone must have hung up accidentally during the fight, but he'd never heard the line click, so…

"Are you still there?" Someone who sounded like—was that Spain?—picked up the phone. Germany raised an eyebrow. What was Spain doing at Romano's house?

"I'm here," he dragged the words out, voice filled with confusion. "What just happened?"

"What Romano meant to say, was that he is very tired from travelling all day, and that we will be there to visit after everyone has gotten some rest." He wondered what kind of miracle Spain had worked to get Romano that quiet that fast, and then decided he probably didn't want to know.

"Okay then." Germany elevated Spain's status in his mind from vaguely annoying to saint. Anyone who could control Romano like that deserved it, no matter his tactics. "I will see you tomorrow." The Iberian nation wasted no time in saying goodbye and Germany was finally able to hang up. He picked his things back up off the floor, shoved his phone in a pocket and started tearing through the late-night airport crowd. Getting to Italy had just become more important than ever.

He was lucky enough to get to the line of taxies just as a new one arrived, climbed in with little fanfare and told the driver where to go. The ride to his house seemed to fly by, occupied as he was with his own thoughts. Italy's malady bothered him something awful, and more than once during the journey his mind had jumped into another strange vision, each one stronger and less deniable than the last. He didn't know what to believe anymore. At first he'd thought that Austria and Hungary were nuts for thinking what they did, but now his resolve was starting to chip away. He hated this—wanted to put an end to the indecision and the lack of identity once and for all. He'd spent his whole life secure in the knowledge that he was Germany simple as that, but now that security was being stripped from him and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

He pushed those thoughts away as they pulled to a stop. He didn't have time to be worrying about himself anymore; that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Right now, he just needed to think of helping Feliciano.

"Danke," he murmured as he shelled out the taxi fare. The driver nodded back and before he knew what he was doing he was practically running up the short walk to his front door. It wasn't locked. Honestly, Gilbert could be such a dork sometimes. Germany pushed it open with a glare—he'd yell at his brother for forgetting later—and made his way into the unusually quiet house. The place was never this silent with Prussia around. He was always playing music or watching TV or something. Germany suspected that maybe Gilbert had a thing against being alone, but he'd never voiced his speculations and the silver-haired man had never confirmed them.

He wondered where Prussia had gone, but only at the back of his thoughts. Far more important right now was finding Italy and making sure for himself that his friend was alright. He didn't know for sure where Prussia would have left a sick person. First he checked the couch; it would be just like Gilbert to leave someone in the most uncomfortable place just because it was the most convenient. However, there was no one there. He was just about to rush to the guest bedroom when he felt the sudden urge to check his own room. Surely Prussia wouldn't have left Italy in there when they had a perfectly good guest room down the hall… Okay, never mind, that sounded exactly like something Prussia would do. Germany pushed the door open as quietly as he could, stepped inside and sighed in relief. There was a distinctly Italy-shaped mass curled up beneath his blankets.

He set his things down gently against the wall, moved closer to the tangled mess that was his bed. Prussia had brought in one of the chairs from the dining room to sit by Italy's side, and there was a bowl of cool water, wet rag, thermometer and bottle of pills on the nightstand. He had to admit he was a little surprised. He knew his brother wasn't a complete idiot but it had been a while since Prussia had last proved it. Germany took a seat in the wooden chair, reaching for the blankets where Feliciano's face should be. The brunette usually made a mess of his covers—he had never been very still as he slept. Germany remembered waking up to a knee in his side more than once in the times they'd had to share a bed.

Logically, he knew Italy was probably alright for the moment. Gilbert had apparently been taking care of Italy quite well, and if something had really gone wrong, he'd be at the hospital right now and not at home. Still, he couldn't help the need to make sure for himself that Italy was really ok, that he was actually still here. Maybe not seeing the nation for over a month had affected him more than he'd thought. He pulled back the blanket, hoped he wouldn't wake Italy with his stupid quest for reassurance, and felt his heart break.

Italy looked every bit as worrying as Prussia had described. His face was flushed with the remnants of fever, eyes lined with telltale dark circles. He looked a little thinner than Germany had last seen him, and even in sleep his brow was lined with stress, mouth curved in a tiny frown. Germany covered his face with one hand in an attempt to stifle the hurt, couldn't help but reach out for his sick friend with the other. He brushed damp strands of hair away from Italy's pallid brow and tried to figure out where to go from here. He'd never seen Italy like this. Not during the World Wars, or the people's revolts or the countless plagues and occupations that had filled their history. He—

Germany paused, rewound his thoughts a bit. He hadn't really known Italy well until World War I—long after Italy had been dominated by anyone else or beleaguered by medieval pandemics. And yet he could still see perfectly the image Italy cut as he suffered through the Italian Wars, his tiny hands clenched in pain as he felt the suffering of his people. He remembered watching his friend cough until his palm was covered in blood, and thinking that maybe this time Italy wouldn't make it through. It wasn't a flash of someone else's life passing clear and movie-like before his eyes. It was as integrated as his own recollections, in all their jumbled, slightly hazy glory. They were his memories, his thoughts. And he had to accept that the emotions thrumming loudly though his heart now, the worry and the fear and the love, those were his too. Not new or unknown as he'd thought earlier, but so ancient and ingrained in his being that he hadn't realized they were there.

"Finally, you made it back." He jumped as Prussia finally made his presence known. The older nation must have been in the kitchen all this time, because he was holding a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. Maybe he'd been coming back to watch over sick Italy, Germany wasn't really sure but at the moment he didn't care. All he could think of was that Prussia had been there in the vision of battle and death that had shaken him earlier. Prussia knew what had happened to the Holy Roman Empire. He'd also been the first person Germany saw when he awoke to the world, not knowing anything but his own name. Prussia knew. Germany narrowed his eyes, stood slowly from the wooden chair and waltzed across the room. He pushed his brother back out again, ignored the resulting yelp about spilled coffee, and closed the door behind him with a gentleness he didn't know he was capable of at the moment. He wanted answers, and damn it all, he was going to get them.

"Ow! Scheiße, that's hot. Jesus, West" Prussia tried to shake the burning coffee from his hand, wondering what the heck had gotten into his brother this time. He didn't know what problem Germany could possibly have when he'd been so careful about taking care of Italy. "That was a nice hello. Do you do that for all your friends?"

"Explain, Prussia." He jerked, eyes going wide at that tone in Germany's voice. It was passionlessly commanding, hard, cold—like ice. He'd only ever heard one person who could throw out orders like that. He turned his head slowly to face the sound, hoping that maybe he'd just imagined it, but Ludwig's expression only backed up his fears. It was like staring into the past. Prussia gaped for a handful of minutes before he had to tear his gaze away, shivered once or twice as the sensation of seeing a ghost trickled like ice through his veins. He never thought when he'd picked up the Holy Roman Empire's cold body from the December ground all those years ago that he'd ever see that look again.

"Explain what?" He asked, voice wavering. But even as the words left him he knew what this was probably about. If Germany was wearing that expression then he'd probably found out about his "past life". Prussia slid slowly down the wall of the hallway, setting the coffee down beside him once he'd made it all the way to the floor. Germany didn't follow his example.

"Why do Austria and Hungary think I'm someone else?" The angry nation towered over him. Prussia swore inwardly. Those traitors. They'd all agreed it would be for the best if Germany didn't know. "Why am I starting to believe them? Why can I remember—" Germany's voice wavered, and it made Prussia's heart ache to hear it. "Why do I remember the dark ages, the crusades, the Renaissance?" He bit his lip, turning his face further toward the wall. What was he supposed to say?

"I have no idea." It wasn't completely a lie, either. He'd never thought his brother would regain those memories, didn't know what had managed to give them back over the course of a single day.

"Cut the bull, Prussia. I know you were there. Austerlitz, December 1805. Russia and the Holy Roman Empire made a last stand against France and lost. The Empire ended, and you were standing next to him when it happened, sound right?" He shook, tried to banish the image of his best friend dying right in front of his eyes. "So what happens between then, and the day I woke up to find you hovering over me?" Prussia growled and clenched his hands into fists. He hated thinking about that time, that war. It had been more than two hundred years since then, but he could still see the ghosts of those battles forever haunting his mind. That war hadn't been the worst, or even the most terrifying, but… the look on his brother's face alone in those last days had been enough to scar him for life.

"Well you seem to know everything already, Germany," He emphasized the name, angry that he was being interrogated like this and wanting to lash out in some way. He hadn't felt this powerless in a long time. "Why don't you figure it out? It isn't that hard."

"So it's true then." Germany seemed relieved and more upset all at once, and Prussia had to wonder just what was going on inside that thick head. "I'm… I actually went through all those things. The memories are mine." He couldn't stand hearing West sound so… fragile. He told himself to stop being such a coward, forced himself to look into those too-blue eyes instead of glaring into the wall. Two people seemed to stare back. Prussia swallowed thickly and tried not to cry. He'd never, never thought he'd see that face again. It was only now that he realized how much he'd missed it.

"Yeah," He coughed to cover the trembling of his voice. "Yeah, I'd say so." Germany let himself collapse against the opposite side of the hall, wound up sitting at an angle because his legs were too long to fit comfortably otherwise. Prussia was almost feeling delirious enough to laugh.

"Why did you lie to me?" West sounded so much like the imperial child in that moment that it was hard to breathe. Prussia knew there was no way he could lie this time.

"Because you—back then you…" He bit his tongue, took a few seconds to sort out his thoughts. "There were some days when I would look at you, and I could see on your face that you wanted to lose that war. You were wearing yourself to the bone those last few years—didn't eat, didn't sleep… It was like you were just waiting to die." Germany didn't say anything to deny it. Instead he focused intently on the small square of floor between them, eyes distant with memory. God knew what horrors were playing before him now. "When you woke up, looked at me with those big blue eyes and asked me who I was I just… You looked like a kid. You weren't a weary soldier or a fallen king, you weren't broken or hurting or anything like that. You were just… just you, West." Prussia choked on his own thoughts, had to sit there in the silence for a bit and breathe before he could talk again. "Maybe it was wrong, but I wanted to keep you that way."

They remained like that for a long while, wrought with emotion, eyes seeing too much of the past. The seconds ticked on like hours and Prussia thought for sure that this time he might have finally crossed the line. What if he'd made his brother hate him? If he were honest with himself he probably deserved it—he'd been lying for so long that he'd almost forgotten the truth. He wished he could make Germany understand, but he didn't think any words could possibly convey the way he'd felt, looking at that innocent, completely blank child and wanting more than anything to keep him from hurting ever again. The silence was beginning to feel heavier and heavier against his chest. He thought he was going to go mad with suspense until finally, a ghost of a smile flickered across Germany's face.

"..Thanks," West muttered, almost too quiet for Prussia to hear. It was so different from the anger he'd expected that he was nearly too shocked to pay attention to the words that followed. "I would have appreciated the truth but… I think I know what you mean. Trying to keep people safe makes you do some pretty stupid things, I suppose." Germany was looking straight at the bedroom door as he spoke. He was probably referring to Italy, but Prussia didn't really have the mental capacity to think about things like that at the moment. He swallowed his surprise, refused to admit to the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes because that would be decidedly un-awesome. Instead he focused on the mug of hot coffee still steaming by his side.

"'m not stupid." He protested weakly, attempting to find his usual persona again. West laughed, and that made everything a little more worth it.

"I'm not so sure about that." He deadpanned. "You did leave the door unlocked again." Prussia rolled his eyes, picked up the caffeinated beverage that he had been studying so intently and passed it off to his dork of a brother.

"With this mug, I hereby transfer custody of one sick Italian to you. I know you wouldn't sleep with him like that right now anyway, you pathetic lovesick bastard." Instead of shouting angrily at the jibe like he usually might have, West just blushed. Prussia grinned. So he really had remembered everything. Oh the possibilities… this was going to be so much fun after the world had calmed back down again, even if it would be annoying to have Feliciano invading their house even more than usual. Germany stood quickly in his embarrassment, almost spilled the coffee again in his haste to get away. "Hey, do you think your kids will have that weird curly cowlick thing too?" West opened the bedroom door as quietly as he could, then turned back to flip Prussia off with his free hand, his face bright red. Gilbert couldn't do anything but laugh.

Italy stared up at the ceiling and tried to get his thoughts back together. He wasn't sure what he'd just been dreaming about, but he could feel the teardrops still lingering on heavy lashes, his heart beating too fast in his chest. His emotions were a mess and he didn't care to wonder why. He was just glad that for the first time in a week he hadn't been forced to remember that again. He bit his lip, fought against the wave of guilt that welled up within him at the thought and schooled his thoughts back to blank oblivion. It was almost easy to block out the world and focus on the steady in and out of his own breathing, tired as he was. His mind was feeling so sluggish that he probably wasn't fit for much else at the moment anyway.

By the time he'd gathered the pieces of himself back together enough to think again, he realized he had no idea where he was. The last thing he remembered was going to Berlin, and then… Prussia had said Germany was away, and then he'd woken up here. Had he blacked out? Italy covered his eyes with one hand in embarrassment, angry with himself for being so weak. He'd probably caused Prussia a lot of trouble. God, what was he thinking when he set out on this fruitless venture? He'd known from the beginning that he was only being selfish, that he would only be annoying everyone by leaving the house. Once he figured out that he'd forced Prussia to take care of him he felt even more… Wait. If Prussia had taken care of him, then that meant…

Italy sat up sharply, ignoring the protests of his body. He knew these walls, the feel of these sheets, the smell of paper and sweat and those weird sausages. This was Germany's bed! He still wasn't sure how he'd gotten here, but he needed to move now or he was going to go crazy. Being here when he knew Germany wanted nothing to do with him was just too much. He tried to leave, moved to untangle the blankets wrapped around his body and found that he could not. Something warm had pinned his hand to the mattress. He turned slowly, his mind in disarray. Who would be here? Prussia wasn't quite weird enough to hold on to his hand, so—

All thought froze when he saw the person beside him. Ludwig lie passed out in a nearby chair, his face resting against the bed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Italy mused that it didn't look very comfortable and that Germany should really take better care of himself, but he was too shocked to pay much mind to that. What was Germany doing here? Shouldn't he have been in Austria right now? Unless Prussia had lied to him, but he didn't think the white-haired nation was prone to that sort of thing. And even so, why… Italy's gaze strayed to the items at the bedside. He recognized all the implements used to treat the sick, realized that he could no longer taste the fever burning at the back of his throat. Had Germany been taking care of him? And then he noticed that Germany was holding his hand, of his own volition, without any annoying pestering from Italy….

It was a wonder his mind didn't implode. He sat stiff as a board, staring at his best friend and wondering just what had happened while he was out. Maybe Ludwig was just having a weird dream, or something. He didn't care like that, didn't want Italy around enough to—

"I promise," The phrase echoed back to him from a dream he thought he had securely locked away, and Italy jumped. He remembered the way that person had flickered to Germany, couldn't stop himself from imagining both faces at once. He'd always seen the similarity, had always done his best not to think about it. He couldn't afford to fool himself like that. His first love was dead; he knew that. Trying to hold onto that memory by forcing Ludwig to become someone else was selfish and pathetic. Germany wasn't Holy Roman Empire. Pretending that he was wouldn't do anything but hurt everyone involved.

But when Ludwig was wearing that tiny grin at his side, hand pressing warm and familiar against his own, dreaming expression completely free of worry and pain… He looked so much like that innocent child from an eternity ago that it ached.

He tore his hand from Germany's before it grew to be more than he could bear and tried not to feel guilty when Ludwig frowned in sleep. He couldn't stay here—not when thoughts of that person were clouding his mind and making him more and more likely to do something he would regret later. Besides, Germany probably had better things to do than look after an invalid. He'd just go back home where he belonged and forget about this whole thing. Italy did the best he could to get out of the bed without shaking the mattress much, managed to extricate himself from the blankets without an abundance of noise. But when he tried to get up, he found himself pinned back against the pillows.

"Not happening." Germany was awake and glaring at him from the bedside as he gently held Italy down. "You are not leaving this bed until you are completely and totally well again." The brunette paled to a color that was nearly whiter than the sheets. He didn't know if he could handle this. Germany was far too close—he had to look away before he broke down.

"I need to go back," he murmured, fighting back against Germany's grip enough to sit up again. "I forgot to leave a note for Romano and the kitchen is—"

"I already talked to Romano. He knows where you are, don't worry." Italy felt the panic rising like bile in his throat and he didn't know what to do. "You realize things would be a lot easier if you could just remember to take your cell phone when you leave the house, right?" His breathing came faster and faster, vision swimming. He'd resigned himself to the fact that Germany didn't care and now being the victim of this act hurt worse than anything he could imagine. He couldn't do this. Not when he was praying for Ludwig to look at him with someone else's eyes. "Are you ok?" Germany lifted a hand to test Italy's forehead for fever, frowned when he found nothing. "Italy? What's wrong?" It was the last straw. He almost thought he could hear his heart break.

"Stop. Stop it, please." He begged, shaking Ludwig's hands off and drawing into himself. Even being alone was better than this sweet torture. "I can't… I understand, so just stop pretending, please." He was too busy trying to hide his tears to watch Germany's reaction. Being weak was one of the things they all hated about him. He refused to show weakness now.

"What are you talking about?" Germany sounded genuinely concerned and that only made it worse. Italy thought he'd known Germany, known when he was upset and when he was annoyed and when he was happy. If he couldn't see past the act now, then how much of their relationship had been a lie to begin with?

"That. Just… It's ok if you don't want to be around me anymore, so please don't—" he had to cut off or risk dissolving into sobs. Maybe he was overreacting but he was still exhausted, still a little ill, and he felt so alone even with Germany sitting next to him that it was hard to think.

"Italy," the blond began, his voice hesitant. "What made you think I—oh." He seemed to understand some important truth then, but Italy didn't care to know what. He murmured something that sounded suspiciously like "Romano was right," although why anyone would ever say that Italy didn't really know. He laughed hysterically at his own ridiculous thoughts for a second—a pathetic, half-sobbing sound—dried his tears on his arm and tried to leave again. Germany's hand caught his sleeve.

"Ludwig, please. I can't—" Italy begged as he struggled against his once friend. He couldn't escape. He didn't know what to do but he couldn't take this. "You don't want to see me anyway, so just—"

"That's not true!" He froze at Germany's tone, not sure why he should hear pain in that voice. The stupid desire to fix everything welled up within him and he couldn't help but turn back around. Even if Germany didn't care anymore Italy still couldn't bear to see him hurt. "Yes, I've been avoiding you for a while but it was only because I was being a coward." Germany faltered, his words filled with self derision. Italy thought he might see tears in those blue eyes and he had to wonder if he wasn't just going crazy. "I kept thinking of all the mistakes I'd made, everything I'd done wrong and I just thought… I was afraid that somehow you'd see me the same way I did, and then you'd hate me." Germany laughed at himself. It was bitter and self-derisive and Italy didn't like the sound of it at all.

"I…" He looked hard at that beautiful face as his thoughts raced. He wanted so badly to believe those words. Germany looked so sincere and worried that he almost did, but he just couldn't. He wouldn't allow himself to. If he believed in even one more lie, he would surely break. He shook his head to banish the longing, tried to pry Germany's fingers off of him. "Why are you still—do you think I'll be upset if you leave? Is that why you're doing this? Because I'm not upset at all that you don't care!" Italy spoke the words, but way they were marred by sobs probably betrayed his true feelings. "I'm not…I—"

"Italy," Germany's hand wouldn't budge. Italy's struggles grew more frantic. "Italy, please, If you could just—" He almost had it. Right… there! He tore away from Germany's grip, made a break for freedom, and then the world shifted. Germany had tackled him to the bed, was just managing to hold him there without hurting him. Italy had to wait for the dizziness to clear before he opened his eyes, but then he quickly closed them again. Germany's face was far too close to his own and he was afraid he would do something stupid. "Just listen to me!"

"I can handle it if you want me gone, but when you pretend to care I can't—" Italy blurted, choking on his own tears. He felt Germany sigh—the warm breath brushing gently through his hair.

"Italy. I promise you. I will never 'want you gone.'" Italy tried to block the words out. He distracted himself by thinking of all the things he had to do when he got home, didn't admit to the hope building within him. "Because I…" Germany was struggling with something, his voice unsure. Italy cracked one amber eye open against his better judgment. Was that… was Ludwig blushing? "I love you."

It was so unexpected that Italy didn't have time to worry about truth and lies. All he knew was that Germany had just said three words that he had been longing, needing to hear for centuries. He stared wide eyed at the man before him and tried to remember to breathe. "I…" Germany swallowed thickly. He seemed like a wreck of nerves. Italy didn't think he'd ever seen unflappable Ludwig this shaken before. "I have always loved you. Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you." And Italy froze, heart in his throat. He was hallucinating. He knew those words. He'd tortured himself with them for centuries. Never, never had he thought he would hear them again.

"Wh—what?" His mind had completely stopped functioning in that instant. He could feel his every muscle on edge, tense with the hope that maybe this wasn't a delusion. There was just—no way. It had to be a joke or something. It wasn't… "Not…not possible!" Italy whispered, tracing Germany's features with one hand as if to make sure he was real. He looked so much like the Holy Roman Empire in that instant…It hurt.

"I thought that too, at first but I… The more I thought of you, the more I remembered." Germany met his gaze head on, and Italy inhaled sharply. He could see the truth and the need and the—the love in those eyes. "I don't remember everything. I'm not sure that I want to. But I do remember you." Ludwig's expression was so caring and open, completely raw and he wasn't sure how to deal with it. "And I love you. I love you so much that I can't—"

Italy couldn't help himself any more. Germany loved him and that alone was enough to send him into euphoria for weeks, but now the Holy Roman Empire was back from the dead and they were the same person and he didn't have to feel guilty about thinking of them that way any longer and he—Ludwig was in love with him! He didn't know what to do with it all. He pulled Germany down, clung to him like his life depended on it and sobbed. Germany seemed to understand what he needed and said nothing, just held Italy with equal desperation. They stayed like that until he cried himself out. He opened his eyes, pushed away just enough that he could see Ludwig's face again.

"It really is you." He murmured in awe, afraid that any second now, he would wake up at home and discover this had all been a dream. Germany nodded, smiling, and Italy's heart beat quickened. He grinned back weakly, tried to remember how to keep breathing. He knew he must look like a complete and utter mess. His nose was running, his eyes were probably red and he was still feeling a bit sick. But Germany had said he loved him all the same. Germany had said he loved him… suddenly Italy realized that he'd never said it back. "Germany," he started, screwing up his courage and hoping he wouldn't sound like a sentimental fool. "What do your people give to their loved ones?" and then he was moving before he could lose his nerve, leaning up to press his lips against his loved one's after so, so long.

The kiss was perfect. Just like the first one an eternity ago, but more than that because of the loneliness and the longing and need. It started chaste, just a declaration of love, but soon grew to be something passionate—so hot that it burned. They'd been only children then, but now they were both adults with centuries of pent up emotions running amok through their veins. He wanted to draw Ludwig closer, hold him so tightly that they'd never be apart ever again. Hands were everywhere, setting a fire against his skin. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and couldn't say he cared. For the first time in forever, Italy felt like he was actually complete.

"—can't tell me what I can't do. He's my brother and I'll wake him up whenever I damn well—Oh my god!" It took Italy a moment to recognize his brother's voice. Germany seemed to be thinking a bit faster, however. He quickly ended the kiss and turned a marvelous shade of red, burying his face in Italy's shoulder. Whether he was angry or embarrassed, Italy couldn't quite tell. Someone laughed and he chanced a look at the door. There stood Spain and Romano, both looking more than a little surprised. He didn't think he'd ever seen Romano go that color before.

"We-est I'm sorry! Watch out, I tried to stop him but he—" Prussia stumbled in and he felt Germany wince. "Oh-ho! Decided to figure out my question early, I see." Italy tilted his head.

"Question?" Germany growled, and he could feel it vibrating in his chest. He shivered.

"You don't want to know."

"Hey, where'd everyone go—Oh!" None other than Hungary was peering over Prussia's shoulder, her eyes dancing frighteningly. "Roderich! Roderich, did you bring your camera?" She shouted down the hall to someone, presumably Austria, before knocking Prussia out of the way and taking up a less-crowded position in the room.

"Why do you want the—oh for crying out loud, Elizaveta." Germany's face only seemed to be glowing brighter and brighter with every person who stepped in the room, and it was starting to get comical.

"I can walk fine on my own, Heracles-san, I really don't need you to—" The third member of their famous trio stumbled into the room, being trailed closely by Greece. He looked like he was still wearing the robe he usually reserved for sleeping.

"Ah, Japan, my partner in crime!" Hungary called, waltzing over and pulling him into the room. She held her hand out as if expecting something. To everyone's surprise, Japan pulled a camera out of his sleeve.

"When did that get there?" Greece seemed to share everyone's bafflement as Hungary started snapping photos. Germany had turned such a bright shade of red that Italy wondered if he was still breathing.

"Was that really necessary?" Austria grouched. Hungary shot something back and the two were soon absorbed in their own world, bickering back and forth. Romano had, by this point, broken out of his shock.

"Let me go, Antonio! I'll kill him! I'm going to Kill him!" But Spain had other plans, and they apparently involved an impromptu wrestling match in floor of the doorway. Japan swooned.

"Kiku, if you don't get back in bed right now then so help me I'll—" Whatever Greece was saying got cut off as the other two arguments rose to a crescendo. Prussia had made the mistake of trying to break up the ex-married couple's spat and they had both turned on him instead. Romano was shouting, which easily drowned out the sound of everything else. Italy felt Germany sigh.

"Such a mess." He spoke in Feliciano's ear, breath caressing Italy's bare neck and making him tremble. No one noticed.

"It's the good kind of mess!" Italy chimed, feeling like himself for the first time in months. Germany raised an eyebrow. He was a bit of a neat freak, and probably didn't think that "a good mess" could possibly exist. "It means I can do this." Italy pulled the blond down again, kissed him thoroughly until they were both gasping for breath. "And no one will care." The surprise on Germany's face faded to a wicked smirk and Italy's heart skipped a beat.

They fell into each other, kissed until the world stopped going mad around them and they were the center of attention once more. There was still a lot of hurt and guilt and needless worry to sort through, still questions to be asked. But for that time, with family and friends all around him, in the arms of the only one he had ever loved, Italy felt as though nothing could go wrong.

"Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you," He whispered next to Germany's ear somewhere between kisses. It was probably a little cheesy, but he meant it, and the answering smile was truly beautiful to behold. He was filled up with love, ready to burst with it and somehow he felt that he would never be lonely again.

"Get off my brother, you potato freak!" Romano broke away just long enough to lunge at Germany, but fell short when Spain grabbed the back of his shirt. "Goddamn it Antonio! I swear, if you don't let me go this second I will—" Spain pulled him in close for a passionate kiss of their own, which seemed to turn Romano into a puddle of goo. Everyone else stopped what they were doing to watch, sure that the older Italian would explode. He didn't. When the kiss was over, he simply turned an even deeper shade of red. Feliciano laughed so hard that it hurt.

"We'll see you in a few hours." Spain told them all with a grin, sweeping Romano into his arms with one smooth movement and walking out the door. Hungary made a cat-call after them.

"Oh for the love of—Elizaveta please." Austria covered his eyes with one hand as his ex-wife giggled.

"Don't use my room!" Prussia shouted before taking off after them.

"Japan, I'm borrowing this for a while, kay?" Hungary stated sweetly, waving the camera in the air before chasing the strange couple.

"I don't know her. She is a complete stranger to me." The aristocratic man sounded exasperated with her antics, but everyone there could see the tiny smile on his face. "I am glad to find you well, Italy." He muttered quietly before exiting the room. Italy blinked in surprise at the rare show of care. Austria hadn't said a thing like that to him since… not since he'd lived in the Holy Roman Empire's house.

"Feliciano-san I—" He turned to face Japan, was confused by the guilt in the Asian man's expression. "I am a horrible friend! I am so sorry! I didn't know you were upset, I didn't realize you were sick, and I should have—"

"Whoa!" Greece managed to catch his best friend before he fell to the ground. Italy looked at him in worry.

"Kiku, really, It's ok." Italy smiled, grateful to have such good friends.

"No, It isn't I should have—" Kiku shook as though cold, his voice wavering. Italy was incredibly touched that his friend had made a journey all the way from Japan sick like that, just to see him.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. Why don't you listen to Greece and go rest for now?" Japan looked like he wanted to protest, but Greece took the opportunity to swoop in and force Kiku back to bed.

"See? I told you." He teased, supporting most of Japan's weight on his shoulders. Italy watched them leave and wondered when they would finally get together. The door closed behind them with a final sounding bang. He felt Germany noticeably relax against him.

"Well that was only one of the most awkward moments of my life." The blond grouched, pulling Italy in to finish what they had started twice. The same happiness fluttered inside him as they drew closer, closer—

His stomach growled. Loudly. Germany paused, gave him a look that could melt steel. "Romano did say something about you not eating." He glared, trying to let Italy know just how much he disapproved of such a thing. Feliciano found it endearing.

"Germany?" He whined, putting on his best puppy-dog look. The man in question sighed indulgently.

"Yes, Italy?"

"Can we have pasta for dinner?" Ludwig laughed in response, a deep, truly joyous laugh that sounded like Germany and Holy Roman Empire all at once. Italy committed that sound to memory, made a vow to hear it every day from here on out.

"Of course." He mumbled against Feliciano's lips before finally stealing another kiss—greedy and burning and wonderful. Like that, Italy couldn't help thinking that, economy be-damned, all was right with the world.

And it always would be.