Title: Rememberance
Rating: K
Genre: Romance
Characters/Pairings: HRE, Germany, Italy. Established GerIta.
Summary: Italy's been distracted of late, and Germany's getting worried.
Notes: Fill from the kinkmeme, a double-request fill. The first was for what other nations keep in their storages, and if cleaning it up could solve some left behind issues they have with each other. The second, a fic where Germany and Italy are in a relationship, but Italy keeps remembering HRE. My Valentines Day fic for this year, I suppose.
--
Italy wondered if Holy Roman Empire would kiss like Germany.
It was a terrible thought, he knew. An utterly misplaced one at that, but he couldn't help it any more than he could stop himself from trailing a hand down Germany's back, linking with the other to encircle his lover around the waist, pulling their bodies flush against each other. Shifting forward, Veneziano's other hand went up again to card in Germany's hair, pulling the strands loose from their waxed positions. Germany was used to it by now, used to how Italy just couldn't stop moving, the shifts and squirms of pleasure, and how he seemed to always take joy in playing with his hair.
Holy Roman Empire had blond hair. Even though it was always hidden under that huge hat he wore. it was so pretty and soft, and he never let me touch it, saying that girls shouldn't carelessly touch a boy's hair just like that, but even after asking him, he wouldn't allow it, and he'd run away blushing, so I never ever actually got to see how his hair would feel like--
"...Veneziano? Veneziano. What's wrong? W-Why are you--" Germany pulled away from unbuttoning Italy's shirt, eyes wide, startled at the wetness on his own cheek.
Italy frowned at the wet spot, reaching over to brush the tear away from Germany's cheek. "Germany? Why are you crying--"
A matching drop landed on his own sleeve.
His right hand frozen between the two of them, he lifted the other hand to his own cheek, staring at the tears gathered on his own finger.
Germany's not crying.
"... I'm crying?" Confused, his watery gaze matching Germany's dry, but similarly confused blue eyes. "G-Germany, why am I crying? I--"
More tears slipped out of place, and onto Germany's shoulder, next to Italy's chin where it now rested, after being hastily pulled into an embrace. A wet spot was beginning to form, and Germany gripped Italy tighter.
"Germany, I'm fine, really. I promise. Germany?" The arms around his mid-section stayed firmly locked. "Germany, let me go, please? I'm--"
Pulling back to an arm's length, blue eyes bore into brown as Italy swallowed.
"I'm fine. I just remembered something a little sad, that's all," Italy said, intertwining his own fingers with Germany's. "Lets go to bed, alright?"
As Veneziano pulled Germany up the stairs, it was his turn to clutch the hand in his a little tighter.
--
Opening his eyes to the pitch-black, Italy knew it was another one of those nights again. It wasn't insomnia, not really, because he knew that he could probably fall asleep again if he just rolled over and attempted to. He knew he could, but he just didn't want to. Not tonight, not the last night, not the night before that. And besides, he knew that all the siestas he was accustomed to taking would make up for the sleep loss (Idly, Italy also wondered if it was all those siestas which was making him wake up in the dead of the night).
There was no perfectly-placed shaft of moonlight filtering through the window, no street light strategically placed to give him a bit of light at four in the morning. Not that Italy minded, particularly, he quite liked the darkness. The darkness which gave one an odd sense of freedom, where he was able to lie and think, or to simply watch Germany sleep.
Germany, who always seemed to be ever-busy and ever-frustrated with the state of something or another, who had his eyebrows un-furrowed in his sleep, for once relaxed, his lips parted slightly in sleep. It was a refreshing side of him, Veneziano thought.
He liked to look at the way the shadows played across Germany's skin, occasionally dancing due to the odd passing car, how his hair would be mussed an un-gelled for a few hours in the day, the way he--
A sudden flash of lightning and thunder interrupted his thoughts, as Italy instinctively shrunk in towards Germany.
And he could still feel the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, lids squeezed shut, his small hands clutching the other's bedclothes as he tried to pull himself closer to Holy Roman Empire. "Y-You're so close." A sniffle in response. "Italia... You should move over a little." Frowning a little, Italy shuffled back an inch, hearing Holy Roman Empire sigh in response. "Never mind." Silence reigned, only broken by the splattering of raindrops on the windowsills.
But then Italy opened his eyes again, and he was back in the room he shared with Germany, the windowsill dry, with only crickets in the background, Germany beside him, still fast asleep.
Italy closed his eyes again, and only if he really strained his ears, could he hear the faint memory of raindrops on windowsills.
--
"Germany?"
"Mm?"
Italy held out his hand in front of him, experimentally trying to block the sunlight coming in from the large window in Germany's office. "Apple or orange?"
A sigh, a crinkle of papers, the tapping of a pen.
"Italy, the faster I finish these papers, the faster we can go for lunch."
"I know, I'm just a little bored..."
More rustling papers. "Sorry to make you wait."
Italy looked over to his left, grinning at the sight of Germany's flicking glance over the rim of his glasses.
"It's fine."
Watching him, somehow, the first thing that came to mind, was that Holy Roman Empire liked apples.
"Why?" The other boy shrugged, plucking one from the bowl Italy held out. "They're easier to eat than oranges I guess."
It seemed like such a Germany-ish thing to say.
Italy looked back up at the spotless white ceiling.
It wasn't that Italy was using Germany as a replacement for Holy Roman Empire. It honestly, truly wasn't, and Italy knew it. Germany was Germany, and Holy Roman Empire was Holy Roman Empire. They might look the same in some angles, say things with the same logic at times, but Italy knew that they weren't. Holy Roman Empire was someone from his past, and he had died.
Italy had several centuries to get used to that.
But Germany was here, now, and he wasn't Holy Roman Empire, even if Italy wanted him to be.
"Italy?"
"Mmhm?"
The scratching of a pen on paper paused. "Apples."
Italy closed his eyes. "Why?"
"Oranges are messier and harder to eat."
Smiling, he nodded in agreement.
"Yeah. That makes sense."
--
It was no secret that Italy had a messy attic. Years, decades, centuries had a way of doing that to you, making you keep things which you were sure that would come into use a little way down the road, but never really did much more than collect dust.
Collect dust, and bring back memories.
Holy Roman Empire had been coming to mind more times than he would have liked, of late. It wasn't Germany, who was acting as he always did, so Italy was convinced that it was him and an odd bout of sentimentality of some sort. Sentimentality which was oddly guilt-causing.
It didn't seem fair to constantly compare Germany with Holy Roman Empire, and so something had to be done. Cleaning out the attic seemed to be Italy's best option. Hopefully, it would give Italy closure of some sort, even if that closure was a few centuries late.
It was filled, literally floor-to-ceiling, with boxes. Some of them looked to be on the verge of disintegrating, especially the ones in the back, which had been there since Italy had moved into the house.
He pulled down the first box with less care than he should have, toppling over several more in the process, as their contents spilled out around him, dust motes flying in the musty, sun-lit air.
Italy frowned down at his clothes. Obviously, wearing nice clothes wasn't the smartest choice when you were cleaning out an attic. He'd have to remember that in the future, but for now...
There must be some clothes in here somewhere...
Out came old, leather-bound, hand-scribed books, thick stacks of more-yellow-than-white paper, dried pots of ink. A few old handkerchiefs, embroidered by Hungary in the days where free time was spent in the fields. Pressed flowers were found in the pile as well, as Italy fingered the long-dried petals, smiling wistfully, remembering the days past.
And he honestly couldn't help laughing at the next thing that was under the cover of dust.
Peeling aside layers of thin paper, Italy uncovered the last maid uniform Hungary had made for him. He'd been pretty old by then, almost the same physical size as he was today; It really was quite funny how everyone took so long to catch on.
The dress had been made just a few weeks prior to Austria's official discovery of Italy's true gender, and so it was still in pretty decent condition, as opposed to the rest of his dresses which were all faded and torn with wear.
Shaking the green fabric out, he realised that he probably hadn't grown much since then.
Grinning, Italy pul off his current clothes, and stepped into the dress. Just for old time's sake, he told himself.
He was right, the knee-length dress still fit him perfectly. It was just a little tight in the shoulders, the skirt's hem was fraying slightly, and the white apron was now spotted a little with age, but other than that, Italy was pretty sure he looked just as he did all those years back (He had chosen to forgo the flowers in his hair though).
Twirling himself around a little, letting the fabric rise around him in a full circle, Italy smiled to himself.
He had missed this, just a little.
--
The house was strangely quiet, and it was beginning to genuinely bug Germany.
Pin-drop silence was a staple in his own house, but after moving in with Italy, he'd become accustomed to his partner's seemingly constant background noise. The tap of heels on polished parquet, with Italy dancing to a tuneless hum, the clatter of pans in the kitchen (just a wall away; Germany could have sworn Italy had put his office within breathing-distance of the kitchen with full intentions of luring him away from his work as much as possible), heralding a mess which Italy probably wouldn't clean up.
Quite belatedly, it occurred to him that simply put, he missed Italy.
Germany was pretty sure that he was still in the house, somewhere, probably napping or doing something similarly Italy-like. However, it wasn't simply the physical presence of Italy he felt was lacking, he thought, as he set down his pen and placed a paperweight on the documents on his table. Italy wasn't there in the ever-present, too-affectionate, almost cloying way that he always was, and it was unnerving. Even with Italy cooking beside him, or lying on the couch in his office, he never seemed quite completely... there.
It was quite worrying.
Germany knew that Italy was bothered by something, but he didn't want to pry too far. Indeed, they were lovers and best friends, but Italy always got that far off look, the corners of his eyes creasing up with the years that never showed on his face. Germany didn't like causing his lover any pain, and after a few tries, he had decided to leave the matter alone. Italy would tell him when he was ready.
"Veneziano?"
Halls were walked, rooms scanned, but still no Italy to be found, and his search of the house lead him to the attic.
Italy didn't have many rules in the house ("Ve? Rules? Umm... Flush the toilet after using it?"), but it was made clear that he didn't like anyone going into the attic, not even himself.
"Hm, the attic? It's fine the way it is.""... But you haven't gone in for years. Decades?" " Germany arranged his selection of cleaning products and rags in the pail at his elbow. "...We definitely need to go in then." Italy stood his ground in front of the door. "Germany? Please, no." "Why not? This is what Spring Cleaning is for, Italy. You're supposed to clean out everything and--" "I know. It's just that," looking up from the ground where he had been staring at for most of the conversation, it was the first of that look that Germany would be seeing. "There are some... Painful memories. Please Germany? It's not you,
Steeling himself, Germany raised his fist to the door, rapping it twice. No reply, just the shuffling of what sounded like boxes behind the door.
"Italy?"
He pulled the door open, taking a step inside, only to crash into a wall of boxes.
"Veneziano?"
The noise stopped. "Germany? Come and look what I found!"
Blindly groping around yet another stack of boxes, Germany mentally berated himself for not bringing the flash light. It's not like he expected the attic to be flooded with light at five in the evening--
The thought died once he came to the back of the attic.
With his skirts pooling around him, Italy was seated on the floor, books, papers, scores and an assortment of keepsakes collected over the years around him. Germany wasn't quite sure if it was the way the light hit the dust motes and the seated man (boy. Girl?), or the residual memories which suddenly seemed to be on display in the room, but it felt like a jolt of electricity to the mind, and the words were out of his mouth before he could even process them.
"Italia?"
Italy stopped arranging the piano scores, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat at a name which had been left unused for centuries.
"Yes?" He looked up.
Germany's eyes were wide, and those blue eyes were seemingly bottomless and painfully clear and--
Oh my god.
Papers forgotten, Italy stood up, skirts whispering as he stepped across old books and dried flowers.
"Italy. Italia. I--" His face was flushed, tears beading at the corners of his unfocused eyes, and this was the most flustered and un-composed Italy had seen him at.
Two steps away, Italy stopped. He was scared, wondering if this wasn't what he thought it was, that he was just clinging on to an old, aged love which had failed to crumble to dust as the flowers beneath his feet currently had.
"Germany. Are you...?"
The wind knocked out of him, Italy found himself stumbling the remaining steps as Germany pulled him into a tight embrace, burying his head Italy's shoulder.
"Yes. Yes. Italy, Italia, I'm so sorry, I--"
Pulling a numb hand up, Italy carded his fingers through the blond strands (heart pounding so hard so loud perhaps you could hear it over in France, because it was now that he had to take a chance).
"I missed you, Holy Roman Empire."
Germany drew back, tears wet on his flushed cheek, smiling wider than Italy could ever remember seeing him smile.
"I still love you, Italia."
--
Omake
Prussia knew. He could just see it in his brother's eyes, feel it when he strode across the room, with Prussia sprawled out across the couch yelling at him for blocking the television, and Germany (for once) just letting it go, and not lecturing him to get out more often.
Took you long enough, dumbass.
--
A/N: Anyway, happy Valentines day everyone? And Chinese New Year~ Also, a huge thank you to the anon who drew me
HOLY SHIT THAT WAS LONG. 2600 words, a new record for me. This is my first time writing for Italy and Germany (and HRE, for that matter), so I'm honestly quite worried about how it comes off... I do realise it got awfully cheesy at the end, but I always had a pretty clear idea about how it would happen between these two. It would just be a sudden realisation and... That's that. The incident in bed, during the thunderstorm, was taken from the Chibitalia strips, although I changed the way HRE addresses Chibitalia to fit my (borrowed from a friend's) headcanon, which is that HRE calls Chibitalia "Italia". This definitely helped me flesh out my own headcanon of how Italy is (definitely not half as silly as everyone thinks him to be), and I hope it's what the two OPs wanted.
Edit: I've gotten some feedback about this ending too abruptly/wanting this to continue, but I'm quite at a loss for ideas, other than seeing how this changes the relationship between Germany and Italy. Any ideas, readers? I love suggestions.