Something of Secrets

by Katia-chan

A/N: I am not dead. See? See? I wrote stuff. First adventure into Hetalia, hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: None of this is mine.

XXX

At first, he was happy.

There's one shining and terrible moment where he finds someone else in his head. There are other faces, other conversations, memories to fill in what had been an empty space. There are days in Austria's house, when things had been fairytale simple and fairytale complicated, and they'd all been so young, wild and unformed, and all of it looks better for the years of neglect and disuse.

It buzzes around his head, words and pictures and faces, and he is positively bursting with that second set of memories and thoughts when he comes into the yard. Italy is sitting outside, and as Germany approaches, he catches a vague distant look which younger man promptly replaces with a sunny smile of greeting.

"VE~," he beams.

And there was a little girl…

His footsteps slow, and he stares at the young man, curled cat-like in the warm summer grass, peering up at him with that perpetually cheerful expression. It's hard to reconcile the images of the little girl in the apron with the flighty boy at his feet, whose attention is fixed on Germany's face, but the longer he stands and looks, the more the images come together, collect into a picture of embraces and gifts and the kind of devotion only children can possess.

And with that, the happiness is gone. He feels himself wilting where he stands, Italy watching him with a faint frown crinkling his vacantly happy expression.

"Is Germany alright? He looks like he's going to be sick." He scooches away from Germany, as if sickness is his legitimate concern, even while the faint worry lines persist, not matching the childish gesture.

"Stop that," he snaps, his voice rougher than usual. "What are you doing out here?"

"Just enjoying the sun," and with that Italy flops onto his back, grinning up at him. Germany can't help a little grin back, though it feels like it will send fracture lines through his face. Because over that contented expression he can see far-off stares, clenching fingers, can hear quickly stifled sighs and the silence that comes after a thought that is left unspoken. Italy never spoke of it, and there were so many things he didn't understand before, or dismissed without a thought. But he understands now, and it hurts.

"…Italy?" The name is out of his mouth before he thinks, and he closes his teeth over it. The young man looks up from the grass, and there is nothing in his face to indicate that he heard the heaviness Germany can feel in his voice.

"Yes?"

He stands, frozen in place, soldier straight. No one talks about the eternally young boy who lived with Austria anymore; everyone has forgotten him now, or placed him among the relics of the dead. Now they all mourn far more for Italy… And he wonders if he could make that better. He could go to him and hold him, and tell him he came home.

But he's not Holy Roman Empire anymore. He is tough no-nonsense all business Germany, with his rigid rules and limited patience. He loves Italy, now knows he always has, in his own way, but it's different now; it's changed.

And Italy said goodbye to the sweet boy who declared his love for her and promised to return one day. He gave his heart to that boy who never came back, who became a casualty of wars and treaties and surrender. And he buried him, too, a long time later, and after so much slowly fading hope. Holy Roman Empire had that part of Italy, and Italy mourned his childhood sweetheart, with memories made sweeter by pain, and loss, and time.

Who was Germany, with his tidiness and his rules and his gruff manners to take that away from him?

"Germany?" Italy's voice breaks into his thoughts, curious and perhaps a bit hesitant. He blinks, looks down to where the boy watches him, eyes locked intently on Germany's face.

And he knows he'll lie.

"Nothing. Not important." He shakes his head to clear it, and sits down on the grass beside Italy, leaning back on his splayed fingers. "Don't track grass into the house, or I'm not letting you come back." Empty threats, and Italy protests loudly and predictably, and Germany smiles, gently swatting his young companion on the side of his head, eliciting more cheerful complaints.

He'll keep his secret, and let Holy Roman Empire fade, for good this time. He'll miss him, in a way, a ghostly tingling of a limb long gone. But so many years after that first death, it's a sacrifice he knows he's willing to make.

Does he have the right to decide that for Italy?

But he knows he couldn't live up to a resurrection, and he can't (or won't) ask Italy to choose. Perhaps he doesn't want to know the answer…

"But you'd get it all over the floors too!" A puff of grass covers his boots, launched by a grinning Italy, who promptly scoots away in crab-walk retreat, inviting the chase and eventual capture and revenge.

…or perhaps he already knows.