Ne, can we go back to that place? Where the sun was always shining, the sky was always blue. Where the flowers always bloomed.

Italy would never, could never forget his face. Holy Roman Empire's. Such an odd face, he once thought. It often scowled and had such intense expressions. When he was very little, he thought it was very scary.

But then, but then...

He would smile. And his features would look so kind. It was an expression so warm and different. So loving, Italy later supposed .

Ne, ne. Can we go back to that time? When the wind blew so softly. When the scent of spring perfumed the air. When you held me tightly in your arms.

Italy had been afraid. He'd been frightened more so than he had ever been before. He didn't want Roma to go. He didn't want him to leave. But he couldn't join him either. If he did, if he did... Holy Roman Empire might fall. Just like Rome-jiisan. And Italy didn't want that. He didn't want that all.

But he didn't want to be alone either.

Don't leave me. Please stay. His heart cried out as he waved good-bye. Don't leave me all by myself! Please don't go! He begged as he smiled. Shouting his farewell with bits of advice.

Italy didn't remember much after that. The only thing he could recall... That night was the darkest he ever lived through. When had the bed gotten so big? He had wondered. The room felt so empty. He felt empty.

Painting with you, living with you. Laughing with you. Smiling with you. We'll do it again. Someday, right?

Roma wasn't here anymore. He left. But he was coming back right? He promised. He said so. He said so. And Italy clung unto that tiny hope. That insignificant ray of light. Roma would definitely come back. He had to. He absolutely had to.

"Ever since the 900s, I've always, always loved you."

Roma was so very important to Italy. He really, truly was. It hurt to see him leave. Hurt more than anybody's bullying. So, when news that the Thirty-Year War had ended. That France-nii had come to visit. Italy had hoped. Oh god, he hoped so deeply. That Roma was there. That he was back. Please be back.

To Italy, it was an unquestionable fact that Roma would be back. He just had to be patient, like waiting for the pasta to cook. So when France told him to forget. To just forget about Holy Roman Empire. Because he was...Because he was...

Don't leave me!

"He promised. He promised!"

I'm begging you!

Italy hardly cries. He might whimper. He might whine. But he never cried. Bawled his eyes out and sobbed for all that he was worth. Italy was a very optimistic fellow. Very warm.

Not that night.

"No matter how many hundreds of years go by, I'll always love you more than anyone in the world."

Every memory returned him. Every single moment. With such crystal-clear clarity, it was painful. Italy remembered his face. His shy smile. His awkward gestures. Italy had to. They were the only things left.

I want to return to that time. To that place. So vivid in my heart. Where you kissed me softly and said, "I love you."

But we can't. Can we?