He was not shot in the end, nor was he even further harmed. Instead, Italy was marched out of his familiar country, and the nervous nation found himself the prisoner of a strange enemy who, by rights, should not have been. Whenever Germany's back was turned, Italy sat on the floor and watched him, confused and hungry and maybe still a little frightened. Once he was sure the other nation really, honestly had no intention of shooting him, he even ventured to ask him questions, most of which were answered curtly.

"You are Germany, right?"

"Ja."

"Okay, just wanted to make sure. Do you like pasta?"

"Sure, why not."

"You're sure you're not going to kill me?"

"Ja."

"How long have you been a country?"

"Since 1806."

1806. The year that big brother France had visited him, told him his loved one wouldn't be returning, and asked him to do the impossible and forget him. Italy suppressed a shudder at the same time that his heart gave a little leap at this piece of knowledge. Italy could put two and two together; after all, skill with business required skill with math.

But could Germany really be Holy Rome? As crazy and unbelievable as it was, he had to be. Italy was sure of it. No matter how long it had been since Holy Rome had left for war, his face was permanently branded in Italy's memory. In fact, it was so familiar that it now hurt to look at him for long, because so far, that face was the only familiar thing about him. What truly scared Italy was the possibility that there was a good reason for that.

Was he just so lonely and scared and desperate for a friend in this war that he was seeing one that wasn't there?

A clatter and scrape broke through Italy's increasingly miserable thoughts (completely invisible behind his glazed, foolish expression) as Germany sullenly placed a plate of food on the floor beside him and nudged it closer before stalking off.

For a moment Italy simply stared at it, blinking. His stomach growled, but he barely heard the noise over the sound of a half-forgotten memory.

"I'm so hungry. ...Hold on... is that food? Is it there for me? ...Thank you, whoever you are!"

Italy ate, turning his back to the direction Germany had gone, just in case the other nation returned in time to see his face. The liverwurst wasn't quite as good as Italian sausage, and the potatoes were just undercooked enough to be slightly crunchy.

It was delicious.

Captivity had never been much of a problem for Italy. It wasn't that it rarely happened; it simply happened so much that it barely fazed him anymore. He'd spent hundreds of years at Austria's beck and call, after all, and as long as he was Germany's prisoner of war, all he had to do was sit quietly like a good little captive. In fact, it was fairly similar to staying in a box in the middle of the woods all day. No one was going to bother him while he was here, and the only real differences were things like food and a comfortable place to sit. So what if said food wasn't up to Italy's standards? It was edible, it was regular, and he could eat it without nursing a crick in his back.

If he could just eat it without feeling sick to his stomach, it would be almost perfect.

Germany, or whatever he was called now, treated him like a stranger, and even to Italy it was obvious that his former friend no longer knew him. He knew of him, he know who he was and who his grandfather was (and that didn't mean anything because everyone knew that), but he did nothing to hint that he recognized Italy as a friend.

As a love.

As the little boy in green that he'd promised to return to when the war was over, but then he didn't, and even though he was here now, where was he?

As the child who'd waited so patiently (asking Mr. Austria only once a day when Holy Rome was coming back was still patient, wasn't it?) for years for Holy Rome to come home, only to be told that he'd never see him again. Now Holy Rome was here, but when Italy looked at him, a total stranger glared back.

And yet, he was alive, and that fact alone made everything so much more complicated, when "complicated" wasn't something Italy dealt with well.

So Italy met Germany's sullen, irritated glares with the same dopey smiles he put on for everyone else, partly to pacify his captor, but mostly because if he didn't keep that smile pasted over his face, he would burst into tears. If he did, then Germany might ask him why, and Italy couldn't answer that question when he wasn't sure himself.

Because I've missed you so much, and I've been waiting for you for so long, and I can't tell you how happy I am that you're okay.

Because I've missed you so much, and I've been waiting for you for so long, but... you still aren't back yet.

Both answers would have been honest. Italy was at a loss as to which he would have used.

It wasn't a total loss; no, it wasn't a loss at all. After a century without hope of ever seeing Holy Rome again, he finally had him back, or as close to back as he could get. So, fine. Italy could accept terms that were less than favorable to him. He'd been doing it long enough.

He was proud of himself, really. After centuries of taking orders from much stronger nations, he hadn't much practice in making executive decisions for himself, but here was, making one right now. If Holy Rome didn't remember him, then Italy would stay by him and rebuild that precious friendship brick by brick until he did. And he would. He had to.

He just... he had to.

And until then, well, if Germany really was Holy Rome, then it'd be easy for them to be friends, wouldn't it?

It was settled, then. That wasn't so hard.

Still, when Germany interrupted one of his many naps by demanding to know why he never tried to escape, he was caught by surprise, just a little bit. It was okay, though; talking was right up there with eating, drawing, and managing business as one of the things Italy did best. Actually saying anything was another story entirely, but in this case it worked in his favor; while his mouth rattled off a list of excuses about food and security, he gave his real answer privately, silently, in his head.

I waited for you to come home for fifty years, and I thought you were dead for a hundred more. Why on earth would I want to leave you now?

And when his captor, in a fit of irritation, opened the door to let him escape, he did so just to prove that he could if he wanted to. Of course, he came right back, just to prove that he didn't.