Ah, hello Hetalia fandom! So, um, this isn't my first fanfiction ever nor is it my first Hetalia fanfic. However, it is my first Hetalia fic being posted here. I'm a little nervous 'cause it's a new fandom and I'm outta my comfort zone, but I was given a bit of confidence (via a lovely writer by the name of Atomic Lilith) to post this here. It's a little headcanon heavy so if something's vague I apologize. (I have yet to actually write such headcanon, though.)

Ve... Well, that's enough for my ramble. Please R&R and enjoy!

Holy Roman Empire took Italy to a cathedral and Italy learned Holy Rome played the organ.

The sun shone bright over the Italian sky, lighting up the pristine white buildings lining the grey cobblestone Holy Rome led the young Italian province along. Their childish glee seemed to only add to the white glow of the street as they ran, Holy Rome puling Italy down the road by his hand.

The two were still laughing in hushed tones as they snuck into the back of the cathedral, shushing each other as they walked through a back hall lined by doors neither were sure if occupied and stained glass windows depicting stories from the Holy Bible.

The Sanctuary was magnificent, and little Italy didn't fail to tell Holy Rome this after the dark clad boy pushed open a heavy wooden door. Holy Rome simply blushed heavily and sputtered a little and he didn't stop until he had seated Italy in one of the long benches. Italy stared curiously after the young empire with his seemingly closed eyes, watching as Holy Rome's black cloak fluttered around him and brushed along black boots thudding quietly against the red carpet. Holy Rome strode past the wooden pews and up to a grand organ, large with silvery pipes rising up from it.

The mood has shifted, Italy recognizes as Holy Rome took a seat in front the mighty instrument and Italy can feel nervousness from Holy Rome where he sat.

(As well as a desire for something and determination; Italy smiled quietly in acknowledgement.)

A worn, small boot pressed on to a gold pedal as stubby fingers pressed down ivory and black keys and the organ roared to life.

Italy's breath caught in his throat and his heart pounded in his chest.

Strong, small, hands glided and played such a deep, melodious composition that the young Italy could see his dear grandfather lifting his voice to; Italy knew, in that instant, that Grandpa Rome would have showered the black clad child with a beam and gaze of pride.

It is a masterpiece, Italy recognizes, and he graces it with his undivided attention, eyes open, and admires the imagery the light streaming in from stained glass paints. Strokes of purples, blues, greens, and soft pinks streak across the grand organ like a splash and yet Holy Rome, staged in the center and before the mighty instrument, bathed in a white light from a window above, a cross in it creating a long cross shadow on his form.

Italy thought Holy Rome has never looked so much like his namesake than here and in this moment.

The piece finished when the final decrescendo ends in an abrupt halt; and as the powerful notes echoed and lingered, Italy tried not to liken it to his nonno - so strong yet struck down so fast, so sudden- and did his best not to liken it to this blond nation before him.

(Because war was coming and war was what took Grandpa Rome away. And who's to say war won't take Holy Rome, who longs to be grand like the legend and is already so similar to the great?)

Holy Rome turned to him, bright blue eyes meeting equally bright amber, and not a single word was spoken. Something deep churned in their hearts and reflected in their eyes; something of naivety, something of a maturity that only they possessed because of who they were.

(Mere children? Budding nations?)

A silent promise slowly lit their eyes and the pair let it soothe their worries of the future that was becoming increasingly uncertain.

…

Italy only returned to that cathedral twice: Once, after Holy Rome left to war, twice, shortly after he found out Holy Rome will never return from war.

It's become an annual thing, since the Italian Unification, for Italy to find an old cathedral –never the one of his childhood however- and to seat himself in front of the grand organ and play the very song Holy Rome played for him.

He's never alone because Prussia always joins him, flute in hand and the very same song in mind and heart in a flute arrangement.

It's a mutual relationship and understanding because they both lost somebody special on the day of August sixth and so they meet, just for the hour, and play together in mutual mourning.

The organ harmonizes with Prussia's flute; the whimsical sound of the flute and the organ's airy bellow fill the Sanctuary with a unique, grandiose harmony both pretend was the victory march Holy Roman Empire never got to hear. Prussia pretends that Holy Rome is holding his head high, footsteps in sync with his flute's notes as the whistle promises a return home and Italy pretends that the organ's breathy roar is a congratulations for a battle well fought, a promise that had been kept.

And after they are done, as the organ's final notes echo over the flute's quiet whisper, Prussia grins down at Italy and says every time,

"You're getting better at this every year, lil' Italy!"

And Italy will grin up at the albino,

"Ve~ Thanks, Prussia!"

And the rest of the hour is theirs to catch up with each other and reminisce.

…

It's become tradition and it's the sole reason why Prussia continues to tell Italy, "You're getting better every year!" Because neither one look forward to that statement. It's a subtle (loud) reminder that it's another year gone that Holy Rome isn't there.

It's painful, sometimes, to be by Germany's side.

There are so many similarities between the two that it brings Italy near to tears; His blond hair, his fair skin, those blue eyes, and the way he dreams so big-

But Italy knows Germany is not Holy Rome.

He knows because of the way he speaks (there are times Italy misses that Latin accent) and in the way he carries himself (because Holy Rome felt uncertain around him; there is nothing but strength in the German nation).

Italy notices it the most, however, staring into Germany's eyes.

They are of the same shade of brilliant blue and aged with maturity. But Italy can see it clearly whenever he stares at Germany the same way as he stared at Holy Rome in the cathedral, eyes open, deep with a maturity he's kept since then, and more.

Germany will only frown deeper under the Italian's gaze, his dark blond brows furrowing just a slight and snap out in his deep, German-accented voice, "Why are you staring at me like that?"

It makes Italy sigh, but he masks it with happiness Germany can detect and won't question, because Italy doesn't want him to know he's looking for something he knows he won't find in Germany. So, he widens his smile and says,

"Ve~ You have pretty, blond hair!"

(Or, "Ve~ Germany's skin is so much lighter than mine…!"

Or, "You're really buff, Germany~!"

Or, "Green really suits you, ve~"

Or something mundane.)

The forced happiness on Italy's face is becomes more gentle and genuine as a rosy blush spreads on Germany's face from embarrassment and flattery and Italy can't help but see that little boy in black, a red flush on his face from just standing next to him.

That blush, too, is painful, no matter how endearing.

…

Italy isn't stupid enough to think Germany is Holy Rome's replacement.

War is all Europe has ever known, and everybody was convinced that war was what Europe will ever know, so as the aftermath of the Second World War becomes the Cold War –a war that's not quite a war –most of Europe is in peace.

(Or really, a sense of faux peace.)

It's no clue that although there is much to be done in Germany, there is no war, and as a person who strives at war and really has only known war, Germany (Ludwig) doesn't quite know how to live.

On a promise between him and Prussia, even though he probably should have left after Italy declared war, even though he should have left after his lands were ravaged, even though he should have left after the war, Italy (Feliciano) stayed.

(He probably would have stayed even if there hadn't been a promise to uphold.)

Italy promised Prussia that when the time of wars has passed, he would be the one to stay by Germany's side and teach him the subtleties of life, how to enjoy the given peace, and to make the best of a life he now has set in stone.

So with gentle hands, with a soothing voice, and with a warm smile, Italy softly seated Germany on his porch in his home in Venice and placed a blank canvas in front of the tall German. Tired, yet just as brilliant, blue eyes settled on the Italian's form as Italy, too, sat next to Germany with a white canvas before him. Italy directed his warm smile to Germany, a paintbrush in his left hand and his right offering a brush to his partner, and said,

"Germany, I'm going to teach you how to paint."

…

It was, of course, a task Italy choice because he and Holy Rome painted together all those centuries ago. However, Italy never once thought of that little boy of long ago as he taught Germany how to capture a snippet of peace on a blank canvas. Germany fumbled, made clumsy strokes, and created an abstract piece of art, but Italy saw that everlasting crease between Germany's brow disappear, his stiff shoulders loosen, and a calm gloss over those blue eyes. Germany was slightly annoyed (yet awed) when he saw that Italy had painted him in a moment on tranquil instead of the peaceful Venice.

Italy took Germany to a cathedral and Germany learned Italy could play the organ.

The Cold War had long past, world tensions were easing, and if Italy knew any better, he'd say this was the closest thing that the world can accomplish as World Peace.

Because there wasn't a threat of war (a threat that he'll lose another beloved person) Italy took Germany, hand in hand, with an enthusiastic Prussia alongside, and led him into a grand cathedral on a warm, Italian August sixth.

Both Italy and Prussia were still exuberant as their personalities dictate and Germany still protested to being dragged around the Mediterranean country and their cheer as his personality dictates. It's as the cheerful nations entered the cathedral did the cheer dim; Prussia's loud voice and laughter reduced to a withdrawn smirk and Italy's infectious laughter and bubbly speech quieted to a simple, small smile.

Prussia walked on ahead towards the grand organ at the front of the cathedral with his flute case in hand as Italy lingered behind to seat Germany in one of the long pews, reassuring the muscular man with a slightly wider smile as Germany picked up on the solemn mood.

The walk to the large organ seemed long, as it did every year, and the pain in his heart echoed in his ears with every thud against his ribcage. (Perhaps this was how Holy Rome felt that one day?) But he set aside that pain as he passed Prussia; their eyes met and a reassuring smirk was given by the ex-nation and Italy returned it with a light smile. Italy took in a deep breath as he sat, the sound of his pulsing heart fading to a muffled thud, and…

An expensive Italian brand shoe pressed on to a gold pedal as long fingers pressed down ivory and black keys and the organ roared to life.

The cathedral was quickly filled with a centuries old composition, one with memories of a past revisited with every note played. It is a masterpiece, Italy recognizes just as easily as he did a time ago and he can feel Germany's eyes on him; he knows Germany, too, thinks it a masterpiece.

And when the piece came to an end, just as abrupt and the echo of the grand organ overlapping the whisper of the flute, Italy turned to Germany, bright amber eyes meeting bright blue, and not a word was spoken.

Something deep churned in their hearts and reflected through their eyes; something of maturity from past naivety, something of experiences learned from who they were.

(Superpower nations? Feliciano and Ludwig.)

They both smiled, however how wide or small, at the promises they found there and the promises that were kept.

…

The connection is broken, of course, when Prussia slings an arm around Italy and laughs, "I think that was the best one yet, lil' Italy!" and Italy laughs with him, grateful for the break in tradition.

Germany (Ludwig) is not Holy Rome.

But that's already known.