Word count: 1028

Genre: fluff

Rating: worksafe

Note: Written on my cell phone on the way back from the week in the mountains with my family. It almost made my fingers bleed.

When he first found it, stuffed away in an old and surprisingly messy part of his house, Germany instantly went to ask his brother why in the name of Gott he insisted on saving these kind of old and useless antiques. But when Prussia saw the old brush – old enough to be an artefact belonging to a museum, Germany thought – the ex-nation just shrugged and told him he really wasn't his, but something that Germany, in the times before he even became Germany, had refused to get rid of when asked. He'd never told why the cleaning tool was so important, but he'd apparently fought to keep it with tooth and nail.

"Ya looked damn hilarious, West, clinging to that thing whenever I didn't keep an eye on ya! I mean, seriously, a deck brush? I could've understood if it'd been your girlfriend's panties or somethin', but…" his brother said, laughing.

Germany thought that he may have been able to see what was amusing about the whole picture if it hadn't been for the fact that he always felt so unsettled by how he couldn't remember his own childhood. Not at all. Most countries had at least some memories of their beginnings; he knew for example that Prussia could remember the times when he'd been smaller than for example Sealand, and Austria had more than once told the story of him and Switzerland (no matter how reluctantly) in the early times. Yet, Germany had never been able to recall being as small as they described themselves. Actually, he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been taller than the man calling himself his older brother, even.

However, he would have felt really awkward letting Italy know that he knew himself so badly (especially when Italy knew him so well), so when he told the other Axis about his find, and the story behind the deck brush passed on by Prussia, he added one of his rare laughs, tinted heavily by awkwardness through lack of practice, just t be certain that it didn't sound like he put too much weight into something that obviously happened a long time ago.

A time too long ago to remember.

However, upon seeing Italy's face pale in a very uncharacteristic way, his eyes wide as he stared at his ally, no wait, not at Germany; at something he seemed to suddenly have discovered just beneath his skin, he realized he might have discovered something huge and world-changing along with the old cleaning tool.

"Holy Roman Empire…" Italy mumbled, and Germany had no idea what he meant by it as he reached out and took the blond nation's hand, still staring at him like he was seeing him for the first time. It was strange to see him like this, eyes wide open and full with something unnamable, something akin to longing, or maybe the end of longing, and definitely a hint of feelings forgotten, a kind of wisdom regained, that suited Italy very well at the same time as it didn't suit him at all. And Germany understood that while his had-come-to-be protégé never spoke of it, he was, in fact, one of those countries whose memory went back almost to the beginning.

It was a strange realization.

And for reasons that were even stranger to him, it made his heart pound just a few paces faster.

It wasn't until he squeaked and pulled his hand away that Germany realized that they'd been standing there for over five minutes in silence. (Italy, staying silent for five whole minutes? Completely unheard of.) But then the magic (because it had to be magic, he thought) was broken, and Italy pulled his hand from Germany's and took a few steps back, backing away from him, eyes still wide, but now filled with another emotion, something frightened that Germany didn't like on him – never had – in the least.

"I have to go home!" Italy said, his voice high-pitched and unstable.

"I—what?" Germany stuttered.

"I have to go home right now! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I mean I didn't know. Romano ate all the snacks, and maybe me too, a little, I'm sorry! But I'm going to home now, okay, and make snacks, lots of them! So just wait a little! I'll go make them now! Lots and loooots of them!"

His tone was so panicked that it didn't take long for Germany to distinguish this ramble from his usual ones, and determine that this was a plea of apology that came from the heart, not just fear for his own safety. Once again, a new side of Italy that he decided he didn't like. He held up a hand to halt the rant.

"Stop it, just stop it! I have no idea what you're talking about! Go home, you say? We're in the middle of a conversation!"

Italy lowered his gaze to his hands, which had taken to fumbling with the hem of his jacket. "But I promised…" he mumbled, looking up with a hint of a smile on his lips – an improvement, but still nowhere hear the idiotic beaming that he normally wore as if trying to make a second sun. "And I always keep my promises."

Germany shook his head. "As I said; I have no idea what you are talking about. Rather than snacks, could we sit down somewhere and discuss this?"

Italy nodded. "Okay. I know a nice café, and we can get ice cream."

Germany just nodded, and followed, still confused, still not sure about whether he liked the turn these events had taken, but calmed a bit at least by the normality added to the suggestion. Well, as normal as Italy usually got, that was.

Well seated, and well with two huge bowls of the gelato di frutta speciale before them, Italy spoke up between spoons.

"It begun with him. You." A pause to look at Germany with eyes that held a thousand unspoken promises, and for the first time since he opened his mouth that morning, Germany felt his shoulders relax, because they were promises of change for the better. "You gave me this awful tasting dinner…"