Memories: Rewritten

Chapter 5: Making Amends

 The broom was in his hands once more. For the first time since the dream came upon him, the texture of the wood no longer felt as critical to analyze. His attention shifted to the second phase of the dream. He felt the broom slip through his fingers like sand as the unknown voice slithered through his ears. Don't worry...you'll be okay...empire...

Germany gasped and bolted upright. His heart fluttered with the sudden jump to consciousness and he panted as he tried to catch his breath. Nausea twinged his stomach as his eyes darted around his bedroom. The morning sun poured through the sheer curtains, diffusing the rays into a soft glow. The warmth of the light brought him some comfort as the adrenaline began to drip away, the knotting of his stomach slowly dying down as his breathing returned to normal. Prussia's voice unlocked another piece of the puzzle: "Empire" permeated the dream.

He leaned over to the nightstand and picked up his phone. 7:28am. Only one missed text from Italy: I'm home safe! I hope I helped you feel a little better :)

Germany sent a quick response: Good morning, Italy. Yes. Thank you. He set the phone back down on the nightstand and stood up, shaking the lingering sleepiness out of his body as he stretched. Today would be a day of making peace, and the best person to start with would be Austria. He descended the staircase, the familiar creaks echoing throughout the unusually quiet house. Germany made his way to the front door and gazed out the window. Prussia's car was still gone. Sighing, Germany turned around and started making his way towards the kitchen. He passed the door to the drawing room and realized the door still remained shut. Austria typically left the door ajar when he was not occupying the space.

Germany rapped the door with one finger. "Austria?" he called out. No response. He pressed his ear to the door to hear a faint rustling sound. He knocked again, this time trying to twist the door knob. Locked.

Sighing, Germany walked into the kitchen. Nothing had moved since the previous day and it was safe to assume that Austria had not stepped out of the room since entering. As he pulled a bag of coffee grounds from the cabinet, he reflected on the way Italy described Austria the previous night. Austria seldom discussed the way things were before his and Prussia's arrival, and one of the only things he knew about that time period was that Hungary and Italy lived with him. He pictured the dichotomy of Italy and Austria, the former like a puppy that rolled in mud and tracked footprints across a white carpet, the latter like a dissectologist that glued completed jigsaw puzzles together and framed them to preserve the memory of meticulously placing each piece in the perfect spot. In Germany's scattered adolescent memories, Austria appeared young–Germany pictured him even younger, chasing Italy around the house with Hungary in tow, the phone ringing incessantly in an attempt to make hasty negotiations. He pictured Austria returning home at midnight, his clothes torn from war and his face patched with dirt, Hungary wiping it away in the foyer as Italy cowered around the corner. In the present day, Germany poured his coffee. The smell aroused the nausea that had fallen dormant.

Germany now picked through the refrigerator for breakfast ingredients. Scooping up a handful of eggs, he went to work cracking them into a bowl and whisking them up. The situation at hand felt like rolling a dice: no matter what side landed facing up, one side would always be facing down. It felt impossible to achieve everyone's desires with no sides facing down. Someone would inevitably be hurt, someone's feelings would be stepped on for the benefit of another, and presently, there seemed to be no way around it. The bitterness for Prussia remained, nestling itself deeper into his heart. He channeled his frustration through the whisk, breaking up the structure of the yolks and forcing them to blend with the whites. Satisfied with the final result, he poured them into a frying pan, the satisfying sizzle filling the empty room with a little life. He prepared a few slices of toast on the side, all the while contemplating how he would go about talking to Austria.