Memories: Rewritten

Chapter 11: Soulmates

Hundreds of boots thud in the dirt, their marching growing more faint as the troops began to set out. Germany opened his eyes and the world appeared before him, the leaves of the trees blurring together like a Monet painting. The outlines of every cloud and person wobbled like a shaky hand scribbled the world into existence, and when Germany looked down towards his hands, he realized he was Holy Rome.

"Holy Rome! Wait!" a voice called.

He watched as Italy scurried towards him, the wind ruffling the pleats of his skirt. Teardrops raced from his cheeks and flew into the air behind him as he approached. Italy held his pushbroom out, his small fists grasping it with all his strength.

"I'll give this to you," he squeaked, his voice quivering as the severity of the moment set in, "think of it as me and take it with you, Holy Rome."

Holy Rome racked his brain for why Italy would offer a broom as a parting gift. He began reflecting on every moment they'd been together, every time they chased one another through the meadow, every time he blushed from something as simple as his touch, and only then did the significance of the broom dawn on him: when they first met. He remembered opening the door and watching Italy sweep the floor, and the way Italy bounced with each movement made his heart flutter. The recollection of that memory brought upon the first sense of self-doubt: was the war worth it? Was he making the right decision? He juggled both possibilities, one being to stay home, the other to fight for more, and when he returned to reality to see Italy's trembling hands offering a piece of their lives for him to cherish, he knew he needed to fight. He wanted to come home with enough territory for Italy to frolic through flowers and paint every inch of the landscape for the rest of his life. Leaving would hurt in the moment, but only for a moment, and when he came home, it would have been worth it.

Holy Rome took the broom into his own hands, spinning the handle as he took in every sense of the scene: the wood felt smooth against his skin, the wind sent flurries of leaves through the air, the smell of the freshly trodden earth swept through his nose. He eagerly looked forward to his return.

"Thank you," he smiled, "I accept your feelings. When the war is over, I'll definitely come see you."

The world crumbled into a black abyss beneath his feet and Holy Rome fell backwards into it, the passage of time slowing as he frantically waved one arm in an attempt to steady himself, the other tightly gripping the broom. Above him, he could see a clone of himself still standing with Italy, the sky slowly fading to nothing. The two embraced and somehow, on his own shoulder, Holy Rome could feel the tears soaking through his cloak. The air left his lungs and he gasped for air. When he hit the floor of the abyss, he jolted awake.

Germany lay on his back, the covers of his bed kicked to the floor. As he opened his eyes, he felt beads of water trickling down his temples. Bringing the back of his hands to his eyes, he rubbed them to reveal the tears his eyelids had harbored while he was asleep. The last line that escaped his lips twisted his stomach into knots: When the war is over, I'll definitely come see you. He never came home. Italy waited for him. The rose-colored dream of flowers and painting and a lifetime of unity shattered when he was informed that Holy Rome didn't make it. He pictured Italy snapping every paintbrush into slivers of broken promises and his broom being stuffed into the farthest, most forgotten corner of the basement, never to see the light of day again–was the war worth it in the end?

He typically left the curtains slightly parted so the sunlight could beam into his room in the early morning hours, but with the weight of his discovery dragging his soul further into darkness, he drew them shut the night before. The sun attempted to peek through the fabric to no avail. Germany rose from his bed and walked to the dresser, pulling out another tank top and pair of sweatpants. He'd left the broom, cloak, and photo album on the dresser top, and as he stared at his folded cloak, he had no desire to don his military uniform. Choosing one outfit or another felt like choosing between which identity he would embrace, and with his soul split in two, neither felt right. After changing and grabbing his phone from the charger, he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and style his hair.