A Christmas Gift for Germany

Germany sighed as he spotted the Christmas decorations being putd up in the stores nearby. “Damn, zis time of year again,” he grumbled to himself. “Every year the same old thing…”


“Ve?” Italy looked confused as he looked at his friend through closed eyes. “But Christmas is so much fun, Doitsu! You don’t like it…?”


The German sighed. “Vell, it’s fine for some. But it’s not like I ever get any meaningful gifts.” He looked embarrassed at the memory of previous Christmases. “For some reason everyone always assumes that I vant porn magazines. I don’t even read those! So I end up giving zem to Prussia, and I get nothing for Christmas. It happens every year.”


The Italian looked thoughtful. “So if you got a good gift, something that you really like…” he began slowly. He clapped his hands together in sudden excitement. “…Then you’d like Christmas! Right, Doitsu?”


“I-I suppose,” Germany blinked. “But please don’t trouble yourself with-”


Italy was already racing off. “Don’t worry, Doitsu!” he called cheerfully. “I’ll get you a really good present for this Christmas! Ciao!”


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“Austria-San!” Italy called as he entered the man’s house. “What would be a good present for Doitsu since no one ever gets him anything good? I can’t think of anything, and I said I’d get him something really good!”


The Austrian looked at him in surprise. “Why would you presume that I would know something like that?”


“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t give him a present because you’re a cheapskate, even though you would actually get him a good gift because you pay attention to this sort of thing.”


Austria winced at the insult, then thought about the question since he knew that Italy hadn’t really meant to be mean. “Well, he might not seem like it, but Germany’s a bit of a Romantic. He’s always reading those romance novels when he doesn’t think anyone’s watching.”


“Ve?” Italy gasped. He thought long and hard. “He really likes those? So… would he want a romance novel or something?”


“Most likely,” the other man replied. “Although I’m not aware of the ones he’s already read. And it wouldn’t be much of a gift if you gave him a book he had already read.”


“Then I’ll just write one for him!” Italy exclaimed, all fired up now.


“It’s not that easy to-” Austria started to tell him. But the Italian had already raced off. Sighing to himself, Austria went over to his piano and began to play.


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Writing a story was a lot harder than the Italian had first thought. He sat around for a while with a pencil in hand just staring at the paper, but no words came to mind. Well, words came to mind a lot, but they weren’t anything he could use for a romantic story. They just mainly had to do with pasta.


Eventually he got distracted and ended up sorting through one of the trunks he had in his attic from when he lived at Austria’s place. There was all kinds of stuff in them, and Italy laughed a little when he recalled all the fun times he had had as a kid.


All at once, he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. “Focus,” he scolded himself, doing his best to mock Germany’s tone. “You have a story to write! Get back to working on it!”


He started to close the trunk, but he suddenly spotted something at the very bottom.  Very gently, he picked up the small dress that was now old and worn. Smiling softly at it, Italy recalled that young boy he had met so long ago.


His eyes snapped open as an idea struck him. Forgetting the trunk, Italy raced down the stairs and began to write.


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“Here, you can have these,” Germany sighed as he gave Prussia a handful of porn magazines. “Merry Christmas, I guess.”


His brother laughed loudly in a triumphant sort of way although he hadn’t actually done anything. The Prussian happened to glance out the window, and he grinned.  “It looks like it’s started to rain,” he commented. “Oh, and your girlfriend’s here, West.”


“He’s not my-” Germany started to protest. Then he startled. “Vat? He is?” Without waiting for a response, the German hurried outside.


The Italian stood outside the house, rain soaking him to the bone. He waited patiently for Germany to approach him, a trait he didn’t often show. “I wrote you a story,” he informed the German, thrusting the present into his arms. “I really hope you like it, Doistu.”


Without another word, Italy ran off and didn’t look back.


Frowning in confusion over the other man’s strange behavior, Germany went back inside and began to read.


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Once upon a time there was a little boy that a lot of people thought was a girl because he used to wear dresses all the time. But the boy didn’t mind, because he was living happily with his really nice Grandpa. So he didn’t really care what other people thought about him.


But then his nice Grandpa died, and the boy was sad. He and his brother had to live at the Pianist’s house, and the boy didn’t like it very much. He didn’t get pasta there, so he was even sadder.


At that house, there lived another young boy. This boy wanted to be strong, so he came across as a bit impulsive at times. When he saw the little boy, he fell in love and wanted to marry him.


The little boy was scared of the other boy for a really long time. He would start crying if he saw him, and was always trying to avoid him.


Then the little boy realized that the other boy loved him a whole lot, so he began to love him to. The two were happy for a long time, but then the other boy had to leave.


So the little boy was sad, but the other boy kissed him and promised that he would come back some day. So the little boy said that he would wait, and that’s exactly what he did.


As time passed, the little boy became a grown man. But the other boy never returned, because he had died in battle. So the two were never reunited, and the young boy who was now a man grew up alone as he never stopped waiting to see his love again.


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Germany found Italy sitting on a park bench, the Italian’s face turned up to the sky. “I read your story,” he began, sitting down next to the other man. He hesitated. “How… Was any of it true?”


“All of it,” Italy replied softly, not looking in Germany’s direction. “It was a long time ago.”


“I’m sorry about what happened,” the German shifted uncomfortably. “You must miss him a lot.”


“Not as much as before,” Italy answered, opening his eyes to look into Germany’s own. He smiled a genuine smile. “Because now I have you. So I’m happy now, as long as I can stay by your side.”