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"DOITSU, DOITSU!! GERMANY, GERMANY!!!"
I groaned. For Gott's sake, it was 5 A.M. What now?
"What is it?" I said to the little head that was peeping into my bedroom. "And didn't I say to call me 'Vatti?'"
The door opened wider, flooding the night with light from the hall. "I know," said the tiny voice, "but Mommy calls you that…"
I sighed. 'Mommy' was lying next to me, passed out like he normally was. Charging tanks cannot wake him up when he's tired—believe me, I know from experience. Since he was unlikely to wake up, I was left dealing with our child on my own.
I heard whimpering coming from the door. "Come here, now," I said softening. "What is it?"
"Well…" the little voice squeaked, "I had a nightmare…"
"Hmmm?"
The child whimpered, and then buried her head into my chest.
"I DREAMED THAT THERE WAS NO MORE PASTA OR WURST LEFT!!!!"
I tried to stifle a snort. This was the nightmare?
"That would be bad," I said awkwardly.
She looked up at me expectantly. What? Was I supposed to say more? Obviously, the world still had wurst and pasta. What else was there to say?
When I didn't take her hint, she tried again. "Mommy always sings to me to make me fall asleep," she said.
Mein Gott. I cannot sing.
"Just go to sleep, ja?"
She shook her head adamantly. "I can't sleep unless someone sings to me!!!" Her eyes started to brim with tears. Whiny children. If she had not been my daughter, I would have a good mind to kick her out of the house.
But she is my daughter, so seeing her on the edge of sobbing made my heart melt.
"OK, OK," I said. "What song do you want?"
"How about that song about boiling hot water?" she says, instantly perking up. "That's what Mommy always sings."
No. I WILL NOT sing about pasta.
"Look," I said, "here's a song mein brother used to sing to me."
And, as softly as I could, I began to chant, "Bring on the fire, bring on the hell, set everything ablaze so that no trace remains…"
She started to cry harder, blubbering about scary Englishmen. Mommy has taught her too well.
"Don't cry," I said, patting her on the back awkwardly. "Here, I'll tell you a story instead."
She sniffled. "Okay," she said, and looked up at me expectantly.
"Okay," I said, and cleared my throat. "Once upon a time…"
Before I could continue any more, she had already fallen asleep in my arms, her mouth forming the words, 'Vatti,' 'pasta,' and 'wurst,' as she dreamed about something pleasanter. I shook my head, half annoyed, and half amused, as I set her down between Feliciano and me.
Just as I was about to drift into dreamland, Feli gave out a loud whimper, and shook my shoulder.
"DOITSU, DOITSU!! GERMANY, GERMANY!!! I HAD A BAD DREAM ABOUT NO MORE PASTA!!!!!"
I groaned again.
I groaned. For Gott's sake, it was 5 A.M. What now?
"What is it?" I said to the little head that was peeping into my bedroom. "And didn't I say to call me 'Vatti?'"
The door opened wider, flooding the night with light from the hall. "I know," said the tiny voice, "but Mommy calls you that…"
I sighed. 'Mommy' was lying next to me, passed out like he normally was. Charging tanks cannot wake him up when he's tired—believe me, I know from experience. Since he was unlikely to wake up, I was left dealing with our child on my own.
I heard whimpering coming from the door. "Come here, now," I said softening. "What is it?"
"Well…" the little voice squeaked, "I had a nightmare…"
"Hmmm?"
The child whimpered, and then buried her head into my chest.
"I DREAMED THAT THERE WAS NO MORE PASTA OR WURST LEFT!!!!"
I tried to stifle a snort. This was the nightmare?
"That would be bad," I said awkwardly.
She looked up at me expectantly. What? Was I supposed to say more? Obviously, the world still had wurst and pasta. What else was there to say?
When I didn't take her hint, she tried again. "Mommy always sings to me to make me fall asleep," she said.
Mein Gott. I cannot sing.
"Just go to sleep, ja?"
She shook her head adamantly. "I can't sleep unless someone sings to me!!!" Her eyes started to brim with tears. Whiny children. If she had not been my daughter, I would have a good mind to kick her out of the house.
But she is my daughter, so seeing her on the edge of sobbing made my heart melt.
"OK, OK," I said. "What song do you want?"
"How about that song about boiling hot water?" she says, instantly perking up. "That's what Mommy always sings."
No. I WILL NOT sing about pasta.
"Look," I said, "here's a song mein brother used to sing to me."
And, as softly as I could, I began to chant, "Bring on the fire, bring on the hell, set everything ablaze so that no trace remains…"
She started to cry harder, blubbering about scary Englishmen. Mommy has taught her too well.
"Don't cry," I said, patting her on the back awkwardly. "Here, I'll tell you a story instead."
She sniffled. "Okay," she said, and looked up at me expectantly.
"Okay," I said, and cleared my throat. "Once upon a time…"
Before I could continue any more, she had already fallen asleep in my arms, her mouth forming the words, 'Vatti,' 'pasta,' and 'wurst,' as she dreamed about something pleasanter. I shook my head, half annoyed, and half amused, as I set her down between Feliciano and me.
Just as I was about to drift into dreamland, Feli gave out a loud whimper, and shook my shoulder.
"DOITSU, DOITSU!! GERMANY, GERMANY!!! I HAD A BAD DREAM ABOUT NO MORE PASTA!!!!!"
I groaned again.
Literature
GerIta -- Nightmare
Warning: Slash pairing.
Italy didn't consider himself a slave to routine. Even though Germany would get upset and yell at him whenever he showed up late or skipped out on training altogether, the auburn-haired nation couldn't bring himself to care. He liked sometimes staying in for breakfast or skipping down to the coffee shop; he liked sometimes stopping to pick flowers or chat with pretty girls; he liked sometimes taking a siesta or going into town for the afternoon. Every day was a little bit different, and Italy was happy to have variety.
But even amongst the random variables of his day, one aspect never changed that Germany woul
Literature
Ti Amo, Insegnante -GerIta-
Sitting in his German class, Feliciano winced slightly as something hit the back of his head. Turning around, he noticed a scrunched up piece of paper on the floor just behind his chair. Picking up the paper, he turned back around in his seat, unfurled it, and began to read;
Hey Vargas,
Stop talking so loud when we have to recite the German numbers. It's a complete embarrassment to think that the person, who can be clearly heard above the rest because of his voice-that-refuses-to-break, is a boy. Just because you're a poof, doesn't mean you should drag the rest of the men in the room down with you.
Feliciano sniffled slightly as he heard
Literature
GerIta Drabble- Remembering
"Vee, Doitsu! Doitsu, where are you?" Italy cried out, looking frantically from side to side. Usually he could find the German nation sitting in his office, working on important paperwork. At least, that was what Ludwig called it. Feliciano didn't like it when Ludwig had work to do- that always meant less time for fun things, and Feliciano thought Ludwig needed to relax more often. But now, Feliciano couldn't find his German companion, and he was getting worried. What if Ludwig left the house, leaving Feliciano alone? Feliciano didn't like being alone. He lost all motivation to do anything- even eating pasta- while he was alone. Glancing arou
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