Fröliche Weihnachten

It's 1943 and there's another bloody war on. Still a bloody war on.

Maybe it's just a sign that he's been around too long, but it seems like there's always a bloody war on.

(Or a sign that he should stop getting himself involved in them.)

To be very specific, it is December 25th, 1943. Christmas Day, whether you happen to celebrate it or not – China, for example, seems like he could care less, boredly watching America fiddling with the radio, trying to tune it properly. The jazzy sound of some big-band-styled Christmas song bounces shortly around the room, crackles and fizzles out again; America tuts in frustration and Russia's eye twitches.

This "Christmas Party". America's idea. Meant as an exercise in team-building-and-togetherness or whatever; which is ironic, given that Canada was, as usual, dismissed as being nonexistent and consequently not invited. Regardless, America tried very hard. He brought the decorations for the meeting room and the radio so that they could have some (of his) music.

Too bad about the rationing. France is picking over the "buffet" right now, muttering to himself in French with a piece of stale white bread half hanging out of his mouth, his stance rather melodramatic. Every now and then he switches to English to ensure that at least two of them will know that he's not impressed and that none of them are to touch the bottle of wine that he brought.

(Not that any of them would dream of it, not so much because of fear of France but rather fear of what's in the wine. France's supplies are just as scarce as everyone else's – it's probably nothing more than a concoction of water, food colouring, sugar and anti-freeze.)

America slams his fist down on the radio and it finally yields to his demands, filling the room with a tinny, lively big-band rendition of 'Jingle Bells'.

Russia takes it into his head to go and see about that wine of France's after all, swiping some of America's bedraggled tinsel out of his way as he rises. China sighs and shifts and drums his fingers on the tabletop, but the rhythm of them is notably in time with the music. America glances around beguilingly, desperate for someone to make eye-contact with. Inevitably, he turns to England – his perpetual, inevitable failsafe – and grins at him.

England wants to roll his eyes. Everything about this is so very… American. The music. The decorations. The decision that Santa Claus (allegedly) looks better in red. The whole—

(America has a sprig of holly tucked into the knot of his tie. There's nothing American about that. Holly, that is.)

The truth is that America got half of his Christmas traditions from England and that England got half of his from…

"Merry Christmas!" America says gleefully, leaning over the table, delighted with the one-person audience he has managed to secure.

England smiles at him; but his mind is elsewhere as his gaze falls on the tiny Christmas tree over on the windowsill. That was America's doing too, but he got it from England, and England…

Well, the first time he ever saw one, he heard it referred to as "tannenbaum".

He has a different reply – or a different language – in mind when he looks back at America, but he keeps it to himself. He did help to start this war, after all. He and France and Germany.

"Merry Christmas," he replies in English; and America beams and England is glad that he is happy with both the sentiment and the mixed mish-mash of Christmas cultural traditions.

(Germany. England wonders if he remembers that day too.)

December 25th, 1914

There was a football in No Man's Land.

The sky was a dark shade of grey and it was raining and the mud was inches thick. Sick to death of the trench, England went under the barbed wire and approached the football with his hands in his pockets, half expecting to get shot for his trouble.

Nothing.

Drenched through, blonde hair plastered to his forehead, he gave the football an experimental tap with his foot. It rolled about a foot or so, the underside coming up slick with mud.

He didn't hear anything, but he sensed the sudden presence so close to him in the vast empty space; raising his head sharply and finding Germany standing barely two metres away, soaked to the skin too, just looking at him.

England tensed, adrenaline spiking as he perceived, through the mist and the rain, his enemy standing before him.

However, Germany very slowly raised both of his hands. They were empty. He was completely unarmed.

After a long moment, debating whether or not to be so foolishly honest, England copied him. He too had come out here without a weapon. He wasn't usually so… well, stupid, but he was tired. He didn't want to fight. Not today; and it seemed that Germany was of an identical mindset.

England dropped his gaze and moved towards the football, stepping on it and rocking it idly back and forth beneath his heel for a moment. He paused, then took his foot off it again and kicked it very gently and slowly towards Germany. It rolled to a halt at the other man's feet and he looked down at it for a long moment, as though considering whether or not this was some kind of threat or attack. When the dirty football did nothing but lie at his feet, he finally gave a nod of understanding and kicked it back.

Whether it lasted one hour or several, it didn't matter. It warmed them up and though neither of them said a word, having come to the truce through actions alone, it was a highly welcome change of pace. There was even something oddly gentlemanly about the way that they played, never really tackling one another, not shoving or kicking the way real footballers did, never mind soldiers or entire warmongering, bullying nations or whatever they were.

By the time they were both too exhausted to carry on, the rain had stopped. Wet and muddy, breathing hard, they sat next to one another in the middle of No Man's Land in silence. At length England took out a hipflask and knocked back a mouthful of rum before offering it to Germany, who took it and didn't so much as wipe it before drinking. England watched him out of the corner of his eye. For the record, he had spent better Christmases than this with Germany. Years ago they had actually been pretty good friends, trading traditions and fairytales by the fire. England had been celebrating Christmas for centuries, but, in the mid-1800s, Germany had showed him "how to do the thing properly". Brightly-wrapped gifts and gingerbread and Christmas trees – those were all German things.

He looked up at the bleak December sky and was still recalling warm glüwein from pretty wooden stalls at Germany's Christmas markets when Germany himself offered him the cigarette case. He wasn't much of a smoker anymore – he'd kind of quit in the early 1600s after spending the best part of the 1500s addicted to it after discovering tobacco – but he took one anyway. Germany leaned across and lit it for him, the flare of the match bright in the dull stillness of No Man's Land.

It wasn't quite glüwein or one of those intricate iced gingerbread hearts on a ribbon, but it wasn't altogether bad. England pushed his wet hair out of his eyes with the same hand holding the cigarette as he exhaled a cloud of smoke; glancing at Germany, who was looking rather worse for wear himself, his usually-neat hair all over the place and mud spattered up the left side of his face.

"Merry Christmas," England said with a bitter smile.

Germany looked at him briefly before averting his blue eyes back to the silhouette of barbed wire against the silver horizon.

"Fröliche Weihnachten," he replied.

—

(The next day, clutching at the piece of shrapnel imbedded in the side of his ribcage, England plunged a bayonet through Germany's back.)

On Christmas Day in 1914 on the Western Front, there was something called the 'Christmas Truce' between the British and German soldiers. They began by singing carols in their respective languages and eventually got out of the trenches and went to meet each other in No Man's Land. They swapped things like chocolate, cigarettes and alcohol, played football (or soccer, as some of you might call it) and generally had as grand an old time as you can manage between two freezing, muddy trenches in the middle of France. When the British and German war generals found out, they vowed that such behaviour would not be tolerated and would never happen again. While there was a (lesser) truce at Christmas in 1915 between French and German troops (again, soon stamped out), the point is that those German and British men who had spent that Christmas Day together more or less as friends went right back to killing one another the moment the truce was over.

Stupid, right? :(

I remember being told about the Christmas Truce in school when I was about nine or ten and it has always stuck in my head, mostly because there is something simultaneously heart-warming and tragic about it. I actually wasn't planning to write anything for Christmas, much less something Hetalia-related, but… eh, the idea came to me and I wrote it. Sorry that it's kind of sad and lacking in Christmas cheer (aside from the embodiment of "seasonal spirit" in the form of America), but… hey, I've said it before, but Hetalia is about war, and war tends to suck for those involved.

Hope you enjoyed it anyway!

Oh, and yeah, a lot of our Christmas traditions do come from Germany, because Queen Victoria's husband Prince Albert was German and he introduced a lot of things to Britain during the Victorian Period that had previously only been done in Germany and its neighbours like Austria and Holland. A lot of what became "British Victorian Christmas traditions" were passed on to America in a kind of chain-reaction, so… well, wherever you are, I guess you can thank Prince Albert – and not Santa – for all the lovely presents piled under your Christmas tree this morning! XD

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

RobinRocks xXx