Fairytale

It had been a while, actually, since Germany had caught Italy singing. The airy Italian was almost constantly humming to himself, or singing in some language Germany didn't know- most often Italian, but there had been a Japanese song or two he'd heard escape the pasta-lover's mouth, too- but as of late, he'd been more preoccupied, at least in this case, sitting in front of the TV shouting at Germany about the ongoing football game's every lay made. Given, the team was Italian, so logically the Italian would be going nuts, but it had also been a while since Germany had actually had any time uninterrupted by his brother, Austria, or- God forbid- Romano, and he was starting to wish the hyperactive 20-something-year-old would calm down and quit yelling about how much the football team's colours and jerseys looked like pasta sauce and oh, Germany, look at that guy, he looks like you, ve! And there's a really really cute girl over there, oh, I wish I could meet her! Do you think she's nice, what's her name? I think it's Marianna-!

Perhaps he'd been a little too overloaded lately, but his head was going to explode if he heard one more thing. He thought he handled it quite well: setting down the TV remote, cooly telling Italy that he was being a little annoying, so please stop, or why doesn't he go make some pasta and calm down?

Well, that resulted in a customary "Waah! You're scary, Germany!" followed by a vehement "Ve! That's a great idea! You stay here, I'll make it!" and the frisky Italian had run off to most likely destroy the kitchen (Germany really might regret that later).

When the words first floated past the doorway, he had almost dismissed it as more of the Italian's folk songs and whatever other mindless songs he chose to belt out, but blinked in surprise as he recognised English, the words tinged with a soft Italian accent.

"Years ago, when I was younger, oh, I kinda liked someone I knew..."

Germany smiled, sitting back against the couch cushions, quietly enjoying the moment of repose as he listened to the other man's singing, his voice hitting each note soft as a feather.

"They were mine, and we were sweethearts, that was then, but then it's true..."

Germany heard the clank a few pots and pans, accompanied by the thud of what, presumably, was a jar of tomato sauce. He turned his attention to the television for a moment to check the scores (oh, he's right... those jerseys DO look like pasta sauce) before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"Oh, I'm in love with a fairytale, even though it hurts... 'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind, I'm already cursed..." The Italian kept singing as he worked, the sounds of splashing water and the clink of spice jars marring the music slightly. Germany yawned, opening one eye slightly. The song sounded familiar, slightly so. Maybe Italy had sung it before? Or even- oh, no, wait, he'd heard it on television at the music awards show a short while ago.

"Oh, no one else could make me sadder, but no one else could lift me high above... Ah, I don't know what I was doing, that day when we were pulled apart... Nowadays, I cannot find him, but when I do, we'll get a brand-new start..."

Germany cracked an eye open again. Hm? he thought. Wasn't the song SUNG by a guy? He frowned, then shrugged. Maybe he'd mixed up the singers- wouldn't be the first time he'd missed something little like that. He smiled inwardly before realising he was humming along with Italy's words.

"I'm in love with a fairytale, even though it hurts... 'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind, I'm already cursed..."

Germany let an actual smile tug at the corner of his mouth as Italy began humming, the clack of spoons and steady hiss of water coming to boil peppering the air. Attention shifting back to the television again, he checked the scores, then took a sip of his drink, watching the players as they ran around the field. He smirked at the Italian jerseys- whoever had designed them HAD to have had pasta on their minds, or SOME kind of sauce. It couldn't just be coincidence. He sighed; time to switch out players. He took another sip of his drink, waiting to see who they would choose- the suppressing a groan and rolling his eyes. Alexander? Come on, he's not their best goalie, and Vanzetti's just sitting there, he's the best! He sighed; at least Alexander wasn't as bad as the opposing team's, who seemed to catch more with his face than any other part of his body. And to think Italy and even Germany himself had found the absurdly yellow face guard he wore to be amusing...! He smiled inwardly again.

"He's a fairyale, yeah, even though it hurts... And I don't care if I lose my mind, I'm already cursed..."

Germany's mind affixed itself on the name of the new goalie. Alexander? Alexander Rybak! That was the name of the music artist. So he had been right, the song was by a guy. Then why was Italy changing the lyrics...? Come to think of it... some of the verses HAD sounded a bit different. Hm. Another sip of his drink (and a moment of watching the opposing team's goalie get knocked on his bum by another football to the face) and he was pondering the mystery. Another sip... Think. Sip... Think. Sip... Darn, this lemonade was good. Sip...

The clatter of a certain Italian presumably dropping a couple spoons or a pair of tongs interrupted his thoughts. Ah well, they were on commercial break anyway now, he thought as he stood up, stretching and setting his drink down on the coffee table. He paused a moment to shake his head at the little pink paper umbrella stuck in his cup before trudging off to the kitchen, pushing past the door to stand on the other side.

"Hmm hm hmm..." Italy stood with his back to the German, humming and swaying with the tune as he stirred the cooking pasta happily. Germany smiled at the scene; little Italy always seemed to feel perfectly t home wherever there was a kitchen, pasta or no.

"Italy?"

The resulting screech was almost supersonic; the tongs went flying as Italy jerked, leaping into the air, startled out of his reverie. "Ge-Germany?" he asked weakly, tripping over his own feet as he turned around, toppling to the ground with an "oof!" and a thud.

Germany stood there for a moment before lunging forward to catch the tongs before they hit the floor. "Italy... I'm sorry..."

"No, no," the Italian said rather breathlessly. "Ah, you're really quiet when you move, Germany! I didn't hear you at all..." He coughed as he stood up, brushing off his clothes with a rueful smile. "Thanks for catching those!" He nodded at the tongs.

"Wha- oh. No problem," Germany said, holding the tongs out for the other man to take. "Sorry about scaring you."

"It's not a problem, ve! Germany can be kind of scary sometimes," the Italian said, turning back to the stove with a grin and giving the pasta another stir.

"I.. I guess," Germany muttered. "I heard you singing."

"Oh! Ve, did you like it?" Italy flashed him a very white smile. "I was hoping you would, you know? 'Cause else I wouldn't be singing so you could hear, you know? And- hm?" He grinned, cutting off as Germany stepped behind him. "Ve, does Germany want to try the pasta?!" he squealed, whipping the tongs out of the pot with a few hapless little noodles clenched between the prongs, flicking Germany and himself with hot water. The boiling drops splattered the two, earning a muffled grunt from Germany and a high-pitched squeal from Italy himself.
"Ve! Ve! Germany! Get it off! Ow!" he shouted, arms flailing, which Germany caught just before he plunged his hand into the boiling water. "Ve- eep!" He squealed again as Germany yanked him away from the stove, plopping him down firmly in a chair by the kitchen table and wresting the tongs from his grip.

"Really now, Italy, it's a wonder why I put up with you," he grumbled, taking a rag from the counter and brushing Italy's hands and face, clearing away the offending water droplets. "Ah... I didn't mean that," he said hastily as Italy's face fell. "It's just... You can be a bit of a handful..."

"Oh... I'm sorry, Germany..." Italy sighed, resting his elbow on the table. "I shoukd have let the pasta cool before giving it to you, hm? Do you still want it?" he asked hopefully.

Germany raised an eyebrow before shaking his head. "I have to say, I do not understand you often," he remarked, laying the tongs down next to the stove. "Are you all right?"

"Si, I'm fine!" The Italian nodded vigorously before flapping his hands at the stove. "Can I stir it?"

Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Of course."

"Yay!" Italy jumped up and rushed to the stove, crooning over the pasta as he took the tongs and poked the surface of the steaming water. "Do you think it's done?"

"I don't know. Taste it. Not- no! Let it cool off first!" Germany shouted, reaching out for the steaming noodles. "You'll burn yourself! We just went over this!"

"Oh yeah..." Italy lowered the tongs from his mouth, looking forlorn. "I forgot."

For Germany, this was cue for a facepalm. "Of course..." he groaned. "Italy, why did I come in here again?"

"Pasta!" supplied the hyperactive Italian, waving the steaming nodles around, still clenched in the tongs before he blew on them and they disappeared between his lips. "Ahh, pasta!" he said delightedly.

"No... that song you were singing," Germany said, sitting down at the table. "You were changing the lyrics."

"Oh... Ve, I was. Why?" Italy had returned to stirring the pasta, twirling his fingers in the steam with glee.

"I was wondering why. It seems kind of odd that you would."

"Well... I was making it about someone," Italy replied, tilting his head to one side, still faing away from Germany and still with one hand raised into the steam. "I do that a lot, changing songs' words. I don't like singing them when they don't mean anything to me."

Germany paused from wiping off the table with the abandoned rag. "Oh. You change other songs too? I hadn't noticed."

Italy laughed. "I usually sing in Italian," he reminded the blonde man.

"Well, yes. But regardless," Germany muttered, earning another melodic laugh from Italy.

"I always change around songs. It makes them fun to sing," he said. "Makes them better to sing. Because then you actually have something to sing about, not just say the words." Italy smiled happily, resuming his finger-twirling in the rising steam.

Germany watched him as he waved his fingers in the clouded air. "Something to sing about, hm?" he said thoughtfully. "What were you singing about this time?"

Italy hesitated, rolling his shoulders before answering. "What the lyrics said. When I was younger, I liked someone I knew... but one day we were pulled apart, and I can't find them now. I do still like them, even though it hurts." Italy's voice was unusually soft as he said this, taking on a more melancholic tone. "As if I'm in love with a fairytale... because he disappeared, and I can't find him anymore. I still miss him though... even though it hurts sometimes." Italy shrugged. "I changed the lyrics to fit." He set the tongs aside, taking a quick glance back at the pasta before turning around. "Ah, Germany, I wish you could have met him."

Germany watched Italy, nodding slightly when the Italian turned around to face him. "I gathered as much, I suppose, when one looks at the lyrics."

Italy grinned. "He was always so awkward though! Sort of like you sometimes. He could be scary too. Ah, but he could be so sweet, and he was so cute, ve! We'd go on picnics and draw, and paint, and one time, he even sang to me, and it was so wonderful..." Italy twirled around in the middle of the kitchen, arms flung out. "Ve, could we go on a picnic?"

Germany paused, one of the Italian's noodles partially raised to his mouth. Well... it couldn't hurt. Plus, if he spills things outside, I do not have to clean it up, Germany thought. Might as well. "Sure, Italy. Not today though. Let's finish watching the football game- oof!" Germany grunted as the Italian flew at him, arms outstretched, to envelop him in a hug.

"Ve, thank you, thank you, Germany!" he shouted, face filled with delight. "We'll eat pasta, and I can bring some wine, and make pasta sauce, and eat pasta, and maybe Fratello would come too, and bring Antonio, and- ve? Germany, where'd you go?"

Said German had ducked out of the room at the mention of the auburn-haired pasta-lover's "Fratello" to take refuge on the couch.

"Ve, Germany, why'd you leave?" Italy stuck his head out from the kitchen, face puzzled.

"Ah... How about we invite Hungary instead?" Germany asked uncomfortably. "The last time I saw your brother, he almost broke my nose with one of your china plates."

"Oh yeah." Italy put a finger to his cheek as he recalled the memory. "Oh well... Ah, Betta! I haven't seen her in so long! Ve, Germany has really good ideas sometimes! I'll go call her!" Italy exclaimed, abruptly dashing off to locate a phone. "And we can go tomorrow because it's supposed to be really nice outside, all sunny with maybe a cloud or two maybe shaped like pasta, and-"

Germany sighed, seizing his drink and taking a few sips, blocking out the rest of the Italian's chatter. Well, if Hungary was coming, Austria might be also, in that case. He hadn't seen him in a fairly long time either. Maybe he could finally get some quiet time. Although with Italy around... wishful thinking. He sipped his drink again, returning to the television. Ah, so they finally had the sense to put Vanzetti in, I see... he thought, leaning back.

"Ve! The pastaaa!" came the Italian's horrified scream, followed by pounding feet and the Italian went flying into the kitchen, arms flailing like a rag doll's as the poor hapless phone went skidding across the floor.

Germany rolled his eyes, standing up to retrieve the phone, then make sure Italy didn't burn anything down. Ah well. So much for quiet time, indeed.