Zuviel Liebe (Germany x Reader): Hobbies

Konichiwa~!  I have another update and not much to say once again!  College orientation is Friday... O.O  I got a call from my orientation leader yesterday, actually, and it turns out I got stuck with a guy DX  I have a hard time talking to people because I worry so much about etiquette anyway, but there's even more etiquette to observe when talking to a guy because I don't want anyone to think I'm flirting!  *sigh* It's kind of stressful...  But oh well.  At least I wrote another (short) chapter!  Someone on Quotev suggested the chapter this is leading up to, so hopefully it'll turn out okay...  Enjoy and I'll catch you reader-sans later!


- Turtle-chan

                Standing outside in the warm afternoon sunshine, you line up your sights on the target, taking a relaxing breath in.  You solidify your aim, release the breath, and pull the trigger, producing a satisfying bang from the pistol in your hand.  You look down the range as you click the safety back on and set the handgun down.  You make your way down the range to check your target, which you now realize is a life-sized printout of America.  You feel a little weird about using people you know as targets, but you shrug it off as a good way to relieve stress.

                You see that America’s paper body is peppered with bullet holes in the chest and facial areas and you smile with satisfaction.  Your aim has improved lately.  Something about the feel of the cool metal of a gun in your hand and the spicy smell of gunpowder in the air has become comforting and empowering to you.

                You look up at the sky and notice how low the sun is hanging.  It will be getting dark soon, so you decide to start making your way inside to get cleaned up before dinner.  You go back and pick up the gun, tucking it into the waistband of your pants, as you begin the trek back to the house.  The weather has been really nice lately, not too hot and not too cold, but you know that soon winter will set in and it will be cold for months.  You’re determined to enjoy the last traces of summer for as long as you can.

The house seems just a little too quiet to you as you come inside from your practice on the range.  Usually you at least can hear Italy talking or playing or making more white flags, but there’s no noise at all.  You wash your hands in the kitchen sink before going upstairs quietly and cautiously.  You peek into Italy’s bedroom, thinking he might be asleep, but he’s not there.  You look out the window into the garden and see that it is empty as well.  How strange…  Perplexed, you go back down the stairs and begin making your way to Germany’s office.  As you approach, you hear muffled voices from inside, so you stop in the hall and wait, listening.

                “…floating orange and bloated like a rotted pumpkin in the starless night sky.  The phantom stood waiting as a low guttural moaning started up from within the sorry excuse for a forest.  Slowly, steadily, figures began to stagger from the relative shelter of the trees.  They came in the shapes of men, women, and even children, but there was something that was not quite right about them—not quite human.  Their posture drooped; they took slow, stiff steps, and made sounds more animal than human, contrary to their appearance.  One drew close to the shadow, close enough for it to see the creature’s cadaverous countenance,” you hear Japan saying in a chilling voice, and you feel your blood run cold.

                You throw the door open and look around the room with wide eyes, finally coming to a focus on Germany, Italy, and Japan crowded around Germany’s desk and reading out of a rather familiar notebook.  “Where did you find that?” you demand.

                “Ve~!  It was sitting on your bed when I came to find you this morning,” Italy tells you, grinning as usual.  “It was really scary, so I wanted everyone to read it!  I didn’t know you write stories~!”

                “Did you write this, (y/n)-san?” Japan asks, looking up at you with blank eyes.

                You nod stiffly.  “Yes, I did,” you answer, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.  No one was supposed to find out about that…

                “I found it rather enjoyable.  You included my language and culture into it,” Japan tells you, closing the notebook.

                “Th-thanks,” you mumble, taking the notebook from his hands and clutching it to your chest.  You’re trying to register what’s going on.

                “You do not neet to be embarrasset,” Germany tells you.  “It vas fery interestink.”

                “You guys weren’t supposed to see it,” you mutter.  You’re not happy that they took your writing notebook.  It’s something special and private and you feel a little violated now that they’ve seen it.  You feel like your writing acts as a window into your mind and heart and the thought that they’ve all had a peek makes you uncomfortable, no matter how much you care about them.  There are some things that are better off staying hidden.

                “A-are you angry at us?” Italy asks you, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes and his lower lip trembling.

                You look at him and sigh, scratching the back of your neck irritably.  “No, I’m not mad at you, but I’m not happy either,” you answer.  “I didn’t let you guys know about my writing for a reason.  It’s not meant to be read.”

                “Why would you write a story that isn’t supposed to be read?  That seems silly,” Italy tells you, just like a child.

                “It’s personal, okay?” you tell him, trying to hold back your irritable embarrassment.  You really aren’t mad at them, but you’re mortified and that angers you.

                “O-oh…  Okay…,” he says sadly, hanging his head.

                You look over at him regretfully, and sigh.  “I’m going upstairs for a little while,” you announce before turning on your heel and rushing up the stairs and into your bedroom.

                You flop down onto your bed and squeeze your eyes shut.  You know you probably overreacted.  It’s just a notebook of stories, but it just seems like an invasion of privacy.  It very well could have been a diary that Italy had picked up and read.  Actually, this is almost worse.

                You sit up and rifle through the pages of the notebook listlessly, not reading anything but noticing how many of the pages are filled with your slightly messy handwriting from trying to get it all written down before you lose your inspiration.  You hear a knock at the door and quickly shove the notebook under your mattress as the door opens to reveal Germany standing in the doorway.

                “Hallo,” he says as he peeks in at you, leaning against the wall.

                “Hallo,” you respond evenly.

                “Wie geht es du?” he asks you and he seems a little cautious.

                “I’m fine,” you sigh.  “You going to come in or are you just going to stand in the doorway?”  You give him a small smile to let him know you’re not mad at him.

                He chuckles a little and steps inside.  “Really, zough.  Are you alright?” he asks, coming to sit next to you on the bed.  His blue eyes are so full of genuine concern that you can’t stay angry.

                You let out a breath and lean against Germany’s muscular shoulder.  “Yeah, I’m fine I guess.  I was just kind of angry that you guys had been reading my stories.  It’s kind of like a diary for me, so I don’t necessarily want everyone to know what’s in it,” you respond.

                Germany slips his arm around your waist and pulls you to him.  “Entschuldigung,” he murmurs into your hair as he places a soft kiss on the top of your head.  “Vee vere all just surpriset zat you liket to write stories unt zat zey vere such goot stories zat vee dit not sink about how you voult feel.”

                “It’s okay.  I know I overreacted,” you tell him, snuggling against his chest.  “Is Italy okay?”

                “Ah…  Vell, he vas kryink vhen you left, but I sink he vill be fine,” Germany sighs.

                You wince.  “Sorry about that…,” you respond.  “I’ll have to go apologize to him.”

                “Perhaps,” Germany says.  “Aktually, I hat an idea earlier unt zat is vhy I kame up.”

                “Hm?  What’s your idea?” you ask him, pulling away a little to look up at him.

                “Zere is a sing komink up, zee Frankfurt Book Fair—Frankfurter Buchmesse in my language—unt I sought zat maybe you voult enjoy it?  Zee first few days are only for zee official visitors, but zee last two are open to zee publik,” he tells you.

                “Yeah, that sounds really interesting,” you smile.  You wonder what it will be like.  The Frankfurt Book Fair is supposed to be one of the largest gatherings of writers in the world.

                “Wunderbar!  I vas hopink to be able to show you some of my kountry’s traditions,” he laughs.  “Also, all of zee oser kountries vill be zere, so it vill be a goot opportunity for you to see some of your frients.  I know it has been a vhile.”

                “Yeah, it has,” you concede.  “This sounds like fun.”  You smile up at him because he just looks so excited.  Well, for Germany, that is.

                “I hope so,” he says as he leans down to give you a quick peck on the lips.  “Now, I sink Italy vill mutiny if vee do not kome downschtairs unt eat pasta vis him soon.”

                “Oh, heaven forbid we get in the way of pasta time,” you giggle, allowing Germany to pull you to your feet.  The Frankfurt Book Fair, huh?