Germany held his robe together tightly, as the wind could have easily ripped
it off of him. It bent the trees down, making an angry sound throughout the night.
Behind him the porch light was on, it was the only thing that allowed him to see.
He was shaking, a feeling that he had gotten much too used to in the war. He called
out the name that he had called for many years, be it in frustration, anger, love,
or heated lust. "Herr Stick! Herr Stick, where are you?" He couldn't see much of
anything, much less Herr Stick, who was making his way off. Herr Stick was tired of
everything. This damn house in the middle of no-where was only a chain to hold him down.
He wasn't used to this sort of thing, you know? He liked Germany. In fact, he more than
liked Germany. Germany was his soul mate. His life, his true love, his reason for living,
his sugar pop, but all good things must come to an end. It had finally hit him what had
been bothering him all these years. They were too different. Germany wanted to settle down,
have some kids, raise a family, and grow old. That was just the kind of existence that Herr
Stick was afraid of. Becoming normal, blending in, all the words of sheep. Herr Stick was
certainly no sheep. He was a stick, no more, no less. He jerked to the side a few times to
get his duffel bag back in between his two branches. This was just another broken heart,
or at least that's what he tried to tell himself. He was a loner at heart. A lone wolf. No,
he was no wolf, he was a stick. Right. A stick. All Herr Stick existed for in matters of love
was breaking hearts. He would stick around for a while, maybe a few years, but then he had
to move on. He just had to, it was in his blood. Wait, no, scratch that, sticks don't have blood.
Other living beings had blood, and Herr Stick wasn't a living being. He was a stick, in the case
that you didn't already get his point. But back to the subject at hand (Branch?), he always had
to move on somehow. As long as he kept moving, he was free, right? But Herr Stick was wrong.
Herr Stick was afraid. He was afraid that he wasn't good enough, that all the things that people
said were true. He was just a delinquent to others, a piece of street trash, a tough-talking
rat that would never amount to nothing. That too, was wrong. Germany thought the world of him.
When Herr Stick was around others, he seemed cold and heartless. He seemed like the kind of stick
you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley at night. He was the kind of stick that would steal your
shoes and throw them up on a high place so that you couldn't get them, or the kind of stick that
would get you in his car and force you to allow him to molest you, but Germany had seen his true
nature. Deep inside, he was warm, and caring, and thoughtful. He was the kind that would go across
the world just to save you. He was the kind that would hold you on cold nights, and make you feel
beautiful. He was someone that wouldn't think less of you if you cried. He was someone that desperately
needed someone to cry to. If you wanted him to be rough in bed, he would shove you down and use you
until he was done. If you wanted him to be gentle with you, his caresses would be light enough to tickle
your skin. To Germany, he was the best stick in all the universe, and no amount of self-loathing on
Herr Stick's part could change that. An amazing act of country and stick thought occurred. The two
lovebirds started to think about the past at the exact same time. Ah, the past. Such a fleeting and
precious thing.
Germany felt awkward, to say the least. He wasn't very good at traveling with his comrades,
much less this one. He had found an unconscious soldier while traveling. Seeing as how the soldier was
a stick, he decided to go out of his way and carry him. His dog tags read 'Herr Stick', quite a fitting
name for a stick. "Hmm, what are we going to do, Herr Stick? We're lost, my sticky friend." Talking to
an unconscious stick made him feel a bit foolish, but he was lonely at the time. That's when he came upon
a box. Germany momentarily forgot that he was holding a fellow soldier and started to knock at the box
with the stick. Herr Stick stirred, but was too injured to fight back. Upon finding out that it was an
Italian soldier, some quick conversation happened, Germany didn't remember much else, and neither did
Herr Stick. What happened afterward was vivid. Herr Stick slowly coming to in his tent, managing to call
out for someone. "Who saved me?" He asked. The soldier that came to his aid was happy to oblige. He remembered
Germany coming inside his tent, a bit set off by the hard stare of the injured stick. Herr Stick softened
his expression. "It's alright, come in. I wanted to thank you. I don't think i've seen you around before.
Ludwig, is it?" Asked Herr Stick. Germany nodded. "Yes, it was nothing. You're a pretty easy guy to carry,
it wouldn't have been much of a burden." "And if I wasn't easy to carry?" Germany paused, Herr Stick had
gotten him there. Herr Stick laughed. It was a hearty, calming laugh. "You're so cute when someone has pushed
you into a corner like that." He said. Germany wasn't expecting the compliment, and turned red. The two talked
on, and from that, Germany had made his first friend. His second friend was close after.
Germany remembered waking up. "Try and stay awake." The stick above him was blurry, and Germany's head felt
heavy. "I found you knocked out. I told you it wasn't a good idea to split up, why don't you listen?" The time
was World War 2. Germany and Herr Stick found themselves together yet again, and tried to stay close to one another.
The two were unstoppable, at least for the moment. Then Germany had lost, finding himself without a friend, alone
and captured. Herr Stick would never forget his face when he visited the captured country. The first thing Germany
did was wrap his arms around him and practically melt. It felt almost sinfully reliving to see Herr Stick after
all this time. Germany found himself in the worst of circumstances, but at least he had Herr Stick, even if only
for a half hour. They talked a while, trying to hold on to each precious second of the time they were given. When
it was time for Herr Stick to go, Germany insisted on holding him again, and the guards had to practically pry him
off. And that was when something terrible happened. Something that made Herr Stick go cold. A gut-wrenching, awful
sound. Germany was crying. He was shaking and sobbing, he didn't want to die. He wanted to be with Herr Stick. When
he was holding his sticky friend it was like the rest of the world didn't matter, and he would give all he had to
his name up just to hide from everything in the non-existent arms of Herr Stick. Herr Stick knew this. He wanted to
hold Germany too. He wanted to protect Germany from anyone who even dared to hurt him, but he was just a soldier.
He couldn't do anything, and some nights the strong feelings he got from this fact alone disturbed his sleep.
That day he heard Germany cry, he decided that he never wanted to hear it again. Never.
They had gotten away, but just barely. Germany would not be killed, nor would they break his legs as planned. Somehow
that didn't remove his fear. They kicked him back to his own country, and frankly, things became terrifying for him.
The possibility of being attacked was around every corner. The air became thick with the need for revenge, thicker
for some. For Germany, it was the worst. Every stare he got seemed seemed enraged and judgmental for his actions,
every stare he got but Herr Stick's. When Herr Stick looked at him, he felt good. He felt as if Herr Stick could
protect him, despite cruel reality. The two became closer. Germany would say that they were like brothers, but this
was closer than he had ever gotten with Prussia. It was one of those nights when Germany was too afraid to sleep on
his own. Herr Stick was holding him in his arms and somehow things led to a kiss. The kiss went on to gentle touches,
and eventually the shed of clothing. That was the first time that they had made love. Germany remembered the event as
if it was yesterday, but Herr Stick could remember less. He regretted that.
"So, this is the place? We walked all this way for this?" Herr Stick commented. The both of them had walked to a place
where the roads ended. "Yes. It's a very nice cabin for two, I never thought I would actually have to use it." Germany
sounded a bit disappointed. Didn't he like it? Germany thought it was quite romantic. "Perfect!" The stick said, trying
to brighten his boyfriend's mood. "You got some people to get it all ready for a month of alone time with no work, right?
Oh man, I don't remember when we got to spend so much time together." Germany sighed and gently smiled. "Yeah, i'm usually
working. Now that I think about it, I was tired last night, I wonder if I filled out those forms in-" "Don't you start."
Herr Stick said sternly. "We're here to be alone together, leave the work to someone else. There'll be plenty to do, if
that's what you're worried about." "Hm." Germany walked in, still concerned about work. Suddenly someone pushed him up against
the wall, almost purring in his ear. "And now that we're finally alone, how about you take off those clothes?" Herr Stick
said in a low voice. Germany moved his hips back and smiled. He was going to enjoy a vacation, for once.
Germany had shrugged off the idea of staying near the cabin, he had to find Herr Stick, it was vital. "Herr Stick!"
He called. "Herr Stick, don't go, I need you! Where are you?" It was too dark to see by now. Germany couldn't see much
of anything, but Herr Stick could sense him. He wasn't far from where Herr Stick was standing. Oh god, that sound. That
sound that made him shake and clench his non-existent fists until the knuckles turned white. Germany was crying. He was
crying for him, like he was on that fateful day. But this time it was in his control. Herr Stick had to face facts.
Out of all the others and all the things he could quit, he couldn't quit Germany. Herr Stick practically tackled Germany,
unable to hold back any longer. The need to comfort his love was far too strong. It was times like these when Herr Stick
wished that he could cry. But he couldn't cry. He was a stick.