A/N: Just a bit of random, super-silly Christmas fluff that came to mind and had to be written down. For future reference, 'Tim' is APH Netherlands (he was never given a canon name, but Himaruya listed 'Tim' as a potential one) and - for those who don't know - stollen is a kind of excellent German fruit cake, usually with marzipan inside.

Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia nor the song 'All I Want For Christmas Is You', which in both cases in probably a blessing.

Shifting the weight of the shopping bags in his arms so that they would not fall, Antonio kicked the door sharply. Pain shot through his foot and he stumbled backwards, almost dropping the mound of bags; perhaps, he reflected ruefully, aiming his toe directly at the door had not been the best course of action. He waited for a few moments, balanced precariously on the foot which did not feel as if it were on fire, but there was no response from inside. "Gil?" he yelled, peering through the frosted glass pane of the front door. "Francis?" Still no answer, and he could hear the sound of music coming from somewhere in the house.

He sighed; that would explain why no-one had heard him practically break the door down. They were both out for the count when I left – well, I suppose they must be feeling fine, after all. His own headache had not completely gone away, although it had faded to a dull pain by now. He was surprised that his housemates were already up; he could not remember exactly how much alcohol the three of them had consumed between them the previous night, but it had been rather a lot, and he was fairly sure that they had not gone to bed until at least three o'clock that morning. As for what they had got up to... The memories were a little jumbled, and he was content to leave it that way. It was probably better not to think about how that game of strip poker had ended – and dear God, he hoped that his dim recollection of calling Lovino at two o'clock in the morning to sing him 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight' in a confused mixture of Spanish, Italian and something approximating English was nothing but a dream.

Well, anyway, it was clear that no-one was going to let him into the house, and he was getting pretty cold out here. He stuck his hand into his pocket to dig out his key and then realised that this might not be the wisest thing to do when all the bags began to tip precariously, threatening to disgorge their contents all over the porch. He re-adjusted the load quickly, and then when the immediate threat of a small grocery avalanche had passed he carefully set the bags down by the door before taking out his key.

Having unlocked the door, he stuck his head into the hall and called out, "Hello? Gil? Francis? Anyone fancy giving me a hand with these bags?" But his voice was inaudible over the music blaring at full volume from the kitchen. Although the kitchen door was closed, it only took him half a second to recognise the song: 'All I Want for Christmas Is You'. He grinned. Good to know those two are getting into the spirit of things. Even if they were too lazy to help him with the shopping.

As he began the arduous task of moving all the shopping bags from the porch into the hall, the aroma of fresh baking wafted towards him, and he paused, inhaling appreciatively; he could make out the smell of cinnamon, and – was that almonds? Whatever it was, it made his mouth water. Amazed that either of his housemates had recovered from their hangovers enough to do something so constructive – let alone have the music on that loud, he thought, as his own aching brain began to protest – he continued to shift the bags until everything was out of the porch, and then shut the door at last against the chill of the December morning. He was tired from the walk to the shops, carrying all those bags had made his shoulders sore, and he really hadn't got enough sleep; there was only one remedy, he decided, and that was to demand a taste of what his housemates were baking – as soon as he'd unpacked the shopping, of course.

Picking up a drinks bag in one hand and a bag of supplies for the following day's Christmas party in the other, and immediately regretting such a lopsided choice, he opened the kitchen door.

And almost dropped everything he was carrying.

Gilbert was standing by the sink, clutching a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, and belting out the lyrics for all he was worth. "I don't want a lot for Christmas," he sang. "There is just one thing I need..."

'Singing lessons, perhaps?' Antonio had to stop himself from asking. He had always known that his housemate had a terrible singing voice, but he had fortunately never had a close encounter with it until now – he and Francis had learnt to make themselves scarce whenever Gilbert seemed likely to burst into song, which he frequently did in the shower, or when he didn't like whatever the others were watching on television. At point-blank range, Gilbert's voice was nothing short of excruciating.

But evidently Gilbert himself didn't seem to think so; he carried on, completely oblivious to Antonio's presence, absorbed in the song he was so enthusiastically butchering. "I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know," he continued, clasping his heart dramatically with his free hand. "Make my wish come troo-oo-oo... All I want for Christmas is yoo-oo."

Distracted by the choice between clamping his hands over his ears to shut out the god-awful sound of what Gilbert would call 'singing' and clapping them over his mouth instead to hold in the laughter bubbling up inside him, Antonio almost missed Gilbert's next line. "Yoo-oo-oo, Mattie..."

That decided it; a giggle escaped before he could stop it, and his hands flew to his mouth to prevent others following. Luckily, Gilbert appeared not to have heard him over the terrible racket he was making; Antonio was free to watch the rest of the spectacle. Poor old Gil's really got it bad, he thought, even as he doubled over in helpless silent laughter. He hadn't realised quite how serious Gilbert – Gilbert, who was never serious about anything – was about his boyfriend, despite the fact that every other word to come out of Gilbert's mouth was Matthew's name, despite the fact that he and Francis had been seeing less and less of Gilbert as their housemate spent more and more time with the Canadian... Wow, I really should have been paying attention, he thought.

He couldn't help paying attention right then, not when Gilbert was unknowingly making such a fool of himself. Not content with merely murdering the tune, he had also begun to move his hips in time to the music; it wasn't that Gilbert was a bad dancer, but the sight of him sashaying up and down in front of the sink screeching into a wooden spoon was almost too much for Antonio's sides to take. "Oh, I won't ask for much this Christmas, I won't even wish for snow... And I'm just gonna keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe..." He angled his face upwards as if the mistletoe was right there above his head, and the tears began to stream down Antonio's face as he desperately bit back his laughter. He wondered whether he should go and find Francis so the two of them could share in Gilbert's performance, but decided against it; the Frenchman was probably still in bed with a killer hangover, and anyway, he was afraid that if he moved, Gilbert would realise he was there. And that would never do, not when there was over half of the song left to go. I hope you realise that I'm never going to let you forget this, Gil.

As Gilbert merrily continued, Antonio's sides began to ache from the effort of keeping his laughter silent. "'Cause I just want you here tonight, holding on to me so tight..." He hugged his arms close to his chest, and threw his head back to howl, "What more can I do-oo-oo?" Soap suds from the spoon-microphone which he had evidently been attempting to wash up were flicked across the kitchen as he flung his arms wide. "Mattie, all I want for Christmas is yoo-oo! Yoo-oo-oo, Mattie..."

By now Antonio was pretty sure that he was developing a stitch in both his sides, but he couldn't stop shaking with laughter. He was going to tease Gilbert about this so much.

The song had reached its middle eight, and Gilbert obviously felt that at this point the kitchen floor was no longer a sufficient platform from which to display his talent, for he suddenly seized the chair he had been using to reach the highest shelf (Gilbert might be the tallest out of the three of them, but even he couldn't get right to the back of the top cupboards without a bit of help). He dragged it into the middle of the floor with a scraping sound which made Antonio wince even more than his friend's attempts at singing, and climbed onto the seat. The chair creaked alarmingly in time with his dancing – which had, if anything, become even more energetic than before – and Antonio began to worry slightly that this was not going to end well, either for the furniture or for Gilbert himself. But it wasn't his job to step in. Gilbert might be an idiot (an idiot who had previously landed himself in hospital, on more occasions than Antonio cared to count, doing stupid things just like this – Gilbert's personal favourite, he knew, was the time he had broken his collarbone and several ribs while attempting to get down a flight of stairs in an office chair) but he was, supposedly, an adult, and therefore old enough to make his own decisions, ill-advised as they almost always were. Besides, Antonio was having far too much fun to stop the show.

A moment later, he almost wished he had, if only for the sake of his eardrums. Gilbert tipped back his head again and, surely accomplishing the impossible by somehow managing to double the volume of his already impressively loud voice, bellowed, "SANTA WON'T YOU PLEASE BRING ME THE ONE I REALLY NEED, WON'T YOU PLEASE BRING MY MATTIE TO MEEEEEEE?"

They might be several thousand miles from the North Pole, Antonio thought to himself, but he was pretty sure that Santa had got the message.

The chair was wobbling for all it was worth, and Antonio was braced for disaster at any moment; he was surprised, actually, that Gilbert had made it this far without incident, unheard of for someone with the track record of his accident-prone friend. It looked like he was going to make it, too, given that there were only a few lines left to go. Antonio just had to hope that Gilbert wouldn't turn round and notice him before then...

There didn't seem to be any danger of that happening; Gilbert had clearly decided that, in the absence of Matthew, the ceiling would make a good substitute audience, and so he was addressing the light fitting above him passionately. "I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know," he screeched, reaching towards the light with his free hand. "Make my wish come troo-oo-oo... Oh, Mattie, all I want for Christmas i-i-i-i-is..."

He took a deep breath, and in that split second the full horror of the situation dawned on Antonio. He isn't going to try to hit that note, is he? Please, please tell me he isn't... Oh Lord, of course he is.

"YOOOOOOOOOOOU!" Gilbert shrieked, missing the note by several octaves - and in that moment, several things happened all at once. Antonio's hands flew to his ears, not in time to block out the sound and not before he had distinctly heard the windows rattle; Gilbert finally lost his balance on the chair; and, as he waved his arms wildly in an attempt to stabilise himself, he let go of the wooden spoon, which flew across the room and smacked Antonio in the nose before falling to the floor with a clatter. Antonio let out a scream to rival Gilbert's best ear-splitting vocal efforts and almost dropped the bags he was carrying as he clutched reflexively at his face, and Gilbert – who had jumped off the chair just before he slipped and somehow managed to land on his feet – turned round to stare at him. The expression of mortification on his face was priceless; forgetting the pain in his nose which had caused smarting tears to well up, Antonio finally allowed himself to dissolve into uncontrollable giggles.

"Toni? Scheiße. Scheiße! How long have you been there? Toni!" He rushed over to the shaking Spaniard, his eyes wide with panic and his normally pale skin flushed a deep scarlet. It was a while before Antonio, convulsed by laughter, could even look him in the face, and when he did it was only moments before the sight of Gilbert blushing in abject embarrassment sent him into another paroxysm of giggling.

Finally, sides screaming and cheeks aching, he let the laughter die away and straightened up. "Nice to know you're so concerned for my welfare, Gil. I mean, you did just attack me with a spoon," he grinned, rubbing his sore nose.

Gilbert scowled crossly at him. "I'm serious, Toni. How much did you see?"

"Enough," Antonio chuckled. "Enough to know that, firstly, you're pretty serious about that boyfriend of yours, and secondly, you should never go near a Mariah Carey CD ever again."

Gilbert tried to carry on glaring at him, but he had never been the type to be angry for long, especially not in the face of Antonio's contagiously cheerful demeanour. His face relaxed into a grin, and he said,"You're probably right about that – doesn't quite match up to the standards of the awesome me, does she?"

"I was more worried about the state of my eardrums, to be honest," Antonio shot back; Gilbert's rejoinder to this was to pick up the wooden spoon from the floor and hit his friend playfully over the head with it.

"Oi, Gil, stop it!" Antonio exclaimed, raising the shopping bags in front of his face to protect himself. "That's twice today already. Now, I don't know what kind of thing Matthew's into, but I for one don't enjoy being physically assaulted with kitchen utensils..."

Gilbert stuck out his tongue at Antonio, but at the mention of Matthew a guarded expression had come onto his face, and he lowered the spoon-microphone-sword that he had been brandishing at his friend. "I'll stop if you promise not to tell Francis about this," he grinned, a little desperately; Antonio was surprised to see something close to pleading in his eyes.

"Only if you help me with the shopping," he replied, smiling sweetly.

Defeated, Gilbert gave a sigh of mock-annoyance and muttered, "The things I do for you people. Nothing but work, work, work around here..." He took the heavy drinks bag which Antonio handed to him, and peered curiously at its contents as he carried it over to the cupboards. "Ugh, wine," he groaned, taking out a bottle. "What do we need this much stupid French slop for? You know the only ones who're going to drink the stuff are Francis and Roddy."

"Actually, Gil," said Antonio, glancing at the bottle of cava in Gilbert's hands, "that 'stupid French slop' you've got there is Spanish. But don't worry, I bought plenty of your rotten German beer, too."

"Hey, you like beer just as much as I do!" Gilbert retorted as he began to carelessly shove the bottles into the wine rack in a manner which would probably have caused Francis to have heart palpitations. "Or at least you were drinking plenty of it last night."

Antonio laughed, setting down the empty bag and retrieving another from the hall. "No-one loves beer as much as you, Gil. Except possibly your brother."

Kicking away the empty bag and rifling through the ones that were left in search of the promised beer, Gilbert grinned in agreement. "True, true. Although – " (and here he glanced conspiratorially at Antonio) " – he's been drinking a lot less of the stuff since he hooked up with Feli."

With the two of them unpacking, it didn't take long for all the shopping to be put away. When they had finished, Antonio glanced at the clock, and realised that it was nearly lunchtime; right on cue, his stomach rumbled loudly. His eyes fell on something sitting on a cooling tray on top of the sideboard, and he remembered that Gilbert had just finished baking something when he walked in. "Oh, you made – what's it called again?" he asked, gesturing towards the slightly lumpy loaf.

"Stollen, of course, Dummkopf," Gilbert grinned. Was Antonio imagining it, or had his friend suddenly tensed up a little? "I tell you every year and you never remember."

"Looks good, whatever you call it," Antonio smiled. "Smells good, too. Any chance of – "

"No," said Gilbert, a little too quickly. "I mean, of course not, you greedy bastard, I'm saving it for the party tomorrow."

"But it looks so good... Surely a bite wouldn't hurt – "

"I said no!" Gilbert snapped, and then looked immediately guilty. "Uh, sorry, Toni, I – "

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter? You didn't put something in the sch... in the st... in the cake, did you?"

At Antonio's words, a look of panic flashed across Gilbert's face, and he stared at the floor. "Of course not, I'm not Tim, jeez..."

Oh, brilliant. "Gil, I swear, if you get someone into trouble because of your ridiculous st... sch.. German drug cake – "

"Um Himmels willen, Toni," – for God's sake – "there's nothing in the stollen, okay?!" Gilbert almost shouted. "I'm just – I'm just saving it for the party, that's all."

Antonio looked at him in surprise; his friend was acting very strangely today. But he shrugged it off quickly. Well, it is nearly Christmas, he reasoned. Everyone gets a little fraught at this time of year. He had enough sense not to press the matter; Gilbert's tempers couldn't hold a candle to Lovino's, it was true, but he still didn't want to provoke him. "Well," he smile, "it's about time for lunch. I'll go and call Francis down, shall I?" And he headed out of the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

"Watch he doesn't bite your head off. The lazy bastard was still asleep last time I checked," Gilbert called after him in something like his normal voice, but Antonio was already halfway up the stairs.

The door to Francis's room was shut, and the light was off; Antonio knocked loudly and waited. From inside the room there came a muffled groan which might have meant, "Come in," but which might equally have been "Leave me alone." Antonio decided to take the risk. Stepping into the room, he flicked on the light switch, a move which caused Francis to screw up his eyes and sigh, "Really, mon ami? Must you disturb my beauty sleep like this?"

Antonio just laughed. "Get up, sleepyhead. It's time for lunch."

Francis opened one bleary eye and stared at him accusingly. "You seem very happy about something."

"Well, I've been thinking about our bet."

That made Francis sit up and listen. "Oui? What about it?"

"I want to double it."

Now it was Francis's turn to laugh. "T'es fou." You're mad. "All right then, but I cannot understand why. You know as well as I do that he doesn't have the guts – Easter, at the earliest. You will regret this, mon ami," he smiled wickedly.

Antonio smiled back. "We'll see."

…

Gilbert scanned the room anxiously. Where did he go? He had just turned away for a moment to insult Roderich, who had turned up to the party wearing those usual terrible old-man clothes of his, and now he couldn't see Matthew anywhere. Damn, he was good at slipping away unnoticed. He'd make a good thief, Gilbert thought. Or a ninja. Hey, maybe he is a ninja! I bet he's been taking ninja lessons from Kiku. Maybe Kiku knows where he is. I'll have to ask him. Spotting Kiku's distinctive black bob on the other side of the room, he headed over in the direction of his Japanese friend, cheerfully shoving past everyone who was in his way. Ignoring the indignant exclamations on left and right (and a shout of "Watch where you're going, asshole!" from Lovino, whose drink he had just spilt) he pushed on through the crowd until he got to Kiku, who was standing with his back to Gilbert, facing the wall. Deceived by the dim light in the room, and thinking only of finding Matthew, he tapped Kiku on the shoulder before registering that his friend was not alone; there was someone standing between him and the wall, someone whose fingers were intertwined with Kiku's and whose lips were currently closely involved with Kiku's neck.

Oops.

Kiku broke away and spun round, looking for all the world like he had been caught in the middle of some terrible crime; blushing fiercely, and avoiding Gilbert's eyes, he opened his mouth to speak, but his companion beat him to it.

"For God's sake, Gilbert, can't you see we're busy here?" And then, under his breath, "Git."

Gilbert stared at him, too stunned even to retaliate. After a few seconds his brain had reassembled itself enough for him to say, "Arthur?"

The shorter man just looked back at him, unimpressed. "That's what my parents christened me, yes. Now, if you've got nothing more profound to say, please – "

The shock faded, and Gilbert, grinning widely, threw his arm around Kiku's shoulders (an action which, he was interested to note, caused the intensity of Arthur's glare to approximately triple) and exclaimed, "Hey, well done! You never told me you were after this one." And he jerked his head in Arthur's direction.

Kiku's blush deepened; he stared at the floor as if willing it to swallow him up, and said nothing. Sensing Kiku's distress, Arthur stepped forward and laid a protective hand on Kiku's shoulder, forcing Gilbert to draw back his arm. "What do you want, Gilbert?" he asked icily.

Someone's a bit low on the old Christmas cheer, thought Gilbert to himself, but out loud all he said was, "I'm looking for Mattie. You seen him?"

"Dear me, can't even keep track of your own boyfriend now?" Arthur sighed. "As a matter of fact, I have. He's been standing out in the hall for the past five minutes." He glanced over to the doorway; Gilbert followed his gaze, and sure enough, there was Matthew, leaning against the doorframe with an unreadable expression on his face.

It was only after he'd already set off back across the room that he remembered to turn and yell, "Thanks, Arthur!" in the blond's direction, by which point Arthur and Kiku were too occupied with each other to pay him any attention.

"Get a room, you two," he muttered to himself, grinning, as he made his way over to where Matthew was standing. "Hey, Mattie. I've been looking everywhere for you," he said, feeling his smile widen uncontrollably and his heart rate subtly pick up as he looked up and met Matthew's gaze. Gottverdammt, Gil, you're not a teenager any more! Stop acting like one, it's totally unawesome. But he couldn't help it; this was just the effect the Canadian had on him, and he was going to have to learn to live with it. Or at least he was if he managed to pull this off.

"Where else did you think I'd be?" Matthew asked, returning Gilbert's smile with that quirk of his lips that did unhelpful, though not unpleasant, things to Gilbert's knees. And his stomach. And his brain. Why, he asked himself, did Matthew have to be so... so... Attractive? Adorable? Completely and utterly and inconveniently perfect?

Seeing Matthew's confused – and slightly concerned – expression, he realised that he had simply been standing there and staring at him without answering. But now he couldn't remember the question. "Er..." He could feel himself starting to blush. Gil, you idiot. "Sorry, Mattie, I, er – " What was it he always said? Come on, you can't have forgotten your own catchphrase. "I couldn't hear you over the sound of how awesome you – scheiße, I mean I – are. I mean were. I mean am. Oh, fuck." Wow, that was smooth, he thought with annoyance. Well, it wasn't his fault – who could blame him when he had been distracted by that stupid Canadian and his stupidly beautiful eyes and his stupidly handsome face and his stupidly adorable smile and his stupidly kissable lips...

Matthew just laughed. "I said, where else did you think I'd be?"

This time Gilbert's stare was one of confusion. "What do you mean, Mattie?"

Reaching out and taking his hand, Matthew said softly, "Look up." And Gilbert suddenly understood.

Right above them, fixed to the lintel with a red ribbon, was a sprig of mistletoe.

"Do you want to – "

"I've been waiting here for nearly ten minutes, Gil, of course I do," Matthew cut him off, and gently touched his lips to Gilbert's.

In the back of his mind, Gilbert knew that there was something he was supposed to be doing, something important. But that was lost somewhere in the warm fog of desire that clouded his brain as he put his arms around Matthew's neck and leant in to the pressure of Matthew's lips soft but firm against his own. Besides, what could be more important than this? More important than Matthew's fingers tracing circles on his back and sending shivers of pleasure through his whole body, more important than the warmth spreading outwards from his stomach at the other man's touch, more important than the sweet faint scent of syrup that always clung to Matthew and the feeling of Matthew's body pressed close against his and the almost downy softness under his fingers as he moved his hands upwards to play with Matthew's hair...

Then the thing in his pocket bumped against Matthew's hip, and he remembered exactly what he was meant to be doing.

Drawing a quizzical look from Matthew, he stepped back, regretfully slipping his fingers from Matthew's hair as he did so. He put one hand into his pocket and took out the (now slightly squashed) lump of clingfilm-wrapped stollen. "Early Christmas present. Here." And he held it out to Matthew, trying to keep his hand from shaking.

Looking completely mystified, the Canadian let go of Gilbert and took the proffered stollen. "Um... thanks?"

Gilbert met his eyes in what he hoped was a subtle yet meaningful way. Now would be a good time to discover my powers of telepathy, he thought. He hadn't actually planned things any further than this. Help, what am I supposed to do now?

Matthew took in Gilbert's wild-eyed stare, and glanced down at the cake he had been given. "So... you want me to eat this now, right?"

Silently thanking Matthew for interpreting correctly, Gilbert nodded.

If Matthew was confused as to why Gilbert watched him so intently as he unwrapped the stollen and took first one bite, then another, he didn't show it; he merely remarked, "You know, Gilbert, this stuff is amazing."

Gilbert managed to grin, although his heart was nearly bursting out of his chest with anticipation. "'Course it is. I made it, didn't I? Keep going, though, you haven't got to the best bit yet."

Wondering what, exactly, was so special about this particular slice of stollen (besides the fantastic taste, anyway) and why Gilbert looked almost as petrified as he had done on that day almost three years ago when he had first hesitantly asked Matthew whether he would like to go out for a meal with him one evening, Matthew bit into it again – and stopped.

Gilbert saw Matthew's eyes go wide, and his stomach twisted. This is it. He watched the Canadian – his Canadian – take his hand away from his mouth in surprise, and look down at the cake in his hand, and stare at it for a few moments before finally registering what the glint of silver meant. He watched Matthew lift the ring out, and brush the crumbs off it, and bring his other hand to his mouth in shock. Well, I suppose it's now or never.

He dropped down onto one knee – crap, I'm meant to have the ring at this point, aren't I, well done you idiot, didn't think this through did you? – and looked up at Matthew. "Mattie..." He faltered. What was he supposed to say at this point? If he had been Francis, he would have made some big speech full of flowery language and flattering similes; if he had been Antonio, he would have produced a guitar and sung a serenade that would have Matthew falling at his feet. But he wasn't them. He was Gilbert, and he would do this the only way he knew how. He looked steadily into the blue eyes he knew so well and said slowly, "Mattie... I just want you for my own. More than you could ever know. Make my wish come true? All I want, for...ever, is you. Will you marry me?"

Matthew didn't answer straight away, and for an awful, heart-stopping moment Gilbert thought that he was going to say no. But then he realised that Matthew's eyes were wet, and his shoulders were shaking slightly. It took Matthew a few seconds to get the words out, but when he did, Gilbert realised that he needn't have worried. "'Course I w-will," he whispered. "Now c-come here." And, pulling Gilbert to his feet, he threw his arms around him, buried his face in his shoulder, and sobbed. Gilbert heard a muffled, "I love you, Gil," emerge through the tears, and his chest swelled with a rush of happiness so powerful that for a moment he couldn't breathe.

"I love you too, Mattie."

…

Just inside the room, Antonio turned to Francis with a grin. "Told you so. That's fifty you owe me."

Sighing theatrically, Francis took out his wallet and handed over the money. "Ah well. Money well spent." And he smiled. "Merry Christmas, Toni."

"Merry Christmas."

A/N: Merry Christmas everybody!