December 25th, Rome

It came as a relief to Feliciano to feel himself smile as they tried to navigate Rome's crowded streets and make their way back to Lovino's. After his somewhat masochistic mood of the previous week it felt like a relief to be able to abandon that horrible book that Ludwig enjoyed so much and simply look out upon the beautiful town, to take in the sight of smiling and laughing families and crowds of friends with an empty and peaceful mind.

The trio passed a large, vibrantly lit nativity scene and Feliciano paused for a moment to study it, letting some of its warmth enter into himself and trying to let the scene warm him and bring back some of his hope. As he did so he couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed for his recent actions, remembering in particular how he had had to go outside not so long ago in Venice to clear away the shards of his destroyed phone, his own underwear and his iron cross from the street outside his window.

"Feliz Navidad, Feliciano," Antonio said, linking arms with the man as they began to move again, weaving through the crowds. Feliciano felt his pace slowed as his older brother roughly shoved his own arm through Antonio's on the man's other side.

"Thank you," the younger Italian smiled. He gave a glance to the lit up, golden facade of a church as they passed by, "Hey, Antonio, do you make wishes on things at Christmas at your place?"

The man considered the question for a moment before giving a shrug stunted by his hold on both brothers, "Eh, not really."

"You should just do it," It took Feliciano a moment to realise the words hadn't come from Antonio but rather his brother, "If you really wanna, do it. Whoever's you think is up there looking out for you will be listening, it doesn't matter what the day is."

Feliciano smiled and closed his eyes as he made his wish. He let himself be guided by his brother and the man's lover through the thinning crowds, happy to trust them not to lead him astray.

"Buon Natale," he murmured as they continued to wind their way home without falter.

"Buon Natale, fratello," came a mumble from the Spaniard's other side.

December 25th

Arthur teetered on his dining chair as the cracker broke in two with a satisfying "snap". The German pulled out the green paper hat from his end and, after an expectant look from Arthur, placed it on his head, where it threaten to slip over one eye. Shaking the rest of the cracker's contents onto the table, he picked up and considered the tiny calculator that had fallen out.

"Is there a joke?"

Ludwig studied the table top for a moment before taking up the cracker again and discovering a slip of paper still stuck inside the tube. After studying it for a moment, he said solemnly, "It depends upon your definition of a "joke"."

Reaching across the ruins of another cracker, Arthur helped himself to some more mulled wine from a pitcher and leant back in his chair, his own bright red hat managing to stay put in spite of his angle.

Tilting his head to one side he gave the richly decorated tree in the corner of the living room a slow, fond look before finding his voice.

"Happy Christmas, Ludwig. I know this isn't what you were imagining for Christmas this year, but I hope this has made things a little better than they might have been otherwise."

The German held up his own glass of mulled wine and gave a nod.

"Fröhliche Weihnachten." Ludwig got to his feet and headed over to the tree where, to Arthur's surprise, he leant down and extracted a small present from beneath the branches. He held the gift out to the Englishman and said, civilly, "I hope next year serves you better than this one has."

With a mixture of surprise and amusement, Arthur fished his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small present of his own, passing it to Ludwig as he took the man's.

"Same to you."

December 25th, NYC

Upon waking up to the tinny beep of his alarm clock, Alfred nearly gave himself a paper cut. He squinted to bring the sheet of paper beside him on his pillow into focus. After mastering his surroundings and recalling the date, he took up the paper and read the message in weak light filtering through his blinds.

"Alfred,

Bonjour. I hope you slept well. Please be so kind as to meet me in the living room as soon as you wake. I have a little gift for you.

Francis

Alfred let his head sink back onto the pillow again and held the sheet above his head, squinting at the message and bringing the words in and out of focus. A moment later he crumpled the note into a ball and got to his feet, padding out of the room in his vest and jogging bottoms.

Sure enough, he found the lights already on in the living room and the blinds open, showing the misty, wintery sunlight that reflected off the grey waters of the river. Stood looking at out the scene in silence, the Frenchman's silhouette was lit up and sent into sharp relief. Alfred uncertainly approached the man's side, it seeming to take him joining the man's side for Francis to notice his presence. When he did so, the man gave Alfred a contemplative smile.

"Merry Christmas."

"Mm," the Frenchman said, as though in agreement, "You know, I do not find Christmas so exciting myself, I think may have grown up too much for it. I prefer New Year's Eve," Francis mulled over his own words before adding, "Still, I think that this is a good time for staying with family and loved ones."

Alfred let himself avoid the other man's eye, giving his Christmas tree a look instead and noticing for the first time that his Superman decoration had become entangled in some tinsel, "I guess. It's a good time to think about what's really important in life."

"Exactement," The American realised suddenly that it wasn't his imagination that the other man was standing closer than before. Still, he chose to ignore how their shoulders were almost brushing, "Ah, Alfred?"

"Yeah?" the man bristled at the breathy way in which the man said his name, "You still haven't told me why you wanted me to come in here so early," he squinted, cursing himself for forgetting his glasses, as he tried to identify any new gifts placed under the tree that the Frenchman may have possibly intended for him.

"Let me show you why I wanted you to come here, instead," the other man smiled. As though in slow motion, Alfred felt fingers wind their way through his hair, hands cupping his head and a pair of lips pressing firmly against his own which attempted to tease his own mouth open. More out of shock than pleasure, the American opened his mouth and felt a tongue skilfully stroke against his own. When time felt like it had returned to its usual pace, Alfred's hands found purchase on the soft wool of the other man's jumper and gripped it momentarily before he shoved with all of his considerable might.

Francis managed to catch himself before he fell over, managing to maintain a pleasant smile as he straightened himself and his rumpled clothes. The American's ire grew at the sight of the Frenchman slowly and suggestively licking his lips.

Before Alfred could get enough breath with which to shout, Francis, rather curiously, pointed upward with one long finger. Feeling that it left him somewhat defenceless, Alfred shot a quick glance to where Francis was gesturing and spotted a sprig of mistletoe that he knew had not been there the night before. The rather harmless looking decoration made something in Alfred's mind overflow, his emotions finally sweeping over him.

"Okay!" he yelled, hearing as he spoke creeping footsteps behind him, "Okay! I don't know what the hell you think you're playing at but that's it!" The Frenchmen gave him an innocent and startled look, "No more groping, no more dirty jokes, no more hiding behind the shower curtain-"

"I assure you, I wasn't-"

"My shower doesn't cough, Francis."

"Guys," Matthew said, weakly. The two other men ignored him, Francis giving the Canadian a calm little blasé wave.

Alfred went to grab a chair, climbed up and tugged the mistletoe down from the ceiling viciously, before he carried on as doggedly as before, "Look. You are, apparently, my goddamn guest so start acting like one instead of like an out of work porn star!"

"I am only having a little fun, Alfred," Francis said, placidly; his tone became more frank and serious as he added, "I meant no harm. I thought that you might enjoy a little, how you say, simple pleasure and frivolity after the last few months."

"No," The American went and sat beside his brother on the sofa as though the man might act as a buffer, "Look, maybe I would like to have a little "fun and frivolity" or whatever it is you said, but not like that. Did you never stop to think that maybe I just want to be around someone - I don't know - someone who doesn't act like a total pervert all the time?" He took in a deep, ragged breath, "You know, like someone who doesn't keep begging me to show him where the nearest clubs are, or who doesn't take an hour to get ready to go out. I know I'm awesome and I like action and all but sometimes I just want to be left alone, okay? Maybe I just want to spend some time in peace and quiet, with some nice, bland guy. Just, I don't know, spending some time with someone who wants to read or something." To the best of his abilities Alfred tried to mask the horrified look that came over him as he heard his own words and their import registered in his brain. Francis, too, seemed to be keeping himself from looking too interested in the Alfred's words and reaction, opting instead to give a sad, accepting sigh.

"I understand. I apologise. Please, let's not let this little confusion spoil our day."

Alfred gave him a dull, pardoning nod, turning then to his brother and blatantly ignoring Francis as he engaged the man in a loud, overly animated conversation. Once the American was suitably distracted, Francis took out his phone and sent off a text.

"Ludwig. I think that little favour you requested of me is working. I shall see you at the Conference. A Joyeux Noël to you and darling Arthur, Francis xx (You boys all owe me a very, very big favour yourselves after all of the abuse I have had to endure. Alfred force fed me "French fries")."

December 28th, NYC

"Looks like you've got a late Christmas gift, Alfred," Matthew said with a puzzled frown, returning from the mail-box on the ground floor. He took the parcel wrapped in a holly patterned wrapping paper from the pile of mail, dropping the rest of the letters onto the kitchen table. The Canadian squinted at the package a little harder, "I think the franking says Berlin."

"Ludwig?" Alfred took the parcel from his brother and gave it enough of a squeeze to identify it as a book. He turned the object in his hands uncertainly, "Do you think he's trying to get me on his side? Or, damn, maybe he thinks I thinks I'm on Feliciano's side and he's trying to kill me," the American held the gift slightly further from his body.

"You won't know which it is until you open it," Matthew said, dropping some flyers and catalogues he had found in the mail into the bin. Both men looked rather vacantly at the leather bound album that Alfred uncovered. The American searched the torn wrapping paper for a note, letter or a card of some kind to find no note or explanation of any kind.

"This is weird-" The American's words died on his lips, however, when he opened up the album and looked at the photos inside and, more specifically, the handwriting beside each photograph. He didn't give an explanation to his brother as he left the room to go into his bedroom and sit on his bed in silence, giving the album his full attention. His fingers clutched the soft leather of the cover as he turned to the front of the album and proceeded to read.

The photos were a mixture of the ones he had thrown into the box he had sent Arthur and ones he hadn't seen before, he realised, and were ordered by what appeared to be date. The first print was an unnaturally stiff, posed photograph in sepia of the pair staring out at a camera. Both men were in suits, Arthur's head held stiffly above a starched collar, Alfred wearing a derby he remembered had pinched just above the ears.

"I hate this picture," Arthur's note read, "We look so awkward and miserable. That suit of mine itched like mad. After the war photographs things look up, I promise."

Alfred found himself agreeing with the comment. The war photos he skipped over with a frown, unable to keep himself from noticing how either himself or Arthur were sporting a bloodied lip or ugly bruises in almost every black and white shot. They were, he realised as he took in the sight of their strained or pained expressions, photographs taking solely for the records, for history's sake.

After a few leaves, the photographs turned to colour. The photographs from the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s all made him wince, partly on account of the clothes they were both wearing (Arthur's comments too made mention to their more questionable outfits, such as the Englishman's 1970's velvet suit and Alfred's 1980's suit with rolled sleeves). Partly though, he winced because of how few of the photographs seemed to have been taken outside of Conferences or Meetings. In almost every shot it was possible to feel the tension and aggression between the pair, stood shoulder to shoulder and looking at each camera as though squaring up to it or at waiting for a jail mug shot to be taken.

"One of the reasons I always looked so fed up in these pictures," Arthur's comment ran next to a particularly bad shot from the 1990s which Alfred vaguely recalled had been taken by Toris, "Is because I would always promise myself not to pick a fight with you and then go ahead and ignore my own good advice. I think it's also because your grin is one of my favourite things in this life, up there with a good novel, a well brewed cup of tea and an empty field on a summer's day with no "trespassers will be shot" sign in sight. Whenever I looked across at you when we were having one of these photos taken and saw that you weren't smiling it just seemed to make a smile on my own part rather pointless."

There was an almost palpable change in the atmosphere of the scenes in the most recent photographs. The majority were casual, taken outside of meetings. One photo he hadn't seen before made him cringe a smile, featuring as it did a sunburnt Arthur in a polo shirt, attempting to hide his face behind a half empty pint glass, whilst Alfred saw that he himself was flipping the camera the bird, mouth open in an amused shout. After a moment's thought, he remembered where the shot had been taken and by whom: in Paris, by Francis, where they had gone to some art show the man had insisted on dragging them to after a meeting.

Another photograph on the same page was just as unfamiliar, featuring himself alone, squinting in the wintery sunlight of his garden back in D.C.

" I came so close to kissing you that day," Arthur's inscription ran next to the shot, "I was terrified because I would have had no excuse at all for doing so. I remember you asked me if I felt ill, so I must have looked every bit as bad as I felt."

On the final page, Alfred gave a frown of surprise. There were two pictures there, both angled and little blurry as though taken with a phone as opposed to a camera. The first was one of his own, a photograph of Arthur sleeping, an arm flung out over the edge of Alfred's bed, eyebrows raised somewhere in his fringe, mouth parted in a delicate sigh of breath.

"I never knew that you took this. It's curious, really."

Alfred looked down at the final unfamiliar photograph. He saw that it was of himself, laid alone on a bed that wasn't his own nor Arthur's. In the shot he was curled up on himself, his face wearing a look of dream-inspired puzzlement, one hand tucked up and curled under his pillow. It took Alfred spotting a large toy tiger in one corner of the shot for him to realise the photograph had been taken on their trip to Blackpool the year before.

"I say the above picture is curious because, as you can see, I did precisely the same not so long afterward. I am so glad I had the heart and the stomach to kiss you that week without the damn excuse of being drunk. I am not exaggerating when I say it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. I will never regret kissing you that day."

On the back cover, Alfred spotted a few final scrawled words.

"You have all of my love,

Arthur"

He sat with the album balanced on his lap, eyes closed for an indeterminate time. The weight of the album felt oddly reassuring and so it was with an effort that he got to his feet and placed the book on the small bookcase in his living room. He carefully straightened it afterwards, his hand dragging down the soft leather of the spine before he pushed the album and its photographs from his mind.

A/N

A fair amount of history and research fail in this chapter I fear, but somewhat unavoidable.

Italian Christmas – Feliciano helps Lovino prepare fish, a common dish on Christmas Eve for Catholics in Rome (I see both boys and Antonio as "Catholic", as it were). Both Italy and Spain celebrate the Epiphany on the 6th of January, but Christmas in more recent times has also been celebrated, which is why Lovino is still somewhat dubious about the idea of a Christmas tree.

English Christmas – Much like American Christmasses, it's generally all about food, family and spending extortionate amounts of money on rubbish "across the pond" at Christmas-time. Crackers are a big part of an English Christmas: they look a little like giant wrapped sweets/candies. They typically contain a tacky plastic toy, a paper hat and, as Ludwig notes, a "joke". They contain something which makes a loud "snapping" sound when the cracker is pulled. The idea is that whoever gets the end containing the toy keeps it. As Arthur notes, England does have a few "Germany inspired" Christmas markets and whilst some have German stallholders, I imagine some of the wares are fairly poor quality. Also, I think Francis would be quick to point out that mistletoe has its roots in English druid customs.

German Christmas – Mentioned in the fic are Germany's famous Christmas markets (admittedly, I have taken some liberties in including stalls that include the gifts Arthur and Ludwig just so happen to want to buy). Also mentioned are several German festive foods such as mulled wine, candied almonds and gingerbread. Arthur also compliments Ludwig on his tree, Germany being the "birthplace" of the Christmas tree.

French Christmas – It would appear Christmas is more of a children's holiday in France, whilst la Saint-Sylvestre/New Year's Eve is more an adults holiday.

"Toy tiger" – a reference to my other UK/US fic "Al and Artie do Blackpool". Alfred liberates a "giant toy tiger" from a funfair-style game stall, much to Arthur's chagrin.