December 25, 2012
A.K.A: The. Worst. Christmas. Ever.
It was that time of the year again; the season of family get-togethers, grueling shopping sprees, long lines, and mind-boggling traffic. Tantrum-prone children raided the snow-filled streets of New York City along with their exhausted parents who yearned for schools to be back in session. People bustled to and fro, trying to fit in some last minute shopping into their busy schedules, leaving the entire city in a standstill of suppressed anticipation.
And, needless to say, after being stuck in the merciless gridlock of downtown Manhattan for nearly two hours, America was beginning to lose his patience as well as every ounce of Christmas cheer that he had previously possessed. He grit his teeth and clenched the steering wheel of his Chevy, silently cursing the car in front of him, which was moving slower than molasses. He tried to find a way to merge into a different lane, but that idea had grown improbable with all the chaos of the surrounding environment.
He regretted not having taken the train, though he doubted it would have been any better. The trains were always crowded, but the creeps, looters and perverts of the city liked to come out during the holidays, making mass transit a slightly more risky form of transportation than usual. With a groan of surrender, America dropped his head onto the rim of the steering wheel and muttered under his breath in frustration. He loved New York dearly—it would always hold his heart—but it certainly liked to push his buttons at times.
And maybe being stuck in traffic wouldn't have been that bad if he wasn't still upset about having to cancel his annual Christmas party.
Truth be told, the party cancellation had been a sheer miscalculation of events on his part. At first, he had debated celebrating at all this year, deciding on maybe just staying home and taking an outrageously long nap until the clock struck midnight once more. Yet, surprisingly enough, England had outright demanded to be invited to the nonexistent social gathering and had convinced Canada to come as well (who then invited France).
Soon after, he felt an obligation to make this Christmas something special, even though he wasn't feeling high in spirits at all. The past few months had been tedious, considering tragedies such as Hurricane Sandy and, most recently, the massacre in Connecticut. Yet, he had to put on an air of hope and strength to pull everything back together again, even if it was more for his own benefit than anyone else's. He had to convince himself that he was going to be fine, and that things would get better with time. This Christmas party was supposed to be a symbol of that.
It seemed like there would be no evading December 25th this year.
Or so he thought until receiving a lengthy lecture over the phone from his boss concerning the lab results of his last physical at the doctor's. Supposedly, a two-timing blood test revealed that his cholesterol levels were through the roof. If he didn't change his eating habits within the next visit to McDonald's, a heart attack would be imminent. So, seeing as his deteriorating physical state was more important than a party, he'd been forced to cancel it to take care of himself immediately. The ultimatum from his boss had been that either he treat himself at home quickly or be forced to go to the hospital.
And hospitals were totally unheroic.
So, he'd decided on the former option, promising to his boss to do everything in his power to get into shape.
He'd agreed to go on a…a…DIET.
He shuddered at the word.
But unsurprisingly enough, his boss didn't think he'd be able to do it without a little reinforcement. So, who had been called in to do the job?
That's right, England.
In fact, his boss needn't have even called the nation, since he'd already suspected that his help would be needed after hearing about the abrupt cancellation of the party that he had forced America to invite him to.
America chided himself for not foreseeing it sooner. England had always known when he was out-of-sorts; his mommy-senses would tingle and send him straight to the contact list on his phone, preparing him for the delivery of yet another long lecture.
America forced himself to understand even though he wished he didn't. After raising a child for so many years, there was no going back. He supposed no parent (or in this case mentor), ever ceased worrying about their children. It was involuntary and vicious, demanding to be felt as it uncoiled itself and reached out to the past. Loving parents unconditionally loved their children in return, and did not care whether their love and concern were appreciated or not, they'd continue their old ways in spite of rejection.
England wasn't going away. Unfortunately, he was going to be stuck with him for the next two weeks.
Two. Whole. Weeks.
Spending two weeks with England was difficult under normal circumstances, but now he had to listen to everything the man told him to do or risk being sent to the hospital. No party. No cheeseburgers. No cookies… The list went on.
Worst. Christmas. Ever.
Therefore, America hadn't made things as extravagant as they normally would have been. The tree and decorations he'd set up were modest; he couldn't bring himself to celebrate as much as he would have liked. He would acknowledge the holidays; it would be just enough to put his mind at ease for making an attempt at participating in the festivities.
Now, if this car would finally pick up the pace, he could continue on with his miserable life!
Next year, he'd stick to getting everyone gift cards instead of something more thoughtful.
He turned right at the next intersection, making a futile attempt at somehow circling around the traffic to get onto the Brooklyn Bridge. The result led in a string of cars honking at him for trying to push his way into the lane accompanied by roars of some rather creative vocabulary. America swore under his breath for the umpteenth time, squeezing the bridge of his nose in agitation. When he finally composed himself again, he caught a glimpse of the Freedom Tower in his rearview mirror, proudly looming over the city's skyline and Ground Zero.
He huffed impatiently albeit affectionately.
One thing was for sure, he was going to have the biggest cup of coffee he could stomach when he got home; his last coffee before England could get his limey hands on it.
When the doorbell rang two hours later, America stole a peek at the not-so-mysterious visitor through the peep-hole, suppressing another groan and steeling himself for an adventurous afternoon.
He swung the door open roughly, barely missing England's nose by an inch.
"Oi! Watch it!" the Englishman barked with startled eyes. He recovered no more than a moment later, presenting a small present encased in gold wrapping paper to his former colony. "Happy Christmas, you big wanker," he finally murmured with an awkward smile, trying to come off as pleasant.
America took his opportunity to look bewildered. England usually sent his Christmas presents in the mail, refusing to exchange them with the American in person. The younger nation gave the man a thoughtful look, his façade of 'noble hero' forgotten as he gazed into his former mentor's eyes. There was no pretending with England; no false smiles and empty glee. England could see right through his phony pretenses, so there was no point in even attempting anything seemingly deceptive in his presence.
So, America allowed himself the privilege of being genuine.
"Thanks, you stodgy, old man," he joked half-heartedly, accepting the gift from England's hands and embracing him in a quick hug. The pair broke away from each other promptly, both feeling extremely awkward under the circumstances. The gesture had lasted for less than a second. "Merry Christmas to you too."
After the formalities, England instantaneously turned stern, posture firm as rock. "You can start your new exercise regimen by bringing my luggage upstairs. Hop to it, lad."
America pouted, eyes losing their shine once more. "And here I thought you were going to be nice to me for a change," he grumbled lowly, picking up the bags and marching up the stairs unhappily. Exercise wasn't normally a problem for him, but he was struggling as of late. It seemed that someone had neglected to tell him that "working out like a champ" did not entitle someone to have a fatty diet. Exercise and a proper diet went hand-in-hand, meaning that one was ineffective without the other.
He dropped the bags in the guestroom and sighed, wondering if he could perhaps seclude himself to his own room for a little while to avoid England's persistent nagging.
Fate was not on his side today.
"America! What's taking you so long? I've got something for you."
Oh, no.
America frowned and jogged back downstairs, finding England comfortably resting on the couch, the abandoned gold-wrapped gift on the coffee table next to him along with a small bottle of what looked to be like a canister for medication.
"What's that?" he asked warily, sitting across from England in the opposite armchair. With a nonchalant glance, England tossed the medicine bottle across the room.
"Your new best friends. You'll be taking those pills to keep you from getting heart disease until our natural remedies start working sufficiently," England explained coyly, biting back a smirk. "I always warned you it would come down to this."
America scowled, waiting for the follow-up statement. "Go ahead, say it."
"I told you so," England said slowly, making sure America suffered through every word. "Now, I've brought some herbal tea with me, which you'll be drinking to help you swallow those monstrous pills. Until that's ready, you may want to open your gift."
America sent a skeptical look at the other nation as he exited the room, but held his tongue. He quickly unwrapped the gift and tossed the wrapping paper aside, examining the book England had given him.
The title read, 'He Who Stuffeth…Puffeth!'
America snarled, attempting to burn the book with his glare. "Very funny, England!"
England merely hummed joyfully from his spot in the kitchen. "I suggest you stop yapping and start reading!"
Feeling extremely frustrated with the entire predicament, America flipped to the first chapter out of curiosity, wincing at the cheesy heading.
'Chapter One: Tough Cookies Don't Crumble.'
He was going to be sick…
Two ridiculous chapters later, England came back with a cup of tea in one hand and a bright, alcoholic beverage in the other.
"I see you've found the stash of Christmas, passion fruit mojitos that I made," America acknowledged with a strained grin.
England crinkled his nose in thought. "I suppose this is your plan then? To get me thoroughly sloshed before the night ends?"
"Not exactly," America smirked. "After all, you were the one who couldn't resist the temptation. Just chill, though. It's Christmas, remember? Chug that down and have a jolly ol' time. It's got white rum in it, your favorite. My plan, if you're still wondering, is to get you to loosen up and have a good time for once in your ancient life. By the way, your gift is under the tree. Don't get too excited though because it's the same style scarf I get you every year since you're always complaining that your too cold."
"Well, Merry bloody Christmas to me then," England puffed, downing a third of the glass in one swig; throat burning and all sense detaching itself from his antsy thoughts. He then rudely shoved the mug of tea into America's face, ordering him to drink. "Take two of those pills I handed you and finish the rest of that tea."
Tentatively, America took a sip of the concoction, immediately screwing up his face and gagging the second it reached his taste buds. "Ugh! This tastes like piss."
"No it doesn't, you simply have to put to use that rusty imagination of yours. It tastes just like that coffee you're so fond of… What was is called again? Ah, yes, the caramel brulee latte from Starbucks."
America's grimace deepened. "Dude, don't remind me of Starbucks! You're torturing me! It's a free country, and I don't have to drink this crap."
"No tea is bad tea," England remarked calmly, sipping his mojito. He knew this job wasn't going to be an easy one.
"I have a right to my opinion," America countered, eyes cold and scathing.
"Well, so do I. My opinion is that you have no right to an opinion seeing as you cannot even take proper care of yourself. Children should not have a right to their opinion if they act so poorly."
"I'm no longer a child," America hissed, growing defensive. He still hadn't ingested the medication.
England used the argument to his advantage. "Yet, you choose to behave like one. Honestly, you haven't changed at all, have you? You're like a petulant toddler who refuses to take his cold medicine."
America's eyes grew murderous, baby blues burning with repressed anger. "Am not!" He poured out two pills and swallowed them down with the rest of the tea, downing the entire thing in under a minute. With a triumphant look, he slammed the empty cup on the table, daring England to insult him again.
The elder nation smugly finished his mojito and settled his back against the couch before perusing through the pile of newspapers that America had stockpiled on the coffee table. His trick had worked just as planned. When America's dignity was put into question, he would do anything with the right amount of persuasion.
The young nation sent a flummoxed look in the other's direction. "And? That's it?"
England furrowed his brows. "Sorry? I don't know what you mean."
"You aren't going to make me do a hundred push-ups, eat a head of broccoli or run up and down the stairs like an idiot?" America asked carefully, eying the weight-loss book that was innocently sitting on the arm rest next to him.
England turned to the business section of the New York Times. "No, I don't think so."
America was speechless. "But—you—I…"
"It's Christmas, America. There'll be plenty of time for getting into shape in the morning. I trust you can occupy yourself until then?" England teased lightly.
America seriously wanted to punch a wall, but resisted the urge.
"Excellent. Well then, I suppose there's time for another mojito."
America growled under his breath. "Bastard. You better not get too drunk, I don't want to be scrubbing vomit off the floor tonight."
"Don't you worry about me," England assured. "Perhaps, chapter four might be a good place for you to end for the night."
America lifted the polished book once more, flipping to what England was referring to. He mustered every ounce of his willpower to hold back the urge to throw the book at the Brit's amused face.
'Chapter Four: License To Grill'
