I adore Christmas. It's my favorite time of the year. My country turns white and blue and utterly sparkles. The cities, towns, and rural villages hustle and bustle in preparation as families come together and merge in a chaotic, lovely mass. Some animals hibernate, some migrate, and some stick around to tough out the cold season.

Everything and everyone is happy and excited and so spirited and full of life. It's beautiful and I love it. I love being able to walk down a snowy street and breathe the air and just know that Christmas is coming.

If I had my way, I would spend Christmas Eve and morning with my immediate family- France, America, and England. Papa and I would cook dinner while England and my brother lit the fireplace and set the table. We would eat together in front of the crackling flames and laugh and love and let go of our bitter history for once.

Then later, we would take cinnamon cookies out of the oven and snuggle up on the couch under a single fluffy red blanket as England read the original 'Night Before Christmas' story in his smooth accent. Papa would follow up with the origins of the story- how a father had written it as a Christmas present to his children when he had nothing else to give.

America and I would be shooed off to bed and we would go like eager children because it was the one time of year we got to relive that feeling. We knew when we woke in the morning we would be greeted with chocolate crepes and presents and a kiss on the temple from each of our fathers.

I had gotten my way for many, many years.

But then as America grew up, came out of isolation, and began connecting to the rest of the world, he decided that the Christmas spirit wasn't to be shared only with family, but with the entire world.

That's when America's enormous world Christmas parties began. Every country, ex-country, micronation, territory, and state was invited, regardless of war. America decided that Christmas was a time for peace, and the rest of the nations followed his lead.

The parties changed, grew over time. Everybody loved bringing their own foods and drinks and decorations and meshing their cultures together into one big illusion of hope. It wasn't long before hotel floors and entire flights were reserved for countries flying in and staying a night (two nights, three, a week!). Nations started staying longer and longer because the longer the party lasted, the longer everyone could relax and pretend everything was all right.

And really, that system was healthy for everyone involved. It was a yearly reminder that we were all in it together and if we couldn't remember the comradery that came with that then we would never make it, never find peace, never truly win.

Except it wasn't what I wanted.

It was what the world needed, but it wasn't what I wanted.

I wanted a snug home with the close warmth of familiarity and people I had known and cared for all of my life- despite the wars we'd faced each other in.

So instead I would curl up with hot chocolate in front of a fire by myself and recite the age-old words of Mr. Moore quietly to myself. I would smile bitterly as I thought of all the healing happiness that other countries were experiencing that I was too shy and invisible to feel. At some point I would make my way to bed and restlessly fall asleep and dream of times when I wasn't alone.

In the morning I would make myself a cup of coffee with too much sugar and a boatload of maple syrup and lethargically open the small stack of presents that had accumulated under the fresh tree I had chopped down and put up myself.

Except I wouldn't. I shouldn't, and I couldn't, and I wouldn't. I did that routine for five years and it made acid well in my throat to think about it.

So I don't do that anymore.

You'd think that as introverted as I am, it wouldn't be that difficult to spend Christmas alone. But that isn't the problem. I spend the entire year alone and as long as my house is lit up with firelight and the smell of good food then it almost feels like a home- at least, enough for me to be satisfied.

It's hard for a country to feel alone during the holidays. When every particle of humanity that makes up your soul is wrapped in the pure comfort of warmth, family, and home, it was almost impossible to feel left out, whether or not you actually took part in the festivities.

It also helped that a nation's people were known to subconsciously take care of their personification, so no matter where I am in my country, I'm taken in and surrounded with friendship and happiness and hope and it's just such a wonderful feeling that no matter how melancholy my musings are, my people never fail to lift my spirits.

So that's never the problem. The problem is that every other time of the year people are more focused on the everyday worries of life- school, work, money, social relations, politics, safety, everything and everything. People are more focused on stressing about life than feeling happy or caring about the happiness of those around them.

As such, I'm not given more than a third glance as my citizens wonder why I look so familiar before they're on their way and I'm left alone.

Granted, the world hasn't completely forgotten me. At least, not the entire world. France always remembers me. He never mistakes me for my brother, never forgets either my country name or human name. My Papa had always been there for me. America always knows who I am, even if he sometimes forgets that I am his brother. When we're alone together, we're like any other pair of siblings, and I appreciate that. England doesn't usually remember me, but when he does he feels awful and is anxious to help, and that's nice too.

But the three members of my family are all very busy countries whose free time rarely consists of spending time with me. I get a call from Papa at least once a month for one reason or another, and America comes over whenever his friends won't do something for him, but that's it. The rest of the year I am faced with the overwhelming fact that the large majority of the world forgets that I exist on a regular basis.

Except during Christmas. Every year, I have proof that there is at least one other country that remembers me, and recognizes me as myself. Maybe it's only once a year, maybe it is the guy's job to remember everyone, but it doesn't matter. I don't care. It's proof year by year that I'm not fading into nothing, that I am still real and anchored to the earth. Because sometimes it is hard to tell.

And sometimes, when I pass him in the hallways at a conference, he pauses his conversation to smile brightly at me, and I nod in stunned silence in response. Maybe he doesn't actually recognize me the way I hope he does, but I can ignore that possibility to make way for my sparse moments of hope.

It is enough that I can guarantee at least three presents a year (not presents, but gifts, acknowledgement of the fact that there are people in the world who care.), if not four.

One from France- usually food or wine or something that catches his eye and by some miracle reminds him of me.

One from America- often things that he's too ashamed to buy for himself and then borrows from me, but always maple syrup because he does honestly care, even if he doesn't pay attention.

Occasionally one from England- his Christmas gift policy is that if he saw something that makes him think of someone, then he gets it for them. He doesn't like forcing gifts to fit people.

And always always always one from Finland. Santa Claus. Pere Noel.

Again, maybe it's just his job, but he never forgets and nobody else can claim that in the busy holiday months. And his present is always perfect- never something I need, but always something that makes me smile, makes me happy, makes me feel remembered every time I see it.

Those reminders have built up over the years, and I am grateful, and I treasure every one.

So I go to America's enormous Christmas parties each year, not because I need the healing they offer or the company, but because I need to thank Pere Noel for never leaving a child behind and make sure that he knows what he has done for me my entire life.

And each year, he just smiles, nods, and says that Santa's Workshop is always open.

I have this headcanon that Canada has always wanted to be friends with Finland because Santa has never forgotten him, and I've always wanted to write it into a story. I tried before, but it didn't work and turned into a really awkwardly lame PruCan story. So...

America came out of isolation in 1941 ish when he joined the war. I know it seems odd to link the time when he joined the war to the point when he started hosting large, world encompassing parties, but I think it's cute to think of America trying to maintain that part of his childhood as the rest of his innocence was shattered, and trying to share that solace with everyone possible, despite the war, and maybe even especially because of the war.

The Night Before Christmas was written and published by Clement Moore in 1823. I'm not entirely sure about the story that he wrote it for his children as a Christmas gift because he was poor, but I do know that it was written for his children, so the sentiment is there.

Umm sorry about mistakes; I never write in present tense, and I was really unsure about how to end it.

Tell me what you thought?