England stared morosely out of his window at the snow outside. It had been falling for days with a depth of six inches yesterday and another four today. He could almost feel the blood in his veins thickening and slowing from the cold, his heart working overtime to pump the fluid sluggishly through his body in a vain attempt to restore warmth and feeling to the tips of his fingers.
I've had just about enough of this house, he thought to himself. It cost too much to heat in the cold, and nothing worked. The snow meant that America had had to cancel his visit, too: not that he'd wanted to see that bastard particularly, but Christmas was for family, and he supposed America was the closest he had to such a thing. Even if America was an ungrateful brat.
England lifted the teacup to his lips, but his fingers trembled, sloshing the hot liquid out and onto the saucer below, splashing the newspaper underneath. "Bugger." He dabbed at the spill with a handkerchief, smudging the newsprint. In a huff, he screwed up the newspaper and threw it away. A colourful scrap underneath caught his attention, and he pulled the supplement out. "Beat the winter blues," he read. "Rent a holiday property abroad." His thick, dark eyebrows furrowed slightly. That didn't sound like a bad idea, all things considered. Things hadn't ended well with the colonies, but if there was a way to do this without flags and armies…
England dusted off the leather-bound book by the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialled. Greece was in need of money right now, and those white-plastered walls and deep blue seas were tempting…
It was a comparatively balmy 18ºC in Crete, the blue sky broken up by a few puffy white clouds. England found Greece lying in the shade of a ruined palace wall, fingers laced across his chest, staring up at the sky. Waving his hand in front of the tanned brunet's face, and eliciting no response, he dusted off a spot on a low wall and sat, waiting for Greece to return to the land of the living.
England followed Greece's gaze to the sky above. The last time he'd been here, the sky had been peppered with the dark outlines of Luftwaffe transports, the parachutes of Axis forces unfurling in waves as he fought alongside Greece to defend the island. Day by day, they were forced back, watching Greece's citizens take up arms they never expected to bear against the invaders, watching as they became the targets of German rifles, before they found themselves surrounded. England had managed to escape to Egypt, but Greece had to suffer the occupation that followed.
Greece sat up, looking questioningly at England. "You want me to show you around?"
"Ah – it's okay," England smiled a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head which made his messy blond hair stick out at unnatural angles. "I think I've changed my mind. The memories, you know?"
Greece nodded. "I like coming here, though. If it's quiet, sometimes I think I can hear my mother talking to me."
England stood, suddenly mindful that he was perched on Mama Greece's ruins. Also, a unicorn had decided to start nuzzling him gently, demanding attention. "Well, I'll be off then."
"No need to be in such a rush, England," came a chuckle from behind as a heavy arm draped itself across his shoulders. From the enraged look on Greece's face it was clear who the interloper was.
England extricated himself from the arm with difficulty, turning to scowl at the older man in the red fez. "Hello, Turkey."
"You're looking for somewhere warm to spend the winter. Why didn't ya come to me first? I've got warmer places, and cheaper too. Ya asked this guy how much dinner for two would set you back?" Turkey laughed, a rich, deep sound straight from his belly.
Greece's face was like thunder. "Ask Turkey to make you coffee some time. You'll be using America's grounds to wash your mouth out, the taste is so foul."
"Greece serves the exact same coffee. Just had to pass a law to call it 'Greek' so the guy could stomach it, the bigot."
That was enough for Greece, and with a sudden surge of energy he flung himself headlong at Turkey, tackling the taller man around the knees, using his weight to drop Turkey to the floor. "Go to hell!"
As the two men sprawled on the floor, fists flying, England sighed. This was not the restful holiday break he'd had in mind. He considered weighing in to try to break up the fight, but the two had been enemies for so long that it was ridiculous to think one could stop it now. Like England and France. Maybe the two even enjoyed being enemies – some men valued a good rival. Definitely not like England and France.
Shuddering at the thought, England walked away from the tussle. Maybe he'd be better off looking for somewhere closer to home anyway. Somewhere he could get chips with everything…
The Costa del Sol promised sunshine and beaches, and it certainly delivered on that front. Spain had agreed to meet England and show him around; however he hadn't turned up, so England had decided to wander around the vicinity on his own. It wasn't long before he wandered into a newly-built apartment complex, all angular yellow walls and artfully planted bushes. To the side of the complex, a golf course; behind it, a communal pool. Families could be heard speaking German, Russian, but mostly English. Blessed, wonderful English. Admittedly there was a certain uncouthness to the accent, a certain slobbishness to the attire, something that reminded him ever so slightly of Blackpool in the entertainment district, but could all that serve to make this place a home-away-from-home?
England was interrupted from his thoughts by the clap of a hand on his back. He turned to face an apologetically smiling Spaniard. "So sorry, England. I took a siesta and I overslept. You know how it is, we're all busy at this time of year…"
"You bloody well should be sorry," England grumbled, folding his arms. "A true gentleman knows the virtue of punctuality."
"Sí, sí. Please accept my fondest apologies. And please, move away from this place. As you can see I had some redecorating done…" Spain waved an arm at the concrete townhouses surrounding them. "It hasn't turned out so well."
"Looks fine to me," said England, grimacing, taking the comment as a slight on his own tastes. The place had sun, sea, sand: what more was there to visit Spain for?
"I find it messy. And crowded. Please do not look over there, England."
"Over where?" Just as England turned to look, he found himself being gently propelled away by the elbow.
"I have something much more suitable in the hills. If you would accompany me?"
The hills – or rather, mountains – reminded England just a little of parts of the Peak District, only with a covering of warm yellow light instead of powdery snow, and citrus groves where the sheep would be. Rounding a corner, they came upon a small village nestled in the crook between two hills, spreading languidly down the hillside in a swathe of whitewashed walls and red tiled roofs. A church tower stretched to the sky, its bell hanging silent.
Spain took them down a set of steps between two rows of houses. Hanging baskets carried green foliage, although England imagined them to be a riot of colour in summer. Cast-iron railings framed balconies and windows, bicycles leaned against doorways.
Finally, Spain stopped at an unassuming door, producing a large ring of keys from his pocket. He indicated with a smile and a wave that England should enter first.
The door opened onto a large paved courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard, flanked by box hedges and untamed trees, was a two-storey villa. It was whitewashed like the rest of the village, and with a pillar-fronted patio, large, airy windows and arched doorways. It was quite beautiful. Spain followed, seeking approval from England.
"Well, it's alright I suppose…"
"Alright?" Spain looked downcast, almost tearful.
"It's too big…"
"Are you not expecting company? Mr. America…"
"Mr. America is indisposed," sneered England.
"But it's Christmas Eve!" Spain was welling up now.
"It can't be helped."
Spain smacked a fist into his palm, determinedly. "Yes it can. Romano is staying with Veneziano tonight, so I too have no family. We will celebrate together."
So much for a quiet break in the sun, thought England as Spain rattled around in the kitchen. He'd insisted on staying. England had tried several polite – and not-so-polite – refusals, but England had invited himself to Spain's house for Christmas and now Spain was inviting himself into England's private time. Whatever he was cooking, it did smell good though.
Eventually an aproned Spain, beaming with pride no doubt from drinking some of the alcohol intended for cooking, pointed with an oven glove towards a table set for two. The food, however, was sufficient to feed fifty. Plates of bread, ham, cheese and chorizo jostled with white asparagus, tomato salad and a steaming tureen of fishy-smelling soup. Peering over the top, England spotted shrimp, and decided to stick to cheese sandwiches. Spain helped himself to the soup, and commented on England's restraint. "You are wise to save room."
"There's more?" Flabbergasted, England downed a glass of red wine. He was used to hearty portions at Christmas, but Spain's eyes really were bigger than his stomach.
The main course turned out to be roasted lamb with home-fried potatoes. Now this was food England could get behind. And in him. About to tuck in, England found his glass refilled with sparkling wine.
"Health, money and love; and time to enjoy them." Spain made the toast.
"And to you." England and Spain clinked glasses, and got back to the business of stuffing their faces with as much of the banquet as physically possible.
Dessert was marzipan and turrón, soft almond nougat, with more wine and toasting. After that, there was coffee and brandy. England offered to help Spain clear the table, but Spain dismissed the offer with a wave. There was plenty of time for cleaning when they weren't feeling quite so fuzzy inside. England found himself thinking that maybe his search had been for the warmth of company, rather than that of the sun.
The two retired to the lounge, England carrying the brandy bottle. Spain closed the shutters on the window to keep out the chill that had fallen with the night, while England refilled the brandy glasses. He was enjoying the warm feeling as the alcohol traced its way down to his pleasantly full stomach. He was about to sit down and relax in a comfy-looking armchair when a strange thumping sound started.
"Oh no, Spain." The thumping sound was the bass speaker on an expensive-looking stereo.
"Oh yes! It's a party night. We must celebrate being here together!" Spain smiled, almost innocently.
England found his arms being manhandled into some madcap simile of a dance, while his feet remained resolutely planted. "No, Spain."
That was almost a pout, immediately followed by a wild grin. "Then I shall dance for you." He pushed England back into the armchair, changing the song to something more subtle. A guitar strummed over a rhythmic castanet pulse, sensually slow. Spain's hips moved with his feet, gently at first. As the music gradually increased in speed and intensity, he began to stomp, accompanying each with a dramatic movement of his arms. England watched, enraptured. He'd seen Spain's flamenco before, but a private performance of the gypsy dance was something to be relished.
The tempo picked up further, and Spain began to jump and whirl, whipping his head around quickly each turn to keep his green eyes on England's. The foot movements grew faster and more complex, the arms held wide for balance. With the climax of the music he stopped, one arm flung high over his head, the other down across his body, right foot pointed behind the left. The untamed spirit of Spain shone through in his ragged breathing and flushed skin, shirt untucked and hair gone wild, stuck to the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead. England found himself remembering why he'd been so drawn to Spain in his delinquent youth, all the times he had wished to dominate over him. For that moment he was no longer a gentleman, he was a rebellious teenager, and maybe it was the booze talking but God damn it if he wasn't just going to take what he wanted.
So resolved, England stood, marched over to the brunet and planted a confident, almost cocky, kiss on Spain's parted lips.
"Merry Christmas," England whispered into Spain's ear.
"Feliz Navidad," came the drowsy reply.
"Thanks for having me." England blushed and stuttered, "f-for Christmas, I mean."
"It happens the same time every year, you know…"
England smiled in the darkness. "It's a tradition." Maybe it was now, at that.
Notes (this is a Hetalia fanfic, it has to have notes):
I originally wrote this two years ago for a Secret Santa, over at Hetalia Brits on Livejournal. It's dedicated to silverbrumby123. Many, many thanks to Canadaphile who was a wonderful beta and reviewed it in time for me to post it here for last Christmas... Which I then completely failed to do!
England's flashback is to the Battle of Crete.
Turkish coffee – prepared by boiling finely powdered roast coffee beans and serving it into a cup, where the dregs settle. The name was changed in Greece in 1974 following the Turkish invasion of Cyprus. The name was changed by the coffee industry, not government; either Turkey hasn't got his facts straight or I'm taking poetic licence!
The hilltop village is one of Spain's "Pueblos Blancos", situated around the Sierra de Grazalema Natural Park.
La Noche Buena is the night of Christmas Eve in Spain, which is celebrated by having a large dinner with family. Feliz Navidad – Merry Christmas. And to you too!