A/N: I would have posted this yesterday, but the server wouldn't let me log in. So here it is a day late. Enjoy.
When Arthur was little, his mother gave him a nutcracker for Christmas. He couldn't remember the exact age – three, four, maybe five – but he remembered the feeling of undeniable happiness. The nutcracker wasn't anything special. It wore a simple, painted on uniform colored red and white, its hat was blue, but its smile was brilliantly white, its eyes impossibly sky blue. The only hair seen painted on was a blonde cowlick peeking out of the hat. Still, Arthur loved it with all of his heart upon meeting it for the first time and caringly named it – him – Alfred.
He and Alfred shared every Christmas after that together. Memories and memories of great Christmases were forever locked in Arthur's mind and the surprisingly warm wood that made Alfred up.
For example, two Christmases after the initial Christmas was a particularly nice memory.
Arthur had been innocently eating cookies in the family room with Alfred by his side staring out the window and at the snow when his older brothers (Simon, Oliver, and Christopher) walked in, demanding every cookie Arthur had on his plate even though they had eaten all the other cookies. Alfred told them to not bother Arthur and make themselves more cookies.
The Brit still didn't understand why they had run away screaming. Obviously, his nutcracker hadn't said that out loud – pieces of wood couldn't speak – and it had only been in his mind, but at least he got to finish his cookies happily. (He also didn't understand why Alfred spoke with an American accent, but he didn't dwell on that too much.)
And then a Christmas Eve a few years after that; his little brother Peter and his older sister Riley and he were sitting by the fireplace across the room from the tree. Peter was asking why he couldn't have a nutcracker like his big brother did. Riley explained that she didn't have a nutcracker for owning a nutcracker was purely Arthur's thing.
Peter hadn't liked that answer and promptly grabbed Alfred by his arm and ran off. Arthur was a tad upset, to say the least. He ran after his brother who had slammed their shared bedroom door. He didn't have to wait long for Peter to open it back up, though, because soon he came out crying.
When asked, Alfred had yelled at him for taking him from Arthur and when Peter refused, Alfred had bit him. Arthur had laughed at the time, but now looking back on it, he didn't quite understand how it had been possible.
The next Christmas after that wasn't so happy. Arthur's father had died in a car accident earlier that year, but it seemed the holiday lacked its appeal without him. It was the night before they would all have to wake up and pretend they were truly happy for mum.
But Arthur just couldn't see Christmas being joyful without his father. He confided his feelings to Alfred. Alfred replied, "Artie, I know it hurts; it has to. It always hurts me when you put me in a box until next year and I know the situation with your father is permanent, but I always get really cheerful when you take me out again at the beginning of December. Just know, Artie, that blissful times always come back, no matter how much time has passed. Someday, you'll be happy again, and thinking about your dad will dampen your mood, but that's natural. But you have the right to be happy. Your dad would want you to be happy, okay? Now go to sleep; Santa's gonna be here soon."
Arthur stared at his nutcracker for a while before nodding and closing his green eyes. Before he went to sleep, though, he said, "Thanks, Alfred. You're the best. Tell Santa that I love him and that my wish for this year is to get that book that dad always said was the best Christmas story – the one with the ghosts, please." And he drifted off, hearing his nutcracker's affirmative reply from what seemed like hundreds of meters away, feeling wooden arms circle his neck in a caring embrace.
The Brit still didn't understand how his own mind had projected just what he needed to hear that night to the doll, but he was glad it did.
That was the last Christmas Alfred said anything. By the next one, Arthur had stopped believing in Santa Claus. He was thirteen and all the other kids had long since forgotten about Saint Nick, so why not he? Besides, his older brothers were bullying him about it.
Still, he brought Alfred out of his box on the first of December and his brothers all steered clear of it from irrational fear of him. But the nutcracker did not do anything other than crack nuts when manhandled by either Arthur, Riley, or their mum. The other boys would not go near Alfred for the life of them. In fact, even years later, they still wouldn't and Arthur just did not get why.
Now, the Brit was twenty-three. It was Christmas Eve and he was all alone. His flat was practically empty and the only Christmas cheer was the worn down stocking on the coffee table and, of course, Alfred standing proudly next to it. Time had gotten away for him this year; he had completely forgotten about the holiday until his coworker Francis had wished him a "Joyeux Noël."
He had no one to spend Christmas with, other than Alfred. His siblings were spread out over the UK and his mother lived with Simon and his family (why that girl had decided to marry him of all people was uncertain to all family members). His only friends were spending the day with their families or didn't celebrate the day at all. Sighing, he picked up his nutcracker and sat down on the loveseat that faced the window where snow could be seen.
Now, he spoke to Alfred a few times during the month just like he always did, but he couldn't remember the last time he had told Alfred whatever he felt like he needed to get out. But here Arthur went anyway.
"I wish I didn't have to be alone this Christmas," he said. "This is the first time I've been alone, as you know. Last year with Ruben was fun, of course, but he broke up with me. That jackass. He wasn't a very good lay either." He smirked down at the inanimate object in his hands and could have sworn he smirked back. He reveled in the thought that Alfred could actually understand him and wasn't a dumb piece of wood before continuing, "But at least I have you, right? I can get sloshed with you without a care in the world. In fact, would you like some beer? I know I would. I'll be right back, yeah?" He set the nutcracker down before getting a beer as he said he would and then came right back, picking Alfred up again. "Much better, eh," he asked, taking a sip.
"I remember when you talked back. Yeah. I wish you could talk back now, but I don't suppose that's going to happen. You are just wood after all. Sometimes I wish you weren't." Arthur drank some more before continuing. "Sometimes it felt like you weren't. Like when I told you I liked Brandon Carper back in the third grade – remember that? He was my first crush and I was afraid no one would like me anymore because I preferred the Disney Princes over the Princesses. But you didn't care. You just continued to smile at me, which assured me to give Brandon the dumb present I made for him…" - insert large gulp of beer here - "…and then got bullied over. That was nice, by the way. Thanks for encouraging me to do something stupid."
The Brit took a deep breath before continuing – he never really did like thinking about when people bullied him. They obviously weren't the most pleasant memories. "No matter," he said, "because your wood is still warm. It's always been warm. Even after all those times I took you out to play in the snow, you stayed warm. Like human flesh, or something. Like you're a warm blooded creature with a beating heart." He paused to drink more. "I remember your big heart; every time I fell asleep, I felt as if you were transferring all your wooden love to me. December was the only month in the entire year where I didn't get any nightmares, and I know it was you. It's some psychological nerd stuff, I know, but I can't help but feel that it was just because of you, Alfred." He smiled down at the figure before taking another sip of beer. "And on Christmas Eve, I would tell you to give Santa Claus my wish for the year. Even if they were the most ridiculous things, I'd wake up the next morning and whatever I had wished for would be there. Even after I stopped believing in the bloke. Mum probably had been listening in on me; I don't know. Maybe that's just what I want to believe." Arthur released a shuddering breath, the alcohol inflaming his emotions, making him want to cry. But he was a man, he could handle himself. With that thought in mind, he took another large gulp for his bottle.
"Now-" he broke off, wondering what exactly he wanted now. "Now," he started after a few moments, "Now I want you to be as you were when I was younger. I want you to talk back to me. I want to have a conversation with you again, to hear your annoying American accent – God only knows how you got it. I want to feel your beyond comforting hug again, even if it's hard an cold. It's still yours; your wooden arms could never feel bad. I want to feel this love radiating off you tenfold. I don't know how you still have love within you, but you do, and it's barely there, but it shouldn't be. It should be surrounding everyone, warming their hearts. I want your smile to become as bright as it had been. I want your eyes to sparkle in the sunlight like they used to." Arthur finished off his bottle once he realized tears were gathering in his eyes.
"Oh, God, Alfred," he breathed. "Tell Santa that this year my wish is for you to be as you were, except with more words, more warmth, and more love. Okay? Can you do that for me?" He gazed down at Alfred, a tear slipping from his eye. Of course, the nutcracker did not respond. Arthur sighed, set Alfred and the beer bottle down on the coffee table, and laid down on the loveseat, fully intending to sleep there.
As he drifted off into sweet sleep, he could have sworn he heard a very familiar, "All right."