heres my late new years post. oh, and I DONT OWN HETALIA
England is grumpy today. He is grumpy because it is the last day of the year, and he is alone, in his house, with no one else.
England is angry today. He is angry because of a certain American, an American who refuses to come to his house, and who didn't invite him to his own party.
England feels hopeless today. He has no friends, no one who loves him. Not Spain, or Germany. Japan, nor Italy, not one person who he can lean on, rely on, and weep on.
But England is also brave today. He will get up from his bed (even though it is already four in the afternoon and he really should be up but he isn't) and he will make himself some tea, his favorite kind.
England will be a cook today. He will whip up a quick batch of buttermilk scones, a recipie so tasty, his mood will lift instantly from just one bite. He'll put it in the oven to cook, all perfect and ready, but then he will forget to time them. Again.
England will be harmonious today. He will blow the dust off of his old record player, and turn on some old music- but never American music. Nor French. Well, except for that one song- well, two. He'll make an exception, if the song is good.
England will be intellectual today. He will get some work done while his scones are cooking, and not realize that half an hour has gone by and something isn't right with his cooking until the fire alarm suddenly goes off, beep! Beep! Beep! And the black smoke pours out of his oven as he desparately tries to put the fire out.
England will be slightly disappointed today. He will go to the store and buy some croissants, because his scones were ruined. Already, he is planning on buying a new, better oven that isn't so obviously broken. Because he is a great and wondrous chef. It's his kitchen that is lacking.
England will be peaceful today. He will pull out his favorite book, 'La Mort D'Arthur', as he cant wait to crack open and read once again the story of his dear king Arthur (but don't tell anyone that he's reading this book in French. As far as the world is concerned, he knows no French) and listen to his music, and drink his tea, and eat his dessert.
England will be in denial today. He will ignore the clock as it goes tick, tick tick, every second marking the hour that is painfully near; the strike of the clock at the end of the year. His phone lays silent in the corner, as he tries to pretend that he doesn't know that though it is near 10 o'clock, (and in some countries, already past midnight) no one has called him, and no one probably will.
England will be lonely today. He will put down his book, (somehow it has lost his intrigue. After all, he has read this story many a time, and he knows how it ends. The king Arthur will fall, he will die, he is no more) and he will listen. He will listen to the sounds of families floating up from the streets of London into his apartment, the sounds of families and joy and togetherness ringing together in a symphony of harmonious happiness.
England will be masochistic today. He will be struck with a morbid curiosity; does his people's happiness make him happy or sad? Does their joy funnel through his heart, or will he see the difference, between families holding hands and his own hand, pale and alone, clutching the thin air.
England will be lonely today. He will wander though the booths and the crowds and the parades, and they will be interesting and wonderful, but then that all ends. And the clock will signal that the time is eleven fifty five, and he will have only five minutes left of the year. And in the crowded square, so full of people and life and energy and noise, he will look, (and though he is a country) he will feel small and powerless and alone, five minutes before the end of the year.
"Bonjour, Arthur!" A voice calls, and suddenly a familiar body is near him, and a familiar voice is in his ear.
England will be surprised today. By a French frog who will leave his own country to celebrate with lonely grumpy old Arthur. By a frog who will go to a certain American's party, then leave, cussing and fuming when he finds out that England hasn't been invited. A certain frog who will not go back to Paris, but will come to London, to his heart.
It is eleven fifty seven, and there are only three minutes left in the year.
"Come, come, let's have fun together, oui? I know we hate each other, but, mon dieu! Let's resolve it right here and now, and be done with it!" He will sound so easygoing, this man with the blue eyes and blonde hair, as if putting aside their differences of a thousand years would be fixed in a mere three minutes.
England will be indignant today. And he will say so, and loudly.
"I don't think theres enough time right now to solve all our problems. We have three minutes, now leave me alone!" he spits the words out angrily, and tugs his hand out of the others grasp (how did it get there in the first place, he didn't even know)
"Oui, tu es correct, there isn't really, enough time. Mais, if we cant solve them, at least lets put them aside until next year, hmmm?" The disgustingly French accent is laced with humour, and something else England isn't used to, and cant quite place. Dare he think it be what he thinks it is? No, it cannot be tenderness.
But whatever his voice contains, the words contain truth. He has him in a corner, and so all he can do is let out an undignified "hmph' and let his hand fall back into place in the larger, warmer one of the Frenchman.
It is eleven fifty eight, and there are only two minutes left in the year.
England will be at peace today. He will stand in his public square, surrounded by happiness and all it's people. There will be a body near to him, pressing close, but not too close, far, but not too far.
England will be confused today. He wont be able to unlock this mystery; is this a friend, or is he a foe? Can this hatred, a thousand years of hatred ever be replaced with something else… Maybe not love, but, something (except it has to be love, and he knows it too. Somewhere deep down, except he won't admit it, not yet.)
It is eleven fifty nine, and there is only one minute left in the year.
England will decide today. He will leave his hand in the hand of the other, encased in its warmth and protection, and he will choose to lean his head on the other one's chest. (He will tense, waiting for the other to laugh at how needy he is, make some perverted joke about it, something. But it never comes.)
"Oh, Angleterre, I have been waiting for this longtemps" says the beautiful, terrible, French voice. England will not respond, only bury himself further into the waiting arms that are Francis. There are to be no more words, this year.
It is twelve ocklock. And there are no more minutes left in the year.
There will be an explosion of screams, a cacophony of joyous drunken sounds, of church bells ringing, of people singing, the boom, pop! of fireworks blazing through the sky. There will be a tear, running halfway down poor Englands face, brushed quickly away by the strong hand of a perfumed Frenchman. There will be no sadness here.
"I suppose," England will begin carefully "that we can resolve our differences later."
"And enjoy this new day?" asks the Frenchman just as cautiously, twice as hopefully.
England will nod, his face still buried into the strong man's black shirt.
Is this the end? He thinks to himself? The end of hatred, of feelings? That after tonight, they can go their separate ways, friendly chaps, no more no less?
But no. When Francis grabs his arm and pulls him down the street laughing, he knows that this is no end. Just as the year ends and another one right after follows…
…My dear England, this is only the beginning.