A single drop of sweat fell from America's clammy forehead as he pulled his car out of reverse and slammed on the gas. The wheels slid for an instant before gaining traction and jerking the vehicle forward before the blond abruptly switched to the break. One of the passenger's gloved palms slapped against the dashboard and the other the ceiling as he braced himself while the American struggled to keep control of his car with only a steering wheel in his favor.
Lithuania gritted his teeth as they slowed to a stop. Both men slumped against their seats. After all of that rocking, they had finally done it. They were free to finish their journey to the house. "Merry Christmas," America breathed. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, then with a sniff, they were off.
Though it was early, it was already quite dark when they reached their destination. They both piled wrapped packages in their arms and were met by a group of carolers already at the door. When they finished their song, America gave each of them a hug and offered hot chocolate for all. Canada already had some made. The steaming liquid was poured into peculiar cups of paper, which the children gratefully took. Merry Christmases were wished and passed along as the carolers left and the countries fell into finishing with decorating the house.
A snowman all by his lonesome self guarded the snow-scraped front lawn, with a pair of lensless glasses that used to be America's, thick twigs that were supposed to resemble a certain Englishman's eyebrows, and, ignoring the other's protests, a rose covering his nether regions. The countries had decided that once an hour until they went to bed they would add another article to the snowman's attire. And Canada's turn was next. Lithuania wouldn't be participating until next year, because he didn't have many belongings, yet.
While Canada took his turn, the others admired their handiwork of the tree and warmed themselves by the fire. England's brows lowered. "Alfred, I think your cheeks are wind-burnt."
The blond slouched on the couch shrugged. "It'll heal."
"You should put some ointment on them."
"Nah. I don't wanna get up."
"Alfred."
"If you're so upset, then you go get it."
England's mouth thinned into a straight line. He briskly set his mug of hot chocolate down and left for the bathroom, muttering all the way.
A frown covered the American's face as he kicked his feet up onto the new coffee table. "I didn't mean it," he said to the two accompanying him in the room.
A few minutes later, a very irked England entered, marching right up to America with a container and something on his hands.
"H-hey, what're you p—" America started warily, sitting up.
But England dug a sharp elbow into the younger country's shoulder. "Don't you dare move. If you still can't bloody take care of yourself, then by George—"
"Get off me, you crazy, old bird!"
Lithuania stumbled backward at the attack and America's thrashing. The Frenchman, however, snickered. Upon seeing he had the Baltic's attention, he took a step toward him. "Ah, Lituanie, mon cher, it appears you have some windburn, too. You two must have done most of your shopping on foot, oui?"
Lithuania's hands flew to his face and he vehemently shook his head. "N-no, I do not. It is h-heat, only warmth of the fire," he said quickly as the Frenchman continued to advance.
There was a thud, and everything seemed to halt. America, who had slumped and slid until he fell off the couch, swatted at England's offered hand. "I could have done it myself."
England, looking as if he'd won the world, tried to keep a smug smile from his face. "Yes, well . . . we all know you wouldn't have, even with the opportunity." The comment earned him a scowl unlike any other Lithuania had seen from America.
The blond stood, dusting his pants. "Oh, why don't you just go to hell," he sighed airily, taking the container and lid from a stunned Englishman. "Toris, c'mon, let's fix you up before Francis can," he called as he left the room. Lithuania ducked under France's oncoming embrace and scampered out after him.
They turned right, toward the bathroom, then America stopped. His greasy cheeks caught the few strands of light the polished floor reflected from the fire in the other room. He dropped the container and lid firmly into the Baltic's hands. "I believe you know what to do." Lithuania barely nodded before America was past him to the kitchen.
In the bathroom, he pulled his hair back and carefully applied the substance to his cheeks and nose. It was cold, and felt nice against the damaged skin.
The front door opened to reveal Canada. He pulled off his boots and tapped the snow off onto the porch before closing the door and continuing down the hall. Lithuania turned off the bathroom light and met him with a smile.
"Mattie, d'you want some hot chocolate?" America asked. There was the sound of the faucet, then mysterious clattering.
"That sounds good," his brother said. He pulled off his glasses and waved them around a little. "Fog," he told Lithuania. They both joined America in the warm kitchen, the Canadian wanting his drink, and the Baltic opting to stay out of the commotion rising in the other room.
"Gosh," Canada started, taking the hot mug from America and volleying it between hands before setting it on the counter and holding his red fingers over the warm steam. "You really don't have a lot of snow."
America shrugged. "Well, not over here."
"Why don't you go to, I don't know, Michigan or Minnesota or something for Christmas? Or Vermont?"
He clapped his hand over his heart and turned away. "Are you suggesting I be biased toward my states?" He looked back and stepped closer to Canada. "Is that how you Canadians go about things with your provinces? 'Oh, it's warm in British Columbia. I think I'll go here. Oh, there was a nice snowfall in Toronto—time to head back east! Better luck next time, BC!'"
Canada rolled his eyes. "Toronto's a city. Ontario's the province."
"Yeah, but you get my point," America edged on.
"Well, actually, I do visit all of my provinces, if that's what you're getting at. Do you just go on ignoring your states?"
"What? No. I've met Wyatt Earp. . . Jesse James . . . Al Capone . . . Molly Brown—lots of people in lots of places. Abigail Scott Duniway, her brother . . . Babe Ruth . . ." The American's voice trailed down the hall as Lithuania quietly left the two brothers, a smile lighting his face. It was obvious both knew where the Canadian was trying to get with the conversation, and even more obvious his brother was going to continue talking until Canada either forgot or found another point to argue.
There was a small knock on the front door that caused him to pause. There were voices, then a rain of small knocks bounced off the door. Lithuania opened it, only to find another group of carolers. America came bounding in, beaming at the children that braved the cold (or the not-so-cold, as Canada put it, even though his red nose begged to differ). England trailed in with one last swat at the Frenchman following behind him.
They listened to upbeat Christmas songs, hymns, more traditional Christmas songs, as well as songs simply about the season. Once again, America offered hot chocolate at the end. Once again, he filled a dozen-or-so peculiar paper cups. Once again, the countries settled in the living room.
"That was nice," America mumbled by the fire, its warm crackling lulling all of them, though they still had to eat dinner. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, America and Canada got up to warm the premade meal.
France was studying the ends of his hair, reminding Lithuania all too much of a country he would rather have not thought about, and England was immersed in a novel that, judging by the condition of the book, he had read many times over. Lithuania wondered absently what it was about. Certainly something interesting enough to want to envelop one's self in repeatedly. But it wasn't the book that kept the Baltic's eyes on the Englishman.
The blond lifted his hand, and at first, Lithuania guessed he was going to scratch his cheek. Yet his hand didn't go all the way to his cheek. England moved it away in a rather odd motion before dropping it back to his lap. A smile played on his lips, and he breathed out a faint laugh. Lithuania's brows furrowed then rose as the country flinched, swiveled his head, and batted at the air again. He turned back to his book, but his eye's caught Lithuania's and his face reddened.
He cleared his throat. "Excuse me." The Englishman stood, straightened his clothes, and briskly exited to the hall. Lithuania heard him ascend all the way to the second floor, probably to his room. The brunette blinked, not exactly sure of what he had just witnessed.
France chuckled, and when Lithuania turned to look at him, he laughed even harder. "Do not fret, mon cher. That is completely typical of Angleterre."
If only he knew what 'that' was.
France got up from his seat and adjusted the stockings. "Who do you think will come this year?"
"Wh-pardon?"
"Père Noël."
"Who usually visits—o-over here?"
France shrugged. "A plump, old man with a white beard and jolly nose. Or maybe it was his laugh that was jolly. It could have been his immense fatness. Anyway!—he gorges on cookies and may or may not need glasses." He glanced at Lithuania's wide eyes. "Not nearly as delightful as Père Noël at my house."
The Baltic wisely chose silence over replying to the Frenchman's narcissism. He carefully set his mug upon a coaster placed on the new coffee table. The coasters were nice, little things. Swell, like America would call them. Even the picky Frenchman approved (he had been the one to give them as an early Christmas gift), saying they went perfectly with the warm décor of the living room. To which America had replied with a laugh that he hadn't realized his living room had a décor. The Frenchman could apparently tell, and was attempting to fix that.
The two brothers pulled Lithuania out of his recollections of earlier that evening with the tinkling of a small, brass bell. "Dinner," Canada announced in his soft voice. He smiled at the two countries in front of him.
"Come and get it while it's hot!" America said over his brother's shoulder. He clapped his hands and turned sharply on his heel. "Oh, and where's Artie?"
"Up the stairs," Lithuania told him.
"Artie! Arthur Kirkland!" the American boomed, thumping on the hallway wall and making picture frames shake out of their level positions.
There was a thud from above, and all looked up. Soon, the disrupted Englishman was following them into the kitchen. They sat around a table covered with steaming dinner rolls, corned beef, very mucky-looking spinach, though it was rich in color, and fruit salad with fresh whipping cream mixed in, made special by the next-door neighbor.
All of the light was coming from candles lining the counter space and a centerpiece on the table. America had told Lithuania that they would've eaten in the dining room, under his old, candlelit chandelier, but because of the incident that took place on Thanksgiving and the fact that he hadn't gotten around to fixing it, the room was still unusable. Not to mention his antique chandelier was diagnosed as dead. France had commented that inanimate objects were dead to begin with, which America returned that if it had been living it would now be dead.
Similar to Thanksgiving, they all joined hands, but instead of taking turns with saying what they were thankful for, America said a prayer, and they dug in. For a moment, Lithuania wondered what his "brothers" were doing. If they were together and enjoying a meal, possibly wishing he was there to join them. Or were they spending Christmas separately? Were they even celebrating? He took another bite of his corned beef and silently wished them a merry Christmas before pushing the thoughts away. It didn't matter how much he thought about it. He had his own Christmas to attend.
"Happy Christmas. It's Happy Christmas. Who the bloody hell taught you merry?"
America shrugged, leading to his forkful of fruit salad falling down the front of his Christmas sweater.
England rolled his eyes and got up to wet a napkin. "Wonderful motor skills, I see you've neglected to improve."
America took the napkin and rubbed at the whipped cream. "If they're so wonderful, why would they need improving?"
"D-don't rub—" England cut himself off and sighed as one would when dealing with a child they were about fed up with. "It was sarcasm and you know it. Now go upstairs and change before you ruin that sweater any more than you already have."
"S'fine, it'll come ou—"
"Would you rather I dig out a bib from that dusty closet of junk you have?"
A frown flashed across the American's face. He pushed his chair back and excused himself from the table.
"I did not knit that purely to watch you soil it!" England called before sitting down with a huff. "That boy," he muttered under his breath.
France was nearly glowing with amusement. His eyebrows were arched high, and his smile was growing behind his hands futilely trying to hide it. "The mystery is solved!" he finally burst, with a loud, drawn-out chuckle.
England's eyes darted left and right, as if there might be an answer to this man's mystery. "What are you talking about, Frog?"
"I now know why Amérique and Matthieu look like such . . . such ninnies, you would say?"
England leaned forward. "Are you calling my knitting skills poor?"
"No, no. No!" The Frenchman shook his head vigorously. "Your knitting is fine. It's your style that is lacking. You wouldn't know what fashion was, even if it hit you hard in the face. And that is terribly sad, Angleterre. Worse than sad! Almost like a tragic love story. Oh—you make me want to weep tears of pity!" He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.
"Oh, boohoo," England growled. "Falling to pieces over romantic things. But what else could I expect? You French live for fanciful, frivolous things, don't you?"
"Oui, I suppose you could say that. And delicious food and wine."
Lithuania glanced at Canada, who was very red in the face, and looked as if he felt as out of place as he was.
"I-I sort of like my sweater," the Canadian mumbled.
France's eyes widened. "Look! Did you see?" he exclaimed, flapping his handkerchief at England, then turning it to Canada. "My poor Matthieu! My darling boy! Look what you're doing to him! His taste in fashion is diminishing all because of you!"
"It's not about what it looks like," Canada said quickly, "The color—it's nice for winter. The material's a little scratchy, but I like it because it was made for me. Every stitch—or whatever it's called with knitting—was . . . put together with me in mind. And I find that kinda, um, flattering." They watched as his face became redder and redder. He slouched in his chair, apparently trying to hide himself from the attention. "Thank you, Arthur," he managed to sort of squeak out.
"You see?" England said, his face slightly flushed at the compliment. "Matthew has grown into a well-rounded young man, thanks to me. He's not some shallow, arrogant fool, like yo—"
But the Frenchman wasn't listening. After staring at the Canadian for a short moment, he rushed from his chair to the country's side. "Oh, Matthieu!" he cried out, smothering Canada in a hug and showering his head with kisses. "You are such a wonderful—I knew you took after me. Beautiful words blossoming from your lips—how sweet!"
"F-Francis, please! H-hey, get off! I'm not a little kid anymore! This is—"
"Oh, hush. Affection is for anyone and everyone! And best of all, it is free, excluding prostitutes!"
England slapped his hands on the tabletop. The dishes rattled, and the Frenchman quieted. "We will not have such language at this table! Especially not on Christmas."
America came bounding in, in a typical, white, button-down shirt. "Okay. All better." He sat down and took a bite of his corned beef, then grimaced. "It's cold. Time for cookies." He started to clear the table, but England swatted his hand and told him that just because he was done, didn't mean everyone else was. "Fine, then Toris and I will indulge in cookies, and you guys have dish duty."
"M-me?"
"Yep!"
"It-it does not seem very healthy to eat cookies instead of dinner . . ."
"There're gingerbread cookies. Those have ginger, which is healthy, don't they?"
Before Lithuania could answer, the American was in the living room. He glanced at the three at the table. They didn't appear very pleased, but . . .
When he found America, the fellow already had his hand in a jar of cookies. He looked up and patted the seat next to him on the couch. The Baltic obediently sat.
"We have to save the nicest ones for Santa," America told him. He pointed to a small plate with a hand-painted Christmas tree on it. "They go on there, and then we fill him up a mug of milk. Milk and cookies."
Lithuania inspected a gingerbread man.
"You can eat that one," America said. "See? Its buttons aren't straight."
He pulled another from the jar. "This one looks nice."
"Yeah, but one eye is bigger than the other."
"H-how about this one?"
"Sure! Oh. No. The edge is slightly burned. There, around that foot."
They went through the jar and carefully laid the cookies in rows according to their appearance. Lithuania would have never suspected America to be so particular about selecting a few cookies to give to the man France had spoken of. Then again, he probably wasn't as bad as the Frenchman said. Even so, if the man was going to give presents to millions of people and they all gave him milk and cookies, would he remember the cookies America gave him?
That didn't seem to concern the American as they moved on to sugar cookies. By the time the others joined them, the plate was on the mantel above the fireplace and covered with the hand-picked goodies.
"Well, it seems to be getting late," England sighed, flicking his wrist into sight then peering at his watch. "Mmm, somewhat."
"PJ time?" America asked, looking up from his headless gingerbread cookie.
"About. Ah, we might as well."
"Great!" America hopped up and led the way as the blonds hurried up the stairs.
Lithuania, standing in the living room, tried to figure what this was all about. PJ? P . . . J. Wasn't that what America also called pajamas? So they were getting ready for bed? He checked the clock in the kitchen; it read only half past seven! Though . . . Canada had been right. The weeks leading up to Christmas had been much more tiring than the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving. The Baltic wasn't sure how America was still moving. In fact, they all had big bags under their eyes.
He went to his own room, thinking it silly to feel a tad left out, because his room was on the first floor. Strangely, he was the first one to be in his pajamas, have his teeth brushed, hair combed, and be back in the living room. The wood was cold under his bare feet, and the rug was still drying in the cellar from when he last washed it, leaving the whole living room bare. He tiptoed to the chair nearest the fireplace and curled up, pulling his feet under him. For a moment the Baltic resented America's laid-back manner; the rattling windowpanes now also let in drafts that were making him shiver in spite of being so close to the source of warmth.
Faint sounds of ruckus traveled down the stairs, through the hall, and mingled with the crackling of the fire. They really are a family of brothers, Lithuania thought as he watched firelight dance and refract against the ornaments on the tree, making colors over the warm orange already cast on the walls. Very close brothers. He felt like a black sheep, almost. Or maybe a brunette sheep. Part of his mind told him to march right up those stairs and see what they were doing, but another part was cozy and didn't want to interrupt any fun they were having.
When they came down, France, Canada and America seated themselves on the couch and England moved a chair in front of the Christmas tree. Then he dropped to his hands and knees with a plug-in in hand, muttering a little. "Oh—there it is!"
Suddenly, little balls of light illuminated all over the tree, and for a moment the five were content simply admiring its brilliance. England sat and reached down to pick up a book sitting on top of one of the presents. This was obviously a tradition. But America had said England was not always here for Christmas; he had colonies, still. Lithuania watched as the Englishman crossed his legs, cleared his throat, and glanced at everyone in the room.
"Are we ready?"
Canada slumped further into the couch, and America grabbed a pillow. France turned, elbow resting on the back of the couch, head resting on fingers, and studied the view out a window. England took this as an answer and started:
"T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse . . ."
It was a sweet poem, the Baltic thought. It was heartwarming. America and Canada looked very childish the way they were nestled into the couch and watching the Christmas tree. By the end, even though it had been a short poem, both had their eyes closed.
"It appears they've said their own goodnights, Angleterre."
"Well . . . wake them up. It will be cold down here after I put out the fire."
The Frenchman nodded, and shook America first, since he was closer. Though it ended with Canada opening his eyes.
"Bedtime?"
"Oui. Bonne nuit."
"Bonne nuit," the Canadian replied softly. He stood, stretched a little, and headed for the stairs.
At the noise, America looked up. "Oh, bedtime?"
"Oui. Bonne nuit," France repeated.
"Bon what?"
"Goodnight."
"Yeah, 'night."
The Frenchman rose, and America followed him out. Fire out, England went for the stairs, too. But he paused, first, to turn around. "Happy Christmas, Toris."
Lithuania's eyes widened. What was he supposed to say? 'Happy' like England or 'merry' like America? But by the time he decided, the Englishman was gone.
It was darker in the lonely room; the tree's glow didn't reach as far as the fire had. Lithuania ran a hand through his hair, realizing his fingers were much colder than his head. He leaned forward and slid his legs out from under him. One of them was tingling a little, and when he stepped on the cold floor, it tickled painfully. Lithuania continued to his room. It would wake up. When he turned the hall corner cold darkness met him. And there was . . .
No! There wasn't. There was nothing there. Nothing but the dark. Shadows were nonexistent. Simply darkness. And simple darkness was nothing to be afraid of.
Lithuania sucked in a silent breath and hurried to his room anyway. The curtains rustled soundlessly as he quickly swung his door closed so it wouldn't squeak. He held it right before it bumped into the doorjamb, then quietly clicked it shut.
Pale light filtered into his room from the lamp pole by the sidewalk. Again, the man was there. The one he had seen almost every night for a month. Always alone and pacing to keep warm. He was out rather early this night, and Lithuania wasn't sure why. But the answer was soon made obvious when a short, blonde woman came scampering down the walk to meet him. She slid across a patch of ice, arms swinging in frantic circles, but he caught her. Their heads tipped back, and Lithuania could almost hear their laughter through the glass. The man pulled something out of his pocket—it looked to be a little, wrapped box with a bow—and handed it to the woman. She bounced up and down, bushy hair dancing, and then they started walking toward the city.
But why were they going out on Christmas? What about Santa? Would he still give them presents if they weren't home and asleep? Lithuania got the feeling that they didn't care much for gifts from Santa Claus. Then a thought crossed his mind: Why wasn't America out with a woman? Or France or England or Canada? Though it wouldn't be anything serious, seeing as it was next to impossible to have a serious romantic relationship with a human, why weren't they giving little gifts and taking someone to dinner? Lithuania saw America talking to young women all the time, and everyone knew France was nearly always willing for "a good time" as America would say.
Maybe the couple didn't have a family to spend the holiday with. Maybe they didn't believe Santa would come, and were oblivious to the fact that if they just stayed home and were good, he would visit.
He went to his bed and huddled under the blankets. Why should he care about strangers and their doings? It was pointless, unless he wanted to make friends. Which he didn't. He was content with the ones he had. Lithuania smiled at that thought. It was actually the truth. He brought the blankets over his cold nose. He was content and sleepy on the eve of Christmas, stomach full of hot chocolate and mind satisfied with being dry, safe, and warm. The Baltic closed his eyes. Maybe happy was a better word. Just maybe.
He awoke with a start, cold sweat making him shiver. There was something in the dark. And it was moving. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. No, everything was fine. It had to be. This was America's house, after all. If something was there, America would come running with his baseball bat.
But America was probably fast asleep! He hadn't even made it through the whole story. He was probably "sleeping like a log". Yet something had to be done.
Lithuania reach for his robe with a shaky hand. It was thin, and didn't provide much warmth; he left his blankets, because taking one could debilitate him if he had to move quickly. He felt for his slippers, but to no avail. Bare feet had some advantage, he assured himself.
They didn't. They stuck to the wood floor and made little, strange noises as he crept down the hall. It would be pointless to turn back, though. So he grabbed the neck of the nearest vase and proceeded to the living room, where the sounds were coming from. It was dark, but he could hear breathing. Outside the window, the clouds were a purplish blue, catching all of the light the snow reflected from the city. Once his eyes adjusted to the tiny amount of light filtering in, he could see the outline of a body.
Could . . . could it be Santa? But the tree wasn't lit. Lithuania knew he had been the last one to leave the living room. And knew the tree had been lit! There was no possible way he imagined it. This couldn't be Santa.
Lithuania's brow furrowed and he lifted the vase. He swiftly made his advance on the unknowing body, grabbing one of its wrists and twisting it behind its back. "Who are you?" he demanded softly, so as not to wake the others.
"Whoa! Toris?"
Lithuania jumped back, blood cold and heart making him struggle to breathe. "M-mi—Alfred?"
"Yeah. Shoot, you scared me!"
"I-hh—I apologize. I th-thought someone was trying to . . . to—"
"Break in?"
Lithuania nodded before realizing he probably couldn't see. "Y-yes. Break in."
There was some rustling, then the tree lit up again and blinded Lithuania for a second. "That's better," America whispered. "You see, I forgot my turn earlier, so I thought I should make up for it before Santa came. But I couldn't find what I was looking for. I wondered if it was on the tree, but when I checked, I tripped over the cord!"
"Oh." That . . . The turn with the snowman. That made sense. Lithuania set the vase on the coffee table. "Um. Did you find what you were looking for?"
America shook his head. "Naw. But it's fine. I probably just lost it, so it'll turn up."
The Baltic didn't even want to try to find the logic in that answer at such an hour. "Maybe next year?"
"Yeah." America smiled. He opened his mouth to say something else, but a yawn quickly took over. "Yikes. I'm beat. Going to bed?"
"In . . . I will in a bit."
"G'night, Toris. And Merry Christmas."
"Pleasant dreams—and Merry Christmas to you as well."
America was up and gone.
The Baltic's shaky sigh filled the still air. He lowered to his knees and propped an elbow next to the vase on the coffee table. There was nothing to be afraid of. Yet for weeks, he spent every night questioning the darkness. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was fine. Safety was to be only an afterthought, at America's; another thing to not be bothered about, because it was as familiar as hearing the squeak on the second step up the stairs.
Lithuania sucked in a breath through his nose. He stood and smoothed his pajama bottoms with his clammy hands. He would be alright. That's how it always ended up, even in the worst situations. Granted, "alright" was a very relative thing, seeing his situations varied greatly. Sometimes being on the verge of unconsciousness but still being able to make it to cover on a battlefield was being alright; other times curling up under a tree, enjoying the summer breeze and refreshing his sanity after a long day of listening to argument after heated argument in his government buildings was being alright.
But this wasn't the time to think about surviving over the years. It was almost the end of Christmas Eve, and he really needed to get to bed. He could barely imagine what would happen if Santa came and found him wide awake in the living room at such an hour.
Though imagining wasn't necessary as something landed on the roof and there was a rustling in the chimney. Lithuania fled to the other side of the living room and was wondering if he could make it to his room, but he could hear boots already touch down.
"Brrrr!" the hunched figure quietly exclaimed. He scuttled out of the fireplace and straightened.
"F-Finland?"
The blond blinked. "Oh! Lithuania! I almost forgot you were staying here!" He dropped his giant sack by his feet and offered a grin that lit up his soot-smeared face. Dressed in his Santa Claus attire, Lithuania noticed for the first time just how jolly the little, Nordic country really looked.
"B-w—I thought a different man gave presents, here. There was the story about him and his dimples and beard as white as snow. He was also called, um, St. Nick?"
Finland nodded. "Reindeer troubles. I think it was Donner. He is running a little late, and asked if I could cover the East Coast! I told him that of course I would—no good child ought to go without a present tonight! And no adult, either." He laughed, then quickly covered his mouth. "Oops. The others are sleeping, aren't they? Which is what you should be doing, too!" he said, pointing accusingly at the Baltic with a cookie.
Lithuania felt his face heat up. "I-I apologize, I—"
"It's fine! I am just playing. You will still get presents, so don't worry. Actually, you and America have been very good the past few months."
"Have we?" Memories of the speakeasy and all the times he'd injured the American filled his head.
"Yes! You played with those boys. Did you know that they threw that baseball away because they were bullying the little one? If you and America hadn't have come, they probably would not all be friends, now. And that little girl—she was returned safe and happy to her mother because of you two."
Lithuania smiled. "It took a very long time to find her home in that storm. America didn't say he knew the exact building she was talking about until we came back here."
"To think a flag wrapped around its pole resembles the swirling column outside the barber shops!" Finland chucked softly. He downed the contents of the mug, then bent over his bundle. "Let's see . . . Alfred F Jones." he pulled a decorated box from the sack and situated it under the tree. "Arthur Kirkland . . . another Alfred, not Jones . . . Hm. Oh—Matthew's, one for Francis—hehe." Lithuania watched with wide eyes as he dropped a piece of coal into France's stocking. "Do not fret. He still gets a gift. It's just a . . . I suppose I would call it a warning. And here is your present." He patted the top of the last box he set under the tree. "And no peeking! Or else I will put coal in your stocking, too!"
"I will not," the Baltic assured.
Finland grinned. "Good. I'll finish filling these, then I best be off."
"I understand. I will not keep you from your work. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Lithuania. And I hope you have a truly wonderful Christmas."
"I . . ." He could imagine the morning—America pouncing onto his bed hours before breakfast, and the others filing groggily down the stairs. Eggnog, cookies, and fresh-fallen snow. There would be laughter and bantering, and even through any scowls or glares, it would be obvious they were still fond of each other. Once everyone was awake the family would be reunited for one more day. The tree seemed brighter than it had before. Lithuania smiled. "I have a feeling that I will."
AN;;
Is the end too fast?
I think it is.
Bleh.
I am disappointed with this whole chapter. I think it's extremely boring. But... I wanted to do a Christmas chapter. :/
Hummmmmumumumm. Oh yeah. About Irina. All the little kids I've met stutter. I don't know why, but my guess is that their brains moves faster than they know how to move their mouths? I... don't know. But I write what I know (and make up what I don't ohnohowbad).
And Hazins. Are you psychic? You kind of asked all the questions I was going to talk about xD
So about the story. I want it to be the full decade (I actually have already the last chapter in my head), but there's, like, already nine chapters or something, and it's only been a few months. I'm not gonna make it super boring and only hit the holidays or he-uge events, but I want to get some of them in. And there was kind of a lot of stuff happening in the twenties. I don't know what's considered an acceptable length for a story. I've seen some with over forty chapters, and others with only two. But if I make this forty chapters, that seems a wee bit intimidating. I know I wouldn't dive into a forty-some-odd-chapter story online. Because I'm horrible and judgmental and just don't have patience or an attention span that could ever be called reasonable. So I don't know what to do about that.
Okay, I don't feel like telling you guys is right, because it takes away from some aspect of the story, whether it be surprise or entertainment or whatever. So Russia MIGHT make an appearance.
But bringing up Russia, there are some dilemmas I'm met with. Like.. in the comic Russia takes Lithuania away because of the GD, so I'm guessing that happens in 1929. But Lithuania was still independent in 1929, wasn't he? I haven't read anything that says otherwise. And I find it confusing. Sure, I can make up my own reasons, but even though this is fanfiction, I don't want to totally alter the story. Blaaaar.
TV tropes~ Yaaay! Actually, I had no idea what that was. I probably seem like a complete internet noob or something, and I probably am and just don't know it. But thank you, you guys! I'm so happy!
Elizabeth-Ohhhh dear. I calculated all the pages as of when you reviewed, and that was, like, sixty or something pages on my computer. I'm so sorry you went through that much ink. D : Even if you wanted to. I'm happy and flattered and feel really guilty. And congratulations for coming out of depression~ My friends are horrible and inconsiderate and I can't imagine wanting to be friends with anyone else. I hope it's supposed to be like that...
jeesh. I use and a lot. My grammar is horrible when I type nonstory stuff.
Regina! You are correct~! Seeing as he had to deal with three wars in a short period of time, it seemed fitting.
Irinia is just a little girl, StarShapedCookies. Nothing special~
Thank you, InsaneNicEly. You're so nice! I really, really, really don't think Lithuania and France would ever get along very well. C-|
Rachel;; My friend has insomnia only during the school year. That just kinda reminded my of her~ Ohmygosh. I hope America getting hit in the head doesn't become, like, one of those things. Ahhh I don't know what they're called-those-those things. Truthfully? I don't know why it's happened so many times. aha. It just seems to keep happening.
OK. I'll reply to everyone else later. There's another blasted storm outside and Con Air is on TV and my sister is bribing me with cake.
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I FORGOT TO SAY WHAT I MEANT TO SAY ABOUT THIS CHAPTER.
I swear. The previous chapter is haunting me. Okay. I find it funny that when Lithuania can't think of the right words, America suggests "break in". Because first of all, an intruder wouldn't be breaking in if they're already in the living room. And second, it shows just how startled they both were. lql (hehehe tumblr). ayou know what, maybe my sense of humor is just twisted and obscure.
Oh, and originally, both Santa and Finland were going to come because of some confusion, but I decided I didn't want to write that. Sorry. You can imagine that happened, if you want. But it seemed long as it was (on openoffice (that's what I use) the story is a little more than 8 pages single-spaced).
Okay, that's it.