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The function room at the hotel is a bleak sight if England has ever seen one. Bare tables, barer ceilings still. There are enough vacant expressions from the rest of Europe to give the impression of a very sudden economic depression. A warble of confusion makes the rounds, mutterings under breath at Germany’s apparent failure to organize; or was it England’s? They mutter. England blanches under the disapproval being aimed at him, making a show of squaring his shoulders and stiffening his back.
Germany eventually marches in holding a tattered looking cardboard box, with Prussia close behind him wielding a hefty great green slab of pristine green cardboard. It has a picture of a Christmas tree glued on one edge, a handle on the other. England feels despair lap into his socks before the Christmas tree hits the floor.
“What’s going on, Germany?” Italy stands on his toes to get closer to Germany’s level, “I thought you said we were having the party in here?”
“We are, but I’ve decided to use this opportunity to do a team building exercise.” Germany sounds every inch the manager of a business than he has the right to, “I’ve made a list of tasks that need doing, and everyone who has to do them.” A sheet of paper strapped to a clipboard is extracted from the box in Germany's hands.
“Hang on a second.” England taps his foot, “This is my hotel, why the bloody hell should we have to do this nonsense?”
“You agreed that the theme of this Christmas should be ‘United in Diversity’” Germany presses the clipboard into England’s hands, “I decided,” Germany turns to face the rest of the gathered crowd, “that we should set the party up together, in order to appreciate the party.” Germany raises a hand to silence the resistance that’s begun to build, “you all need to learn to cooperate,” he says, pressing the heavy cardboard box into England’s free arm, the distinct sound of Christmas lights tinkling as they rattle together, “you can do the Christmas tree.”
England’s fingers tighten around the box, a familiar flush of Christmas spirit at the thought of so many twinkling lights needing to be untangled, ornaments hung and tree branches adjusted, “I suppose if I must,” he passes off the worksheet to the hands of France, making sure not to let their skin touch, “I happen to have just put up my own tree at home. My younger brother was very impressed.”
Well, Northern Ireland had glanced at the tree for five seconds, which is more than his attention span usually allows, so England assumes he approves greatly.
Germany's mouth twitches at one edge, but his eyes remain as stagnant as a frozen pond.
“I hope I get to see it, Angleterre,” France slithers closer and leans himself, “just as soon as we’ve finished putting up this one.”
“No, no,” England angles himself away from the smell of Frances cologne, it sends a distressing heat down his spine, “I don’t need HIS help to do this.”
“My name is on the list for putting up the tree.” France shakes the paper in England’s face.
England smacks his arm aside.
“You two need to learn to work together,” Germany plucks the paper from France's hand before it can become a victim of further squabbling, placing it into Ireland’s reluctant hands and pushing the weedy Island Nation towards the other countries, misplaced trust in his ability to enthuse the rest of Europe, “you both cause more disruption than everyone else put together.”
“You give us too much credit,” France clucks his tongue and waggles a dismissive hand in Germany’s direction., “What’s more, I don’t need Angleterre’s help for this task, my coordination skills are vastly superior.”
“You what!” England balls up his fists and gives an indignant snort. “Coordination has nothing to do with good, wholesome British Christmas spirit.”
“Just put up the tree.” Germany turns his back to them and marches out of the room.
--
The last section of Christmas tree slots in with the force of a large space rock colliding with the earth, it leaves a painful white mark on England’s skin, making him hiss and curse, his suffering, however, is not eased when he glances over at France, who’s laid out the tangles of Christmas lights and proceeded to look at them with a great deal of intensity.
“Right, that’s the tree up,” England grins in the direction of the molded plastic and metal now presiding over the corner of the meeting hall, indifferent to Spain as he fumbles with foil ceiling ornaments while stood on a rickety chair, or as Austria and Hungary decorate each other with some long-suffering tinsel that’s more like extravagant string than anything else, England turns his back on their overly European antics just as Spain topples off his chair and disrupts Slovakia’s bowl of white frosting, “You are going to untangle those, I hope.”
“I’m trying to decide on a theme.” France shakes his head, “I thought perhaps blue and yellow, or perhaps red and white.” Frances eyes hone in on the tree, his nose wrinkling, “are you going to neaten that?”
England see’s no fault in the tree and expresses as much with the power of facial expression alone.
France extends both hands out, creating a box with his fingers through which he stares with one eye tightly shut, “It’s lopsided, mon cher.”
“It’s charming.” England recoils from the term of affection, deciding to lift a set of lights shaped like small carriages, their ancient plastic clacking together pleasingly, “I suppose I’ll just do this as well shall I?”
“Must you use those ones? They’re so,” France rolls his hand a few times, either struggling to find the correct English term or more likely deciding on which would be the most irritating thing he could say, “childish.”
“They’re festive.” England begins the work of weaving and unknotting, so familiar, so pleasing to his fingertips, “Christmas trees are not about themes, France, they are about history and tradition and about making the best of it.”
France doesn’t respond, his hands have begun to feverishly twist and turn the snarled branches of the tree, each one getting teased into position, followed by a sound of contentment.
Catching himself staring at France’s nimble hands and passionate expression England throws himself into the task of untangling and testing each set of lights. Much to his dismay, the carriages refuse to light up. The lights shaped like pixies, however, work a charm.
--
The tree does look better, England thinks, but decides to say: “It looks the same,” he ignores France's raising eyebrows and pointed scoff. It was England who put the tree up after all; as usual doing all the hard work while somebody else takes all the credit.
France is very good at profiting off the backs of others.
“I thought about the theme, I decided on elegance.” France turns his attention to the series of lights England has laid out in loosely coiled bundles of light up spaghetti. “The red berry lights will look wonderful, don’t you think so?”
“I’d rather use the pixies and flashing lights.” England points at them; ignoring the roll of France's eyes, “Christmas has nothing to do with elegance, it’s about charm.”
“Elegance has a place everywhere, not that I expect you to understand such a thing.” France targets England’s sweater vest with his narrowing eyes, “that Argyll is tres gauche.”
England folds his arms tightly over his chest, “at least my clothing has personality, you look like something from an Avon catalog.” He jabs Frances chest with one swiftly extended finger, “ding dong, Avon calling.”
The offending finger is studied briefly before France gives England a withering look and has the indignity to look baffled instead of utterly ashamed of himself for his boring clean cut shirt and tight, buttock-hugging trousers.
France smacks England’s arm aside and grins as he leans closer, he presses one soft warm finger against England’s brow, he whispers: “les chenille's.” Just before England swings a fist in his general direction.
--
The rain is thin, stinging the eyes like small bits of wire falling from heaven though England appreciates the cool air at least even if his hair will surely transform into a brillo pad the second warm air hits it.
He startles when a hand comes down on his shoulder and the sound of an Irish “Alright?” saunters lazily through the air.
England frowns at his elder brother accepting a cigarette from the proffered pack of Mayfair and grunts in response as he lights it up. The smoke burns all the way down and he holds it in as long as he can, letting the whole cloud escape slowly as he sighs, “alright?” England earns a grunt in response, “what have they got you doing, then?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be helping in the kitchen, but nobody trusts me so I’ve just been peeling spuds.” Ireland shrugs, indifferent, “I might make some cheeky potato bread while nobodies watching.” Ireland puffs out a smoke ring that hangs in the air, stretching and vanishing, “France told me to tell you to hurry on back. I think he’s getting himself tangled in the lights.”
“Good,” England tosses his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, crushing it with his foot, grinding it down into its component parts, “he thinks he’s so bloody brilliant.” Ireland's lack of a response makes England carry on, “doesn’t understand the idea of good old-fashioned British charm!”
“Hmm,” Ireland takes a very long and slow drag from his cigarette, “you mean Christmas spirit or just sort of,” He makes a vague all-over motion in England’s direction.
“Christmas! Obviously.”
“Probably shouldn’t have tried to hit him if you want to be appreciated.”
“Which I don’t.”
“Right.” Ireland’s freckled face screws up around the nose and eyes but whatever thought darts through his head remains unspoken, instead he takes another drag of his cigarette and scrapes his bony skeleton fingers through the tight black curls of his hair, “France was my secret Santa this year. I got him a beautiful Christmas jumper. Reindeer with a pompom nose.”
“Mine was South Italy, curse my rotten luck.” England snorts out some laughter, “Well, I suppose I should get back before the Frog completely mucks things up.”
They part ways with grumbled farewells, leaving Ireland to enjoy the heavy gray clouds that linger over London like a dark blanket.
--
France looks scunnered with the lights when England finds his way back, the wires get shaken from around his wrist and drop to the floor. France steps away from them, choosing to sip from a glass of red wine he’s acquired at some point in England’s absence. When England approached France extends a wine glass full of white wine in his direction.
“Having trouble?’ England drains half the glass and sniffs at the poor progress his so-called partner has made.
“A minor setback.” France places a hand on his hip and swirls his wine, inhaling the aroma of whatever it is he’s been drinking, likely something more akin to drain cleaner than grapes and bought for a fiver off the back of a van.
“It’s easier to do it with the lights turned on.” England tells him, “that’s what I do.”
France says nothing.
“Right then, watch and learn from an old pro.” England guzzles down what’s left of his wine and smacks the glass down on a table covered by a Christmas table cloth and drips of Slovakia's icing where the gingerbread biscuits had not wanted to cooperate with the enterprise.
England drags the lights with him behind the tree, flicks on the plug and begins to weave them around and through, feeling the itchy scratches of fake pine needles and finding the remnants of lamenta strands from years gone by tangled here and there. He scrambles free now and then to study his work and belligerently accepts Frances advice when it eventually arrives.
England decides to use the yellow and blue lights after all if only to win some brownie points with Germany for using the colours of the EU flag.
“That light needs to go a little higher,” France calls over, his face peeking up from the depths of a cardboard box filled with –what England assumes to be- ornaments. “Lower,” France says when England’s managed to wrestle with the offending wire, and with a loud tut England lowers it again, “oui, beautiful.”
England rolls his eyes and squirms out from behind the spiky green tree, now festooned in twinkling blue and yellow. “I think that looks quite splendid if I do say so myself.”
“And you do.” France grins, his hand daintily holding up a lump of plastic mistletoe, “a kiss for your job well done?”
“Don’t kid yourself.” England makes a loud noise of disgust, “What are you doing over there, anyway?”
“Selecting the baubles, some of them are rather unappealing.” France holds up a rather naff looking angel made from what looks like a lump of cork glued to a crumpled bit of silver card. It looks like a little lump of shit.
“It’s fine.”
“Absolutely not.” France drops it back into the box, never to be seen again until the next year’s celebrations are in swing. “I rather like these little glass balls,” he swings one by the cord, a gleaming orb of bright green and red dangling from his long fingers like some ethereal magic.
England strides closer, kneeling to look into the box and immediately drawn to a little brown lump with a patch of red, “don’t forget the robin, France.” England reminds him, he turns the fake bird in his hands, entranced by its wonky plastic eyes and wiry little legs, so twisted from years upon years of diligent service.
“Don’t be silly, the glass baubles are much lovelier,” France winces in the robin's direction, “you’ve already done the lights, leave the ornamentation to me.”
“Hardly, and you leave Chippy alone. Robins are an essential part of any Christmas tree.” England guards his bird from Frances nasty words by placing his hand over it, “they represent everything good about the season.”
France shakes his head, “You British and your obsession with stuffed birds, why don’t you go make some tea and see what’s going on in the kitchen.”
“I will, but I’m taking Chippy with me, so you won’t ‘lose’ him!” England holds up the bird and stalks backward, eyes narrow, “he’s going on that tree regardless of what your silly theme is, you wanker.”
France dismisses England with some flippant remarks in that horrid language of his and England pockets his robin chum for safe keeping, he stretches his back and hopes there’s enough milk for tea or coffee or at least that the kettle will have survived the ebb and flow of European misuse.
--
The small kitchen is a flood of bodies jostling and voices shouting, a minefield of recipes that seem like they’ll detonate on contact judging by how jealously they’re guarded. England pushes through, hoping to find a clean mug and something to dip a teabag into that isn’t South Italy's gravy.
He eventually finds the kettle by the sink, where Ireland has returned and now stands with peeler in hand, expertly turning tuber after tuber and muttering to himself in lyrical sounding Gaelic.
“Parched are you?” Ireland doesn’t look up but smirks loudly in England's direction.
“Positively gasping.” England manages to fill the kettle by awkwardly jamming it past Ireland's body, splashing his older brother in the process, “this whole thing is a pain in the arse.”
“Ah, it’s a lark.” Ireland dips aside as England rummages through overhead cupboards in search of mugs, “stick us on a brew, there’s a lad.”
England does so, making sure to give Ireland a helping of dirty looks to ensure he not appear pleased by the favour. Annoyingly, however, Ireland’s eyes are drifting elsewhere in the kitchen, managing to skillfully continue peeling the potato in his hand.
“Here, you said you were giving South Italy a gift this year?” Ireland asks over the roar of the kettle and the clattering of pots and madly spun whisks.
“What of it?”
“Fancy a trade?” Ireland’s tone sounds disinterested but his eyes slink in England’s direction for a beat, making it certain that he’s not asking for the good of his health. That much is certain when it comes to South Italy at the very least.
“Me? Give a gift to the bloody Frog? You’ve got to be joking.” England eyes up the jar of instant coffee, deciding to fill a mug with it, “Why?”
“I suppose I just fancy lifting his spirits.” Ireland shrugs, as obtuse as ever.
“No.”
“I’ll give you a tenner in British money.”
England considers while pouring steaming water into the three mugs, “deal, I don’t want to be bothered with Romano’s fallout, regardless.” England pulls what’s left of a two litre of milk out of a nearby ridge and finishes off his tea, “how many potatoes are you peeling, by the way?”
The sink is piled high with glistening white lumps and long curls of discarded skin, “who knows, they never really told me when to stop.”
England decides against further comment, gives the tea and coffee a good stir and bidding Ireland a farewell, wondering briefly what would possess anybody to attempt to give South Italy any kind of jumper, let alone a horrid Christmas themed one.
He supposes Ireland has his own ways of making amusement for himself and at least he gets to avoid handing over a bottle of cheap wine to be scorned by that -ever so miffed - Southern Italian and instead will cause France the momentary horror that England does rather enjoy seeing on his usually smug face.
Navigating the dangerous way back through the kitchen leads only to a small spill, and soon England is back in the main function room, where he finds, and proactively tries to ignore, North Italy constructing a large picture of Santa Claus with a liberal use of glitter; destined to cling to their clothing, doubtless.
--
France grins at England as he takes the coffee; perhaps grateful, or more likely, taking great pleasure in some absurd French scheme. Whatever it is he’s planned, France takes the customary time it takes for him to complain about the coffee (Nescafe) being far too weak and not nearly full bodied enough. He drinks it regardless, making sure to wrinkle his pointed nose upwards and curl his long elegant fingers up like a dying spider. France has a way with theatrics that makes every little thing seem so much larger.
Eventually however Frances’ eyes begin to glance towards the tree –England refuses to look at it, for it is surely the work of the devil- hand on hip with foot tapping on grotty carpet.
“So, what do you think?” France says eventually, stepping into Englands line of sight –blocking his view of Slovakia's biscuits as the icing runs off of them and pools on the table cloth like water rolling off the back of a duck. The biscuits are shaped like some kind of bird so the comparison is apt at the very least.
“Well, I can’t imagine why—“ England is startled when he glimpses at the tree, it’s spindly little branches now bustling with fake birds of all shapes and sizes, tiny clipped on canaries made of glass to larger burgundy peacocks covered in feathers and sequins, the whole tree seems alive, a living hedgerow with blue and yellow twinkling in sequence, crisp morning light to a mournful sunset and back again.
A frog gets caught in England's throat.
“I considered what you said earlier, about diversity and getting, how you say,” France attempts to take a swig from his mug in a snooty fashion but cannot avoid flinching, “brownie points. I imagined diversity might be better represented by these birds.”
England notes with mixed feelings, that there are a great number of birds, white swooping doves that are almost snow like, fat aging brown and yellow birds with missing eyes, cartoonish robins with fat little chests and a parakeet wearing a jaunty little Santa hat and swinging from a perch.
“it’s quite lovely,” escapes England’s mouth, he attempts to scrape the remnants of it away by clearing his throat, “you did all this while I was away, did you?”
“Oui, quite.” France makes a vague motion with his fingers, “Slovakia is off looking for ribbon, we’ll add those gingerbread hens on when they’ve dried.”
“Hens.” England peers in their direction, finding no obvious clue about the species of bird the biscuits might be, “right.”
“There is one thing missing, don’t you think so, Angleterre?”
“And what might that be?” England tuts, blowing on his mug to help it cool, he can hear the jangle of cutlery and smell something cooking that might be fish or sprouts or carrot and parsnips.
France leans in close, so close that England can pick out the dabs of colour that kiss his cheeks, the faintest freckles on his golden skin, the light of the tree making his hair glitter and his eyes flicker with that youthful glint that England thinks he might envy, “Chippy,”thin lips say, a hand tapping Englands trouser pocket, “he needs pride of place on the top, don’t you think so?” He whispers, voice deep.
“Quite!” England’s voice cracks, throat dry, movements stiff as he jerks away, his hand plucking out the robin, the wire feet jabbing his finger. He tiptoes, placing the little chap lopsidedly on the top, his little black eyes almost surveying the other birds with a sort of tolerant intelligence.
“Bravo,” France coos into England’s ear, “Germany will be ever so pleased.” France seems interested only in his own pleasure, his hand resting on England's shoulder and squeezing just hard enough to leave a shiver all the way down England’s spine.
As quickly as he came, however, France disappears like a specter and England faces the ugly reality that for a second, maybe more, he had wanted to get so much closer.
He drains his tea.
--
They eat their communal Christmas dinner to the tune of loud talking, even louder hand gesticulations and laughter –with a side order of shouting- but Ireland attempts to eat as little of the food as he can, most of it's foreign and some of it is green. Ireland refuses to eat green. He’s, instead, loaded his plate with as much mashed potato as he could get away with and takes sizable mouthfuls between swigs of cheap fizzy wine.
Normally he’d regret sitting beside England, who is an unamiable bastard even when he’s sober and even more so when he’s had far too much red wine and European food.
Thankfully, however, England’s eyes are fixated not on Ireland and all his faults but on tracing a line after Frances movements around the scattering of tables and with each little touch and intimate little whisper into somebodies ear England gets visibly tense.
France sees fit to swan in Ireland's direction, cringing at his plate then whispering into his ear, “Irelande, you’re a social sort.” His grip tightens uncomfortably and Ireland frowns at the offending fingers which feel like little French needles contaminating his skin, France makes a point to ignore it, regardless, carrying on with; “you wouldn’t happen to know who’s giving Angleterre his secret gift this year?”
Ireland manages to tease his arm away from Frances grip and scores lines into the mashed potato with his fork, “I did hear it was South Italy’s turn.”
“Romano?” France lifts the bottle of wine at Ireland's elbow and frowns at it.
“Aye,” Ireland corrects, “Mores the pity for Romano, I say.”
France sets the bottle down, his fingers retreating from it like it’s wearing last years fashion, “You know who your secret gift is from?”
That much Ireland hadn’t heard but hopes it might be from Hungary, who hates him just enough for her present to be a bit of craic, “Naw, sorry. They’ve kept it from me this year, not that I mind, it’s all just shite.” Last years present had been a book about the wonders of Czech poetry.
“Good,” France’s lips curled in a knowing, self-satisfied smile, “You are helpful as always.” France slinks away looking like a cat that’s just had some very expensive cream. Ireland would watch him further but England kicks him under the table and the proceeding fit of swearing that manages to distract him from any thoughts me might have had regarding France.
--
The plates get lifted by some moody teenagers in suit’s far too large, the clamor of plates and sight of various nations shifting tables to the side or idly drinking wine like the lazy cretins they are.
England drinks a swig of wine and watches the hard work of the others.
In one corner a little table has a mound of gifts, one gift each given by some nameless benefactor. A fair and democratic system for social occasions, being that some got more and others got as many votes as the United Kingdom during the Eurovision. Any personal gifts to be exchanged in private. England finds the whole thing farcical, it’s hard to be anonymous when you’ve spent hundreds of years staring at one another’s signatures.
When a present is subsequently placed into his lap he’s quick to decipher Frances preposterous excuse for handwriting with lavish use of swirls, the fact that part of the paper looks torn suggests that the label has been removed for rewriting which is hardly surprising.
The package is soft n the bottom with two boxes hidden atop and England dreads to think about what might be inside. He downs his glass of spirits and sighs loudly as he pierces the paper –all silver- feeling his fingers dive into something woolen, it’s softness is remarkable and England extracts it eagerly. The green while and terracotta yarn is a disappointment but the quality is difficult to ignore. It’s looped around England’s neck and the other two boxes slip onto his lap, one box is black with a silver logo hinting at some high-end bakery.
Inside that box are several rows of macaroons, pistachio, vanilla and caramel, England pops one in his mouth then turns his attention to the last box, a pair of plain looking silver cuff links shaped like disks.
“Do you like them?” France asks, appearing at England's shoulder, “you never do have a scarf.”
“It’s lovely,” England sprays a fine mist of meringue when he talks and swallows the rest with great force, “I suppose.”
“Magnifique, and I will enjoy,” France holds up the bottle of cheap wine and shakes it delicately, “whatever this is.”
“Yes, splendid.” England licks his lips, they taste sweet, vanilla sugar melts on his tongue. They taste good, better than he’d ever thought.
“Well, I shall go share it.” France turns and strides away.
England watches his back and polish off the crumbs now scattered over his sweater vest. With a deep breath he stands, feeling his legs wobble underneath him, he hears music play in his head and lights begin to swirl.
He realises it’s the radio just as he bumps into France, getting a nose full of his spicy aftershave and the smell of sweet, fresh cotton, “Hold on a minute,” England coughs and grips Frances shoulder to stop himself slipping sideways and landing on his arse, “tah,” he forces himself not to slur, “for the—“ he motions to the scarf then waggles a hand at the wine bottle, “sorry about the wine, was for SItaly but Ireland happened.”
“Changing gifts, Angleterre, I’m ashamed of you.” France shakes his head, frowning a frown that blossoms into an annoyingly handsome smile, “I suppose I might have the heart to forgive you.” His breath smells rich with wine and meat and tobacco.
England sniffs and leans away, “and what exactly do you want, Frog.”
France extends a hand and tosses his hair out of his eyes, they sparkle blue and pure like the deep end of a swimming pool, “dance with me.”
England scoffs and sputters before his hand slowly drifts into Frances, it’s colder than expected warming slowly in England’s grasp, soft as velvet made of skin, England tightens his grip as France leads him carefully onto the scuffed dance floor.
England keeps his distance, slowly feeling the music bleed into his veins and moving with it on cumbersome feet as the waltz carries on. France’s arms are stronger than he remembers, they hold him steady and reassuring. His scarf falls off just as the music fades.
France smiles as he steadies England from tripping over his own feet, “you dance beautifully.” He says, his fingers massages deep into Englands arms, making his muscles ache with—
Something.
“I prefer rock music.” England spits and has to wipe his chin, he draws himself up straight, making sure his words become neat and regimented, “I can play electric guitar you know, and the bloody harpsichord!”
“Impressive.” France laughs under his breath, “I suppose I won’t tell Germany about this little mix-up. If you’ll do me one last little favour.”
“What now?”
France points upwards, towards a sprig of plastic mistletoe hung above them, “you were so adamant about tradition, after all.”
England’s breath gets lost deep in his chest, making him cough, his lungs suck in dry air and his tongue damps his lips at the sight of France smirking. England's hands take a hold of France's face, their lips mashing together, noses bumping.
Frances eyes are wide and dazzled when they separate, his fingers tremble as they slide across his mouth.
“Thank you,” England clears his throat, “for the tree, it looks decent.”
“Merci.” France takes up England's hand and kisses it, making England wrangle it free until France presses another kiss to his lips and pulls him into a second dance.