literature

Christmas (Part 1)

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You would think that going to the library would be an easy endeavor.

You would be wrong.

The library was meant to be a wonderful, quiet place filled with pages and imposing shelves.  Today, however, it was not.  Today there was someone in the library who ought not to be there: a small, crying child. This child was not just crying, nor simply wailing, but shrieking—and even the word shriek does not do justice to the rise of decibels in the air. The noise was piercing, and even more than that, it was completely unsettling. It was in this environment that England was sitting at a desk, trying to focus on the documents before him.  

It was the holiday season, and his boss had given him even more work than usual—an ungodly pile of petty things; a mound of worthlessness.  He knew why, too.   Originally, he had come to the library in order to escape his house.  It was too large, too empty, and ironically oppressive.  Despite the amount of space, it was constricting. Because of the amount of space, it was depressing.  Logically he decided to come to a library, where he obviously suspected to hear the vocal chords of a toddler lash against the rest of the world.  Total and utter improvement, why would anyone ever say otherwise?

If you followed the noise (which was hard not to do) you could hear the mother taking her child into a backroom in an attempt to quiet the library.  This attempt was to no avail, and in fact made the situation worse.  Now, muffled behind the closed doors, the child’s shrieks sounded like the pain-inflicted howls of a victim being tortured. It was unnerving, and England eyed the door warily, unsure whether he should inquire, ignore, or walk away.

~~



Not every day was paradise.

Usually days off were decent, sometimes quite good, but this had been excellent.  Most individuals would be satisfied with a few cheap girls and some cheap wine—a cheap fling for a cheap holiday break, and they would perhaps even be impressed with themselves.  

This was not the case.  The girls were not cheap, the wine was not cheap—the “fling” was not cheap, nor as tasteless as the word suggests, and this was no cheap holiday break.  The best of it was that France did not have to pay, simply because he was who he was and things fell at his feet. If you’re the physical embodiment of charm, why wouldn’t they? This year, his superior had given him extra vacation time over the holidays.  Instead of questioning this, he gracefully accepted it, assuming that the extra days were won by his excellent ability to be himself—and, as one should know, being France was the best you could be.

However, this wasn't an extended leave for being angelic; it was disaster prevention. The holidays were messy, in every single affair. Not simply the economy, nor travel, nor foreign policies, but every aspect of life was touched in some way. Bosses know these types of things, and he was sure that if he shooed France away from official things—baby sat him with specific circumstances—that he could handle the holiday season without any possible ruckus.  

Of course, France did not care.  Everything is less important when you’re surrounded by beautiful women.

~~



A tall, overweight woman finally asked. She was authoritative. She must have been the head of the library, and she was not amused. However, after a brief discussion with the soft personality behind the information desk, she was appeased.  They had spoken too quietly for others to understand why there was a screeching young soul in the back, and England had lost any focus he had once had.  There was a middle-aged woman walking by him, laughing at something her husband had said. Her laugh was a series of rasps that wheezed through the layers of cigarettes lined in the back of her throat.  When she spoke, gravel churned.  Her respiratory system was no longer made up of organs; instead she had reached that saddening point where she was an internal rock quarry.

England had ignored the situation around him, someone else had inquired, and now he was walking away.  He put away his documents and notes in a systematic fashion, clearly having done the same thing for many years. He shoved his chair in without thought, and wandered off without purpose.  Downstairs, he scanned shelves until he found a newer edition to the library: a 718 paged account of Jack the Ripper filled with—well…everything.

He picked it up, glancing it over.  Reading horrific accounts you lived through? There could not have been a better way to spend one’s Christmas. He actually had morose considerations of forcing himself to go through with this—that is, until he actually thumbed through it.

Every pore in the book was permeated, saturated, devoured with the noxious stench of cheap cigarettes. One could only guess who had last checked that book out.  With a frown of disgust, he set the book back down on the shelf.

~~



Dunhills slowly burned, dispersing their smoke into the air.  Certain things in life don’t deserve to be rushed, especially the things you enjoy.  However, and despite this extended holiday being fantastic, there was something missing.  France couldn't quite place what it was, but then again, it was difficult to concentrate on anything that wasn't tangible.  One would understand if they were in the room.  Remembering things from the past, in order to assist the future, was a bit too abstract when the present was in your face.

Not to worry though, nothing in France’s life was elusive for long. He knew he wasn't missing the Christmas party—that was three days from now.  He also knew he couldn't be missing anything related to the country (he had made sure that everything was perfect before leaving professionalism behind [not to insinuate that he was professional on a regular basis]).  He was looking at whatever social life he needed; he was in his own house, so it wasn't burning to the ground…

The days of the week were dancing around his room, and he couldn't figure it out.  What was worse: the fact that the vacation would eventually end, or the fact that he was temporarily forgetting something? Obviously the former option was, unless the latter affected the former.  That was unlikely, so he made up his mind that it was acceptable to not remember.

~~



The air was terrible.  Breathing in, you could easily tell that it was thinner than usual, and the cold pushed its way intrusively into the lungs.  There were not simply “puffs” of visible breath in the air; there was a sea of it, and it lingered. Instead of disappearing as quickly as it came, it could be seen rolling skyward, where it separated beyond sight.  England moved quickly, wanting to return home in a timely manner.  It was darker than he had expected, and the day felt far later than it actually was. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him that the 21st of the month would be the shortest of the year. Then again, when one lives for so long, well known facts can become easily forgotten.

He still had an overflow of inconsequential work to do, and for that, he was mad. He didn't have a holiday break this year (not that it was terribly significant), but he also had a ridiculous amount of work—work that he normally never did—to go through. Usually, he had more important things to do, and—being a nation—he was involved in heavy discussions and planning, rather than menial task work.  Each boss handled him differently, and the current one used what he knew about England to “prevent” disaster.

It could be considered a bit manipulating, but he did what he felt was in the best interested of all parties involved—because that’s what people in authority do, right? He only needed to know two things.  One: England disliked family-extensive holidays. Two: he liked to drink—especially when idle or upset.  With these two facts in mind, and the bonus knowledge that England didn't have a smooth relationship with his siblings, it was obvious that the nation would have to be kept busy. It didn't occur to him that such an amount of work could provoke drinking, or that alcohol was one of the few things the brothers had in common. In the latter case, there would be a happy drunk England, and if one must compromise, that is a fair compromise indeed.

Instead, there was an edgy England, stuck by himself with work that frustrated him, and a cigarette drenched book that he decided to take home after all. The prevention was going to turn into the reason.

~~



For the two nations, the night was very different.  Early sundown had meant an eternal night for France, and a severe lack of motivation for England. One was over pouring with energy, the other run over with exhaustion.  Rum infused tea versus luxury wine; plush bedding in comparison with a worn down couch.  Perhaps the only thing in common with their day was that they had both woken up.  After more than a few spiked cups of tea (the kind where the quantity of tea decreases per cup), England fell asleep on the oldest couch in the house—surrounded by the papers, files, and other office-related things, as they lay disorganized on the table and floor beneath. France, on the other hand, fell asleep on the newest addition to his fine collection of furniture—tangled in sheets and any luxury that was casually strewn around the room.  It was like this that they woke up on the 22nd.

~



Perhaps paradise came at a price that France really wasn't willing to pay.  The morning sun burned through his eyelids and blinded any coherent thought he may have had. Why was it that winter skies could have such an ungodly brightness to them? It had a piercing, headache inducing quality about it...or perhaps that was just him. On further consideration, it was mostly France—but who had opened the curtains? No, no a better question: why did he even bother to have a window in that room? What a horrible idea. Who bothered to have windows these days; surely it was all the architects fault, and not the fault of alcohol (assuming he had a hangover would be a hilariously petty idea [hilariously petty {he did, though, let us face it}]).

After whining to his sheets, and grumbling at his pillow, he coaxed himself out of bed. In the most melodramatic way possible, France looked around his boring empty room, and couldn't help but feel sorry for himself. Mornings were so dull. It was too much to hope every moment of existence could keep up with his own perfect self, but knowing that such an excellent night could turn into such a horrid morning was heart wrenching.

He ought to write a poem about this.

It could do well. Maybe a lyrical ballad, now that would be able to capture the drama of the situation. Damn he was a genius. However, first he had to take care of his hair—maybe he would get divine inspiration during his shower (not that he needed the extra assistance). Unless...unless he took a bath; but which would be better for his ingenuity? Had a study been conducted on this? The struggle.

~



England had a deliciously evil idea. Somewhere between his dreams and his waking, his brain had twisted a most wonderful notion. He laid on his couch, eyes on the ceiling, laughing to himself. The more he thought about it, the funnier it seemed to be.  It was a ridiculous idea—completely absurd, as it wasn't something he would normally do from his own free will. Oh, but it was his free will, and that's what made the idea even more brilliant to him. Honestly, his devious plan was a product of sleep deprivation and morning madness—the winter weather was also a culprit, if you fancy that the weather has such an effect on the human condition.

This was good...in the bad kind of good way, which is usually a wonderful blend of horror and magnificence.  He had had enough of paperwork. Enough of pens, of files, of statistics and problems...why in the world would he have ever let himself be tied down? What was his superior going to do? Send him to time out? The idea was laughable. His superior couldn't do anything, if England chose to give himself a holiday.

Maybe that's what made his idea all the more amusing.

In any event, his spirits were filled with that mischievous glee that one gets when they realize they can do something less than sweet to someone else. He scurried off the couch, being sure to push over the wooden table stacked with paperwork while he was at it. England ran off, slipping on the hardwood floor a few times—sliding in his socks like he was twelve. Sometimes, the nation could be one of the most immature people on earth.

Didn't matter though. He had a plan.

~



After a quality shower  (the idea of inspiration showering down upon him was much more appealing than soaking in old ideas via bath) France felt that perhaps he shouldn't write a lyrical ballad. Instead, he could write an epic poem devoted to the intricate troubles that only he truly understood. He would be the hero, fighting horrid creatures—each creature (of course) being an allusion to the difficulties on his life. He hummed in approval to himself while he fixed his hair in the mirror.  Would it be too much if his hair could be its own character? Was that too shallow? It could be a glorious golden stag (much better than the white ones) that helped the hero. Actually, that wasn't shallow at all; it was rather...personal.
He should write all of these wondrous ideas down as soon as possible; maybe breakfast could come first though.  If he were one to eat cereal, France could have gotten the philosophical idea that he was the one in a bowl of milk, trying to be killed by a spoon. He, the cereal; tribulation, the milk; death, the spoon. Unfortunately, his breakfasts were usually cooked. Unlike England, he didn't need to rely on instant food.

Once he was ready for the day (and perfectly gorgeous, one may add) he sat down to begin his memoirs. He didn't quite know what the title would be, but it would sound philosophical...thought provoking. Perhaps, indeed, this was still paradise, but in another form. Now that was deep. In a solemn air that would have made anyone watching snicker, France began writing. He was like a god...sort of. If you thought about it, and then stretched that thought beyond its limits...and then re-set the limits to give it more stretching space.

He had been crafting what he thought could be the greatest input to the literary world, when he heard a knock at his door. Who was brazen enough to interrupt genius, life-altering words was beyond him. He sighed in his usual theatrical way when life was too inconvenient to bear the burden of. He got up from his chair and went to greet whatever rude soul was at his door.

And that was when his world crumbled beneath him. When Hades opened up before him and swallowed his divine calling...
So...MONTHS back I started writing a Christmas present for my friend :iconkeiraiswatching:
Like a horrible person, I didn't finish it. I decided to pick it up again tonight, in hopes of finishing it. Unfortunately, I just ended up making it even longer than it already was (and it's long enough) without making the end closer. Hopefully, I drag myself around to writing the second half of this. Maybe the conclusion will be in time for this Christmas //sarcasm

ughlskdjfsg.
ok I'm going to sleep now. This probably needs to be edited, but I'm too lazy. Ooooh dear.

EDIT:
Keira, whenever you read this: I feel the need to say that all of this came from the Jack the Ripper book I mention in England's section. My library is filled with some weird people, and I did read that book, and it was drenched in awful cigarette smoke. So...just know that my brain doesn't work properly <3 and it started a ruckus for you
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