(no subject)
A belated Christmas fic, even though I'm more of a yule person.
Title: And so this is Christmas.
Fandom: Hetalia.
Genre: Friendship.
Wordcount: 1259.
Characters: Alfred & Arthur.
Rating/Warnings: Farm animals? Fluff.
Description: Arthur's persuaded Alfred to spend Christmas with him. Arthur's drunk, Alfred's bemused. The sheep are happy.
Arthur delicately placed his empty port glass back on the highly polished occasional table and looked out of the window speculatively. 'Have you ever heard of the tradition of wassailing, dear boy?' He asked Alfred, who was sprawled on the floor playing with the WWE action figures Arthur had seen on sale in Asda and bought for him as a joke.
'Nah, is that another one of your crazy holiday things, Artie?'
England was apparently sufficiently mellowed that Alfred's vulgar Americanisms didn't even raise a flicker of ire. 'It's an old Christmas tradition in more rural areas. Tell me, how well do you remember your Christmas carols?'
'Like 'Santa baby'? I'm pretty good at 'em.'
'No, you idiot! Carols like 'I saw three ships', 'In the bleak midwinter' and 'The holly and the ivy' sort of thing.'
'Eh, they're kinda fogeyish aren't they, Iggy?' Alfred replied absentmindedly as Sheamus got The Great Khali in a clothesline and he abandoned the Punjabi giant to make Dashing Cody Rhodes jump up and down just outside the red square in the carpet pattern that was the ring.
'Alfred, you still watch 'White Christmas' every year, isn't that a bit fogeyish for your tastes?' Arthur rejoined as he stood and walked over to the sideboard for a refill of his glass. He weaved ever so slightly as he moved, but otherwise seemed the perfect in-control British gentleman.
'But Artie, 'White Christmas' is a classic!'
'As are my carols.'
The silence was broken only by the sounds of the fire crackling in the hearth before Alfred sighed. Arthur had been a pretty decent host and had even bought all of the Christmas food ready-made from some place called Waitrose so it was only Traditional English Cooking level of weird and inedible compared to Arthur-made Traditional English Cooking level of lethally inedible.
Alfred sighed. 'Fine. Let's wassail.'
Arthur beamed at him and downed his port in one, before reaching for the whisky. 'Right, dress up warmly and get some of this down you, lad.' He poured a second immoderately large tumbler of whisky and passed it to Alfred on his way to the boot room.
'We're not driving anywhere are we Artie?' Alfred asked as they pulled the front door shut behind them and Arthur slipped a large hipflask into his pocket. 'Don't be ridiculoush, boy. Who drives to wassail?'
Alfred frowned. 'How would I know, old man?'
Arthur blinked in bemusement, cheeks pink and eyes threatening to spill over with tears. 'You don't even remember?'
Shit. Alfred needed to get a handle on this stat. 'You just need to remind me, Artie. It's been a while after all. C'mon, this'll be fun!' He grinned a particularly dazzling variant of his hero smile at Arthur, who looked a bit dazed by it. He'd forgotten Arthur was a stick in the mud who was allergic to happiness.
'In that case we'll start with Buttercup and her friensh.' Arthur decided, striding off down the lane that his country cottage was by. 'Upsydaisy!' He veered off the little road and uncoordinatedly jumped at the drystone wall at the side of it. His legs flailed ineffectually at it and Alfred snickered, before grabbing the scruff of Arthur's Barbour and lifting him over. He let go and vaulted over easily, scooping Arthur back up to his feet on his landing.
'Hello Glasdysh.' A sheep had wandered up and had started nibbling blithely at Arthur's pants, something that would normally cause a spectacular explosion but Arthur just patted the wayward Swaledale on the head and staggered off across the field. Alfred was waiting for an angry shepherd to turn up, wasn't it legal 'round here to shoot anything that was worrying your sheep?
They lurched through the mud, Arthur petting the occasional sheep that wandered up to him and addressing each ewe by name. Alfred had seen his some-time mentor pull that trick with his human inhabitants, but to see him do it with livestock was just weird.
'Here we are!' Arthur flung open the barn doors, letting out a waft of hay and manure scented warm air. 'Hello ladies, we're here to wassail!' The thronged heifers just continued to chew their cud. Alfred was nonplussed by this latest sign of insanity while Arthur whet his whistle with a long swig from his hipflask and then composed himself.
He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. 'In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone, Snow had fallen snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter long ago.' He began singing in a clear voice, not a note out of place and Alfred stared in amazement, not having heard Arthur sing in earnest since the childhood lullabies of long ago.
'Come on, join in!' One green eye opened as Arthur hissed at him between versus. The kine in the barn had miraculously settled down, turning their great heads towards the unfamiliar sound and Alfred momentarily scoured his memory before joining in.
Together they worked their way through 'Angels from the realms of glory', 'Away in a manger', 'We three kings of Orient are' and what seemed like dozens of others until their impromptu concert was interrupted by the sound of a quad bike.
'Ullo there Mister Kirkland!' A rough voice greeted them. Alfred tensed. 'Oh, an you've brought yersen a mate wi' you.'
'Aye, Alfred, meet Farmer Stavely. Jeremiah, meet Alfred Jones, an old friend.' Arthur greeted the newcomer easily, not apparently bothered by the shotgun he had on the back of his quadbike.
Alfred accepted the rough-skinned hand of the farmer and shook it. 'It's nice he's brought a mate with 'im ter carry on the old traditions. Too many these days're all about their Xboxes and internet shopping, too busy to remember where they come from or their neighbours.' Jeremiah glanced to one side, seeing Arthur busily making a fuss of old Shep, the dog. 'I think he gets lonely sometimes and no one should be alone at Christmas, so thanks fer that, lad.'
Alfred looked at his unpredictable friend sat alone on a bale of hay but for his hipflask and a rather mangey looking dog and suddenly felt sad and weird. 'Yeah, yer right dude. Hey Artie! Are there any more animals ta sing at or can we go back to yours and eat that chocolate log thing?'
'You want to eat my yule log?'
Alfred looked down into his friend's hopeful stare. 'Sure, why not? It's traditional, right?' Anything else he was going to say was crushed by Arthur's ferocious and out of character bearhug. Alfred vaguely heard Arthur mumble something into his sweater about him being a sweet boy really.
The farmer looked amused by the whole affair. 'Want a lift back, lad? Mister Kirkland seems a bit under the weather there.'
'Dude, 'salright he's just drunk, he'll be fine.' Alfred just scooped the unresisting smaller nation into his arms and headed off. 'Uh, thanks fer not shootin' us, dude. Totally cool of ya an' happy holidays.'
By the time they got back to the cottage Arthur had fallen asleep, so Al settled down with him on the sofa to watch 'It's a Wonderful Life'. His traditions were much warmer. Still, it hadn't been a bad day after all.
Title: And so this is Christmas.
Fandom: Hetalia.
Genre: Friendship.
Wordcount: 1259.
Characters: Alfred & Arthur.
Rating/Warnings: Farm animals? Fluff.
Description: Arthur's persuaded Alfred to spend Christmas with him. Arthur's drunk, Alfred's bemused. The sheep are happy.
Arthur delicately placed his empty port glass back on the highly polished occasional table and looked out of the window speculatively. 'Have you ever heard of the tradition of wassailing, dear boy?' He asked Alfred, who was sprawled on the floor playing with the WWE action figures Arthur had seen on sale in Asda and bought for him as a joke.
'Nah, is that another one of your crazy holiday things, Artie?'
England was apparently sufficiently mellowed that Alfred's vulgar Americanisms didn't even raise a flicker of ire. 'It's an old Christmas tradition in more rural areas. Tell me, how well do you remember your Christmas carols?'
'Like 'Santa baby'? I'm pretty good at 'em.'
'No, you idiot! Carols like 'I saw three ships', 'In the bleak midwinter' and 'The holly and the ivy' sort of thing.'
'Eh, they're kinda fogeyish aren't they, Iggy?' Alfred replied absentmindedly as Sheamus got The Great Khali in a clothesline and he abandoned the Punjabi giant to make Dashing Cody Rhodes jump up and down just outside the red square in the carpet pattern that was the ring.
'Alfred, you still watch 'White Christmas' every year, isn't that a bit fogeyish for your tastes?' Arthur rejoined as he stood and walked over to the sideboard for a refill of his glass. He weaved ever so slightly as he moved, but otherwise seemed the perfect in-control British gentleman.
'But Artie, 'White Christmas' is a classic!'
'As are my carols.'
The silence was broken only by the sounds of the fire crackling in the hearth before Alfred sighed. Arthur had been a pretty decent host and had even bought all of the Christmas food ready-made from some place called Waitrose so it was only Traditional English Cooking level of weird and inedible compared to Arthur-made Traditional English Cooking level of lethally inedible.
Alfred sighed. 'Fine. Let's wassail.'
Arthur beamed at him and downed his port in one, before reaching for the whisky. 'Right, dress up warmly and get some of this down you, lad.' He poured a second immoderately large tumbler of whisky and passed it to Alfred on his way to the boot room.
'We're not driving anywhere are we Artie?' Alfred asked as they pulled the front door shut behind them and Arthur slipped a large hipflask into his pocket. 'Don't be ridiculoush, boy. Who drives to wassail?'
Alfred frowned. 'How would I know, old man?'
Arthur blinked in bemusement, cheeks pink and eyes threatening to spill over with tears. 'You don't even remember?'
Shit. Alfred needed to get a handle on this stat. 'You just need to remind me, Artie. It's been a while after all. C'mon, this'll be fun!' He grinned a particularly dazzling variant of his hero smile at Arthur, who looked a bit dazed by it. He'd forgotten Arthur was a stick in the mud who was allergic to happiness.
'In that case we'll start with Buttercup and her friensh.' Arthur decided, striding off down the lane that his country cottage was by. 'Upsydaisy!' He veered off the little road and uncoordinatedly jumped at the drystone wall at the side of it. His legs flailed ineffectually at it and Alfred snickered, before grabbing the scruff of Arthur's Barbour and lifting him over. He let go and vaulted over easily, scooping Arthur back up to his feet on his landing.
'Hello Glasdysh.' A sheep had wandered up and had started nibbling blithely at Arthur's pants, something that would normally cause a spectacular explosion but Arthur just patted the wayward Swaledale on the head and staggered off across the field. Alfred was waiting for an angry shepherd to turn up, wasn't it legal 'round here to shoot anything that was worrying your sheep?
They lurched through the mud, Arthur petting the occasional sheep that wandered up to him and addressing each ewe by name. Alfred had seen his some-time mentor pull that trick with his human inhabitants, but to see him do it with livestock was just weird.
'Here we are!' Arthur flung open the barn doors, letting out a waft of hay and manure scented warm air. 'Hello ladies, we're here to wassail!' The thronged heifers just continued to chew their cud. Alfred was nonplussed by this latest sign of insanity while Arthur whet his whistle with a long swig from his hipflask and then composed himself.
He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. 'In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone, Snow had fallen snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter long ago.' He began singing in a clear voice, not a note out of place and Alfred stared in amazement, not having heard Arthur sing in earnest since the childhood lullabies of long ago.
'Come on, join in!' One green eye opened as Arthur hissed at him between versus. The kine in the barn had miraculously settled down, turning their great heads towards the unfamiliar sound and Alfred momentarily scoured his memory before joining in.
Together they worked their way through 'Angels from the realms of glory', 'Away in a manger', 'We three kings of Orient are' and what seemed like dozens of others until their impromptu concert was interrupted by the sound of a quad bike.
'Ullo there Mister Kirkland!' A rough voice greeted them. Alfred tensed. 'Oh, an you've brought yersen a mate wi' you.'
'Aye, Alfred, meet Farmer Stavely. Jeremiah, meet Alfred Jones, an old friend.' Arthur greeted the newcomer easily, not apparently bothered by the shotgun he had on the back of his quadbike.
Alfred accepted the rough-skinned hand of the farmer and shook it. 'It's nice he's brought a mate with 'im ter carry on the old traditions. Too many these days're all about their Xboxes and internet shopping, too busy to remember where they come from or their neighbours.' Jeremiah glanced to one side, seeing Arthur busily making a fuss of old Shep, the dog. 'I think he gets lonely sometimes and no one should be alone at Christmas, so thanks fer that, lad.'
Alfred looked at his unpredictable friend sat alone on a bale of hay but for his hipflask and a rather mangey looking dog and suddenly felt sad and weird. 'Yeah, yer right dude. Hey Artie! Are there any more animals ta sing at or can we go back to yours and eat that chocolate log thing?'
'You want to eat my yule log?'
Alfred looked down into his friend's hopeful stare. 'Sure, why not? It's traditional, right?' Anything else he was going to say was crushed by Arthur's ferocious and out of character bearhug. Alfred vaguely heard Arthur mumble something into his sweater about him being a sweet boy really.
The farmer looked amused by the whole affair. 'Want a lift back, lad? Mister Kirkland seems a bit under the weather there.'
'Dude, 'salright he's just drunk, he'll be fine.' Alfred just scooped the unresisting smaller nation into his arms and headed off. 'Uh, thanks fer not shootin' us, dude. Totally cool of ya an' happy holidays.'
By the time they got back to the cottage Arthur had fallen asleep, so Al settled down with him on the sofa to watch 'It's a Wonderful Life'. His traditions were much warmer. Still, it hadn't been a bad day after all.