as-yet-untitled [3/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:08:07 UTC
Four minutes to midnight, and France starts banging on his glass to get everyone's attention. England eyes the room dubiously over his champagne. "Can I get our guests of honour up here?" France is saying, waving vaugely at the windows. Outside, the revelers in the street are cheerfully butchering 'All You Need Is Love'. England supposes it's better than the Polish national anthem, given that the Polish national anthem specifically mentions kicking Sweden's arse, and Sweden is currently leaning against the statue of Atlas, cuddling Finland, looking very content, probably very drunk.
And it could have been 'It's A Small World After all'.
The guests of honor start gravitating toward him. Poland strides. England wonders when he got so tall. "Yes, you too, Romania, Bulgaria," France calls out, and they look at each other and emerge from the refuge of the buffet table.
In fact, England realizes, Poland is taller than he is, at least in heels. The realization is vaugely unsettling. Have all the Eastern Bloc gained so many years? Latvia's face is still childishly round, but he and Estonia are both taller. They're also rather blurry; England attributes this to his being rather inebriated. Hungary has lines on her face. She might be twenty-five now, or thirty. Lithuania doesn't really look older, but he was the Grand Duchy of Lithuania before France had started shaving daily, so it's not suprising - really, the odd thing is that he didn't get any younger under Russian rule. England himself has gone through puberty five times, two of them backwards. Some nations vanish and are replaced, in similar circumstances. Some just lose years. England has theories on this. He'll sit down with a map and chart them out someday, he thinks. Someday, preferably someday when the last three hours havn't involved four beers, two glasses of champagne, and half a bottle of vodka. A small bottle, though.
"Now," France declares with pride and a certain inevitable pomposity, "can I have your attention, please, everyone? I wil be brief, since I am sure you lot are more interested in the buffet than politics. We are gathered here tonight to welcome ten new members to the European Union, plus two more who should be formally joining us very soon."
Not that age has ever been a definite thing, for their kind.
"Now, seven of them were former Warsaw Pact members, and they've done a brilliant job converting to a capitalist economy, so a big hand to them. Perhaps Germany and I won't be doing all the work around here anymore, hmm?" Dutiful laughs from some, disgruntled grumbling from the others. "And besides . . . " There's more, but England lets it sink into the pleasant buzzing of the champagne.
England can remember a time when Lithuania looked like the oldest of the Europeans, or close to it, and still could have passed for a boy of seventeen. He remembers how Rome died with greying hair and lines on his face. But Rome did not die of old age.
"And in - " France glances at his watch - "fifteen seconds, this will all be official, and there will be fireworks! Can I get a countdown?" Germany looks dubious, France happy, Ireland has her arms crossed and is doing the don't-mess-this-up glare.
And it could have been 'It's A Small World After all'.
The guests of honor start gravitating toward him. Poland strides. England wonders when he got so tall. "Yes, you too, Romania, Bulgaria," France calls out, and they look at each other and emerge from the refuge of the buffet table.
In fact, England realizes, Poland is taller than he is, at least in heels. The realization is vaugely unsettling. Have all the Eastern Bloc gained so many years? Latvia's face is still childishly round, but he and Estonia are both taller. They're also rather blurry; England attributes this to his being rather inebriated. Hungary has lines on her face. She might be twenty-five now, or thirty. Lithuania doesn't really look older, but he was the Grand Duchy of Lithuania before France had started shaving daily, so it's not suprising - really, the odd thing is that he didn't get any younger under Russian rule. England himself has gone through puberty five times, two of them backwards. Some nations vanish and are replaced, in similar circumstances. Some just lose years. England has theories on this. He'll sit down with a map and chart them out someday, he thinks. Someday, preferably someday when the last three hours havn't involved four beers, two glasses of champagne, and half a bottle of vodka. A small bottle, though.
"Now," France declares with pride and a certain inevitable pomposity, "can I have your attention, please, everyone? I wil be brief, since I am sure you lot are more interested in the buffet than politics. We are gathered here tonight to welcome ten new members to the European Union, plus two more who should be formally joining us very soon."
Not that age has ever been a definite thing, for their kind.
"Now, seven of them were former Warsaw Pact members, and they've done a brilliant job converting to a capitalist economy, so a big hand to them. Perhaps Germany and I won't be doing all the work around here anymore, hmm?" Dutiful laughs from some, disgruntled grumbling from the others. "And besides . . . " There's more, but England lets it sink into the pleasant buzzing of the champagne.
England can remember a time when Lithuania looked like the oldest of the Europeans, or close to it, and still could have passed for a boy of seventeen. He remembers how Rome died with greying hair and lines on his face. But Rome did not die of old age.
"And in - " France glances at his watch - "fifteen seconds, this will all be official, and there will be fireworks! Can I get a countdown?" Germany looks dubious, France happy, Ireland has her arms crossed and is doing the don't-mess-this-up glare.
The Baltics are holding hands and beaming.
England dutifully joins in the countdown.
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