#emeraldtrash

6:What would you like to have in 2015 that you lacked in 2014?

Probably more confidence in what I do and a better work ethic

14:Where did most of your money go?

Cosplay and AWA probably...

26:What did you want and get?

I really wanted a monokuma plush and yoo I got one. I also got some more cosplay stuff. I guess the one thing I didnt get was a bike but I can try for my birthday

31:What kept you sane?

ALSO IM SORRY FOR HOW LAME THIS IS TBH LIKE I HAVENT WRITTEN ANYTHING IN A WHILE AND THIS IS THE FIRST TIME IVE WRITTEN AMEBELA EVEN THO I LOVE IT A LOT

SORRY SORRY emeraldtrash 

——

The yearly Holiday Party is unofficial and almost always takes place at Russia’s house (not by choice exactly - it’s the only one with enough space to fit them all and several nations elect not to attend these days because of it).

It’s the perfect working model of the cultural melding pot – hundreds of nations with hundreds of different beliefs and traditions; all talking and walking about Russia’s humongous home, sharing in the freezing cold weather and the vast array of foods, spread atop a trail of tables running from the inside perimeter of the dining room and into the foyer.

Natalya finds herself at such a table on the eve of Kaliady, surrounded by temptations. Many of the nations around her also feast during this season – they gorge themselves on hot, warm meats (dear Lord, ham and turkey and roasted chicken…) and drink themselves jolly with the heavy spirits her tongue aches for. The first feast of Kaliady, however, is unfortunately melancholically tormentably a meatless feast of grain puddings and salads. She glares ardently at the plate of cabbage-stuffed pirozhki she’d set out and curses her obedience to tradition.

Despite the smell of sauces and gravy wafting about, Natalya stays by the food tables and watches, nursing a cup of virgin punch. There’s music coming from somewhere; while many nations are simply walking or sitting with friends, some have made themselves a dance floor and are twirling and fumbling and sloshing scotch and champagne on her brother’s floor. It reminds her vaguely of the caroling happening in her own country and she turns to the clock behind her to gauge whether the carolers would have knocked on her door yet or not.

She is not alone when she turns back.

Mr. America’s smile is bright and full of lightly stained teeth and nauseating optimism. An uneasiness stirs in her when she realizes that his big eyes are just as nauseating and are focused directly on her.  

“Hey!” he says – she can’t tell if he’s yelling above the music or if he just doesn’t realize how loud he is. “I was looking for you!”

This catches her off guard; few people (besides her family and her carolers, of course) attempt to intentionally seek her out. She squints. He smiles.

“Yeah, you’re actually pretty hard to find! Well…I guess there are a lot of people here and it’s a pretty huge house, so! Hehe, oh man, I’ve kinda been skulking around here for like, the better part of an hour! I must’ve looked so weird…” He trails off as he brings attention to the box she hadn’t noticed in his hands.

It’s not small, yet not overly large – its wrapping is lumpy, colored an obscenely inappropriate shade of orange with a pattern of strange, wiggly little suns, and is almost entirely covered in shiny pink bows. Looking at it for too long could probably burn her retinas, but she dubiously accepts the package without a word.

“I wrapped it myself!”  America says after a beat, “It took a little while ‘cause I don’t usually wrap my gifts? I mean, it’s kinda hard to wrap the cool syrup bottles I buy Mattie or the glass eggs I usually get Iggy, so I don’t really know how to wrap boxes or anything. I probably could’ve wrapped Francis’s cigar box though, damn it! I always think about this kind of thing too late, like it’s already Christmas Eve and it took me 12 hours to get here by jet and – “

America is spouting off nonsense about gifts and jetlag when Natalya begins to gingerly rip at the ugly gift. She sighs as she peels away the wrapping without incident and slowly opens the white box beneath it.

“ – And those geese didn’t even see us coming! Which I guess isn’t such a bad thing, as harsh as that sounds, like come on, geese are evil and – oh! Oh, you opened it, I wasn’t even paying attention. Sorry….What’d’ya think?”

It was a sweater. Blue and red with little white starts along the stripes, beautifully crafted with each stitch almost perfect (which led her to believe that he hadn’t actually made it).

“…It’s too small,”

And it was; perhaps half the size of her torso when she held it up to herself and she wondered if Mr. America was really that stupid. She stared at him as he reddened.

“O-Oh, um-!” America’s bright smile turned sheepish and he forced his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “It’s, uh, actually not for you…,”

The uneasiness she’d felt before was gone with those words, but efficiently replaced with a strange thread of disappointment. A shame, really, she thinks as she looks longer at the sweater. She wonders if it’s perhaps for her to pass on to her sister…

“It’s for your cat,”

Natalya looks up at him incredulously. He’s smiling again, though still quite red in the face (it’s almost like looking in a mirror in that respect)

“…I’m sorry?”

“Your cat,” He says again, shining with a subtle pride, “I wasn’t really sure what to get you, since we don’t really, um…talk much. And I overheard Ms. Ukraine talking about your cat one day so I thought, “Bingo! I’ll get her cat something cool,” ‘cause I know I’d be pretty psyched if someone got my cat something like this. I was actually thinking like, a toy at first, like a little mouse with a bell or something, y’know? But then I saw this lady who made little cat sweaters and I’m like, “Holy shit! Holy shit, yes!” so I put in a custom order (who doesn’t love stars and stripes, am I right?) and boom bang, Christmas present for Ms. Belarus!…Do you like it?”

He seemed somehow smaller now. Mr. America was in general a rather tall man, having a decent 6-7 inch advantage over her 5”3 frame, but he’s hunched now, like a child waiting for a scolding. But he still smiles, brightly and nauseatingly at her like no one else has in a very long time. She feels even warmer and even more uneasy.

Natalya places the little sweater back in the box carefully, rubbing at the stitching with her thumb. Then she stares down at him, training herself to keep solid and give nothing away. She scowls as she whispers softly.

“Why did you want to give me something, Mr. America?”

America stares at her in a spooked sort of awe for a long, long while, so red in the face she can see his blood boiling in his ears. He fiddles in his hoodie pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels and looks every which way except for at her. Then finally, he throws his blond head back and sighs rather dramatically at the high ceilings of Vanya’s home before thrusting his open hand at her.

“I just-! …I-I’ve kinda wanted to get to know you better for a while now and…I couldn’t think of a good way to start a conversation. So here we go, uh: My name’s Alfred F. Jones (not Mr. America) and I think we should, um…hangout sometime,”

Natalya stares at the hand. Then she stares at him. America…Alfred F. Jones is red in the face, gnawing at the skin inside his mouth nervously, and while his eyes are a strange blue mish-mash of anxiety and embarrassment and fear, there is still a small shining speck of optimistic hope.

She very carefully slips her hand into his and shakes up and down.

“I am Natalya Arlovskaya,” She says quietly (she is hyper aware of how Alfred F. Jones perks up like a dog smelling a treat), “…I am very busy until January the 8th. Give me your pen,”

He nods slowly and hands her the pen like she’s a rabbit he can’t bear to scare away. She grabs his wrist before he can pull away and writes her phone number on the top of his hand.

“You will come on January the 8th,” She says simply, recapping the pen, “And we will…’hang out’, I suppose,”

Natalya cradles the white box in her hand and very quickly downs the glass of punch she’d set behind her on the table. She gives Alfred F. Jones one last nod before curtly walking away from the overpowering smell of food, very aware that he is watching her go with an awed expression. She reminds herself not to trip on her shoes.

—

Natalya decides that Natka looks rather sweet in the sweater Alfred F. Jones gave her. The colors suit the charcoal gray of her fur and the soft white of her underbelly; though Natka herself will only wear it for short bouts of time before fussing like the princess Natalya treats her as.

This time though, is a time when Natka cooperates and bunkers down in her kitty condo, still wearing the sweater. Natalya nods at her, allowing a smile to come to pass as she returns to her book.

Then there is a knock at the door.

Natka starts and jumps from the condo. Natalya is confused only for a second – she glances at the standing calendar on the table beside her couch and nods again at the large printed “8” underneath the smaller “January”.

The first thing she sees when she opens the door are small pink flowers bundled in blue plastic. Then the bouquet is lowered and all Natalya can see is a bright smile and a long, heavy sweater with bright red and blue stripes and various white stars. The man’s smile brightens as she arches her eyebrow.

“I, um. Got one too,” Alfred F. Jones says and hands her the bouquet, his face flushing to match its soft pink. “I got you something too this time. Pretty cool, huh? I know, I know, I’m awesome,”

Libra/Tharja fluff at the beach, basically. Also baby!Noire.

This is my Fesecretsanta gift to emeraldtrash, who has a Kakyoin problem. May you have the merriest and rero rero-iest of Christmas-es!

8:Want any tattoos?

Yes! I want the roman numeral 1 on my left wrist, stars on my right arm and a cat silhouette on my shoulder possibly 17:Someone you miss

I miss one of my really close friends Ren so much!! I think about him like everyday and I hope we can hang out again soon ;;

27:A description of the person I like