Title: Awards Night
Author: perfectioninmypride
Summary: Take your average award show. Add a dash of awesome, a smattering of glamour, and a meddlesome heap of awesome. The Nations' yearly Atlas Awards would never be the same again, if the three of them could help it...

AN: This is what happens when I've spent almost three weeks being incredibly happy/sleep deprived because of the Hetalia Christmas Event. I'm a terrible person writing this when I'm supposed to be finishing the next part of LotL, writing the next part of my fic on DeviantArt and finishing the first chapter of my new fanfic... Oh well, this had to be done...
On a side note, this is actually my first Hetalia fic *runs and hides*... so leave a review? Please?

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia is owned by darling Hima-Papa!

Chapter One - Awards, Agreements and Angry Englishmen

"Germany! Germany, guess what? Three weeks! Only three more weeks!" chirped Italy as he ran into the kitchen, waving a calendar around wildly.

"Three more weeks until what, exactly?" Germany replied, ducking to avoid being hit by the overexcited Italian. He reached out calmly and removed the calendar from Italy's grasp, placing it down onto the counter top next to the sink.

"The Atlas Awards! Isn't that wonderful?" Italy latched onto his arm, and beamed up at him.

"Uh, that is sehr wunderbar Italy." he smiled weakly back. The Atlas Awards... so soon?

Germany heard a snort. Looking up, he saw his brother.

"Wunderbar? Yeah, right West." Prussia crossed the room, and opened the door to the fridge. He bent down, grabbed three beers and turned back around.

"That lame show is the total opposite of me. As in, not awesome."

"Germany? Is that true?" Italy looked heartbroken.

Germany sighed, shooting a glare at his brother, who simply shrugged and left the kitchen.

"No Italy. The Atlas Awards are, uh, awesome." Italy didn't seem convinced by his half-hearted statement. "Sehr awesome... almost as awesome as pasta."

At the mention of Pasta, Italy brightened up considerably.

"Ve! Pasta! Oh, oh, Germany, let's go get some pasta! You don't have any pasta here at your house though... So we'll have to go to mine!"

Italy dragged the tall German out of the kitchen in pursuit of pasta. He waved to the three Nations gathered in Germany's living room before pulling Germany out the front door with him.

Prussia laughed at the sight of his brother being manhandled by the small Italian. He took a swig of his beer and put it down onto the coffee table (screw coasters, no matter what West said about things leaving marks on the wood).

"Little Italy is so cute!" cooed Spain. "Just like my adorable little Romano~!"

"Ah, l'amour! The air is filled with it today!" France exclaimed from his spot sprawled upon on the couch. He turned his head and peered at his smiling Spanish friend "So where is Romano today?"

"When I asked him if he would like to come hang out with us, he threw a vase at me, called me a bastard and yelled something about you two being perverted wine-gulping potato-sucking freaks." Spain frowned a little. "I think he wanted me to stay with him in Rome."

"So... Romano is at his house, all angry, and Italy just dragged West over there to make pasta?" Prussia smirked. "Good luck Bruder."

Prussia continued to laugh at his brother's predicament while Spain started to worry about Romano. After a few moments, the two of them noticed that how silent France was. He hadn't said something innuendo filled or lewd at all.

"Um, France? Yo, earth to France!" Prussia leaned forward and waved his hand around in front of his friend's face. The Frenchman suddenly sat up, causing Prussia to fall backwards and knock over his beer, spilling it.

"Scheiße!" Prussia scrambled up and attempted to wipe up the beer with his shirt sleeve. "West is going to kill me! You know what a clean freak he is!"

Spain, ever the helpful one, went off to get a cloth from the kitchen.

France remained completely still, stunned look on his face, like he'd had some sort of epiphany.

"Three weeks... three weeks..." he muttered under his breath. "Les prix Atlas..."

Returning from the kitchen, Spain handed the frantically scrubbing German -sorry, Prussian, a damp cloth. Prussia reached out and grabbed for it, glaring at the Frenchman.

"Oi France. Stop your muttering and get your ass over here!"

"France?" said Spain, sitting down next to his friend. "My friend, are you ok?" He shot a concerned look towards Prussia, who had managed the mop up most of the beer, and was now swearing at France in German.

"Mes amis!" exclaimed France, flinging his arms out dramatically and almost hitting Spain in the nose. "Did you hear what Italy said just before?"

He looked between his two best friends, expectant look on his face. Spain frowned in confusion. Prussia just scowled a little harder.

"About the pasta?"

"No, no. When he was in the kitchen with yourself and your brother."

"You heard that? Awesome hearing much." Prussia grinned, spilled beer forgotten.

"What are you two talking about?" Spain asked. "What was Italy saying?"

"There's only three more weeks until those Atlas Awards." replied France, smiling in a rather strange way.

"What's so exciting about that?" said Prussia. "Everyone hates those awards. They suck. A lot."

"Prussia's right. The Atlas Awards are never fun. The only good part about them is getting to see Romano all dressed up! So cute!"

France shook his head slowly, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

"Oui, mes amis. The Atlas Awards are possibly the most boring thing in the world. Hours of diplomatic 'awards', listening to our bosses attempt to socialise, and sitting through England's 'witty' banter. Not to mention, the terrible English food, and ridiculously long speeches."

"Like I said, completely unawesome. Even West hates it. Lucky for me, my bosses never make me go."

"Ah, but mon cher, what if I told you that this year, you'd want to go?"

Prussia and Spain both looked at their friend like he was insane, disbelief plastered on their face.

"But France, why on earth would anyone want to go?"

"Are you insane France? Remember, that show is UNAWESOME!"

France laughed , eyeing his friends knowingly.

"If the Atlas Awards are unawesome, as you say Prussia, then why don't we do something about that?"

It took a second for that to sink into the minds of the two other Nations.

"Do you think we could really do that?" said the Spaniard, smile starting to light up his face.

"Of course we can! Meine Freunde, we're the most badass, awesome Nation's ever!" affirmed the Prussian, jumping from the floor to standing on the couch. This was greeted with shouts of agreement.

"France, mi amigo, I get the feeling you have a plan?"

"Of course Spain, of course. First of all..." he looked over at the Prussian, who seemed to be doing some sort of victory dance. "Prussia, I need you to talk to your brother..."

Two weeks later...

"You have got to be bloody kidding me!"

The irate Englishman slammed his hand on the desk in front of him.

"What do you mean, the Atlas Awards are going to be in Berlin?" he said, scowling at the blond American who had been unfortunate enough to bring him this news. America raised his hands in defense of himself. Damn it. Why was everything on the desk in Arthur's office suddenly looking like a potential projectile?

"England, dude, calm down." America shrugged his shoulders, eyeing England carefully. "All I know is that Germany's boss called the producer people in Los Angeles and asked for them to be moved this year. They contacted my boss, who then called your boss, who agreed."

England furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"Why didn't I hear about this earlier? The awards are in a week!"

" Oh that... I was kind of supposed to tell you like two weeks ago but I forgot. Whoops! There's something else too!" America started searching through the pockets of his bomber jacket.

England sighed in frustration and rolled his eyes.

"Stupid Yank." he muttered under his breath.

"What'd you say England? Sorry, I sort of zoned out there." the other nation grinned upon finding a piece of crumpled paper in his pocket.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Okay! Here, I'm supposed to give you this!" England snatched the piece of paper away quickly, still scowling.

"You git, were you supposed to give this to me two weeks ago too? Do you realise I only have a week to re-write my speech notes so that my witty remarks are about Berlin and not London? I put a lot of work into writing all those anecdotes so that people enjoy my hosting of the show! Why on earth didn't you tell me earlier like you were supposed too?"

"Oh... right... um, about that..." America said somewhat nervously as England muttered something about 'bloody idiots' while reading the paper. He winced a little as the other nation's eyebrows raised higher and higher while he read A little voice inside his head started urging him to put as much distance between him and the slowly maddening Nation.

"I'M NOT HOSTING THE BLOODY AWARDS?"

America regretted the fact that he had made a habit out of not listening to the voices in his head.

Hey guys! Like I mentioned, this is actually my first Hetalia fic *shot* so um... try to be nice? I'm sorry for how short this chapter is. It's really just to set the scene, more of an intro than a proper chapter one.

Reviews... please?