My Bro into-dorkness wrote part one, and now here is part two. The chaos the morning after Alfred's birthday party is unrivalled anywhere else in the cosmos. This series is possibly the best thing to write ever. Always write fanfic with your friends.

It was the morning of July 5th, and Alfred F Jones was spending it tied to a railway track.

Wait.

Let's try that again.

It was the morning of July 5th, the morning after his goddamn birthday, and Alfred F Jones, aka the United States of Awesome, America, the greatest goddamn country in the whole goddamn world, was spending it tied to a railway track. A fucking railway track. Not again. He was way too hung over for this.

He should probably explain that whole 'not again' thing. Picture the scene. A warm July 5th morning, possibly '93, possibly '97, who can say, and a handsome blond Hollywood hunk named Alfred is spending it tied to a railway track. Not the same railway track as today, mind you. A different railway track, further north. Green shit instead of dusty rocks. This poor handsome Alfred, tears swimming in his baby blue eyes, is pretty scared. Getting run over, especially by train, hurts. Like, a lot.

In the end, it turned out Russia, thinking it was all hilariously funny, had been hiding nearby, watching him scream himself hoarse trying to shout for help, pissing his stupid commie pants with laughter, and only thought to come and get him when the train had been in serious danger of turning him into a sad red, white and blue smear across the North Dakota circular. He'd seen the whites of the train driver's eyes, that's how late Ivan had left it. Sick bastard. He'd sold the footage on to North Korea too. Who even does that?

None of this exposition, however fascinating (and potentially hilarious to frozen Eurasian freaks or psychotic Koreans), was getting him anywhere in figuring out which fucker had done it to him this time. Really, Ivan and Hyung Soo were the only ones he could really rule out, especially with the kind of hangover that could probably knock mortals unconscious. Russia would never repeat himself like this – he had too much style. Alfred was currently awaiting payback for locking Ivan in an industrial freezer on the Russian's own national day (which had been fucking hilarious, thank you very much), which would probably come in the form of being thrown off the Chrysler building or something like that. N.K. had purchased the official footage of China's pride and his horror; the naked-in -times-square incident, so he'd probably be happy for a while longer too. God, it was depressing that he had so many friends and family members that would seriously find it funny to actually tie him to train tracks when drunk (or unconscious) and leave him to sober up in the hot Midwestern sun and intense soul crushing dread. The UN roster definitely wasn't short on sadists.

His twin, the man who had raised him and his pervy uncle figure had all actually let someone remove him from his own home in a state of inebriation (or unconsciousness. He really couldn't stress this enough), in the express knowledge they were going to take him somewhere dangerous and then leave him there.

Actually, they might have done it themselves.

What the fuck.

The first thing England became aware of was a pounding in his head. Oh God, he was never drinking again.

"Oh God, I'm never drinking again," he said, or at least he tried to say, but mostly he just mumbled a bit, making his head hurt worse and disturbing the nation tucked up against his side.

"Mon Dieu!" Canada moaned, with his face pressed into England's shoulder. "Je ne vais jamais boire de l'alcool encore! "

"Speak… proper, lad," England gasped. Why was the light so loud? "No frog." He let his head fall back against the sofa, the soft back cushioning his aching temples.

"Ahem. Yes frog." A decidedly French voice said from somewhere in the vicinity of his trousers. Arthur screamed.

Matthew leapt away from him in alarm, and managed to fall off the sofa entirely. India, who had been asleep on England's feet, screamed as well and kicked out as he awoke, catching the nation across from him in the face. Venezuela yelled and clawed at his ankles in retaliation, which made Paraguay sit up in alarm and cry out: 'not the albatross!', and it degenerated further into chaos from there, with poor unfortunate hungover nations being woken in painful and traumatising ways. In a fit of confusion, Latvia was actually pushed off of the kitchen counter by the flailing arms of Albania, and someone turned the tap on while South Korea was still sitting in the sink.

From his position lying languidly across England's lap, France surveyed the chaos with an expression of great satisfaction, at least until England tipped him onto the floor with another shriek. He landed on top of Poland, who didn't even seem to visibly stir. England hoped fervently that he was still alive. It wouldn't do to kill another one on July 4th; it wasn't the 60s anymore, after all.

"Francis, where… where are your pants?" England sighed, averting his eyes. Francis winked.

"Non, mon cheri, the question is: Where are your pants?" England looked down in horror, then kicked France in the arm.

"Made you look!" The Frenchman chuckled.

"Don't you dare scare me like that again!" England yelled, and kicked him again for good measure.

"Wha's time?" Canada asked blearily, carefully picking himself up off the floor. He swayed alarmingly on his feet for a few seconds, but managed to shuffle his way back to the sofa with supreme effort, taking back his original place tucked in next to England, burying his face in his shoulder again.

England lifted his wrist to his eyes and stared at it intently, his impressive eyebrows furrowed. It took him an embarrassingly long time to work out he didn't have a watch on. At least, not anymore.

"Alastair!" he yelled.

"Fuck off, ye' English bastard!" Came the reply.

"Where's my watch, you conniving git?" England demanded of his brother. Scotland poked his head out of the kitchen to glare and flip him the bird, his own flame-red brows warring for the position of alpha eyebrows.

"It was my watch in the first place! You're a bloody thief, you are! I can't wait till I'm independent!" He growled.

"Yeah yeah yeah!" Could well be true, Arthur thought. No way could he remember with this kind of hangover. "Just give your nephew the fucking time!"

When he noticed poor Canada, grimacing from all the noise, Scotland's face immediately softened. He spared his drunken nephew a sympathetic smile and a wave, before the deadly brows came down again and he practically spat his answer at England.

"It's 10.30! You twat!" He added as an afterthought. "Now piss off!" He stalked straight back into the kitchen, other nations stepping out of his way in fear of possibly being decapitated by those mighty red thunderbolts which sat astride his forehead. Alpha eyebrows, indeed.

"Wanker!" England yelled after him. He shook his head fondly, then noticed France giving him a funny look.

"What?!" He demanded. France shook his head.

"There's something wrong with that relationship, mon cher." Francis told him.

The announcement of the time stirred up even more chaos around the room, and Latvia got knocked over again. Nations across the room grabbed for their phones, their watches, their clothes, in a flurry of activity, rushing for the door.

"I'm under curfew! I was supposed to be home three hours ago!" said one.

"My boss doesn't even know I'm here!" cried another.

"I'm not even supposed to be here!" Sealand yelled, caught up in the general excitement of things.

"I need to be home in ten minutes or I'm dead," China said, panicked, as he quickly gulped down the last of the bottle of Sake he'd 'liberated' from Japan when the other was occupied by the party's host begging him for karaoke. "Where's America? I need to thank him for his hospitality."

"Yeah, I can't leave until he tells me what he did with my shirt." Cambodia agreed.

"I owe him money." Said Bosnia. Several others looked at him sympathetically.

"Last I saw him, he was doing shots with Matthew," India commented, still sprawled on the floor next to the couch. On the couch, Matthew suddenly shot upright, ashen faced.

"Please, let's not talk about that," he whispered, pained.

"No no no no no," said Paraguay. "Prussia and Denmark were dancing to Single Ladies with him way later than that."

"I don't know," Canada shook his head doubtfully, and winced as it set off his headache. "We did a lot of shots."

"Like, he was definitely with me for the fireworks," Hong Kong assured them. "He set them off himself."

"That explains so much," muttered England.

"What about the karaoke? When was that?" Sierra Leone asked. "Whenever it was, it was amazing."

"All down to our influence," said Senegal.

"Truth." Sierra Leone nodded. "I got one less problem without you~" They sang in beautiful harmony, grinding in a manner nearly reminiscent of Alfred and his loyal karaoke partner's earlier triumph, if Alfred and his karaoke partner had not been drunk and uncoordinated men.

"I never knew Russia could rap like that." Said Ghana thoughtfully.

"Didn't anyone prank him this year?" France asked. Silence fell.

What about the prank?

The Prank. Oh, the prank. The things they could say about the prank. Alfred's trusting nature when drunk were easily exploitable, to those that way inclined, and strange, strange things had happened to him over the years.

They'd started small; hair dye, replacing all of his clothing with pretty dresses, stealing the declaration of independence, burning down the house, that sort of thing. But oh god had it escalated.

They'd caused international incidents, minor border skirmishes, nearly a major war, and Alfred and several others had needed counselling on three separate occasions. One time they drove Alfred so mad he completely flipped and went on a bit of an annexing rampage.

Texas didn't just up and decide to join the union overnight.

Being immortal, their practical jokes were often the level of destructive that could strike fear into the hearts of lesser men – GBH was not beyond them. In fact, nothing was beyond them any more. Imagine how far pranking could go if the participants could physically recover in a few hours and it'd been escalating since the 1700s.

In fact, you don't have to imagine. Alfred will probably be run over by a train today. That's how far it's gone.

Oh God, he was burning.

"Shut the fuck up!" America yelled at the sun. This was worse than that time in the Atlantic with the chip.

"I'd be fine, but some motherfucker left my fucking jacket on!" He screeched at nothing, pounding his legs and wriggling around, but to no avail. He let out a yelp of pain as his bare wrist made contact with the track, scorched sizzling hot in the heat of the Midwestern desert, and lay still again. Nothing he did was working.

What the fuck. What. The. Fuck. These people were not funny. He'd been here for an hour already, and he'd seen absolutely no signs of filming or any nations nearby, or even any humans nearby. He was toast. Quite literally. They were probably all still asleep. Oh God oh God oh God.

He screamed again for good measure.

"I'm too young to die! I'm not even 500 yet!" Alfred moaned and closed his eyes, laying his head down too quickly and bashing it on the metal rail. He launched straight back up again, as upright as he could go while bound to the floor, which was not very high.

"Not my amber waves of grain," he whimpered. Biting back the manly tears of pain, he tried again, settling himself down without further incident. He thought back, wading through the sands of time to spy on past Alfred, who, in his own humble opinion, was a fucking idiot. When, exactly, did he get drunk enough to actually agree to leave with someone? Or maybe he passed out? Some of those nations didn't have any boundaries.

France.

Case in point.

Hey, maybe it was Frenchie? He thought back to the evening, past the sizzling in his skin, past the pounding in his head. He thought so hard he started emitting a bizarre whining noise, like a boiled kettle.

A boiled nation.

But try as he might, the only interaction he could remember with Francis was during spin the bottle. That guy was all hands, sheesh. He shivered.

Yeah, it was unlikely to be Francis anyway. He wasn't naked. Clearly, he needed to make a list or something. Try and establish a timeline of events and see what he could remember. At the moment, it was all just blurring into shots with Mattie.

Explosions … shots with Mattie.

Hungary stuffing crumpled dollar bills into his underwear … shots with Mattie.

(He was probably 10% liquor, after all of that. Canada might even still be drunk.)

Setting fire to the floor with his Iggy Azalea, holla. Now that was a highlight. They'd been the stars of the show. Him and Ivan had to do Black Widow next, that'd be freaking sweet. They'd do Bang Bang too, if England would agree to be Jessie J- but seriously though, why would you not?

But he digressed.

Then more shots to celebrate his triumph, with Canada and Russia this time. Good lord, he could've died.

After that, things got a whole lot fuzzier.

Strip poker.

England's tattoo.

Someone daring him to make out with Mexico, hell yes. Hopefully he did it.

The roof.

Taking someone by the hand and leading them upstairs to his bedroom…

Holy shit. Ho-ly-shit.

Did he score last night?

Yes, America and Russia are Karaoke Partners.