Originally written for the Kink Meme. I apologize for the fail.
England wasn't quite sure who had suggested the ridiculous idea first. He only knew that in his present state of mind, any idea sounded good, and his present state of mind just so happened to be "cratered off his ass."
The Englishman assumed it must have been Prussia, because Prussia was Prussia was Gilbert, and even attempting to try to figure out how the albino's mind worked often resulted in a terrible headache. Which was just as well, because judging by the amount of alcohol he had consumed tonight, he was going to have one of those in the morning anyway.
It had all started several hours ago, after a UN meeting went spectacularly wrong (though, really, didn't they all?). England had stomped out as soon as the meeting was over, wanting nothing more than to curl up with a nice, hot cup of tea and count down the hours until his flight left for home the next day. His plans were ruined, however, by a sudden arm around his shoulders and a loud voice announcing that he looked as shitty as his cooking and would have no choice but to join him for a drink. Arthur had glanced up sharply, ready to give the idiot who had bothered him the tongue-lashing of their lifetime, only to find Prussia grinning down at him.
England scowled.
Prussia's smirk spread wider.
England's frown intensified.
Things would have gone on like this for awhile, if an exasperated voice hadn't called out from somewhere nearby.
"Bruder, are you ready to go yet?"
Gilbert removed his arm from its perch around the shorter nation's shoulders and called back, "Yeah, West, hold on!"
Arthur had tried to slip away, but the sharp Prussian quickly snatched him back by the sleeve of his jacket.
"C'mon, Artie, pull that stick outta your ass and come get wasted with me and West!"
With that, Gilbert swept out of the building, tugging a furiously sputtering England along and cackling madly, while Germany trailed them at a relatively safe distance. He only paused once in his demented stampede, and even then it was to dart his free hand out a grab the arm of a slight blond boy that Arthur never would've noticed.
Several glasses of choice alcohol later, a tipsy Prussia declared his need to try an idea he had seen around, and the rest of the nations had agreed. After they had gotten good and drunk, of course.
England was snapped out of his musings by a sudden shove on the shoulder. Unprepared, he stumbled and tripped, sense of balance severely wronged by all the alcohol in his bloodstream. The obnoxious laughter ringing in the otherwise quiet night air infuriated Arthur, and he flipped on his back to shoot his tormentor a death glare.
"What was that for, moron?" The words only came out as slightly slurred, which was surprising, considering how much bourbon the Englishman had put away earlier during the night. The cool country air must have sobered him up a bit.
Abruptly, the mirth stopped, and Prussia gave the man on the ground a serious look.
"I don't know."
Then the howls started up again, and only quieted down when the ex-nation got clubbed on the back of the head by Ludwig (Fuck, West, that hurt!).
"Here."
England was briefly surprised at the slender hand that was suddenly in his line of vision. He followed the hand up, going over the arm covered with the sleeve of a white dress shirt, before ending up on a pale face with lips quirked in an amused smile.
Arthur gripped the proffered hand and allowed Canada to yank him to his feet. Murmuring his thanks, he turned sharply on his heel to face Gilbert again.
"So, what exactly are we doing out here again?" he questioned, spreading his hands out to indicate the empty fields surrounding them on all sides.
Prussia made a tut tut tut noise, not unlike the sound a parent would make after being asked a foolish question by a child. "Why, Iggy, I thought it was obvious," he drawled, leaning up against Ludwig's shoulder.
Ludwig merely made a disapproving sound, but didn't forcefully shove his brother off of him, which was a clear indication of how wasted the normally prudish German was. From what England had seen throughout the night, Germany was a quiet drunk, which was a big contrast to his brother, who got louder and louder with each empty glass; Ludwig simply became taciturn, which showed in his lack of vocal protests against being used as a leaning wall.
While Arthur's sluggish mind had been momentarily preoccupied with these details, Gilbert had leaned in closer, as if he had a precious secret to share.
"We," the Prussian began, "will be participating in the total awesome activity called…" He trailed off dramatically.
England had, despite himself, been ducking his head closer to Prussia's, caught up in the mystery of the moment.
"Called?" he prompted.
Gilbert straightened up quickly, smacking a fist to his chest. "Cow tipping!" he declared proudly.
England stared at the taller man blankly.
"What tipping?"
Suddenly, Matthew (who had been making noises like a cat getting strangled ever since Prussia had announced his idea) spoke up.
"You can't do that!" he protested.
Arthur bent over backwards and tilted his head back so he could see his former charge better. Even upside-down and in the semi-dark, the Englishman could see that the Canadian looked terribly flustered, which was a bit strange, since he had drank the smallest amount out of all of them.
After a few disorienting seconds, England straightened back up again, only to see Prussia looking majorly pissed off. A scowl twisted his features, and underneath his choppy fringe of white hair, slender brows were knitted together in ire.
"Why not? It's not illegal or anything." The scowl on his face intensified, but it now had a sort of mocking feel about it. "You think I'm not strong enough? 'Cause believe me, Mattie, I could pick up that cow and s-"
The rest of Gilbert's slightly disturbing sentence was cut off by Matthew desperately flapping his arms. England's alcohol-fogged mind suddenly supplied a mental image of a Canadian goose flapping its wings for take-off.
"No, it's not that I don't think you could. It's just that…" the Canadian paused, then turned his head to the side and mumbled something unintelligible.
Prussia feigned cleaning out one of his ears with his little finger. "I'm sorry, what was that? Couldn't hear you."
England threw in his two cents with a, "Speak up, lad."
Germany just stood there, watching everything unfold with his sharp blue eyes. It was really a bit unnerving, his silence. Arthur wondered briefly what would happen if one was to mess up the German's usually immaculate hair and place some spectacles on his nose. The end result would most likely turn up very Sweden-like.
Canada sighed, making the lone curl on his head bob teasingly. He turned around fully to face them, placing his hands on his slim hips as he did so. Arthur raised an impressive eyebrow at this almost maternal gesture, but chose not to say anything.
"It's impossible to tip a cow. That fact has been scientifically proven."
At the other three nation's puzzled glances, Matthew elaborated on his previous statement.
"A couple of scientists in British Columbia did a study about cow-tipping. They concluded that it was impossible for one person to generate enough force to shove a cow over." Matthew looked like a proud parent boasting about his children, which in a way, England supposed he was. "Therefore, it is impossible to tip a cow."
The silence after Matthew's little lecture would have been deafening, if it was not for the chirping of crickets from all around.
Prussia made a small noise in the back of his throat, before bending over double and bursting into hysterical laughter. So great was the ex-nation's mirth that tears were tracing down his cheeks, and he clung weakly to his brother's shoulder to stand upright.
To say Canada was alarmed at Prussia's outburst would have been the understatement of the century. He looked positively horrified; the poor boy looked like he wanted to bolt.
When Gilbert's roars of laugher finally died down to manageable chuckles, he swiped at his eyes and straightened up a bit.
"Mein Gott, it must be really, really boring in Canada!"
Canada, England, and Germany blinked in confusion.
"Just think about it," the Prussian began, swirling his hands in the air for emphasis. "Is Canada really so dull that the scientists up there are researching how much force it takes to tip a fucking cow? Not anything more important, like, I don't know, how to harvest awesome maple syrup faster?"
Arthur couldn't help but snicker. Ludwig's lips twitched in a small smile, and Matthew looked like he didn't know whether to be offended or amused.
"Well, it was just a side project, y'know, to disprove the myth and all," Canada began weakly, before the absurdity of the entire situation caught up with him and he melted into tipsy giggles.
Prussia blew a loud raspberry and slung his arms around both Matthew and Arthur's shoulders, guiding them on their way down the road again.
"C'mon! We've got to prove your puny scientists wrong. I, the awesome Prussia, will push over a cow all by myself!"
"Like hell you will, tosser," England muttered under his breath, but Gilbert didn't hear him over the sound of his egotistical laughter.
"So. How exactly is this going to work out again?"
The four nations were huddled together near a rickety wooden fence, looking a lot like a football team plotting their next move. Canada poked his head out from the group, peering nervously over Germany's shoulders at the hulking creatures standing motionless in the field next to them. He let out a manly yelp when Prussia grabbed his ear and yanked is head back down to the rest of their levels.
"It's easy," the Prussian said cockily. "All you have to do is sneak up on one and push it over. They're asleep, anyway."
Ignoring the mutters of "cows do not sleep standing up" coming from one of the other nations, Gilbert stood up taller and flashed a toothy grin.
"Any questions?"
Arthur raised his hand, not unlike a schoolboy waiting to be called on in class. "Why are we doing this again?"
He was largely ignored, however, because Gilbert took the chance to spin on his heel and start sneaking with exaggerated stealth towards the field of cows. Ludwig, who did not sneak, even when sober, slunk awkwardly behind his elder brother.
When they reached the fence, both Ludwig and Gilbert hopped over it with practiced ease. England did a strange slithering move over the top of it, not trusting his legs to make the jump. Once on the other side, he straightened up and frowned at the figure fidgeting nervously on the road.
"You're not coming?"
Matthew shook his head. Gilbert made a disapproving noise.
"Fine, pansy, sit on the fence and watch Master Cow-Tipper Gilbert tip all the cows in this field!" The self-proclaimed master stuck his chest out gloatingly.
England snorted skeptically at this statement, and was rewarded with a not-so-sneaky elbow in the ribcage.
Matthew shrugged and smiled, settling himself down on top of the short, seemingly uncomfortable fence. "Sounds good to me," he hummed.
With their final goodbyes to Canada said, the trashed trio set off across the field, stumbling around with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. Finally, they stopped near a large group of cows.
"Okay, men," Gilbert whispered loudly. "This is it. Do or die. And remember, you are cow commandoes! Show the cows who's boss!"
England resisted the urge to cheer at this pathetic pep talk. Ludwig, however, snorted in amusement and looked as if under normal circumstances, he would have loved to know what exactly a cow commando was.
Prussia turned away from them and stared prowling towards the cows, stalking out his bovine victim. He found a good one, adjusted his footing, and then charged at the animal. The Prussian slammed into the creature with his hands outstretched, full expecting to see the beast go flying comically off into the distance. He would end up being terribly disappointed.
The cow didn't even budge; it just flicked its tail as if it sensed an annoying fly buzzing around its hindquarters.
There was a brief stunned silence, before England and Germany started laughing hysterically. A soft tinkling laugh from further down the field proved that Canada had also seen Prussia's failed cow-tipping attempt.
Gilbert scowled at them. "Oh yeah? I was just getting warmed up! I don't see you little shits trying to shove over cows, now do I?"
Abruptly, the laughter stopped, and the two other blond countries adopted solemn expressions.
The two nations set themselves up to push over their own cows, thinking that perhaps they could do better than the previous "cow commando".
This assumption would also prove to be spectacularly wrong.
The three nations tried tipping the cows deep into the night, each attempt failing. Eventually, they became so frustrated they formed another emergency huddle, plotting how exactly to shove over those stubborn cows.
They had just gotten the minor details worked out when England noticed a commotion further down the field.
"What the hell is that?" he questioned grouchily, pointing at the disturbance.
Ludwig lifted his head up to peer sleepily at where Arthur had been pointing. "Tractor," he grunted.
There was approximately 5.3 seconds of silence before the meaning of this registered in their sluggish minds.
"Oh, shit, the farmer!" Prussia gasped. He was soon on his feet and running as if all the demons of hell were on his tail, with England and Germany close behind.
They reached the spot of fence where they had left Canada hours ago, scrambling over and racing down the road a few paces before collapsing on the road, panting from their sudden sprint.
Matthew glided over, looking tired but undeniably amused. "So? How did it go?"
Prussia glared at the smaller man. "Those damn cows are just too fat to push over!" He sighed dramatically and flopped back onto the hard-packed dirt. "You were right, It's impossible."
England and Germany were just nodding their agreement when Canada giggled. "Not exactly," he chimed, looking smug.
Arthur cocked an eyebrow at his questioningly. Matthew's grin threatened to rip his face in half.
"Did it not occur to you that it might have worked better if you all pushed on the same cow at once?"