Nobody wanted Italy to cook.
The Italian hummed happily and went on making obscure little noises as he prepared the freakin' most amazing meal ever.
Nobody wanted England to cook either. They all valued their lives, after all.
He brought a deep pot to the sink and turned the faucet on. (The one that had been recently replaced since it had mysteriously gone missing one night.) He waited a good ten minutes while the water heated up before remembering he was going to boil it and the temperature that it was going into the pot made no difference.
Ten minutes spilling into the garbage disposal. Forever in a landfill.
Of course, Italy only smiled and continued to go about his business. When the pot was filled to the desired level, he attempted to lift it out of the sink. There were some complications involving that.
Nobody wanted Germany to cook because the only meals he brought to the table were half-assed sausage based entrees—the ones Italy had those frequent nightmares about.
See, when a pot that large is filled with water it becomes quite heavy, too heavy for the feeble Italian to heave over to the stove. Mustering all his strength, his grunted and he strained and he ve'd the hell out of his little voice box as he tried as hard as he could to lift the pot that weighed at least thirty pounds. Thirty pounds, my god.
Nobody wanted America to cook. America didn't cook, actually. He drove (and driving meant cruising on his little bike) to McDonalds and brought back fifty hamburgers, forty for him and ten for the other nations to ration amongst themselves.
Germany was sitting outside the kitchen, plush purple chair beneath him and book in his hands. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought Italy had been making a sad attempt at masturbation.
Somehow the Italian managed to lift the pot out of the sink. Now he just needed to make it to the stove. Another fierce obstacle.
With wobbling arms and knees, he lifted a foot up. And almost fell.
A bit of water splashed onto the floor. If his hands weren't so full, he would have tried to pick it up and put it back into the pot, but no. If he even tried to bend down, disaster would strike.
Next it was time to move the second foot. Instead of lifting it, he slid across the floor. That provided him with better balance. Awesome.
Nobody wanted France to cook. Last time he cooked, England made a fit of it not being done enough and America had joined in, naturally. Of course, America attempted to piss the both of them off and had succeeded—it wasn't a hard thing for him to do, after all. Cue to chaos ensuing and everyone regretting that the Frenchman had even cooked in the first place.
Besides, France couldn't cook even if nobody had a problem with it. He wasn't allowed into the house anymore.
By sheer miracle, Italy was able to stiffly trek his way over to the stove. He had sung his little song about boiling hot water—through his pants and grunts and ve's—to help him get through his time of tribulation.
When the pot was on the stove and his fingers felt like they would royally fall off, he switched on the stove and let the appliance work its magic.
Meanwhile, he decided to rest. Yawning, he flopped down on the floor, which was much cleaner than one would think, and closed his eyes.
Nobody had much of a problem with any other food. It was just that everybody wanted their own sort of meal because everyone thought everyone else's sort of meal was just crummy compared to his own. They were all right, in a sense.
Italy awoke to the horrible smell of burning cardboard.
"Eeeh?" he sprung up and started looking around in all directions for the source of that horrible smell.
Then he saw it. The stove had gone ablaze.
Frantically, he jumped up and sprang towards the stove. Turned out he turned on the wrong burner. The very burner he had set all the boxes of pasta on.
He quickly started to blow little puffs of air into the roaring flame-the flame that was as big around as the burner and as high as several pasta boxes staked atop each other.
That proved to solve nothing. In fact, one of Italy's hairs caught fire.
Rather than doing the logical, Italy panicked.
By then, Germany had left "the zone" and had run into the kitchen to inspect the source of the smoke that was pouring into the hallway.
He wasn't surprised. No, not in the least.
"Italy!" he hollered, running over to the Italian who was near to tears.
"Waaah~! Germany! My hair!"
"Stay calm!" He instructed in his powerful, deep voice. Without much trouble, he managed to suppress the little flame on Italy's head.
Then he ran over to the sink and threw open the little cabinet door beneath it. The fire extinguisher was….not there?
As if on cue, America went running into the kitchen, dropping to the floor, doing some sort of barrel roll and leaping back up , making a most heroic (or not) entrance. With extinguisher in arms (he had stolen it earlier that day when he learned that Italy was going to prepare the meal) and ready to effortlessly rid of the kitchen of the villainous flames, he beamed.
Smoke was completely filling the kitchen causing all alarms to go off. That caused Italy to panic even more. He began crawling around on the floor in search of Germany.
"Germany! Germany! Where are you? My face…I think it's melting!"
"It's not melting!" The angry blond yelled back.
America continued on as if nothing was wrong, because quite frankly, if he was there to save the day, everything would be okay.
"Don't worry, I've got this under control!"
Then the erratic spraying began. He sprayed propellant anywhere and everywhere simply because he could.
Italy finally reached Germany. Germany was on the floor, that being the logical thing to do when smoke was so heavily filling the room.
"Aaah, Germany~ you're warm," the Italian said as he snuggled up to the other and prepared to take a nap in the middle of a carbon monoxide and extinguisher propellant filled kitchen.
Even after all that time, the fire could still be heard crackling.
"America!" Germany hollered.
Next thing he knew, a foamy white substance rocketed at his face.
"Whoa!" The voice of America.
Germany knew the white substance must have come from America and his large spraying device.
"Arg!" Germany cried as he tried to wipe the propellant from his eyes.
"Germany, I'm going to have to ask you to not interfere with my hero business—"
"Why isn't the fire out?"
"Ah! Well, I was just..."
While America should have been saving the poor stove, he had been graffiti-ing a barely readable "USA" onto the cabinets.
"Just put that fire out!" Germany grabbed Italy's collar and started to drag the both of out of the kitchen.
"Ve…ve…ve…" Italy recited in his sleep.
By the time America doused the flame, the stove was completely ruined, the kitchen was wet and messy with propellant nearly covering the entire floor, the smoke alarms had caused permanent hearing damage to all who had suffered it and above all, their dinner was ruined.
America let out a content sigh as he let the extinguisher drop to the ground. (It had long since been emptied, thanks to America's crazy little spree.)
"Well, I think I did an awesome job."
And that was why nobody wanted Italy to cook.
Telescopes, binoculars, cameras, night vision goggles, tape recorders, infrared lasers, bifocals, France had them all. They were all little devices of sexual perversion that aided in the art of being a professional Peeping Tom.
France had a habit of accidentally walking in on someone changing or showering while he was still living in the Mansion, but after he was kicked out, his little hobby became deeper as he became more devious.
Yes, he had been 'booted off the island' in a sense, and was forced to live in the two story across the street. (It was the only other house on the block, so he couldn't much argue.) Now he spent all his days reading porn-without-plot, spying on and taking pictures of the other countries, fapping and writing poetry.
"Oooh~ you scandalous bastard!" France exclaimed with glee as he most intensely delved into the content of the yaoi novel he had stolen from Japan just last night.
He did often break into the Mansion. Sure, Germany had kicked him out each time and he had narrowly escaped Switzerland's bullets a time or two, but those two weren't enough to stop the Great France. Not at all, because what was on the other side of their house was something that was treasure in France's eyes-a pool.
That's right. A giant pool for women with giant boobs and men with giant dongs to sit around, stand around and lay around in their very revealing swim attire. Whenever France made it back there, he always made sure to have his camera (and his right hand) ready to for action.
Sighing happily at the blissful memories, France slipped the bookmark into the novel and set it down. (The intense butt sex was over so he didn't have too much of problem with discontinuing his reading.)
Getting up from the plush bed, he walked over to his wardrobe, picked out a frilly little thong, threw it on and headed for the Batcave his secret underground linkage system that he had created so he'd be able to sneakily have access to the Mansion at all times.
"Francis, you're so sly~" he purred to himself.
And then France went off to do what France did best.
A knock-no, make that a few knocks-on his door tore England from his serene state of mind that was achieved only through extensive embroidery, hours upon hours of it. Sighing, he set the equipment down and huffily made his way to the door.
"Yes, what is-ACKuharghgahhtck!"
As soon as England had opened the door, America whipped out a spare extinguisher from behind his back and instantly started releasing the thick white substance all over England.
In simple terms, it didn't end well.
Italy's hair was a bit charred and he smelt of smoke, so Germany had woken him up and thrown him into the bathroom for a shower even though the poor Italian was determined to cook the pasta that had long since burnt to a crisp.
Never the less, Italy wouldn't argue. A chance to get naked was a chance to get naked, and he just loved being exposed, much like France (although France's reasons for liking the openness differed quite a bit from Italy's).
Once in the shower, he began humming to himself and before long it turned into a full out singing.
"Hey hey papa give me wine~ Hey hey mama, hey hey mama! Mama give me...LOTS of pasta!" And then began fumbling with the bar of soap. "I love pasta~! Pasta, pasta, yay! Waah!"
The soap had dropped to the floor during Italy's vain attempts to get a decent grip on the slippery thing. Oh, but Italy only shrugged and started dumping Herbal Essence on top of his head.
Snap snap!
"Haah?" Italy could have sworn he saw a flash or two...
Snap snap!
The snapping and flashing reminded Italy very much of a camera, but hmmm~ He sure didn't bring a camera in the bathroom, so of course, it was probably just his imagination! It wasn't there there really was some sort of picture taking device up in the air vent above the shower. Of course not.
"It was just a joke!"
"No, it was bollocks."
There on the couch sat America and England, both wounded by the other. Both had different attitudes. America was completely pleased with himself that he had managed to 'prank' England like that, and England was pissed (but what's news?).
America looked down. "Hmm, okay, maybe I did deserve it when you punched me in the face, but...I couldn't help but laugh! You looked freakin' hilarious with all that white stuff all over your-"
"Do you want me to rip the smile off your face, git?" England growled.
"But the whole trying to stab me with the needle thing was a little crazy even for you..."
England jumped him, the poor Brit already stressed and angry, so why not vent in the form of physical violence a bit more?
Italy had finished his shower without much difficulty. True, he kept imagining flashes, but they weren't so bad after awhile.
Stepping out of the bathroom, with the towel around his shoulder rather than his waist so it failed to cover his downstairs, Italy decided he was in the mood for some music.
There was a "mini hospital" in the Mansion. Like the kitchen, it was located on floor two so that those who lived on floors one and three could easily access such important places.
There wasn't much to it. It was divided into two little rooms. The first was a simple, small space with some large abstract paintings on the walls, a couple chairs and a couch or two. It looked like an office of some sort. The second room was hidden behind a door in the first one, and that's where one could go to be treated.
The two rooms were added because from time to time the residents would get violent with one another and waiting for a hospital ride wasn't going to cut it when you had some large object shoved down your throat (other than a cock, although that could be used as a weapon), or a sharp and pointy thing in your back..
Russia stepped out of the treatment room and into the waiting room, not surprised to see England on top of America and trying to choke him.
Of course, Russia only smiled, pair of scissors and shot of sedative in his hands.
"? ?" He greeted.
The power in Russia's cheery voice was enough to cause England and America to freeze.
With that smile still plastered on his face, he held up the scissors. "Daa, who wants to go first? America, do you?"
Neither of the blonds foresaw this. Russia never had tried to nurse someone before. It was almost as if the crazy bastard had planned it all along.
"Uh..."
The Russian's smile grew wider. "Why don't you come back with me? I'll fuck you up real good. Aah, oops. I meant to say fix."
America slid out from under England and slipped onto the floor. "I'm feeling great, actually," and he slinked over to the door even though his face was still throbbing and his eyes twitched occasionally. " I should pick up tonight's dinner before it gets too late, haha~"
Russia's smile never faded. "Oh, I see." Then he turned to England, "What about you? Don't you want me to fix you?"
England got up. "No, no, I think I'm quite fine as well..." A lie, of course. He was still in great pain from when America took the extinguisher to his head.
And very quickly, before Russia could try to do anything horrible and morally incorrect to them, the two blonds ran out of the room.
Sighing, Russia dropped his arms and looked down at the scissors and sedative still in his hands. After a moment, his lips curved into a malicious smile.
"Hmmm~ where could Latvia be?"
Oh, that's right. He was still locked in the freeze. Well, there was always Lithuania.
Italy could hear the beautiful melody as it reverberated through the walls. He gave the door a knock and before be waiting for an answer, he stepped inside. A long time ago, he would have been too shy to so casually step into Austria's room like that, but times have changed.
When Italy entered, the music died. Not abruptly, but it faded.
Blue. Blue was everywhere. The walls, the carpet, the door and the furniture that was neatly pressed against the walls were all blue. The same exact color blue.
"Welcome, Italy."
"Whoa! Austria, did your voice change?"
"No, I am not Austria. I am Franz, the piano."
Italy hovered over Austria. "The piano can talk!" he gasped, finding it mind boggling, and for once, something that shocked Italy was something actually shocking.
Austria nodded. "Franz is the most intelligent piano in the history of life. And please, my personal bubble is a meter in circumference, so if you'd please step back a bit..."
Italy ignored Austria because he was much too fascinated by the piano. "Can it say pasta?"
"Pasta; a generic term for variants of noodles, food made from a dough of flour, water and/or eggs. The word can also denote dishes in which pasta products are the primary ingredient, served with sauce or seasonings."
"Whoa!" Italy gawked although he didn't quite understand all of what the piano had said. "C-can it say pizza?"
"Pizza; a world-popular dish of Italian origin, made with an oven-baked, flat, generally round bread that is often covered with tomatoes or a tomato-based sauce and mozzarella cheese. Other toppings are added according to region, culture, or personal preference."
Austria finally looked up from the keys and looked at the naked man with disapproval, "Italy, you're exposed."
"Penis, an external sexual organ of certain biologically male organisms, in both vertebrates and penis is a reproductive organ, technically an intromittent organ, and for placental mammals, additionally serves as the external organ of urination. The penis is generally found on mammals and reptiles."
"Silence, Franz."
Dinner was fine. Japan died, but that's nothing new.
As promised, America headed for McDonalds after he and England ran away from Russia. He arrived back home and the usual dinner ritual began.
It was Austria who decided they all eat together and in fact, he's was the one who decided there would be a designated cook, insisting he couldn't sleep at night because he'd think about how everyday everyone would be having a different meal at a different time. Not only that, but he insisted that everyone sit in the same spot every day. He would have made everyone sit in order of tallest to shortest, had not Prussia, who was prone to mysteriously pop up at random times, shoved a bottle of pills up his ass and told Austria to lighten up (as well as demanding that Austria give him a blow job).
America had bought just about everything on the menu, having to feed at least thirty other people plus himself. He dumped all the food in the middle of the table and told everyone to just grab whatever they felt like eating.
"Except for England. He doesn't get any...haha, just kidding!"
England started to angrily picked up all the Big Macs to spite America.
Japan thought about what he'd like to eat. 'America isn't so inconsiderate,' he thought, noticing in the pile of food there happened to be some Japanese inspired items.
Sitting next to Japan was Russia. He was squirting a smiley face onto his fires with ketchup.
"That is happy Russia," he said to himself with a pleased smile.
Japan didn't dare ask questions.
Dinner went on fairly well the rest of the night, for the most part.
America had fought with England over the Big Macs. Part of England horded them because he wanted to piss America off for the taller nation's little prank earlier, and the other part, the very, very small other part, mind you, horded them because he might have actually sort of just a little bit liked them. Maybe.
Poland was having strange phone sex while enjoying his meal, Lithuania was watching Poland have strange phone sex and wishing Russia hadn't stolen his phone so that he may partake in the activity with his biffelz, Austria (who had recovered from earlier) was cutting the salad into six equal sections and making sure to drizzle the same amount of dressing on each, Italy was explaining to Germany about the time he saw a fuzzy catapiller and named it after the blond, Romano was trying to stab Germany with a fork, Finland and Sweden were mentally preparing themselves for the wild crazy sex they'd have later that night, China was being sexually assaulted by Korea and everyone else was pretty much engaging in conversation over dinner.
Latvia wasn't there, but no one really noticed.
Belarus wasn't there because she never left her coffin until the sun was completely down.
Somewhere in the ventilation shafts, France lurked.
Then something went horribly wrong.
In Romano's attempts to stab Germany, the fork slipped out of his hand and was propelled straight at Japan. Japan didn't see what hit him. Next thing he knew, a fork was in his head and he was facepalming as he fell to the ground.
It was sad that nobody really noticed. Well, except for the horrified Germany, Romano and Italy. Oh, but then there was Russia, who simply smiled and assured everyone, "Oh, he's just choking."
He dropped to his knees and prepared to preform some serious CPR.
Before they were all dismissed (because Austria insisted that they leave the table at the same time), Germany reminded everybody that there was supposed to be a pool party at eight that night.
Oh boy.
Latvia held himself tightly.
Once again, he banged on the door. "I-is anybody out there? H-help...I'm trapped in t-this f-frreeezerrr."
"Nobody can hear your cries for help," Russia said from outside the door. "Give up Latvia. Give up." He walked off, leaving Latvia to his misery.
"Daa, I better water the sunflowers before the party, hehe~"