Someone was pounding on the door.

"Hey! England! Open up!"

The pounding intensified, to the extent that it sounded like whoever was outside was actually kicking the door.

"Englaaaaand! Hey! Hey! You there?"

A second voice joined the first one whining at the door.

"Want me to break the door down?"

England groaned from his position on the couch and turned the television off. He got the feeling that he'd just had his brains sucked out by whatever stupid movie America had made them watch.

"God, Prussia, calm yer ballsack! And Denmark, you break my door down, you buy me another and you pay for my renovations. Including interior decorating."

He made to move towards the door, but was stopped by a pair of arms around his middle.

"Staaaay"

England sighed, and attempted to remove the arms from around his waist. Failing to do so, he gave up and sat back on the couch.

"I did tell you I was going out tonight," he reminded a slightly panicky America.

"But, but, you might get eaten."

England rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll probably be back in a few hours anyway. We're usually kicked out around then, so-"

He was rudely interrupted by the sound of his front door splintering.

"That was not me! That was all Prussia's fault! He should have to pay for it!"

"Hey! Don't blame me! You started it! Look, you're even holding a- oh, shit, he's got the fork! RUN!"

America lunged forward to grab his murderous boyfriend, restraining him with one arm and yanking the carving fork out of his grasp with the other.

Prussia and Denmark warily made their way out of the bushes on either side of the driveway.

"So..."

Prussia shifted warily where he stood.

"You, er, gonna come drinking with us? 'Cause, you know, we picked out a bar and everything."

"Dude, are you trying to get us killed?" Denmark hissed at Prussia. "Don't you remember last time he was drunk and angry?"

Prussia eyed the still-fuming England, giving him a wide berth as he made his way inside.

"Well, we're here now. Ya' got any beer?"

England glared at them.

"No. Now get out of my house, you barbarians."

Denmark pouted at him as he passed by.

"We're not that bad, are we?"

England sighed in defeat and struggled out of America's arms.

"Okay, fine, you're not that bad. France is worse."

A whoop came from the direction of the kitchen.

"I found the rum, you guys!"

"…But only a little." England added as an afterthought.

Two hours passed, and everyone, bar America, was completely smashed. The vases, too. America winced every time he saw them.

"Heyyy, Am- America!" slurred Denmark as he stumbled through the wreckage of what was once the living room. "Ya' gonna drink or wha'? 'Cus all th' rum's gone!" He paused, and giggled, before adding, "Th' rum's always gone!" and making his way back into the kitchen, falling over a broken chair on the way.

America stared at the devastation around him, and sighed. He might as well get to cleaning up now, before one of the drunkards in the kitchen stabbed themselves on something.

Half an hour later, he was almost done. Everything broken and sharp had been binned or fixed and put away, and all sharp corners or breakable objects had been bubble-wrapped. He picked up the last piece of the shredded banana plant (seriously, where the hell did all these things come from?) and wandered into the kitchen, only to be met by a drunken rendition of Why Is The Rum Gone? and Prussia painting a gigantic version of his flag across the wall with a can of spray paint America was positive he hadn't had on him when he came in.

America gave up, and pilfered a beer out of the fridge. The neighbours were used to it; he might as well join the drunken party.

England groaned and rolled over.

"Oh, god, someone shut the sun off, please."

He hit something hard, and opened his eyes.

He was on the floor of his kitchen, or what was formerly his kitchen. It was now apparently 'Prussian land', or so the crudely painted flag on his wall said.

Crap, did Prussia get into my spray-paint again?

Beside him, said nation sat up and opened his eyes, only to let out a very feminine scream and immediately slam them shut again.

"It burns! It BURNS! Turn it off!"

A horribly hung-over Denmark and a slightly less sick-looking America shuffled into the kitchen together, holding mugs of something that smelled only slightly less evil than England's cooking looked.

"Oh my God, you brought us hangover cures. I think I love you."

England elbowed Prussia.

"Hands off, imbecile. You can have Demark."

Denmark glared at him, and made to shuffle off with the mugs.

Prussia grabbed him by the trouser leg and gave him his best 'kicked puppy' face.

"What about me?" he whined, "I mean, I get not giving it to England, but don't I get some?"

Denmark shuddered and handed Prussia a mug.

"Fine, take it. Just don't do that."

Prussia stared at him.

"Do what?"

"That face. It's like someone kicked a puppy, gave it AIDS, then left it on the side of the road to fester and rot. It's disgusting."

"Well, I think it works. It got you to give me the mug, didn't it?"

"Yeah, by giving me nightmares for the rest of my life. How many people have you killed with that thing?"

Prussia gasped dramatically.

"Me? Kill someone? Are you sure you don't have the wrong man?"

England snorted from across the room, nursing his evil-smelling mug.

"I think we've established that we've got the right person here, Mister Might-is-Right. Wasn't that your slogan for most of the time you were an actual country?"

Prussia glared at him.

"I wouldn't be talking, Mister British Empir- wait, where'd you get that cup?"

"What, this?"

England grinned smugly and nodded at America, who was standing in a corner, watching the conversation with a great deal of interest.

"He got it for me."

Prussia 'hmph'ed and glared petulantly over at America.

"God, you're such a funsucker."

America shrugged and grinned back at him.

"Sorry, bro. Couldn't say 'no', you know?"

England smirked at Prussia and took a gulp of whatever was in his mug.

"Oh, is this the home remedy I got from Jane?"

America shrugged and scratched the back of his head.

"I dunno, there was this weird bit of paper in your drawer that said 'Hangover Cure', so I used it. It looked really old, though, and some of the ingredients were really weird. Seriously, though, who puts ground-up caterpillars in a drink? ...Actually, what worries me more is why you actually had a jar of ground-up caterpillars. A large one, too."

Prussia choked, and spat out about half the contents of his mug.

"Wait, you're telling me you actually put shit like that in our drinks? Are you fucking insane? Why the hell would you use one of England's recipes? Shit, dude, even France won't use his recipes, and he eats snails."

England, already looking much better, glared at Prussia.

"If I wasn't in so much pain right now, I would punch you so hard. And you," he turned on America, "you stop spreading bad rumours, you hear me? I would never use ground-up caterpillars in food! What do you take me for, an Australian?"

Denmark stopped puking his guts out in the sink and stood up, wiping his mouth.

"Wait, so I just made myself puke for nothing? Not cool, America, not cool. And I thought you were a bro."

America cracked up, holding onto the bench to keep from collapsing entirely.

"God, you guys should have seen your faces," he wheezed, thoroughly out of breath. "Priceless."

Beside him, England sighed ruefully and shook his head.

"Of all the times to lose my camera, it had to be now. But," he continued, grinning maliciously, "I do have ground-up caterpillars in my cellar, and America here's just given me a splendid idea."

Denmark stared at him, appalled.

"You mean you actually have shit like that?" He shook his head in disgust. "That's… that's just… ew. Dude."

England shrugged, not looking all that bothered.

"What can I say, sometimes things come in handy."

Prussia screwed up his face. "Whatever, dude. I really don't want to know what else you've got in there."

He got up and stumbled into the living room.

"I'll just crash here for a few days like normal, yeah?" he called over his shoulder as he tripped over the roll of bubble-wrap in the middle of the floor and landed on the couch. Finding the remote, he turned the television on, and channel-surfed until he found one showing what looked like raunchy music videos. "Why don't we get channels like this?" he complained, sinking further into the couch.

Denmark rolled his eyes and grabbed his coat from behind the microwave.

"I should probably get going, or else Norway'll send his weird ghost things out, like last time. See ya."

He limped out through the wreckage of the front door and into his car.

England, fighting off a yawn, turned around and trudged back into the living room, where Prussia was conked out on the couch already.

"Well, I'm off to bed. You coming?" he nodded at America.

"Um, I'll be there in a sec. I just need to rewrap a few things," America responded tiredly, flapping a hand in England's direction. "You know how Prussia is with sharp things."

"Right. Well. Maybe hide the knives, too. I don't particularly want to wake up with my house 'redecorated'. Last time wasn't very fun, and I'd rather not be taken down to the police station again."

America made a vague noise of assent.

England trudged up the stairs to his bedroom, and was joined by America a few minutes later.

It was a lovely morning, straight out of a picture book. The sun was shining, the wildlife was, well, wildlifeing, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

The birds, scared away by last night's drunken rampage, slowly climbed out of their holes and began to sing, and all was finally peaceful in the quaint little suburban neighbourhood.

Well, until Prussia woke up and remembered England had a whole closet full of spray paint just begging to be used.

But then again, since when had the neighbours ever had a peaceful morning?

They should be used to it by now.

Oh god.

The plot holes in this are just… I don't even.

WHAT IS THIS PLOT YOU SPEAK OF? DOES IT TASTE GOOD?

I know, I know, I really should be updating my other three fics, but this kind of did its own thing and took over my brain. Funny thing is, this was actually meant to be another drabble, a kind of what-the-fuck thing called Bros Before Hos, but it ran away on me.

Here, you can stab me if you want *hands out knives*.