The #1 Dad Mug

It was the lovely morning of July 17th, the sun began to rise above the horizon and illuminate the World all around. The sky around the blazing sphere was painted beautiful hues of vermilion, copper, coral and lavender. Clouds dotted the sky sporadically, like drops of white paint fallen on the canvas from a paintbrush. As the new day started, birds arose from their nests and began to traverse the sky and sing their songs that melded together into one beautiful symphony.

Without a doubt, it was an absolutely beautiful day. The temperature was perfectly warm with a few stray gales to beat off any heat from the sun, and not quite cold enough to cause any discomfort. It was the perfect day for a Father's Day to take place! A cookout was a more than viable option or perhaps a day at the beach and having fun in the sun while swimming in the lake? Just about anything outside was a terrific option to be taken by any father. Which one would Francis and Arthur plan to take with their kids?

It was apparently neither, because as the sun filtered through the windows of the Victorian-styled humble abode for the two nations they stood in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder and just staring ahead with blank expressions. Arthur stood in a pink (he would argue that it was an extremely light red) shower robe that was tied around the center with a simple tank top and pair of pajama pants underneath. On his feet was a pair of mint green slippers with bunnies at the very top. His hair was in disarray, his golden short locks protruding in almost every possible avenue.

Francis was beside him, a less than stylish white tank top clinging to his chest with a pair of grey sweatpants loosely around his waist. His flaxen locks were pulled back into a ponytail, instead of left to hang like they naturally were. Regardless of the laid-back attire, then tension in the room was incredibly thick. A set of bottle-green orbs and sapphire blue gems were focused upon the simple wooden table that stood in the center of their kitchen.

It was not the table though that was the object of the hard stares; it was what sat on top of it. A simple porcelain mug with a handle protruding from the side of it. On the very front of the mug, facing the two men was text written in bold vibrant red lettering. It said "Worlds #1 Dad!" Cleary, this was a gift given from both of their sons, Alfred and Matthew. After a few minutes of eying the cup, the vibrant green eyes of the Englishman and the azure orbs of the Frenchman turned to each other and met in a deadlock. There was only one cup, but there was two men. Only one father could dare hold the mantle.

Arthur took off full speed, pushing Francis against the door frame as he did so, making a straight beeline for the mug "This is clearly for me! Don't even get your hopes up frog!" Arthur grew closer and closer by the second, however a certain Frenchman wasn't exactly willing to concede defeat. Arthur could almost feel the silky smooth porcelain handle around his grasp, but instead all he grasped at was air.

Francis, after having been pushed against the door frame rebounded off and leaped onto the Englishman and sent him flying off to the side with him in tow "Get your fuzzy eyebrows out of your rear! The mug is clearly mine! It says 'Father' not 'Mother'!" Arthur feel to the ground with a thud, a Frenchman on top of his back trying to keep him down. His lips formed into a scowl as he jerked around and lurched left and right to sway the Frenchman off his back.

"Get off me you wanker! You have no room to call me a woman when I am the dominate one in the sack! Bloody hell, why are you fighting now anyways!? Just surrender already!" As those words left his lips he could feel a hand latch onto his nose and begin to tug on it. "How dare you! Take back what you said about moi! I fought a war with you for a Hundred Years! You think I won't beat you once more!?"

Arthur grabbed a hold of the hand on his nose, and rose to his knees. He placed the arm on his shoulder before throwing his body forward to roll and sending the Frenchman promptly off his body. As Francis laid flat on the ground, Arthur rose and staggered to the table with a smug grin. "You barely won! Sorry Francis, but this victory is mine. The mug is clearly meant for me. Maybe if you were a more supportive father then you could earn such a beautiful mug!" For the second time Arthur reached for the mug.

And for the second time he was denied. Francis was not going to lie over and take it like Arthur implied he did in bed. He pulled himself forward and grabbed the tail end of the bathrobe his husband wore and yanked it back. The bathrobe did not come undone due to the tight knot Arthur had on it, and resulted in him tumbling back onto his rear. Arthur let out a yell as his rear made contact with the tiled floor as Francis pulled himself onto his shoulders and began to literally climb over him.

"I doubt the children would get a gift for a father who nearly poisoned them with his pitiful excuse for cooking! They would instead get it for their father who makes beautiful dishes for them, that don't make them have to sit on a toilet for three and a half hours!" Arthur grabbed a hold of the Frenchman and tousled with him on the ground, growling all the while. "That was one instance! I just botched the recipe, that's it! You feed them snails! Alfred eats them because there is more salt on them than a French fry from McDonald's and Matthew is too polite to tell you it taste like shite!"

For once, Francis looked genuinely offended by the comment as he flipped positions to pin the Englishman. "Sacré Bleu! How dare you! Alfred loves my cooking! The boys sense of taste may be damaged after the food you fed him at an early age but he knows good food! And I gave him French fries! They were my creation, I don't care what the Belgians say!"

Arthur only scoffed as he continued to struggle. "Oh please! Don't lie to yourself! I fed him well, he could fling a bloody buffalo at such a young age-" "It was probably because you could only feed him raw meat!" Francis shouted to cut him off. However, he was prevented from saying more as England lifted a foot and kicked the man off his chest. Arthur rolled and stood and in one swift motion claimed the mug as his own, lifting it in triumph. "Say what you want, this mug is for me!"

Francis disagreed. He dove across the table at Arthur with intent to hurt in his eyes. Arthur took the hit and staggered, but stayed on his feet as the Frenchman tried to lift him. "Give me the mug!" "Kiss my arse frog! This mug is mine! My mug dammit!" Francis attempted to lift Arthur but was only met with a knee to the face that sent him reeling against the cabinets as he slid to the ground.

"I don't see why the kids would give such a present to a man who denied them of their independence for so long!" "Oh don't you be daft! America was an unruly brat when he was young, he would have rebelled against anyone! Even you, I did what was best!" Francis could help but smirk a bit. "Then explain why the child I raised asked for independence instead of throwing tea into a harbor!? I raised my child to not be a rebellious savage who would attack his father!"

"YOU BLOODY HELPED HIM!"

"I WAS HELPING HIM EXPRESS HIMSELF!"

"Express himself by fighting me over taxation!?"

"VIVE LA REVOLUTION."

Arthur suddenly understand the problem here now as Francis held a can on Pam and a lighter. The deranged stare in his eyes was the same once he held during his own revolutionary war. "The mug is mine Arthur, give it to me!" "What!? Never! I am the better father no matter what you say! I just know how to be the strict parent. They are thankful of what I have did, and it is shown by this mug!" Francis' eyebrow twitched as he took a dangerous step closer. "Give me, ze mug…"

"You forgot to pick the kids up from soccer practice that one time!" "You made them play a sport they don't care about! Now look where Alfred is, he is hitting men with a helmet and running around with an egg-ball in his hands calling it 'football'!" "Don't you throw stones when you live in a glass house! Your sweet angel is the devil on ice! He swings around a stick like a sword and hits people like a bloody bus!"

Francis had no real response to that. So instead, he sprayed the Pam into the air and lit his lighter. As expected, flames shot from it this actions and stretched dangerously across the room. "Francis! Put the lighter and Pam down! You'll burn the bloody house down-"

"Step away from the mug and I will." Was the eerily calm response of the Frenchman was he stared ahead with ire building in his irises.

"You're being utterly ridiculous- This mug is mine, obviously!" Something snapped in Francis with the statement.

"You are touching my mug, Arthur! Don't touch my mug!"

Oh, he wanted to play crazy? Arthur could do crazy. "Bollocks to that- Burn the entire neighborhood down for all I care, this mug is mine, Bonnefoy!"

"MON MUG!"

Francis went on a rampage as Pam was sprayed in the air and the lighter was clicked on, igniting curtains and the wooden table upon which the mug once sat. "MOOOOOOOOON MUUUUUUUUG!"

After two entire cans of Pam, roughly three lighters, and a whole fire extinguisher, both men stood on opposite ends of the living room. The couch was burnt up, a plethora of scorch marks all over it. The curtains behind it were no existent. The coffee table was missing a leg (it was used to hit a certain Frenchman in the back) and the carpet was singed all the way down to the woodwork.

Both men stood, bruised and battered. Francis could be heard whispering 'mon mug' under his breath as he stared at the Englishman who had miraculously managed to maintain position of the mug. England was only giving glares to the other, panting heavily. "You're paying for this…"

"I'll gladly do so if you give me the mug…" "Pry it from my cold, dead hand you cheese-eating surrender monkey." "That can easily be arranged, mon cheri." "After two cans of Pam I'm still here, less could be said for the interior of our home but my point still stands." "I'll take you to the guillotine, give me mon mug, Salope."

Arthur gasped at the French swear before narrowing his eyes and backing away towards the front door. "You foul monster! How dare you! How can you let my mug drive you so-"

"MOOOOOON MUUUUUUUG"

Arthur watched as the Frenchman flew through the air towards him in a speed which he couldn't comprehend. Only one phrase could be uttered.

"God save the Queen."

Arthur was suddenly toppled and flat on the ground, and the mug no longer in his hands. However, it also was not in the hands of Francis who was more focused on trying to strangle his beloved husband.

The mug was instead floating majestically through the air…until it hit the front door and shattered into a hundred porcelain pieces. Both men stared at the remnants of the mug, an uneasy quietness overtaking the room.

The door opened soon after to reveal two blond men, the sons of the blond men on the floor. Both looked quite similar, though the one on the right had far wavier hair while the one of the left had a cowlick the refused to settle. Both wore glasses upon their visages, which their crystal blue eyes peered out of to gaze upon their fathers.

"Told you it would take less than an hour." Matthew droned out as he looked at the mug. Alfred couldn't help but scowl and let out a groan. "Gah, twenty dollars again! Come on dudes, I figured you could go at it for more than an hour. Hell, you guys fought a war for a Hundred Years over some land!"

Neither father gave a response as they stared at the porcelain pieces before shifting their eyes up to their sons. In unison they spoke "Who was it for?"

"Francis-"

"Arthur-"

…

Both siblings locked eyes as now both fathers stared intently at their kin.