Hey! Someone commented on ao3 saying the USUK felt onesided. So here's jealous America ;)
America steps out of the jeep and carries the cases of beer and a bag filled with vodka bottles as Chad unlocks the door and swings it open. America walks in first, setting the items on the counter. Chad closes the door, looking at him.
"Dude, how much can you lift?" Chad asks, impressed. "We've definitely gotta do a gym session together."
"How much does a Sedan weigh?" America asks, deep in thought. At Chad's shocked stare, he laughs loudly. "Just kidding! Haha… anyways! You sure you're cool with my friends coming? We can definitely tell the French and German one to stay home."
"Nahhh man," Chad waves him off. "America is a uh… stirring pot or some shit. Plus, I wanna meet your friends!"
"You're probably only gonna like Feli," America says. He grabs a large bowl and takes out a bottle of smirnoff and a bottle of 7UP. He continuously checks his phone for notifications, frowning. He's texted England about seven times, what gives? The man always responds.
Chad walks into his room, closing the door almost all the way. "They know it's a toga party, right?" he calls out as he begins to strip. As an afterthought, he adds, "Oh, is Gil coming?"
"Yup," America answers both questions, with a pop of the p. He grabs rainbow sherbert out of the freezer, taking a scooper out of one of the drawers. Finally, his phone goes off. He's a little embarrassed with how quickly he grabs it, but no one saw. He's not desperate or anything.
Iggy: We're ready to be picked up.
? told u 2 drive here old man lol
Iggy: France and I drank a little too much… Germany doesn't have his keys, and Italy's afraid to drive. Don't make us pay for a bloody expensive New York taxi.
America frowns at his phone. He told them not to pregame without him! As he starts typing, he receives another text.
Iggy: Please.
Damn him.
"Chad, dude, can you do me a huge favor?" America asks as he puts the sherbert back in the freezer.
Chad steps out his bedroom, his dark gray sheets messily wrapped around his body in a makeshift toga. "Sup?"
"Can I borrow your jeep to pick up my boys? I didn't bring my car because I told them they'd be driving," he mutters the last part. "I'll finish the punch when I come back. Pleeeeease." America uses his puppy dog eyes.
Chad laughs, tossing his keys to America. The nation catches them with one hand. "Sure, sure. But you're not allowed to leave the house like that, Jones!"
America frowns, looking at himself. He's in a Captain America shirt and low hanging jeans to show off his Calvins. "What's wrong with this dude?"
"Man, the party will be in full swing when you come back. You gotta get in your toga."
"But I don't wanna drive in a toga! My ass will get cold," America whines.
"You're going commando?" Chad raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Tryna get laid, Al?"
America flushes, briskly walking into the bathroom to change and ignoring Chad's mocking laughter. He grumbles to himself as he gets dressed in the golden toga he found on a website. Which, by the way, is an amazing purchase on his part. He's gonna stand out, and he loves being the center of attention.
After flexing and winking at himself in the mirror, he shoots a quick text to England.
b outside tha hotel look 4 blk jeep
Iggy: Wtf is 'BLK' supposed to mean? Also, "THE" and "THA" have the same amount of letters, there was absolutely no need to type it like that.
did u just use WTF? :DDDD
Iggy: Shut up!
America snickers to himself, stepping out of the bathroom. Chad catcalls him, wiggling his eyebrows. America shoves past the college boy with a laugh, walking out of the house and unlocking the jeep with a click on the keys.
England taps his foot impatiently, arms crossed to try and get some sense of dignity as he and the other three wait outside. He's thankful for his Britannia Angel phase, because the toga did come in handy! It is quite revealing though, and he has to keep smacking wandering hands.
"Amerique owns a Jeep? I was so sure he was showing off his flashy car that Romano gave him during the last meeting in Europe," France says, peeking over England's shoulder at his phone. "Does anyone else find their friendship creepy? I still think the mafia is alive and well."
"Stop grabbing my arse before I declare war."
"Allemagne, you didn't even try!" France quickly changes the subject with a frown at Germany's outfit. His definition of 'laid back' was khakis and a collared shirt. "Unlike moi, who is perfectly in spirit."
He only has on a rose and a smile. But truly, that is all he needs.
"I sincerely hope you get arrested for public indecency." Germany shakes his head.
"He's a white male, so I doubt that will happen," England mutters under his breath. America really needs to fix his system. Not that his own is perfect, but good lord.
"I'm so excited to meet new people," Italy says, smiling happily. He's wearing a very authentic toga, complete with a head wreath.. It must have belonged to Rome because of the way it's baggy on the smaller nation. "When's Meri getting here?"
A car horn honks obnoxiously, speeding down the street and grinding to a screeching halt in front of the four nations. The black jeep has no car doors attached, a sticker on the windshield that says "TAKE YOUR TOP OFF" and an American flag on the bumper.
"This is a death trap," Germany whispers. England has to agree.
"Get in losers we're goin' uhh… partying!" America grins at the reinvention of the infamous quote.
"What the fuck is this?" England shouts, drawing attention from passerbyers to the group. He lowers his voice as he growls out, "Did you rip off your doors in a fit of rage?"
"Amerique, as much as I love for people to express themselves, I don't know about this one. Where's your truck? Or your ferrari? Oh! Your range rover, perhaps?" France asks.
"Do you need another car from Romano? I can get you one," Italy says, scarily serious. As they all turn to look at him, he flashes a carefree smile.
"Nah dudes. You were supposed to drive yourselves," America teases with a playful glare. "So I didn't bring my car. This is Chad's baby. Get in."
England quickly jumps into the front seat, smirking at France's groan. The three nations pile into the back, with Italy sandwiched in the middle. Germany immediately puts on his seatbelt, testing the handle on the roof of the interior. He sighs in relief at the sturdiness.
"How far away is the place?" England asks, only to be met with silence. He glares at America, until he notices where the other man's attention is, on his exposed thighs.
Well. Isn't that interesting.
England knows America is at the very least sexually attracted to him, the kiss they shared on V-Day as well as the events that transpired afterwards were decidedly not PG-13. Nothing ever became of it, sadly. Though, fingers crossed, he can get a little lucky tonight with the obtuse blond. He and America tend to spill the glass of their sexual tension cup when they've both consumed liquor.
"America? Are we going to leave anytime soon?" Germany asks. America blinks, slowly lifting his eyeline away from the smug island nation's legs, before coughing.
"Uh, yeah, haha! Sorry dudes!" America steps on the gas, causing the three in the back to hit their heads on the seats, groaning in pain.
"Slow down, idiot!" England berates him, face pale as he clutches his seatbelt in a deathgrip. "This car has NO DOORS, in case you forgot."
America gives him a sheepish grin, reaching to turn on the radio. "You want the aux?" he asks, slowing the car down at a moderate rate when the light turns yellow, then stopping at the red. He's the only man in the world to do this.
"Sure. Only so we don't have to listen to whatever rubbish you would've subjected us to," England reasons as he reaches for the cord. America taps his fingers on the wheel, thinking.
"You don't sound very tipsy there, Iggy," America accuses. He tries very hard to keep his line of vision on the man's face, but hey. Can you really blame him? England has amazing legs! They were super distracting in those shorts during the war… Oh, England's speaking.
"...was only two shitty beers, so yeah. The light's green, by the way." England huffs as he finishes his rant. America grips the wheel tightly as a car horn sounds off behind him
The driver, still honking their horn, swerves around America and flips him the finger. America grits his teeth, slamming his foot on the gas.
"JERKOFF!" he shouts at the other driver, who then says a slew of insults in a heavy New Yorker accent. America grumbles angrily to himself as the other driver speeds off. Every nation, except Italy, stares at him in horror. He blinks, then grins sheepishly. "Sorry y'all. New York always gives me the worst road rage, haha!"
"Don't worry, Meri! Romano says the funniest things when driving," Italy jumps in, smiling. Germany nods in agreement, practically shivering in fear at the thought.
The rest of the car ride is uneventful, with America and England exchanging glances at the other when one isn't looking. Once they arrive at the surprisingly nice house, it is much darker outside. There are two other cars in the driveway as he pulls in. America twists the key to shut off the jeep, turning to look at the nations with a serious expression.
"These dudes have become my bros, guys. And the girls too. Please, please, please, don't be weird," he begs. His speech is mostly directed at Germany and France.
"How would I be weird?" Germany asks, offended.
France opens his mouth, then pauses, and nods in recognition.
"Just don't have a stick up your butt dude! Iggy, please don't drink too much. Italia, man, I trust you. You're gonna do great." America pats Italy's head with a grin.
England rolls his eyes, taking off his seatbelt and stepping out of the death trap while brushing invisible dust off of himself. "I can handle my liquor, thank you very much."
The others all exchange a look, psychically communicating on who is going to take care of the drunk when that inevitably happens. America pouts as he loses the battle. Dammit.
America walks up the path and opens the door, the music from the set up DJ stand suddenly filling the streets. He ushers the other nations inside and quickly closes the door.
"JONES!" Chad walks over with a wave, easygoing grin on his face. "And Jones' bros! I see you're all, uh…" he trails off at France and Germany's attire. "Dressed to impress?" he tries.
"Chad, these are my guys. We go way back. This is Arthur, Feliciano, Ludwig, and Francis," America tells the other man, pointing each out. "Gil is Ludwig's older brother."
"No shit?" Chad laughs. "I never would've guessed. Anyways!" He clasps America's shoulder. "Al, go finish the punch. Kait texted me that they're coming in five minutes."
America nods and walks to the kitchen. England and France follow him, while Germany and Italy stay behind to talk to some of the frat boys. Well, Italy is talking to them. Germany is standing there like a guard dog.
America takes out the sherbert once again, scooping a large amount and plopping it into the bowl. He cracks open the 7UP and pours that in, then opens the Smirnoff and adds pretty much 3/4ths of the alcohol. He mixes it all together, humming to himself. Once satisfied, he takes out a ladle from a drawer, as well as red solo cups.
"Yous want?" He grins, already scooping some into cups.
"Yous isn't a word," England mutters bitterly as he scowls at the punch. "What is this?"
"The best thing ever. Dudes, trust me."
"I don't know, I'm more of a fine wine type of man," France muses, though he takes a cup. England snorts at that, snatching the cup America just filled.
America watches them eagerly as they both take sips. Their eyes widen and a wide smile forms on America's face to match.
"Très bon! I'm impressed, Amerique!" France smiles, taking another sip. "A bit too sweet for my tastes, but certainly not the worst alcohol I've had while being here."
"This is alcohol?" England asks, looking in the middle of an existential crisis. "I saw you put almost the whole bloody bottle of that cheap vodka–"
"Hey!"
"–but it doesn't taste like it all!" England takes a bigger sip.
"Ah, on second thought, maybe you shouldn't drink too much of it," America says as he tries to grab the cup, but England quickly moves out of reach. France snorts quietly to himself as he watches the two engage in their game of cat and mouse. The chatter in the house seems to get louder, and the music is turned up.
"ALFIE!" Kaitlyn all but squeals, tackling America in a hug and preventing him from swiping the red solo cup from the older nation. "Hi babes! Oh, you made the good stuff. Thank God, I hate Chad's shitty beers."
"Hey Kait," America says with a smile, hugging her back. He sees her eyeline go from his face, to his exposed broad shoulders and finally to the two nations. "These are my friends."
"Pleasure to meet you." France takes her hand and kisses the back of it. "Francis Bonnefoy," he introduces himself with a sly grin.
Kaitlyn laughs, taking the cup America pours for her. "Hi. And you?"
"H'llo." Oh God, there is no way this man is slurring already. "I'm Arthur Kirkland. Alfred, pour me some more."
"You finished?" America gawks at the man, but takes the cup anyway. "This is your last one for a while, okay Iggy?"
"You're British?" Kaitlyn buts in, stepping closer to the older nation. France pouts at being blatantly ignored. "That's hot. I love British accents."
England smirks at the two staring at him in shock, before shrugging nonchalantly as he snatches the now full cup of vodka punch back. "Well, what can I say? Brits do it best."
"What the fuck?" America asks quietly, and France nods his head in agreement.
"Wanna dance?" Kaitlyn gestures to the bodies in the main room jumping up and down. England nods, taking her hand and walking towards the others. But not before shooting a wink at the two.
"I will never understand American citizens," France says with a sigh. He looks over to America, who is glaring at England's head while taking a long drink from his cup. "Come along, mon ami. Let's enjoy your party."
America begrudgingly follows France to the dance floor, but not before refilling both of their cups.
It's going to be one of those nights, huh.
America always prides himself on being the funnest nation. No matter how many times England tells him, "That isn't a word you idiotic twit." He throws the best holiday parties, his ideas aren't boring like the others, and he is literally best friends with an alien. How cool is that?
However, glowering in the corner as he watches Kaitlyn and England grind on each other is definitely not good for his image. "Should've never invited them," he mutters to himself.
"Alfie~!" Italy bounces over with a flushed Germany. "The girls here are so nice! Thank you for bringing us!" He has lipstick marks all over his cheeks, and Germany has matching ones.
"Are you doing alright, Alfred?" Germany asks.
"Peachy," America responds. He groans, rubbing his eyes. He needs to snap out of this! The hero would never act like a jealous girlfriend–which he most certainly is not! England's having fun and isn't bawling his eyes out for once, that's a good thing for humanity!
He chances a glance in their direction again. Are they about to kiss? Okay, no, actually a hero would prevent England from hooking up with a random girl. Yeah, totally.
America pushes past Italy and Germany and walks towards the dancing couple with a purpose, stepping in the middle of England and Kaitlyn. He clears his throat, smiling. Okay, say something smart America. I so got this.
"Kait, dude, you don't mind if I have my man back, right?"
Nice. Good one.
England stares up at him, his face smug and eyes just slightly out of it.
Kaitlyn looks in between them, eyes widening, holding her hands up in mock surrender with a grin. "Sorry Alfie! You should've told me he was your boyfriend," she teases.
America bristles as he grits out, "We're not dating!"
Appearing out of nowhere France drapes an arm around the taller nation's shoulders. "Oh mon cherie on the contrary, they are practically married at this point!"
England, who has been otherwise silently grinning and being completely unhelpful in America's opinion, finally seems to want to join in the conversation at that point.
However, America's dumbass loudmouth jumps in too quickly.
"Just because we text everyday, skype movies every Friday, and talk every night on the phone before going to bed does NOT mean we're together!"
"Don't forget our V-Day dates!" England adds in with a happy grin. America nods in agreement.
"See? We just have a special friendship."
"Very special. The specialist, in fact," England slurs as he finishes what must be his eighth cup of punch. America snatches it away with a frown.
"Dude. That's kinda gay," Chad says from behind America with a laugh.
America holds his burning cheeks, trying to will the blush to go down. He is too sober for this conversation! "I'm going to make more punch!" He walks away, ignoring France's laughter with Kaitlyn's giggles. The Frenchman takes the blonde to go dance, leaving behind Chad and England.
"Aw, man. I came over here to smoke with you guys." Chad pouts.
"Fags? Or a spliff?" England asks.
"Dude, that's fucked up. Gay people are people too," Chad says with a shake of his head. Though, he pauses and adds, "Spliff is a funny word for gay people in England…"
England rolls his eyes. Even in his drunken haze he cannot handle American idiocy.
The two are uncomfortably silent for a moment.
"Wanna take a hit from Bessie?" Chad finally asks, holding up a bong.
He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. He's already not in the right state of mind from the stupidly delicious punch, and this would just–
"Sure."
Chad grins, leading the sandy blond to his room.
America takes a deep breath as he finishes his fifth cup, feeling the alcohol strum along his veins to the beat of the music. Okay, no biggie. He's just gonna ask England to dance with him, and oh my god are they playing Mr. Brightside right now?
"TURN THIS SHIT UP TYLER!" America yells, and more than a few others cheer in agreement. He is definitely supposed to be doing something right now, but it's truly unpatriotic to not dance to this song.
France finally feels at home. Surrounded by attractive men and women who are giving him the attention he deserves. Thank God the stereotype about college experimentation is true.
"Francis! Say it again!" One of the boys grins at him.
"Omelette du fromage?" France says unsurely as he smiles back warily, not knowing why Americans are obsessed with this saying. The mini crowd around him screams in pure joy.
"That's even better in real life!" A girl says happily.
"My childhood feels complete," The boy next to her replies.
"I feel my serotonin being refilled!" Tyler adds. "Haha, just kidding. I'm still depressed!"
They all laugh, and France frowns. He is very out of touch with millennial humor, it seems. Oh well, he doesn't need obscure depression humor to get lucky.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The music stops abruptly, and someone curses as they all stare at the door in fear. "Tyler! I told you not to play the music so loud you fucking idiot!"
"How is this my fault!" Tyler whines.
"I'll answer. Hide the alcohol, sit on the floor or couch and please act normal." Germany instructs as he walks towards the door, Italy right at his side.
"Luddy I'm scared! I don't want to be arrested!" he whines. "Can I use my toga as a peace flag?"
"Ludwig! Ludwig! Ludwig!" The drunk college kids chant.
Germany groans. "Be quiet! If it's a police officer, he'll know you're all drunk!"
"...Ludwig! Ludwig!" they whisper.
Italy clings to his arm as Germany grabs the door handle. He can talk his way out of getting them all fined or arrested, he's sure of himself. He opens the door, bracing himself for the worst and–
"THIS PARTY JUST GOT A LITTLE MORE AWESOME!"
–somehow, it's worse.
"Mein Gott," Germany grumbles as Prussia pushes past him.
"GILBERT!" Some of the guys yell, and one tosses him a beer which Prussia easily catches. The music starts up again, louder than before.
"Yo, what's up? Had to be fashionably late to this bitch." Prussia cackles. "Didn't expect to see you here, West."
Italy immediately lets go of Germany to happily talk to the somehow still existing nation.
Germany groans, covering his face as he closes the door with his back. This night is going to go on forever.
America looks around, very confused. He does not see the British nation anywhere.
France is making out with one of the guys in the corner which, okay, gross. Germany is reluctantly dancing with a few of the girls, who are trying to teach him how to move his stiff limbs. Prussia–when did he get here?–is changing the music and relieving Tyler of his DJing duties. Italy is in the kitchen cooking with the rest of the girls. Why? Ugh, he's getting off track! Where the hell is England?
America pouts to himself as he walks towards Chad's room. What if England drunkenly stumbled out of the house and is lost in the streets? Now he's nervous!
"Chad, man, have you seen my–?" America starts, opening the door. Then freezes.
"'Nd I says to tha' bloke, 'm the bloody British Empire! Fuck your armada! BOOM! Blew up his fookin ship an' stole his loot," England exaggerates, using wild hand gestures as he recounts the tale.
Chad gapes at him, leaning forward. "No shit! What happened next?"
"I wen' around tha' world pillagin' and wot not." England shrugs like it's no big deal. He finally looks up, eyes red, making the emerald green even more prominent. "Merica!" He grins.
"Chad." America glares at his friend. The boy smiles sheepishly, as England stands and makes grabby hands towards the taller nation. He not-so-reluctantly puts an arm around England's waist, only to stabilize the older man of course. "What did you do?"
"Hey! I just offered him a few hits from Bessie." Chad pats the bong as if to congratulate the bong on a job well done. "You never told me you and your friends cosplay, bro. I'd love to see this guy's pirate outfit, sounds fuckin sick."
"Tha's Captain Kirkland to you!" England manages to waggle a finger, but he is way too busy placing butterfly kisses on America's neck to add anything intelligent to the conversation.
"Aye aye, cap'n!" Chad mock salutes with a laugh. He turns to America with a smug smirk. "Looks like someone's getting lucky tonight, huh?"
"Yeah, let's fuck."
"NO!" America flushes. "I–uh–"
"Listen man." Chad pauses to take another hit from Bessie. He blows out the smoke, then looks America dead in the eye. America swallows nervously. "You better bring these guys to every other party we throw. This was dope."
America groans loudly. God dammit.
1. If you've never had vodka and sherbert with 7up, you need to, it's delicious.
2. My headcanon is that America picks up traits depending which state he is in.
Sorry if this one feels shitty and all over the place, this was pretty hard to write! Please read&review! 3 Talk to me on tumblr muzanjacksons