Chapter Seven – The Perishing Pancakes
A/N: Warnings for alcohol, cross dressing and innuendo.
Germany was very unsure how it had come to this.
The meeting had tapered off after France's phone call and it was not long until all the nations gave up on trying to get any work done and decided to go drinking instead. Germany did not have enough resilience to put up much of a fight and soon gave up trying to be productive, on the proviso that they would do double the work tomorrow. The nations headed down to a small local bar which they had frequented on a few occasions in the past. Fortunately, the barman did not recognise them and there were very few locals there. Several of the Italian locals soon became scarce after seeing Germany.
Somehow several nations who were not invited to the world meeting had ended up invited to the drinking session and were causing havoc with their presence. Germany's brother being the one of the main culprits. Prussia had a knack for causing chaos wherever he went, especially when with his friends.
Germany had not even wanted to go to the bar but was practically dragged there against his will. France could be very persuasive at times, especially when combined with Prussia and Spain. The self-proclaimed Bad Touch Trio had decided to get Germany drunk through any means necessary. It turns out that his blasted brother had got his hands on several compromising photos of Germany and Italy together. One was of Germany knelt down in front of Italy at an unfortunate height as the long-suffering German tried to tie his friend's shoelaces. The second was of Germany and Italy in bed together (seriously how/why did Italy always end up in Germany's bed – the German had guard dogs for goodness sake). The last photo was of Italy and Germany looking at each other longingly in very close proximity. This photo failed to capture the wurst behind Italy's head and the pasta behind Germany's head. All perfectly innocent photos but if France/Hungary/Japan got their perverted hands on them then the poor German would never live it down.
So, he had been 'persuaded' (aka blackmailed by an annoying big brother), to come to the bar on the condition that it would only be one beer. Of course, that was about six beers ago.
Germany had forgotten how soothing alcohol could be at times. He drank a lot of beer, but it was almost always in small doses and he often drank non-alcoholic beer when the opportunity presented itself. Better non-alcoholic beer than to risk Italy's driving or Japan's judging. Occasionally he had been known to let loose with his friends, particularly when his brother got involved but it happened very infrequently. He almost never drunk to avoid/forget his problems. Yet here he was, sat at the bar next to America of all people on his seventh pint and unloading his problems to the bemused American.
"It's just…it's just Italy is so daft! I mean he boiled all the water in the desert for pasta for goodness sake. Who even does that? And now he is probably gone off with England of all people. I mean you know England, I know England. The man will have either turned Italy into a scone or have him speaking with a British accent!" Germany rambled.
"Least old Iggy'll keep him safe. You're less angsty than drunk Iggy." America replied, a twinkle in his rich blue eyes as he sipped his Coca-Cola.
"I just hope Italy is alright. I mean he has never run off like this before." Germany took a long, mournful swig of his beer.
"Oh I'm sure he won't be mad at you for long, or my name ain't America! He ain't the sort to stay mad for long."
"Nein, I suppose you are right." He sighed, downing a good portion of his beer in one, "I just…Italy is so innocent. I mean…I'd hate it if anything bad happened to him. It'd be like kicking a puppy. If he ever lost that innocence and that smile I don't know what I would do." Germany mused, half talking to his pint glass, half to the American.
"I doubt that'd happen anytime soon. Besides, if it did happen I'd bring him back because I am the hero." America pointed at himself with a thumb and flashed an award-winning smile at the German.
Germany replied with a very unnatural sounding giggle which made him hiccup loudly, "You and your hero nonsense. You're as bad as Italy at times, Mein Freund." He furrowed his brow before turning his head as a rather appalling noise drifted through the drunken haze of his mind. He turned to look over his shoulder and his jaw dropped at the scene before him.
Behind them a scene of gradually unfolding chaos began to overwhelm the bar. Somehow France, Spain and Prussia had all ended up in women's clothing and were currently on the karaoke singing Beyoncé's Single Ladies and doing all the dance moves in perfect synchronisation. Prussia looked damned good slut dropping in stockings, blouse, mini skirt and heels; although perhaps he was the only one to think so.
Meanwhile, Japan had gone into socially awkward overdrive at the scene that the European's were presenting and was sat on a bench, quietly live streaming the scene to Hungary on his smartphone, whilst simultaneously rocking backwards and forwards and muttering about Westerners.
China had somehow kicked the barman out and had taken over the kitchen and bar, providing food, drinks and his world-renowned catering. He seemed to have doubled the price of most of the drinks and was pocketing the proceeds for himself. The owner of the bar was last seen packing his bags and muttering in Italian about taking an extended trip to South America.
Russia was in the middle of the dance floor, completely on his own and appeared to be slow dancing with a very, very empty bottle of vodka and his beloved pipe. A large smile was plastered on his face and he could be faintly heard crooning a slow, power ballad (possibly I Will Always Love You) in a mixture of Russian and English. Considering he was not the least bit in time with the painful rendition of Single Ladies and he was obviously drunk, his singing was surprisingly good.
In a far corner of the bar was a table laden with a plate of pancakes and a half-pint of non-alcoholic beer. The pancake to maple syrup ratios were approximately one gram of pancake to forty grams of maple syrup. Slowly, the pancakes vanished in small portions. The mystery of the disappearing pancakes would become a local legend and haunt the bar for several generations. Eventually the bar would be renamed The Perishing Pancakes and won several awards for its ghost tours and horror nights.
Single Ladies had finished and now France was going solo. Dressed in nothing but a blue dress with a very short skirt, he was singing I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt in fluent French and had started to do a strip tease of what little he was wearing. This seemed to have triggered something in Russia who had drunkenly staggered over to the karaoke stage. En-route he abandoned his empty vodka bottle and his pipe to an empty seat each. Upon reaching the stage, the giant Russian decided to pick up France with one arm, tucking him neatly under his armpit and turned to the microphone.
"Shirt become one with Mother Russia da?"
The music changed as Russia kidnaped France and placed him under a table with strict instructions not to move. France had produced fluffy, pink handcuffs from goodness knows where and was soon chained to the table by a very willing, albeit very innocent, Russia who then went to purchase more vodka, abandoning France to the floor.
On the stage, Prussia had decided to take over the show with his own solo. Holding Out For A Hero blasted across the bar, with Prussia fluently singing the lyrics, not bothering to glance at the words. America perked up considerably and decided to become Prussia's hero. Whilst the song played, America crept up onto the stage. Prussia quickly picked up on the American's antics and started singing to the American, wafting his arms at America every time he sang the word hero. America disappeared behind the bar for all of thirty seconds before remerging in nothing but Captain America pants and an American flag dangled over his shoulders as a cape. When the song finally ended, America went over and scooped Prussia up into his arms, carrying him off the stage bridal style.
In a quiet corner, Japan had a nosebleed.
Meanwhile, on stage, Spain had decided to take over with a delightful song composed by himself.
"I boss-Spain dedicate this one to Romano…" Apparently Spain had forgotten that Romano was currently in England and he was meant to be at home guarding Tomato the kitten.
"I like tomatoes,
I like tomatoes,
Just a shame the only thing that rhymes with them is potatoes…sort of…"
Somewhere in Austria a certain Nation felt the need to simultaneously scream and play Chopin for the rest of the day and night. His bad music tastes were tingling.
"I like turtles,
I like turtles,
I really need to like things that rhyme with other things…"
In England, Romano felt the sudden need to scream profanities. His Spain-is-doing-something-really-stupid senses were tingling.
"I like churros,
I like churros,
But I definitely don't like walrus…"
It was at this point that China had managed to pull the plug on the speakers and Prussia took the trouble to tackle Spain to the ground. There was a great sense of relief across the bar.
A few minutes later and the Bad Touch Trio had been kicked out the bar. China had put on some background music which appeared to mostly be songs about pandas but there was a unanimous agreement that this was preferable to what was going on before.
Germany decided that only another pint would cure him of the mental scars he had suffered from the night out…
A/N: Filler chapter with very little plot relevance. I hope you enjoyed. I don't own Hetalia or any of the songs mentioned other than Spain's song. Thank you for reading, reviewing and your continued support with my story.