Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1b/?
anonymous
April 23 2011, 06:57:40 UTC
One of the benefits of having the World Conference in their backyard is that it gives Italy a valid excuse to crash at their place. Prussia likes Italy. He's loud, he's funny, and best of all he drives West absolultely nuts. He's also pretty cute-- or at least that's what Prussia would think, if he was the sort of guy who thought about stuff like that. Which he isn't.
Really.
Still, it's pretty funny to flirt with him in front of West, who makes these ridiculous faces that are half sad puppy and half 'I'm-about-to-launch-a-blitzkreig'. Italy's hasn't caught on yet and at this rate, Prussia doesn't think he ever will. Which is fine by him; it's all in good fun. After all, if you can't give your little brother a hard time about his totally ridiculous crush, who can you hassle?
But even that isn't Prussia's favourite thing about the guy. What Prussia likes the most Italy, hands down, is his cooking. As useless as that kid might be everywhere else, he's an absolute whiz in the kitchen. Prussia never misses a meal that Italy's whipped up if he can help it. This was, in fact, the reason Prussia had come home early. West might complain about the messes Italy leaves in their kitchen, but he shovels down his food like there's no tomorrow. Prussia wasn't about to get stuck with leftovers again, even if Italy was making dinner for West in particular-- Prussia's still the better half of Germany; that ought to entitle him to at least half to the chow.
Unfortunately for his empty stomach, cooking wasn't the only activity going on in their kitchen that day.
He'd walked in to find West backed up against the counter, his pants around his ankles and his undershirt pushed up to his armpits. His body had been liberally smeared with tomato sauce. It was painted in elegant swirls onto his chest, and his abs and-- other parts of him Prussia really didn't want to dwell on. It almost appeared as though he'd suffered an unfortunate yet strangely erotic cooking accident.
Almost, but not quite. The party clearly responsible had been kneeling between West's legs.
"Oh, hi Prussia!" Italy chirped, wiping some stray tomato sauce off his lower lip. He waved the basting brush he was holding in his other hand. "Wow, this is kinda embarrassing! We didn't think you'd be home so early!"
Prussia had struggled to formulate a coherent response to that. Hours later, he would decide upon a smugly uttered, "And I didn't think I'd come home to find my little brother making a mockery of spaghetti slurping ." At that moment in particular, however, he found himself at a total loss for words.
West's eyes shot open.
For several agonizing seconds, the only sound in the kitchen had been the water bubbling away on the stove. West gaped at him in slowly dawning horror, almost as though he didn't want to be believe Prussia was really there in the doorway.
Come to think of it, he probably didn't.
Prussia watched as the utter shame and humiliation in West's eyes slowly came to a boil, and with admirable Teutonic efficiency, transformed into anger. It was a coping mechanism Prussia was more than familiar with thanks to West's rare but semi-nuclear childhood temper tantrums. As he flushed to shade slightly less red than the tomato sauce decorating his torso, Prussia braced himself for the explosion.
Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1c/?
anonymous
April 23 2011, 07:16:46 UTC
It arrived right on schedule. West yanked his pants up so fast it was a wonder he didn't rip the seams, letting fly a string of German curse words that even Prussia found impressive.
"What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I live here!" Prussia squawked, his righteous indignation having overcome his shock. "And I friggin' eat off that counter! Ugh! What the fuck, West!?"
No explanation for the desecration of their kitchen was forthcoming, although a vein West's forehead had started to pulse worryingly. "Get out!" He bellowed, yanking the basting brush out Italy's hand and hurling it at Prussia's head.
Prussia yelped, barely ducking in time as the brush sailed overhead and hit the wall with a splat. It slid to floor, leaving a long streak of tomato sauce dripping in it's wake. It was at this point Prussia realized vacating the premise might be a good idea. West approached the cleanliness of his kitchen with the same degree of seriousness as national security-- if that consideration had gone out the window, there was no telling what he might do.
"Fine, I'm going, I'm going! Christ!" Prussia groused, throwing his hands up in the air in act of mock surrender. "I hope you're happy West- you're responsible for yet another case of PTSD!"
"Out!"
"I'm never gonna be able to eat tomato sauce again!"
"Out!"
"By the way, you got it all over your--"
"Out!"
"Bye, Prussia!" Italy called cheerily, as Prussia slammed the front door.
Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1c/?
anonymous
April 23 2011, 07:48:28 UTC
Holy crap, Prussia, if Germany's willing to throw that sauce-covered brush, you better run faster than that from his epic embarrassment rage. XD I like how Prussia still had to get in a parting shot or three before he fled in terror, by the way. *facepalms* I think I might just admire Italy for being cheerful in that situation, though; I would have just been pissed and embarrassed!
So uh, yeah, is it scary that I imagine Italy jumping Germany in exactly this way? Because I'm pretty sure that Italy would think, "Food is awesome, painting is awesome, and sex with Germany is awesome; why not combine them?"
Again, sorry about commenting while you were posting. >_> I was excited, though, because this looks really good. I don't think you have to worry about your writing at all! Now I want to see your characterization for France and Spain, too. And I'm curious if either France or Spain -- okay, maybe Spain is too clueless to figure his way out of a paper bag -- has any clue that Prussia's exploits were ALL imaginary. And I've never seen a Bad Touch Trio threesome, shockingly enough, so I'm can't wait for the smut. Even if it's not detailed or whatever, I just want to hear what crazy stuff Spain and France come up with to pop his cherry. I'm sure they'll both have an idea or two. ;D
Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1c/?
anonymous
April 26 2011, 10:41:55 UTC
You don't have to be sorry at all! Actually, it was really nice to get some instant feedback, since I was pretty nervous about posting it.
Even if it's not detailed or whatever.
Oh, it will be detailed. Actually, I'm thinking there's going to be multiple smutty parts, with a minimum of at least two and possibly more, depending on how things go. With a trio like this, it's hard to define what "losing your virginity" actually means; in fact the whole concept kind of starts to fall apart, in my opinion.
Instead, I'm thinking I'll be treating this as more of a prolonged sexual iniation, in which Prussia gets to experience multiple "firsts", all of which are fun or awkward or special in their own way.
Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1c/?
anonymous
April 23 2011, 16:40:09 UTC
Anon, this is so wonderful! Prussia's voice is pitch-perfect and hilarious, and all the little details are rich and IC an I just love this whole thing to bits. Prussia is so tough and awesome and sassy and quietly sad underneath, he's breaking my heart. I can't wait for his BFFs to help him out.
Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1c/?
anonymous
April 23 2011, 23:15:39 UTC
Oh my god, this is epic. Maybe the most in-character Prussia I've ever read, even - maybe especially - considering the subject matter. Your descriptions are just plain fun to read.
I can't wait until France and Spain come in. This promises to be one of my favorite fills of all time. *camps like a mofo*
Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1c/?
anonymous
April 26 2011, 10:48:52 UTC
Wow, I am absolutely blown away by this comment. Thank you so much. That's incredibly flattering and certainly not something I expected to hear. I'm especially glad you enjoy my take on Prussia.
Re: The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1c/?
anonymous
April 25 2011, 13:47:38 UTC
Loving this fic! And Prussia is not so unlucky... his best friends are the country of passion and the country of love so good shags can be seen in the horizon! And Germany needs to relax a bit more XD
The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1d/?
anonymous
April 28 2011, 19:28:54 UTC
Thanks so much to everyone who left comments! Your encouragement is much appreciated. OP, I hope you don't mind me taking my time to get to the smut-- it's coming, I promise.
I don't know if this qualifies as a warning, but Prussia has some pretty unenlightened views on women, same sex relationships and... well, pretty much everything. Just be clear, his views are definitely not my own.
****
Prussia makes his across town. He walks briskly down side streets and cuts through alleys until he reaches the worst part of Berlin, which is also his favourite part. He keeps going until graffiti peppers the undersides of bridges, newspapers drift across broken sidewalks, and tiny shards of beer bottles glitter and crunch beneath his feet. It may not be pretty, but it's his, and something about the smell of smoke drifting over from the industrial areas clears his head a little, lets him breath a little easier.
When muscles in his legs finally start to ache, he slips into the first bar in his path.
The place is a dive. The beer is cheap and tastes like cold piss, and the health code status of the floor underneath him is... questionable. It's coated with a mysterious liquid that's collecting fallen cigarette butts, or perhaps they've just been tossed there, since there's no ashtray in sight. It reminds him of those little trays of goo you put in the dark corners of your house to catch cockroaches, or mice, or whatever other pests are infesting the place.
All this is fine by Prussia; he didn't come to admire the housekeeping. He came to get passed-out drunk, and while it's taking longer than he would like on this watered down crap, the one thing this shithole has going for it is a complete and utter lack of lovey-dovey couples out on their Friday night date. Prussia doesn't have guess why. No woman in her right mind would be caught dead in this place, probably because most of the other patrons have personal hygiene that leaves them as clean as the floor under his bar stool.
He turns back to his drink, closing his eyes and grateful for the dim light.
What a fuckin' week, Prussia thinks to himself. It wasn't enough that entire world-- literally-- descend upon his city and start living it up without him, which was like having a party in your own friggin' house that you weren't invited to. Oh, no. His own brother-- his workaholic, stiff-as-a-rod, awkward-as-fuck little brother-- had to bring it home with him, where he couldn't just turn the other way and ignore it. Didn't even have the decency to fuck at the conference hall like everyone else, out of view of their no-longer-an-official-nation family members, who might be feeling just a little left out, might be feeling just a little lonely, might be wondering why it is that they're always the last to be chosen when everyone's picking teams, no matter what team it is they're playing for. Hell, not even chosen last, but fucking benched; forced to sit on the sidelines and watch while everyone else plays the game, and you just sit there, waiting for your turn in a shit bar, drinking shit beer, getting served by a man who smells like bad Limburger cheese.
...
Yeah, it's the sort of thing that could really get to a guy.
Good thing Prussia's not the bitter type.
Still, the revelation that his little brother has surpassed him not only professionally, but sexually-- and was engaging in kinky, food-based foreplay with his "best friend" and clearly had been for some time-- sorta stung. It was also really fucking disturbing. After all, doing it against the kitchen counter was only a hop, skip and a jump from doing it on the kitchen counter. Prussia has a horrifying realization that West's obsession with the cleanliness of their kitchen surfaces might not be just one of his OCD freakouts, but might be more... practical in nature.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Prussia shudders. "Hey barkeep! Another one down here, stat!"
The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1e/?
anonymous
April 28 2011, 19:57:50 UTC
Hope you and your little buddy are proud of yourselves, West-- you've finally driven me to drink.
All right, he was driven to drink for the fourth time this week, but the point remains. Prussia has half a mind to call up Italy's psycho older brother and have a little chat about what their siblings are getting up to between meetings. Then again, maybe not-- between the flagrant abuse of tomato sauce and the violation of his little brother's honour, West is likely to end up floating off the coast of Sicily in several pieces.
The worst part of all this is that Prussia can't even work up an appropriate amount of amusement at West's expense. What he'd walked in on provided him with enough material to mock his little brother mercilessly for several months, something Prussia would normally consider a very fortunate turn of events. He ought to be coming up with condiment-based one-liners and ways to use them without getting permanently evicted from West's basement.
Instead, he feels... he doesn't know what. It's definitely not self-pity; that shit's for losers, not cool, confident guys like him. Maybe it's envy? After all, having someone make you dinner and give you a blowjob at the same time is pretty fuckin' awesome. If there were any justice in the world, it would be how Prussia was spending his evening. Unfortunately, none of the women he'd spoken to on his way here had been amenable to the idea; in fact they'd all been quite inexplicably hostile.
They were probably lesbians.
Prussia's shoulders sag. He rests his chin on his hands, gazing into his drink as though it were a tiny, ineffective wishing well swallowing his pennies. A penny for your thoughts. His mind wanders.
Old Fritz, what would you do in my shoes?
No response was forthcoming. Of course, Old Fritz probably never walked in on his brother getting a blowjob from an Italian who'd been skipping around Europe since the fifth century. There was something he used to say, though; something about sex or love or stuff kind of on that level. What was it again? "Friendship is the finest balm for the pangs of despised love"?
Prussia suddenly brightens.
Bros before hoes... of course!
Prussia might be up the creek without female company-- or fellatio-- but he doesn't have to suffer alone. There are two people in town right now who would probably be very interested to hear how West spent his Friday evening, especially since they've had to put up with his drill sargeant chairing all week.
Eh, okay, probably one person who would be very interested. Still, that one person has diplomatic immunity, which means unlike Prussia he's unlikely to get a beat down when news of West and Italy's forays into fusion cuisine starts making the rounds in World Conference gossip mill.
Sorry bro, Prussia smirks as he flicks open his phone. That's what you get for kickin' me out so you can get your noodle slurped.
Unfortunately, France's cell goes straight to voicemail. He tries Spain next with the same result. He finally dials the Adlon Kempinski, where France stays on his government's dime every time he's in town. Getting a hold of him this way is a pain in the ass because he has to give the front desk France's civilian name, which the guy changes about as often as his clothes and Prussia can never fucking remember it as a result. He privately suspects France does it because he's only being on earth vain enough to enjoy posing for passport photos. The phone rings for a long time before anyone picks up.
"... hello?"
Instead than the airy, clipped "Allo?" he was expecting, there's a Spanish lilt to that voice. That's weird-- he could have sworn he'd given them France's name.
Perhaps he's drunker he feels.
"Hey man," Prussia says, breaking into a toothy grin even though Spain isn't there to appreciate it. "It's the awesome me! How's it hangin'?"
The Sexual Miseducation of Gilbert Beilschmidt, 1f/?
anonymous
April 28 2011, 20:26:37 UTC
"Wha-- oh shit, I mean, hi Prussia!" He says pointedly, sounding rather breathless. "I'm great! Hey, can I call you back in just a..."
Prussia smirks. He tunes Spain out with the ease of practice, indulging in a moment of schadenfreude. Spain might be inexplicably more popular with the ladies, but clearly he wasn't such a casanova he could escape spending a Friday night alone in his hotel room, the poor sap. Fortunately he has a buddy like Prussia, who is a man of action, bringing excitement into the otherwise dull lives of those around him.
"Cool," Prussia breaks in, cutting off whatever boring story Spain was about to launch into next. "Listen, you'll never freakin' guess what I walked in on today. West, that little fucker-- my eyes are still burning."
Spain makes a hitched little moan. "-- was it another dvd?" He gasps. "Like the one with the d-dogs?"
"Worse," Prussia announces dramatically, despite his concerns about Aster, Blackie, and Berlitz's rather suspicious love of peanut butter. "You gotta come down here though, 'cause I can't tell you this shit over the phone. The cell towers, you know, West can probably trace me from 'em. The kid's a freakin' James Bond when it comes to that stuff." Prussia scratches distractedly at a chip in the counter. "And... I haven't see you a whole lot in the past little bit. I mean, I've real busy and stuff; you know, gotta spread myself around and all that--" He pauses to take a breath. "But I can make time to hang out today. Probably."
Spain is quiet.
"Hold on just a sec," He says softly. There's a muffled sound as though something's covering the receiver, then several moments of silence while Prussia waits. For a split second he thinks he catches the words 'poutine' and 'landlines' and 'bleeding heart', but those seem like rather unlikely things for Spain to say, so Prussia dismisses them. Granted, the guy's pretty chatty and Prussia wouldn't exactly put it past him to carry on a conversation with himself-- he knows for a fact that Spain doesn't like getting shut up without company, in places that are "too quiet".
Prussia feels a sudden pang of guilt. He should've tried harder to get a hold of Spain this week, even though his cell phone seems to be consistently malfunctioning.
"Okay," Spain says when he picks up again, sounding a lot more like his typical, cheerful self. "Let's make it a guy's night out! Where are you, anyway?"
Prussia rattles off the name of the bar-- roughly translated as "The Plough"-- as well the street address and directions from the hotel, all which he knows intuitively. He can hear Spain scribbling down the information on the other end of the line.
"Okay, got it!" Spain announces. "I'll be there in ten minu-- ow!-- twenty minutes, then?"
Prussia blinks. "You asking me?"
Spain makes a low sound in his throat. "Nnnn... nah, not really. Just gimme some time to wrap things up here and I'll head down."
Prussia grins. "Awesome! I'm gonna call France too; this shit is right up his alley. Speaking of which, you got his number here?"
"Oh, don't worry about that," Spain says firmly. "I'll make sure he comes."
Prussia smirks. "He's probably out with some chick."
Surprisingly, he doesn't even feel that bitter about it. France can pull nines and tens on his worst night, but he also has this weird thing for girls who don't shave their armpits. Prussia likes to imagine all of France's conquests share this trait, even though he knows it's not true. It helps when he remembers that France routinely gets laid more in one night than he has in his entire life.
"We're staying at the same hotel," Spain groans, beginning to sound like he's in a fair degree of discomfort. "I'm sure he's around here somewhereahhhhh-- stillonthephone, still on the phone!"
"You okay man?" Prussia asks, getting rather concerned. "You sound kinda..." Like you caught your finger in a sausage maker. "... weird."
"M'good!" Spain gasps. "Gotta go--!"
There was a loud crash, as though the phone had been thrown against the wall. Then the line went dead.
Really.
Still, it's pretty funny to flirt with him in front of West, who makes these ridiculous faces that are half sad puppy and half 'I'm-about-to-launch-a-blitzkreig'. Italy's hasn't caught on yet and at this rate, Prussia doesn't think he ever will. Which is fine by him; it's all in good fun. After all, if you can't give your little brother a hard time about his totally ridiculous crush, who can you hassle?
But even that isn't Prussia's favourite thing about the guy. What Prussia likes the most Italy, hands down, is his cooking. As useless as that kid might be everywhere else, he's an absolute whiz in the kitchen. Prussia never misses a meal that Italy's whipped up if he can help it. This was, in fact, the reason Prussia had come home early. West might complain about the messes Italy leaves in their kitchen, but he shovels down his food like there's no tomorrow. Prussia wasn't about to get stuck with leftovers again, even if Italy was making dinner for West in particular-- Prussia's still the better half of Germany; that ought to entitle him to at least half to the chow.
Unfortunately for his empty stomach, cooking wasn't the only activity going on in their kitchen that day.
He'd walked in to find West backed up against the counter, his pants around his ankles and his undershirt pushed up to his armpits. His body had been liberally smeared with tomato sauce. It was painted in elegant swirls onto his chest, and his abs and-- other parts of him Prussia really didn't want to dwell on. It almost appeared as though he'd suffered an unfortunate yet strangely erotic cooking accident.
Almost, but not quite. The party clearly responsible had been kneeling between West's legs.
"Oh, hi Prussia!" Italy chirped, wiping some stray tomato sauce off his lower lip. He waved the basting brush he was holding in his other hand. "Wow, this is kinda embarrassing! We didn't think you'd be home so early!"
Prussia had struggled to formulate a coherent response to that. Hours later, he would decide upon a smugly uttered, "And I didn't think I'd come home to find my little brother making a mockery of spaghetti slurping ." At that moment in particular, however, he found himself at a total loss for words.
West's eyes shot open.
For several agonizing seconds, the only sound in the kitchen had been the water bubbling away on the stove. West gaped at him in slowly dawning horror, almost as though he didn't want to be believe Prussia was really there in the doorway.
Come to think of it, he probably didn't.
Prussia watched as the utter shame and humiliation in West's eyes slowly came to a boil, and with admirable Teutonic efficiency, transformed into anger. It was a coping mechanism Prussia was more than familiar with thanks to West's rare but semi-nuclear childhood temper tantrums. As he flushed to shade slightly less red than the tomato sauce decorating his torso, Prussia braced himself for the explosion.
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"What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I live here!" Prussia squawked, his righteous indignation having overcome his shock. "And I friggin' eat off that counter! Ugh! What the fuck, West!?"
No explanation for the desecration of their kitchen was forthcoming, although a vein West's forehead had started to pulse worryingly. "Get out!" He bellowed, yanking the basting brush out Italy's hand and hurling it at Prussia's head.
Prussia yelped, barely ducking in time as the brush sailed overhead and hit the wall with a splat. It slid to floor, leaving a long streak of tomato sauce dripping in it's wake. It was at this point Prussia realized vacating the premise might be a good idea. West approached the cleanliness of his kitchen with the same degree of seriousness as national security-- if that consideration had gone out the window, there was no telling what he might do.
"Fine, I'm going, I'm going! Christ!" Prussia groused, throwing his hands up in the air in act of mock surrender. "I hope you're happy West- you're responsible for yet another case of PTSD!"
"Out!"
"I'm never gonna be able to eat tomato sauce again!"
"Out!"
"By the way, you got it all over your--"
"Out!"
"Bye, Prussia!" Italy called cheerily, as Prussia slammed the front door.
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So uh, yeah, is it scary that I imagine Italy jumping Germany in exactly this way? Because I'm pretty sure that Italy would think, "Food is awesome, painting is awesome, and sex with Germany is awesome; why not combine them?"
Again, sorry about commenting while you were posting. >_> I was excited, though, because this looks really good. I don't think you have to worry about your writing at all! Now I want to see your characterization for France and Spain, too. And I'm curious if either France or Spain -- okay, maybe Spain is too clueless to figure his way out of a paper bag -- has any clue that Prussia's exploits were ALL imaginary. And I've never seen a Bad Touch Trio threesome, shockingly enough, so I'm can't wait for the smut. Even if it's not detailed or whatever, I just want to hear what crazy stuff Spain and France come up with to pop his cherry. I'm sure they'll both have an idea or two. ;D
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Even if it's not detailed or whatever.
Oh, it will be detailed. Actually, I'm thinking there's going to be multiple smutty parts, with a minimum of at least two and possibly more, depending on how things go. With a trio like this, it's hard to define what "losing your virginity" actually means; in fact the whole concept kind of starts to fall apart, in my opinion.
Instead, I'm thinking I'll be treating this as more of a prolonged sexual iniation, in which Prussia gets to experience multiple "firsts", all of which are fun or awkward or special in their own way.
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I can't wait until France and Spain come in. This promises to be one of my favorite fills of all time. *camps like a mofo*
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Your writing is brilliant, a!a, and so is your sense of humor. Don't ever stop!
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I don't know if this qualifies as a warning, but Prussia has some pretty unenlightened views on women, same sex relationships and... well, pretty much everything. Just be clear, his views are definitely not my own.
****
Prussia makes his across town. He walks briskly down side streets and cuts through alleys until he reaches the worst part of Berlin, which is also his favourite part. He keeps going until graffiti peppers the undersides of bridges, newspapers drift across broken sidewalks, and tiny shards of beer bottles glitter and crunch beneath his feet. It may not be pretty, but it's his, and something about the smell of smoke drifting over from the industrial areas clears his head a little, lets him breath a little easier.
When muscles in his legs finally start to ache, he slips into the first bar in his path.
The place is a dive. The beer is cheap and tastes like cold piss, and the health code status of the floor underneath him is... questionable. It's coated with a mysterious liquid that's collecting fallen cigarette butts, or perhaps they've just been tossed there, since there's no ashtray in sight. It reminds him of those little trays of goo you put in the dark corners of your house to catch cockroaches, or mice, or whatever other pests are infesting the place.
All this is fine by Prussia; he didn't come to admire the housekeeping. He came to get passed-out drunk, and while it's taking longer than he would like on this watered down crap, the one thing this shithole has going for it is a complete and utter lack of lovey-dovey couples out on their Friday night date. Prussia doesn't have guess why. No woman in her right mind would be caught dead in this place, probably because most of the other patrons have personal hygiene that leaves them as clean as the floor under his bar stool.
He turns back to his drink, closing his eyes and grateful for the dim light.
What a fuckin' week, Prussia thinks to himself. It wasn't enough that entire world-- literally-- descend upon his city and start living it up without him, which was like having a party in your own friggin' house that you weren't invited to. Oh, no. His own brother-- his workaholic, stiff-as-a-rod, awkward-as-fuck little brother-- had to bring it home with him, where he couldn't just turn the other way and ignore it. Didn't even have the decency to fuck at the conference hall like everyone else, out of view of their no-longer-an-official-nation family members, who might be feeling just a little left out, might be feeling just a little lonely, might be wondering why it is that they're always the last to be chosen when everyone's picking teams, no matter what team it is they're playing for. Hell, not even chosen last, but fucking benched; forced to sit on the sidelines and watch while everyone else plays the game, and you just sit there, waiting for your turn in a shit bar, drinking shit beer, getting served by a man who smells like bad Limburger cheese.
...
Yeah, it's the sort of thing that could really get to a guy.
Good thing Prussia's not the bitter type.
Still, the revelation that his little brother has surpassed him not only professionally, but sexually-- and was engaging in kinky, food-based foreplay with his "best friend" and clearly had been for some time-- sorta stung. It was also really fucking disturbing. After all, doing it against the kitchen counter was only a hop, skip and a jump from doing it on the kitchen counter. Prussia has a horrifying realization that West's obsession with the cleanliness of their kitchen surfaces might not be just one of his OCD freakouts, but might be more... practical in nature.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Prussia shudders. "Hey barkeep! Another one down here, stat!"
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All right, he was driven to drink for the fourth time this week, but the point remains. Prussia has half a mind to call up Italy's psycho older brother and have a little chat about what their siblings are getting up to between meetings. Then again, maybe not-- between the flagrant abuse of tomato sauce and the violation of his little brother's honour, West is likely to end up floating off the coast of Sicily in several pieces.
The worst part of all this is that Prussia can't even work up an appropriate amount of amusement at West's expense. What he'd walked in on provided him with enough material to mock his little brother mercilessly for several months, something Prussia would normally consider a very fortunate turn of events. He ought to be coming up with condiment-based one-liners and ways to use them without getting permanently evicted from West's basement.
Instead, he feels... he doesn't know what. It's definitely not self-pity; that shit's for losers, not cool, confident guys like him. Maybe it's envy? After all, having someone make you dinner and give you a blowjob at the same time is pretty fuckin' awesome. If there were any justice in the world, it would be how Prussia was spending his evening. Unfortunately, none of the women he'd spoken to on his way here had been amenable to the idea; in fact they'd all been quite inexplicably hostile.
They were probably lesbians.
Prussia's shoulders sag. He rests his chin on his hands, gazing into his drink as though it were a tiny, ineffective wishing well swallowing his pennies. A penny for your thoughts. His mind wanders.
Old Fritz, what would you do in my shoes?
No response was forthcoming. Of course, Old Fritz probably never walked in on his brother getting a blowjob from an Italian who'd been skipping around Europe since the fifth century. There was something he used to say, though; something about sex or love or stuff kind of on that level. What was it again? "Friendship is the finest balm for the pangs of despised love"?
Prussia suddenly brightens.
Bros before hoes... of course!
Prussia might be up the creek without female company-- or fellatio-- but he doesn't have to suffer alone. There are two people in town right now who would probably be very interested to hear how West spent his Friday evening, especially since they've had to put up with his drill sargeant chairing all week.
Eh, okay, probably one person who would be very interested. Still, that one person has diplomatic immunity, which means unlike Prussia he's unlikely to get a beat down when news of West and Italy's forays into fusion cuisine starts making the rounds in World Conference gossip mill.
Sorry bro, Prussia smirks as he flicks open his phone. That's what you get for kickin' me out so you can get your noodle slurped.
Unfortunately, France's cell goes straight to voicemail. He tries Spain next with the same result. He finally dials the Adlon Kempinski, where France stays on his government's dime every time he's in town. Getting a hold of him this way is a pain in the ass because he has to give the front desk France's civilian name, which the guy changes about as often as his clothes and Prussia can never fucking remember it as a result. He privately suspects France does it because he's only being on earth vain enough to enjoy posing for passport photos. The phone rings for a long time before anyone picks up.
"... hello?"
Instead than the airy, clipped "Allo?" he was expecting, there's a Spanish lilt to that voice. That's weird-- he could have sworn he'd given them France's name.
Perhaps he's drunker he feels.
"Hey man," Prussia says, breaking into a toothy grin even though Spain isn't there to appreciate it. "It's the awesome me! How's it hangin'?"
It takes several seconds for Spain to reply.
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Prussia smirks. He tunes Spain out with the ease of practice, indulging in a moment of schadenfreude. Spain might be inexplicably more popular with the ladies, but clearly he wasn't such a casanova he could escape spending a Friday night alone in his hotel room, the poor sap. Fortunately he has a buddy like Prussia, who is a man of action, bringing excitement into the otherwise dull lives of those around him.
"Cool," Prussia breaks in, cutting off whatever boring story Spain was about to launch into next. "Listen, you'll never freakin' guess what I walked in on today. West, that little fucker-- my eyes are still burning."
Spain makes a hitched little moan. "-- was it another dvd?" He gasps. "Like the one with the d-dogs?"
"Worse," Prussia announces dramatically, despite his concerns about Aster, Blackie, and Berlitz's rather suspicious love of peanut butter. "You gotta come down here though, 'cause I can't tell you this shit over the phone. The cell towers, you know, West can probably trace me from 'em. The kid's a freakin' James Bond when it comes to that stuff." Prussia scratches distractedly at a chip in the counter. "And... I haven't see you a whole lot in the past little bit. I mean, I've real busy and stuff; you know, gotta spread myself around and all that--" He pauses to take a breath. "But I can make time to hang out today. Probably."
Spain is quiet.
"Hold on just a sec," He says softly. There's a muffled sound as though something's covering the receiver, then several moments of silence while Prussia waits. For a split second he thinks he catches the words 'poutine' and 'landlines' and 'bleeding heart', but those seem like rather unlikely things for Spain to say, so Prussia dismisses them. Granted, the guy's pretty chatty and Prussia wouldn't exactly put it past him to carry on a conversation with himself-- he knows for a fact that Spain doesn't like getting shut up without company, in places that are "too quiet".
Prussia feels a sudden pang of guilt. He should've tried harder to get a hold of Spain this week, even though his cell phone seems to be consistently malfunctioning.
"Okay," Spain says when he picks up again, sounding a lot more like his typical, cheerful self. "Let's make it a guy's night out! Where are you, anyway?"
Prussia rattles off the name of the bar-- roughly translated as "The Plough"-- as well the street address and directions from the hotel, all which he knows intuitively. He can hear Spain scribbling down the information on the other end of the line.
"Okay, got it!" Spain announces. "I'll be there in ten minu-- ow!-- twenty minutes, then?"
Prussia blinks. "You asking me?"
Spain makes a low sound in his throat. "Nnnn... nah, not really. Just gimme some time to wrap things up here and I'll head down."
Prussia grins. "Awesome! I'm gonna call France too; this shit is right up his alley. Speaking of which, you got his number here?"
"Oh, don't worry about that," Spain says firmly. "I'll make sure he comes."
Prussia smirks. "He's probably out with some chick."
Surprisingly, he doesn't even feel that bitter about it. France can pull nines and tens on his worst night, but he also has this weird thing for girls who don't shave their armpits. Prussia likes to imagine all of France's conquests share this trait, even though he knows it's not true. It helps when he remembers that France routinely gets laid more in one night than he has in his entire life.
"We're staying at the same hotel," Spain groans, beginning to sound like he's in a fair degree of discomfort. "I'm sure he's around here somewhereahhhhh-- stillonthephone, still on the phone!"
"You okay man?" Prussia asks, getting rather concerned. "You sound kinda..." Like you caught your finger in a sausage maker. "... weird."
"M'good!" Spain gasps. "Gotta go--!"
There was a loud crash, as though the phone had been thrown against the wall. Then the line went dead.
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