[Fic] This Could Go Very Wrong
This Could Go Very Wrong
by Bleedred (Toilinthefields)
Last updated: December 27th, 2011
Characters: Russia, Belarus, Hungary, Seychelles
Pairings: None
Rating: Everybody
Genre: Friendship/Humor
Warnings: Russia, Belarus, Hungary, Seychelles, desserts, Russian accents, French language
Summary: Russia is forced to judge a baking contest.
Written as a request for selenity0011 for the hetachallenge 2011 Advent Challenge
Whatever possessed Russia to think this was a good idea, he hadn't the foggiest. All he knew was that now it was mid-December and he was sitting at his kitchen table with three flour-covered girls all beaming at him (except Belarus, she was making her usual face, but he didn't expect anything less honestly), waiting for him to eat whatever it was that they put in front of him. Three girls... in the same room... specifically his kitchen... all wanting him to eat their baked products and tell them that he thought theirs was the best. This was just asking to go horribly wrong.
Three dishes lined themselves up on the table, ready to be munched. He only had to taste them, right? He didn't have to eat all of the food immediately, did he? He probably could if he wanted to, but he didn't exactly want to keep them waiting between pondering which he liked best. The suspense would either kill them... or him. He also would rather have liked to have his kitchen back as soon as possible and they didn't seem too keen on cleaning up after themselves until they had their answer about whose baking was the best.
"Wh-who is first then?" he asked, smiling somewhat nervously. What if he accidentally upset them during this whole thing? Belarus would likely just do her usual thing of glaring and threatening to stab something, hopefully not the others though. Hungary would probably just whip that frying pan of hers out of nowhere and make Russia say goodnight to the floor. Seychelles... would probably cry... and Russia would feel absolutely horrible for making a little girl unhappy.
They'd been there all morning, clanking things around in the kitchen and making an absolute mess as they probably made baking a full-body contact sport, except maybe for Seychelles, but really... deep down... he wouldn't have been surprised if she had been in the middle of the fray. Russia wouldn't have known, as he'd only just now been allowed back into his kitchen.
The moment the three of them dragged him in from the living room, he'd stood in the doorway in shock at the catastrophe that had befallen the place. Flour everywhere, to start. A few broken eggs were on the floor, spilling away from the cracked shells. Was that... butter... on the ceiling? How in the hell did they get it up there? Filthy dishes littered the counters and filled the sink, the dishwasher open and shoved to maximum capacity with even more dishes and pans. Why were some of the dishes green? What were they baking exactly? Nuclear muffins?! It had taken their "urging" for him to sit down at the table for him to actually rid himself of the wide-eyed expression of surprise. Was that scorch mark on the ceiling and one of his bottles of vodka half-gone on the table?
"Of course Brother will have mine first!"
Belarus wasn't shy about making sure that her big brother ate her food before he could even ponder anyone else's, evident by the way she shoved her plate in his direction. It was a whole cake, just barely small enough to fit on the plate. He knew what this was, she'd made it a few times before for his birthday. The filling of apple jam, raisins and dates wasn't exactly new to him. He'd have no problem eating it.
Russia tentatively took a bite and tried to keep a straight face. This... was not like she always used to make. She must have tried to get fancy with the flavors to try and impress him. Maybe later, he'd kindly tell her that garlic, despite how much Italy went on about how delicious it was, did not go in desserts. He swallowed and gave her a smile as she glared at him... like always.
Next Hungary quickly swapped the plates, the dinnerware clacking loudly on the table as she smirked proudly. It seemed to be another cake, one that she'd already pulled a slice out of so he could see the inside of it. It didn't look bad at all, if he was honest with himself.
"What is this cal-"
"Dobosh Torte!" She already had her hands on her hips and her head held high in pride. Well... it looked good, at least... It seemed to be spongecake with chocolate... buttercream? Was that what it was called? He wasn't actually all that knowledgeable about the terminology of things in baking. He just knew how to eat the results. It was also apparently covered in something. It stuck to his fork and the moment it decided to fight back against his teeth, he realized it was caramel.
It was definitely delicious (and certainly eased the anger that his stomach was having over Belarus' misguided creativity) and while Hungary more than deserved to be pleased with herself over it, it was still too soon to make any sort of final decision. Russia smiled and nodded. He would certainly be eating the rest of this later... when they weren't looking.
In another second, Seychelles shyly moved Hungary's tort out of the way and replaced it with her dish. It looked very familiar... Oh, yes, of course! Crème brûlée! He'd had this before; France had made it for him once. Now he knew where the scorch mark on his ceiling came from, but there was something very different about this custard.
It was green.
"Je made it pistachio-flavor for you, Russie~!" She beamed at him, handing him an eating utensil. Well... pistachio was all well and good, but did she actually have to color it radioactive green? Points for creativity though, he reminded himself... since contests had points, right? He hoped so... except for the fact that he hadn't exactly been keeping track of any such thing so in retrospect maybe not.
"How... clever... off you," he said, poking at it curiously. Besides being green though, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. He took a bite.
A queer look washed across his face.
He took another bite.
Belarus's expression intensified while Hungary's smirk turned into vague disapproval, as though they were both suddenly plotting Russia's downfall.
"Well?" the three girls asked in unison.
"Well, I..." Russia gulped and reached for his scarf instinctively, pulling it up over his face as though that was going to be some sort of protection. "Seyshely dit really goot jo- how lonk haff you hat that fryink pa- where were you keepink that kni-"
Seychelles merrily began cleaning up the kitchen as Russia ran for the living room trying to escape the torrent of estrogen-fueled violence with his name on it.