Title: King Of The Hill
Character/pairing: France, Prussia, France with special cameo by America and Canada. Technically gen, though contains honhonhon!France, so there's hints of France/most every character that appears and some that don't. Oh, and mentioned Spain/Romano.
Author's note: Hetachallenge: BFT, Hill. Is in no way related to Hank Hill.
Three bars later, it was closing time and they were swaying home, smelling like they had a threesome with a keg and considering how drunk they were, they very well might have. Prussia stumbled through the streets, and into a fenced in empty lot which was surprisingly free of broken beer bottles, though it had plenty of used condoms laying around, like there'd been some terrific orgy which France had tragically not been invited to.
In the middle was an incline that was less a hill and more a mound, or a glorified large abandoned anthill. But with beer goggles, it had become a full blown hill. Prussia plopped himself down on it.
"There, this hill was conquered in the name of Prussia. I am going to be the motherfucking king of this hill. You will all bow before me, and go he is our king!"
"Claim? Ha, you don't even exist anymore, unless you count your brother's basement," France said. He joined him on the mound and lay on his back, looking up at the sky.
"Oh, then what is it? French territory? Don't make me laugh. I could kick your ass from here to the bottom this hill."
"One word: Napoleon," France said.
"Your pretty little Corsican is six feet under."
"One word: Zombies!"
America burst in, as he was wont to do, with Spain not far behind.
"I brought more beer and he came along," Spain said cheerily.
"Why are you even here?" Prussia said
"Because you're in my front yard," America said. "Also because there is beer."
"Fuck you both. My zombie boss could kick your zombie boss's ass any day," Prussia said.
"My boss is alive and non-zombied, and I have zombie bosses to the fiftieth degree. Are you a bad enough dude to deal with that?"
"I am totally a bad enough dude to deal with you, I fucking trained you!"
"You're not the boss of me!"
"He doesn't do too good with authority," France said, with fondness in his voice.
"No shit, Sherlock. How do we deal with this overgrown bastard, anyways?"
Spain shrugged. "Hell if I know."
"You raised him for half the time. You freaking owned Florida," Prussia said.
"Well, it's best that I don't talk about that," Spain said. He looked around from side to side, checking for someone who really was not there. "Romano, he tends to get angry when I remember the glory days."
"You are so whipped, it isn't even funny," Prussia said.
France nodded. And when France agreed that you were whipped, you had reached a whole new level of whippedage.
"You'll never take Texas!" America cried as he jumped on the so called hill, which was pretty much just the trio at this point. Somehow it did not matter to him that said hill was already occupied.
"Ugh! Fuck you and your Texas, or even better, fuck you with your Texas."
"That is a good idea," France said, his voice a sensual purr. Somehow his clothes had all come off. Being as it was France, this was not very mysterious.
"The best way to deal with America? Aha, that is without pants! Shirts also, are optional in this manner," France said.
"France's ass is magical," America said thoughtfully. "He told me that once, a long time ago. I've yet to find any pots of gold in there. Or was it Ireland that had the pots of gold? I can never remember."
"You're just learning that now?" Prussia said. "Ugh, get this boulder off of me."
They lay back, the mound flattened under their weight, and flattened by America. Prussia pushed up, and eventually after some fuss, America rolled off and onto the pseudo hill with them. So then they did what every self respecting male would do when faced with a case of alcoholic substances: they drank all the beer.
It was a long, drunken and arduous journey, but they managed it with the four of them.
"Ughhh, we're out of beer," Prussia said, when they'd finally gleaned the last drop from the cans. He threw it into the other pile of cans and reached futilely for the beer that never came.
"But why is the rum gone?" America said.
"Because you drank it, asshole. Also there never was any rum."
"The lack of rum makes me sad," Spain said. He got weepy when he was too drunk, when he wasn't being really scary, that was.
"Me too," America said.
"The lack of drunken orgies makes me sad," France said.
They all stared at him.
"What? Someone had to say it," France said.
"If you want drunken orgies, invite the old man. He's usually drunk. It improves his mood, at least," America said.
"And so I shall, for inviting Angleterre to orgies is a tradition and it does indeed make him almost bearable, but an orgy requires more than one person, d'accord?" France looked hopefully around.
"Not unless you want your cojones shot off," Spain said. "Romano doesn't like to share."
Prussia made a raspberry and did a thumbs down notion, and America joined him, though he seemed far less interested in why the raspberry was being made, other than the fact that this gave him an excuse to act like a ten year old boy, especially as it devolved into an armpit fart contest.
"You didn't seem to mind last weekend," France said, with a pointed frown towards America
"What were we talking about again? Before the awesome raspberry fest I totally won?" America said.
"Shit, you did not win that, I won by two armpit farts!"
France sighed. "You two are very successful at killing my ardor. Now if only I could get drunk enough to forget your stupidity."
"I am totally more stupid than he is," Prussia said.
"You wish you could outdo my stupidity!" America said.
"I'm ten times more stupid and you know it," Prussia said.
"You're both idiots," France said.
This finally seemed to placate them. They all laid back, smelling like a mini bar went and ran off with a brewery and then starred in a Katy Perry song. Yes, that drunk. Eventually (or thankfully, as France would've said) they blacked out.
The next morning was bright, and all four of them hated everything. They moaned, and not like, in a sexy way. More like in a zombie way.
"I wish I was the undead, so I could shoot myself," America moaned.
"You can still do that, country and all," Prussia said.
"Yeah, but then it would be awesome," America said.
"Turn...the...light off." Prussia buried his face in America's chest. Somehow several articles of their clothing had disappeared. France was the prime–and only–suspect.
Spain and France were left to incoherent moaning.
Someone cleared their throat, and they blinked up into the harsh, unfamiliar light, and then the wonderful person who was blotting out the sun and standing in front of them. Not that he was huge, just he stood in just the right place to give them shade.
"I don't even want to ask, do I?" Canada sighed. He bent down and started putting sunglasses on their faces. America's wore Kamina sunglasses, France had a pair that would've looked at home on Lady Gaga, while Prussia got the Top Gear Glasses, and Spain was stuck with the hipster sunglasses.
"You came to save us," America said weakly. "Did you order burgers?"
"Five bags of fast food. There's orange juice and water inside, and I'll make pancakes for anyone who wants them," Canada said.
"You're the best, bro," America said.
"Does he have a sixth sense on hangovers or something?" Prussia asked.
"After so many years with England and France, what do you think?" Canada replied irritatedly.
"I raised you so well," France said with pride.