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“Dear Angleterre, are you up for a bit of,” France’s voice goes into a sultry deep, but Arthur can’t bring himself to care, “state diplomacy.” England just looks at the young man who was once a younger brother to him, unable to tear his eyes away. If they were anywhere but America Arthur would’ve yelled at the lad to stop the current shooting match with Russia, but England knew how to read the room enough to know just how bad of an idea that would have been.
“Not yet.” Arthur grunts, in a way that fails to shoo France away but does silence him. He thinks that France would notice what he was looking at, if he even expected the frog bastard to be doing anything but ogling a half naked Italy. Little did he know Francis was focusing on an England that he believed to be thoroughly hammered.
“So we are on for later?” Francis whispers into his ear, sending a buzz down his spine that may have just been the pleasant drink Arthur sipped. He watches the eyes, oh god the eyes, Alfred must have gotten those eyes from him.
“In the hotel Francis,” Arthur slurs, “I’m not a perverted frog bastard like you. Go entertain yourself somewhere.” England watches more, hearing the snippets of conversation pass over the very rowdy party,
“Hey commie bastard, whoever wins gets to shoot the other! Fair?” Arthur can’t help himself but be pulled headfirst into a very similar memory, Alfred replaced with Arthur and Russia replaced with France.
“Hey Frenchie, get off your borachio ass!” Arthur lounges around the nasty excess of Versailles, spotting France complete in the trappings of the most pretentious of clothes. Contrasting France, Arthur himself was particularly nasty, even for the time he was in, fresh off a boat and thick with the smell of it.
“Angleterre for whatever reason you call moi, it must be of importance. Your speech is more reminiscent of a brutish buccaneer instead of any civilized European nation. And as well, your uncouth summoning of me has distracted me from the ultimate conquest,” The wink did not go by Arthur unnoticed, he just decided to ignore it, “although that may be replaced with you, I have come to believe that would be the preferable option. Though perhaps you are too drunk, I, myself am too much of a gentleman to take advantage?” The bastard’s voice was tilted, in the way that any other day Arthur would yell and protest of his sobriety, eventually being the sole factor that drove them to bed. But today was different.
“Bullshit. I wanted to ask you to a duel, if im too-hic- drunk then I won’t hit you. Teach you who to call a lightweight.” Nobody on the rest of the dance floor notices when Arthur pulls out a pistol from his trousers, France placing a hand over his own. Though that didn’t last long, and France would remember the nasty bruise on his cheek from that moment.
“And what is the reward, you know how much I adore punishment.” The words dive into a sultry tone, before returning to a pompous one, “And you are piss drunk, you’ve barely had a nipperkin and you’re stumbling over your words.”
“The reward is getting to shoot your ass. I’ve been wanting too for a long time.”
“Da.” The present is easy to warm back up to, as Arthur watches the small smile that graces Russia’s lips. Sadistic in an opposite way to Alfred, subtle in a way that Alfred’s is not.
“I’d rather entertain myself with you Angleterre, surely none other has the spark we have, cher .” Francis starts to touch Arthur’s face, displeasing him greatly, how could the French bastard not know when to back off.
“Francis.” Arthur growls, pushing him away before looking back at his little brother, and can’t tear himself away from the crazed eyes. They were just far too similar to bear. Every nation in the house quiets at the crack of a gun, looking back to see the hole in the second smallest ring of the target. Russia looks far too proud, and England wants to push him far away from America.
“Alright Arthur, I will leave you in peace.” Francis shuffles off to get more of something alcoholic, probably raiding the wine cellar. Arthur watches with rapt attention as Alfred lines up a shot, grinning like a madman and more confident than ever. Other nations have joined in watching them, but the unguarded, disturbing, greedy, power hungry expression of his probably means Alfred hasn’t caught on to that. But the nations see it, they see the match of Russia, the superpower that has caught them all so off guard.
“They do deserve each other, oui?” A loud shot rings out over the house again ending Francis’ sentence too early. Arthur can’t see the target anymore, Kiku having blacked his view, but the pure glee on Alfred’s face is enough to tell.
“Of course not. Russia should stay the bloody hell away from my bro-” Arthur notices his verbal slip, “my friend. Russia should know to stay away.” Russia truly gave him the creepy, the smile was large enough to match Alfred’s, for whatever reason. Arthur knew his brother enough to know he only smiles like that when he wins...
“Amerique isn’t your little brother anymore.” Francis chides, Arthur winces when the third shot rings out, seeing the blood on Russia’s coat. He can’t seem to see anything that shows Russia is mad, no reaching for the pipe, nothing. Just the creepy smile that has only grown bigger since this started.
“I know that.” Arthur grumbles, trying to suppress the rush of fear, Alfred could end the world if he wanted to. With Russia it’s always tugging at the back of Arthur’s mind, but with America? The little boy who wouldn’t want to chop down trees because they were homes to birds?
“Alfred es un poco como tu, sí Arthur? Not always, pero a veces.” Spain jolts Arthur’s attention back to reality, he and France seem to notice at the same time how Spain is just standing there offly close.
“Spain? I didn’t catch you there,” Arthur feels far too sober to deal with Spain, but to be drunk enough to deal with Spain would mean not being able to stand. Francis seemed fine dealing with him though. Arthur sees that Alfred seems to have roped Mexico and Japan into a drinking contest, complete with an enormous keg.
“Arthur, me llamo es Antonio, don’t be so formal. We’ve known eachother durante, un mil años mas o menos?” Arthur has fully decided to politely ignore Spain, letting the two nuisances of his life argue in peace.
“Angleterre is nothing like Amerique,” Francis was right now, the calm and mostly collected Arthur was almost as different as can be from the reckless youth currently drinking Japan under the table, “Well, maybe he is like when Angleterre was a pirate.” But in his youth, England was known to do just the same things, and by god did Arthur hate those memories.
“Oh, sí. Maybe superpowers always act like that?” This trio seemed to have been replaced with a new triumvirate, France, Spain, and England replaced with Russia. China, and the USA. America may have the sun set on his lands, but the truly terrifying thing was how he destroyed nations with a touch, almost as if by accident.
“We were superpowers once, and none of us are like Russia.” France gossips, looking periodically at Arthur even though the other didn’t acknowledge him. Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if they were once as bone chillingly terrifying as the modern superpowers, even if the strongest of them was currently singing bad karaoke.
“Creepy bastard.” mumbled Arthur almost unintentionally as he watched Russia stand in the corner, watching Alfred with a creepy smile.
“I think that Russia has rubbed off on el Estados Unidos, don’t you think?” Spain takes a long drink of something that reeks of alcohol, Arthur looks at Alfred, tries to see it. Arthur sees the reckless power, the open sadism, the impulsiveness, the blinding Hollywood smiles that shine even in the trenches, and he sees himself. Arthur never really thought about it, he hoped that it would not be the case, but what was he to think, that England was the one who raised Alfred.
“God I hope not.” For all in all, Arthur wouldn’t be able to deal with a second Russia, especially if it was his little brother.