Title: Austria's Twilight Garden (Death of the Nations)
Characters: Austria
Rating: T +13
Summary: The battlefield breathing down his neck, Austria seeks refuge in his garden.
Warning: War themes.


Austria's head tilted upwards, his bangs grazing against his cheeks from the gravity shift. The gardens glowed in the evening light, the orange and fuchsia ripples in the sky causing the windows behind him to glimmer ethereally.

"Where have you run to, my muse?" he queried, closing his eyes. "I cannot create, without you." The destruction, the hatred, it all burned as slumbering coals within him. At the onset of the war, they blazed in his heart, breathing and cancerous. But when Germany came knocking on his door, the man who answered it was not him, but a creature he feared: A shell of who he once was. A hollowed, beastly-eyed, corpse of the artist he had aspired to be. Uninspired.

Germany had offered him an opportunity to find himself again. His mudded boot had barely crossed the threshold before Austria's mind was fixed with an answer: "Yes." For, this was his chance to climb above the decay around him. This was a gem among the ashes, a gift from his half-brother, that, once touched, would restore to him the ability to create amidst death. While the world fell, he would rise.

He recalled Germany's astonishment, when they were seated in the parlor.
"But… So quickly, mein bruder?" A tray of gugelhopf and cherries rested on a table between them, untouched. "I don't think it healthy to decide without thought. You will fall to ruin on such whimsy."

The skin of Austria's lips tightened as he smiled in the twilight. What Germany had not realized was that he had given it thought, much of it, already. He had watched himself fall into writhing decay, unable to write, compose, produce anything beautiful.

"And yet, here I am, still unable to paint my mind's eye on this stained canvas."

He breathed, inhaling the blossoming night, drinking in the coming darkness.
The air smelt of blood.

Title: Germany's Blood Table (Death of the Nations)
Characters: Germany, Prussia
Rating: T +13
Summary: Prussia celebrates the fall of France, while Germany stares at his blood-stained gloves.
Warning: War themes.


“Would you care for another Pfannkuchen, Herr Preußen?”

The voice startled him, causing him to stand up straighter. The war room came back into light, as he returned from some dark place he had drifted off to. Prussia glanced over at the young man speaking to him, his eyes dimmed and fatigued. Not at all how they had once been. It was just another reminder, more physical evidence, of the toll this war had been taking from him for some time now.

Prussia raised a gloved hand to refuse the jelly-filled donut, returning it back behind him when the young soldier had bowed and stepped away. He watched his brother, Germany, stoop over a long table with many of his government superiors, as they mapped out the areas that were still under their control.
 
“The Allies have pushed us further still from the Netherlands, as well as many interior portions of Belgium.” He heard his brother report, as he pushed back small models with the German flag imprinted on them. “And as of a couple weeks ago, they began bombing parts of Italy, Austria and Czechoslovakia.” Each of these countries were then marked with a yellow flag. “However …” Prussia couldn’t help but notice the heavy breath that his brother drew in, before he continued. “In a recent report, it seems that France has succumbed entirely to German occupation, and now makes up a third of our territory.”

At this, murmurs quickly followed, (along with a smile from Prussia) and the map was colored, accordingly.

* * *

“Prost, bruder!” Prussia cheered, as he raised his stein. Though exhausted, news of France’s downfall had given him, and the rest of Germans, reason to celebrate. Spirits were slightly lifted, and the kegs were once again flowing -- at least, for the time being. Tipping his mug back, Prussia drank in the familiar, yet distinct taste of his favorite beer, letting it wash over his tongue and pool towards the back of his throat. “Ahh!” He clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder, and gave him a slight, but friendly shake. Germany seemed anything but pleased.

“Oi, oi, West. What’s wrong with you?” Prussia asked, pushing his sibling’s stein toward him, bending forward. He blinked when Germany didn’t look back at him, like he usually did. Instead, he sat perfectly straight, his eyes staring forward and brows furrowed, as his chin rested against his hands. “Oi, West!” Prussia tried again, giving him another jerk. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

He felt his brother rise, as well as throw his hands off him, before swearing loudly. “Can’t you see I’m not in the mood!?”

The hall quieted slightly, as the heads of several soldiers turned to look at the two brothers. All at once, Prussia could feel the eyes of several on his back, staring at him, curious for his response. Stiffening under the pressure, he glanced up at his brother -- the pale blue of his eyes even darker and harder set then they had been a few hours ago. “How can you possibly say that, West?” Prussia asked, as he arched one of his silver eyebrows. “We’ve secured ourselves a great foothold in this war. After six years, France has finally fallen!”

“Exactly.” Germany replied, closing his eyes once again. “I don’t wish to participate in festivities celebrating such things.”

“But!” Prussia interjected, his free hand swinging open, as he stepped forward. “We’ve just proven, to everyone, our cause is mandated not only by man, but by God! German rule is the new way of the world! Surely, you must believe that?”

Why was his brother refusing to see that their position had been right, all along? The albino could hear some of the men whispering in agreement behind him, but the other only chuckled, causing Prussia’s lips to pout with annoyance. “And what, may I ask, is so funny?” He asked, his hand clutching the handle to his stein, firmly.

There was a long sigh, before Germany lifted his head to look at him. “Preußen.” His deep voice was somber and low. “The only thing that we’ve proven is that we’re more cruel and heartless than even animals. We’re willing to kill one of our own, for no other reason but hatred, to achieve our goals.” He paused, looking away as he thought silently to himself; his eyes filled with a sadness Prussia had never seen in his sibling before. “Mark me, bruder.” He continued, his gaze refusing to return. “We’ve started a ripple which has no end.”

With his opinion stated, Germany took a swift leave without another word, leaving Prussia dumbfounded. He glanced down into his mug, and stared at his reflection caught by the liquid inside. His ruby eyes became narrowed, as an anger began swelling up inside him. What the hell was he fighting for, if his brother didn’t believe in their cause? He was the one, after all, who had convinced him to come along.
Sirens wailed around the compound, throwing the short celebration into chaos -- something Prussia was only too used to, by now. Making sure he had his pistol, Prussia took one last gulp of his beer, before slamming the stein down and wiping his mouth across his sleeve. Even if his brother was ready to throw in the towel, he wasn’t.

He would fight.

He would continue to fight, until the whole of the world was falling down around him, and the enemy brought him to his knees.

Death ... was the only excuse with which he could allow himself to cease.

{Ludwig & Prussia played by albino_gil}

Title: France's Night Mistress (Death of the Nations)
Characters: France, Germany
Rating: T +13
Summary: Under Germany's rule, France escapes to the Eiffel Tower, where a bloody surprise awaits him.
Warning: War violence and death.


France pulled aside the heavy drapes ever so slowly, taking his time to peer around the silk, his eyes focusing on the empty walkway. Pupils dilating, he pushed away, abandoning his caution, and heading towards the grand table in the centre of the room. "Hurry up and tell me yoahr strategy, Maurice," he said, the words dyed with melancholy.

Maurice's aged hands were already un-crumpling what looked like a wad of trash. Yet, once the paper was spread out and its crinkles smoothed, a map of Paris appeared before them.

France stood near him, his finger curled at his lip in contemplation. "Where eez za best way to ze Tower?"

The older man stabbed a weather-worn thumb at a street parallel to France's manor, a few oiled bangs falling over his eyes from the motion.

"But zaer waz a guard zaer last night!"

Maurice jabbed his thumb at the marked lane again, adding a forceful grunt.

The blonde sighed, his elegant hand rubbing beneath the navy bow at the back of his neck. "Ah suppoze aye must leesten to za best architect een town, no?"

A sudden shout from the streets pierced their concentration, causing the younger-faced of the two to jerk his gaze upwards, his polished fingers clutching the coarse front of his military uniform. Maurice's hand closed, vice-like, above France's elbow, the other stuffing the battered paper into a hidden coat pocket, before tugging the blonde down the cave-like hallway.

France lifted his cerulean eyes to the ceiling as they half-ran beneath it. The street lamps lit fragments of it, through the window panes, cold, hard patches of oil light.

"Zis haz becahm a prhison, ma 'ouse."

Maurice flung a hooded cloak around France's shoulders in response, yanking the hood over his sun-colored hair.

"Cahreful, old man!" He clucked, hastily bringing up a hand to tidy the bangs Maurice had upset by the rough gesture. "Zhust becaz aye am deesgaized az a zhipsee, daz not mean aye 'ave to rheally look laik one."

Too used to his complaints, the weathered architect wrenched open a seemingly-invisible door, causing a shower of debris to fall on them -- France gave an indignant series of coughs -- and shoved him through.

"Maurice, I weel not allow eet," France hissed, latching onto the man's roughly-clad wrist and pulling him into the passageway. "You weel see her too."

Maurice gave no more than an inaudible sigh in protest, before pressing his ear against the wood of the outside door. After a few breaths, he inched it open, letting in the creeping bite of autumn. Shivering, France kept himself close to the artist as they fell in step with the night, their motions in sync with the shadows of the street.

Every so often, lines of soldiers would march in their path, causing their backs to melt against dark walls, or their knees to dirty as they fell behind rustic automobiles. But soon, the danger would pass, and their feet would fly, soft as starlight, down the hushed streets.

The trees whispered with their rustling leaves as the two men collapsed against their trunks, too out of breath to listen. One caught the hood of France's cloak with its segmented bark, tearing it from his head. But he only pulled away, focusing his attention on the Tower Eiffel.

"Zaer she eez," he breathed, her solid silhouette outlined against the star-freckled sky. "Come, Maurice, we mast pay homage to zis, owr prhincess."

Charged by the sight of the Tower's unguarded solitude, and their success at reaching her without a hitch, France surged across her lawns, Maurice hobbling awkwardly behind (his aged ankles protesting most foully).

The trees had warned them of the foreign threat lurking beneath the branches of their brothers. Had adrenaline not clogged their ears with pounding blood, they might have heard and fled. As it were, their gleeful approach was most certainly detected.

"Vat are you doing out so late, France?" a German officer asked, his gait as cocky as his arched eyebrows. France's heart stopped, along with his footsteps, as the soldier was flanked by more uniformed men.

The blonde felt fear seep into his throat, dehydrating it like the sands of the sahara. Africa, where England fought against the Axis Powered Italy… Oh, how he would gladly be there, in the company of his rival, than here, in Germany's enemy snares. Swallowing drily, he focused his azure eyes on the glinting coal of the officer's.

"Aye wish to pay homage to mah lady, eef you mast know," he said, his voice only wavering slightly. He felt Maurice move at his side, placing a sturdy hand on his perspiring back. Taking courage, he swallowed once more. "Aye 'ave a right to veezit za Tower."

“I’m afraid that’s where you're wrong,” a deep voice lectured from within the group of German soldiers. “You no longer have any rights.” There was the sound of heavy footsteps, followed by the squeal of a heel as it was turned sharply on the pavement, and the officer who spoke, stepped out into the moonlight. “At least, not while you're my prisoner.”

France felt the fear sweep down his throat and seize his lungs, squeezing the will to function out of them. He staggered against Maurice's supportive hand, momentarily disoriented by Germany's power presence. For the first time in decades, the old architect unclenched his teeth and spoke.

"You do not belong here, Germans. Your hostility stains the atmosphere of Paris, of these, our beautiful creations." His voice rasped from disuse, but carried steadily through the chilly night air. "We slit the arms of our lady, so she could not lift you to her bosom. She might have spat your alien flavor out, and then where would you be? Splattered like un-nested chicks on the pavement at her iron feet."

France closed his eyes as a wave of patriotism expanded his chest, Maurice's words igniting his heart.

"You may sup on shackles and corpses," Maurice shook a leathery finger at the imposing German figure, "but we French breakfast on the morning sunlight; art and God breathe life into our nostrils."

Germany let out a small chuckle. His breath creating a small cloud in the chilled autumn air. “And who exactly would you be, old man?”

France grasped Maurice's shoulder, his lips curved in a warm smile. The time-beaten man sank against his hold, the effort of talking forcing his old lungs to exercise harder than they remembered how.

"'Ee eez za 'eart ahv our country," France stated. "'Ee eez an artist."

“Mm. An artist.” Germany nodded, as he tugged on the end of his leather glove, like a surgeon preparing to make an incision. “Perhaps your country would fare better, France, if you spent less time putting on plays, and smearing paint across canvas, and actually focused your energy towards industrialization and finances.”

His hand slid inside his coat pocket; his eyes sharpening like daggers across the weathered features of the aged and fragile man.“Artists have no purpose, and their lives typically amount to little. You would do well to take my advice and rid yourself of them, while you can.”

Moved so, by Maurice's courage, France pushed the man behind him, his sky-hued eyes fixing on Germany's steel ones.

"Eef you weesh to keel ze Parisian artists, you weel exterminate ze entire country, I'm afraid." His manicured hand lifted in the icy air, the movement causing his lengthy collar to rustle. "French blood eez tempered paint which carses sru every citizen's veins."

Germany could only close his eyes, and smile. “I suppose a little less French in the world, wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” he simpered, gripping his Walther with firm hand, and sliding his finger gently onto the trigger.

Lifting his hand from his pocket, Germany pointed the firearm with deadly accuracy and shot only once -- the bullet taking a lock of France’s hair as it darted past him, and planting itself firmly in the target, behind him.

"MAURICE!" the blonde cried, swiveling in time to watch the elderly man fall, the life leaving his eyes before he hit the gravel. "Oh, Maurice," France groaned, tiny rocks biting his shins as he knelt beside the fallen architect. A blurry hand crept into his vision, cupping against Maurice's sun-baked cheek. "Aye walk ze lonely path een dreamy steps," he choked, "Ze flowaer falls and yields eets pahrfume to ze wind. To life, and to ze sun, saying eets last farewell." He lowered his head, kissing both brown eyelids, before resting his brow against the unsullied part of Maurice's chest.

Lowering his arm and stepping back, Germany turned his head toward his soldiers, his leather knee-length coat creaking as he did. “Adler. Eichmann. Remove the body, and clear the scene, please. Hirsh,” he instructed, before handing over his gun. “Make sure that gets polished.”

Watching as the two men pulled the lifeless body from France’s fingers, Germany crossed his arms behind his back, his head tipping as he moved toward the kneeling Frenchman. “This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you disobeying me,” he observed, his footfalls heavy with conviction. “So, I’ll ask you one simple thing.“ --a pause-- “What should be done with you?”

France kissed the crook of his finger before placing it to his chest, his body giving a great sigh as the tears ebbed. He opened his blue eyes, the eyelashes dewed, and got to his feet. Turning, he faced Germany, part of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile.

"God save za world zat eez governed by you." A remaining drop fell from his lashes, spotting his uniform collar. "A world weesowt art is a Hell, and should baurn laik one." His eyes widened, half-mad. "What should you do wis me? 'ow about leaving me and my people to do what God made us to do. Go back 'ome and poison yoahr own country."

“France,” Germany replied, his voice mild and not unkind. “You know I can’t do that.” Stepping around the other man, he raised his head and gazed up at the Tower, the moonlight shining off of her sleek steel body, as it reflected in the icy pools of his eyes. “I once rode the lift to the top, you know, after the Great War.” He spoke candidly, turning his head to glance over at the other nation. “Paris is indeed beautiful.”

The Frenchman gave a slow blink, the corners of his lips drooping from their crazed sneer, freezing in a grim line. "Oui, she eez. And governed by 'er stalwart prhincess, no less. She weel 'old owr hearts forever."

Germany could only give a brief nod, his brows pinching together in silent thought, as the moon dipped behind a cluster of clouds, providing the already chilled air with a frosty nip. The German could feel his heart growing heavy, and he gave a tired sigh, before speaking again. “I admire your courage, France, and the desire to liberate yourself. However,” he raised a hand, curling two of his fingers. “You really should have listened and stay put.” His iced gaze rose and locked with the cerulean one of France, his lips tight with his decision.

Flanking France on either side and grabbing the underside of each arm, the two soldiers that had disposed of Maurice, now seized the Frenchman tightly, dragging him toward the nearest streetlamp.

"What ahr you doing? Unhand me at once, vous imbéciles!" Kicking his booted feet, France fought against the vice grips of the German soldiers.

“Schtop your struggling! You vill only make it harder for yourself!” The younger of the two officers argued, pulling the Frenchman’s arms behind him forcefully, slamming him up against the metal post and holding him there.

“Make sure the cord is good and tight,” Germany commanded, watching as the second officer wrapped a thin piece of cable around France’s elbows and hands.

"Me libérer, vous cabots!" France barked, digging his white teeth into the gloved hand of the first officer and jerking his head to the side, tearing the material and skin beneath.

Howling, the officer raised his other fist, and in a fit of self protection, brought it down repeatedly on the bridge of France’s nose.

France whipped his head to the side, his lips dripping with the blood of his broken nose. He spat, crimson flecks spattering the officer's uniform, his breathing coming in rasping pants from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

Germany lowered his brows, displeased with the scene in front of him, and he straightened his already perfectly controlled spine. “Break his fingers.”

Blinking only once, the officer behind France nodded in obedience, before taking hold of one of his fingers and snapping it upwards at the knuckle.

Scorching pain seared up France's arm, squeezing his eyes closed and forcing a mangled cry from his throat. The soldiers scrabbled to keep him upright as he lurched for the ground, vomit reaching his mouth.

“Again.” Germany stared on, trying his best to ignore the Frenchman’s shrieks, as another finger was taken and then another. Artists are worthless, and those who defy a German rule are worthless, too. He closed his eyes, repeating the newly formulated mantra over and over in his head. He believed it. He wanted so desperately to believe it.

France's breathing came laboriously, sweat puckering his brow and causing a few bangs to plaster against his cheekbones. "You… weel nevahr break my heart," he grated before spitting another bloody wad towards Germany.

"Oui, dans ces jours d'automne où la nature expire, moi, je meurs…" Struggling to control his lungs, he interpreted, "Yes, een zee autumn days, wheen nature diez, aye'll die…" He coughed wetly. "Et mon âme, au moment qu'elle expire, s'exhale comme un son triste et mélodieux." He lifted his head, his eyes burning into Germany's marble face. "And ze moment my soul expires, eet will sound a quite mournful and melodious death knoll."

Stomach clenching, there was a moment of silence, as Germany studied the features of his enemy, and France studied his. He noted the way the man’s golden hair curled under, as it reached his stubble covered chin, and the way that his jaw clenched when he was angry. Despite being so easily occupied, the German could see that there was an old soldier still smoldering deep inside the Frenchman, and something resonated deep within him.

“Hirsh,” Germany ordered, holding out his hand, as the man approached him. “Give me your gun.”

Taking the pistol and pulling back the hammer, Germany stared hard at France. The blue of his eyes -- a much deeper hue than his own -- were like a deep pool of memories. He could see moments of time that he had never experienced: religious crusades, grand balls and occasions, bloody revolutions, and hundreds of years of war. He pitied and envied him.

Exhaling, Germany lifted the pistol slowly, his heart stalling as he did.

The Frenchman watched the weapon level with him, before giving a sinister chuckle. "So, zis eez Germany, hmm? Murdering all zoze who do not live like 'im." The overly-sweet syrup of sympathy sickened his stomach, and he gritted his teeth to control the wave of nausea. "Aye am sorry for your caged heart."

“Und ich, für Ihren Körper. And I, for your body.” Germany's eyes closed, as his finger pulled the trigger.

France did not feel his arms slip from the officer's grip, nor his throat bite the gravel as it smacked the ground. He knew there must surely be blood pooling beneath him, dying his uniform a rich purple, but he could not sense it. Before his eyes did entirely close, he left himself, spiraling upwards to dance with his iron princess in the autumn night.

Title: Roderich's Fever
Characters: Austria, Switzerland, Prussia
Rating: K +5
Summary: Austria stays up too late writing scores, and winds up with a burning head.
Warning: Extreme Edelweiss.

~*~

Basch: *runs around in an apron and grabs medicine, blankets, and pillows*

Gilbert: (reading a magazine) *glances over, one eye closed from squinting at an ad* What are you doing?

Basch: Roderich's sick! *drops all of the stuff on the couch, before bustling off into the kitchen* (< Basically, "I have to baby him!") *grabs a thermometer and hurries back out to tuck Roderich in*

Roderich: *sucks on thermometer, eyes glazed*

Basch: (Inside: "Gasp! HE NEEDS ME.") *brushes his bangs to the side, before dipping a cloth in a cool bowl of water* What have you been doing? How did you catch this? *pulls the thermometer out of his mouth and glances at it* 102 ... *eyebrows furrow, before placing the cloth on his forehead*

Roderich: I had to... finish my song... *smiles weakly*

Basch: Roderich ... you shouldn't obsess to the point of insanity. *leans over and fluffs the extra pillows behind his head*

Roderich: Ha... But it's finished. *lifts a wobbly finger, pointing to the nightstand* See?

Basch: I'm sure it's lovely. *pushes his hand down, and covers it immediately with a blanket* You can play it for me when you're feeling better.

Roderich: Ah... when I'm better... *head rolls to the side*

Basch: *stomach twists with worry, but he remains visibly unmoved* You just sleep, now. Don't worry about a thing. I'll run the house and staff for you. (< In other words, "I'll run the house, and your staff will get the next couple of days off." xD)

Roderich: *smiles sleepily* Thank you, Basch. I shall... most definitely... repay you... *drifts off to a dreamless slumber*

Basch: You needn't bother. We both know you're hopeless with money and debt-- *stops and falls silent, as Roderich sleeps, before slipping out of the room and closing the door quietly behind*

Title: Swiss Love and Confessions

Characters: Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, Carli (Austria's Maid)

Rating: K +9

Summary: In an attempt to crack open Swiss' bank-locked heart, Austria invites Liechtenstein over for a dinner date.

Warning: Mild violence and language.



~*~



Roderich: *bends his torso, extending a hand to Lili* And how are you doing this day, Miss?

Lili: *gives a small girlish laugh, as she takes his hand* I'm doing well. *gives a curtsey* How are you, Herr Edelstein?

Roderich: I'm very well myself, thank you. *kisses her knuckles*

Lili: Thank you ever so much for the dinner invitation, this evening.

Roderich: Of course, my dear. *sweeps his arm out* May I show you to your seat?

( Click to Read More )

Title: Drag This Blade 'Cross My Bloody Heart
Characters: Prussia, Austria, Germany, Hungary (Carli is Austria's maid)
Rating: T +13
Summary: In a war-torn era, Austria loses his men and opera house to Germany... and his only love to Prussia.
Warning: Mild language, with some alcoholic references, and suggestive themes.

~*~

Carli: *opens the music room door and peers inside* E-excuse me, Herr Roderich, but ... you have a guest.

Roderich: *turns his head, his glasses glinting from the evening sunlight* Oh? Show them in, then.

Carli: *gives a slight bow, before disappearing, Ludwig returning in her place*

Roderich: Ah... Ludwig. *smiles, standing* What a pleasant surprise.

Ludwig: *extends a hand forward to shake Roderich's, his posture impeccably straight*

( Click to Read More )

Title: Baby Bear & Big Bull
Characters: S. Italy, Spain
Rating: K +5
Summary: Spain tells S. Italy a bitty bedtime story.

~*~

Romano: *opens his mouth in a cavernous yawn, shlumping against the arm rest, eyelids drooping*

Antonio: Hm? *glances over* Romano, maybe you should get to bed?

Romano: No, si idiota. I'm not tired. *juts out bottom lip, eyes closing, despite his claim**

Antonio: *sighs and throws a blanket over him, anyway*

Romano: No... *rubs eyes with a fist* In primo luogo, mi racconti una storia. (First, tell me a bedtime story.)

Antonio: Hmm. *thinks for a moment, before smiling* Once, a long time ago, there was a little bear ...

Romano: *a sleepy smile creeps across his lips* Did it eat tomatoes?
( Click to Read More )

Title: In Which Romano Falls From Trees
Characters: France, Spain, Prussia, S. Italy
Rating: K +9
Summary: S. Italy will go to any means to escape France's grabby clutches.
Warning: Mild language.

~*~

Francis: You ahr just like us, Antonio! *drapes an arm across his shoulders, chuckling* You cannot fool anyone.

Antonio: *still red in the face* I've matured since school!

Francis: Oh, oui! You 'ave, 'aven't you? *eyes travel south*

Antonio: Francis! *instinctually covers himself*

Francis: *laughs throatily* Hoh hoh hoh, you ahr blusheeng, mon petite amie!

Antonio: Well, of course I am! *glances over, trying to move out from under Francis's arm* I know where you let your thoughts wander, and I don't want to be in them!

Francis: *leans on Gilbert's shoulder, laughing at Antonio with half-lidded eyes* You need to ghrow up a leetle if you want to keep being a powahful countree!

( Click to Read More )

Title: American Candy Man
Characters: Japan, S. Italy, America, England, N. Italy, Prussia, Germany, Spain
Rating: T +13
Summary: America invites the world to his big-band Mardi Gras swing party.
Warning: Mild suggestive material and drug use.

~*~

Kiku: I do not think these clothes flatter me, especially. *tugs his red tie a little to the right*

Romano: Well, if it means'a free wine tonight, I am game. *alligator skin shoes tap atop the cement as they near a warmly-lit building, muffled music blaring behind the windows*

*the golden doors suddenly swing open, the music blasting into the summer night air*

Alfred: Welcome, welcome! *sweeps an arm out invitingly, a golden wristwatch sparkling momentarily before it's covered again by his white coat sleeve* You're just in time for the next big dance number!

Arthur: *sipping a gin and tonic over by the refreshment table* Alfred, what exactly /is/ this little get-together of yours, all about?

Alfred: It's Mardi Gras, of course! *laughs, clapping Arthur on the back, causing him to choke on his sip of gin* Tonight's the big-band bang!

*horns blare from the brass section, drawing couples onto the floor to swing*

Arthur: *coughs slightly, as he chokes, before glaring at Alfred from the corner of his eye* Yes, well ... wait, did you say Mardi-Gras? *straightens slightly* Isn´t that the festival where the girls throw the beads, dressed ... well, inappropriately?

( Click to Read More )