Not Telling (England, Spain, Prussia, Russia, Portugal in absentia)
Title: Not Telling
Warnings: Silliness
Summary: Hostilities having finally simmered down in Europe, Russia invites everybody over for a dinner party. The conversation wanders.
Characters: England, Spain, Prussia, Russia
Year: 1820-ish
Inspired by a conversation on the kink meme about whether Portugal should be a man or a woman.
The Wars were finally over. France had been defeated, Napoleon sent to Saint Helena to die, and they had all begun the long process of rebuilding. The European nations had been mostly involved in their own affairs; in fact, Russia was fairly sure that they hadn't had a social gathering since the seventeenth century. First the Seven Years' War, then that business in the Americas, and finally two decades of Napoleon... Tensions had been running high, budgets had been running low, and no one was really in the mood for parties. But, Russia thought, now that things had died down, it was a good time for a little gathering. After all, who knew when the next war would break out?
The invitations were hard. France hadn't been invited, of course, and neither had Naples. He hadn't invited the Ottoman Empire, either, but only because he wouldn't have come anyway. The rest-- in the end, he decided that in the spirit of reconciliation, he should simply invite everyone.
There had been rough moments. Denmark and Sweden had walked through the door at the same time; Russia had to send Austria to smooth things over. England was present, but sitting carefully on the opposite side of the table from both of them; he had promised to behave, in return for Russia agreeing not to invite any of the Americans. Austria and Hungary had shown up. A few of the German and Italian states. Prussia, Spain, Portugal, Holland-- even Poland stopped in briefly, although he couldn't seem to make himself stay. All in all, the evening was a success.
It had gotten late, and his guests had been trickling out one by one for hours now. Spain and Prussia were still there, of course-- when had either of them left a party early?-- and surprisingly, so was England. The man hadn't stood up in the past three hours; Russia suspected that he was too drunk to try, although he didn't approach him to find out. The last time he had tried, his intentions had been misunderstood.
The conversation wandered. Reliving the last, triumphant moments at Waterloo. Wondering out loud what Napoleon was doing right now-- Spain said drinking. Prussia thought he was masturbating to Austerlitz. Russia smiled, and suggested that he was slitting his wrists. He had the sense that that would normally be the kind of comment that prompted silence and a quick subject change, but the atmosphere that night was such that he heard nothing but agreement.
The conversation turned retrospective. They tried to remember who been involved, and-- even more difficult-- to remember who was allied with who. “You know, Spain, that was kind of a dick move, that shit you pulled with Portugal,” Prussia pointed out. England nodded. Spain winced. “I guess you made it up to her in the end, though.”
Russia raised a finger. “Portugal is a woman? I thought he was a man.”
Prussia stared at him. “You're crazy, dude. She's totally got tits.”
Russia smiled, pleasantly. “Isn't that what you said about that little friend of the Holy Roman Empire's?”
Prussia flushed. “He wore dresses!”
Russia turned to Spain. “He is a man, no?”
Spain gave a mysterious smile. “Are you sure you're not bending reality now?”
England coughed, his eyebrows rising high enough to hide in his hairline. “Russia, you're a--”
Loudly, Russia said, “Perhaps you could resolve it for us, England. Is Portugal a man or a woman?”
England spluttered. “How should I know?”
Prussia rolled his eyes. “Don't be such a prude, man. We know you've been banging her since the fourteenth century.”
“I've always been a perfect gentleman!” protested England.
“Yeah. Uhuh. Whatever.” But then he thought about it; he looked around. “Guys? Does this mean that none of us knows?”
Russia turned to look at Spain, but the man was pouring another drink.
Prussia leaned forward in his chair, a look of excitement on his face. “We're totally making a bet.”
“How are we going to settle this bet?” asked Russia, pleasantly.
Prussia looked shocked, and then stumped. “Yeah, I guess you're right. The only people I know for sure are fucking her are... these guys.” They both turned to look at England and Spain.
England coughed. “I'm not-- we haven't--”
Prussia raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Come on, man. Treaty of Windsor? Haven't you been allied with her for like, four centuries?” England muttered something. “What was that?”
“I
Prussia barked out a laugh. “No wonder, man, you are kind of a flaming--”
“Shut up! Shut up, shut up! I was screwing the arses off of women before you were even born, you snotty little--”
Russia raised huge hands; both men looked at him. “So England does not know.”
Prussia protested. “He said 'she!'”
Russia repeated. “England does not know. Spain?”
Spain took another drink. “More than my junk's worth to tell you that, buddy.”
Prussia gave him a calculating look. “How about if we--”
“--nope,” said Spain, cheerfully.
Prussia sighed. “Why's she so uptight about this shit, anyway? Like it would hurt anyone to know she's a chick.”
“Portugal thinks that gender shouldn't matter to people like us,” Spain explained.
“Yeah, but it does! I mean, you gotta know who you can fuck, right?”
Russia tilted his head to the side. “Yes, but... who, of us, can you think of who is only involved in that way with one sex?”
Prussia tipped his bottle towards England. England threw his glass at him. It missed, and shattered against the floor. Russia smiled pleasantly. He never took out the nice glasses for events like that. “Naples. Sardinia. Bengal. Siam. Go fuck yourself.”
“Anyway,” said Prussia. “Somebody's got to have boned this chick. Wait. You did Naples? When?” England went bright red, and muttered something that none of them heard. “Right. Anyway. Somebody who's not as pussy-whipped as Spain.” Spain shrugged. “Who can we ask?”
“Galicia?” suggested England.
Spain shook his head. “She wouldn't tell you either.”
England and Prussia looked through each other, lost in thought. “Morocco?” England suggested.
Prussia looked interested. “Maybe. You ask him.”
England shook his head. “Oh, no. You began this ridiculous bet, you will follow it through.”
“Fine. That means you want to talk to Holland, right?”
A moment of silence. “I'll get in touch with Morocco.”
Silence. “Brazil?” suggested Russia. “After all, who doesn't sleep with their satellite states and colonies?” There was a collective wince; Spain and Prussia looked at England, who was hiding his face in his cup.
“Alright, man,” said Prussia. “You talk to Brazil.”
Russia nodded, contemplatively. “And then we will reconvene, and report on our findings?”
“Yes,” said Prussia.
“Indeed,” added England.
Spain just smiled
Warnings: Silliness
Summary: Hostilities having finally simmered down in Europe, Russia invites everybody over for a dinner party. The conversation wanders.
Characters: England, Spain, Prussia, Russia
Year: 1820-ish
Inspired by a conversation on the kink meme about whether Portugal should be a man or a woman.
The Wars were finally over. France had been defeated, Napoleon sent to Saint Helena to die, and they had all begun the long process of rebuilding. The European nations had been mostly involved in their own affairs; in fact, Russia was fairly sure that they hadn't had a social gathering since the seventeenth century. First the Seven Years' War, then that business in the Americas, and finally two decades of Napoleon... Tensions had been running high, budgets had been running low, and no one was really in the mood for parties. But, Russia thought, now that things had died down, it was a good time for a little gathering. After all, who knew when the next war would break out?
The invitations were hard. France hadn't been invited, of course, and neither had Naples. He hadn't invited the Ottoman Empire, either, but only because he wouldn't have come anyway. The rest-- in the end, he decided that in the spirit of reconciliation, he should simply invite everyone.
There had been rough moments. Denmark and Sweden had walked through the door at the same time; Russia had to send Austria to smooth things over. England was present, but sitting carefully on the opposite side of the table from both of them; he had promised to behave, in return for Russia agreeing not to invite any of the Americans. Austria and Hungary had shown up. A few of the German and Italian states. Prussia, Spain, Portugal, Holland-- even Poland stopped in briefly, although he couldn't seem to make himself stay. All in all, the evening was a success.
It had gotten late, and his guests had been trickling out one by one for hours now. Spain and Prussia were still there, of course-- when had either of them left a party early?-- and surprisingly, so was England. The man hadn't stood up in the past three hours; Russia suspected that he was too drunk to try, although he didn't approach him to find out. The last time he had tried, his intentions had been misunderstood.
The conversation wandered. Reliving the last, triumphant moments at Waterloo. Wondering out loud what Napoleon was doing right now-- Spain said drinking. Prussia thought he was masturbating to Austerlitz. Russia smiled, and suggested that he was slitting his wrists. He had the sense that that would normally be the kind of comment that prompted silence and a quick subject change, but the atmosphere that night was such that he heard nothing but agreement.
The conversation turned retrospective. They tried to remember who been involved, and-- even more difficult-- to remember who was allied with who. “You know, Spain, that was kind of a dick move, that shit you pulled with Portugal,” Prussia pointed out. England nodded. Spain winced. “I guess you made it up to her in the end, though.”
Russia raised a finger. “Portugal is a woman? I thought he was a man.”
Prussia stared at him. “You're crazy, dude. She's totally got tits.”
Russia smiled, pleasantly. “Isn't that what you said about that little friend of the Holy Roman Empire's?”
Prussia flushed. “He wore dresses!”
Russia turned to Spain. “He is a man, no?”
Spain gave a mysterious smile. “Are you sure you're not bending reality now?”
England coughed, his eyebrows rising high enough to hide in his hairline. “Russia, you're a--”
Loudly, Russia said, “Perhaps you could resolve it for us, England. Is Portugal a man or a woman?”
England spluttered. “How should I know?”
Prussia rolled his eyes. “Don't be such a prude, man. We know you've been banging her since the fourteenth century.”
“I've always been a perfect gentleman!” protested England.
“Yeah. Uhuh. Whatever.” But then he thought about it; he looked around. “Guys? Does this mean that none of us knows?”
Russia turned to look at Spain, but the man was pouring another drink.
Prussia leaned forward in his chair, a look of excitement on his face. “We're totally making a bet.”
“How are we going to settle this bet?” asked Russia, pleasantly.
Prussia looked shocked, and then stumped. “Yeah, I guess you're right. The only people I know for sure are fucking her are... these guys.” They both turned to look at England and Spain.
England coughed. “I'm not-- we haven't--”
Prussia raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Come on, man. Treaty of Windsor? Haven't you been allied with her for like, four centuries?” England muttered something. “What was that?”
“I
Prussia barked out a laugh. “No wonder, man, you are kind of a flaming--”
“Shut up! Shut up, shut up! I was screwing the arses off of women before you were even born, you snotty little--”
Russia raised huge hands; both men looked at him. “So England does not know.”
Prussia protested. “He said 'she!'”
Russia repeated. “England does not know. Spain?”
Spain took another drink. “More than my junk's worth to tell you that, buddy.”
Prussia gave him a calculating look. “How about if we--”
“--nope,” said Spain, cheerfully.
Prussia sighed. “Why's she so uptight about this shit, anyway? Like it would hurt anyone to know she's a chick.”
“Portugal thinks that gender shouldn't matter to people like us,” Spain explained.
“Yeah, but it does! I mean, you gotta know who you can fuck, right?”
Russia tilted his head to the side. “Yes, but... who, of us, can you think of who is only involved in that way with one sex?”
Prussia tipped his bottle towards England. England threw his glass at him. It missed, and shattered against the floor. Russia smiled pleasantly. He never took out the nice glasses for events like that. “Naples. Sardinia. Bengal. Siam. Go fuck yourself.”
“Anyway,” said Prussia. “Somebody's got to have boned this chick. Wait. You did Naples? When?” England went bright red, and muttered something that none of them heard. “Right. Anyway. Somebody who's not as pussy-whipped as Spain.” Spain shrugged. “Who can we ask?”
“Galicia?” suggested England.
Spain shook his head. “She wouldn't tell you either.”
England and Prussia looked through each other, lost in thought. “Morocco?” England suggested.
Prussia looked interested. “Maybe. You ask him.”
England shook his head. “Oh, no. You began this ridiculous bet, you will follow it through.”
“Fine. That means you want to talk to Holland, right?”
A moment of silence. “I'll get in touch with Morocco.”
Silence. “Brazil?” suggested Russia. “After all, who doesn't sleep with their satellite states and colonies?” There was a collective wince; Spain and Prussia looked at England, who was hiding his face in his cup.
“Alright, man,” said Prussia. “You talk to Brazil.”
Russia nodded, contemplatively. “And then we will reconvene, and report on our findings?”
“Yes,” said Prussia.
“Indeed,” added England.
Spain just smiled