Just as Berlin and France were getting into a discussion of flowers – for no real reason other than they were continuing through tangent after tangent – the waiter arrived with a steaming plate balanced on his shoulder.
“Enjoy~” he sang, placing a plate of steaming spaghetti in front of the pair. Berlin cocked one angled brow at the sight and France leaned back, laughing as he pushed up the cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows.
“Would you laugh eef I told you I was ‘oping for a ‘La Belle et le Cochard’ moment?” France picked up his glass and swirled the wine around for a moment before taking a generous sip. Berlin only rolled her eyes and leaned over the table and the plate of spaghetti towards him.
“Imbecile,” she brushed her lips against his as soon as the glass was out of the way, settling back into her seat gracefully. “… Italian v’ine tastes strange.” They both chuckled at this.
“Alors, now we dig in?” France picked up his fork and twirled some of the noodles from the edge of the plate around his fork. Berlin followed suit, and they both took a bite. Berlin would admit it wasn’t her favourite food, but it was not bad at all, so she moved to take another forkful. However, France shoved the plate violently to the side, looking a little blue in the face.
“Schätzchen?” France covered his face and groaned.
“Mon dieu, c’est… C’est…” Berlin was utterly confused. “Horrible! Oh, why is eet so disgusting!?” He stood up and slammed his hands onto the table. “Waiter! I want to see ze chef, right now!” Berlin exhaled heavily while the waiter ran off.
“Francis, is zis necessary?” France glared at the plate of spaghetti and nodded tersely. When Spain and Romano arrived following the waiter, both wearing aprons tied around their waists, France’s eyes narrowed.
“Antonio. If anyzing, I would ‘ave expected better of you.” Berlin just propped her head onto her closed fist as France’s chef-mode took over, berating Spain and Romano for everything about their spaghetti. Spain remained impassive, although Romano was beginning to develop a rather violent twitch.
“Francis, I’m sorry, spaghetti is not my forte-” Before he could finish, Romano exploded at his side, double-pirouette-back-flipping off of his shit.
“Why you prissy French’a piece of’a crap!” He flung a fork that was tucked into his apron’s pockets at the wall beside France, glaring and shouting angrily. Spain had to grab Romano under the arms and restrain the Italian as he flailed and kicked wildly. France was petrified; the fork was still vibrating in the wood beside his ear. Berlin did the first thing that came to mind: she pulled her trusty pistol from its holster and aimed it right at Romano and Spain’s heads. “You moronic’a crud-breathing-potato-eater!” Berlin flicked the safety off without so much as a second thought. Romano continued to kick and shout and try to reach France, who had taken a huge cautious step back. Just as Berlin thought it couldn’t get any worse, there was a high-pitched scream from the other side of the room. Hungary was currently hiding half behind the table at Prussia’s face plastered against the window. He quickly flung it open and vaulted inside, crouching on the table where Austria had been trying to enjoy his meal.
“Ze Awesome Me is crashing ze party, ja?” The barrel of a pistol was soon aimed at his head instead, and Hungary was more than prepared with a cast-iron skillet in hand.
From there, it was all a nasty blur. Germany tackled his elder brother as soon as he was able to break free from his table, protecting him from a skull-crushing swing of Hungary’s skillet. This resulted in Austria falling back out of his chair and scrambling into the lounge as Germany and Prussia rolled around in an impromptu wrestling match. Hungary took any shot at Prussia that she was able, which was quite a few. Prussia was thick-skulled. Spain was starting to struggle with Romano – the waiter having long fled the scene – while Berlin kept her gun aimed well on the target, veins beginning to pop in her forehead. France didn’t have a weapon, but he settled for throwing the plate of spaghetti at Romano. In his flailing, he kicked the plate over towards Italy and Japan, but not before the plate was sliced cleanly in half by a long katana. Then Japan toppled over, completely plastered and way too tipsy for his own good, swinging the sword about wildly. Italy waved the white tablecloth over his head with gusto, hoping to not get hurt in the fray. During the whole scuffle, violent piano music was being blasted in the background by Austria, who had long since decked the lounge pianist and taken over.
Finally, Berlin just aimed her pistol at the ceiling, firing off all the shots.
“EVERYONE SHUT YOUR V’ORTHLESS MOUTHS!” She grabbed her husband by the collar of his shirt and stormed out of the restaurant with him, each person there stock-still and shocked into complete silence.
