[Last night well, really, two nights before, but please pretend at ten o'clock sharp, England got drunk with Russia (
vodka_drinks_u ) while inviting along Iceland (
eg-skil-ekki). He had a jolly depressing time, and now he's lying someplace with the most uncomfortable upholstery in the entire effing building. He groans and rolls over --
onto the floor. Bloody hell, that HURTS, and the floor is FREEZING. He draws in his knees, shuddering and fighting down the nausea. How long had he been out? How much did he drink? Where were Russia and Iceland? He forces himself to sit up, and take a mental inventory. (None of the lights were on, thank God.)
1. He was in one of the break rooms.
2. His shoes were in his coat pockets.
3. England, where went your brain.
4. One of his socks were missing. Did he really try to out-stink Russia's foot?
5. God, he wanted to drown in a moat, or suffocate from dry ice, or commit suicide. Maybe all three.
Arthur Kirkland tugs his coat over his shoulders, and sulks.]
[ooc:
England makes the appointment here.*edit:
vodka_drinks_u and
eg-skil-ekki? Feel free to make up stuff that happened.]