for conquiste and progloria ❤

[savoureux]

Today has involved three things: Alcohol, friends, and failing to pick up a date for the night.

Why has this happened? Really, the answer is quite simple: it was Prussia's fault. It's always Prussia fault, even more so today. Because Prussia was once again, as par usual, pissed out of his fucking wits. And all over France and Spain, like he

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[progloria]

How can he even walk. He thought was doing quite well with the whole walking business, but then he openned his eyes again and he's on the ground with France. Is that even France? All he sees is a mat of golden fur and his hand automatically goes to pet it, gently, like it's a dog. His face softens and he looks happy, which is never a good thing entirely.

"Ahhh. Bärcheeeeeen. Kuschelbärrrrrrrr. Bieeeeeeene. Du bist sehr flauschiggggg!! Erlauben Sie mir Sie mit nach Hause nehmen, ja? Jaaaaaa. Ja! Ja! Ja! Westen. Westen hat ein Menge von Lebensmitteln für Siee!!"

He laughs and wraps his arms and legs around him then rolls on his back, bringing France with him in his tight koala bear-esque hug.

[conquiste]

His words are pockmarked with hiccups and the occasional, out of place, poorly pronounced French word for “flight attendant” Francis had, for some reason or other, tried to drill into him earlier in the night (among other things. Spain can’t really tell you what though). “Okay. You guys. Okay. Listen. I was saying before - I was saying. It’s not like. It’s not that I don’t trust you, okay. It’s just that. I don’t have. ….faith in you guys sometimes.” Also, he’s kind of starting to forget who ‘Prussia’ and ‘France’ were. Why is it dark?

When did it get dark? And where are his shoes?

Also, he’s not too sure but when he looked at France’s car for that one brief moment before his vision reeled, he could have sworn there were balloons fucking everywhere in that metal deathtrap