Venice + The Hangover | Aphro
Germany wakes up in a lavished hotel room filled with distinct Venetian influence: silk sheets with golden embroidery, dark rich colors covers the whole room in romanticism and a sense of something darker, and there's wine, glasses and rose petals set on a round table made for two. None of that matters though. Germany is having the headache of the
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That muffled yell makes the other person in the room shift under the covers of the bed. Tousled blond hair. Pale skin over strong, but lean muscles. Cool blue eyes crack open before closing again as a deep sigh breaks the silence that follows the yell.
No, not Italy.
Another sigh and Sweden sits up from the bed, blue eyes fixed to Germany quietly. His silence is characteristic of the Nordic as he takes in the sight of Germany in his boxers and his mask. If he finds it strange, he doesn't make a comment. Instead, he greets him, "G'd morning..."
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"What. What are you doing here?" He doesn't mean to sound rude, but Sweden is off ways from Italy. It's not like he could get on the next boat and get to Italy. Even a flight from Sweden to Italy has a connection in Berlin, and Germany would have know then. His hands comes to rub his temples, the painkillers are working but it doesn't help ease the confusion and the awkwardness. He takes a breath, calms himself and responds as normally as he can (which comes out in that same rigid and professional tone).
"Good morning, Sweden."
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He came down to Italy for the Carnavale after being happily invited by Spain, who was first sort-of threatened, sort-of invited by Romano... He doesn't really know the story behind that, but he came because well, Spain can be very convincing when he wants to be. And a few days in warm, exciting Italy wouldn't be so bad. He hadn't counted on ending up in a lavish but gaudy room with Germany of all people. But he has to say that well, he's been in worst situations. He could have ended up with Denmark, for example.
A hand lifts from his side, brushing some disheveled bangs from his face as he looks back towards Germany. "How'd we get 'ere?" Because he really can't remember, though his head hurts a little. Alcohol seems to be have been involved.
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He sighs, turns his attention back to the mirror and continues to examine the edge between the white mask and his own slightly tanned skin. "This mask is glued to my face. Do you remember what happened?"
His face remains neutral. Germany simply doesn't know what to make of this situation. A logical conclusion could not be made from the circumstances he's in. Most of all though, it is extremely annoying to have this mask cover his face when he really needs a splash of cold water to fully wake up.
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"N't in particular." He murmurs just as he starts to shift around to get out of the bed. It is through this process that he discovers that he's quite naked under the covers. How that is possible is another mystery. Did they perhaps sleep together?
That question is sort-of answered when he spies the note on the bedside table right beside the spot where his glasses were placed. He takes it and reads it over silently. That silence doesn't last long.
"Germany."
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"Yes." His snaps his head to attention, momentarily distracted by how a hotel room like this, suited for royal couples, can have no complementary towels nestled in the drawers. Or even windows or a balcony.
He looks at the thin piece of paper in the Nordic's hand and takes it. Then immediately regrets it. A hand and its fingers stretches over his face and covers the eye holes of the mask, thumb and middle finger takes its place once more at his temples.
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His own hand comes up and starts kneading at the space between his eyebrows. There's a building ache there. He's not really surprised. Cool blue eyes open a fraction as he looks towards the other person in the room.
At least he doesn't have a mask stuck to his face.
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