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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[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.

And well okay, now everyone’s on the ground.

If a group of friends ever existed more in need of psychiatric care or guidance, Antonio Hernández would never care to meet them. This brood proves to be enough, and Antonio? Antonio himself is quite gifted at hiding whatever myriad assortment of neurotic and/or psychological tendencies he might possess. He’s just usually more successful when he’s not severely handicapped by what might have been one gallon of 180 proof tequila.

A moment of haze as he rocks through his drunken buzz. Then, Spain decides to sit on his friends.