"Ugh…mmph," England groans while running a clammy hand over his eyes, frowning in slight disgust. He feels sweaty and sticky and much too warm for comfort, so he wipes the sweat off his hands and onto the bed sheet (which does nothing) before flipping on to his other side, finding himself nestled against a warmer and more persistent source of heat.

"What the-," England flings himself up and over the cream colored sheets, heart pounding in his ears. "France! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he screeches and, just as a precaution, checks under the sheets to make sure that he's clothed. Green and white pajama pants; thank God.

Steering from his sleep, the French nation slowly lifts off his pillow and crosses his legs, wiping at watery eyes. "Mon dieu, en Angleterre, vous êtes une harpie," he says groggily.

England huffs and cross his arms, glaring daggers at the still-very-tired France. "Speak bloody English, Frog."

Ignoring the urge to piss England off further and go on a rant in solely French about how much the British nation annoys him, France, instead, sighs heavily. It's too early to translate, much too early. Actually, any time of day is too early to translate and he has a hard enough time forcing himself to when he's at meeting or with non-French speakers. That's why he doesn't do it a good half the time. It's pointless.

Raking his mind for the dusty "language" cabinet shoved to the back of his memory, he mentally flicks through the files and pulls out the one labeled English; regrettably, it's the most used file in there.

Reluctantly lifting his head to make eye contact with his frustrated bed partner, France speaks slowly. "It is much too early for your antics, Angleterre," he says. Taking in their positions, he's confused as to why England is fretting anyway. He slept over the sheets whereas England slept under them, tucked away, with his body turned most of the night. And he was wasted anyway – oh. Ohonhon, England indeed was intoxicated. Putting on an innocent expression, France raises an eyebrow. "Why are you freaking out?"

A dark blush spreads over England's cheeks. "W-We, what, I… Why are we in the same bed?" He looks around the room and nothing is familiar. "And where the hell are we?"

Just as vague as he can be, France gasps in shock. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" England growls, his frown deepening.

France places his hand over his mouth dramatically. "Mon amour, how can you not remember…?"

Something drops to the pit of England's stomach and suddenly he feels a thump in his temples and slight nausea. His skin pales considerably. "France, if you don't tell me exactly what you're talking about right now I will strangle you back to the Dark Ages." The threat is emphasized by England shuffling forward and leaning over France, squeezing his collar tightly. His words come out frantically, "What the hell happened?!"

"Ohonhon, wouldn't you like to know," France chimes and blatantly smirks, winking charmingly and chuckling. The fist that slams into his cheek is enough to knock the smirk right off his face.

"You piece of moldy horse cheese! I command you to tell me right now-" England's shout is interrupted by a gurgling noise from his stomach. He gags, pulling away France and doubling over to wrap his arms around his abdomen. Movements like a rocking chair, England groans pathetically, "Uggnh, what did you do to me…"

France cups his aching cheek and shuffles to the head of the bed to keep away from England. "Nothing! You did it to yourself!" he denies.

Another sickening rumble sounds and England belches; he plants his face on the bed. "Bullocks, I didn't get…drunk or anything," England shakes his head – which is just rubbing his cheek against the sheets, "France."

Said nation scoffs and remains silent.

"France," he tries again, "answer me, damn it."

"What?" France snaps.

"I'm hung over, aren't I?"

Taking the opportunity, France kicks England's foot. "Oui."

In reply, England mumbles something about brewing tea under his breath before flattening himself out on the bed.

... 'This is going to be a long morning,' France solemnly thinks, and has to force himself to resist his strong urge to shove England off the bed.

'This is going to be a long morning,' Germany solemnly thinks as he tries not have a heart attack every time Italy walks far too close to the water or some poor bird that looks ready to poke the Italian's eyes out.

Somehow, miraculously, both he and Italy had gotten out of bed, showered, and eaten without much trouble (as in Italy complaining and moving lazily). Once they finished their morning routine, Italy actually sat patiently when Germany had to review a few points in the agenda for today's meeting, and Germany was more than surprised when the nation willingly asked for some wurst.

It had been a peaceful and relaxing morning; had being the key word.

Now he is sitting on a relatively comfortable bench, attentively watching Italy run around the park like a child, on the brink of an aneurism and heart attack and permanent high blood pressure and scheiße this is terrible for his health.

"Italy," he calls, "try to be a little more careful! You might fall into the water!"

The Italian glances at him for half a second, shouting, "Aye aye, Captain!" before continuing to run around like a fool.

Germany sighs in exasperation. It's a lost cause to try to tame Italy, he knows, but whenever he's around the nation he can't help but feel obligated to watch after him. Like a mother goose. He frowns at the thought. Germany: the Mother Goose; sounds like a movie Prussia would love to watch.

Well, it's not like he hates watching after Italy. It's annoying and fills him with anxiety and hypertension but there is also a warming sensation when he's with him. Whatever part of his brain that categorizes 'protecting Italy' as fun must be broken. That's the only reasonable explanation.

Feeling a smile forming on his lips, Germany lets himself relax into the seat. The day is nice: bright with a cool breeze and puffy clouds floating in the sky, not much to complain about. Glancing at his watch he reads the time leisurely. Good, it's still early enough to not worry about leaving for the meeting just yet. So he goes back to watching his friend jump around and chase after birds, enjoying the sound of his laughter.

It's sticky, milky, warm, and sweet. Sliding out easily and dropping in a tempting wave, Canada licks his lips as he tilts the syrup bottle upwards and wipes the excess off the side of the cap, happily sucking the sweet, sweet, maple off his finger. Picking up the plate he made right before, tiered with four pancakes also, he carries them over to the table and slides a plate to his guest.

"Here you go," he says, "my world famous pancakes cooked fresh for your enjoyment. I even added some cinnamon this time."

Russia watches his Canadian pal sit down and waits for him to eat; except, Canada doesn't, instead folding his arms and watching him intently. "Try it," he urges.

Not wasting much time, Russia cuts out a triangle slice of pancake and gently places it in his mouth. With the best poker face Canada has ever seen, Russia chews his food slowly. His toes curl in anticipation, not even waiting for Russia to fully swallow before his leaning closer to the table. "What do you think?"

Probably just to put his friend on edge, Russia waits a minute after swallowing to answer. When he finally does, he smiles. "It is very good, friend."

A pair of fists hit the table, hard. "Yes!" Canada shouts, "They must be amazing if even you like them!" Russia raises an eyebrow at him questionably and a radiant blush forms on Canada's cheeks and down his neck. "I um, ha…ha I meant that… Erm," he bites his lower lip, "I'm glad you like them?" He ends awkwardly and quirks a nervous smile.

Russia, simply, eats another forkful and hums. Luckily, Canada doesn't spot a tell-tale, signature aura surrounding Russia.