Honestly, who HASN'T vomited at least once in their life? I used to be sick a lot with stomach flu when I was little, so vomiting came a lot, but it's something you can never get used to. I haven't vomited in a long time (thank goodness) but I've been traumatized once when I went to the library a little sick and vomited in the middle of a little walkway in the children's section.
I have one of those toilet rim bidets at home. My parents bought one when they found out that it was healthy to clean your AHEMS. I've only used it a couple times, not often, because for some reason the water would push a little too far up. I don't know if that's normal or not, but I don't like the feeling either way.
Apparently, wanker refers to someone who masturbates. Git is like a jerk, and a fanny is the va-jay-jay. WHOO. I tried adding in some British slang, but gave up. It's too hard for an Americanized young lass like I.
Vomiting is, obviously, an unpleasant task that can be broken down into three parts.
First comes those moments before the actual deed, when your throat begins to convulse and contract. Your stomach pushes itself in, up underneath your ribcage, pushing all your organs away as if to say, "Step aside, emergency situation". You soon begin to break out in cold sweat as you can feel the bile rise up your esophagus and eventually into your mouth.
Next comes the actual act of vomiting, when you're bent over the toilet, the ground, perhaps your own shoes. Everything is a blur, and what seems to be a quick task seems to last too long to the actual person vomiting. It's an unnatural feeling, the contents of your stomach, all of what you ate that day and the acid that's supposed to break it all down, it pushes itself past your tonsils, your tongue, your teeth, and your lips.
Then comes probably the worst part. You either look at the disgusting puddle or you're in too much in pain to open your eyes. It's that empty feeling in the pit of your torso. It's warm at first, but soon it becomes cold, empty, and lonely. But you don't want to fill that emptiness, in fear of vomiting once again, so you're left in shame, vomit in your mouth, on the floor, your arms gripping your stomach tightly as if someone had punched you too hard in the gut.
Germany has his hands gripping the side of the porcelain white toilet bowl, the sounds of his retches echoing in the bathroom, the toilet acting as an amplifier. He heaves once, pulls back smacking his mouth, knowing this feeling, and once again heaves in the toilet, feeling the contents of his stomach empty a little too quickly.
He knew, when chugging that last pint of beer, that it was one too many. He could feel his head swimming, his vision swaying in unnatural ways. But he honestly thought that he could make it back home without any problems, that that last pint of beer was nothing to him. So he had clumsily placed a certain amount on the bar counter (and it must've been too much since the bartender didn't say anything) and stumbled his way out of the bar.
On the way home, he tripped twice, once on an uneven part of the sidewalk, a second time on his own feet. He saw fellow drunks, stumbling their way back home, but none of them seemed as intoxicated as he was.
Ludwig could feel his stomach churn and his senses dull. The lights and buildings began to melt together, and he could've sworn he was walking straight when he found himself walking in the middle of the street as opposed to walking on the sidewalk.
His first thought was to go to Feliciano's house. Hopefully, the Italian would be home. But at the same time, he didn't want to impose on the gentle Italian (especially if his brother is there).
He thought of going to Austria's place, as they lived extremely close to each other, and he often slept over in certain times of need. But he knew that Austria also needed his nights alone, especially if Hungary is there.
So he continued to stumble his way home, hoping not to walk in a pole or a car. Or a deer.
"Germany?"
He stopped walking, looking up to the side where the source of the voice was standing before him. He was slightly shorter, had ugly eyebrows per usual. He was sober, that was obvious, or at least hadn't drunken as much as Ludwig had. He had on a black tuxedo with a small red flower in his chest pocket, and had both of his pale hands stuffed into his pants pockets. He must have come back from one of those formal parties of his with his Queen and the royal family. It seemed silly, lavishly spending the citizen's money on a single night that wouldn't affect any of them too much.
It wasn't the first time Germany had seen England since World War II. No, they've met for formal political reasons, economic reasons, and during these types of meetings, they were fairly friendly and civil. They've even had a session of tea together. They've met for soccer matches, these times more competitive (though to Germany, the Dutch were more of a threat than England, even if England saw Germany as his biggest rival).
However, Ludwig knows quite well that Arthur still holds an undying grudge against him. And Ludwig feels almost offended, like as if bygones should be bygones, but he understands (because he also held an impenetrable hate for such a long time). He hates himself for the past as well.
"Are you okay, Germany?"
Ludwig swayed, just a bit, before falling onto his bottom. It stung, but it felt better than standing.
"Germany!" Arthur ran over, shocked by the sudden action. "Are you sick? Do you need help going home?" He had suddenly pulls back, "You smell like alcohol…" He cringed at the smell of Ludwig's favorite beer (strong, full of taste, and foamy, these three are a must).
Ludwig coughed once, and looked up at Arthur. "I've told you…that I'm sorry, right?"
"…Sorry for what?"
Ludwig coughed again, "I'm…not sure."
"…You git, what's going on in that mind of yours? Twat."
Ludwig then suddenly retches, loudly, and shocked Arthur into action.
"That's it. I'm taking you to my place. It's closer from here than yours."
And that is how Ludwig ended up in Arthur's house, in Arthur's bathroom, vomiting away all the toxins in his body into Arthur's toilet.
He finishes, flushing for the last time (a lot of close calls were made earlier in his horrible adventure). He sighs deeply, the sound echoing in the bathroom. He slowly rises from the toilet and to the sink where he first washes his mouth roughly for a good amount of time. He then began to splash his face with cold water, never looking up at the mirror.
He didn't like to see himself in the mirror during one of his drunken plunders. It was too embarrassing, as he was one to remember almost everything in a drunken state.
The bathroom, he notes, is meticulously clean. The tiles were scrubbed clean, and it always had the scent of chemically formulated spring winds. It was modern, fairly large, even had a separate bidet (as opposed to Japan, who had a bidet installed on the toilet, and he always found himself accidentally turning it on and causing some unnecessary penetration). The faucet was made of a dull stainless metal, and the sink had a separate bowl in it, for fashion or if it is a more clean design, he wasn't sure.
It was much different from Italy's bathroom, which was old and in much need of renovation. The bathroom had reminded him of an old book, smelled of history and dust, yellowing all over and curling at the corners. However, it had always felt comfortable, like he was back in the past where you had to adjust the hot and cold a certain way in order to get the perfect temperature, and bathtubs were like these magnificent boat-like devices, detachable from the room.
Ludwig turns the knob of the bathroom door, the cold metal contrasting with his hot hands, and gently pulls it open, a little ashamed, a little alarmed.
The bathroom was part of the guestroom, so England was expected to be elsewhere. However, Arthur is there (now dressed in a casual t-shirt with sweatpants), hovering over the bed (which looked fat with thick covers and pillows, big enough to hold two, and looked ever so inviting). Arthur is spreading out a separate set of clothing, lamenting over whether he should lend the German a pair of underpants or to tell him to just wallow in his own dirt.
Ludwig raises an eyebrow, slightly amused, slightly confused, and cleared his throat to grab the Englishman's attention in a more polite manner.
But it seems that doing so freaks Arthur so much that everything he had in his arms fell into a messy pile on the floor. He turns, ugly eyebrows burrowed so deeply into his eyes that it seemed like he had no eyes to begin with. "W-What do you want, you wanker?" He mumbles, almost angrily.
Ludwig walks over to the pile and picks up each article of clothing. "I could ask you the very same question." He returns, handing the pile of clothes to Arthur.
Arthur snatches the clothes from Ludwig's hands. "Well, I was just about to give you a spare set of clothes. Don't get me wrong!" He suddenly cries out, "It's not because I like you or anything, I'm just doing this out of courtesy." He purses his lips, dumping the clothes on the bed, mumbling under his breath.
Ludwig hasn't seen this side of Arthur, and tries to hold back his laughter. It was too much. Arthur, a former world power, was acting like such a child. It was rich.
"I know you're laughing at me. I can see it." He suddenly points a finger directed in between Ludwig's eyes. "I can see it in those stupid sky blue eyes of yours."
"S-Sky blue…" Were they sky blue? Ludwig never really took a good look at his own eyes.
"…" Arthur flushes.
"Um, anyway, thank you for letting me stay here. I feel better though, so I think I can make my way back home." Ludwig carefully constructs his sentence, hoping not to offend Arthur. Truth is, he wouldn't mind staying one night (though he wouldn't like to stay for breakfast, as he has heard rumors about the Englishman's cooking). Truth is, he always preferred the confinements of his own house, where he had his own bed, radio, television, and familiar shower.
"No way, it's already too late as it is. So lay your arse on that bed and stop faffing around." Arthur grumbles, hissing to emphasize certain words. He shoves a set of soft pajamas into Ludwig's chest. "There are yours to sleep in. Don't complain if they're too tight."
Ludwig nods; not exactly sure what Arthur had said half the time. He wasn't used to British terms. All he really knew was "loo" and "fag".
"Now," Arthur stalks off with the rest of his clothes. "If you need anything, just knock the door right next to yours." He opens the door to the room, "Good night." and leaves, shutting the door a little too loudly.
Ludwig lets go a deep sigh and a big of a chuckle he had pent up inside. The room's lights are on, illuminating brightly in contrast to the pitch-black night outside. He throws the clothes on the bed and pulls off his pants first, leaving them on the ground (he's too tired to fold them up). He then puts on the pajama pants, noting the soft feel of the fabric.
The pants are slightly too small, cut off right above his ankles. However, the waist is perfectly fine (maybe a little loose), though his thighs and calves feel a little constricted (And though he won't say it out loud, Ludwig had better built legs than Arthur and a thinner waist, as he's more muscle than…not muscle).
He then takes off his button down shirt, letting that fall on the floor next to his pants. He feels sticky, and thinks back through the night, remembering that he had sweated a lot in the bar. The air conditioning was broken while he was drinking, and the lights seemed extra hot and there seemed to be too many people around him.
Ludwig opts to take off all his clothes and take a quick shower. He notes that Arthur managed to leave a pair of boxers on his bed (whether it was intentional or a grave mistake, he wasn't sure) and walks off to the bathroom once more.
He took a hot shower, hot water almost to the point of scalding. He enjoys the feel of hot water on his skin, and even more the cool moments after the shower. His hair, which was usually slicked back carefully with his usual hair product, was now loose and stuck on his forehead. He stood underneath the water for a moment, his face tilted slightly up, mouth open a little wide. He let the water fill his mouth before gargling and spitting it out.
After about five minutes, at the very most ten, he steps out of the shower, and rubs his hair dry with the large towel that was hanging on the rack. He then wraps the same towel around his waist, looks at the mirror to see his condition (a little tired, a little pale, but not a complete mess) and walks out of the bathroom.
He was planning to quickly put on his clothes, dry his hair even more, wait a little while if it was still wet, and fall into a deep sleep until the morning (or afternoon, depending on how he was feeling).
He wasn't expecting Arthur to be at his bed again, hands grabbing the boxers that were laid out on the bed (WHAT IS HE…).
Ludwig glares at the back of Arthur's head, which said owner of that head soon heard the sound of the bathroom door open and a peculiar feeling of humidity filling the room.
When Arthur turns to see Ludwig his eyes shoot out of their sockets (or almost) and his hands soon became jelly as the boxers fall out of his hands and onto the floor.
It was a compromising situation, there was no denying it.
Ludwig was wet, naked (save for the towel), and still slightly intoxicated.
Arthur was red in the face, (was) holding boxers in his hands, and hovering around the guest bed.
"Um…are those mine?" Ludwig points to the boxers on the floor.
Arthur follows the finger and suddenly does a funny dance, arms flailing, feet jumping away from the bed. "D-Don't think I'm doing something strange! I-I just wasn't sure if you have everything—AH—NOT THAT I CARE ABOUT YOU OR ANYTHING!" His face is completely red.
"Yes, yes, I get it, I get it, England." Ludwig sighs, walking over to the boxers and picking them up. "There's no need to be nervous. We're both men, right?"
"R-Right…"
Ludwig pulls off his towel.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"
"W-What…"
Arthur turns, hitting his head on the door. He ignores the pain and continues to yell out profanity and pleads. "HURRY UP AND DRESS!"
Ludwig, who now wore his boxers and pants, rushes over to Arthur. "Are you okay? You hit your head pretty hard there."
"ACK, NO, AWAY, YOUR SHIRT." Arthur flails his arms at the taller nation, but as he tries to run away, he clumsily trips on his own feet and falls onto Ludwig.
Ludwig, who wasn't expected Arthur's sudden blunder, had not prepared himself to take the blow and fell onto the floor along with Arthur.
It's not the first time he's been in a compromising situation with another man. North Italy was almost always sleeping naked, crawling up next to him in the middle of the night, and snuggling up next to him unexpectedly. So when he finally collected his thoughts (which must have been a while, or at least it felt that way) and saw that Arthur was on top of him…
He won't lie; at first he was panic-stricken.
Arthur's face was squashed onto the German's bare chest. Pushing jealousy aside, Arthur pushed his upper body off Ludwig, looking down at the still knocked out Ludwig. He calculated in his mind the various excuses he could make once the German man snapped out of his stupor. But Arthur found himself examining Ludwig a little too carefully, a little too long.
He noted that Ludwig no longer had his hair slicked back, not a single strand glued to that hard head of his. His hair was free, fluttering over his forehead and temples. It made him look younger, softer, and more reachable (almost like a child? He can't say).
Despite Ludwig's muscular figure, he had subtleties like the rest of them. His neck is long, leading down to a defined collarbone and pronounced chest. His arms are hard with muscle, but they are also long and shapely, enough to hug two people at a time. His waist is so thin that even England could straddle his legs around them—
Okay, England thought immediately, he had to get off.
Ludwig soon the opened his eyes, taking note of the Englishman who was still staring at his face. And he did had that moment of terror, but soon remained calm, closing his eyes to reach composure. "Are…Are you okay?" It's the only thing that comes to mind.
"H-Huh? Wh—Yeah, of course…y-you?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." Ludwig notices that Arthur is straddling his hips, hands pressed against his chest. He blushes, just a bit, because it's natural for anyone to be embarrassed right now (right?).
Arthur is still staring at Ludwig's face (again), a little too long (again), and then suddenly realizes just the type of situation he was actually in (again). He reels back, head hitting the door once again. He then proceeds to collapse into a fetal position as he rubs his head profusely.
Ludwig watches the scene, slightly amused, slightly frightened. He pulls up from the floor and attends to Arthur, who immediately slaps away the German's helping hand.
"I-I don't need your help! It's not like I'm helpless or anything, you know!?" Arthur huffs, rubbing his head even harder.
Ludwig scowls, "Just let me see, England, it's not like I'm asking you to submit to me!" He reaches out to grab Arthur's arms.
Arthur reels back again, face twisted in an annoyed scowl. "Oh, you mean like before!?" He cries out, pulling out deeper meanings.
Ludwig pulls back, surprised, eyes wide. He's tried for many years to push back those memories, of children and mothers trying to live on the cliff between life and death, of soldiers who lose their lives without merit, and of the millions that would never come back, disintegrated in the dirt.
Arthur momentarily pauses and looks up at the shocked Ludwig. He sees something broken, something that tries to reassemble but it never seems to completely fix.
They stare at each other, knowing that this conversation was leading to bad blood. Arthur slows down the rubbing, looking down shamefully. "…Sorry…my fault."
"No, no…" Ludwig stands up slowly, almost as if he's aged too many years. "It's…my fault…my fault." Ludwig looks out to the side momentarily, closing his eyes for a moment as his head begins to pound endlessly. They were former enemies, he trying to force England into submission, to finally complete the rule. And even with time do they still hold some malice, and Ludwig understands. There's nothing that could change the past. But he holds out a hand, in good gesture, in hopes that Arthur just might grab it, even if it's for a temporary moment.
Arthur looks up at Ludwig, at his sky blue eyes. This man who once had bombs destroy his land, devastate. But he remembers how Germany looked when he fell (twice, even), how helpless he seemed and heartbroken by the leader who abandoned him, and the long lasting realization (his people…oh God, his people) that it was all over. And he remembers the first time, WWI, when Germany was ashamed by the Versailles Treaty. How Germany had to work and work and see his people starve, his children scrapping for food and the littler ones using stacks of paper money as building blocks.
Arthur takes Ludwig's hand and he's roughly pulled up from the ground. He stands strongly so not to involve himself in another embarrassing situation.
He's shorter than Ludwig, not by much, but still shorter (and less muscular but he likes to stop himself there). So he looks up, looks up at painful eyes that seem to tell a lot of stories at once. And in them he saw a story similar to his, how familiar. They had fought the same wars; they have both changed drastically over time (for Germany, an even more drastic change took place for him over the centuries). In a way he felt a connection, like something was there (there was always something there, something connecting all of them). He took Ludwig's hands, large and calloused with hard work and time.
And without thinking, Arthur pulls himself into surprisingly soft lips and strong arms that do, in fact, easily enwrap him inside a beautiful and dangerously inviting warmth. It becomes addicting and warming, something he doesn't want to pull away for a long, long time.
The end is left for you to concoct up in your sick minds. I'm one who likes to cut things out for people's imaginations, because what you come up with in your mind can never be fully fulfilled by other. Enjoy your thoughts.
The Versailles Treaty that came with the end of WWI had Germany work to pay off debts that were accumulated by the war. France had particularly forced Germany, since the Germans shamed them during the war. Er, my European history is a little wishy-washy since it's been two years since I've studied Europe at all. So I'd say just find a textbook or go to Wikipedia for a more reliable source. I'm not telling because I want you guys to go and research yourselves.