Your name is Ludwig and you really aren't sure why the hell you had allowed yourself to be dragged into this infernal nightclub, or why you had accepted a few drinks after vowing to stay sober and perturbed. Or, more importantly, why you were consenting to having a now-drunk Feliciano grinding against you to the beat of some Euro-trash pop music, his hips moving just so against your own, brushing his tight jeans on your…

You should not be thinking of that right now. The most important thing is to figure out a way of escape from the alluring gravitational pull you were sucked into. You make a hasty glance over at the bar, sharing brief eye contact with Mr. Polite-and-Honorable's camera-phone before Kiku quickly tucks it away. That bastard. You remind yourself to hide the dried fish in the community fridge from him when you arrive home to teach him a lesson. Some friend he is.

Feliciano begins to move a bit quicker to keep up with the rhythm of the new song, and you begin to contemplate your imminent suicide as soon as the other nations take notice of the situation. You wonder if placing your hands on his back and giving a taut tug to the back of his shirt will alert him to his need to remove himself immediately, but then your hands are on his lower back and they are doing the opposite of tug and now you don't know where they're going because you're pretty sure you felt a back pocket and Oh God.

You just grabbed his ass, you idiot. That is most contradictory thing you have done yet tonight. Congratulations. Alfred finds your face in the crowd and winks at you, and you really wish he'd come just a bit closer so you could punch him in the mouth and wipe that shit-eating grin from his face. But, alas, he does not, and you are forced to watch as he fist-pumps his way back into the crowd. Yet another bastard on your list. Why were you friends with these people again?

As you are reflecting on your bad taste in friends, Feliciano's chin finds its way to your shoulder, and you are almost positive you heard him moan. This is obviously something that cannot happen and will not happen, abort mission, self-destruct, take the cyanide pill, retreat…! Oh, but you just let a similar noise escape your mouth, and now you've pulled Feliciano so close to you that you're not sure if two people are still dancing or if you've morphed into one, which would be horrifying, on further thought. Really, really horrifying.

There's something stiff pushing against your pelvis now, and that's just more cause for concern. In all the step-by-step dating manuals, they never really explained how one dealt with a partner's arousal, or how to allude to taking it a step forward once you noticed it. Your self-help books only guided you to this exact moment, as you were always too bashful to look up scenarios for help. Porn wasn't really the same thing, as you highly doubted Feliciano was about to start that awkward mewling most of the women in said videos would do and begin removing his clothes. Scratch that last part. You are one hundred percent sure that the removal of clothes is a thing that could be certain to happen with this man, however unpredictable he may be.

Speaking of unpredictable, Feliciano is now nibbling at your goddamn ear, and you are now fighting a battle to reciprocate his advances or run like hell. "Lud," he whispers, oh, he goddamn whispers, "Kiss me."

You were taught to always follow orders unless given to you by the mentally unstable, as after the last time you did so, it was seen as being quite problematic, so why not go ahead and follow this one? You are now almost positive Feliciano could order you to do anything and you would jump at the chance to do it, because you bumped noses with him on your way to his lips, and now you're both just breathing inches away from the other. If your brother were here, he would have smashed your face into Feliciano's for you, so you decide to just do him a favor and get on with it.

You're really bad at kissing.

Your second attempt to not bump teeth this time proceeds, and you find yourself locking lips with your idiot of a best friend, who, in your disbelief, does in fact not taste like tomato sauce and garlic, but of cheap wine and sweat. That's a little more than enjoyable for you, and you try lightly nibbling at his bottom lip. Feliciano tries not to melt, apparently, as he nearly knocks you over by becoming dead weight in your grasp. You feel his tongue swiping across your lips, desperately urging your brain to prevent calculating just how many germs that involves as you allow it entrance, beginning to sloppily trace the mapping of your mouth.

You open your eyes for a moment as you realize you shut them in the first place. Feliciano's retained that dopey look on his face somehow, even as the cunning little shit copes a feel right in front of you. And you just met Lovino's glare from the other end of the dance floor. You want to signal some sort of "Your brother started this and I don't know how to stop" message, but you kind of doubt your eyes can do that much talking. Antonio seems to have him handled anyway, so you close your eyes again and cup Feliciano's face with your hand.

This is nice, you think, pushing out the thoughts of "the entire world is literally watching this" from your mind. Something tells you they expected it anyway. You may be unskilled in the romance department, but even you can tell what the looks you get when Feliciano rubs up against you during the meetings mean. You're also pretty sure the "tantalizing" story of the unspeakable Valentine's Day has floated around the break room one too many times as others tried to decipher your relationship status, as you once walked in to find a giddy Elizabeta and Feliks bouncing about, quickly stopping as they realized your presence and then immediately beginning to giggle as you exited the room.

Really, nothing is private anymore.

No, really, nothing is private anymore, because Feliciano just manhandled the bulge forming in the front of your pants, and you had to break from the kiss for a minute to compose yourself.

"It's okay to show what you feel, you know," Feliciano says with a low chuckle, and you ought to hit him, but you don't.

You ought to yell at him as well, like you always do, but it's getting harder and harder to act like yourself, and…you think that may have been a pun just now but you are choosing to ignore it. You scold your brain for attempting a joke about a serious issue concerning your manhood.

Feliciano's nuzzling himself against your neck now and you decide that it's finally time to just get on with it. You're a grown ass man. Country. Anthropomorphic personification…thing. Whatever. It really doesn't matter what you are because you aren't about to look like a pansy in front of the other nations. So, you begin to pull Feliciano past the other dancers, making sure to bump into a few to alert them of your existence, and force yourself to make an unearthly growl of:

"Let's take this somewhere else."

Wow, you are literally the stupidest person on the planet.