Thunk. This was the sound of an empty beer bottle hitting the table, joining the dozens of others, all standing at attention on the mahogany tabletop, tops spewed over the oak flooring haphazardly. A blonde mop of hair followed the path of the glass, flopping onto the table with a hollow thud. A heavy sigh rolled from his lips, warm brown eyes focusing forwards and onto the bottles. With a small smirk of amusement, he brought a clumsy hand up and toppled the first of the bottles, watching as the rest followed, rolling into one another and off the table, where a few met the floor and shattered. Now, of course, he was blocked off from finding any more ale by thick shards of green-brown glass.
Quick, heavy footfall came from above him, sock feet scrabbling for purchase on slick hardwood. Cerulean eyes glanced up at the wall clock, 3:14. He spun the corner onto the staircase, sliding into the wall with a great deal of noise. This drew the attention of the very drunk platinum blonde seated at the table, who lifted one hand in a half-hearted wave, lips twisting into a smile at the other's predicament. The fallen blonde managed to stand up, hair a shock of matted wheat-blonde locks. He shook his head "Drunk again, Fin?"
"'m not drunk." He mumbled, turning his head to glare. "Jus' a little tipsy, that's all Denmark." His words obviously didn't convince the much taller man, because he stepped down to the last stair.
"You sure look drunk ta me." He snorted, letting his gaze drift to the floor, "Really Finland, did you have to break the bottles? You do this every Friday." He reached over, grabbing the worn wooden handle of a broom and scooping up a dustpan. "Besides, I thought you were 'posed to be tha one who cleans up in this household."
While the Dane set to work sweeping the glass into a pile, he kept up the banter with the Finn, until the drunk uttered "You're…not wearing clothes." It was truth, he only wore boxers, patterned in red with a blazing white band that wrapped around near the hip and crossed with another thick stripe down the right leg.
"It's what I wear to bed, Tino. I think you'd have figured this out by now." He bent down, taking the remnants of the beer bottles into the dustpan with the distinctive clink of glass on metal. Rolling his eyes, he tipped the contents into a near-empty trashcan, before setting the cleaning supplies to the side and making his way to the table, feet slapping against the floor. "Let's get'cha ta bed. It's late."
Weak protests rolled from Finland's mouth, along the lines of "It's not late, Mathias." and "I don't need to go to bed." They only earned him calloused hands lifting him and hoisting him over one shoulder.
"Yer going to bed." Was the only reply given, the Dane carrying the struggling man up the stairs, and opening a wooden door with his free hand, plopping him down onto a bed shrouded in the darkness of early morning. Before his head even hit the pillow, dreamland wrapped around the Finn, snaring him in its warm embrace. Mathias pulled a blanket over the sleeping figure, shaking his head and uttering "And tomorrow I get to deal with the hangover." Before returning to his own quarters, knowing that this cycle would continue to repeat itself as long as he kept beer in the house, which would be an eternity.