My sincerest apologies for the week long silence. My granny passed away and we had to go to Italy for her funneral. I'm Irish Italian and English. So many clashing stereotypes. My granny was Italian, hence Italy, hence no internet. Sorry for the lack of update. My granny would scold me for letting you down.

Regret, fuzzy memories, pain... So much pain. His stomach lurched again and more of its contents. America regretted being in anyway involved with Ireland and Scotland having a drinking contest. Where was he, the bathroom, had he passed out there he couldn't remember. And to make everything worse Wales was sleeping all too close to him. Every sound that was going around the house echoed in his aching mind. The clatter from Man and Channing running around doing their morning routine.

"Scotland what the bloody hell did you do last night?!"
"Don't look at me! I can't remember,"
"Look at her, smiling and she made breakfast."

He couldn't quite piece together the facts in there, partially because he was still throwing up at far too frequent intervals. The door behind him opened the seemingly booming voice of Northern Ireland actually caused him pain.

"Well the hero seems to have lost to his great nemesis... And made a friend? You Wales must of had some fun last night. Let's get you off that floor.,"

America tried to talk back, trying being the key word and talking meaning moaning. Northern Ireland put his arms under the Americans and dragged him away and through the house to the kitchen. For a little guy he pretty strong.

"Iggy-brows you could do anything to him now, he's all yours, if you want?"
"Bugger off you wanker."
"but think about it, you wouldn't be a wanker any more if you had Alf in this state... that said, he might be on his way to becoming a Welsh territory."
"Who let Wales out?"

America lifted his weary head. Northern Ireland was laughing, England looked, well he looked like he usually did plus he had a hickey on his neck. Oh God what had happened last night.

"Can I give him my cure?"

That accent. That warm and musical Irish accent of his big sister of sorts was far to friendly for this time of day... She had drank more then he had, that he remembered. Was this her hangover?

"Emm, Listen sis, it's nothing personal..."

Northern Ireland was cut off by Scotland putting his hand over the younger man's mouth.

"Yes, let's cure the laddie. Cure him really well."

The two people he feared the most in that moment looked over at him with sychonised demonic smiles he would run if his legs were not, for all sakes and purpose made of jelly.

It was now nearly eleven. After many various drinks containing raw eggs, spinach, rum and various other combinations to make the evil concoctions, an extra greasy fry, hot tea with 4 spoons of sugar and very strong cup of black coffee America could safely say he felt no better.

"Hmm, well I think we've tried everything."
"I agree, just give him the berocca and let him learn his lesson."

He was handed a glass filled with fizzing liquid and a pill. It looked lie another evil "cure". Still he drank it. Not felling much better but able to stand and walk he went up to the guest room and collapsed onto the bed and slept.

So America learns the hard way not to try and drink as much as Scotland or Ireland and especially not both. So who gave England the hickey? Why is Ireland in such a good mood? Why did America drink those cures? Is he going to be a Welsh territory? Find out in the next chapter: What happened last night? *Dramatic music and lighting*