It should go without say I do not own Hetalia, if I did this would not be a fanfiction.
This was a terrible morning.
Most people would consider any morning they wake up with a hangover to be a bad morning. However, this particular morning Arthur could only classify as a right terrible. For this particular morning, the British nation found himself waking up in his living room, still dressed from the night before and in an extremely sorry state. His once white shirt was scorched and burned in several places, and so covered in grime that any attempt to wash it would be wasted, and he would likely have to toss it out. Frankly, everything he was wearing would have to go: his pants were at some point a lovely dark brown pair of dress pants, having been reduced to a tattered pair of shorts. On top of everything his poor living room was in shambles, the couch had been attacked with what he assumed was a blowtorch, and the floor was, like himself, covered in grime, mud and soot. The sun was in his eyes, his messy blond hair was messier than usual and so dirty it really could not be called blonde. He found he had mild burns on his arms and legs and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his drawers. To top it all off, Arthur felt like he was going to be sick...err, again; how in god's name did this happen?He began piecing the night before together as best as possible, unfortunately all he could remember was a bar, when France, Spain, and Prussia (who was dressed in lederhosen for some reason,)came in and next thing he knew he was playing with the fireworks Hong Kong had given him. Before he could remember anymore Arthur was violently torn from his thoughts as his headache decided to assail him once more. The source of this inflammation was his cell, which had begun rather loudly ringing to the tune of Rule Britannia. The irony of that song playing while he was sitting here looking like a homeless man only made Arthur's head hurt worse. And honestly who could possibly be calling at this time? The answer to his question came in the form of a familiar and exceedingly obnoxious French accent.
"Bonjour!" The frog, of course it was, of all the people on god's green earth it had to be France who called him. There was only one other person England hated talking to hungover worse than France, and lucky for him North America was a different time zone.
"What do you want, frog? I'm not in the mood." Arthur's voice was hoarse and dry, it made him realize how thirsty he was.
"Oh, mon amis, can I not simply call to check in on you? After all, you had quite a night." France asked with mocking sympathy.
"No, I don't need you checking in on me. And you were drinking too last night, why the hell are you not hungover?"
"2 things: 1, I have self-restraint." Arthur cut him off to laugh openly at the Frenchman's statement.
"You. Self-restraint. Oh yes, I forgot that self-restraint meant fondling anything that moved." He continued laughing for a few moments before it transformed into a violent cough. Which only soured Arthur's already middling mood.
"Angleterre you are a real comedian; you should tell your jokes during the meeting later. You might want to hurry, it's already 3 in the afternoon." With that France hung up the phone.
It took Arthur a few moments to fully understand what Francis meant, what meeting? At that moment, the large grandfather clock in the hall went off, each of the three bells causing his headache to flair. The instant that the chimes stopped, the fog lifted, and reality came crashing down on him; oh bugger! He has to be in Berlin by tonight, and dear god the French git was telling the truth it really is 3 o'clock! Shit, he really cannot be late, he was one of the keynote speakers for the European conference over the next three days. The next couple hours were a flurry as Arthur quickly burned and ate something to combat his now dying hangover. He then threw himself into the shower, which took longer than expected since once he took off his clothes, he found himself to be much filthier than he thought. Finally, he scurried to clean up the living room (and now burned kitchen) as best as possible, since he hated having to clean up after he came home from a trip. As he was scrambling to pack clothes, toiletries and various files and paper from his office he noticed a small note next to his calendar reading: Find babysitter for Peter. Oh Piss.
How could he have forgotten, typically Sweden watched over Sealand, but like it or not the micronation was still Arthur's responsibility. Sometimes for world meetings Arthur could get his brothers or when they were busy, and he was really desperate; Prussia would watch him. However, they would all be at this conference for the next three days, no doubt asking him who he found to watch the boy, well at least Sweden would ask him. And the prospect of telling Sweden he failed to find someone to watch Sealand was, to be honest, quite terrifying. Just thinking about that man's dark look, made Arthur shudder in fear. He then went over who could possibly watch Peter on such short notice, most of the commonwealth was either too young or busy to babysit. And in truth, Arthur really was not in any position to ask most of them for favors; not to mention sending Sealand halfway across the world when all of the micronation's guardians were indisposed, could only end in disaster. No, it would have to be someone relatively close, who was never busy, and could handle the rambunctious tween, and most importantly someone who would actually do England a favor. Unfortunately, the only person Arthur knew who somewhat fit that description was America.
This was going to be a long day.