A/N: Just a friendly warning about Romano's language. It's very strong. Obviously, if you will be offended, skip this chapter.
Spain put his head down on the bar.
He was, to put it bluntly, very drunk.
In fact, he was so drunk, he couldn't remember what he'd been drinking.
And it really didn't matter.
The turtle on the bar agreed with him.
"Mi amigo," Spain said to the turtle, "I am a very lonely man."
The turtle said nothing.
"All of my amigos are *hic* getting married and having *hic* kids….I had a lot of kids, you know…"
The turtle blinked. Spain took this as a sign to continue.
"Si, I did, but they all *hic* left. Or Inglaterra stole them. God, he's such a *hic* bastardo…"
The turtle totally agreed with him. It deserved a reward.
"Camarero, las dos bebidas para mí y mi amigo Tortuga!" ["Bartender, two drinks for me and my friend Turtle!"]
The bartender gave him an odd look, but poured two glasses and slid them across the bar. Spain set one down in front of the turtle, who seemed disinterested. Spain didn't notice, though, probably because he was too busy drinking from his own glass.
"Was!?"
The sudden interjection startled the Spaniard, despite the fact that it came from across the room and was not even directed at him.
Spain turned his head to see Germany talking rapidly into his phone. At one point, he put his hand over the receiver and directed Romano (who had been sitting with Germany and Feli to make sure that there was no hanky-panky) over to where Spain was sitting.
"Hey, Bastardo."
"Hola, Romano!" Spain smiled and pulled the frowning Romano into his lap.
"What- what are you doing, Bastardo?!" Romano flushed.
"Roma, will you marry me?"
"What?!" Romano was now the shade of one of his beloved tomatoes, if not redder.
"Marry me, Romano~!"
"Are you drunk?" He caught a glimpse of the many empty glasses sitting in front of Spain. "You ARE drunk! Look, you'd better sober the fuck up, because Tomato Bastard sent me over to tell you that you need to get off your bastard ass and fucking get some goddamn funeral clothes."
Wait, what? Funeral clothes? Why would he need…?
"What? Are you so drunk that you forgot there's a fucking war going on out there, Bastard?"
Oh God.
He was immediately sober. "Who…?
"America. The funeral is the day after tomorrow."