*ੈ🍸✶‧₊˚ ꒰ Copacabana .ᐟ ꒱ ᝰ🚬

The room is warm, thick with the scent of tequila and lime. Fifteen bodies packed into a loose circle on mismatched furniture, the coffee table cluttered with shot glasses, a half-empty bottle, and a bowl of chips nobody's touched in a while.

Arthur

Drink your bloody shot Francis, you asked a question!

Francis

What does it look like I'm doing, Angleterre?

Francis levels a look at Arthur over the rim of his glass, then tips the tequila back with theatrical grace. He slams it down, coughing once, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Alfred

Okay okay, who's turn was it? He asks, bouncing a little in his seat, a half-eaten chip in his other hand.

Feliciano

ve~ It was Germany's turn! He says, beaming at the blond beside him.

Ludwig sits stiffly, arms crossed, his shoulders square like he's at a diplomatic meeting rather than a drinking game. He surveys the circle for a moment, brow furrowed in that particular way of his, before nodding slowly.

Ludwig

Okay okay, I'll go.

He pauses. His eyes scan the room, passing over you once—then twice. His jaw tightens slightly. The faintest flush creeps up the back of his neck, but his voice stays even when he speaks.

Ludwig

I have a question. He looks directly at you.