| Oct 11, 2012 2:29:46 GMT -5 |
Post by Gilbert "Prussia" Beilschmidt on Oct 11, 2012 2:29:46 GMT -5
Gilbert was bored, and bored out of his mind at that. The artificial light illuminated his face in the slowly descending gloom that he was ever unaware of, sprawled across the right-hand side of the sofa with yet another beer grasped loosely in his hand and generally looking completely out of place in the otherwise flawlessly pristine conditions of the living room of his brother's house.
Well, technically it was his house as well, considering the number of decades he had been sharing it with him, Gilbert noted without fully processing it, his surroundings becoming increasingly darker and blurred to an unrecognizable extent as his hand went slack and finally lost its hold on the precariously dangling bottle, which proceeded to make contact with the wooden flooring with a resounding thump, to which he responded by jerking awake in the manner of a startled animal caught in the headlights.
It was a wonder the drop hadn't smashed the beer bottle, really.
Groaning lightly as he passed a hand through platinum hair absently, mere moments later swinging his legs off the leather couch, he grasped firmly the bottle in one swift (albeit slightly groggy) movement, the realization slowly entering his mind that not only had the show he'd been watching long since ended, but it had become the single source of any decent quantity of light in the now darkened room.
Shit.
He'd only meant to watch that one show before descending into the depths of his bedroom to get dressed, as he doubted slightly that his date would appreciate his turning up late, with nothing but a heavily stained t-shirt and boxers and the musky smell of various alcohols on his being. But as usual, lady luck had been a bitch and landed him in the worst-case scenario of having to dash around the house in a blind, panic-driven search for a more suitable attire, his wallet, and whatever else the Prussian had decided he desperately needed to bring with him - with less than a few minutes to spare, or so the dim glow of his mobile phone claimed.
Barely managing to pull up his pants before bursting through the door frame, he swore loudly to himself as he struggled momentarily with the lock, his shirt collar askew and hair an unruly mess upon a tired, bloodshot-eyed face as he continued to become increasingly flustered. In his haste he twisted the key with ever increasing force as his eyes bulged, a deep set frown of sheer irritation plastered upon his flushed features.
With a satisfying click, the lock eventually relented, and he barely remembered to remove the key before making a beeline for Ludwig's car. Gripping the wheel, his foot pounding on the acceleration; it wouldn't take him long to arrive at the designated restaurant.
Scrambling from the car without much attempt to park the vehicle in a designated place, it was only when he barges through the already opened restaurant doors that he realized he hadn't been aware of who's name the table had been reserved under, if at all, and for he knew his "date" could've been the overweight, balding old man slouched over the bar.
He was going to kill Tokyo.
Or whoever it was who'd set him up.
Well, technically it was his house as well, considering the number of decades he had been sharing it with him, Gilbert noted without fully processing it, his surroundings becoming increasingly darker and blurred to an unrecognizable extent as his hand went slack and finally lost its hold on the precariously dangling bottle, which proceeded to make contact with the wooden flooring with a resounding thump, to which he responded by jerking awake in the manner of a startled animal caught in the headlights.
It was a wonder the drop hadn't smashed the beer bottle, really.
Groaning lightly as he passed a hand through platinum hair absently, mere moments later swinging his legs off the leather couch, he grasped firmly the bottle in one swift (albeit slightly groggy) movement, the realization slowly entering his mind that not only had the show he'd been watching long since ended, but it had become the single source of any decent quantity of light in the now darkened room.
Shit.
He'd only meant to watch that one show before descending into the depths of his bedroom to get dressed, as he doubted slightly that his date would appreciate his turning up late, with nothing but a heavily stained t-shirt and boxers and the musky smell of various alcohols on his being. But as usual, lady luck had been a bitch and landed him in the worst-case scenario of having to dash around the house in a blind, panic-driven search for a more suitable attire, his wallet, and whatever else the Prussian had decided he desperately needed to bring with him - with less than a few minutes to spare, or so the dim glow of his mobile phone claimed.
Barely managing to pull up his pants before bursting through the door frame, he swore loudly to himself as he struggled momentarily with the lock, his shirt collar askew and hair an unruly mess upon a tired, bloodshot-eyed face as he continued to become increasingly flustered. In his haste he twisted the key with ever increasing force as his eyes bulged, a deep set frown of sheer irritation plastered upon his flushed features.
With a satisfying click, the lock eventually relented, and he barely remembered to remove the key before making a beeline for Ludwig's car. Gripping the wheel, his foot pounding on the acceleration; it wouldn't take him long to arrive at the designated restaurant.
Scrambling from the car without much attempt to park the vehicle in a designated place, it was only when he barges through the already opened restaurant doors that he realized he hadn't been aware of who's name the table had been reserved under, if at all, and for he knew his "date" could've been the overweight, balding old man slouched over the bar.
He was going to kill Tokyo.
Or whoever it was who'd set him up.
