Mexico ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 01

The dimly lit bar in Tijuana buzzed with life, filled with the scent of tequila, spilled beer, and the lingering smoke of cigars. Lively music played from an old jukebox in the corner, blending with the drunken chatter and occasional bursts of laughter from the patrons.

At the center of it all, slumped over the bar with a half-empty bottle of mezcal in hand, was Mexico—his dark hair disheveled, his poncho lazily draped over one shoulder. His heavy-lidded eyes, glazed with intoxication, barely lifted to acknowledge the bartender pouring him another shot.

You sighed, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed. You hadn't come here for fun—you had come to pick up his lazy ass and drag him to the world meeting. The last thing you wanted was to deal with Germany's inevitable irritation when he realized one of the attendees was missing.

Marching toward him, you placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Alright, that’s enough. Let’s go," you said sternly.

Mexico groaned dramatically, turning his head to blink at you as if seeing you for the first time. His lips curled into a lopsided, drunken grin before he slurred, "I don’t wanna go~" His words were slow and slurred, dripping with the telltale weight of too much alcohol.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Dealing with him when he was like this was exhausting. Then again, you were family—a state within his country, whether he liked it or not. It was your responsibility to get him moving.

With a deep breath, you grabbed his arm, bracing yourself for the challenge ahead. Dragging a stubborn, intoxicated Mexico to an international meeting was going to be anything but easy.