Northern Ireland shivered, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile effort to hold in the warmth. He was walking down the streets of some city of his, a few hours of walking and several miles in a taxi cab or two had left him ignorant to his own location. He had just needed to get away, and he doubted the others would notice his absence. England and Scotland were fighting again, the biting remarks and violent gestures chasing North out of his own home. There was no fending off the chilly breeze, but it was better to be here than there. He turned his head to the sky, pale skin and orange hair illuminated by the harsh glare of a streetlight, the blue in his eyes seeming to glow against their shamrock green competitor. It was just starting to be late; the sun set so low the moon had already claimed its dominance against the inky blue sky. Still, little shops and small restaurant were aglow with inviting light, straggling tourists debating over that last little trinket they'd inevitably buy, late working businessmen rushing home to their wives, tired eyes clerks and waitresses watching every tick of the clock. Though the buildings offered warmth and an at least semi-comfortable seat, he couldn't bring himself to enter any of them. So, he found a bench, old and well worn, probably left over from the days when people had the time to simply sit around and watch the world go by, and sat there, willing away the cool wind nipping at his pink nose.
A loud noise made him jump ever so slightly, and he lifted his head to find the source. A little girl stood in a puddle in the road, one she'd clearly just leapt into with full excitement. She was followed soon after by a boy the same age, twins, if their matching jackets and hair meant anything. He, however, was not so lucky as his sister, and tripped over the curb, sending both children tumbling to the ground. They were joined almost instantly by an older child, with blonde hair but the same eyes, who quickly scooped each child out of the puddle and placed them safely back on the sidewalk. She was soon joined by one, two, three more people, each fearfully inspecting the others for any sign of injury. They were a family.
North swallowed with difficulty, his throat feeling suddenly dry as he focused his gaze on the cracked concretes beneath his feet. If there was anything that he truly felt envious of, it was normal, everyday human families. Because he had never had that, his brothers were already hundreds of years old, with bitterness and hatred and even attempts at each other's lives tainting their outlook on life and relationships. What he had been born into couldn't really be called a family, he supposed. Tension had been so high before he had arrived, and by the time he was a child, maybe no more than that big sister had been, he'd been immersed in someone else's bloody war. He'd nearly been torn in half, the memories and after-effects tormenting him for years. Still he sometimes woke shaking in fear from his nightmares. And Ireland had still left him, left them all, and England had only grown more bitter, his fights with Scotland only growing more heated, Wales had only found it harder to get by. There were times, though, when he could think and remember those rare moments in their youth when they had laughed together, helped one another, strange how it seemed like such a distant dream now.
If only he was normal, like the tourists and the businessmen and the waitresses. They rarely consider the miracles they were granted in the simplest of things, always dreaming of things that wouldn't bring them happiness. He had those things they pined for, wealth, power, immortality, and he would give it all up, trade it all away, just to be a simple, normal person with his loving, united family. He wanted…he wanted his brothers back. He closed his eyes, holding back tears as he leaned against the aging wooden seat and let his exhaustion overtake him. Alone and lost, Northern Ireland drifted off into fitful sleep, still shivering from the icy winds.
We're the boys of Belfast Town, ramped and raorin', ramblin' 'round. We're Irishmen all the world renown, that's the boys of Belfast. You will find us anywhere, in the Church or on the tare. Brave and bold, there's none so rare as the boys of Belfast.
North groaned, fighting off the tug of consciousness as he rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. He hated waking up, and his senses told him it was well before noon, which meant he wasn't expected up for quite awhile. He curled up on the mattress, tugging his blanket over his head in an attempt to drown out the music blasting from his alarm clock, until realization slowly set in. He had fallen asleep on a bench in some little touristy town, so where had the bed come from? He slowly eased the blanket down, cringing at the bright light pouring in from the window. He couldn't see much, his eyes burned too much. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, struggling to adjust to the sun as the song continued to poor from the alarm clock in a rich Irish tone.
We're the boys of Belfast Town, ramped and raorin', ramblin' 'round. We're Irishmen all the world renown, that's the boys of Belfast. We can fight with sword or pen, we'll never break, we'll never bend, and if we fall we'll rise again, for we're the boys of Belfast.
He slammed his hand on the off button, cutting the song off. He noted the clock was shaped like a sheep. Odd, wasn't that the present from Wales he had broken a few months back? The room around him slowly came into view, and he was surprised to find it wasn't his room, or any of his brothers' rooms, or the guest room. The blanket was familiar, the image of his flag, but everything else was…different, but yet, so familiar. Like he had seen it all before, but it was so long ago the memory was little more than a blurry sort of feeling. It was messy, not trashed, just untidy, with a few articles of clothing lying about, a number of novels, sketchbooks, and random assortment of items placed casually on the bed, the dresser, the table, the old vanity no one had ever bothered to move into storage. A computer desk was pushed up against one wall, a laptop sitting open on it. The walls were dark green with orange Celtic swirls, covered in posters and shelves lined with odd knickknacks and posters.
Hesitantly, he slipped the blanket off and stood up, thick carpet soft under his bare feet. He chose the computer table as the starting point of his investigation, figuring a laptop would contain the greatest amount of information. The laptop was in relatively good shape, a slim modern make with just a splash of pink nail polish on the corner. He stared at it, and an image of Poland chatting away on a bed, painting his nails with enthusiasm flashed in his mind, accompanied by the half formed thought, Damn it Feliks, I told ya not to use t'at crap in here!
It was the oddest thing, as though he couldn't remember remembering that. Like it had happened, but he was simply borrowing the memory from someone else. He clicked the Start Up button, and typed in his password on instinct. The screen came alive with a chiming tone, and he found himself examining the photos on the desk as he waited. The first one that caught his eye was one of him and his brothers, all lined up and posing for the camera against a woodsy background. Scotland looked incredibly un-amused, standing tall in the back of the group. Ireland had the cockiest expression on his face, his arm slung over a pissed off looking England. Wales was kneeling down, smiling kindly at the camera. His hand was on the shoulder of a young North, sitting cross-legged on the ground and staring at the camera with a mildly confused look, like he couldn't quite decide how he felt about the photo. North swallowed, his throat exceptionally dry once again. A dull ache started in the back of his head, pounding an unrelenting beat in his mind. He grunted, one hand flying to his head as he took an unsteady step forward, stumbling over his own feet. He gripped the edge of the desk to keep from collapsing, his head spinning wildly. Then, as quickly as it had started, the sensation vanished, leaving him grasping for control of his shaky body.
"Been a long time since that happened…" he muttered to himself, shaking his head slightly in an attempt to brush away the remaining feelings of haziness.
Slowly, the uncertainty passed and he settled onto the worn office chair and immediately went for the picture files on the laptop. He clicked one at random, and flipped through them. So many recognizable faces, yet, they were so different. There were many of him and his brothers, of all ages. One was of him as a baby, a young England holding him in his arms, Ireland hanging over his shoulder and reaching out, his own tiny hand wrapped around his older brother's finger. There were pictures of what he assumed was some sort of school fieldtrip, a few holiday snap shots. He paused on the last picture in the file, a football team, posing in bright green and white uniforms on a grassy field. He searched through the faces, and found himself in the photo. Standing behind him was a face that caught his attention. He was tall and arrogant looking, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was familiar, but it seemed wrong somehow.
"…Prussia?" he asked, bewildered by the realization. Could that really be him? Funny, he couldn't seem to remember quite how he knew him, in either world. If he looked so different…
North spun around and rushed to the old vanity, leaning close and staring hard at the mirror, searching for any difference. He looked the same, as far as he could tell, only…six specific freckles were missing, the ones that represented the six provinces of his country. Was he going mad? What the hell was happening? Maybe if he looked around, found out where he was, it would make sense to him. He admitted he was grasping at straws, but it was all he had. He looked down at his pajamas, an alarmingly bright shade of green, and covered in sheep. Another present from Wales he assumed, even if he couldn't quite remember. There was no way in hell he was walking around in these. He tugged open the drawers of his dresser, searching for a suitable outfit. He found a t-shirt for a random punk band, and a pair of stressed denim jeans torn at the knees. He swapped clothes quickly, and searched the floor. He found a pair of black shoes with neon orange laces peeking out from under his bed, and he pulled them out and slid them on. He pulled a cellphone off the dresser and slid it in his pocket, assuming it was his. He took a deep breath to settle his nerves, and stepped into a long, brown walled hallway lined with photographs. He turned around, staring first at his own door. 'Logan' was printed across the dark orange wood in green letters lines with gold. He blinked, startled to see his human name.
He spun around and looked at every doorway, just as surprised to find each of his brothers' names printed on the doors, Alasdair printed on a dark red door covered in rude posters, Aiden scrawled across a pale blue door with a red dragon carved and painted into the wood and lamb stickers all over it, Seamus posted boldly across a bright green door with the tricolor flag crookedly pinned to it, sayings and phrases carved into it, Arthur printed neatly in pale blue letters, a perfectly straight Union flag carefully hung against the dark green wood. The hallway reached a dead end to the right, leading to another door he knew led to the bathroom. He didn't know why he knew that, only making him feel more unnerved. He turned to the left, walking slowly down the hallway until he reached two open doorways. He stopped just before the first one, a sweet voice humming a familiar tune filling his ears. He felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, his throat tightening. Why did he almost feel like crying? That simple little song, why did it bring back such wonderful, saddening feelings, such vague memories from a time and place so distant?
He moved slowly towards the doorway, peering around the edge into a cozy, warm den. The room was dark, but not scarily so, more comfortingly so, a fire burning in a fireplace. He could see the back of a woman with long blonde hair, rocking slowly in a rocking chair, humming that song. One word flashed through his mind, but it was enough to make him stagger. Mother. It wasn't possible. Britannia, his mother, she had died when he was so young, but that song, he remembered that song. She had sung it to him, to all his brothers when they were young. The possibility that she was there now, alive and humming, was too much for him. He turned away with misty eyes, forcing himself to continue down the hallway. Loud male voices could be heard, shouting and laughing and arguing. He peered into the next room, and he almost called out a greeting on instinct. All of his brothers were there, crowded into the kitchen that seemed awfully small when you added in the four men. Alasdair was burning sausage, likely to a crisp. Arthur was leaning against the counter, sipping his tea, Earl Grey he was sure, and arguing with Seamus. Said elder brother was currently attempting to make some sort of breakfast out of eggs, though North couldn't see into the pan to tell what it was. Aiden sat at the table, eating a well-cooked meal and shooting occasional annoyed glances at the others. Bits and sections of their conversation and mutterings reach his ears.
"You're not supposed to have eggshells in your omelet, Seamus."
"T'ere aren't shells in my food, ya snot-nosed snob."
"I am not a snob, you bloody git. Don't take it out on me just because you can't cook."
"Like ya could do better!"
"I can cook just fine, thank you very much!"
"Ya could nae cook tae save yer life."
"Like you would know, Alasdair."
"An' what is thae supposed tae mean, ya wee baw?"
"Guys, have you heard from Logan?" Aiden said suddenly, making all three brothers turn to face him.
"Ya know Logan, betcha he's still passed out." Seamus said, shrugging as he turned back to his meal.
"Its Saturday, he doesn't like to be woken up. We'll let him sleep today." Arthur added.
Aiden shrugged, peering over at Alasdair to see if he had any opinion. He suddenly yelped, leaping to his feet, "Fire!"
North jumped at the sharp cry, he couldn't stand loud noises. Alasdair spun around, letting out a cry of protest as he snatched the burning pan, "My sausage!"
"Feck!"Seamus swore sharply, leaping out of the way of the fire, "Watch it!"
"The sink! Alasdair, put it in the sink!" Arthur shouted, waving towards the sink.
Seamus gripped his arm and jerked him away from the counter, "Move, ya eejit! You'll get burned!"
Alasdair tossed the pan into the sink, and Aiden jumped behind him, tossing his cup of water on the fire and easily extinguishing it. Alasdair gave his sausages an anguished look, picking up one with a pair of tongs. Arthur gave the meat a contemplating look, before he gave his opinion.
"You know…I think they're better this way."
Alasdair eyed the sausage for a minute, took a quick crunching bite, and smiled. "Yer right, its nae a real sausage without a good crunch."
Seamus went back to his omelet in an attempt to salvage the now burning meal. Aiden rolled his eyes and sat down again, while Alasdair and Arthur went about preparing their breakfast. North held back laughter as he ducked past the door, hoping he had gone unnoticed. His brothers were such idiots. He didn't know what exactly to do, or how to explain to anyone what was wrong, so he slipped out the front door, careful not to let it slam. He stood for a minute, looking nervously from side to side. He couldn't decide which way he wanted to go, so he settled onto the porch swing and stared up at the sky. Nothing made sense; he didn't even know where to begin even thinking about the situation. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the aging wood and took deep, calming breaths. Only one thought was really on his mind. Where the fuck am I?
I don't own Hetalia.
This is based off an RP I did.
Northern Ireland = Logan Liam Ulsters-Kirkland
Republic of Ireland = Seamus Dara O'Conner (Kirkland)
Scotland = Alasdair McCallister (Kirkland)
Wales = Aiden Vaughn-Kirkland
England = Arthur Kirkland
Feliks is Poland, Prussia is Gilbert, and I think that's all I mentioned. Can you guess who the woman is? She gets to remain nameless for now. The song is Boys of Belfast, by The Irish Rovers.