Good Lord! I'm working on two stories at once! Since I really like the idea of this one, I might even finish this one before the one I started first.
And, as many fanfictions start with: I do not own Hetalia.
Countries are not humans. Humans are born after two other humans have sex. Humans go to school, fall in love, develop, get a job, get a life, have a family, accumulate products and consume media, get old, and eventually die after a decline in physical and mental ability that comes with age.
Countries cannot live lives like that: they usually live on their own, go to war over their selfish bosses' decisions. Countries are semi-immortal; their actions and decisions affect large landmasses and populations; which gives them god-like properties. They watch the world spin over and over again as empires rise and crumble. When humans die, get forgotten, and decompose away, countries continue on. Alone and through extremes of suffering.
But a country had no choice to live this life. If you were a country, would you want to take it all away and live the life of a human?
Britain awoke in his flat in central London. His deep green eyes burst open, pupils expanding and contracting to adjust to the current level of light. After staring at the blank, white ceiling for a few minutes, he finally turned his head to check the clock on his bedside table: 9:14 A.M. A further 10 minutes were gone before he decided to get out of bed. Big Ben, and the London skyline were clearly visible from the window of the kitchen. Of course, he was there the Day all of those were completed, he clearly remembered the bloke's face when Big Ben was finished, the smile of achievement. Enough of reminiscing on my Industrial revolution. After spinning around 180 degrees on the heel of his left foot, Britain was now standing in front of the fridge, which he quickly opened, grabbing the semi-skimmed milk. The sell-by date was yesterday, but a quick smell of the contents of the bottle proved that it would taste adequate, so he poured it into a bowl of Weetabix. As he ate, he pushed, and pulled, his fingers through his hair, using them as a brush. Then he rubbed his bushy eyebrows, getting rid of an itch.
He Brushed his teeth. He changed his underwear. "Right, let's see, what colour boxers should I go for today? Purple-and-green striped? Yellow with a picture of a Spitfire? Or the one with a picture of a cigar in front of the crotch?" It doesn't matter, no-one else will see them, except for you, it's not like you're even going to have sex... "Shut up, Brain!" In the end he decided to go with one that was red with white love hearts. To cover them up, he wore a pair of black formal trousers that were pressed, and over his upper body was an ironed red shirt with a black tie, and a grey trench coat with lapels and brass buttons.
Today he was going to meet Scotland to settle this whole 'Scottish Independence' thing. He left the high-rise block of flats he lived in, and entered the car park, where his Bentley Continental GT was waiting for him. He turned the key to start the engine, but the only thing that happened was a spluttering noise that the exhaust emitted. What? Has great British engineering failed me? Fuck this, I'm getting a taxi. As he entered the street, he knew that the humans probably wouldn't know who he was, to them he looked like a regular person. His citizens that lived in his landmass did not know that the blonde guy walking down the street was their country because he didn't want to be famous, Britain (the personified version) preferred to refrain from being in the spotlight during historical events, so he could walk down a street without a paparrazi.
Britain, without any particular emotion, walked down the pavement, where on the other side was a taxi rank, so he crossed the road. What his brain didn't register was the hint of red in the corner of his eye a few seconds before. There was a screech of tires, them something suddenly hit his left side. It was a bus. Then his right side and rest of his body slamed on the road, head hitting the cold ground with a violent impact.
Britain didn't remember anything of that morning. Or anything that had happened before that.
Darkness. Eyes open. What happened next was a blur. He picked himself up from the road. The driver got out of the bus, asking, "Ar..." muffled voice, "...right?" He looked down and saw blood on the road. Britain didn't remember what he replied to the driver. But then he turned around and thought Don't feel well. Going home. He stumbled into the block of flats, and he forgot what happened next. Then he awoke in his bed.
Knowing only one thing, his name: Arthur Kirkland.