England.
A nation that shares its land borders with Scotland to the north and Wales to the west. A nation that includes over 100 smaller islands, filled with low hills and vast plains. A nation that has many ancient standing stone monuments and remarkable Roman based architecture.
A place where it once had a famous reputation for excellent cuisine before it went horribly downhill. The place where football [Soccer] was born, two-story buses began and a giant Ferris wheel stood. The Queen's country.
A country everyone wanted to be in.
Except for Spain.
Said nation grins frustratingly at the map he held in his hand, attempting to work out the complicated network system of London's streets. All the Spaniard had wanted was to find out where the nearest food market was and buy some groceries to last him the three miserable days he was going to spend here. Though, since London seemed to be constructed as a giant maze, he had gotten lost.
He folds the map, since it clearly did nothing to help and only confused him more, and places it in his jacket's inner pocket. Spain then looks around for a moment before walking up to a stranger standing at a bus stop and asks for directions. After a moments explanation he thanks the man and walks through the streets of London following his direction.
Why hadn't he done that before? Oh yes. It's because most people in this country seem to be too busy to stop and direct a man, lost in a country he did not want to be in, to the nearest food market.
Spain smiles in relief at the sight of the market a few feet in front of him. He saunters over to a stand and begins to examine the variety of vegetables, determining which was fit to eat and which wasn't. His eyes gaze over the tomatoes.
Tomatoes are fruits not vegetables.
But of course Eyebrows would consider them vegetables. Why does that not surprise him? Spain picks out six nice tomatoes and pays the man running the stand before moving on to the next stand.
Spain struggles to carry the three paper bags that were filled to the brim with food as he finishes paying the baker woman and departs from the market. He patiently waits for the road to clear before jogging across it and retracing the steps he took to get to the food market. The Spaniard readjusts his grip on the bags and turns a corner swiftly, only for someone to ram right into him and knock the bags out of his hands.
"Ah!"
He attempts to catch them but hardly manages to save even one. Spain releases a clearly annoyed hum at the food scattered across the ground. He kneels down, placing the lone bag in his hand beside him, and begins picking up the fruits and vegetables on the sidewalk.
Without looking up he says to the unhelpful stranger, "I would appreciate it if you could help amigo."
The stranger is noticeably hesitant to help but does so in the end. Spain places the last tomato in a bag and gathers the three bags, picking them up. After readjusting his grip on them he looks up to face the stranger who knocked them over in the first place. Though the European's features light up in surprise once he sees the man's face.
"A…America?"
Now normally one would not be surprised to find the American in this country, especially since there will be a meeting three days from now, and Spain isn't. Though one would be surprised if they found him in this country with tan skin, matching red hair and eyes, and a new wardrobe.
Spain looks America once over, absorbing his new and strange style.
"Eh…W, what happened to your hair... and eyes?" The Spaniard shakes his head in an attempt to grasp the sense behind the younger nation's dress choice and hair color. "What happened to you?"
America simply stares at Spain, a look of disbelief and bewilderment written on his face. The two countries remain silent, neither taking their questioning gazes off the other until the European decides he's had enough of this silence and demands an explanation.
"Nothing happened to me," America answers finally. "What happened to you and the world is more like it."
"Que?" Spain quirks a brow.
"What happened to your long hair? What happened to your eyes? Hell, What happened to the sky?!" The United States stares up at the sky as if it had changed color.
Spain, now fully lost, furrows his brows and steps closer to bring the other's face down and places a hand on his forehead while being careful not to drop the bags again. He moves the hand to the latter's cheek as the American eyes him curiously,
"Uh, what're you doing?"
"Trying to see if you're sick."
"I'm not."
"Are you drunk then?" Spain sets his hand back under the bags.
"No."
"Then what happened to your hair?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah, that's why its red right?"
"It's always been that way but you, you cut your hair. Why? I actually thought it was badass."
"I cut my hair centuries ago…"
"Centuries? I saw you, like, two fucking hours ago."
"…Okay you're drunk."
"What the fuck, no I'm not!"
Spain moves behind America and pushes him forward, "Of course not. Just keep on walking and follow me."
The American reluctantly follows and it was a matter of time before the two made it to Spain's hotel room up on the top floor. The Spanish man sets down the grocery bags on top of the kitchen's counter, quickly putting away anything in need of refrigeration, and leads the U.S. to the couch.
"Okay, so, what happened to you?" Spain crosses his arms.
America leans back into the couch, "Nothing. Why, what's wrong with me?"
Spain uncrosses his arms and motions to the Western nation, earning an irked expression from him. "You just gestured to all of me."
Spain nods, folding his arms once more. He stood there silently waiting for the American to begin explaining. Finally The U.S. sighs and agrees seeing that the Spaniard had the patience of a saint and the stubbornness of a bull.
Throughout the entire explanation, Spain had no doubt in his mind that America had tried some of Eyebrow's enchanted potions and that it caused him to change on a whole new level. Not only did it change the American's hair and eyes from their original colors to red but also his outfit was completely different. He still had his bomber jacket but it was more worn down and somewhat dirty; he wore dark, torn jeans and a white T-shirt with an old pair of converse.
Not the usual style of the westerner.
Spain thought it to be quite strange because he looks like America but at the same time doesn't; he was America but somehow didn't feel like him.
Something had to have happened for him to end up this way. Though the clarification America was giving wasn't making any sense. By the end of it Spain thought the American would need some serious therapeutic help, especially when he mentions an Arthur character that he had supposedly been separated from.
Spain merely plays along with the story and asks for America's phone in hopes to find out something but when told that he couldn't find it, the Spaniard pulls his own phone out and dials the American's number.
Spain held the phone between his right ear and shoulder as he serves himself a glass of water from a pitcher in the kitchen. Wondering if anyone would answer, he takes a sip from the glass. The call went to voicemail so the European dials again, listening to the dial tone. Finally said dial tone ends and someone answers,
"Hello?"
Spain furrows his brows at the voice, setting the cup down, "Hello?"
The person on the other line replies, "Spain? Hey, what's up, dude? Ya called?"
Spain froze at the familiar greeting. "…A-america?"
"Who else would it be, man? Is there a reason you called because I'm sorta in the middle of somethin'?"
America? How could that be, he's right there in Spain's hotel room! Is this some sort of really elaborate joke? How can there be an America on the phone when there is an America right there on the sofa?
Spain glances over to the America now standing by the window eyeing the world outside suspiciously. If he is there then someone else has to be on the phone.
"Hello? Earth to Spain, you there?"
"Who is this?" The Spaniards says very low, sounding much more anxious than before.
America must've taken notice for he replies with concern, "America. I thought we went over this... Dude, you feeling okay? You're not getting amnesia are you?"
Spain ignores the question and, with uneasiness notable in his voice, responds, "You…you can't be America. That's impossible you're right here... Where are you?"
"Why is that impossible, err, I'm outside of a coffee shop in Southern England? Spain, man, you're freakin' me out, what happened?"
Spain eyes the man on his couch and with a sudden chill running down his spine, he says.
"If you're America and you're over there…then, who's in my living room?"
DUN DUN DUUUUUNNNNN- /SHOT Okay hi~! This is the first chapter. The first shorter-than-I-expected chapter of this story :3 Anyhow, thank you for reading! You should totally (POLAND NO.) click that favorite & follow button eh? *nudges* eh? eh? *nudges* Okei I'ma leave you alone now :3