Ireland 1845,

His green eyes shifted towards the ceiling. The walls appeared to be dangerously close. He licked his lips as the fuzziness grew. Fingers achingly reached towards the little sunlight that peaked through.

"God," he moaned. Stomach hollowed out, rumbled endlessly. "Shhh." He mused. The Irishmen laid sprawled on his bed. A thin drab blanket wrapped around his frail body. He could hear the groans of his people. They were hungry. They were dying. And they were leaving him.

And for who? He bitterly thought.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. Ireland slowly turned his head to see it was Scotland. Their eyes danced around the other. Scotland appeared as though he couldn't stand to stare at the Irishmen. He jerked his head downwards. Ireland inwardly laughed.

"Come to watch me die?" The Irishmen felt downright cynical. Scotland sighed.

"Brother-"

"You are no brother of mine." He quickly cut off. Ireland then slowly lifted his body up. Scotland looked like he was about to help but Ireland swatted him away. "Where's me pipe?" He then weakly opened his drawer next to him. Luckily he found it right away. He filled it with tobacco and lit it up. After a few drags he once again acknowledged Scotland's presence. "What can I do you for?"

"I came to tell you that England is coming." He said with the shame eminent in his jade blue eyes. Ireland almost choked on his pipe.

"Why?!" He snapped. "So he can finish me off? He already put the final nail in my coffin!" he leered. Scotland bit his lip.

"I told him that you need him now more than ever," Scotland said. Ireland scoffed.

"Did you come crawling hands and knees? Is that why he listened?" Scotland heaved a sigh.

"I did this for you!" His freckled face turned a brilliant shade of red. Ireland lurched back, the guilt bubbling in his stomach.

"How long till he's here?" The Irishmen coolly asked. Scotland finally sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Soon," he whispered. Delicately, he reached towards the republic and pat his soft orange hair. Ireland was getting worse as the days wan by. The bones on his body stretched his flesh. Pale discolored green eyes almost appeared defeated. Almost. Him and his brother were no match for the British Empire. Scotland grew weary of it all. Ireland on the other hand held many grudges, waiting for the day he would be a country again. It broke the nation's heart to see the other fail miserably. Be abandoned by his own people, for they had also lost faith in him.

Scotland wanted to say something else. He wanted to reassure his little brother that there was hope yet. That this wasn't the end. But before he could even muster the courage to speak to the temperamental nation, the door swung open.

Their eyes loomed over their dreaded adversary. England pompously strode in with a gold cane clad in all black. He gently draped his coat over a wooden chair. His eyes held a vacant stare as he observed Ireland's frail state. He coughed.

"Scotland, leave us." It was all but a command. Scotland hesitantly stood up. He gazed mournfully at his sick brother and held his breath. He then dragged his feet against the old wooden floor. He softly clicked the door behind him. England looked annoyed. Ireland returned his rude unfeeling stare with nothing but contempt.

"You need help." It was more of statement than a question. Ireland remained quiet. After an extended moment of silence, England growled. "I don't think you deserve it." At that, Ireland weakly stood up.

"Do you think my people do?" He spat. Venom dripped from the corners of his mouth, England sharply inhaled.

"Your people." The tone was so placid yet menacing. "Are nothing to miss." At that, Ireland leaped with the little energy he had, and tackled England to the ground. England of course was in better condition and threw the Irishmen off of him with much ease. He pinned the weaker nation to the ground. Ireland vainly struggled as England pressed down on him firmly.

"Let me go! Let me go!" He yelled. England's fingers dug into the man's arms.

"Only if you say sorry."

"Fuck you!" He then spit on the Brit's face. The man's eyes grew wide but slowly succumbed to rage as he slapped Ireland. He then shook the man with complete fury.

"Why won't you listen to me?" He screamed at the Irishmen. "Why Alfred!" The words flew out of his mouth before he even had the chance to stop them. He stopped as he watched the Irishmen's eyes fill with hatred.

"Is that what this is all about? I'm not America goddammit!" With that said, he somehow gained the strength to push the Brit off of him. They sat on the dirty floor for a moment. Ireland looked at his stronger nation with sheer disgust. England pathetically lowered his head. His blond hair traced around his delicate features.

"If I help you," his voice came as hoarse. Ireland's ears perked. "You will leave." Ireland's heart dropped.

"What?"

England stood up and walked over to his dumbstruck nation. He knelt down as an adult would do to a child and pulled his head close to his chest. He breathed in the scent of grass and wood that the ginger always seemed to reek of and gently pet his hair. Ireland remained doll-like, realizing the complete lunacy of England's words. This man, had gone mad with power. He had heard through Scotland that England was becoming more heartless as the days went by. Although his society began to form a sense of civility to them, his attitude towards others worsened. It was in that moment, Ireland pieced together that he was doing this because of his sorrow towards the prospering country that was America.

"You are absolutely mad." Ireland murmured. England nuzzled his orange hair ignoring his words. "You will be the death of me." He then said. At that, England pushed the Irishmen away and stood up. He sat on the Irishmen's rather uncomfortable bed and crossed his legs.

"I don't rather like your tone." He spouted off sternly. "For somebody in your state, you think you would be begging for help. So stubborn."

"I don't do begging." Ireland countered. England shrugged.

"Suit yourself." England got off of the man's bed and grabbed his coat from off of the chair. He reached for the dead yellow knob when Ireland sat up.

"Wait," he whispered.

"Hm?" England smugly turned around. His smile gleamed crookedly. Ireland held his breath.

"Look," he started. "They're all dying out there. They're all hopping on the boat to America. I am out of options." The man's eyes remained glued onto the floor. His fingers filled his moth bitten pockets. England cackled.

"Maybe you should have planned ahead then." He cruelly countered. Ireland raised his head.

"We weren't expecting this! Please-!"

"Please? Say it again." England leaned in with a hand on his ear. It took Ireland all of his will to not clock the Brit in his face.

"Please, help us." He mumbled.

"Us?"

"Me." Ireland sighed. England appeared to be absolutely pleased with the man's weak state. His eyes twitched with his sick grin. He then shrugged on his coat.

"I'll think about it." He laughed. Ireland turned bright red.

"You son of a bitch!" He screamed. "This isn't a game! I don't have long!"

"And you were doing so good." Said England with a pout. "We really should teach you manners." He circled the enraged Irishmen and grabbed his cheek teasingly. Ireland pushed him away. "I will talk about it with Parliament." He then headed back to the door. "I'll be back to see how you are fairing." And with that said, England strolled out the door.

Ireland crumpled to the floor. Scotland rushed in. He grabbed his brother and helped him onto his wire frame bed. Ireland shamefully turned away from the Scot. Tears bled through his eyes and stained his pale ivory cheeks. Scotland didn't say a word to the Irishmen about his crying and remained stoic.

"Sorry." Ireland breathed.

"It's alright." Scotland muttered. "I don't why he does this."

Ireland's mind dangerously swirled with murderous shades of red and black. His brain crackled like thunder, and his lips twisted into a snarl. He knew why. He knew who was to blame.

"I will ruin him." He vowed. Scotland perked his head up.

"England?"

"No," he exhaled.

It was then when Ireland devised a plan that would only further hurt England's obese ego. If he lived, he would go to America. He will wait until his people flock there again starving and confused. He will hunt down the young naive fool and forever leave his mark on him. He will be sure that England's precious America will always have a piece of him buried deep inside.

AN: Since it is St. Patrick's Day, I willed myself to finish this chapter I had in the works. I came up with this idea when I was writing my story Kissing Russia (which will be continued). I decided to create Ireland because I found myself disappointed with the very loose outline of what the original creator kinda threw together. So here's my take on him. I hope the history is correct, as I am sure you guys guessed this was the potato famine. And I hope none of you find England horribly OOC. Which I admit, he is. But I kinda view the British Empire as somebody who is dark and disturbed. WELP, I hope some people find this pairing amusing and review.

Thank you!