Okay, first Hetalia fic. Sorry if it sucks or doesn't seem right. By the way, you're going to need to read this bit of information or else you'll be so confused when reading this.

This is my OC and what you need to know about him as you're reading:

Nation: Ireland

Name: Seamus O'Conner (he use to be a Kirkland before he gained his independence)

Age: Looks like he's 25-years-old.

Description: Short orange hair (it's straight in the front but very messy in the back [no, not like emo/scene hair]), green eyes, green rimmed glasses, bushy eyebrows, freckles along his face, a green shirt with a black clover on it, brown cargo shorts, green and black striped socks that go to below his knees, and brown boots.

Interests: Leprechauns, superstitions, potatoes, the color green, beer, singing/humming random songs.

Dislikes: Certain nations, Friday the 13th, bad omens.

Family: Brothers are Scotland, Wales, England, and Northern Ireland.

Friends: Russia, the Bad Friends Trio, Germany, leprechauns.

Warning: Yaoi, maybe some OOC-ness, incest, Irish stereotypes (I don't mean to offend if I hurt anyone's feelings), human names used, maybe a spoiler here and there, and I'm too serious so this fic may be less comedic.

Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia: Axis Powers, I wouldn't be writing any of this. I'd be busy making this become an episode, which I can't do because I don't have the skills or ideas of its respective creator, Hidekaz Himaruya. Simply put.

Extra Warning: This chapter is a bit brutal.

Gunshots rang through the air like fireworks, their bullets either hitting the muddy ground or warm flesh. Shouts of commands could bearly be heard by the men as they shot and reloaded their guns. The night was humid from that afternoon's rain, making a haunting mist glide across the grounds. He sat there behind a thick tree as he waited for the pain in his leg to subside. He didn't think his own brother would actually shoot him in the foot. When it comes to war, it seems that not even blood matters. It's always the enemy that you're fighting against whether you're related to them or not. Ireland had already come to terms with this around the time this all started.

It was July of 1921. Ireland had been fighting for his independence for about two and a half years now. He knew it wasn't going to be easy. He had to see the madness England went through in order to keep America as his colony. And now he had to face this madness himself as England searched for him.

Ireland had to remind himself that on the battlefield, he wasn't facing England as his brother. He was facing the United Kingdom. His twin brother representing the northern part of him refused to fight along side him. Although, he didn't fight against him either. Ireland assumed that he was waiting to see what would happen when it was all over. No matter what the result of this would be, he knew that the younger twin wouldn't speak to him for awhile. None of his brothers would speak to him for doing this. That was the sacrifice he was willing to make in order to be free.

Footsteps sounded close by as the battle behind him raged further. Ireland didn't want to look behind the tree to see if it was one of his or England's soldiers. At this point, everyone was trigger happy.

Looking down, he saw that his leg was bleeding pretty badly, causing a pool of blood to leak past the tree. It was too late to hide the blood on the ground. If the man saw it, he obviously knows there's someone wounded behind the tree. Ireland was an easy capture at this moment.

Whoever you are, I won't go down so easily. He forced himself to stand, using the tree to help him up. The pain instantly surged through his ankle and foot, making the Irish nation hiss. He drew a short intake of breath as he tried to press onto his right foot. The stinging feeling of the bullet entering him increased the more he put pressure on it. He'll definitely need something to balance on when this night was over.

Ireland readied his pistol as the footsteps got closer. He had already ran out of ammunition for his rifle which was strapped securely to his back. All he had left was the pistol and plenty of rounds to use.

The footsteps were much closer now. Ireland's leg wouldn't stop screaming out its agony as he turned his body a little to strike at the soldier. He was prepared to kill as he leaped from behind the tree and shot at the man. He was only at arms length when he heard another shot of a gun going off. The Irishman widened his eyes in shock. The man he was pointing his pistol to was England. The shot that went off was from his brother's rifle who, unlike Ireland's pistol, met its target in the older nation's left side.

Ireland leaned forward as the familiar burn went through his side. He gasped in a breath only to spit out blood onto England's boots. He began coughing then, more blood drooling down his chin. Ireland looked up to see England had no remorse for what he'd done. Not that he blamed him. It was Ireland who refused to belong to the United Kingdom. He also realized from the singe of England's hair that, had he aimed a few centimeters to the left, he would've shot his little brother in the head.

Ireland raised his pistol to England's forehead, his arm shaking from the nerves reacting in his body. He was growing weak from the gunshot wounds. England was at a good advantage in winning this battle. They both knew this.

With his rifle still aimed at his older brother's chest, England asked, "You want to give up now?" Ireland looked him in the eyes, seeing the anticipation in those bright green orbs. There was also anxiety and hope hidden in that sea of green. The Brit's face stayed emotionless as he pressed the gun further into Ireland's chest, his finger close to the trigger.

Ireland coughed out another spittle of blood onto England's rifle. His will to continue was weakening along with his body. There was no way he could actually shoot his little brother in the head and go on to live as the Republic of Ireland. He couldn't do that. Even if that meant there would be tension between them, he wasn't going to be responsible for the fall of the United Kingdom. God only knows how the other nations would react.

"Is it that bad?" Ireland asked, straining to speak. England raised an eyebrow at him but didn't say anything. "Is it that bad to where you have to point a gun at me, Deartháir Beag?" (T: Little Brother)

"It was your decision to abandon us. You'll have to face the consequences."

"There you go again, England. Making this seem more than what it is."

"Isn't it the truth?"

"No. It's not. I'm doing this because I can't stand living with you."

"I thought you loved your brothers, South."

"I do. I love all of you. But I can't continue living under your roof."

"That's very disappointing to hear, South. I was hoping you'd come to your senses by now."

"I'm afraid you'll have to give up on those hopes. I won't stop until I've gained my freedom." Something changed in England's eyes after Ireland said that. He looked like he would've teared up if the situation allowed it. Even though they were alone, England refused to show Ireland how much it hurt to hear that. He quickly put on an angry expression to mask his real emotions.

England thrust the gun into Ireland's chest and pushed him into the tree. The pain in Ireland's side and leg rushed through his body, making him moan out his extreme discomfort. The sudden action forced him to drop his pistol to the ground by his injured leg. England positioned his gun at Ireland's heart, his finger hovering over the trigger.

"Are you sure you don't want to surrender and come back home? I'm sure, if you cooperate, everyone will forgive you. Even North."

"But, England, my people won't go along with that. There will be more rebellions, violence to your people, and possibly another war."

"I'm sure you can pull a few strings to get them under control." Ireland stared his brother in the face. He was serious. He was going to make him turn against his people if he came back. How could he be this cruel? There was no way Ireland could do that to his people. They fought for two and a half years for this. If he quit now, everybody would think that this whole thing was a waste of time.

The thing was, Ireland couldn't continue with this war. His will to fight was slipping away from him as each battle wore on. So many of their soldiers died because of this. One side fighting to be free from the United Kingdom, the other struggling to keep the enemy contained. The war will only end with either Ireland's surrender or England's approval.

"England..." Ireland breathed out, "I don't want to fight anymore." A hopeful look danced in England's eyes. He was glad that Ireland decided to stop. He was going to have to say a few things to him when they returned home. Maybe he'll create a policy or two to ensure that Ireland's people stay under control through the next several years. More importantly, he'll have to make sure Ireland doesn't do something like this again. He'll figure everything out once they declare this war over.

Ireland wrapped his hand around the barrel of England's rifle and pulled it up to his forehead. England was shocked by this. He couldn't possibly mean what this is suggesting. There's no way he's allowing England to kill him.

"Do it."

"What?!"

"If it's so unbearable for you to see me gain my independence, then go ahead and shoot me."

"You're... not being serious... are you?" Ireland's eyes held all the seriousness in the world. He was willing to die for his freedom.

"What's wrong?" Ireland asked without any emotion to his voice, "Can you not bring yourself to do it? Do you need a little help?"

"You sick bastard! Do you really think I could shoot my own brother in the head?"

"Why not? You almost did it to America." Now Ireland was taunting England.

"I know and I regret it! I'm not going to shoot you, South!"

"Either you kill me right now or you let me be independent."

"I won't agree to either of those!"

"Wrong answer, England. There is no third option."

"There is a third option when I say there is, and I'm not going to shoot you."

"Well, I'm not coming back to you so you're back to square one. Shoot me or let me go."

"I told you I can't do either of those! Stop being ridiculous and come home!"

"And wake up to your disgraceful face every morning?"

"Disgraceful?"

"Did you really think I wanted to be in the United Kingdom? You forced me and North to join because you were upset that America was no longer yours! You selfish little prick!"

"That's not why-"

"Don't deny it! It's too late to forgive you now! Nothing you do will make me want to come back! Even if you apologize for the next 100 years, I will never forgive-" England pulled the trigger, his rifle went off with a louder bang than was necessary, and the last thing Ireland saw was the look of hatred on England's face as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Ireland sat up quickly with a horrified gasp. His heart drummed roughly against his ribs. His body was covered in a cold sweat as it shook slightly from the nerves beneath his skin. His pupils dilated as he looked around his dark bedroom for comforting signs of reality. Slowly, Ireland started to calm down and his heart and nerves ceased their urgent reaction.

It was just a dream, Ireland told himself, It was only a dream.

Many years have passed since Ireland gained his independence from the United Kingdom. He was victorious but had to face other hardships through the years. His twin brother was against the idea of splitting away from the United Kingdom. When the war was over, they had a huge fight. This resulted in them being permanently split up on the island and named as different Irelands. No longer were they refered to as North and South. The elder twin became the Republic of Ireland (sometimes he was known as the Irish Free State) while the younger was given the name Northern Ireland. Since he was no longer a part of the United Kingdom, Ireland had his human name changed from Seamus Kirkland to Seamus O'Conner.

Having Ireland's name changed and putting a border between him and Northern Ireland weren't the only things to come out of their argument. The people of their countries fought against one another. It was mainly about religion but it escalated to horrible violence where the police had to be involved. For years, the two fought until they finally stopped talking to each other. At first they avoided each other with the exception of world meetings or other conferences. Then they refused to speak to one another when they came into contact. Being familiar with having the same schedule as the other, they tried doing certain things at different times. For instance, Northern Ireland would farm his land during the mornings while Ireland farmed during the afternoons.

Ireland sat up in bed and stared at his hands. Ever since the day he officially became the Republic of Ireland, he's had nightmares of the war. It always starts when he's wounded and waiting to get to a safer area and ends with England shooting him in the head. No matter how many times he convinces himself it was a dream, he can never forget the way England looked when he shot him. He can never forget the way England looked that night when he offered a third and final option. The option that led to the end of Ireland's war for independence.

"Don't deny it! It's too late to forgive you now! Nothing you do will make me want to come back! Even if you apologize for the next 100 years, I will never forgive-"

"Shut up!" England stomped on Ireland's injured foot to quiet him. The red-head winced in pain and raised his leg off the ground to take the pressure off it. A small whimper slipped out through his teeth that were clenched to his bottom lip.

England stared at him hard, his gun still pressed to Ireland's chest. Both nations were panting roughly as the battle raged behind them. The humid air did not provide much comfort.

With a quick movement of his hand, the British nation removed his rifle from his enemy's chest. The man before him let out a short gasp as the weapon was lowered.

"Like I said: there is a third option when I say there is. Now here it is." England extended his arm toward Ireland, his hand in the position of making an agreement. The Irishman stared at it for a moment, not understanding the gesture.

"What are you doing, England?"

"I'm calling for a truce."

"A truce?"

"We'll both agree to your independence, this war will be over, and we'll settle everything else at another time. Agree?" Ireland stood there and stared at his brother's gloved hand for a minute before weakly grabbing it. They both gripped the other's hand in a firm shake.

"I agree." With the last bit of Ireland's strength, he let his arm and body fall to the ground. Before he passed out, he looked up at England's face, tears beginning to travel down the blond's cheeks. Though he wore a look of hatred as he gazed down at Ireland's body, his eyes showed his true emotions.

"Enjoy your independence, Republic of Ireland," England sneered before disappearing behind the tree.

Ireland closed his eyes and rested his head on his military cap. He was so tired. Tired of this war. Tired of fighting with his brothers. Tired of the pain of being slowly ripped away from North. Tired of the throbbing pain in his side and leg. He just wanted to fall asleep. Sleep off the nightmare he was living and go to a place where this wasn't happening. Oh, how he's been wishing this for almost three years now.