I just have to say that I've been looking for a story like this for far too long and I've decided that if I want it done than I have to do it myself. This is going to be fun to write so wish me some luck!
Summery: After England accidentally casts a spell, America and Russia are forced to live in each others bodies. Now it is up to them to find out a solution to this problem before time runs out.
Warnings: OOC moments, some colorful language, romance, ect.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia in any way, shape, form, matter, idea, broadband, ect.
Everything looks like a blank sheet of paper. The billowing storm doesn't let any light pass through as it encompasses the land with its fury, only the specks of gray and brown can be seen to resemble the sky and the surrounding trees. The sound of snow compacting under snowshoes can be heard over the shaking of trees and the violent wind. Only the strong and the dumb ever come out at this time, to be beaten by the waves of powder, dirt, and branches.
The figure moves through the snow, with clothes barely visible to onlookers. He is adorned with a tan jacket, a sable brown ushanka hat and a light pink scarf to protect against the outside. There is also a bundle of wood carried over one shoulder, soon to be put into a fire on this cold winter day.
Russia follows the path that he has crossed so many times in the past to gather wood for his fireplace. Every year he needs to come to this house out in the middle of nowhere to access the situation in the tundra, it is an event every year that he never looks forward to.
Soon enough, he makes it to the fence of his property, and from there takes it step by step to his door. As he is about to push down the handle, Russia spots a letter wedged into the crack between the lock and the house. He takes it out, assuming it to have been delivered while he was gone and the weather was nicer, and thrusts the door open. He slams it closed as he takes off his jacket and hat, replacing his boots with the favorable thick slippers.
Glancing at the letter, Russia notices that it has an address from San Francisco, California. Narrowing eyes in disapproval, he sits himself down at his worn out sofa.
Russia lets out a sigh as he sees that the snow did quite some damage to the text. Even though it was typed some of the letters were blurry and blotched, or just plain unreadable.
Fortunately, the content of the letter wasn't difficult to decipher, despite inconveniences. It was mostly just America going on about how his vacation in warmer weather is so amazing and how Russia is so uncool because it is always so freaking cold. Also it was brought up about how Russia is so old because he still is using letters instead of the email or cell phones.
Russia crumpled the letter in his hands and put it on the coffee table to be added into the fire once it was started.
'Why can't that idiot understand' Russia thought as he put his hand into his pale blonde hair. 'Why does he always feel so compelled to write me letters to just jab and brag?'
Standing up to make his way to the fireplace, Russia continues to think. 'It's quite wimpy actually, to be writing from such a warm place in the winter. Only the old do that these days, and up here I'm actually doing real work, not just partying and goofing off all winter.' He shifts the wood into place, 'And out here in the middle of Siberia, of course there are no phone and internet services. Why does he even need to say something like that? And who would ever call me out here anyway, even if I did hook up the internet or something.'
That was a depressing thought. Russia shoved leftover newspaper under the logs, carefully adding the letter he was sent to the stash. He struck a match and gently placed it on the paper he was sent. Russia gazed as the words slowly became distorted and disappeared in the flames. It soon caught on to the rest of the paper and slowly the fire rose up to the logs.
The letter was no longer legible and the first flame rose from the logs, promising a sure fire and this flame caught on. The fire from the paper died, leaving it all a pile of soot as the logs lit on fire.
This was good. All that was left was to wait until another log needs to be added. Russia got up and brought his chair to the fire, with a book on one side and a bottle of vodka on the other. Although, he couldn't take his mind off of the letter.
'If only he could understand that the cold war has ended, what it is like to still be disliked by so many other countries, maybe just as stubborn as him. He has no judgment of what it is like out here, to be me,' he takes a drink of vodka, 'What does he know about me, he's never even spoken to me, not since the war,' he finishes half the bottle and starts to talk out loud, "He's never heard me, or even cared about what I do or say. He's so caught up in the past that he never even bothers to see the present. What one of his rights allows him to make judgments without even bothering to look more than a centimeter away from those glasses."
Russia chucks the bottle into the fire without even bothering to finish it and watched the flames rise higher than ever, causing the room to turn a bright yellow in flames. He watched at the flames crawl away from the fire, dancing in with each other and laughing merry tunes. Russia tries to stomp them out in vain as they keep on coming and eating up the floor. He puts his head in his hands and hides in the corner, away from the fire.
He opens his eyes, to see the fire calmly burning in the fireplace and the wood as dead and cold as always. He stands up to look at the half empty vodka bottle and the unopened book on the table. Walking back to the fire he bends down to place another log into the fading flames. He gets up and sits back in his chair, choosing to stare absentmindedly at the fire and wondering if he will get any reading done tonight at all.
The night was waning dim as England sauntered into his house. He felt for the light switch with the back of his hand until eventually it was found. A ray of light hit his eyes and his pupils slowly dilated, the rush of pain soon following.
"Damn that Alfred… leaving me hanging like that…" England thought out loud, his cheeks red and his eyes slightly bloodshot.
He stumbled to the kitchen to get a glass of water; although as he took a drink the liquid splashed all over his face and onto his already wet clothes.
"Who does he think he is? I'm England, that's who I am, and he's nothing. Nothing!" gagging for a few seconds, England proceeds to laugh absentmindedly at his comment.
"I'll show him! I'll teach him to respect me! Yeah…" England stepped away from his kitchen counter and stumbled to his sofa. He plops down and reaches out for a brown book lying not too far away. England turns open to a random page, and starts reading off the text.
Chanting incessantly, the old words low out of England's mouth like a waterfall, only stopping to take quick breath occasionally. The page starts to glow as the ancient symbols move and change shape. Suddenly a burst of light pours out from the illustration as England finishes his chanting, but as soon as it came it left.
Not even bothering to close the book, England falls into a steady sleep on his desk, unaware of the damage that he had caused.
This completes the first installment of 180 Degree Turn, now it's time to see what happens next.
I can definitely say that it is nice to take a break from over the top complex story-lines and essay writings and write something that is fun. And this story is going to be very fun. (muahaha I can just see it now :D)
Over break I can probably fit in a update or two, although I'm not so sure how sporadic the updates will be like as of yet. Just keep posted and r&r!