June, 1882

Once again, Lars woke up to a feeling of being kicked. This was why he hated sharing a bed. So which one was it this time? Emmitt or Liam? Well, to be honest, they both looked the same. Lars doubted it was little Mary, or Michael, who slept like a log. Groaning to himself, he opened his eyes and sat up.

He was still getting used to their new home; though he couldn't remember much of the old one, he knew it had been bigger and less crowded than this one. But his papas had told him that times were hard and they couldn't make enough money and being mugged and pick pocketed on several occasions hadn't helped. So now they were living with a load of strange people in a tiny room far away from their old home; twelve people, his papa Berwald had told him, shared the room with them. He had also said that they lived in a place called the slums, and that he should always be careful of bad people when walking around. As a curious four year old, the idea of bad people never stopped him from playing outside in the streets just to get away from the crowd of people for a few hours. And what a crowd there was.

Most of the space was taken up by the Murphy family, a clan of Irish immigrants who came to England to escape the potato famine a generation earlier, who had five children: thirteen year old Michael, seven year old twins Emmitt and Liam, three year old Mary and baby Coleen, who was currently asleep in Lars' old cradle, which Berwald had lent to them. Mr and Mrs Murphy were a kind, jolly pair and treated Lars no differently from the other children, always telling jokes and stories and singing, with a few old instruments passed down the family tree for years. There was also Mrs Smith, a frail, bony lady in her mid-fifties with two adolescent daughters, Sarah and Anne, whom she tried to marry off to Berwald and Tino several times. Then there was old Mr Taylor, a veteran from the Crimean war, who was missing an arm and a leg, but still laughed and joked with the rest of them, entertaining the little ones with war stories (censored, of course) of how he nearly died on several occasions, including the infamous battle of Balaclava, but was saved by what he called 'an angel of the battlefield'. He was referring to Mary Seacole, who had treated his and other soldiers', wounds during the fighting. Lastly, there was Antonio, a Spanish immigrant, who had spent some time in France, who couldn't speak much English. Berwald and Mr Taylor were teaching him English in their spare time and so far he knew a few phrases. Lars liked him even if he couldn't understand him. Antonio seemed fond of the children anyway, and would always sing to them or play games.

Today, Lars decided to try to make friends. Sure, he sometimes played with the twins but they had to go to school most days and Lars was too little to go with them. So he usually wandered alone in the street outside for a few hours, fighting imaginary dragons and monsters or even taking a small toy or two to play with.

But today he was going to try to talk to the other children. He'd seen them sometimes, playing football or skipping and he felt too scared to join them, but not anymore.

Looking around the room, he saw his papa, Berwald, making breakfast for everyone whilst Tino loaded the wheelbarrow. A few of the others were still sleeping, though Mr Murphy, Michael and Antonio, who appeared to be missing, were probably already on the way to work at separate factories or mills. Mrs Murphy was giving the room a quick tidy before she, too, went off to her job.

Climbing carefully over the other children, Lars crawled out of bed and slipped into his waistcoat and shoes (he wore his shirt and trousers to bed so didn't need to put those on). He said morning to everyone in the room before accepting a chunk of bread and cheese from his papa.

Lars, all things considered, thought of himself as the luckiest child in the world due to the presence of his two wonderful papas. There was Berwald, who made him toys and food, who always played games with him, whose eyes always got those little wrinkles when he smiled. And Tino, who could always make him laugh with his jokes and who sang him to sleep in an unfamiliar language. Yes, Lars believed that he could live on the streets and he would still be happy so long as Berwald and Tino were with him… though he was pretty comfortable living indoors thank you very much.

'Papa can I play outside?' he asked Berwald, plopping himself down onto one of the wooden stools around the fireplace.

'Hmm? If ya want,' Berwald frowned uncertainly, 'but be safe, okay?'

'I will papa,' mumbled Lars through a mouthful of bread.

'And be h'me by the evening.'

'I know.'

'And only play in the street outside,'

'Papa,' whined Lars.

'Ah mean it,' Berwald looked at him sternly, 'no talking to strangers either.'

'Okie,' Lars beamed.

'W'nt ta take a toy with ya?' asked Berwald.

Lars nodded; maybe the other children would want to be friends with him if he shared a model or game with them. Toddling over to the wheelbarrow, Lars gave Tino a little hug and picked up a miniature boat.

'Bye bye,' he chirped, wandering over to the door. He left to the sound of Mrs Murphy yelling at her children to wake up.

'Are you worried already?' asked Tino, looking over at where Berwald sat, glaring at the glare, rubbing his hands nervously.

'Wh't happens if s'meone takes him away?' he asked, turning towards Tino, with a worried look in his eyes.

'That's easy,' said Tino, smiling, 'they'd return him.'

'Ah'm serious,'

'Look, Lars has grown up in this area,' reasoned Tino, 'the kid will be fine.'

…

Lars trotted along the dark corridor and climbed down the wooden stairs to the front door, opened it and walked into the street, taking in the early morning sun and labourers, grim faced, filthy and slouched, on their way to spend twelve hour shifts at their poorly paid jobs. Lars weaved his way in between them, boots hitting the cobblestone.

He found a large puddle left by the rain last night and crouched next to it, placing his little boat in the water and moving it in circles with his hand. He sat like that, imagining a ship full of sailors on a long voyage lasting years, travelling through thunder and storm and fifty foot waves before finally returning home to their families, for a good few hours, not noticing anything around him. Next, he wandered along the pavement, greeting the people he was familiar with and ignoring the ones he wasn't.

For the next few hours, he pretended he was a famous detective solving the murder of a wealthy aristocrat, looking for clues and going through all the suspects before deciding it was the butler who did it.

It was late afternoon when he spied a group of boys playing football in the deserted streets and decided to befriend them. Though he got along with the twins and Mary, Lars was never good with other children, but he decided to talk to them anyway. With that thought in mind, he went over to the small crowd.

They all saw him at the same time and stopped playing, staring at the new boy. Lars blushed slightly under their glares, but pressed on.

'Erm, hello,' he began, 'mind if I join you?' Berwald had always taught him to be polite, so he was.

'Huh? Sure,' replied one of the boys.

'Not so fast,' another, the leader, apparently, cut in, glaring at Lars, 'have I seen you before?'

'Dunno,' mumbled Lars.

'Yeah you're the kid with no mummy,' he sneered.

Lars frowned, what the hell were they talking about? All the boys were older than him and he was starting to get intimidated.

'No he has two daddies instead,' one of the boys filled in, 'what a freak.'

'That's so weird,' replied the leader, 'and not right.'

'Huh? What is wrong with that?' asked Lars.

'It's not natural,' explained one of the older boys.

'It's not?' Lars frowned.

'No,'

'So you can only have best friends when you are little?' asked Lars, thinking that was what the boys meant. What was so weird about grown ups having friends?

'You can have best friends,' said another boy, 'but you cannot marry other boys.'

'I know,' said Lars, 'but what is that to me?'

'Your daddies,' explained the boy, 'they're disgusting.'

'Papa Berwald and Tino are not disgusting!' yelled Lars, 'they are lovely and kind! Why would you say that?'

'Because they are!'

'And that also makes you disgusting,' said the leader, shoving Lars so that he fell backwards. He hit the ground, landing in a puddle. He couldn't help but cry, sobbing loudly and making the other children laugh cruelly.

'Why are you being mean?' he whined, clutching his toy boat for comfort.

'Because your family's weird and so are you!'

Just then, one of the smaller boys ran forward, throwing himself between Lars and his attackers before any more harm could come to the four year old.

'Come on now,' he said, 'that's enough.'

'Outta the way Peter,' growled the leader, 'this little shit gonna get what's comin' to him.'

'You're just jealous that he has a dad,' huffed Peter, 'and not only does he have a dad, he has two. I know I'm jealous.'

'Well of course you are, Peter my-dad-left-before-I-was-born Kirkland,' sneered the leader, folding his arms and smirking at the other two.

Lars looked up at his saviour, studying him closely. The boy was no older than six and had scruffy blond hair with dark blue eyes and quite large eyebrows. He was dressed in the same ragged clothes as the rest of the boys and there were no shoes on his feet. He glared fiercely at the older boy, hands balling into fists.

'I don't need no daddy anyway!' he cried, 'because I has a load of brothers and they're gonna beat you up when I tell 'em.'

'Shit,' one of the boys whispered into the leader's ear, 'they kinda big. We don't wanna mess with 'em.'

'Fine, but the little one don't got no brothers,'

'I have cousins!' cried Lars; well, the Murphy children were like cousins to him, 'and three of them are bigger than me.'

'Forget this,' spat the leader, 'well let's just leave piss-poor and baby homo alone. You're lucky, pricks, that you has people to fights yer battles for you! Or ya both would be beaten up by now.'

'Like I care,' Peter inspected his nails, 'you're just jealous my family don't live in a bin.'

'MY FAMILY DON'T LIVE IN NO BIN!' screamed the boy before marching off with his little gang.

Peter chuckled, turning to Lars and offering him a hand. Lars stared at it wearily.

'Come on, I don't bite or nuffin,' Peter grinned at him, revealing missing front teeth. Lars wasn't too sure if he was loosing his baby teeth or if someone had punched him really hard. He hoped it was the former.

Lars shook his head, getting up on his own.

'Why did you help me?' he asked, 'now you have no friends.'

'Oh, I has friends all right,' replied Peter, 'I was just hanging with that lot for a bit. 'cause I was bored. Didn't think it was too nice what they was doin' to ya, though.'

'I don't need your pity,' said Lars, glaring at him, 'or your help. Now I look weak!'

'Wha?' Peter blinked, 'hey we all needs a bit o' help now and again.'

'I don't,' Lars' bottom lip quivered, 'so just… just… leave me alone!' he burst into fresh tears and ran away, dropping his toy boat in the puddle.

'Wait, hey kid!' Peter called after him, but it was no use. He picked up the boat and wiped it clean on his shirt, 'you dropped your toy.' He mumbled, though Lars was long gone now. Peter stood there for what seemed like hours, but the other boy never came back. He hadn't even told Peter his name.

Eventually, Peter heard foot steps behind him and he turned to see Francis, his brother's friend.

'Oy oy,' he greeted, trying to sound cheerful, 'hey Francis.'

'Ah, there you are, little Pierre,' Francis gave a warm smile, 'your brothers were frantic with worry. Where have you been?'

'Sorry, got a bit lost,' lied Peter.

'Well next time can you tell us you are leaving?' requested Francis, picking Peter up and walking towards their street.

'I said I was,' argued Peter, 'but yous never listen.'

'Ah, sorry,' Francis chuckled, 'it does get a bit crowded at your place, yes?' Peter nodded, 'well maybe I should not stay for dinner so often, then there will be more space.'

'Nah, that's okay,' Peter assured him, 'mum likes you and so do all my brothers. You're like family.'

'Good to know,' Francis spied the boat in Peter's hands, 'and where did you get this?'

'Found it,' explained Peter, 'some kid dropped it and I want to return it to 'im some time.'

'How nice of you,' replied Francis, 'ah, I think I can see Arthur now.'

'Yay!'

…

Lars ran all the way home, only coming to a halt just before the door to his room. Tentatively, he opened the door and snuck in.

Everyone was present, thankfully, so Lars was able to slip in unnoticed. They all seemed to be in celebration, singing and dancing around the fire. Antonio was on the guitar whilst Mr Murphy played a steady beat on the Bodhrán. They all sang a folk song Mr. Murphy had taught them (except Antonio, who just hummed along), and chanted, chirped and sung together, some more in tune than others:

'…But I told me brother Seamus I'd go off and be right famous
And I'd never would return again 'til I'd roamed the world wide…'

They all seemed so happy and Lars wished he could join them, but he felt exhausted and too upset to even crack a smile. So he just sat on the bed, wallowing in misery.

This did not go unnoticed.

'Lala?' asked Tino, calling Lars by his nickname, 'you're back already?'

Lars nodded and mumbled a greeting.

'What's wrong honey?' asked Tino, kneeling down so he was face to face with his son.

'Nuffin,' mumbled Lars, fighting back fresh tears.

'Berwald,' called Tino, waving at the man in a 'follow me' gesture before picking up Lars and carrying him outside where he could cry without he others seeing, which he hated doing. As soon as the three of them were out on the hallway, sure enough, Lars burst into fresh tears.

Tino held him tighter and Berwald ran his fingers through Lars' hair.

'What's wr'ng Lala?' he asked, concerned.

'The other boys were mean to me,' sobbed Lars, 'and they said nasty stuff about you and said you were disgusting and I was weird and they pushed me and I fell in a puddle and I dropped my boat.'

'Where are they now?' asked Tino, 'I think we can all agree they need to be taught a lesson.'

'N-no,' said Berwald hastily, 'tha' won't be necessary, Tino.'

'But they cannot get away wi-'

'Children can be mean, yes,' agreed Berwald, 'but two wrongs do no' make a right. In ten years time Lars will be set to inherit a tidy little business, if all goes ta plan, whilst they will be in the same place they are now, nowhere.'

'True, I guess,' Tino nuzzled his cheek against Lars' causing the boy to giggle. Already he was feeling better and beginning to forget his encounter. Why worry about what other people say when he had a loving family?

'C'me on,' said Berwald, opening the door, 'we're meant ta be celebrating.'

'Why? What happened?' asked Lars, allowing Tino to carry him into the room and set him down on a stool, handing him a plate laden with potatoes and bacon.

'Mrs Smith's eldest daughter, Sarah, is engaged,' explained Tino, pointing a thumb at the nineteen year old with a new ring on her finger dancing alongside Antonio and Michael.

'To who, papa?' asked Lars through a mouthful of food. The engagement would explain why they were getting meat with their dinner; everyone must have pulled their earnings together to buy it in celebration.

'The pie stall owner, who works outside the shop she works in,' Tino informed him.

'Ah, okay,' Lars said no more, continuing to eat his dinner. When he'd eaten everything on his plate, he joined the twins and Mary in a game of tag, running in between everyone's legs crying with laughter.

A short while later, Antonio excused himself to have a cigarette (as old Mr Taylor and Berwald hated smoking, especially around children) and collect some water from the local pump. A few minutes after he left, Berwald slipped outside into the hall for a bit of peace and quiet, if only for a few moments.

He was joined, much to his annoyance, by old Mrs Smith.

'Congratulations on Sarah's betrothal,' he said, trying to make polite conversation. It wasn't that he disliked the woman, because he didn't, it was just that there were times when he found what she said annoying.

'You know, Anne is still single…'

And her attempts to convince him to marry her daughters were one of those times.

'Still not interested,' replied Berwald, 'let Anne chose who she marries.'

'But you would make a lovely pair,' insisted Mrs Smith.

'Going ta have ta decline, sorry.'

Mrs Smith scrutinised him, glaring through thick glasses.

'You cannot have him, you know,' she said.

'Ap'logies,' replied Berwald, 'don' know what yer talking about.'

'That little blond one you're so attached to,' clarified Mrs Smith.

'Tino?'

'Yes, Tino,' Mrs Smith sighed, 'give up this foolish attraction; you cannot have him. It is not right and neither is it fair on the little one.'

'Lars?' asked Berwald, 'there is no-' problem? It would appear that there was a problem when it comes to the other children. And how did Mrs Smith even know about all of this? Was he so obvious? 'Fine, ah understand,' he glared at her over his glasses, 'but ah'm still not marrying yer daughter.'

Mrs Smith huffed, going back into their room. Berwald leaned back against the wall, running his fingers through his hair. He didn't understand how she knew. He had told no one, not a soul. Never admitting his lo- yes, it was definitely love, even to himself, fully. Maybe it was just that they were two males who weren't related but depended in each other that was so odd and not Berwald's behaviour. Or maybe Mrs Smith was trying to shame him into marrying someone he liked, but was not in love with. Anne Smith needed to find her own true love… like he had found his, though he could never admit it.

'Hey, I err… could not, err… help over hearing,' Antonio wandered up the stairs carrying a wooden bucket of water, 'look, she tries the same… bullshit on me, because I having… trouble learning English.'

'I see,' said Berwald, 'do you think she does this because she thinks we will be confused when communicating in a second language?'

'…eh?'

'Never mind,'

'I also… overhearing? What she said about you and Tino,' continued Antonio, 'and I err… understand your pain, yes? We are the same,' Antonio smiled brightly at this.

'You are homosexual too?'

'…eh?'

'You love male people too?' clarified Berwald.

'Ah yes!' Antonio snapped his fingers in understanding, 'I understand you now… so, err, do you think that we will… ever be able too… just be free? To show love to others? Without going to jail or being… in secret?'

'Who knows?' Berwald shrugged, 'maybe.'

Antonio seemed satisfied with the answer and wandered into their room, Berwald following a few minutes later.

'Ah, there you are Ber,' chirped Tino, pulling his friend into the centre of the room where everyone was still dancing. They had even produced a few bottles of beer, much to everyone's delight.

Berwald decided there and then that he was extremely happy with his life at the moment, and would be content spending the rest of his life with Tino and Lars, even if Tino never knew a thing.

…..

Well, seeing as Red Doll was at an important cliff hanger moment, I thought I'd update this instead. That, and I was having trouble with putting words into actual sentences because it is an important chapter and I got all flustered and tongue tied. Ah well. But updates for everything will be a while, as I have to revise for mock exams next week, so apologies.

Now, on to human names:

Peter- Sealand

Antonio- Spain

Francis- France

And all the other characters were ones I made up for the story, not actual Hetalia characters.

Now, historical notes:

The potato famine in Ireland in the 1840s wiped out one million people and led to another million emigrating to either America or England.

The Crimean war was in the late 1850s and was between the Ottoman Empire, Britain, France and Sardinia against Russia, and happened in the Crimea (part of modern day Ukraine). The war more or less highlighted military failures on both sides and led to many reforms, uncluding the emancipation of the serfs in Russia, which led to Ivan and his sisters' story in RD.

Mary Seacole was a Jamaican nurse to travelled to the Crimea to help sick and wounded soldiers in the war, after being rejected by Florence Nightingale. She set up a hotel to raise funds and would even treat soldiers on the battlefield. Seriously, look up this woman's life story; she's really inspirational.

A Bodhrán is an Irish drum a bit like a tambourine. They were actually invented in the 1920s but I'm guessing there were a few basic ones around before that.

And the lyrics are from the Irish folk song Mursheen Durkin, which is a pretty good tune.

Oh, and Francis calls Peter Pierre because it's the French equivalent of Peter.

I think that is it.