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“Oh, come on.” That was Sweden. Or Poland, as Lithuania/Sealand had said. “Have you ever seen Germany stare at Italy like that? And Austria. He never, ever yells. Like ever. Russia is never so… Bouncy, even if he’s always totally weird. Belarus not stalking Russia? Impossible. Romano’s smiling. Spain is frowning. Finland’s sleeping on China.” He paused. Possibly for dramatic effect, Estonia thought. “And really, I just talked in, like, sentences with vowels and stuff; does Sweden ever do that?”
The actual Sweden – Estonia had no choice but to believe it – raised his eyebrows at that, as if to say, I talk clearly, thank you very much.
“Right. Okay. So where is the rest? Why am I not affected? And—”
“And how are we going to fix it,” Poland finished for him. He shook his head and clumsily pushed Sweden’s glasses further up his nose. “We have no idea. At all. We’re just waiting till everyone’s here, you know, so we can discuss what to do. I’m totally curious about who’s in my body though.”
Sweden frowned at him. Lithuania pursed his lips. Then he turned to Estonia again. “Where’s Latvia? Do you know that?”
“He’s gone back home already. His flight left early. And before you ask – no, I didn’t see him before he left. He seemed fine last night.”
“We were all fine last night,” Poland grumbled, low voice vibrating in Estonia’s ears. “And now everything is totally messed up!”
--
After her breakfast, Hungary had looked around America’s house for a while. She’d found an excellent digital camera with hundreds of photos on it. That had been a surprise; she’d never pegged America as the type to take pictures of everything. Yet, that seemed to be exactly what he did. She’d noticed that there was a large amount of photographs and paintings around the house as well. Apparently, America was a visual man. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising, Hungary thought.
She was just putting on some clothes and thinking about finding a map to get the route to the hotel, when America’s cell phone rang. After jumping up in surprise, she picked the thing up and looked at the caller ID.
Barack Obama, the screen told her. “Oh, crap,” she whispered.. “Uh…” She threw the phone from one hand to another, as if it were on fire. Eventually, she pushed the green icon and held the phone to her ear. “Hello?” That is probably not how America picks up his phone.
“Good morning, America,” came a familiar voice from the other end of the line. “I’m calling because of the meeting that we have scheduled. You usually let me know when you are on your way. I haven’t received a message yet.”
Hungary opened and closed her mouth, trying to think of a response. “Well, uh… You see, ah…” How would he call his boss? By his first name? Last name? Just ‘boss’? Last name is always right. “Well, President Obama, uh, something has come in the way. We’re facing, ah, a certain… Crisis, the other nations and I. We just need some time to fix it!” She bit her lip. Had she done America’s accent right? Maybe she needed a bit more misplaced enthusiasm.
“Really?” the President asked. “Is it grave? Should we worry?”
“Aha, haha! Of course not! We’ll fix it in no time,” Hungary answered, growing more confident in her role. “It’s something personal, we’ll be fine!”
“I am still not completely aware of what ‘being a nation’ entails, exactly, but I’ll believe you, America. I trust that what you do is for the better of the country.”
“Of course, I am the country!”
“I see. Will we meet again next week?”
“Sure!”
“Good luck with that crisis, America.”
“Yeah, thanks.” What if America always told him to greet his wife or something like that? “Well, ah… See you!”
“Yes, certainly. Have a nice day.” Beep beep beep beep…
Hungary pressed the red button and sank down on America’s bed. She hadn’t completely grasped what it meant to be another nation – how could she have? – but now the European was beginning to understand that this would cause a lot more problems than she had thought. She picked up a shirt, deciding that she had to get to the hotel fast, to see who else was affected by this, and more importantly, how it could be undone.
--
The actual Sweden – Estonia had no choice but to believe it – raised his eyebrows at that, as if to say, I talk clearly, thank you very much.
“Right. Okay. So where is the rest? Why am I not affected? And—”
“And how are we going to fix it,” Poland finished for him. He shook his head and clumsily pushed Sweden’s glasses further up his nose. “We have no idea. At all. We’re just waiting till everyone’s here, you know, so we can discuss what to do. I’m totally curious about who’s in my body though.”
Sweden frowned at him. Lithuania pursed his lips. Then he turned to Estonia again. “Where’s Latvia? Do you know that?”
“He’s gone back home already. His flight left early. And before you ask – no, I didn’t see him before he left. He seemed fine last night.”
“We were all fine last night,” Poland grumbled, low voice vibrating in Estonia’s ears. “And now everything is totally messed up!”
--
After her breakfast, Hungary had looked around America’s house for a while. She’d found an excellent digital camera with hundreds of photos on it. That had been a surprise; she’d never pegged America as the type to take pictures of everything. Yet, that seemed to be exactly what he did. She’d noticed that there was a large amount of photographs and paintings around the house as well. Apparently, America was a visual man. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising, Hungary thought.
She was just putting on some clothes and thinking about finding a map to get the route to the hotel, when America’s cell phone rang. After jumping up in surprise, she picked the thing up and looked at the caller ID.
Barack Obama, the screen told her. “Oh, crap,” she whispered.. “Uh…” She threw the phone from one hand to another, as if it were on fire. Eventually, she pushed the green icon and held the phone to her ear. “Hello?” That is probably not how America picks up his phone.
“Good morning, America,” came a familiar voice from the other end of the line. “I’m calling because of the meeting that we have scheduled. You usually let me know when you are on your way. I haven’t received a message yet.”
Hungary opened and closed her mouth, trying to think of a response. “Well, uh… You see, ah…” How would he call his boss? By his first name? Last name? Just ‘boss’? Last name is always right. “Well, President Obama, uh, something has come in the way. We’re facing, ah, a certain… Crisis, the other nations and I. We just need some time to fix it!” She bit her lip. Had she done America’s accent right? Maybe she needed a bit more misplaced enthusiasm.
“Really?” the President asked. “Is it grave? Should we worry?”
“Aha, haha! Of course not! We’ll fix it in no time,” Hungary answered, growing more confident in her role. “It’s something personal, we’ll be fine!”
“I am still not completely aware of what ‘being a nation’ entails, exactly, but I’ll believe you, America. I trust that what you do is for the better of the country.”
“Of course, I am the country!”
“I see. Will we meet again next week?”
“Sure!”
“Good luck with that crisis, America.”
“Yeah, thanks.” What if America always told him to greet his wife or something like that? “Well, ah… See you!”
“Yes, certainly. Have a nice day.” Beep beep beep beep…
Hungary pressed the red button and sank down on America’s bed. She hadn’t completely grasped what it meant to be another nation – how could she have? – but now the European was beginning to understand that this would cause a lot more problems than she had thought. She picked up a shirt, deciding that she had to get to the hotel fast, to see who else was affected by this, and more importantly, how it could be undone.
--
Francis didn’t know how long he stood there, battling the pounding in his head and wondering what the hell had just transpired. There was that faint musing he kept repeating to himself, the one that told him he’d almost committed the same crime he once lost his entire life over — that he was so close, that he had gone in way too far. But it was difficult to listen to that thought when he was feeling as whoozy as he was, so he just concentrated on standing still and commanding the earth to stop moving.
It wasn’t until later, as he watched drunk men pile themselves out of the bar with his alcohol-laced mind, that some of the significance of what he could have done finally hit him a bit — although it was still a struggle to put what exactly he had done in words. It wasn’t because of Arthur that he’d pulled away from the woman because he no longer cared about Arthur and what Arthur thought — of course not. It was because there was a very real, very dangerous chance he could have passed on his HIV to another.
He had a responsibility now, in a way. And he’d let himself go for a moment. More than a moment.
It would only be fair, though, to repay what the universe owed him. If someone asked for your jacket, you give it to him but demand for him to pay interest. If someone slapped you in the face, you tackle him to the ground and pound his nose into the pavement. That was just the way the world worked.
He wondered if this was how Chel felt.
“Fucking hell!” Francis swore suddenly, smashing his fist against the brick. “FUCK!” He cursed again and again as he alternated between kicking and hitting the wall over and over and over, kicking until he could feel his feet throb with pain and punching until he could see the skin over his knuckles split and drool blood down his arms. He felt the frustration in his body, the arousal that was there again like it’d always been there, the hollowness in his chest as he realized that there was just him now because he couldn’t even accept physical comfort the way he used to.
“Fuck,” Francis whispered, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.
He fell to gross sobbing as he slid down and crumpled to the ground, curling into a tight mass of whimpering flesh. He couldn’t remember how long he knelt there, pounding his forehead against the cement until dirt and blood dribbled into his eyes and mixed with his salty tears. He felt insane, madly out of control, heedless of the movements his own body was forcing upon him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried as hard as this — had it been when Arthur left? How about ten years back, when he first heard of his mother’s suicide just as he was preparing to leave Marseille for school? How about even further back, when he had learned that he was never to see the boy with the jade-coloured eyes ever again because that boy was leaving, going home to the other side of the world on the other side of the Channel? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember.
-
Francis suddenly felt warm hands running over his scalp. He looked up through swimming eyes to see a beautiful young woman, all wavy brown-haired and bright-gentle-eyed, with a smile that could win thousands. There were ribbons in her hair and her skin was a gentle brown-coconut coloured, her short blue jacket the shade of the royal night blue skies of France’s countrysides. The stranger took his hands in hers, her fingers closing over his, helping him up as he continued to cry into his own chest.
It wasn’t until later, as he watched drunk men pile themselves out of the bar with his alcohol-laced mind, that some of the significance of what he could have done finally hit him a bit — although it was still a struggle to put what exactly he had done in words. It wasn’t because of Arthur that he’d pulled away from the woman because he no longer cared about Arthur and what Arthur thought — of course not. It was because there was a very real, very dangerous chance he could have passed on his HIV to another.
He had a responsibility now, in a way. And he’d let himself go for a moment. More than a moment.
It would only be fair, though, to repay what the universe owed him. If someone asked for your jacket, you give it to him but demand for him to pay interest. If someone slapped you in the face, you tackle him to the ground and pound his nose into the pavement. That was just the way the world worked.
He wondered if this was how Chel felt.
“Fucking hell!” Francis swore suddenly, smashing his fist against the brick. “FUCK!” He cursed again and again as he alternated between kicking and hitting the wall over and over and over, kicking until he could feel his feet throb with pain and punching until he could see the skin over his knuckles split and drool blood down his arms. He felt the frustration in his body, the arousal that was there again like it’d always been there, the hollowness in his chest as he realized that there was just him now because he couldn’t even accept physical comfort the way he used to.
“Fuck,” Francis whispered, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.
He fell to gross sobbing as he slid down and crumpled to the ground, curling into a tight mass of whimpering flesh. He couldn’t remember how long he knelt there, pounding his forehead against the cement until dirt and blood dribbled into his eyes and mixed with his salty tears. He felt insane, madly out of control, heedless of the movements his own body was forcing upon him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried as hard as this — had it been when Arthur left? How about ten years back, when he first heard of his mother’s suicide just as he was preparing to leave Marseille for school? How about even further back, when he had learned that he was never to see the boy with the jade-coloured eyes ever again because that boy was leaving, going home to the other side of the world on the other side of the Channel? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember.
-
Francis suddenly felt warm hands running over his scalp. He looked up through swimming eyes to see a beautiful young woman, all wavy brown-haired and bright-gentle-eyed, with a smile that could win thousands. There were ribbons in her hair and her skin was a gentle brown-coconut coloured, her short blue jacket the shade of the royal night blue skies of France’s countrysides. The stranger took his hands in hers, her fingers closing over his, helping him up as he continued to cry into his own chest.
Francis will remember only blurry fragments of the rest of the night. He’ll remember a soothing voice, clambering into a taxi, and throwing up on the streets after they exited it with the same soft hands holding back his hair. He’ll remember being tired down to his element and yet being unable to sleep due to the the burning at the back of his throat from the vomit, the rocking in his head, the spinning of the room, the acid in his stomach, the unfamiliarity of the apartment in which he had been led. The most prominent passing memory he will remember is being shown to a chair, being sat in front of a mirror, as someone shaved his shaggy face and draped a towel over his shoulders and cut off all his hair. He’ll remember holding the blond wisps that fell between his fingers and thinking that they felt somewhat like feathers.
He’ll remember taking a glass of water, and finally falling on the couch and closing his eyes to a merciful, dreamless sleep.
-
It was at the crack of dawn when Francis awoke, something that hasn’t happened for years. He had no hangover, he never got them, but he was extremely disoriented. For a moment, he thought that he was back at Arthur’s, for he imagined the sound of the humming heater, the running water as Arthur was getting ready for work, the songs of the early flying risers — and for a moment, he was transported back months ago when things had been alright.
Francis got up slowly. He blinked his eyes blearily and looked around — the apartment was devoid of any furniture — and saw that he was still in his previous night’s clothes.
Chel took at least an hour to shower every morning, and Francis decided to take the opportunity to make her breakfast. He shuffled around her kitchen slowly, his hands moving with familiar practice. He knew all of Chel’s favourite foods and how she liked to take her morning coffee. He knew that because they’d spent more than one night together before, because she was his one big guilty spot that was always on his conscience, because they were alike in a million more ways than he and Arthur will ever be. That if Matthew was right and there existed an infinite number of universes, and if Matthew was wrong and Francis and Arthur were not together in every one of them, then in that one where they are not Francis would be in love with Chel and they would be living together, happily married, HIV-free with two and a half children conceived in love by their own means. That, at least, is what Francis believed.
Chel’s kitchen was hardly something that could be counted as a kitchen. There were no utensils, and the plates were dirty, and there was hardly any food in the refrigerator, so Francis has to make do with what he had. He noticed that there was, lying on the kitchen counter against the wall, a single photograph, and he picked it up. Chel’s never looked happier in it. She’s with a man, fair haired and blue-eyed with a five-o’-clock shadow. She has a baby cradled in her arms, and she’s not looking at the camera — the man is, though. The baby, Francis could tell, had her father’s eyes. The picture looks like it’s been folded and unfolded several times, its edges crinkled and water-worn.
If Francis didn’t know any better, he would have called her pathetic.
He didn’t know how to feel now that he was here. Sure, deep inside him he knew that he didn’t blame Chel — but that was on the assumption that he’d never have to see her again. Now that he was in her apartment, she was entirely at his mercy — he could raid her things, steal whatever money she had, completely stab her in the back (figuratively). He wondered if he should.
Francis ran a hand through his short hair and set the picture down. He put the eggs and toast on the kitchen table and grabbed a napkin and wrote something on it quickly with pen. He left it neatly folded next to the plate of food, and managed to slip out the door quietly just as he heard the shower turn off.
He’ll remember taking a glass of water, and finally falling on the couch and closing his eyes to a merciful, dreamless sleep.
-
It was at the crack of dawn when Francis awoke, something that hasn’t happened for years. He had no hangover, he never got them, but he was extremely disoriented. For a moment, he thought that he was back at Arthur’s, for he imagined the sound of the humming heater, the running water as Arthur was getting ready for work, the songs of the early flying risers — and for a moment, he was transported back months ago when things had been alright.
Francis got up slowly. He blinked his eyes blearily and looked around — the apartment was devoid of any furniture — and saw that he was still in his previous night’s clothes.
Chel took at least an hour to shower every morning, and Francis decided to take the opportunity to make her breakfast. He shuffled around her kitchen slowly, his hands moving with familiar practice. He knew all of Chel’s favourite foods and how she liked to take her morning coffee. He knew that because they’d spent more than one night together before, because she was his one big guilty spot that was always on his conscience, because they were alike in a million more ways than he and Arthur will ever be. That if Matthew was right and there existed an infinite number of universes, and if Matthew was wrong and Francis and Arthur were not together in every one of them, then in that one where they are not Francis would be in love with Chel and they would be living together, happily married, HIV-free with two and a half children conceived in love by their own means. That, at least, is what Francis believed.
Chel’s kitchen was hardly something that could be counted as a kitchen. There were no utensils, and the plates were dirty, and there was hardly any food in the refrigerator, so Francis has to make do with what he had. He noticed that there was, lying on the kitchen counter against the wall, a single photograph, and he picked it up. Chel’s never looked happier in it. She’s with a man, fair haired and blue-eyed with a five-o’-clock shadow. She has a baby cradled in her arms, and she’s not looking at the camera — the man is, though. The baby, Francis could tell, had her father’s eyes. The picture looks like it’s been folded and unfolded several times, its edges crinkled and water-worn.
If Francis didn’t know any better, he would have called her pathetic.
He didn’t know how to feel now that he was here. Sure, deep inside him he knew that he didn’t blame Chel — but that was on the assumption that he’d never have to see her again. Now that he was in her apartment, she was entirely at his mercy — he could raid her things, steal whatever money she had, completely stab her in the back (figuratively). He wondered if he should.
Francis ran a hand through his short hair and set the picture down. He put the eggs and toast on the kitchen table and grabbed a napkin and wrote something on it quickly with pen. He left it neatly folded next to the plate of food, and managed to slip out the door quietly just as he heard the shower turn off.
“Sealand, stop.” Sweden frowned angrily at the micronation at the other side of the room. “Sealand.”
Poland, who was putting the man’s hair (Lithuania’s hair, really) into a messy ponytail – he wasn’t used to these big hands yet – stilled in his movements and asked, “Do you want me to, like, yell at him?”
“Don’t have to yell.”
“Oh, right. Okay, wait a sec.” Poland finished his ponytail and stepped back to take a look at it. “My god, that’s hideous,” he commented. Sweden was beginning to understand why people thought that he was scary. His body was quite frightening, but it was for the most part because of the way Poland moved it around, all swaying of the hips and snappish movements with the head and rolling of the eyes. He also pursed his lips a lot. Like now, before opening his mouth and calling out, “Sealand!”
The micronation in Russia’s body looked up and waved. “Hi… Person in dad’s body! What is it?”
“Stop irritating…. Whoever that is!” Poland warned, waving Sweden’s index finger around and shaking his head. Sweden had to look away in shame.
“It’s Miss Belarus! I’m protecting Russia from her so he’ll have to recognize me as a nation!”
Poland raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Well, then it’s totally fine.” When he caught Sweden’s angry look, he shrugged. “It’s Belarus!”
Suddenly, the door to the lobby burst open, almost knocking Lithuania over. An irate France appeared in the entrance. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail even messier than Sweden’s and his face unshaven. Instead of wearing pajamas and/or crumpled jackets like everyone else, he was wrapped in a bed sheet. The person gazed over the crowd for a while, before jumping up, exclaiming in a distorted accent, “PERKELE!” and whipping around. A second person appeared from behind the Frenchman. “Ukraine?” he asked.
She smiled almost apologetically while stepping out next to him. “No, no.” She was decently clothed, and seemed very interested in France, scrutinizing him from head to toe.
“Then who?”
‘Ukraine’ raised an eyebrow and lifted one corner of her mouth, which made for a frightening expression on the woman’s face. “Why, I’m you.”
“Me? What in hell do you— Wait, France?” When the other nation nodded, the person in France’s body swore again. Sweden almost chuckled. It was obviously Finland, and he was obviously not in a good mood. At all. He glanced at Finland’s body, currently inhabited by Greece, as they’d found out earlier when he’d fallen asleep on Japan-transformed-into-China’s shoulder. He was still asleep. He doubted Finland would like that.
Russia and Belarus looked murderously at France in their sister’s body. (Sweden almost chuckled again – the look on Italy’s face was not scary as much as hilarious.) France’s eyes widened and he smiled sheepishly at the two.
“I guess you aren’t Germany and Italy, are you?” he stuttered, backing into Finland, who jumped again, barely holding his sheet up.
The actual Germany sighed deeply and stood up. “I’m Germany,” he called out. “Russia, Belarus, please reave— leave France arone. Alone. I’m quite sure that this is not his fault.”
France violently shook his head. Russia and Belarus glanced at each other and relaxed a bit. Their gazes didn’t quite leave France, though. Finland, meanwhile, had spotted his sleeping body and walked over to it. Japan, on whose shoulder the body in question was sleeping, smiled apologetically at him. “It’s Greece-ch...san,” he explained to Finland.
Finland nodded, wrapping his bed sheet a bit tighter around his shoulders. “And you’re Japan then, I guess?”
Japan bowed his head. “I am.”
Sweden saw Finland glance towards his body. Poland saw it too, and waved at him. Lithuania and Estonia nodded at the nation.
“That is Poland-san,” Japan explained politely. “If you wish to talk to Sweden-san, he is the person in the body of Lithuania-san.”
Finland nodded and looked around, until his gaze landed on Sweden, who gave him a small smile. Gathering up his sheet so nobody would step on it, Finland walked over to Sweden and leant against his chair. “What the hell are we all doing here?” he asked eventually.
Sweden shrugged. “Waiting ‘til something happens? Don’t know.” He looked up at Finland. “Most think‘s England’s fault.”
Poland, who was putting the man’s hair (Lithuania’s hair, really) into a messy ponytail – he wasn’t used to these big hands yet – stilled in his movements and asked, “Do you want me to, like, yell at him?”
“Don’t have to yell.”
“Oh, right. Okay, wait a sec.” Poland finished his ponytail and stepped back to take a look at it. “My god, that’s hideous,” he commented. Sweden was beginning to understand why people thought that he was scary. His body was quite frightening, but it was for the most part because of the way Poland moved it around, all swaying of the hips and snappish movements with the head and rolling of the eyes. He also pursed his lips a lot. Like now, before opening his mouth and calling out, “Sealand!”
The micronation in Russia’s body looked up and waved. “Hi… Person in dad’s body! What is it?”
“Stop irritating…. Whoever that is!” Poland warned, waving Sweden’s index finger around and shaking his head. Sweden had to look away in shame.
“It’s Miss Belarus! I’m protecting Russia from her so he’ll have to recognize me as a nation!”
Poland raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Well, then it’s totally fine.” When he caught Sweden’s angry look, he shrugged. “It’s Belarus!”
Suddenly, the door to the lobby burst open, almost knocking Lithuania over. An irate France appeared in the entrance. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail even messier than Sweden’s and his face unshaven. Instead of wearing pajamas and/or crumpled jackets like everyone else, he was wrapped in a bed sheet. The person gazed over the crowd for a while, before jumping up, exclaiming in a distorted accent, “PERKELE!” and whipping around. A second person appeared from behind the Frenchman. “Ukraine?” he asked.
She smiled almost apologetically while stepping out next to him. “No, no.” She was decently clothed, and seemed very interested in France, scrutinizing him from head to toe.
“Then who?”
‘Ukraine’ raised an eyebrow and lifted one corner of her mouth, which made for a frightening expression on the woman’s face. “Why, I’m you.”
“Me? What in hell do you— Wait, France?” When the other nation nodded, the person in France’s body swore again. Sweden almost chuckled. It was obviously Finland, and he was obviously not in a good mood. At all. He glanced at Finland’s body, currently inhabited by Greece, as they’d found out earlier when he’d fallen asleep on Japan-transformed-into-China’s shoulder. He was still asleep. He doubted Finland would like that.
Russia and Belarus looked murderously at France in their sister’s body. (Sweden almost chuckled again – the look on Italy’s face was not scary as much as hilarious.) France’s eyes widened and he smiled sheepishly at the two.
“I guess you aren’t Germany and Italy, are you?” he stuttered, backing into Finland, who jumped again, barely holding his sheet up.
The actual Germany sighed deeply and stood up. “I’m Germany,” he called out. “Russia, Belarus, please reave— leave France arone. Alone. I’m quite sure that this is not his fault.”
France violently shook his head. Russia and Belarus glanced at each other and relaxed a bit. Their gazes didn’t quite leave France, though. Finland, meanwhile, had spotted his sleeping body and walked over to it. Japan, on whose shoulder the body in question was sleeping, smiled apologetically at him. “It’s Greece-ch...san,” he explained to Finland.
Finland nodded, wrapping his bed sheet a bit tighter around his shoulders. “And you’re Japan then, I guess?”
Japan bowed his head. “I am.”
Sweden saw Finland glance towards his body. Poland saw it too, and waved at him. Lithuania and Estonia nodded at the nation.
“That is Poland-san,” Japan explained politely. “If you wish to talk to Sweden-san, he is the person in the body of Lithuania-san.”
Finland nodded and looked around, until his gaze landed on Sweden, who gave him a small smile. Gathering up his sheet so nobody would step on it, Finland walked over to Sweden and leant against his chair. “What the hell are we all doing here?” he asked eventually.
Sweden shrugged. “Waiting ‘til something happens? Don’t know.” He looked up at Finland. “Most think‘s England’s fault.”
Finding his way out of the apartment and walking through the cold streets, Francis wondered, truly wondered, if he forgave Chel. He looked back only once, and managed to see her standing at her bedroom window with the curtains drawn, watching him back. They gave each other a small wave, and the way the French morning sun hit her small and skinny frame makes her look rather beautiful.
He knows, with some peace of mind as he turns a corner, that he has.
-
One month later
-
In the room, the dreaded clock ticked.
It’s a bit hard to come out of a bad habit you’ve submitted to that you’ve been repressing yourself from for years, Francis thought quietly as he exhaled, watching the smoke come off the end of the cigarette and disappear in the atmosphere. He wondered if he should call someone – anyone, really – to help him sort this out.
He turned his head, looking to the little girl on the edge of his bed. She was sitting there stoically with an emotionless look in her eyes that met his own with startling precision. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head tilted downward a bit, her lips moving ever so slightly with no sound coming out of them. Her dress was in tatters; it would have been pure white only it was stained with tracks of mud and dirt and here and there a patch of dried blood. There were twigs in her blonde hair and her arms were so thin that her bones were visible and her elbows were jutting outward.
Francis took another inhale, never taking his eyes off the girl, as he mulled over his thoughts. He had become even better the past few weeks. He was still drinking, still smoking all the time, still eating unhealthily — but strangely enough, he had been improving. Maybe his body was just becoming used to all these coping methods and that those methods were actually helping him recover rather than hindering him. It didn’t matter. Francis no longer felt sick anymore; he had made a full recovery. He even stopped taking his medications.
There was just this one problem: the little girl, who had been following him around for the longest time.
Whenever he turned around, there she’d be, sitting quietly with her hands clasped and a giant smile plastered in a V-shape on her face, although her brows were furrowed and it looked like she was deeply frowning at the same time. The edges of her lips were always moving, even though she was grinning a tight-lipped grin. She never spoke to him, never looked away from him, and never did anything other than go wherever he went.
Francis was, to say the least, a little troubled by her. There was just something disturbing about her presence – it might have been her freakish face, or the way she followed him around the streets in a bloody dress and nobody seemed to pay attention. Perhaps she’s always been here. Perhaps he just didn’t know it.
But the scariest thing was, he couldn’t tell if she was real or not.
Francis finally made a decision.
He needed help.
-
Francis stood up to move and was shaken slightly when he saw the girl immediately jump up to follow him. He shivered, bundling himself up in his coat and stamping out his cigarette. Every day the girl’s presence grew more ominous – for the past few days he woke to find her just two feet away from his face, staring at him, her dress a little bloodier.
He strode out onto the street, trembling all the while as he heard the tap-tap-tap of prim shoes behind him. When he looked back, there she was, smiling with her lips twisted in a way physically impossible for anyone else and frowning with her eyes; he rubbed at his own and continued on.
When he reached a public phone booth, he immediately tried to shut out the girl so that he could have at least a little bit of privacy, but she ended up appearing directly next to him. She was only up to his elbow in height but she seemed more than threatening standing a foot away from him. Francis shuddered again and reached up to punch in the numbers, doing his best to ignore his company, trying not to panic.
He knows, with some peace of mind as he turns a corner, that he has.
-
One month later
-
In the room, the dreaded clock ticked.
It’s a bit hard to come out of a bad habit you’ve submitted to that you’ve been repressing yourself from for years, Francis thought quietly as he exhaled, watching the smoke come off the end of the cigarette and disappear in the atmosphere. He wondered if he should call someone – anyone, really – to help him sort this out.
He turned his head, looking to the little girl on the edge of his bed. She was sitting there stoically with an emotionless look in her eyes that met his own with startling precision. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head tilted downward a bit, her lips moving ever so slightly with no sound coming out of them. Her dress was in tatters; it would have been pure white only it was stained with tracks of mud and dirt and here and there a patch of dried blood. There were twigs in her blonde hair and her arms were so thin that her bones were visible and her elbows were jutting outward.
Francis took another inhale, never taking his eyes off the girl, as he mulled over his thoughts. He had become even better the past few weeks. He was still drinking, still smoking all the time, still eating unhealthily — but strangely enough, he had been improving. Maybe his body was just becoming used to all these coping methods and that those methods were actually helping him recover rather than hindering him. It didn’t matter. Francis no longer felt sick anymore; he had made a full recovery. He even stopped taking his medications.
There was just this one problem: the little girl, who had been following him around for the longest time.
Whenever he turned around, there she’d be, sitting quietly with her hands clasped and a giant smile plastered in a V-shape on her face, although her brows were furrowed and it looked like she was deeply frowning at the same time. The edges of her lips were always moving, even though she was grinning a tight-lipped grin. She never spoke to him, never looked away from him, and never did anything other than go wherever he went.
Francis was, to say the least, a little troubled by her. There was just something disturbing about her presence – it might have been her freakish face, or the way she followed him around the streets in a bloody dress and nobody seemed to pay attention. Perhaps she’s always been here. Perhaps he just didn’t know it.
But the scariest thing was, he couldn’t tell if she was real or not.
Francis finally made a decision.
He needed help.
-
Francis stood up to move and was shaken slightly when he saw the girl immediately jump up to follow him. He shivered, bundling himself up in his coat and stamping out his cigarette. Every day the girl’s presence grew more ominous – for the past few days he woke to find her just two feet away from his face, staring at him, her dress a little bloodier.
He strode out onto the street, trembling all the while as he heard the tap-tap-tap of prim shoes behind him. When he looked back, there she was, smiling with her lips twisted in a way physically impossible for anyone else and frowning with her eyes; he rubbed at his own and continued on.
When he reached a public phone booth, he immediately tried to shut out the girl so that he could have at least a little bit of privacy, but she ended up appearing directly next to him. She was only up to his elbow in height but she seemed more than threatening standing a foot away from him. Francis shuddered again and reached up to punch in the numbers, doing his best to ignore his company, trying not to panic.
Would she know that he was calling for help — that he was going to find someone to get rid of her? What would she do to him if she did?
“Hello?”
“Matthieu?”
“Francis?” Francis could hear the incredulity in his brother’s voice. “Is that you?”
“Yes, yes –”
“It’s you? Seriously — seriously?”
A rush of air passed out of Francis’ lungs. “It’s me, Matthieu,” he breathed.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to us?” cried his brother. “I called Antonio and he said that you disappeared off the face of the earth for months. And Gilbert – he had no idea either, and Arthur – well, Arthur, he – he didn’t pick up. Everyone – everyone else has been so worried. Where have you been?”
“Matthieu,” Francis said, breath quickening as he continued to look at the girl. He was starting to feel claustrophobic – she took up all of the space here, and he was backed in a corner as he watched her shuffle towards him with terrifying speed, inch by inch by inch. She’d never – never tried to get so close to him before in all the time that Francis has seen her – she’s always kept her distance. What was changing now? “It’s good to hear your voice again,” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, because it truly was.
“Francis, what’s going on? What happened to you? You sound sick.”
“I – I don’t know. I’m seeing things, I think. I just, I wanted to call –”
“You’re seeing things?”
“Probably a ghost,” Francis nodded his head.
“Have you been drinking?” came the accusing tone.
“I – yes, but it’s nothing like that.”
“Are you stoned?”
“I – no! I’m clean. I just – I think, I think I’m seeing things.”
Heavy silence pervaded the line. “Why did you call me?”
The girl was but a few inches from him now, though she didn’t move any farther than that. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I cut myself off from everyone, but it’s harder with you and Arthur. I need help,” he shrugged his shoulders feebly. “Matthieu, I don’t know where my life is going anymore. I haven’t spoken to a single soul for months, and I’ve been drinking and smoking and I think I’m ill – really ill — even though I don’t feel ill… I’m not sleeping. I’m not taking my medication. And I’m seeing things, things I shouldn’t be seeing. I don’t think I can take any of this anymore,” he finished, his voice having risen the entire time until it sounded so panicked that it made him feel like hyperventilating.
“I think I’ll come visit you,” said Matthieu softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you earlier. I – I didn’t know how bad it was. I suspected, that since Arthur wasn’t picking up either, that you were with him.”
Francis nodded, again and again, though Matthieu couldn’t see.
“Antonio mentioned a fight, though, and so I thought, I thought you two were simply coping in your own ways.”
Yes? You think?
“I’ll take care of you – don’t worry.”
But I’m mad, Matthieu. I’m mad.
“We’ll get through this together, alright? This — this whole Arthur thing. Is that what all this is about, Arthur?”
Do you remember the last time I called you, on Christmas Eve?
“Francis?”
Francis cleared his throat. “Christmas Eve,” he repeated, throat hoarse.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“You’re…you’re…” Depressed? Sick? A lunatic?
“To be honest?” Francis said, twisting his finger around the cord. “I’m losing my grip on reality,” he joked weakly. “I thought I could do this but I can’t. I can’t, Matthieu.”
“Right. Right, okay. Right. Okay. Who are you staying with?”
“An old couple. Here –” Francis gave his address, and tried to calm himself down. “You’ll be over soon, right?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, maybe you should come stay with us instead,” Matthieu said slowly.
“Us?”
“Alfred and I. We’d be glad to have you. We have an extra room and everything. It’s just, we can help you better if you’re here.”
“I can’t,” choked Francis, watching the girl’s smile stretch and widen.
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave.”
“What do you mean, you can’t leave?”
“Hello?”
“Matthieu?”
“Francis?” Francis could hear the incredulity in his brother’s voice. “Is that you?”
“Yes, yes –”
“It’s you? Seriously — seriously?”
A rush of air passed out of Francis’ lungs. “It’s me, Matthieu,” he breathed.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to us?” cried his brother. “I called Antonio and he said that you disappeared off the face of the earth for months. And Gilbert – he had no idea either, and Arthur – well, Arthur, he – he didn’t pick up. Everyone – everyone else has been so worried. Where have you been?”
“Matthieu,” Francis said, breath quickening as he continued to look at the girl. He was starting to feel claustrophobic – she took up all of the space here, and he was backed in a corner as he watched her shuffle towards him with terrifying speed, inch by inch by inch. She’d never – never tried to get so close to him before in all the time that Francis has seen her – she’s always kept her distance. What was changing now? “It’s good to hear your voice again,” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, because it truly was.
“Francis, what’s going on? What happened to you? You sound sick.”
“I – I don’t know. I’m seeing things, I think. I just, I wanted to call –”
“You’re seeing things?”
“Probably a ghost,” Francis nodded his head.
“Have you been drinking?” came the accusing tone.
“I – yes, but it’s nothing like that.”
“Are you stoned?”
“I – no! I’m clean. I just – I think, I think I’m seeing things.”
Heavy silence pervaded the line. “Why did you call me?”
The girl was but a few inches from him now, though she didn’t move any farther than that. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I cut myself off from everyone, but it’s harder with you and Arthur. I need help,” he shrugged his shoulders feebly. “Matthieu, I don’t know where my life is going anymore. I haven’t spoken to a single soul for months, and I’ve been drinking and smoking and I think I’m ill – really ill — even though I don’t feel ill… I’m not sleeping. I’m not taking my medication. And I’m seeing things, things I shouldn’t be seeing. I don’t think I can take any of this anymore,” he finished, his voice having risen the entire time until it sounded so panicked that it made him feel like hyperventilating.
“I think I’ll come visit you,” said Matthieu softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you earlier. I – I didn’t know how bad it was. I suspected, that since Arthur wasn’t picking up either, that you were with him.”
Francis nodded, again and again, though Matthieu couldn’t see.
“Antonio mentioned a fight, though, and so I thought, I thought you two were simply coping in your own ways.”
Yes? You think?
“I’ll take care of you – don’t worry.”
But I’m mad, Matthieu. I’m mad.
“We’ll get through this together, alright? This — this whole Arthur thing. Is that what all this is about, Arthur?”
Do you remember the last time I called you, on Christmas Eve?
“Francis?”
Francis cleared his throat. “Christmas Eve,” he repeated, throat hoarse.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“You’re…you’re…” Depressed? Sick? A lunatic?
“To be honest?” Francis said, twisting his finger around the cord. “I’m losing my grip on reality,” he joked weakly. “I thought I could do this but I can’t. I can’t, Matthieu.”
“Right. Right, okay. Right. Okay. Who are you staying with?”
“An old couple. Here –” Francis gave his address, and tried to calm himself down. “You’ll be over soon, right?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, maybe you should come stay with us instead,” Matthieu said slowly.
“Us?”
“Alfred and I. We’d be glad to have you. We have an extra room and everything. It’s just, we can help you better if you’re here.”
“I can’t,” choked Francis, watching the girl’s smile stretch and widen.
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave.”
“What do you mean, you can’t leave?”
“Probably. It’s always England’s fault.” He frowned. “I’m already starting to sound like France. Anyway, I hope, whether he caused it or not, that England will be able to fix it. Or maybe Norway can do something. Is he here, Norway, or Iceland, or Denmark?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Ah.” Finland sighed. “What about Sealand?”
“Russia.”
“Oh my god.”
--
“Listen, England, we’ll have to go out of here eventually. I mean, they’re surely already blaming you, so it’s not like we have to stay inside out of fear for that.” America knocked on the bathroom door. “Dude, what’s taking you so long?”
The door swung open. “Okay, calm down, I’m here,” England exclaimed exasperatedly. “I was trying to think of ways to reverse the spell! But I can’t if you keep yelling at me!”
“You should have just told me! By the way, what’s up with the hair? You look more like Denmark than Netherlands now.”
England furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s just harder than I thought it would be. It refuses to stay completely up.”
“So how does Netherlands do that, then?”
“Haven’t the slightest. But that is not the point right now, America.” England closed the bathroom door and crossed the room to Netherlands’s nightstand. “I haven’t succeeded in finding a solution to this problem yet, so, as you said, we should go out. We will have to know the full extent of the predicament, anyway.” He picked Netherlands’s phone up from the nightstand and slipped it in his pocket. Then he turned and pulled a displeased smirk at America. “What are you standing there for? We should get going! Come on!”
America tucked Canada’s hair behind his ear again and nodded. “Of course. Let’s go, old man!”
--
“Oh! Sorry, mate— Oh! Oh.”
“It was my fault, sorry. Not used to this body. Why do you look at me like that?”
“Damn England and his magic…” Australia circled his body, that he had just literally bumped into on his way to the lobby. The person in it had put on a shirt, but hadn’t shaved. He thought, because of that, and because of the way his voice sounded, that this person must be a girl.
“Oh,” the person in Australia’s body said, looking over their shoulder. “Oh, you must be Australia! That’s so weird, why aren’t you in my body? I thought we must have switched, like in all those movies!” When the actual Australia faced his body again, the person extended his hand. “I’m Seychelles, by the way.”
Australia hesitated before shaking his own hand, afraid it would create some sort of paradox by touching himself purposely. He felt very small in Switzerland’s body. “Seychelles… Well, you were right, I’m Australia.” He pursed his lips. “Seychelles. Could’ve been worse, I suppose. Have you found out who is in your body yet?”
She shook her head. “I was on my way to my room to check… Thought it would be you.” When Australia nodded, she continued, “I have no idea what to do. I mean, I’ve heard of magic, but I didn’t think it was possible!”
“Me neither.” That was a lie, but Seychelles didn’t have to know that. “Shall we go to your room, then? I’m sorta curious now, too.”
“Yes, let’s do that. It’s just down the hall, here.”
The two of them walked up to the door that belonged to the African nation’s room. Australia heard her inhale heavily before knocking. They stared at the door for a while. Then Seychelles sighed.
“I suppose they’re already out. Maybe we should try the lo—” She was cut off by a loud crash from inside the hotel room, followed by a shriek. Seychelles jumped. “Was that my voice?” She looked at Australia with an alarmed expression on her face, then back at the door. “Is everything alright?” she yelled, knocking again.
“Fine!” came the muffled reply. “Coming!”
Seconds later, the door was opened by a disheveled, pajama-wearing Seychelles. The nation laughed sheepishly. “Tripped over these legs.” Brown eyes shifted from Australia to the actual Seychelles. “I don’t suppose you’re Switzerland and Australia, right?”
Australia answered for them both. “No mate, we’re Australia and Seychelles. And who are you?”
“Ah, I see. This is really bizarre. Anyway, I’m Denmark!” He frowned. “I thought Norway had caused this, but I’m beginning to doubt it. He’d never involve all of you guys. Unless you’ve offended him, but I don’t suppose you did.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Ah.” Finland sighed. “What about Sealand?”
“Russia.”
“Oh my god.”
--
“Listen, England, we’ll have to go out of here eventually. I mean, they’re surely already blaming you, so it’s not like we have to stay inside out of fear for that.” America knocked on the bathroom door. “Dude, what’s taking you so long?”
The door swung open. “Okay, calm down, I’m here,” England exclaimed exasperatedly. “I was trying to think of ways to reverse the spell! But I can’t if you keep yelling at me!”
“You should have just told me! By the way, what’s up with the hair? You look more like Denmark than Netherlands now.”
England furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s just harder than I thought it would be. It refuses to stay completely up.”
“So how does Netherlands do that, then?”
“Haven’t the slightest. But that is not the point right now, America.” England closed the bathroom door and crossed the room to Netherlands’s nightstand. “I haven’t succeeded in finding a solution to this problem yet, so, as you said, we should go out. We will have to know the full extent of the predicament, anyway.” He picked Netherlands’s phone up from the nightstand and slipped it in his pocket. Then he turned and pulled a displeased smirk at America. “What are you standing there for? We should get going! Come on!”
America tucked Canada’s hair behind his ear again and nodded. “Of course. Let’s go, old man!”
--
“Oh! Sorry, mate— Oh! Oh.”
“It was my fault, sorry. Not used to this body. Why do you look at me like that?”
“Damn England and his magic…” Australia circled his body, that he had just literally bumped into on his way to the lobby. The person in it had put on a shirt, but hadn’t shaved. He thought, because of that, and because of the way his voice sounded, that this person must be a girl.
“Oh,” the person in Australia’s body said, looking over their shoulder. “Oh, you must be Australia! That’s so weird, why aren’t you in my body? I thought we must have switched, like in all those movies!” When the actual Australia faced his body again, the person extended his hand. “I’m Seychelles, by the way.”
Australia hesitated before shaking his own hand, afraid it would create some sort of paradox by touching himself purposely. He felt very small in Switzerland’s body. “Seychelles… Well, you were right, I’m Australia.” He pursed his lips. “Seychelles. Could’ve been worse, I suppose. Have you found out who is in your body yet?”
She shook her head. “I was on my way to my room to check… Thought it would be you.” When Australia nodded, she continued, “I have no idea what to do. I mean, I’ve heard of magic, but I didn’t think it was possible!”
“Me neither.” That was a lie, but Seychelles didn’t have to know that. “Shall we go to your room, then? I’m sorta curious now, too.”
“Yes, let’s do that. It’s just down the hall, here.”
The two of them walked up to the door that belonged to the African nation’s room. Australia heard her inhale heavily before knocking. They stared at the door for a while. Then Seychelles sighed.
“I suppose they’re already out. Maybe we should try the lo—” She was cut off by a loud crash from inside the hotel room, followed by a shriek. Seychelles jumped. “Was that my voice?” She looked at Australia with an alarmed expression on her face, then back at the door. “Is everything alright?” she yelled, knocking again.
“Fine!” came the muffled reply. “Coming!”
Seconds later, the door was opened by a disheveled, pajama-wearing Seychelles. The nation laughed sheepishly. “Tripped over these legs.” Brown eyes shifted from Australia to the actual Seychelles. “I don’t suppose you’re Switzerland and Australia, right?”
Australia answered for them both. “No mate, we’re Australia and Seychelles. And who are you?”
“Ah, I see. This is really bizarre. Anyway, I’m Denmark!” He frowned. “I thought Norway had caused this, but I’m beginning to doubt it. He’d never involve all of you guys. Unless you’ve offended him, but I don’t suppose you did.”
“I can’t leave,” he said again, and then laughed and laughed and laughed.
He meant that he didn’t want to burden Matthieu or Alfred. He meant that he didn’t want his little brother to see how far he’s fallen, how bad he is, to see him wander around in his house in a vegetative state. He meant that he didn’t want to be around Alfred, the stranger whom he hardly knew, and just needed to be with Matthieu. He meant that he was losing his mind, that he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore and he wasn’t really sure if the girl was just a reflection of his mind or not and he wasn’t really sure why he’s never really questioned that until now. He meant that if he tried to escape he was sure she would hunt him down and kill him, because that was just the vibe she was giving him now.
The girl started to make gesturing motions with her hands, as if she was telling Francis to hand over the phone. He did, trying to still it in his hand, as he passed it over. He squeezed his eyes shut.
When had it come to this? How had it come to this? He dropped the phone in her palm.
It fell right through and clattered against the glass wall.
Francis felt relief course through him for a single moment. She wasn’t real.
Francis then felt terror follow right after. She wasn’t real.
“Francis? Hello? Hello?” came the voice from the phone as Francis slammed open the booth door and ran.
-
The demon-child was gone. Standing here, on this familiar old bridge, Francis could almost think rationally; he could not for the life of him remember her much at all anymore. Had she just been a hallucination he’d been conjuring all this time? When had she first appeared, how did she become such a regular presence in his life? Was this kind of thing normal for people with HIV? Or even depression?
Francis was panting, leaning his elbows on the railing with his head thrown back so that it hung over the expanse of water. He had ran like a madman through the streets, pushing past strangers and knocking over carts and strollers, ran without a single glance back to see if the demon-child was still following him, ran purposelessly and without destination with Matthieu’s final words echoing in his skull. Now he felt as though his lungs were being ripped out of his chest; it hurt to breathe, and he had to take great huge gasping breaths in order to fill himself with heavenly air. Night had already fallen.
There was nobody else on the bridge except for him and a few passing cars, and thank God for that. In the distance, a bugle told Francis that there were a few small ships headed towards the bridge, and on either side of him Paris was slowing putting herself to sleep. All her lights were being lit like small, flickering candles, and Francis thought that she was beautiful illuminated like this at nighttime.
The Mirabeau bridge was one of thirty-seven bridges built over the Seine River located in Paris, and it was far from one of the most beautiful. In fact, it was the disgusting yellow-green colour of sulphur and it was old as dirt. And compared to some bridges like the Pont des Arts or the Pont de l’Archvêché, considered some of the greatest romantic spots in the city, or the Pont Alexandre III that was lined with its gorgeous lamps, the Mirabeau bridge could hardly match up.
But Francis had grown to adore this bridge, he and Arthur both. After all, it was here where they’d commonly met up whenever they could spare some free time in the busy days of attending college since they were studying completely different majors and didn’t have a single class with each other. It’d been here where Arthur had stood in jeans frayed at the fringe and wet from the knees down, where he had chatted with Francis amiably about how much he wanted to bash his 18th century French literature teacher’s head in with a burnt scone and Francis had listened contently thinking about how much he loved the guy. It’d been here where they’d fought numerous times, even broke up once, but reconciled again.
He meant that he didn’t want to burden Matthieu or Alfred. He meant that he didn’t want his little brother to see how far he’s fallen, how bad he is, to see him wander around in his house in a vegetative state. He meant that he didn’t want to be around Alfred, the stranger whom he hardly knew, and just needed to be with Matthieu. He meant that he was losing his mind, that he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore and he wasn’t really sure if the girl was just a reflection of his mind or not and he wasn’t really sure why he’s never really questioned that until now. He meant that if he tried to escape he was sure she would hunt him down and kill him, because that was just the vibe she was giving him now.
The girl started to make gesturing motions with her hands, as if she was telling Francis to hand over the phone. He did, trying to still it in his hand, as he passed it over. He squeezed his eyes shut.
When had it come to this? How had it come to this? He dropped the phone in her palm.
It fell right through and clattered against the glass wall.
Francis felt relief course through him for a single moment. She wasn’t real.
Francis then felt terror follow right after. She wasn’t real.
“Francis? Hello? Hello?” came the voice from the phone as Francis slammed open the booth door and ran.
-
The demon-child was gone. Standing here, on this familiar old bridge, Francis could almost think rationally; he could not for the life of him remember her much at all anymore. Had she just been a hallucination he’d been conjuring all this time? When had she first appeared, how did she become such a regular presence in his life? Was this kind of thing normal for people with HIV? Or even depression?
Francis was panting, leaning his elbows on the railing with his head thrown back so that it hung over the expanse of water. He had ran like a madman through the streets, pushing past strangers and knocking over carts and strollers, ran without a single glance back to see if the demon-child was still following him, ran purposelessly and without destination with Matthieu’s final words echoing in his skull. Now he felt as though his lungs were being ripped out of his chest; it hurt to breathe, and he had to take great huge gasping breaths in order to fill himself with heavenly air. Night had already fallen.
There was nobody else on the bridge except for him and a few passing cars, and thank God for that. In the distance, a bugle told Francis that there were a few small ships headed towards the bridge, and on either side of him Paris was slowing putting herself to sleep. All her lights were being lit like small, flickering candles, and Francis thought that she was beautiful illuminated like this at nighttime.
The Mirabeau bridge was one of thirty-seven bridges built over the Seine River located in Paris, and it was far from one of the most beautiful. In fact, it was the disgusting yellow-green colour of sulphur and it was old as dirt. And compared to some bridges like the Pont des Arts or the Pont de l’Archvêché, considered some of the greatest romantic spots in the city, or the Pont Alexandre III that was lined with its gorgeous lamps, the Mirabeau bridge could hardly match up.
But Francis had grown to adore this bridge, he and Arthur both. After all, it was here where they’d commonly met up whenever they could spare some free time in the busy days of attending college since they were studying completely different majors and didn’t have a single class with each other. It’d been here where Arthur had stood in jeans frayed at the fringe and wet from the knees down, where he had chatted with Francis amiably about how much he wanted to bash his 18th century French literature teacher’s head in with a burnt scone and Francis had listened contently thinking about how much he loved the guy. It’d been here where they’d fought numerous times, even broke up once, but reconciled again.
Sometimes when they met Francis would bring flowers. He didn’t really know where Arthur put them, but he had faith that they weren’t thrown away upon parting because he knew that the Brit was a romantic at heart. He could still remember the first time Arthur brought him flowers for a change, and he had made the fatal mistake of making fun of him for it. Since then, Arthur had never repeated the gesture. Francis had suspected that the other just scared easily; a marriage and some years later he could easily reaffirm that thought.
In the present, Francis turned around so that he was facing the river and tapped his fingernails on the railing. It was still mid-winter and he was poorly dressed and he’d been running around all day. His short hair had become stiff and cold, snow frozen on the tips, and his ears and neck were chilled to the bone as they were completely unprotected. He shivered, teeth chattering, bare hands red as though he’d been burnt severely.
Francis was not worried that he’d catch a cold, because he was still certain that he was getting better and his immune system was no longer ‘weak’. Was that even possible? Recovering from HIV without outside help? It must be, because it was happening to him. He was grateful, entirely so. Once he was better he would find Arthur again, and they’d somehow make do and get back together.
It was so easy to imagine, so easy to forget that they’d already tried and nothing had worked and it’d been such a terribly long time since the two had last spoken. Here on the bridge, it was so easy to forget everything. It was easy to forget why he even cared in the first place. Arthur, Matthieu, Antoine, Gilbert — all were lost cases, people whose faces he could hardly summon or remember. The whole plan was laid out in plain view in front of him, and there was nothing to add. All that really mattered were the memories he and Arthur had created here together long ago; in those memories, Arthur loved him still. All he had to do was let go.
The Frenchman yawned tiredly. From here he could see the Eiffel Tower in all its glory, lit up with a thousand lights that made it appear on fire. He blinked lazily at it. It almost startled him to realize how long ago the demon-child had left him be; he’d been here for hours already. Somehow, he imagined the bridge protecting him, keeping him safe. Here, he could be completely content. He was almost euphoric; he could no longer feel the cold, only warmth seeping through his veins and heating his fingers. It was like his first trip to DisneyWorld when he was six or seven years old, cradled in the arms of his mother as they both watched the fireworks above Cinderella’s castle. Nothing wrong could have happened to him then.
The colours of the lights were beginning to blend in with each other; Francis blinked a few times, wondering why his vision was going blurry, but the colours wouldn’t go away. He felt an inexplicable feeling crawl up the base of his spine, and he was suddenly very hot, very giddy inside.
Here, he was sure he was free, away from his guilt and his demons and his haunts. Here, he could enshroud himself in the past forever, in a time before Arthur had become something utterly unobtainable. All he could think of was DisneyWorld and his mother, and then he was fast forwarding through his life and watching all his memories play themselves out as easily and as real as though he was watching television.
There was growing up in Marseille with Matthieu and meeting the jade-eyed boy on the shores of the Mediterranean and there was meeting his half-sister for the first time and growing to love her. There was playing dress-up in girl’s clothes and wondering if there was something wrong with him; there was realizing that he was a little different than other people but that was alright. There was the jade-eyed boy coming to see him in his dreams again and again until there came a point where Francis couldn’t distinguish between the words he had actually heard come from the boy’s mouth and the words he had imagined hearing in those nightly visits.
In the present, Francis turned around so that he was facing the river and tapped his fingernails on the railing. It was still mid-winter and he was poorly dressed and he’d been running around all day. His short hair had become stiff and cold, snow frozen on the tips, and his ears and neck were chilled to the bone as they were completely unprotected. He shivered, teeth chattering, bare hands red as though he’d been burnt severely.
Francis was not worried that he’d catch a cold, because he was still certain that he was getting better and his immune system was no longer ‘weak’. Was that even possible? Recovering from HIV without outside help? It must be, because it was happening to him. He was grateful, entirely so. Once he was better he would find Arthur again, and they’d somehow make do and get back together.
It was so easy to imagine, so easy to forget that they’d already tried and nothing had worked and it’d been such a terribly long time since the two had last spoken. Here on the bridge, it was so easy to forget everything. It was easy to forget why he even cared in the first place. Arthur, Matthieu, Antoine, Gilbert — all were lost cases, people whose faces he could hardly summon or remember. The whole plan was laid out in plain view in front of him, and there was nothing to add. All that really mattered were the memories he and Arthur had created here together long ago; in those memories, Arthur loved him still. All he had to do was let go.
The Frenchman yawned tiredly. From here he could see the Eiffel Tower in all its glory, lit up with a thousand lights that made it appear on fire. He blinked lazily at it. It almost startled him to realize how long ago the demon-child had left him be; he’d been here for hours already. Somehow, he imagined the bridge protecting him, keeping him safe. Here, he could be completely content. He was almost euphoric; he could no longer feel the cold, only warmth seeping through his veins and heating his fingers. It was like his first trip to DisneyWorld when he was six or seven years old, cradled in the arms of his mother as they both watched the fireworks above Cinderella’s castle. Nothing wrong could have happened to him then.
The colours of the lights were beginning to blend in with each other; Francis blinked a few times, wondering why his vision was going blurry, but the colours wouldn’t go away. He felt an inexplicable feeling crawl up the base of his spine, and he was suddenly very hot, very giddy inside.
Here, he was sure he was free, away from his guilt and his demons and his haunts. Here, he could enshroud himself in the past forever, in a time before Arthur had become something utterly unobtainable. All he could think of was DisneyWorld and his mother, and then he was fast forwarding through his life and watching all his memories play themselves out as easily and as real as though he was watching television.
There was growing up in Marseille with Matthieu and meeting the jade-eyed boy on the shores of the Mediterranean and there was meeting his half-sister for the first time and growing to love her. There was playing dress-up in girl’s clothes and wondering if there was something wrong with him; there was realizing that he was a little different than other people but that was alright. There was the jade-eyed boy coming to see him in his dreams again and again until there came a point where Francis couldn’t distinguish between the words he had actually heard come from the boy’s mouth and the words he had imagined hearing in those nightly visits.
“I can’t remember making Norway angry,” Australia replied. “I am thinking it was England.” He looked up at Seychelles. “Are you alright?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “Sorry, I’m just kind of freaked out. I’m beginning to understand how big a problem this will be. I mean, what of one of our bosses calls?” She scratched the stubble on her chin. It occurred to Australia that he would have to help her shave if they stayed like this for a while. “I mean, I speak English, but do you speak German, Australia? Do you speak Creole, or even French, Denmark? Do you know if anyone speaks Danish, except you?”
“Yeah, Sweden, Norway and Iceland. And I think Netherlands can understand it. But I get your point. Where do you think everyone else is? The lobby? I bet they’re trying to find a way to fix this shit. We should go find them.”
“I agr—”
The conversation was interrupted by the door on the other side of the hallway slamming open. Seychelles jumped again, and so did Denmark when he saw who came out of the room.
“Right… That was my room, I remember,” he stuttered. Then he waved sheepishly at his body, clad in a weird combination of jeans, flip-flops and a pajama top. It waved back.
“Does anyone know what’s going on?” the person asked. “I’m Korea, by the way. Hi!”
Since no one was responding, Australia answered, “We don’t know what’s going on.” He blew Switzerland’s hair out of his face and continued, “I’m Australia, and this is Seychelles and Denmark. Korea, is your… Denmark’s hair wet?”
Korea laughed with embarrassment, looking very much like the actual Denmark. “See, I wasn’t fully awake. I was in the shower when I noticed I wasn’t myself.”
Denmark raised his eyebrows. Then he shook his head. “Well, we are almost the same height… Same build, too, so I guess it makes sense you didn’t notice right away. Guys, can we go to the lobby now?” After Australia had nodded, the nation added, “Wait, can someone get this hair to stay out of my face? It’s annoying me.”
Seychelles offered to braid it for him.
--
The odd group consisting of Norway, Iceland, Seborga, Turkey and Austria was still in search of England, when it encountered a confused Liechtenstein in a corridor on the first floor of the hotel. She was properly clothed in a blue summer dress and had a red bow in her hair. She was walking with her suitcase down the hall, frowning. Norway and Iceland, who saw her first, shared a quick look. Norway made a barely discernible move with his head, and Iceland called out, “Liechtenstein!”
She turned her head towards them and smiled politely but obviously confused. The group hurried over to the nation. Austria muttered, “Liechtenstein?” Then he turned to her. “Liechtenstein? Is it you, really?”
She frowned. “Yes, I’m Liechtenstein. Why? Is there something wrong?” Her face turned concerned.
Norway answered for them. “There is definitely something wrong. However, it does not seem to have affected you, which is odd. Why didn’t it?”
Liechtenstein put her suitcase down and held out her hands in a defensive manner. “Mister Greece, can you please explain what’s going on first? I’m sorry, but I don’t really understand it… There isn’t an emergency, is there?” Her gaze shifted between Norway and Iceland, who looked at each other once more. Iceland shrugged.
“It is hard to put in plain words,” Norway said eventually, “when you aren’t part of it.” When Liechtenstein rolled her eyes, he continued, “Well, for starters, I’m not Greece. I am Norway. Almost all of us seem to have swapped bodies. At random.”
“Swapped bodies?” Liechtenstein repeated.
“Think Freaky Friday,” a deep voice from behind her said suddenly. “Just way bigger, and much more without any purpose.” A group of people appeared from around the corner. “Hi, by the way. This is Seychelles speaking.” She waved at them with Australia’s large hand. “And this is—”
“Australia,” Norway said.
“Korea,” Iceland continued.
“And… Denmark.”
The latter’s face brightened. “Norway! That’s you, right? I’d know you anywhere. Well,” he looked between the Nordic brothers, “one of you two is Norway. I think…” The Dane narrowed his eyes. “I think… Greece!”
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “Sorry, I’m just kind of freaked out. I’m beginning to understand how big a problem this will be. I mean, what of one of our bosses calls?” She scratched the stubble on her chin. It occurred to Australia that he would have to help her shave if they stayed like this for a while. “I mean, I speak English, but do you speak German, Australia? Do you speak Creole, or even French, Denmark? Do you know if anyone speaks Danish, except you?”
“Yeah, Sweden, Norway and Iceland. And I think Netherlands can understand it. But I get your point. Where do you think everyone else is? The lobby? I bet they’re trying to find a way to fix this shit. We should go find them.”
“I agr—”
The conversation was interrupted by the door on the other side of the hallway slamming open. Seychelles jumped again, and so did Denmark when he saw who came out of the room.
“Right… That was my room, I remember,” he stuttered. Then he waved sheepishly at his body, clad in a weird combination of jeans, flip-flops and a pajama top. It waved back.
“Does anyone know what’s going on?” the person asked. “I’m Korea, by the way. Hi!”
Since no one was responding, Australia answered, “We don’t know what’s going on.” He blew Switzerland’s hair out of his face and continued, “I’m Australia, and this is Seychelles and Denmark. Korea, is your… Denmark’s hair wet?”
Korea laughed with embarrassment, looking very much like the actual Denmark. “See, I wasn’t fully awake. I was in the shower when I noticed I wasn’t myself.”
Denmark raised his eyebrows. Then he shook his head. “Well, we are almost the same height… Same build, too, so I guess it makes sense you didn’t notice right away. Guys, can we go to the lobby now?” After Australia had nodded, the nation added, “Wait, can someone get this hair to stay out of my face? It’s annoying me.”
Seychelles offered to braid it for him.
--
The odd group consisting of Norway, Iceland, Seborga, Turkey and Austria was still in search of England, when it encountered a confused Liechtenstein in a corridor on the first floor of the hotel. She was properly clothed in a blue summer dress and had a red bow in her hair. She was walking with her suitcase down the hall, frowning. Norway and Iceland, who saw her first, shared a quick look. Norway made a barely discernible move with his head, and Iceland called out, “Liechtenstein!”
She turned her head towards them and smiled politely but obviously confused. The group hurried over to the nation. Austria muttered, “Liechtenstein?” Then he turned to her. “Liechtenstein? Is it you, really?”
She frowned. “Yes, I’m Liechtenstein. Why? Is there something wrong?” Her face turned concerned.
Norway answered for them. “There is definitely something wrong. However, it does not seem to have affected you, which is odd. Why didn’t it?”
Liechtenstein put her suitcase down and held out her hands in a defensive manner. “Mister Greece, can you please explain what’s going on first? I’m sorry, but I don’t really understand it… There isn’t an emergency, is there?” Her gaze shifted between Norway and Iceland, who looked at each other once more. Iceland shrugged.
“It is hard to put in plain words,” Norway said eventually, “when you aren’t part of it.” When Liechtenstein rolled her eyes, he continued, “Well, for starters, I’m not Greece. I am Norway. Almost all of us seem to have swapped bodies. At random.”
“Swapped bodies?” Liechtenstein repeated.
“Think Freaky Friday,” a deep voice from behind her said suddenly. “Just way bigger, and much more without any purpose.” A group of people appeared from around the corner. “Hi, by the way. This is Seychelles speaking.” She waved at them with Australia’s large hand. “And this is—”
“Australia,” Norway said.
“Korea,” Iceland continued.
“And… Denmark.”
The latter’s face brightened. “Norway! That’s you, right? I’d know you anywhere. Well,” he looked between the Nordic brothers, “one of you two is Norway. I think…” The Dane narrowed his eyes. “I think… Greece!”
There was moving away to the city of lights to live out his dream when he turned eighteen, looking down to see Matthieu still a head shorter than him clutching at his bag and begging him not to leave right before he boarded the plane because if he was leaving then he would be running away and leaving Matthieu mother-less and brother-less. There was meeting Antoine and Gilbert and getting drunk for the first time and failing his first test in a subject he believed he was a genius in and crying alone on the bathroom floor after a party, gutting his wrists like he would a fish and watching the blood drip down the bathtub and smear the whiteness away.
There was meeting the jade-eyed boy in reality once more. It wasn’t love at first sight, it couldn’t be because they’d already seen each other before, but the boy didn’t remember him and that had broken his heart. But then there was finding himself when he wooed the other anyway, growing more confident and self-assured and daring and flirtatious and there was storing away the memory of his mother’s death back in the hidden realms of his mind and reuniting with Matthieu. There was growing to love his work and growing to love this city and growing to love this bridge, this spot, and growing addicted to loving a certain kind of pain and happiness that came and went with loving Arthur.
There was hurt there, and there was joy, and Francis had always adored a good measure of both. This he could deal with, this he could find the measure of his worth from, this he could use to discover more of himself. What he was dealing with now — the almost constant sadness and the consuming depth of his inner monsters and the madness that he felt was slowly taking over his brain by conjuring him images of certain white-dressed little girls to haunt his wake — that, that he could die for, but never live with.
Francis hummed the Mirabeau song, but he could hardly hear it over the hollowness in his ears. He continued to hum it regardless, thinking about what it had taken him to get here, about what he had gone through and what he had had to deal with. About being fastened, rather accidentally, to his love for Arthur, and forgetting himself in consequence. That had been a fatal mistake he would regret even more so than Chel. But then again, now that he thought about it, he no longer regretted Chel; he only regretted that things had gone the way they did.
But you have a choice even now, you know, said a voice Francis imagined belonged to the little demon girl, only it was sweet and kind and didn’t sound like it could pass through such a filthy mouth. He looked around for the girl, but realized he couldn’t see a thing anymore. The scope of his sight had turned rather lurid, which was frightening because now it seemed as though the colours were turning on him. The cold was once again returning to his limbs, and that shocked him as much as the colours did. He had somehow managed to pull himself out of reality for a single moment in the coldness and engage himself in the past, but now the present was returning once more and he didn’t — he didn’t want that.
You still have a choice, laughed the voice. Francis Bonnefoy, you always had the choice.
That’s right, mused Francis. I can choose to escape. There was always an escape route. I’ve just forgotten it. For it is so strange, Francis mused, that we should enter a world built upon the failure of its inhabitants and yet struggle every day to cling to it anyway because we imagine it to be our only salvation. That there isn’t anything yonder, that all that lies in the abyss is the unknown and the unknown is always worse than the known. That death is the coward’s way out.
But Francis didn’t see it that way; at least not anymore. Because he had been falling and falling the moment he met Arthur and he had finally hit rock bottom. This was his rock bottom. He would take the unknown, if it provided even the slimmest of a chance that it was better than the hell he was living now.
There was meeting the jade-eyed boy in reality once more. It wasn’t love at first sight, it couldn’t be because they’d already seen each other before, but the boy didn’t remember him and that had broken his heart. But then there was finding himself when he wooed the other anyway, growing more confident and self-assured and daring and flirtatious and there was storing away the memory of his mother’s death back in the hidden realms of his mind and reuniting with Matthieu. There was growing to love his work and growing to love this city and growing to love this bridge, this spot, and growing addicted to loving a certain kind of pain and happiness that came and went with loving Arthur.
There was hurt there, and there was joy, and Francis had always adored a good measure of both. This he could deal with, this he could find the measure of his worth from, this he could use to discover more of himself. What he was dealing with now — the almost constant sadness and the consuming depth of his inner monsters and the madness that he felt was slowly taking over his brain by conjuring him images of certain white-dressed little girls to haunt his wake — that, that he could die for, but never live with.
Francis hummed the Mirabeau song, but he could hardly hear it over the hollowness in his ears. He continued to hum it regardless, thinking about what it had taken him to get here, about what he had gone through and what he had had to deal with. About being fastened, rather accidentally, to his love for Arthur, and forgetting himself in consequence. That had been a fatal mistake he would regret even more so than Chel. But then again, now that he thought about it, he no longer regretted Chel; he only regretted that things had gone the way they did.
But you have a choice even now, you know, said a voice Francis imagined belonged to the little demon girl, only it was sweet and kind and didn’t sound like it could pass through such a filthy mouth. He looked around for the girl, but realized he couldn’t see a thing anymore. The scope of his sight had turned rather lurid, which was frightening because now it seemed as though the colours were turning on him. The cold was once again returning to his limbs, and that shocked him as much as the colours did. He had somehow managed to pull himself out of reality for a single moment in the coldness and engage himself in the past, but now the present was returning once more and he didn’t — he didn’t want that.
You still have a choice, laughed the voice. Francis Bonnefoy, you always had the choice.
That’s right, mused Francis. I can choose to escape. There was always an escape route. I’ve just forgotten it. For it is so strange, Francis mused, that we should enter a world built upon the failure of its inhabitants and yet struggle every day to cling to it anyway because we imagine it to be our only salvation. That there isn’t anything yonder, that all that lies in the abyss is the unknown and the unknown is always worse than the known. That death is the coward’s way out.
But Francis didn’t see it that way; at least not anymore. Because he had been falling and falling the moment he met Arthur and he had finally hit rock bottom. This was his rock bottom. He would take the unknown, if it provided even the slimmest of a chance that it was better than the hell he was living now.
Norway rolled his eyes at him. Iceland chuckled slightly, and his brother’s gaze turned towards him. “Iceland,” Norway said – Denmark made a ‘hm!’-sound –, “you never told me…”
“Well,” Iceland replied, “it’s not been for long. I haven’t had the time. And I didn’t cause this, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” He looked at the ground, then back at Norway. “I can control it. It’s not dangerous. I’m not dangerous.”
“What are you talking about?” Denmark and Turkey shouted, while Norway actually smiled at Iceland before turning around suddenly when a door down the hall opened. Two people stumbled out of their hotel room, squabbling over something or the other, but stopping when they noticed the group on the corner. Denmark grinned when he recognized one of them as his friend Netherlands with very poorly done hair. Austria and Seborga automatically turned towards Norway and Iceland to find out who these people actually were.
Norway’s face lit up almost imperceptibly. “At length, we have found England,” he declared. The person next to Netherlands’s body grinned broadly and slapped the former’s back.
“Well, seems you were right about that, dude. They are blaming you.”
“Yes, America, it would appear so,” England commented petulantly. He closed his eyes and frowned. “That would be Norway and Iceland… Austria in my body, oh, that could have been worse. Turkey, Italian bloke, Australia – oh, that’s just great –, Seychelles, Denmark, Korea and… Liechtenstein.”
The latter still looked mystified. Australia patted her back and turned his angry gaze on England, who stepped back on the other side of the corridor. “England,” Australia started, managing to sound so threatening even with his strangled voice and accent that even Liechtenstein flinched, “you better know of a way to fix this.”
England opened his mouth and closed it again, tightening his lips. “Not right away.” His – or rather Netherlands’s – green eyes flitted over the people in the hallway tensely. “I am very unhappy about this all… I had no idea what would happen to any of you. But I will explain myself later, when everyone is present, or at least more people.” He shuffled his foot on the green flooring. “To the lobby?”
“To the lobby,” Norway confirmed. Australia gave Liechtenstein a nudge, Turkey angrily stomped over to Iceland to demand an explanation and Denmark fell in line next to Norway, who sighed and rolled his eyes at him. Korea, Seychelles and Seborga followed the group a bit further off, keeping an eye on Austria, who groaned about his massive headache while stumbling down the hall.
--
Hungary, in the meantime, had at last succeeded in finding a map and America’s car keys, as well as the super power’s bomber jacket. She had tried to call her own phone, but nobody had picked up. After that, she had briefly entertained the thought of calling Austria, but had dismissed it. It probably wouldn’t do any good to know whether Austria’s body was also inhabited by someone else. It would only make her worry.
Struggling with the map, the nation managed to locate America’s car – an old thing, she hadn’t been expecting that – and got in. Luckily, it wasn’t far to the hotel.
Nervous now, Hungary walked into the old building. Judging by the sounds coming from the foyer, quite a few nations had gathered there. Actually, a lot of nations. She wondered how many of them were affected. What if every single nation in the world had ended up in someone else’s body? She didn’t even dare imagine the imminent chaos if that had happened. She barely dared thinking about the turmoil that seemed to be happening already.
Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner to the lobby. The hotel receptionists seemed to have fled, which, Hungary thought, wasn’t all that unexpected. Almost all the nations that had attended America’s birthday party were scattered around the room. She quickly spotted her own body. Whoever was in it was talking to Seychelles. She bit her lip and paced over to them. The two spotted her and waved.
“You must be Hungary!” the person in her body said, and did she always sound like that? Weird.
“Yeah,” Hungary replied. “How do you know?”
“Well,” Iceland replied, “it’s not been for long. I haven’t had the time. And I didn’t cause this, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” He looked at the ground, then back at Norway. “I can control it. It’s not dangerous. I’m not dangerous.”
“What are you talking about?” Denmark and Turkey shouted, while Norway actually smiled at Iceland before turning around suddenly when a door down the hall opened. Two people stumbled out of their hotel room, squabbling over something or the other, but stopping when they noticed the group on the corner. Denmark grinned when he recognized one of them as his friend Netherlands with very poorly done hair. Austria and Seborga automatically turned towards Norway and Iceland to find out who these people actually were.
Norway’s face lit up almost imperceptibly. “At length, we have found England,” he declared. The person next to Netherlands’s body grinned broadly and slapped the former’s back.
“Well, seems you were right about that, dude. They are blaming you.”
“Yes, America, it would appear so,” England commented petulantly. He closed his eyes and frowned. “That would be Norway and Iceland… Austria in my body, oh, that could have been worse. Turkey, Italian bloke, Australia – oh, that’s just great –, Seychelles, Denmark, Korea and… Liechtenstein.”
The latter still looked mystified. Australia patted her back and turned his angry gaze on England, who stepped back on the other side of the corridor. “England,” Australia started, managing to sound so threatening even with his strangled voice and accent that even Liechtenstein flinched, “you better know of a way to fix this.”
England opened his mouth and closed it again, tightening his lips. “Not right away.” His – or rather Netherlands’s – green eyes flitted over the people in the hallway tensely. “I am very unhappy about this all… I had no idea what would happen to any of you. But I will explain myself later, when everyone is present, or at least more people.” He shuffled his foot on the green flooring. “To the lobby?”
“To the lobby,” Norway confirmed. Australia gave Liechtenstein a nudge, Turkey angrily stomped over to Iceland to demand an explanation and Denmark fell in line next to Norway, who sighed and rolled his eyes at him. Korea, Seychelles and Seborga followed the group a bit further off, keeping an eye on Austria, who groaned about his massive headache while stumbling down the hall.
--
Hungary, in the meantime, had at last succeeded in finding a map and America’s car keys, as well as the super power’s bomber jacket. She had tried to call her own phone, but nobody had picked up. After that, she had briefly entertained the thought of calling Austria, but had dismissed it. It probably wouldn’t do any good to know whether Austria’s body was also inhabited by someone else. It would only make her worry.
Struggling with the map, the nation managed to locate America’s car – an old thing, she hadn’t been expecting that – and got in. Luckily, it wasn’t far to the hotel.
Nervous now, Hungary walked into the old building. Judging by the sounds coming from the foyer, quite a few nations had gathered there. Actually, a lot of nations. She wondered how many of them were affected. What if every single nation in the world had ended up in someone else’s body? She didn’t even dare imagine the imminent chaos if that had happened. She barely dared thinking about the turmoil that seemed to be happening already.
Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner to the lobby. The hotel receptionists seemed to have fled, which, Hungary thought, wasn’t all that unexpected. Almost all the nations that had attended America’s birthday party were scattered around the room. She quickly spotted her own body. Whoever was in it was talking to Seychelles. She bit her lip and paced over to them. The two spotted her and waved.
“You must be Hungary!” the person in her body said, and did she always sound like that? Weird.
“Yeah,” Hungary replied. “How do you know?”
He had never considered this ending before, not when he had been kicked out of the apartment, not when he had found out he had a sickness that would quickly destroy him, not when he had drowned himself in alcohol and woken up with patches in his memory. And not even when the demon-girl showed up. Although she disturbed him, she brought along some measure of solace and peace that comforted him as well because her presence meant that he was already going mad, and insane men were not bothered by the same things that sane men were.
Death was not the coward’s way out. It was his only way out, and he was nothing but brave to endeavour it, because if he couldn’t make the attempt then he’d be forced to live with the repercussions, and he’d already lived the repercussions and he’d suffered. And this, this was his salvation.
Francis was hardly realizing what he was doing when he gripped the railings tight and threw his legs over it. With just the release of his clenched hands, he could plummet straight into the river and be done with it all. He took a deep breath; the colours and the cold and the wind was harassing him even more now, as if they were chanting Do it, do it, do it! And Francis released the breath he was holding.
There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. Through the vivid patches of yellow and searing white, Francis discerned the shape of the demon-girl. So she’d finally caught up to him, he thought with some relief. Hello, he wanted to say.
He thought the girl looked a little oddly like someone he knew. It was a subtle observation, something he’d never noticed before — and especially shouldn’t now considering how he could hardly even see. He squinted his eyes against the biting chill, looking a little harder. Oh, he realized finally, and smiled. Mother is not a pretty sight to look at in her youth.
The demon-child smiled, and pushed him hard. Francis’ hands released their hold, and the water below rushed up to meet him as he fell once again.
Death was not the coward’s way out. It was his only way out, and he was nothing but brave to endeavour it, because if he couldn’t make the attempt then he’d be forced to live with the repercussions, and he’d already lived the repercussions and he’d suffered. And this, this was his salvation.
Francis was hardly realizing what he was doing when he gripped the railings tight and threw his legs over it. With just the release of his clenched hands, he could plummet straight into the river and be done with it all. He took a deep breath; the colours and the cold and the wind was harassing him even more now, as if they were chanting Do it, do it, do it! And Francis released the breath he was holding.
There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. Through the vivid patches of yellow and searing white, Francis discerned the shape of the demon-girl. So she’d finally caught up to him, he thought with some relief. Hello, he wanted to say.
He thought the girl looked a little oddly like someone he knew. It was a subtle observation, something he’d never noticed before — and especially shouldn’t now considering how he could hardly even see. He squinted his eyes against the biting chill, looking a little harder. Oh, he realized finally, and smiled. Mother is not a pretty sight to look at in her youth.
The demon-child smiled, and pushed him hard. Francis’ hands released their hold, and the water below rushed up to meet him as he fell once again.
“Ah, I see. So, is everyone… Someone else?” She looked around the room. Some rather odd groups had formed, with Korea, Spain, Belgium and Ukraine off to the side, Greece explaining something to Turkey and Netherlands, Belarus looking perpetually annoyed with Denmark, Finland arguing with Norway, Liechtenstein and Switzerland sitting by Seborga, Lithuania and France observing everything calmly, and Japan and Romano talking to a very angry-looking Austria and Prussia.
“No, not everyone. Liechtenstein is herself, and, ah…”
“Estonia,” Denmark chimed in. “And Latvia and Romania, but they’ve gone home, as well as New Zealand, Taiwan and India.”
“Right, yeah. And Hong Kong was fine too, last I saw him. I don’t know where he’s run off to, though.”
Hungary nodded and propped America’s glasses up her nose. “Good. So, uh, what’s up with ‘Austria’?” She made air quotations around the name.
Denmark and Belgium shared a glance that didn’t speak of much good. Eventually, the former answered, “You might wanna go ask him that yourself.” He held up a thumb. “Good luck.”
“Good luck?” Hungary mumbled, walking over to the group on the right side of the lobby. ‘Romano’ spotted her first and smiled broadly from where he sat on the edge of a large potted plant. The unusual expression made her frown a little, but then she smiled back. She greeted the person. ‘Japan’ looked up to her as well, while ‘Prussia’ and ‘Austria’ started arguing. The person in Japan’s body sighed.
“It’s no use. They have nothing to argue about and stirr… I mean, still that’s what they do.”
“I wish they would be quieter,” commented a miserable voice from behind the dup. “As if my head does not hurt enough already. England should stop this drinking habit.”
“Anyhow,” ‘Japan’ continued, paying no mind to ‘England’, “you must be Hungary.”
“No, I just had breakfast…” She blinked. “Oh, wait. Yes, I’m Hungary. I thought you said hungry. It’s as if this body is affecting my brain. I am Hungary, just not hungry.” The European nation chuckled.
“Oh, that is just wonderful,” England’s voice commented again. “I thought it could not get worse when Prussia was me.”
Hungary blinked once again and her mouth fell open. She turned to ‘Austria’ and tapped on his shoulder, making him look up from his argument with ‘Prussia’. He raised his eyebrows at her. She frowned. “Prussia?”
“Yep, that’s me… Oh, Hungary, right?! In America’s body? Ooh, awesome.” He turned back to the other man. “Romano, told you she’d recognize me anyway!”
The person in Prussia’s body, who was apparently Romano, rolled his eyes pointedly. “You carry that amazing air of stupidness with you, that’s why.”
“You mean my amazing air of awesomeness, don’t you?”
“If awesome is German for stupid, which I guess it is ‘cause I believe that’s what everything in German means, then, yes, absolutely.”
“Hey!”
Behind Hungary, the person in Japan’s body sighed heavily. She turned around. “It’s rike it’s even worse than usual. Like it’s even worse,” he commented. The Italian next to him nodded. ‘Japan’ looked up at Hungary. “I am Germany, if you hadn’t figured out by now. This is Italy. Austria is stuck with England’s hangover. Speaking of which…” He craned his neck to look at the reception desk. “England said he was going to exprai—explain what’s going on. Now that it seems that everyone is here, he should start that. I’m very curious.”
“So am I,” Veneziano added with a smile. Hungary couldn’t help but smile back and think that Romano should smile more often, as it changed his face completely. Then she sat down next to Germany, running a hand over Austria’s back briefly. He winced when a loud voice demanded silence in the lobby. Hungary looked up.
“No, not everyone. Liechtenstein is herself, and, ah…”
“Estonia,” Denmark chimed in. “And Latvia and Romania, but they’ve gone home, as well as New Zealand, Taiwan and India.”
“Right, yeah. And Hong Kong was fine too, last I saw him. I don’t know where he’s run off to, though.”
Hungary nodded and propped America’s glasses up her nose. “Good. So, uh, what’s up with ‘Austria’?” She made air quotations around the name.
Denmark and Belgium shared a glance that didn’t speak of much good. Eventually, the former answered, “You might wanna go ask him that yourself.” He held up a thumb. “Good luck.”
“Good luck?” Hungary mumbled, walking over to the group on the right side of the lobby. ‘Romano’ spotted her first and smiled broadly from where he sat on the edge of a large potted plant. The unusual expression made her frown a little, but then she smiled back. She greeted the person. ‘Japan’ looked up to her as well, while ‘Prussia’ and ‘Austria’ started arguing. The person in Japan’s body sighed.
“It’s no use. They have nothing to argue about and stirr… I mean, still that’s what they do.”
“I wish they would be quieter,” commented a miserable voice from behind the dup. “As if my head does not hurt enough already. England should stop this drinking habit.”
“Anyhow,” ‘Japan’ continued, paying no mind to ‘England’, “you must be Hungary.”
“No, I just had breakfast…” She blinked. “Oh, wait. Yes, I’m Hungary. I thought you said hungry. It’s as if this body is affecting my brain. I am Hungary, just not hungry.” The European nation chuckled.
“Oh, that is just wonderful,” England’s voice commented again. “I thought it could not get worse when Prussia was me.”
Hungary blinked once again and her mouth fell open. She turned to ‘Austria’ and tapped on his shoulder, making him look up from his argument with ‘Prussia’. He raised his eyebrows at her. She frowned. “Prussia?”
“Yep, that’s me… Oh, Hungary, right?! In America’s body? Ooh, awesome.” He turned back to the other man. “Romano, told you she’d recognize me anyway!”
The person in Prussia’s body, who was apparently Romano, rolled his eyes pointedly. “You carry that amazing air of stupidness with you, that’s why.”
“You mean my amazing air of awesomeness, don’t you?”
“If awesome is German for stupid, which I guess it is ‘cause I believe that’s what everything in German means, then, yes, absolutely.”
“Hey!”
Behind Hungary, the person in Japan’s body sighed heavily. She turned around. “It’s rike it’s even worse than usual. Like it’s even worse,” he commented. The Italian next to him nodded. ‘Japan’ looked up at Hungary. “I am Germany, if you hadn’t figured out by now. This is Italy. Austria is stuck with England’s hangover. Speaking of which…” He craned his neck to look at the reception desk. “England said he was going to exprai—explain what’s going on. Now that it seems that everyone is here, he should start that. I’m very curious.”
“So am I,” Veneziano added with a smile. Hungary couldn’t help but smile back and think that Romano should smile more often, as it changed his face completely. Then she sat down next to Germany, running a hand over Austria’s back briefly. He winced when a loud voice demanded silence in the lobby. Hungary looked up.
The already tall figure of the Netherlands had climbed on a chair and was motioning for the nations to be quiet. After even Prussia and a very happy-looking ‘Russia’ had calmed down, the nation started, “I, England, know when to accept the blame, and I’m very sorry to say that this is presumably my fault, all this faddiness. Yesterday, after a few rounds of drinking, I – once again, but I am not eager to admit that – lost my composure. I may or may not have cast a spell – that, I can’t remember – but what is for sure is that I ended up with something that was not there before, namely, a strange potion.” He looked around the room. “Only the nations that drank of the beer yesterday are affected. I had no idea what this strange potion would do, but it seemed like nothing was happening. That is why I deemed it safe to indulge in more drinking – for which I apologize, Austria.”
A muffled groan was heard from behind the potted plant. England made a face. “Yes. Anyhow, I’ll be looking for a solution, along with Norway and Iceland. And America, because he insists on helping. An emergency message has been sent out to all your bosses, stating that we have a personal crisis to deal with. If any of them calls anyway, please ignore them. Uhm…” He looked down, to where ‘Greece’ and ‘Turkey’ were standing, along with ‘Canada’. The latter clasped his hands together as if he wanted to say something. England’s face lit up. “Yes, that was it. All of you please try to stay in the hotel, or at least close. America has made it so that the employees will be gone for a while. There should be enough things to do. Someone go make nametags or something, and we should all try to put on some decent clothes. Sweden, you must have a serious talk with Sealand, because he’s turned into someone else, meaning he drank beer.” He sighed. “Well, I think that was it. Thank you for listening. Try not to break anything. Or anyone. I’ll be off now.”
And with that, he clambered off the chair. Germany shook his head. “This is simply madness,” he said, tucking Japan’s black hair behind his ear thoughtlessly. Veneziano chuckled at him.
“That looks ridiculous, Germany.” The Italian pulled the lock free again. Austria groaned again, and Prussia and Romano started up another fight in the background. Hungary cocked her head, pushed up ‘her’ glasses and pulled out America’s camera. Now that she was here, she might as well take advantage of it…
Now also known as: "Wait, I never write such long chapters, how the heck did this happen?" And: "Now I have to write a subplot about Iceland's newfound ability to use magic."
Hm, maybe he did have something to do with it.
And also known as: "OP, please tell me whether you're okay with Prumano. Other anons, please tell me as well."
A muffled groan was heard from behind the potted plant. England made a face. “Yes. Anyhow, I’ll be looking for a solution, along with Norway and Iceland. And America, because he insists on helping. An emergency message has been sent out to all your bosses, stating that we have a personal crisis to deal with. If any of them calls anyway, please ignore them. Uhm…” He looked down, to where ‘Greece’ and ‘Turkey’ were standing, along with ‘Canada’. The latter clasped his hands together as if he wanted to say something. England’s face lit up. “Yes, that was it. All of you please try to stay in the hotel, or at least close. America has made it so that the employees will be gone for a while. There should be enough things to do. Someone go make nametags or something, and we should all try to put on some decent clothes. Sweden, you must have a serious talk with Sealand, because he’s turned into someone else, meaning he drank beer.” He sighed. “Well, I think that was it. Thank you for listening. Try not to break anything. Or anyone. I’ll be off now.”
And with that, he clambered off the chair. Germany shook his head. “This is simply madness,” he said, tucking Japan’s black hair behind his ear thoughtlessly. Veneziano chuckled at him.
“That looks ridiculous, Germany.” The Italian pulled the lock free again. Austria groaned again, and Prussia and Romano started up another fight in the background. Hungary cocked her head, pushed up ‘her’ glasses and pulled out America’s camera. Now that she was here, she might as well take advantage of it…
Now also known as: "Wait, I never write such long chapters, how the heck did this happen?" And: "Now I have to write a subplot about Iceland's newfound ability to use magic."
Hm, maybe he did have something to do with it.
And also known as: "OP, please tell me whether you're okay with Prumano. Other anons, please tell me as well."
Forgot to add, but I see what you did there, making the orphanage staff the countries under the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Yes, part of what is now Ukraine was under Austria's rule.
Belarus and America exited the store. America had a bag almost bursting with new games, peripherals and magazines. Belarus just had one lone game in her bag. She was probably going to have to buy herself a Playstation 3 now. She really did not know all that much about video games. At least she could ask Poland about them later.
“America,” Taiwan said as she rushed to the two of them.
“What is wrong, Taiwan?”
“I don’t know what I am going to do. I lost my cellphone. This is so horrible!”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll help you look for it.” America never could resist being the hero. “Belarus can help us look for it too.”
Belarus glared at Taiwan.
“Oh, thank you so much,” Taiwan said.
“Let’s start retracing your steps.”
Taiwan took his hand and began leading him around the mall. They went to places that she had been to and ones that she hadn’t. Whenever they passed a store with cute clothing on the display she would drag him inside.
A cheerful melody rang out from Taiwan’s purse.
“Isn’t that your ringtone?”
“Oh, yes, it is.” Taiwan opened her purse and pulled out her cellphone.
“This is really good. I mean it means it wasn’t really lost lost.”
“Yeah, really good news.” Taiwan’s voice was completely lacking in enthusiasm.
“Well, I have to get going, Taiwan. See you later. Hey, where did Belarus go?”
“I bet she went home to play with her knives.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Later,” America said as he walked away.
Taiwan gripped her cell tightly in one hand as she walked through the mall. She stopped when she saw a familiar pale haired nation sitting on a mall bench next to the exit.
“Belarus,” Taiwan said.
“Taiwan,” Belarus stood up as she spoke, “I see you found your cellphone.”
“I know you are the one that called it. How did you get my phone number?”
“Ukraine had it. She was very happy when I told her I was making a new friend and was very eager to give me the number.”
“I won’t back down.” Taiwan locked eyes with Belarus.
“I am fine with war.”
The romantic cold war had started.
“America,” Taiwan said as she rushed to the two of them.
“What is wrong, Taiwan?”
“I don’t know what I am going to do. I lost my cellphone. This is so horrible!”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll help you look for it.” America never could resist being the hero. “Belarus can help us look for it too.”
Belarus glared at Taiwan.
“Oh, thank you so much,” Taiwan said.
“Let’s start retracing your steps.”
Taiwan took his hand and began leading him around the mall. They went to places that she had been to and ones that she hadn’t. Whenever they passed a store with cute clothing on the display she would drag him inside.
A cheerful melody rang out from Taiwan’s purse.
“Isn’t that your ringtone?”
“Oh, yes, it is.” Taiwan opened her purse and pulled out her cellphone.
“This is really good. I mean it means it wasn’t really lost lost.”
“Yeah, really good news.” Taiwan’s voice was completely lacking in enthusiasm.
“Well, I have to get going, Taiwan. See you later. Hey, where did Belarus go?”
“I bet she went home to play with her knives.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Later,” America said as he walked away.
Taiwan gripped her cell tightly in one hand as she walked through the mall. She stopped when she saw a familiar pale haired nation sitting on a mall bench next to the exit.
“Belarus,” Taiwan said.
“Taiwan,” Belarus stood up as she spoke, “I see you found your cellphone.”
“I know you are the one that called it. How did you get my phone number?”
“Ukraine had it. She was very happy when I told her I was making a new friend and was very eager to give me the number.”
“I won’t back down.” Taiwan locked eyes with Belarus.
“I am fine with war.”
The romantic cold war had started.
;_; authornon please make it all okay...
um um um okay... I see what I can do /maytakeabloodywhile/
Sweet but sad story. I liked it. I liked the pairings you chose as well.
It's nice to see the Mediterranean nations show up in a story now and then. Thank you for writing it A/A.
It's nice to see the Mediterranean nations show up in a story now and then. Thank you for writing it A/A.
I want to do this but how do you feel about smut?
Two years ago, Alfred had allowed himself the idea of falling in love. He realized that maybe it was possible for an enslaved member of society, such as himself, to be wanted by another. At that time, he had been 17, and that looming promise was as exciting as ever. In due time, his best friend would inherit the role of Master in the Kirkland Estate, and
Alfred would no longer be looked down upon in society.
It was cruel to think that the friends he had made while working under the then-Master’s big feet would remain dolls to use and abuse in the house, but Alfred had planned everything out: He would not abandon them forever; he would save them like the hero he was going to be.
And hopefully accompanied by the person he thought was the love of his life, Arthur.
But not this Master Arthur Kirkland II, the man who tightened his grasp around Alfred’s body at night. No, this Arthur could never love him.
Could he love this Arthur?
- -
“Wake up, love,” Arthur’s mocking voice cooed, brushing away a mop of hair that concealed his love’s baby blues. The Master had been aroused to wake up when he felt thin streams of yellow flood the usually dark room.
However, he was not very keen that his pet had still been in slumber. A slave was always ready to serves his superior. His Alfred had somehow throughout the night resorted to balling himself up into a fetal position, knuckles white from gripping onto the thin sheets.
A whimper escaped Alfred’s lips, before his body froze and his eyes widened at the realization of where he was. Never had Alfred ever felt the fear of lashes or beatings when around his best friend.
If that was still the case, why he did feel the urge to back up against the headboard when he noticed Arthur with darkening green pupils and wearing a clean silk robe?
“Don’t be afraid of me, Alfred. It’s just me, Arthur.”
It’s not. It’s not-
A pair of cold lips pressed onto Alfred’s still-swollen ones, and soon they were accompanied by strong, but petite hands, molding with Alfred’s thin legs. The latter struggled, but it was no use in this situation.
(Not OP)
I'm really enjoying this chapter so far, and it is reasonable easy to keep track of who is in whose body. Also, Prumano would be fantastic.
I'm really enjoying this chapter so far, and it is reasonable easy to keep track of who is in whose body. Also, Prumano would be fantastic.
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