"Be Kind, Rewind" | Hetalia
Another general-fiction Hetalia story that tells the tale of when England magicked up some younger versions of the countries so that they can relive their pasts.
It was England's fault.
The countries had come to this general consensus very early after the... incident transpired.
America had pointed out that, even among the "magic trio" it was always England whose spells went awry, often with problematic and even dangerous results.
The current situation was, thankfully, only one of the former.
Still, problematic was putting it mildly...
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"Tell me," England implored, his eyes fixed on the hazy blue skyline in the distance, "when your past merges with your present, how are you supposed to explain to yourself that you're a loser?"
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"Whoa. Ha, ha. This is some weird shit man." America scratched sheepishly at his cheek. He didn't have the faintest idea what was going on but he couldn't deny it was interesting, if nothing else. "What's up, mini bro?"
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"Ve~! You're-a so cute~!" The bubbly Italian clasped his hands together in delight, bent down to eye-level. "Was I-a really this adorable?"
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Yes, problematic may be stretching it. England would describe it as... unsettling; America dubbed it freaky. And still that only scratches the surface.
It's best - as decided by a majority rule at the last world meeting - to tell this story from the beginning, as it's one the nations don't wish to forget, though it's unlikely they would. And also because it serves as a reminder that England should put away his cauldron and hang up his cloak, if only for the world's sanity.
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England (1)
His room stank of sulfur.
It was saturated with the vile scent, laced with a dozen other less notable odors that still made his nose twitch in distaste, still coated the roof of his mouth in a sickly vapor. A lesser man would have choked by now, succumbed to his want for fresh, breathable air; Arthur Kirkland, otherwise known as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, was no such man.
The brew was nearly complete. Just another sprinkling of some indefinable root, a dash of an incandescent liquid he'd kept exiled on a forgotten shelf. He uncorked a vial, recoiled as something fizzled and something else bubbled, and spilled its writhing contents into the cauldron at his feet.
Ah. That did it.
His concoction simmered, sloshing inconsistently against the sides of its container. Slowly, its toxic coloring bled into a more mundane rose - the identical flush across the Englishman's cheeks was either cause by the phosphorescent brew or his own euphoria. He couldn't be sure. It didn't matter, in any case. Drunk off his insurmountable excitement, nothing particularly mattered besides his success.
"Now, only the incantation remains..." He spoke softly to himself, befitting of the drama he'd staged with this latest endeavor. "We'll see what that Frog has to say after this. I'm sure the look on his face will be absolutely priceless! I'll have to remember to bring a camera along with me... Oh bollocks." His incredulously upturned brows were directed at the vacant pedestal he'd turned to; his grimoire was missing.
"I must have left it in the bedroom." The Brit shook his head derisively, though it was rendered rather playful with the mirthful smile twitching at his giddy lips. "That'll teach me to read warlock lore before bed, I suppose." With a helpless shrug, he turned away from his work and hurried from the basement to retrieve his spell book.
Unbeknownst to Arthur, however, his departure had not been without its consequences.
In his eager haste, he'd failed to notice his foot snagging on a protruding table leg. To be fair, it hadn't caused any sizable commotion; only a faint tinkling resulted from the inadvertent jostling as a glass jar toppled onto its side. The prismatic flower head that drifted into the brew made not one sound.
When Arthur returned, spell book in hand, manic smile unfettered, he saw no difference in his concoction from when he'd left. So what it appeared a shade darker than before? A trick of the light, perhaps. And if the air had been tinged with the luscious smell of wildflowers? It was his fatigued mind having a bit of fun with his nose. He could - and would - explain away all discrepancies. He would not stand for all the work he'd done these last three months to be tainted with the bitter imprint of failure.
This spell would work, and he would witness that incomprehensible look of dismay on that Frenchman's face.
The incantation was relatively simple, interspersed with bits of Latin and a few random words that vaguely sounded like they belonged in a Harry Potter novel.
"...veta-vita visio aparecium!"
Arthur spread his arms expansively, the leath-bound grimoire's fluttering with the movement, his head thrown back in anticipation.
...Nothing happened.
There was no explosion of light (or any other substance, for that matter). No hiss of sparks, no clap of distant thunder nor zigzag of lightning. No life-altering experience.
Bollocks.
His smile had successfully been wrangled into a scowl of the utmost displeasure. He hunched over his cauldron, his hands braced against the lip. His brows furrowed into a craggy V, his forehead etched with signs of his distressed thoughts.
What could have gone wrong? Had he mispronounced something, added too much of an ingredient? Too little? No. No, that was preposterous. He'd followed that bloody recipe to a T. There'd been no room for error.
A dry laugh slipped past his lips as he brushed his uncooperative bangs from his eyes. Of course. It was obvious. When had any of his spells ever gone right, done what they were supposed to? He was a failure; why should this time be any different?
He could try again, he knew, but what was the point when the outcome was so bleak? Three months of fervent effort had brought him here; another three would only produce the same result, he was sure.
With a heavy heart, he abandoned his still-bubbling brew and started for the stairs. A cup of tea would be nice, he mentally sighed, something to soothe the nerves. Perhaps I just need a break. Something unpleasantly familiar tickled at his nose. And a shower. Bloody hell do I need a shower...
The tea could wait.
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In the confines of his spacious bathroom, amongst the din of water cascading against antique porcelain, Arthur shrugged out of his teal cardigan, dropping it unceremoniously into the hamper tucked away in the small alcove where his sundries were kept. He peeled off his socks, shimmied his pants down his legs and stepped out of them. He bundled all this together with his button-down shirt and it all joined his sweater in the hamper.
He chanced a look in the mirror; such a sullen expression he wore. There were new lines creasing his forehead, a dullness to his emerald eyes. But altogether, he was unchanged. He bore this face more often than not if memory serves. Bloody perfect.
Turning from the mirror, he pulled open the shower curtain, his downcast eyes studying the flower-patterned shower mat Alfred had insisted on getting him for fear that the "old" nation would slip and break a hip while washing off.
Only, it wasn't just the shower mat he laid eyes on.
A small child huddled beneath the lukewarm spray, knees drawn to its chest, face buried in its forearms. But upon hearing Arthur draw back the curtain, the child - a young boy - raised its head and glared up at him with a broken green gaze.
The very same he'd just seen in the mirror.
"Oh bollocks..."
America (2)
This was not quite how he'd been expecting his day to go.
"Whoa. Ha, ha. This is some weird shit, man." America scratched sheepishly at his cheek. He didn't have the faintest idea what was going on but he couldn't deny it was interesting, if nothing else. "What's up, mini bro?"
The child's grin could have warmed even Arthur's fragile heart - and it had, on ocassion, done just that. "Nothing much," he replied, swinging his legs, his feet - which dangled just above the fresh produce - narrowly avoiding bruising the apples.
Alfred had discovered his child self while going to grab a midnight snack. He was perched on the middle shelf of his refrigerator, appearing content as he nibbled at a riceball left over from Japan's latest visit.
He'd shut the door, gone back to his room, convinced it was a dream, only to come down a few minutes later and reopen the fridge. His imagination was notoriously outlandish, but even his chaotic mind could not have spawned such an oddity. Right?
Japan's probably could...
"Uh, dude, you maybe wanna get out of there...?" Alfred offered. He was being uncharacteristically awkward. Testing the waters, as it were, as he was unsure of the proper reaction.
The child nodded and Alfred lifted him under the arms, propping him up on his hip as he closed the fridge. He had no need of it any longer; his nightly appetite was curbed.
Well. He could always come back for that half-eaten burger...
"Who are you, anyway?" the young boy asked as Alfred was debating whether or not to simply bring him to bed for the night (surely this was a problem that could wait until morning? Or noon?). "You look a lot like me... but bigger!"
"Haa, yeah, I guess I would." He rubbed consciously at the back of his neck, looking from the boy's inquisitive baby blues to the ceiling. Bland, uninviting. Lacking in all forms of patriotism, per Arthur's (as well as Mattie's) suggestion. How he wished it contained the answers he sought, especially in his sleep-deprived state where he feared lucid dreams that blanketed his reality and drew him into a dreamscape not wholly of his own design.
Now could be one such time. Dreams were like that. So hauntingly vivid and real you only noticed their absurdness upon waking. He'd been awoken enough times with the thought that the world was completely under his rule, only to smile, blink, remember, frown.
"I mean... Oh screw it." Dramatically rolling his eyes and throwing caution to the proverbial wind, he gathered the child against his chest, his free hand ruffling up the boy's wispy locks. "Dude, my name is Alfred F. Jones. America. I'm you in the future!"
Young Alfred's eyes grew wide; his mouth formed a perfectly round O. Then his arms were thrown outwards, his excitement palpable in the static-charged summer air. "I'm so cool-looking!" he exclaimed.
"You're the hero, dude!" America cheered. "Of course you look cool!"
Aimless chatter.
It gushed from both Americans' mouths, unrelenting, unending. There were no pressing questions asked, important matters addressed. A friendly chat between past and present, asking for updates and sharing jokes only their minds would comprehend.
If it had gone on like this, things might have been better. Alfred certainly wouldn't have gotten a migraine that lasted several days and unquiet nights.
But no. Something had piqued the young nation's interest.
He looked around the room, taking in what details the minimal light provided. As he'd thought. This house - this room in particular - seemed so different from his own, without a whisper of English influence. His brows came together sharply in bewliderment.
He tapped Alfred's shoulder, interrupting the rant he'd begun on the absence of hamburgers in his childhood. "Um, Al--" He blinked, closed his mouth, tried again. "Me. Where's Iggy?"
"Uhh..." Alfred's features contorted into a look of fierce concentration. "England, I guess. Dunno where else he'd be. Not like we have a World Meeting coming up or anything..." Note to self: Make sure we don't have any meetings coming up.
"Oh. When's he coming back?"
"Back...? Whaddya mean, back?"
"Home, stupid!" young Alfred grinned. He clung eagerly to his counterpart's t-shirt, twining his stubby fingers into the fabric. "When's Iggy coming home? He doesn't usually leave for business for more than a week, so it can't be that long, right?"
Oh. Oh. Of course. This was well before the thought of independence had even crossed Alfred's mind, when he had relished any and all time spent with Arthur. When his older brother had been his everything.
"Well, see" - he couldn't quite meet the child's wondering eyes - "he... doesn't really come around here all that much. Back in 1776 we sorta... declared our independence. And we broke away from England... Haha, funny story, right bro?"
The child's face had gone slack; you could see the gears whirring inside his naive mind, processing, analyzing, understanding.
"...We what?"
Italy (3)
"Ve~! You're-a so cute~!" The bubbly Italian clasped his hands together in delight, bent down to eye-level. "Was I-a really this adorable?"
His younger self was nearly as cheerful, seeming none-the-worse for his trip through time as he gazed curiously up at Feliciano. "Si~" the tiny Italian affirmed, "Miss Hungary is always-a saying that, too!"
Feli nodded - he remembered the cheek-pinching that accompanied those words well. "So, little me, what-a are you doing here?"
Russia (4)
Warmth.
That was what woke the Russian man from his sleep.
The extra heat settled against his chest, seeped into his icy limbs.
Germany (5)
I almost vish it vas Rome again...
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