EDIT (IMPORTANT) Ok so it's been almost two years since I posted this. Holy shit. Anyway, at the beginning, having not planned out what was going to happen (as you can see below), I hadn't at the time anticipated some of the content I'd include in the story. Over the course of me writing it, I've kind of realised there should be warnings and extra info for new readers, in case anyone is triggered by anything:

x There will be violence. Fairly graphic in some areas. Not very often, but there will be mentions of torture. I tried to reference it vaguely for the most part, so I wouldn't have to boost the rating to an M.

x The 2Ps appear hella evil, and there is a reason for this. Normally, I'd be part of the fandom that likes to believe that the 2Ps aren't necessarily evil versions of the 1Ps, simply a bit different. In any other story I'll likely write in the future, I'll probably support that headcanon all the way. BUT. Their personalities and behaviour have been altered from how I'd usually prefer to perceive them. It all ties in with this very specific plot I have in mind, which is kinda the entire point of the story. Something has happened to them. Something has gone wrong in their world. If you're cool with waiting what is probably gonna be a while for me to reveal why I've done this, then welcome to the story.

x The romance is like. Practically non-existent. For now, anyway. I still haven't gotten around to writing any romantic implications between America and England. Don't get me wrong, I ship the hell of them. They're my OTP of OTPs. But romance isn't an especially important part of the story. It will pop up at some point eventually, but I'm more inclined to simply focus on the bond between them, no matter what form it's in.

x There will be lots of references to PTSD and occasional suicidal thoughts.

x There's more info about all of this on my blog, found here: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song

One more story proves it- I am a fool. I'll never keep on top of all my stories. But it's at times like this that I remember YOLO.

Happy 5th of November to those who celebrate! I most certainly do (hence the publication of this story. Started writing it over a month ago, but decided to save it until today). I can hear fireworks, and I'm not even in the UK right now. But I'm going to the bonfire on Saturday. Couple of days too late but oh well! '^^

Ahem. Anyway. The story.

Not planned out. Well, imagined extensively and I know what the big plot is, but the way we get there is uncharted. Excellent, now I sound like a sailor. Or a pirate. Like England, I prefer the latter. XD

Anywho, I've put USUK in the summary because I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have some good old America/England in this story (and if you've clicked on this then you like or tolerate that pairing, so that's good ^^).

Gonna have 2Ps too. That'll be a fun ride.

One

River Calls

The air is crisp and clear.

The night sky is glowing across the country with the light of dancing flames and full with the sound of laughter. The children watch, eagerly anticipated, as their parents throw the first matches to light the fires, and the constructed figures on the pyres go up in flames.

Deep within the heart of the nation, people stare up in wonder at the sky, though not because of the fireworks. The celebrations are interrupted by exclamations of surprise from the adults and delight from the children. Although it is only early November, it is snowing in London.

The strange phenomenon goes unacknowledged by one figure, tearing through the streets of the city with no signs of slowing down. He throws himself down the steps of Trafalgar Square, soaring past the great statues of the lions and continues on his journey, the momentum enforcing his speed. He ignores the people all around him, pointing and talking about the white flakes descending from the dark, cloudy night sky.

Finally, a street corner that is completely unoccupied. The figure falls against the wall in an expression of exhaustion and takes a few gulps of air, eyes darting around wildly to ensure he is truly alone. He reaches with a shaky hand into the pocket of his coat and pulls out his phone.

The news is thriving, buzzing with the story of the spontaneous weather. It doesn't often snow here, even in the winter, and the general public are in awe. The headlines read: Snowing In London. The figure closes the news stories on his phone and is about to shove it back in his pocket when it vibrates with a new message.

It's not snow.

He stares at his phone for a second, suddenly conscious of the swirling pale flakes surrounding him. Eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed, he takes in the sight of the 'snow' coming to rest gently on the pavements of the lonely darkened street.

A new message pops up from the same unknown number. Want to learn the truth?

The figure throws the phone to the ground and it smashes to pieces, little shards of black plastic and tiny electrical circuits burying themselves in the 'snow'. By the time he has reached the end of the street and has turned the corner, the little broken device is hidden from sight.

He eventually reaches a bridge and looks out towards the London Eye. Between both points is the Thames, the waters swirling directly beneath him. He races along the bridge, heading for the opposite bank, putting as much distance as possible between himself and where he came from.

Once on the opposite side, he forces himself to keep moving, though it takes little effort. Although his body is reaching its limit, the adrenalin keeps him going, and he knows that no matter what, he must keep running. He cannot stop.

He can see the Houses of Parliament on the side of the river he came from, casting a glowing reflection across the ripples of the water. With the addition of the falling 'snow', the light seems almost ethereal. Is it meant to be glowing this much? His green eyes widen even further in shock as he hears a massive explosion erupting from the opposite side of the river and the windows of the buildings are shattered in an instant, flames bursting forth from each one with furious power. The Houses of Parliament seem to quiver for a second, almost as if in shock, before crumbling to pieces. Through waves of smoke and debris, the clock tower of Big Ben teeters over before collapsing on top of the rest of the wreckage.

He takes a step back, letting out a cry of shock. In the blink of an eye, everything has been restored. The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben stand silent and intact, the lights dim and normal. It was just a hallucination. The bright lights and loud noises are just the fireworks. The only flames are from the bonfires.

But it felt so real.

Shaking, he notices that a new glow is appearing, though this one is much lighter and is coming from the Thames itself, from the waters directly in front of him. He leans up against the railings and looks down into the river. The water is shining, forming a circular shape in the darkened waters.

He glances around quickly, looking to see if any of the people in the surrounding area are marveling at the strange light in the Thames. But no one seems to notice it- they're all walking around, taking pictures on their phones of the 'snow' or just getting on with their usual business. Anyone who does happen to glance at the river doesn't seem to notice it's there; so, it's probably another hallucination, an illusion only he can see.

He leans closer, eyes narrowing in confusion, and in that instant he feels the pull of the anomaly dragging him forwards and he lets out one last shout before his body collides with the surface of the water and he tumbles down into its icy depths.

The water has dimmed now and the light has faded. He is swallowed by the darkness and it's as if some invisible force is pulling him down- at least, it might be visible, but he can no longer see anything. The freezing water is pressing against his skin in some kind of icy burn and his body tenses up, almost as if it doesn't even want to resist the thing that's dragging him down. He struggles weakly, glancing upwards in a desperate attempt to reach the surface of the water.

He can see light- the light of the night sky, colourful and frequent in bursts here and there. It must be the fireworks. He can faintly see them, though they're growing more and more distant by the second as he sinks further into the Thames.

His chest is aching terribly now, though not from the cold. He shudders and when when he can no longer resist the urge, he takes an involuntary breath. Water floods his mouth and what's left of his visions swims alarmingly. He can feel the forces pressing him from every angle and he can do nothing to escape it.

As his awareness fails, he is swallowed by the darkness.

When he opens his eyes, he notices that he is underwater.

In a flurry of panic, he kicks downwards with all his force and the surface falls down to meet him. In an instant, he has broken free from his icy cold prison.

He catches sight of a cloudy black sky, glittered with scattered snowflakes, just as it was when he went under beforehand. He glances over hastily to look for an exit and finds a low hanging edge on the river bank around twenty feet away. He sets out towards it and uses the railing to haul himself out of the water. Once he has successfully escaped, he falls against the concrete ground and begins coughing up the water in inhaled when he was struggling for breath beforehand.

Once he has ensured that he can breathe normally again, he pushes himself to his feet, ignoring his exhausted body as it groans in protest. His mind is a flurry of panic- he has to keep running, has to-

'You alright, mate? Did you fall in?'

'Wh- what?'

There's a man standing nearby, surrounded by a few other people. They look fairly young, probably in their mid twenties, all watching him curiously. He swallows nervously.

'You're soaking wet. Should we call someone?' a woman says worriedly.

'I'm... I'm fine, I just- I have to go-'

'What's your name? Do you have someone to pick you up?'

'I- Arthur. Arthur Kirkland,' he replies, noticing a stutter in his own voice. Well, of course. He just climbed out a freezing cold river. 'And no, I'm fine, I just have to...'

Keep running. Don't stop running. Run, run, run.

'It's as good a night as any to get pissed, right?' one man says with a dopey grin. He is clearly quite wasted himself, and he and the others obviously believe that this soaking wet man they've just encountered is so drunk that he actually fell in the river.

'Y-yes, I suppose it is...' He is already taking his first shaky steps away from these people. He needs to keep running, needs to-

After about forty steps, he can't run anymore. He slows to a hesitant walk before he reaches a telephone booth. The glass is cracked and it's clear that the thing is hardly used. He knows he needs to run, but he physically can't. He needs to find another way to get out of here. But as he searches in his pockets, he can't find any money. All he needs is a twenty pence coin and he can have his call, but all he finds in his pocket is some knife or other-

Hang on. A knife?

He pulls the instrument out and stares at it in shock, suddenly feeling the overwhelming, unexplainable urge to clutch onto it and never let go. The hilt is wooden and painted emerald green, and it fits perfectly in his palm when he clenches his fist around it. The blade is about six inches long and seems to glow in silvery light, though that could just be from one of the overhead street lamps. The tip of the blade looks extremely sharp. How did it come to be in his possession?

Well, however he came by it, it most certainly belongs to him, and he's not parting with it.

He jabs forward with it, attacking the lock to the box that holds the change people have placed in here to make phone calls in the past. He doesn't even have to twist the dagger- the blade seems to melt through the metal like it's butter. The coins come tumbling out: an abundance of twenty pence pieces, far more than he'll need. He picks one up and quickly shoves it in the coin slot.

He can't really explain why he's phoning this person. In his panicked state, a primal sense has awoken within him, one that requires comfort and safety, and his mind flashes back to one particular person who could sometimes protect him when he ran scared as a child.

'Hello?' a voice says finally, sounding tired.

'Wales,' he chokes. 'Wales, I need help.'

There's silence for a few seconds, then the voice says, 'Who is this?'

He looks around nervously, every instinct in his body telling him to run, but he knows he needs to stay on the line. 'It's me, England.'

The silence is deafening now. Surely it's lasted too long?

'W-Wales? Are you there?'

A few seconds later, he finally gets his reply. 'England? It's you?'

'Yes, it's me,' England replies with an air of frustration. Honestly, is Wales drunk or something? 'Where are you? Are you in Cardiff? How soon can you get to London?'

'… England?'

'Yes, we've already established that.' Of all the nights for his elder brother to be particularly unresponsive and therefore unhelpful, why does it have to be tonight? He needs to get out of here.

'It's... it's really you?' There's a definite hollow sound in Wales's voice now.

England resists the urge to slap his forehead. 'Please, Wales. I need you to get me out of here now.'

'W... Where have you been?'

'I...' England shivers, ever conscious of his drenched clothes. He's not exactly getting any warmer, and it's still snowing outside. But is it really snow? 'I've been in London today. I... it's hard to explain, but I kind of fell in the Thames. I'm, uh, really cold and rather wet, and I really need to get out of the city as quickly as possible, but I have no cash on me and no means of transportation, and to top it off I'm right in the centre of London...' He's rambling now, and he's really hoping Wales is following.

'I'm not feeling too good,' he confesses with another shiver. 'And I honestly can't stress enough how much I need to get out of here. I'm in a phone booth, not far from the Eye. Can you please come and-'

'England.'

'Y-yes?'

'E... England, you're really here, aren't you?'

'Wales, please, I don't have time for this,' England begs. 'I need you to sober up really fast and come and get me, or so help me, I'm calling Scotland instead.'

'You're... alive...'

'Well, uh, yes. I mean, I almost drowned, and if I don't g-get warm soon then there probably is a slight possibility of me catching hypothermia, but...' He's speaking very fast and feels particularly light headed now. He wishes Wales would hurry up and find him.

Without any control, the phones slips through his fingers. He doesn't really feel as if he's actually there. To be honest, it all feels like a dream now. The world is tilting at a funny angle and it's going dark.

He's unconscious before he hits the ground, and although he is no longer awake, the knife stays firmly gripped in his hand.

There are images flashing in his mind. They're bright and hard to understand, but England can make out figures and muffled voices. He's enlightened with a sense of truth- time has passed, too much time. He's spent a while somewhere else, but as the dream fades, so does his knowledge of where that might be.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the window. It's daytime now, and the sky is pale and cloudy. The snow is gone. But it wasn't snow, was it? England knows that it wasn't snow. Something tells him that deep down he knows what it really was, but he can't remember.

And that's the creepy part. He honestly can't remember. He knows a considerable amount of time has passed. He wasn't aware at first when he climbed out of the river, but he is now. The time spent unconscious has helped him understand.

He fell in the river a long time ago, then a large amount of time has passed (he thinks, anyway), and then he climbed out of the river. But what does that mean? Has he spent an eternity in the Thames or something? And how is it that he's even aware that time has passed? He honestly didn't realise anything was different when he climbed out the river, but since he lost consciousness in the phone booth, some form of memory has returned to him.

He doesn't know how long it's been and he has no idea where he was during that time in between blacking out in the water and coming to later on. Surely he can't have been in the river the whole time? But he woke up in it, woke up exactly where he blacked out in the first place...

He looks around the room he's in and quickly figures out that he's in a hospital. He appears to have quite a number of blankets on him and doesn't seem to be sharing the room with any other patients. In fact, the only other person in here is a nurse, who looks surprised when England tries to sit up.

'Don't strain yourself, Mr Kirkland,' she advises. 'I'll go get the doctor straight away, and your brothers will be relieved to know that you've woken up.'

Brothers? England resists the urge to sigh. Damn Wales. He must have found England in the phone booth, brought him to hospital and called Scotland up. Oh God, what if Ireland's here too? Oh, this is going to be a nightmare...

'Excuse me... what is the date?' he has to ask.

She smiles. 'You've been unconscious for around thirty hours, sir. It's the seventh of November.'

Not very helpful. He really needs to know what year it is, because something inside him honestly tells him that he's been gone for a long time.

The minute the nurse has left the room, England practically throws himself out of bed. His panicked instincts have awoken as he suddenly recalls that he needs to run. But he doesn't move. His head is throbbing painfully and his legs feel particularly weak and his chest hurts. Besides, he wants to know where that knife he had before is. A part of him knows that he needs it.

When Scotland and Wales walk in, they find England rummaging around in the drawer under the bedside table, muttering under his breath. Scotland clears his throat noisily to announce their presence.

England's head shoots up and his eyes dart over to his brothers with a slightly feral look in his eyes. His fist clenches around the air as if he's holding an invisible weapon.

'Where's my knife?' he demands.

Wales simply stares at him in shock, but Scotland is a little too miffed about this to remain calm. 'Five damn years and that's all yeh have to say?'

Oh, England thinks, finally glad to know how long it's been. Five years. It must be 2015. For some reason, this doesn't alarm him.

Scotland walks over slowly, eyebrows furrowed in irritation. 'Where the hell have yeh been, England?'

'That,' England replies, 'is a good question. But I believe I asked first. Where's my knife?'

'Yeh disappeared for five years, England,' Scotland says, barely managing to keep his voice calm. 'No contact from yeh whatsoever.'

'Yeah, I broke my phone. Long story. Where's my-'

'Never mind the damn knife!' Scotland explodes, closing the gap between himself and his little brother. He grabs England's arms and begins to shake the smaller nation. 'We thought you were bloody dead!'

'Scotland!' Wales cries out, racing over to try and separate his siblings. 'Please, he's recovering! He can answer our questions later!'

'I- I can't,' England says, pulling himself out of Scotland's grip. 'I need my knife and I need to leave-'

'What the hell are yeh talking about? Yeh show up after five years and- and-' Suddenly, Scotland doesn't seem angry anymore. His voice falters and now he just looks lost.

England's having problems of his own. He legs have lost all feeling and no longer seem to be able to support him. On top of that, he feels very cold again and his vision is failing. He stumbles backwards towards his bed but doesn't quite make it. His legs give way and he crumbles downwards. Wales and Scotland aren't quick enough but someone else quickly swoops in without the others noticing, catching England right before he hits the ground.

'Get back into bed, yeh damn idiot,' says Ireland gruffly, pulling his little brother up and practically dumping him back on the hospital bed. 'The doctor will be along in a minute and he'll put yeh out if yeh start struggling.'

'I-Irleand?' England says uncertainly. His head is swimming.

'That's right. Now lie down already.'

'Five years?'

'We'll get to that later,' Wales says in a soothing tone, trying to help settle England down. Of the three elder brothers, Wales was always the nicest. 'Just rest, brawd bach.'

'I... I don't know where... the river...'

'Settle down,' Scotland instructs.

And England does as he's told, even though every part of him is screaming to run.

Hope you enjoyed reading, and please review! Thanks!

Bye!