You'll Never Walk Alone (1)
anonymous
October 11 2011, 19:19:21 UTC
Prompt: America is staying over with England and starts to feel nauseous while they're hanging out. He keeps this quiet, though, for whatever reason. Later, he ends up needing to run to the washroom to puke. England finds him there (or follows him)and sits with him while he's sick.
The first wave of nausea hit him like a lapping tide. He had a sharp intake of breath as his stomach broiled beneath his skin and his head twinged, but other than that he felt fine. He had to pause for a moment and England stopped beside him, mid-step, glancing at him from the corner of his eyes.
“You alright?” England asked tentatively. America closed his eyes and nodded, resuming their walk at a slower pace.
“We’ll be at your house soon?” America inquired. His stomach was doing a strange acrobatic flip-flop with every new step. England looked away and pulled his jacket tighter.
“Almost there.”
The second wave of nausea slammed into him just as he was about to take a bite of food, nearly three hours later. Granted, it wasn’t food that England had cooked, so the feeling wasn’t culinary-related. America stopped the slow-moving fork to his mouth and instead placed it down on the counter, bowing his head and biting his lower lip. England lowered his fork and watched as America gripped his own utensil with such ferocity that England had to reach out and gentle wedge the fork from his grasp.
“You’re going to break it,” England scolded, but there was no bite to his words. His lips were pressed into a thin line but his brow was furrowed in worry as America continued to look down, his shoulders heaving with breath. After a few tense moments, America looked up, paler but smiling. England just watched him, saying nothing as America resumed eating, although he could see the slight frown the younger nation gave his food before swallowing it. England watched for a few more moments before beginning to eat his own meal, although he took the time to glance up at America when he was sure the other wasn’t looking to make sure he was feeling alright.
Throughout the dinner, America ignored the trembling in his legs and the throbbing in his head. Nothing to get worked up over, and if he made any mention, England would go all finicky over him anyway...
But then-the final wave-the tidal wave, the big one-hit him like a bullet straight to his head. He was just sitting in the living room with England, chit chatting about this and that and everything except the topics of their week-long World Summit in the United Kingdom. America had been mid-sentence before he stopped, staring at and through England.
“I-” he started. England blinked and attempted to reach out, but as soon as he moved, America struck his arm out, stood, and stumbled down the hallway.
“America?” England called out. He glanced at the glass on the table, wondering if maybe it was the wine-he picked it up and swirled it around, sniffed it, and then frowned at it. It didn’t seem to have anything wrong with it... and it wasn’t even French wine, it was Italian wine, so France couldn’t have been involved in tampering it...
England’s thoughts were interrupted by a horrible, retched sound curling down the hallway. His heard doubled in pace and he felt frozen as he heard America cough, spit, and wretch into his toilet.
“America?” England called, alarmed. He slid to the floor and crossed the darkened kitchen, the grandfather clock, the piles of papers and folders that he had to sift through by the end of the week. He stood at the end of the hallway, fingers placed over the light switch, narrowing his eyes and listening. “America?” His ears were met with a cough and a dry sob.
“Alfred?” A sputter, a gasp. Another sob, and then-a thwump. England’s jaw dropped and he stood, frozen, at the end of the hallway, unable to move-
“Alfred!” he cried, and he broke free of his spell and ran down the hallway to the bathroom, where he found the other blonde sitting on the floor, slumped over the edge of the bathtub. “Oh, my Lord, Alfred,” England said as he stood in the doorway, temporarily dumbfounded. Seeing the other nation so weak and embattled, like a soldier who’d been fighting a very long war, just broke his heart.
You'll Never Walk Alone (2)
anonymous
October 11 2011, 19:20:03 UTC
As fast as his wits would allow him, England grabbed a wash cloth and dampened it, falling to his knees and using it to wash America’s face. His eyes were scrunched closed, his lips were bright red and his skin resembled parchment in complexion. England flushed the toilet and pulled the limp America into his arms, resting the boy’s head on his shoulder and pressing the wet cloth to his forehead.
“What have you done to yourself?” England murmured as he coddled America. He heard a grunt, and America sat up, wobbling slightly, and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. He was breathing hard, nearly panting, licking his lips and staring at the toilet seat as if it were a painting. England sat beside him and just watched him, trying to decide if America liked the fact that England had been holding him.
“Y-you should go,” America muttered, his hand still on his forehead. “I’m-I’m gonna puke again.”
“All the reason for me to stay,” England said, and he reached out and, as slowly as he could, placed his hand on America’s upper back. The blonde’s shoulders stiffened but then he relaxed as England began rubbing small circles into his shoulder blades. The island nation watched as America momentarily glanced upwards, and then allowed his eyes to slide closed as his breathing returned to a normal rate.
“I’m not leaving,” England said in a softer voice. “You’re sick. You almost collapsed.”
“I didn’t-” America started, but as soon as he started talking his eyes shot open, he made a choking sound, pushed himself up over the rim and lowered his head, releasing another wave. England sighed and just rubbed America’s back, standing up to get a glass of water. When he returned America was leaning against the wall, eyes staring up at him as he re-entered. England sat cross-legged beside him and handed the glass over.
“You’re going to get dehydrated,” England noted. He placed a hand on America’s forehead; it burned with fever. England’s frown deepened as he watched America gulp greedily from the cup.
“Thanks,” America said, placing the cup on the edge of the tub. “It gets rid of some of the disgusting taste.” He was attempting to sound tough and nonchalant, but England could hear the waver in the back of his words. He was afraid.
“Why didn’t you mention you were feeling ill?” England asked as he took the cloth and wiped America’s face. America weakly swatted at England’s wrist in protest but dropped his hand as England didn’t move away. “Now that I look at you under these blasted lights-you’re pale as death, lad.” America snickered and closed his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said lamely in response to England’s question. “This is a mandatory Summit. ‘Sides, I’m sick all the time now.”
“Not like... like this,” England said. He moved closer to the other nation. “Not even Greece was this sick within the past few years, Alfred.”
“Greece is older than me,” America said. “So ‘course he wouldn’t get as sick as me when his economy goes.”
“I don’t think that’s the only issue,” England said. He reached out, placed his hands on America’s shoulders, and drew him into his embrace once more, laying America’s head just south of his chin, over his heart. America gave a pathetic attempt at protest and then gave up, instead practically curling up in England’s lap like a child and wrapping his arms around England’s waist.
“You’re real warm,” America murmured into England’s cotton nightshirt. England put the back of his hand on America’s forehead, and sighed at how hot it was. America shouldn’t need warmth with the temperatures he was reaching.
You'll Never Walk Alone (3)
anonymous
October 11 2011, 19:23:45 UTC
“Let me know if you feel the need to rush to the toilet again,” England said as he tightened his grip on America’s shoulders.
“...will,” was all America managed.
“Have you been sleeping regularly? Eating well?”
“Mrrehh.”
“Don’t grunt at me, answer the question.” America shifted uncomfortably and didn’t answer. England sighed and simply laid chin on the top of America’s head, wondering how long America had been feeling so sickly.
America remained deathly still in England’s arms, only moving once more to empty the remains of his stomach. England attempted to get more information from him but he knew it was futile, especially since England could feel America’s eyelashes fluttering against his collarbone as he drifted someplace between waking and sleep.
With great difficulty, England was able to lift America onto his back and carry him out of the bathroom past the guest room to the master bedroom, which was adorned with a king-sized bed. England gently eased America onto one side of the bed, where America lazily opened his eyes and glanced around the dimly-lit room.
“Where’m I?” he murmured as he attempted to sit up and failed; all his energy had been sapped. England sat on the bed beside him and shushed him, wedging another pillow underneath America’s head and pulling the duvet up to his chest.
“You’re alright,” England said, and he gave America’s cheek a gentle touch with the back of his hand. America stared straight at him, as if seeing him and not seeing him at the same time. His lids were at half-mast and his eyes seemed cloudy and distant.
“I’ll retrieve your glasses in the morning for you,” England said as he slid underneath the duvet to join his bedmate. “The worst has past. Trust me, I wouldn’t let you sleep here if not.” America nodded dumbly before allowing his eyes to slide closed with a terse breath.
For the first time in nearly an hour, England felt the tension melting from his bones, and his heart was finally slowing down from its heightened pace. Despite this, he was still somewhat uneasy, for he now had a sleeping, sickly, delirious America in his bed, curled up beside him. America opened his eyes and closed them a few more times, but England knew he wasn’t fully conscious anymore; it was more of a physical reaction.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” England murmured, and he slid his fingers in between America’s still ones, giving him a gentle squeeze. “I promise.” And after another ten minutes, England finally drifted off to sleep.
Tbh, not sure if they're in a relationship or not in this; I feel like it's more of an awkward friendshippy/sexual tension... thing. In any case, have some hurt/comfort!
Re: You'll Never Walk Alone (3)
anonymous
October 11 2011, 20:01:06 UTC
Hnnng, my heart. Author Anon you did wonderfully! God, there's nothing like some good fluffy America and England scenes to make someone's day. Thanks so much for the fill. Hopefully America will feel decent-ish soon. I'm sure everybody here knows how horrible that sensation is.
Re: You'll Never Walk Alone (3)
anonymous
October 11 2011, 21:56:57 UTC
ARG! My heart Anon, this is just so......s-so.....AMAZING! >o< It makes my heart break and glues it back together at the same time! I love how you wrote it and I adore your little fic! Awesome job my love!
Re: You'll Never Walk Alone (3)
anonymous
October 11 2011, 23:00:23 UTC
I like how you can see this fic in either friendship, parental or lovers sort of way. This warmed me from inside and it was a lovely fic, thank you for sharing!
OP has come to offer his praises!
anonymous
October 13 2011, 21:59:59 UTC
A!A. . . .I dont even know what to say. . . . ! This is exactly what I was looking for. It's so sweet and heart wrenching! Poor Alfred! And let's not forget Arthur! I loved how worried and sweet he was in this. The emotion was just beautiful. Thank you so much!
I was going to say something else but I just totally spaced. Ohh we--OHH, RIGHT! I love that awkward 'I love you but I cant tell you so I'll just hide my feelings and/or pretend they dont exist' stage, especially with these two. It certainly fits this prompt, so I'm glad you didnt have them in an established relationship. ♥
The first wave of nausea hit him like a lapping tide. He had a sharp intake of breath as his stomach broiled beneath his skin and his head twinged, but other than that he felt fine. He had to pause for a moment and England stopped beside him, mid-step, glancing at him from the corner of his eyes.
“You alright?” England asked tentatively. America closed his eyes and nodded, resuming their walk at a slower pace.
“We’ll be at your house soon?” America inquired. His stomach was doing a strange acrobatic flip-flop with every new step. England looked away and pulled his jacket tighter.
“Almost there.”
The second wave of nausea slammed into him just as he was about to take a bite of food, nearly three hours later. Granted, it wasn’t food that England had cooked, so the feeling wasn’t culinary-related. America stopped the slow-moving fork to his mouth and instead placed it down on the counter, bowing his head and biting his lower lip. England lowered his fork and watched as America gripped his own utensil with such ferocity that England had to reach out and gentle wedge the fork from his grasp.
“You’re going to break it,” England scolded, but there was no bite to his words. His lips were pressed into a thin line but his brow was furrowed in worry as America continued to look down, his shoulders heaving with breath. After a few tense moments, America looked up, paler but smiling. England just watched him, saying nothing as America resumed eating, although he could see the slight frown the younger nation gave his food before swallowing it. England watched for a few more moments before beginning to eat his own meal, although he took the time to glance up at America when he was sure the other wasn’t looking to make sure he was feeling alright.
Throughout the dinner, America ignored the trembling in his legs and the throbbing in his head. Nothing to get worked up over, and if he made any mention, England would go all finicky over him anyway...
But then-the final wave-the tidal wave, the big one-hit him like a bullet straight to his head. He was just sitting in the living room with England, chit chatting about this and that and everything except the topics of their week-long World Summit in the United Kingdom. America had been mid-sentence before he stopped, staring at and through England.
“I-” he started. England blinked and attempted to reach out, but as soon as he moved, America struck his arm out, stood, and stumbled down the hallway.
“America?” England called out. He glanced at the glass on the table, wondering if maybe it was the wine-he picked it up and swirled it around, sniffed it, and then frowned at it. It didn’t seem to have anything wrong with it... and it wasn’t even French wine, it was Italian wine, so France couldn’t have been involved in tampering it...
England’s thoughts were interrupted by a horrible, retched sound curling down the hallway. His heard doubled in pace and he felt frozen as he heard America cough, spit, and wretch into his toilet.
“America?” England called, alarmed. He slid to the floor and crossed the darkened kitchen, the grandfather clock, the piles of papers and folders that he had to sift through by the end of the week. He stood at the end of the hallway, fingers placed over the light switch, narrowing his eyes and listening. “America?” His ears were met with a cough and a dry sob.
“Alfred?” A sputter, a gasp. Another sob, and then-a thwump. England’s jaw dropped and he stood, frozen, at the end of the hallway, unable to move-
“Alfred!” he cried, and he broke free of his spell and ran down the hallway to the bathroom, where he found the other blonde sitting on the floor, slumped over the edge of the bathtub. “Oh, my Lord, Alfred,” England said as he stood in the doorway, temporarily dumbfounded. Seeing the other nation so weak and embattled, like a soldier who’d been fighting a very long war, just broke his heart.
Reply
“What have you done to yourself?” England murmured as he coddled America. He heard a grunt, and America sat up, wobbling slightly, and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. He was breathing hard, nearly panting, licking his lips and staring at the toilet seat as if it were a painting. England sat beside him and just watched him, trying to decide if America liked the fact that England had been holding him.
“Y-you should go,” America muttered, his hand still on his forehead. “I’m-I’m gonna puke again.”
“All the reason for me to stay,” England said, and he reached out and, as slowly as he could, placed his hand on America’s upper back. The blonde’s shoulders stiffened but then he relaxed as England began rubbing small circles into his shoulder blades. The island nation watched as America momentarily glanced upwards, and then allowed his eyes to slide closed as his breathing returned to a normal rate.
“I’m not leaving,” England said in a softer voice. “You’re sick. You almost collapsed.”
“I didn’t-” America started, but as soon as he started talking his eyes shot open, he made a choking sound, pushed himself up over the rim and lowered his head, releasing another wave. England sighed and just rubbed America’s back, standing up to get a glass of water. When he returned America was leaning against the wall, eyes staring up at him as he re-entered. England sat cross-legged beside him and handed the glass over.
“You’re going to get dehydrated,” England noted. He placed a hand on America’s forehead; it burned with fever. England’s frown deepened as he watched America gulp greedily from the cup.
“Thanks,” America said, placing the cup on the edge of the tub. “It gets rid of some of the disgusting taste.” He was attempting to sound tough and nonchalant, but England could hear the waver in the back of his words. He was afraid.
“Why didn’t you mention you were feeling ill?” England asked as he took the cloth and wiped America’s face. America weakly swatted at England’s wrist in protest but dropped his hand as England didn’t move away. “Now that I look at you under these blasted lights-you’re pale as death, lad.” America snickered and closed his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said lamely in response to England’s question. “This is a mandatory Summit. ‘Sides, I’m sick all the time now.”
“Not like... like this,” England said. He moved closer to the other nation. “Not even Greece was this sick within the past few years, Alfred.”
“Greece is older than me,” America said. “So ‘course he wouldn’t get as sick as me when his economy goes.”
“I don’t think that’s the only issue,” England said. He reached out, placed his hands on America’s shoulders, and drew him into his embrace once more, laying America’s head just south of his chin, over his heart. America gave a pathetic attempt at protest and then gave up, instead practically curling up in England’s lap like a child and wrapping his arms around England’s waist.
“You’re real warm,” America murmured into England’s cotton nightshirt. England put the back of his hand on America’s forehead, and sighed at how hot it was. America shouldn’t need warmth with the temperatures he was reaching.
Reply
“...will,” was all America managed.
“Have you been sleeping regularly? Eating well?”
“Mrrehh.”
“Don’t grunt at me, answer the question.” America shifted uncomfortably and didn’t answer. England sighed and simply laid chin on the top of America’s head, wondering how long America had been feeling so sickly.
America remained deathly still in England’s arms, only moving once more to empty the remains of his stomach. England attempted to get more information from him but he knew it was futile, especially since England could feel America’s eyelashes fluttering against his collarbone as he drifted someplace between waking and sleep.
With great difficulty, England was able to lift America onto his back and carry him out of the bathroom past the guest room to the master bedroom, which was adorned with a king-sized bed. England gently eased America onto one side of the bed, where America lazily opened his eyes and glanced around the dimly-lit room.
“Where’m I?” he murmured as he attempted to sit up and failed; all his energy had been sapped. England sat on the bed beside him and shushed him, wedging another pillow underneath America’s head and pulling the duvet up to his chest.
“You’re alright,” England said, and he gave America’s cheek a gentle touch with the back of his hand. America stared straight at him, as if seeing him and not seeing him at the same time. His lids were at half-mast and his eyes seemed cloudy and distant.
“I’ll retrieve your glasses in the morning for you,” England said as he slid underneath the duvet to join his bedmate. “The worst has past. Trust me, I wouldn’t let you sleep here if not.” America nodded dumbly before allowing his eyes to slide closed with a terse breath.
For the first time in nearly an hour, England felt the tension melting from his bones, and his heart was finally slowing down from its heightened pace. Despite this, he was still somewhat uneasy, for he now had a sleeping, sickly, delirious America in his bed, curled up beside him. America opened his eyes and closed them a few more times, but England knew he wasn’t fully conscious anymore; it was more of a physical reaction.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” England murmured, and he slid his fingers in between America’s still ones, giving him a gentle squeeze. “I promise.” And after another ten minutes, England finally drifted off to sleep.
Tbh, not sure if they're in a relationship or not in this; I feel like it's more of an awkward friendshippy/sexual tension... thing. In any case, have some hurt/comfort!
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
I was going to say something else but I just totally spaced.
Ohh we--OHH, RIGHT! I love that awkward 'I love you but I cant tell you so I'll just hide my feelings and/or pretend they dont exist' stage, especially with these two. It certainly fits this prompt, so I'm glad you didnt have them in an established relationship. ♥
Reply
Leave a comment