Most of the world was of the firm opinion that America was irrevocably in love with the sound of his own voice. Despite Germany's clear superiority when it came to organizing world summits, the garrulous nation seemed determined to take charge of them (if by "take charge", one meant "never let anyone else contradict him or otherwise get a word in," of course). Perhaps Japan was fine with it since he agreed with whatever came out of his friend's mouth anyway, but the others were not. So, naturally, when the nations sat down at their respective seats for an evening meeting and didn't immediately hear America regale them with whatever scatterbrained plan he'd come up with most recently, they noticed almost immediately.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the nations avoided each other's eyes and waited for someone to address the issue first. (Except for Russia; he simply spared a moment to wonder why no one was talking before letting his mind wander to thoughts of how difficult it would be to embroider sunflowers on a scarf.)
"Has anyone seen America?" Germany asked finally, when it became clear that no one else was going to.
"He should be here," England said. "I bumped into him outside the toilets."
"That was me."
England blinked, glancing around in search of the speaker. "Who?"
Someone sighed. "Never mind. But I know—"
"I'm kind of relieved," France remarked. "I was afraid he might bring up that Occupy Earth idea he had last time." The other nations gave a collective shudder.
"Um, guys, if you'll just listen to me—"
"Hey, Japan, do you know where he is?" Italy piped up.
The Asian nation shook his head. "Ie. Perhaps he overslept?"
"It's seven o'clock in the evening," China informed him pointedly.
"Guys, he's—"
"Why the hell are we discussing this?" Switzerland demanded. "Can we get on with the meeting?"
"He's probably in his hotel room playing video games, anyway," England said dismissively. "It's what he was doing last ni—"
"Kumajiro."
A sudden, deafening snarl cut off any further discussion, and sent about half of those present leaping a foot off their chairs. Germany gave a loud, rather undignified squawk as a frightened Italy accidentally kneed him in the groin while diving into his lap. Spain, on the other hand, was looking rather pleased that Romano had chosen to tackle him with fright.
All eyes turned to the seat right next to Russia's, which until that point everyone had assumed was empty. Someone – who? Oh, right, that's Canada – was on his feet, frowning in annoyance while hugging his polar bear to his chest.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "As I was trying to say, America caught the bug going around. He's in his room, probably asleep." He sat down and was promptly forgotten again.
"He probably got food poisoning from one of those vile fast food restaurants that he loves so much," France said disdainfully.
"It never lasts long, unfortunately," England muttered. "He'll be in tomorrow, I'll bet."
Germany was gingerly extricating himself from Italy. "Now that we have that cleared up," he said, in a voice that was slightly higher-pitched then normal, "can we please get back to the important things?"
As it happened, America did not come in the following morning. However, this development (or lack thereof) didn't cause nearly as much of a stir as the previous day, since everyone was fully aware of the reason for it. Aside from Japan mentioning that he'd received no answer after knocking on America's door, unless the faint sound of retching could be considered an answer, the meeting proceeded as normal.
As discussions progressed from token attempts at serious debate to petty squabbling between England and France with several other nations taking sides, China let his chin rest in the palm of his hand, his elbow propped on the table. Through drooping eyelids, he watched Germany's unsuccessful efforts to get the meeting under control again, and blinked drowsily before ignoring them all. He was, quite frankly, exhausted, and as such he had little desire to join in the arguing. It wasn't his fault; by some awful twist of fate he'd been put in the hotel room right next to America's. China was a light sleeper by nature, and the walls were thin, so he'd been roused periodically over the previous night by America's heavy footsteps and gagging. Not a pleasant way to pass the night, and if he had to endure that again tonight, he'd probably end up braining someone with his wok. Or himself, if only to help himself sleep. And that might dent his good wok.
Only one thing for it, he thought, staring disdainfully at the arguing westerners. If Greece could sleep through pretty much every meeting they held, then he could afford to skip out on one.
At that moment, he felt a familiar presence at his back, and was too drowsy to react before a pair of hands grabbed his chest and groped it.
"Hello, big brother!"
"Qing wa cao de liu mang!" He dearly hoped Korea wouldn't ask him what that meant.
He moved instinctively, and in the next moment he had yanked his younger brother forward and around, pinning him against the table. The small knife he kept in his sleeve (just for this sort of occasion) now hovered a fraction from Korea's face.
"You're bluffing," Korea whined, his voice strained from having his spine pressed to the edge of the table. "You'll get in trouble if you—no no no, what are you doing?"
China had moved his knife from his brother's face (of course he would never let it break skin) to the base of his errant hair curl.
"Big brother, don't do that!" Korea pleaded. "I need that! Don't cut it off!"
"Cover for me when I leave," China ordered, "accidentally" brushing the curl with the edge of his knife. "If anyone asks, I went shopping. Dong le ma?"
Korea's response was less a nod and more an up-and-down vibration of his head.
"Xie xie."
China left, satisfied that his dignity would remain intact. No one, no one could ever find out what he was really leaving for. It wasn't completely a lie, anyway; he'd have to make a quick trip to the nearest Chinatown to get what he needed.
The Revolution had been hell, because it had been the first real war that America had ever fought himself, for himself, and as himself (not at all because of England, because he didn't care about that part, honest). The Civil War had been hell, with that terrible pain of nearly being torn in two, coupled with the virtual blindness that hadn't gone away until the whole conflict was over and he'd gotten his glasses back. World War 2 had been hell, because goddamnit, it was World War 2, when the whole world had decided to pitch in for a six-year fight scene that Michael Bay would call excessive.
Funny how those three separate hells didn't seem so bad anymore, compared to the one he faced now.
He'd lost count of how many times he'd forced himself out of bed to stagger to the bathroom, so he settled for "way too goddamn much" and decided to focus on more important matters. Like how he was going to fucking stop.
It was partly his fault he was still sick. Around three in the morning there had been a lull in the vomiting, and he'd decided it would be a good idea to force some soda crackers down his throat and heat up a cup of Campbell's soup in his hotel room's microwave. That had been a mistake; all he'd accomplished was giving himself more to throw up.
America could feel another round of vomiting coming, which was why he was now draped over the toilet again, his chin resting heavily on the seat cover. Sickness had completely sapped his energy, and his entire body felt too heavy to hold up without the toilet propping him up. His stomach hurt, and not just with sickness; the muscles in his abdomen ached from all the heaving he'd been doing. His throat was sore, his nose was running, his head ached, and he doubted that any amount of Listerine would ever get rid of the taste of bile in his mouth. In short, he was a godawful mess with no end to this torture in sight.
The inevitable wave of nausea finally struck, and he retched miserably, taking the precious split seconds between each heave to breathe. Holding the toilet bowl to keep himself upright, America squeezed his watering eyes shut and waited helplessly for the vomiting to subside.
Suddenly, he felt someone kneel down beside him. Cool hands steadied him, holding his head and brushing his shaggy mess of hair away from his face. He finished, and spent another moment coughing and spluttering, too disoriented to look up.
The soothing hands left his head, the floor creaked as their owner left his side, and rustling reached his ears a moment later as whoever it was unwrapped one of the plastic cups by the sink. The sound of running water followed, and he finally opened his eyes and turned his head to see who was there.
...Oh.
Well, that wasn't who he had expected. He would have guessed Canada, or Japan. England, even.
But China?
China placed the cup of water by the sink and turned back to see America staring blearily at him. His face was chalk-white, save for the dark circles that stood out under his eyes. His blond hair, normally fairly well-kept, was stiff with dried sweat and hopelessly tangled. Texas perched crookedly on the end of his nose.
His former ally was a mess.
"Ai-yah, just look at you." Feeling grudgingly sympathetic, China took the cup and returned to the sick nation. Kneeling beside him, he held out the cup of water. "Nuh." When America hesitated, China nudged him gently. "Go on, rinse."
America gave him a dubious look but obeyed, and China reached over to flush the toilet. When he heard the younger nation sniffle, he pulled out a length of toilet paper, folded it into a more manageable side, and held it to America's nose. "Blow," he ordered, and this time America did so without hesitating. When he was finished, China tossed the tissue into the garbage. "How do you feel?"
"Like shit," America mumbled, not meeting China's eyes.
"Hoy." It was an exasperated noise, halfway between a sigh and an irritated grunt. "You know why this happened? You never wash your hands. Don't look at me like that, I know you don't. And now look. You got sick."
"Noticed," America grunted, glaring at the toilet in a half-hearted manner as if he hadn't the energy to scowl properly. I feel sick, and that means the world's ending, so shut up and pity me, the look said.
China sighed and got to his feet. "So deh-deh," he muttered, his hand on America's shoulder. "Come on. I brought something that will help."
America tried to shrug off the hand as he got unsteadily to his feet, but China was persistent. It was a good thing, too; when the younger nation listed to the side, China was there to stop him from falling over or running into the wall. He rolled his eyes at America's wordless groan of annoyance, and kept a steadying hand on America's shoulder as he stumbled back to his bed.
"Don't lie down yet," China told him as he sat down amid the rumpled sheets. "Do you trust me?"
America blinked drowsily at him. "Wha'?"
"I said, do you trust me?" China repeated. "Because if you don't, then I may as well leave now."
"Thought you said y' had somethin' to help," America rasped.
"I do. But if you don't trust me, I'm not doing this."
"...What?"
"Just answer the question."
"Yeah, sure, whatever."
China had left the things he'd brought on the bathroom counter. He returned to the sink, where a small box and a spoon sat against the mirror, and took the spoon as well as two tiny bottles from the container. Folding his sleeves back to keep his hands free, he returned to America.
"Now," he began. "This medicine tastes awful. And I mean awful. In fact, when you take it, the first thing you'll want to do is throw up."
America groaned.
China continued as if he hadn't heard. "But it's very important that you do not throw up."
"'M gonna puke anyway," America mumbled. "In about... twen'y-seven minutes. 'S every half hour."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Never mind." China placed one of the bottles on the bedside table, unscrewed the other, and carefully poured its contents into the spoon. With a steady hand, he held the spoon up to America's lips. "Nuh. Try not to breathe through your nose."
America hesitated, staring distastefully at the blackish-brown liquid in the spoon. He seemed to brace himself for a moment before taking the spoon into his mouth and gulping it down. His eyes widened, and a look of utmost disgust crossed his face. Suddenly he leaned forward, shutting his eyes and covering his mouth as if he were about to gag.
"Don't throw it back up," China repeated firmly, taking hold of his shoulder. "You have to hold it down. And you need two bottles."
The younger nation opened his eyes and stared at China in horror. "Mmwhat?" he asked, his voice muffled by his hand.
"One dose for women, two for men." China took the remaining bottle from the lamp table.
The second dose went down somewhat more easily, though it left America coughing. "Good God," he rasped. "'S gross and it burns."
"I said 'good' before because if you can't hold it down for at least fifteen minutes, it will burn coming up just as much as it did going down."
"Oh, that's nice," America muttered. "Now what?"
"Go back to bed," China replied. "Try not to throw up, or I have to give you more."
America made a noncommittal noise, wriggled under the covers, and curled up on his side with his back to China. For the sake of both their dignity, China refrained from tucking him in. Within minutes he could hear the sound of America's noisy but regular breathing, and knew that the younger nation was asleep.
China sighed again and went to throw the empty bottles in the trash. He left the spoon on the counter and kept the box open, just in case.
…Now what?
He could always go back to the meeting. He could go back to that conference room that was little more than a playground full of adults that made most human children look mature. He could go back to where England and France were probably tearing at each other's hair, Germany was probably failing to restore order, Greece was probably still fast asleep, and Korea was probably waiting to molest him. Again.
Or...
He could stay hear in this nice quiet room and be content with the fact that, however awful he might feel after a poor night's sleep and a morning full of nonstop annoyances, the sick, miserable nation before him invariably felt worse.
Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He wasn't going anywhere.
On an impulse, he approached America's bedside and stared down at the sleeping nation. He hadn't bothered to take off his glasses, the silly boy. Now they were barely on his nose anymore, squashed against the hotel pillow.
"Hoy," he muttered under his breath, reaching over to ease Texas from America's face, carefully so as not to wake him. He placed the glasses on the bedside table, and, without thinking, tugged at the blankets around America's shoulders.
It was an instinctive gesture, a force of habit; in all his four thousand years, America certainly wasn't the first sick nation he'd ever cared for. Multiple younger siblings meant years of practice with this sort of thing.
China blinked in bewilderment as he watched America. Just for a moment, it wasn't the frivolous blond westerner he was seeing, but a dark-haired boy with a solemn eyes and a serious face that only ever seemed to relax when he slept.
("All right, be-be. This medicine tastes awful. And I mean awful. In fact, when you take it, the first thing you'll want to do is throw up. But it's very important that you do not, dong le ma?"
"H-hai, nii-sama."
"Ai-yah, be-be, what am I going to do with you?")
With a sigh, China parked himself in an armchair and tried to catch up on some of the sleep he'd missed the previous night.
He had fallen into a light doze when he was awakened nearly a half hour later by America getting out of bed and returning to the bathroom. With a drowsy sigh, he roused himself fully and made it to America's side just in time to hold his hair back before he started retching again.
The vomiting subsided fairly quickly this time, leaving America spitting in disgust. "That wath nathty," he muttered darkly. "And I can thee it."
"At least it didn't burn. I have more bad news."
"Wha'?"
"You have to take it again."
There was a short pause. "Do I have to?"
"I just said that, didn't I?"
Despite America's skeptical grumbling, China dosed him again. Minutes later America was asleep once more, having rolled into bed without bothering much with the sheets this time. With a sigh, China took hold of the blankets and pulled them up to the sleeping nation's chin. At least he hadn't taken his glasses with him this time.
"Ai-yah, be-be, what am I going to do with you?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he immediately clamped his lips shut. He needn't have worried; America was fast asleep, and wouldn't have recognized the word had he been awake to hear it.
China retreated to the safety of his chair, feeling drained. He was being silly. Silly and nostalgic and sentimental and... well...
As much as he'd complained about how needy and demanding America and the other Allies had been during the war, this was different. He didn't mind this, simply taking care of someone who needed it. It reminded him of happier times. It was... nice.
The last thought China had before he drifted off to sleep was of how glad he was that his little brother Japan had found a friend in the end.
He awoke again later of his own accord, and glanced at the clock to find that America had gone three hours without getting up again.
His work here was done, it seemed.
He left the spoon and the box of bottles, just in case, and scribbled a quick note on one of the complimentary pads of paper provided by the hotel.
If you need it, take it again.
He was still tired, and had little desire to go back to the meeting (if it was even still going on), so when he left America's room he went straight to his own. A proper nap was needed.
China woke early the next morning, wide awake and refreshed. He got up and glanced at his clock; if he left now, he would get to the conference room about a half hour before the others started showing up. That was fine with him. He could do with a half hour of peace and quiet, and the chairs in there were quite comfortable.
Sure enough, the room was empty when China walked in through the open doorway, dressed, with his hair combed and neatly tied back. He could always ask one of the other nations if anything actually important had gone on during the previous day's meeting. If there were any early arrivals like himself, he could do so before today's meeting started. Not that he expected much; France and England had been pretty intent on belittling each other for the entire time, and Germany's attention had been divided between trying to restore order and trying to disentangle himself from Italy's hugs. Honestly, sometimes he wondered about these summits. It was a rare day when they managed to get together in the same room and do anything remotely productive.
Lost in his thoughts as he was, he didn't notice that someone had entered the room after him until he was suddenly embraced from behind.
China yelped in surprise. Great, it's Korea again. Wo de tian a, that boy is persistent.
Except he didn't feel the uncomfortably familiar hands on his chest, nor did he hear Korea's usual cry of "Hello, big brother!" He simply felt arms wrapped around his middle in an honest hug, and the cold scratch of a pair of glasses against the back of his neck.
Oh.
When America spoke in a raspy, somewhat subdued voice behind him, his breath smelled strongly of mint, as if he'd spent a good amount of time brushing his teeth. Which, China supposed, was much better than the alternative.
"Hey, China? ...Xie xie."
His pronunciation was off. But just this once, China could let it slide.
This was... kind of a personal piece for me. My mom was born and raised in California, but as I was growing up she would often let her Chinese roots show in little ways. There were certain words in Cantonese she would use from time to time, little superstitions she had, and that gentle way of nagging that I'm sure all kids with Asian-American parents have to put up with. It's something that I grew up with, and I love her dearly, so that's probably why the idea of China mothering other nations appeals to me so much.
The fic itself is dedicated to and based on all the times when I was sick and my mom would be there to help me through it. The magical throw-up juice China uses is 100% real, and something my mom has always (rightfully) sworn by. In fact, China's dialogue is based on what my mom would always say before she gave it to me. I'm not sure what it's called, and I don't think I'd be able to spell it if I did, but my Caucasian father who doesn't speak a lick of Chinese is pretty sure its name means something along the lines of "snake piss water." It tastes disgusting, it burns on the way down, and holy crap it works like magic.
Also, since China is a representation of the whole nation, I didn't think much of having him use words and phrases in both Mandarin and Cantonese, even in the same sentence at one point. "Dong le ma," "Wo de tian a," and "Qing wa cao de liu mang" are Mandarin (I got them from Firefly) and mean "Do you understand?" "Dear God in heaven," and "frog-humping son of a bitch." I'm not sure if "nuh" and "hoy" actually translate to anything, but they're noises my mom would make if she was giving me something or if she was annoyed, respectively. "Deh-deh" is another one I heard a lot, and according to my mom it's a Cantonese word for when someone's spoiling themselves. (I remember she would always use it when I was in a "shut up and cuddle me" mood.) "Be-be" (long e sound, emphasis on the second syllable) was her pet name for my brother, and means baby. Because I couldn't resist.
I don't know what brought this on, exactly; maybe it's because lately I've been thinking about my childhood and wishing time hadn't gone by so fast. Because no matter how independent, confident, or tough you think you are, there will always be times when all you need is a little tender love and care to make your whole world a little better. I know I do sometimes.