Blue eyes glistened under the thick covers of the bed, spilling over with salty droplets and sliding down already wet skin, soaking into the sheets to meet more of their kind. The nation from which they came curled up even more tightly, not bothering to try to stop them. The bandages around his torso stained with fresh blood and fresh pain radiated from the wound, but it was nothing compared to the agony rooted deep in his chest and spreading to every bone, to burrow deeper into him. His lips moved wordlessly, mouthing the name of a person whose comforting presence he had always sought in childhood. Shadows and bags framed his sapphire eyes, showing how little sleep he'd gotten, but the eyes themselves were wide open in fear. He knew that if he closed them, he would see it all again in nightmares: The planes crashing into the towers, the Pentagon on fire, buildings collapsing on top of human lives, the plummeting figures of people jumping from shattered windows to save themselves from the choking rivulets of smoke and instead meeting death on the ground, more of them dying in the flames above. Yes, sleep was not an option for America.
Another nation paced the room nervously, gaze flitting to the shivering lump under the blankets and back to his restless feet every few seconds. Canada pushed up his glasses and clutched at Kumajiro (A/N: sorry if I got that wrong), the white polar bear in his arms, which in turn looked up at him with a pleading, strangled expression. The meek northern nation loosened his grip and his fluffy friend gasped his relief. Canada's expression was tight as he watched his brother suffer; knowing he couldn't do anything but change the bandages occasionally whisper words he knew the other country couldn't hear. He wished he could do something more, heal the wounds below the surface, comfort him, but he knew he couldn't do anything for his brother emotionally.
Canada jumped about a mile when the door opened with a violent BANG, slamming against the wall. Another nation flew into the room like a tornado, clothing disheveled, bushy eyebrows creased with not his usual faked anger and annoyance, but worry for his former younger brother. America didn't react to the stormy entrance, staring straight ahead unresponsively, the occasional strangled sob escaping him. A question formed in England's eyes, and he looked to Canada for the answer he already knew. With a small nod from Canada, England advanced towards his former colony, not noticing that Canada had slipped out the open door, closing it behind him. "Let's give them some privacy," Canada whispered to his polar bear, who nodded his agreement.
England began to tentatively peel the covers back, revealing America's curled frame and shattered expression, and felt something in him break at the sight. He sat down on the exposed part of the bed, for a moment not doing anything but staring helplessly at the poor nation in front of him, before shifting a little bit and pulling America into his lap, running a hand through his hair the same way he had when America was a child. Careful of the wound soaking the bandages, he turned America to face him, the younger nation not protesting. America looked up at him, a childish whimper escaping him before he began to shudder against England, sobbing freely. With each violent tremor, the bandages covering the wound became more saturated with crimson liquid and England looked around worriedly, eyes searching the room for fresh bandages. Finding some on the nightstand, he moved America back onto his bed. The sapphire-eyed country curled up again, only to have a gentle hand stop him. "Don't move," England said softly, beginning to unwrap the bloody bandages covering the wound and revealing a gash running from halfway down the right side of his ribcage to a few inches above his right hip. England reached for the bottle of antiseptic next to the bandages and tore a clean piece of the old wrappings, soaking the scrap in it and running it along the length of the wound. America, who had stayed obediently as still as he could while England had unwrapped him, sobbing now fading to little whimpers and violent shuddering to shivering, jerked at the sting of the antiseptic, trying to pull away. His efforts were met with a gentle hand holding him back and he looked up to see a stern but gentle look on England's face. Reluctantly, he stilled again and allowed England to finish his ministrations on the wounds and wrap it again.
Satisfied with his efforts, England took America into his arms, almost like he had when America had been a child. One arm held the country close, the other hand pushing his hair out of his face and running gentle fingers through it, smiling sadly when America buried his face in England's chest, sobs wracking his frame again. "It'll be alright," England murmured, now placing both arms around America's torso, holding him up and gently pressing the younger nation against him. His hand began to run up and down America's back, again in the same way it had during America's childhood. "You'll be alright," he whispered as America's sobs reduced to slight sniffs and England felt a pair of arms encircle his own body. America's breathing soon evened out, and England knew that he fallen into a much-needed sleep. He laid the nation down so the his head was in his lap and looked around the room. America's shirt and jacket were strewn across the floor, bloodied and wrinkled, and England smiled. He supposed he'd have to clean that up later, and get America to change his pants, but for now he was happy to be a human pillow and just sit there, looking down at the finally-calm face of his former colony and running his hands through his hair.