Author's Notes:

Seen a lot of stuff like this, in stories and in real life. I always found it to be an interesting topic. Been through it twice myself, if I'm honest, so I thought I'd give a go at actually writing about it. Who better to use than my buddy Alfred? Lol Yeah, epilepsy can't be fun, and I don't see how a nation could get a symptom like this, but we're going to overlook that, shall we?

I'm currently writing stuff for Red House on Pine Street and Taboo and a Pearl Harbor story to add to my twoshot collection (I know OHMYGOSH), as well as cleaning up grammar and punctuation in my old stories, but this was just too much to deny. Very brief overview of some American events in history, this time with America himself suffering from seizures. Let's get those creative juices flowing, people.

I don't know French either, so if I wrote it wrong, please feel free to correct me.

Enjoy.

The first time it happens the sky is as bright as can be, sunlight streaming in paths through the branches like little funnels of warmth onto his face. He stares at the clouds for a long while, hearing the noises of the forest foliage and animals moving in their own business around him. Time is not something he can recall, let alone how he happened to be walking one minute, on his back the next, but America knows with a nagging at the back of his brain that this is not going to be the last time.

At the time he can't comprehend that, but the thought is palpable nonetheless.

He's lying in the dirt, body limp and muscles throbbing, and all he can do is watch the sky.

America finds himself nervous when he moves into a large house far from the towns starting to sprout up all over his land. He has mixed feelings about leaving the woods, leaving a place he always knew to be sanctuary, but this man they call England says he can make him something great. How can he deny him when he looks so genuine when he says it?

So he spends all his time with this new person, appreciating all the care and attention he gives him, drinking in the thought that he is a country, and that there are others out there like him that he can relate to. Before England came along, America never knew he was alone. Why would he? There are always people to talk to and feed him and love him.

It's nice to know now how alone he really is.

England rarely leaves his side when the house he has ordered is built and appropriate living standards are established. This makes America very happy and very scared at the same time. England doesn't know of his strange fits, never having been present when they occurred.

He had a friend back in a Monacan tribe he lived in when he was little who used to tell him that he looked like a dying fish on the water shore. America was convinced it was an evil spirit plaguing him the more he talked to people, and the more people who witnessed it. The thought that there was something horribly wrong with him frightened him, as any child would be terrified of being broken and wrong. He was reassured that an animal sacrifice and ritual would cleanse him, but after it had failed, he just found it easier to hide his fits as best he could from the tribe and anyone else he came across.

A life of seclusion is near impossible when England places his bedroom next to his.

"Do you like it?" England asks, eyes bright and eager for the approval from the boy beside him, hand gently grasping his shoulder, waiting patiently for a response. America does his best to hide his unease and grins.

"It's the best. Thank you, England."

He thinks of hiding in the yard for the rest of his life.

The first time England sees is still a blur in his mind.

All America can remember is the screaming, the smudges and fog from his vision seeping away to reveal frantic eyes staring down at him, a look so horrified on England's face that America's stomach starts to roll. Perhaps it's just the lingering effects, he ponders. It's not like he hasn't thrown up because of these strange contortions before.

He doesn't get much time to think about it because he's still delirious and confused, something that seems forever a constant when he drops to the ground and starts to writhe on his back. England is still yelling and touching him and holding him, and it makes America feel guilty.

He doesn't want to scare England like this. England is always so nice to him and he gives him clean clothes and toys and his smiles are always warm.

Right now it just looks like England wants to vomit.

When he wakes from the exhaustion, America is vaguely aware that it is dark now, and that England must've gotten someone to carry him inside, lest he did it himself, God forbid. There are a few candles lit on the oak desk across his bedroom and his eyes snag on a figure sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed.

Even in the dark America can see the somber expression on England's face. It's almost enough to make him cry.

"Please don't send me away," he says around the lump in his throat, eyes burning and heart hammering beneath his skin. America is suddenly taken back to the infusions and prodding and chants that haunted him in the woods. "I'm not a witch, and I won't hurt you. I don't even know how to contact the spirits. Please, England, I am not bad. I'm not."

America doesn't know if his words are working because with each blubbered sound coming from his lips, England looks more and more distressed.

In an instant there are strong arms around him, hands framing his face and the quick pants of England's breath splaying over his hair. "I won't do a thing, so hush now, America. It will be our secret, just for us. I won't tell a soul."

There is a silent promise in England's words. I will fix you. You're broken, but I will fix you.

America isn't sure if England is trying to convince him or trying to convince himself.

War is difficult when America doesn't even know when another fit will take place. He does his best to lead his people against the seemingly endless bombardments of the British, but sometimes it's impossible.

There is no privacy in war and there certainly is no excuse when he feels his speech start to clump together and the world starts to gray around the edges. He knows it must be nerve-wracking and terrifying for his men when they stand above him when the hands of this Godless sickness finally release him, speaking with darting eyes of his twisted limbs and the look as his eyes rolled up into his skull.

"I'm fine," America reassures, feeling like he might pass out and never wake again. He pushes at their hands and feels sweat lining his brow. "Please put it out of your minds. It's the stress."

A bullshit answer, but with humans knowing very little about how countries reacted to inner turmoil, they hesitantly left him be and resumed their stances for any passing British carriages.

America is grateful for ignorance for the first time in his life.

It's only when he actually encounters England's troop six months later that he thinks, perhaps this might work to his advantage. Oh, it's undoubtedly cruel and even vile, actually, but there are no qualms with what he must do to end this war and gain independence.

So, through the haze of bullets and screaming and blood, blood, blood, America sees England and keels over.

The look of alarm in England's eyes does more damage than the stray bullet that pierces his arm as he falls to the ground. America bites his lip against the pain and the jerking begins. This is probably the worst thing he has done to England, hating himself with every fiber of his being when England rushes to his side, voice a pitch higher as his hands hover over America's chest.

Memories of England watching over him, demanding his physicians look into this odd action that plagued a small percentage of his population, fuming with threats at a housemaid who had witnessed one of America's fits and demanded he tell the church. All he has done to protect him is now supposed to be swept under the rug and forgotten?

America feels bitter tears sting his eyes when he grabs the back of England's neck, fingers fisting in his hair, a knife held precariously to his jugular. England stares down at him with disbelief at the glaring American, pulling a wool over the great empire's eyes himself.

If America can remember anything clearly, it is this day; the day where compassion dies in England's eyes.

It doesn't matter, really. Because through all the trickery and guff, he still wins his freedom.

No amount of regret can take that away from him as he celebrates with his face buried in his hands, weeping alone in the dark that was once their home.

America can only remember one time in his life where he is institutionalized.

Cold chains bite into the now bruised skin lining his wrists, his body stiff and muscles taut enough for the tendons in his neck to be visible almost daily. The amount of disuse of his body leaves constant bedsores and darkness seems to be his only friend. He hates it in here, and when he starts to seize there are few people who seem to care.

England cared. But that was before.

America wonders briefly what England would say if he knew where his cornflower-haired child was now, looked upon like he is crazy and kept hidden in a room only to be glanced at when he does something worthy of observation.

So America takes a shaking breath and just smiles, rolling his head back to rest against the wall.

He loves his freedom so very much.

His brother is present when his capitol is aflame in 1814.

It feels like acid buildup in his stomach, fingers gripping at where his heart lay under his clothing. England chooses not to be anywhere near him for this skirmish, probably growing smart from the revolution and not wanting any part of America's stop, drop, and seize antics.

America knows that England knows his fits are more frequent when under strain. It is likely he just doesn't want to witness another, and America can't blame him.

Canada, on the other hand, does do the dirty work and America can't help but frown at his brother as the flames flash behind him. Why he sided with England, America still hasn't a clue.

"You're just going to do everything he tells you, then?" America calls, squinting and fighting to stay upright. Canada's eyes flicker away, a habit he can't shake since he was little. It makes America's blood boil that he still can't look his own brother in the eye when they disagree on something.

"You don't know what you're talking about, America," he responds, placing his bayonet down on the ground, not intending to do anymore physical harm to his twin. America wants to laugh at that thought alone. As if he could cut him deeper than he has already.

"I was going to say the same thing to you."

Canada frowns at him. "Please, don't be difficult. You know I can't stand this as much as you."

"You're very convincing," America grits between clenched teeth, the taste of iron prevalent in his mouth. He can feel his body starting to whir and it makes a blanket of panic unfold in his head. America doesn't know what orders England has given Canada if he sees him fall to the ground, or if he told his brother of his condition at all. The unpredictability is almost enough to make him run for it.

Too bad his pride has the reins.

"And you're very stubborn. I don't want to fight you, America, but don't think I won't if you push hard enough," Canada says, stepping closer to his brother, eyebrows furrowing when America's feet stutter back. "Let this be enough. Just stop this quarrelling and let us rest."

"Your peace offering leaves much to be desired," and America chokes on a laugh, heat caressing his skin as black smoke rises higher and higher into the sky until he feels like he's floating in a dream. This is a dream, isn't it?

"America, are you all right?"

When had Canada's hand touched him? America flinches at the contact and feels himself hyperventilating, vision swimming. With the numbness comes the buzzing in his ears, and the panic spreads, consuming him. Canada is watching him like he's a drowning man who claimed he could swim before jumping overboard when his knees buckle.

"America? America," Canada shouts, but it sounds like a whisper under the roaring of flames.

His arms twitch and flail, joints locking as he bites down too hard, mouth filling to the brim with blood. Why is he like this? Why at the most inopportune times does his body betray him?

He remembers trying to sink to the bottom of the pond with rocks filling his shoes when he was little. England had pulled him out and resuscitated him, shrieking and yelling with water dripping down his face. Or were those tears?

"Nations can't die. You're only hurting yourself when you do this," he had said.

Sometimes he wishes that isn't true, that he can end this suffering with a simple lungful of water, because he knows England lied to him. Watching Canada's frightened, confused eyes being consumed in the blackness paints a very clear picture to America. He knows he is hurting others more by making them a witness to this, and that is a truth that will never leave his heart.

The place America hates the most is Europe, where he is needed for brief conferences.

He does not hate the culture, nor does he completely detest the moral and emotional demeanors of the countries across the pond, but he tends to hate any place where he is forced to be in close contact with others like himself. He suffers from epilepsy, something he has come to recently understand over a handful of decades or so, and a part of him is relieved to place a name to this regular occurrence that disrupts his life. It is much better than the treatment otherwise from his childhood, that's for sure.

However, he still must reluctantly admit that he is self-conscious around the others. Their eyes linger most times, and an occasional joke or statement will be indirectly directed at him, making his hands sweat and his mortification flare.

He is the only one like this.

No one else has this.

Why does no one else have this?

It isn't fair and it baffles everyone.

Because of this anomaly, America knows the others make fun of him when his back is turned. They mock him for being inferior, for being weak. He is not weak. He's not.

So America goes to painstaking measures to make sure they never witness one of his fits; the only nations who have witnessed it before being England and Canada, and those are two too many in America's book. They never mention it, though, and never treat him differently when they see him. Canada will smile and chat and England will continue on with that aloof sense of disinterest.

It's just the way America likes it.

Until he falls and hits his head at a meeting, blood coating the table and the floor. It's embarrassing. It's beyond embarrassing, actually, because France and Germany and Russia – fuck, Germany,the very nation he helped defeat – saw him hit the ground like a sack of spuds during one of their little see how you're doing after you caused a global crisis meetings.

Despite allowing himself to come to their aide as an "associated power," supposed to be strong and healthy and fit, America leaves the worst impression possible. So, when he wakes up on a cot with England smoking a cigarette in a chair next to him, America feels like an idiot.

Battered and broken and still recovering from that ridiculous war practically a decade ago, England still manages to come off more stable than little ol' America.

America slowly sits up with a wince, grasping at the blanket to pull it from his legs when England speaks up. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. You pissed yourself."

America's face is on fire when he sees that yes, he isn't wearing pants under the blanket. He peed himself in front of fucking Europe; it couldn't get any worse.

"You'll have to find France if you want your pants back. He offered to wash them," England mutters distractedly, blowing a puff of smoke out the open window. It's chilly outside and America is suddenly very glad for the blanket.

"Incredible."

It's quiet for a moment, nothing but the light drizzle of rain outside to occupy his jumbled thoughts, when England taps some ash on the sill and glances down towards the newly placed bandage on America's head.

"I see you've named a dance after it." America is pulled violently from his thoughts with nothing but an elegant, "Huh?" to respond. England's face is still faintly black and blue and red all over, but he manages to smirk half-heartedly at him. "The Charleston. All the wiggling and moving, that's what it is, isn't it?"

And America remembers exactly why he likes England in the first place.

"How bad was it?" he asks seriously, wondering if he can walk out of here with his head held high or start a life of isolation that he's been secretly thinking about.

"You tell me," England says and tosses a blood-stained jacket in his lap, obviously removed from his person. The now brown blotches makes America crinkle his nose and put it aside, rubbing at his temple.

"Must've looked really heroic, huh?" he laughs awkwardly, because, at this moment, that's all he really can do. It's been almost three centuries since England has seen him roll on the floor like a hysterical jester.

"I found you rather dashing myself," England comments, snubbing his stogie out on the bottom of his shoe, eyes running over America like this is the first time he's ever really looked at him. "It's not any better," and it's not a question. America smiles and shakes his head.

"No, not really."

He can't read England's expression, but he doesn't think England is surprised. Maybe disappointed, but not surprised.

"But it's not truly your problem anymore, so that's something," America says, choosing not to look at England when the Briton's mouth draws suddenly into a frown.

"It's something, all right," the Englishman mutters, voice flat. He shifts on his chair and stands, roaming across the room to where cups and a glass vase of water sit. He pours America a drink and settles his hip against the dresser. "I am grateful, don't get me wrong. I may not be delighted to say it, but I'm humble enough to know when to express my appreciation."

America uncomfortably watches the sky, ignoring the place where he knows England is staring a hole into his face, feeling the familiar tendrils of guilt nip at him. He silently questions if England has already heard of faint rumors of his isolated tendencies. He questions if England will take it personally and think of his actions as abandoning him once more just because America grows tired with the childishness of this continent.

After a long beat of silence, England takes a chance, surprising America into stillness. "I do still worry about you, you know."

America slowly sets his glass down and glances at England, mouth suddenly dry at the seriousness on his face. He is not lying, he can tell that much. It has been so long since they have talked civilly that America doesn't immediately know how to respond. He hasn't stopped caring about England, but he concluded rationally that England would be over him by now.

"Oh," is all he manages.

England furrows his brow somewhat and his lips twitch in a sad excuse for a smile. "Yes, oh. I love how you use my language, America. You're a right Shakespeare."

America swallows and flexes his fingers on the blanket. "I mean, thanks? Uh, yeah, yes. Thank you. I worry. Not just about me but, uh, yeah. I'm fine." Wow. Smooth.

England shakes his head and folds his arms in amusement. "I remember when you used to say that to me when you would have an attack on the staircase before I moved you to a room on the first floor. You use those two words like they have a different meaning."

After a pause, "I got that from you."

England watches him then, moves across the room and hesitantly, almost as if he's afraid to, touches the bandage on America's forehead. It's then that he knows England can see what he's thinking just by looking into his eyes, and he knows this will be a goodbye once more on his part for the second time. Something flickers across the Briton's face before it is gone and he is straightening up, fingers gone from the golden strands as if they'd never been there to begin with.

"Well, you learned from the best, I suppose."

Germany's an asshole. He's such an asshole.

It's really apparent when America scowls and walks through what used to be London. There is rubble and the stench of smoke and charred buildings about, the smell so familiar yet so foreign. His boots crunch on the rubble, giving sympathetic looks towards the civilians reveling in the damage.

But it's okay. Or it will be, anyway.

"England!" he calls, pushing open the door to see the scrawny, pale man sitting with his shirt off and a physician patching up a gash on his arm. England's eyes look up and there is a sense of relief under all that resilience.

"Look who's fashionably late," he mutters mockingly, wincing as he shoos the doctor away and finishes wrapping his own bandages. America can't help it when his eyes dust over the plethora of colors on England's chest, knowing that it is sheer willpower alone that keeps him moving like nothing is wrong, like everything is fine.

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. He did learn from the best, after all.

"Heroes are always late. They're appreciated more that way," he beams.

"I think I would've appreciated you more a few years ago, but beggars can't be choosers, I reason," England admits, face scrunching up as he pulls his shirt on. Without really thinking about it, America helps him. He doesn't feel awkward when England looks at him with blatant surprise; large eyes watching America's gloved hands help his arms through the sleeves.

"Thank you," he mutters, buttoning his shirt, yet not removing his eyes from the much larger blonde. When had America found the time to work out that often? He felt like a withered shell of what he used to be compared to the boisterous nation.

"You're looking healthy."

America's short attention span has him on the other side of the room, touching the lamps and supplies with curiosity. His head bobs up and he grins. "You're not." It's not meant as a joke, or as a barb. It's simply an observation and England would be a fool if he didn't hear the infuriated undertone to it.

"Any new fits I should know about, or are you equipped enough to help this time around? I have seen you on a battlefield, you're aware," England says, though he is serious about his question. America falling into a seizure when the enemy is pointing a tank at him is certainly not a welcome thought. At his current health, he can't do much about it, too, and that frustrates the living daylights out of England.

"Just one on the plane. I haven't had one in a while, so don't worry. I'm actually going to try a new treatment when I get back so let's kick this Axis or whatever's ass as soon as possible, okay?" America grins and ruffles England's already messy hair. He's strolling out of the room to look for more morphine before England can properly protest. He's on America's heels in an instant.

"New treatment?" he asks, really very curious about this. "I haven't heard anything."

America is walking too fast but he's obviously buzzing with excitement. He's wound so tight that England can't tell where he'll fly when he goes off. One minute he wants to go blow some kraut's brains out, the next he's glowing over an extremely important thing that England would've loved to hear about if it wasn't for that damn isolationism shit America ate a spoonful of.

"Yeah, some dude in Italy, actually, I think. It's called Electroshock Therapy. We're starting to use it on some people back at my place, too. It's supposed to help a lot of people," America says, eyes so bright England can barely look directly at his face. Something in his gut churns and he frowns, understanding a vague idea of this procedure.

"Electricity?"

"Yeah, you guys just started using it a little, too. Some guy, Kalinowsky, I think, is coming over to do it. You know this guy worked with the man who started testing it out on pigs? Pigs! Who'd a' guessed it?" he says animatedly, completely enthralled with the idea. England recognizes what he is saying, but doesn't like the look in America's eyes when he talks about it.

"America, I don't know if you should be doing that just yet. It's just starting out in its field," England tries to persuade. America just carries on, asking the doctor where the morphine is when he encounters him.

"It's fine, England. Don't worry about it."

England frowns, following America when he starts to move again. Can this man ever stand still? "We use it for emotional disorders mainly. It's for the mentally unstable. Results are varying now and –"

"England, I said don't worry."

England grips harshly onto America's arm and forces him to stop, jaw clenched and tone furious. "Don't tell me not to worry!" he shouts, and it's enough to make America shut his fat mouth. England prods at the broad chest in front of him, body and mind pushed to the limit from this damn global crises and he doesn't need America throwing a curve ball at him right now. "You've been telling me from day one and I'm sick and tired of that garbage! Of course I'll worry, and I'll worry until the day I cease to be here, so don't you dare say that to me.

"It's not normal – what you have. You're the only one and you are one of us. Don't you think that's strange?" he demands, eyes wild and America is staring, flabbergasted. "For all you know this is serious; existence ending. Doesn't that bother you?"

America closes his hand over England's vice-like grip after a moment, gently, removing it from his person. He's watching the way England is gasping for breath, using all his energy just to stand on his own two feet. America's eyes are hard and it's impossible to ignore the bitterness resting there.

"Of course I know. How could I not know? You think I don't think about it every damn second of ever damn day?" he says on a whisper, but his words are like ice. England purses his lips and it hurts somewhere inside to see America. To just see him standing there, looking healthy as an ox and vibrant as can be, but still know that there is something deeply wrong with him, from the tips of his fingers all the way down to his bone marrow.

This time it's America's knuckles instead of England's who are white as he holds England's hand. England keeps back a cringe and doesn't remove his hand; he's too busy caught under America's stare.

"I'm here to help, so this time, just right now, let me worry about you… okay?" he says; face crumpling when he realizes how hard he's holding on. He places his other hand over England's, watches it with an air of distance on his face, and looks back up with red-rimmed eyes.

England can only nod.

And just like that, America is all smiles and sunshine again. "So, how about that morphine?"

"They're at it again," France says casually as he strolls down the hallway, catching up to England in his haste. "Another frosty battle of wills, no?" He has a strange mix of concern and morbid intrigue in his eyes and England clamps down on his tongue with frustration, wanting nothing more than to smack that disgusting expression off his face.

"Why didn't you say so sooner, you frog?" he spits, turning on his feet and darting back towards the east wing. When he opens the door there's Russia, his hand in America's hair, smiling with a look of loathing as America leers back with his hands around the giant's neck. England all but screams, "America, let go!"

He is ignored, as per usual these days, and watches as America actually bites Russia. Stubborn ass.

Russia grins a tight smile, fingers tightening over one of America's arms around his neck. If you're close enough, you can hear a snap.

England and France are close enough.

"Cher Seigneur, ils vont s'entre-tuer à ce rythme," France says, appearing distraught when England darts past him.

"This has gone far enough. America, stop. I said let go," he demands, reeling when his words seem to do nothing more than fuel the fire, America pressing down harder on Russia's windpipe with his thumbs. Russia flinches, his face pinching slightly being the only indication that he is in pain.

England glares daggers at Russia, teeth bared and eyes frantic. "Russia!"

Russia casts a glance towards the smaller nation and releases America's hair. The relief is short-lived when he brings his fist down against the top of America's head, emitting a choking sound from the American when he is forced to remove his teeth from Russia's arm.

The reaction is instantaneous; America is on the floor writhing and flopping around like a person on fire.

England is horrified as he watches, Russia frowning at the deeply imbedded teeth marks in his flesh, cold eyes peering at England and France disinterestedly. "There, he let go," he says, and England feels like punching something.

"Move the chairs," he orders, crouching down next to America when his eyes roll up in his head, wondering how his arm will feel later. France scurries around Russia and proceeds to clear a space, trying to not look at the spectacle before him. This isn't the first time he's seen America seize, but it certainly doesn't happen a lot. He can count the times on one hand alone.

"What is wrong with you?" England growls as Russia walks past him, rolling down his sleeve and rubbing at his neck. He picks up his scarf that is draped over the table from where it must've fallen.

Russia smiles at him. "He started it."

It's only his patience that keeps him in check when Russia turns his back on him and leaves the room. England watches America on the ground, strange little noises coming up from his throat like a blast from the past, and England's never felt this frustrated in all his years.

"Is everything all right?" France asks from beside him, hovering and frowning at the situation.

England grits his teeth and nods. "Everything is going to be just fine."

America is embarrassed. It takes a lot to get him embarrassed, but he manages to do it this time.

You'd think that after all these centuries that his condition wouldn't bother him socially as much as it would. But the truth of the matter is that it does. It still does bother him.

And when he has a fit while in the process of being fucking intimate with a person, well, that is just the last straw of his controlled persona.

"Don't be that way, America. It isn't a big deal," England's voice is going for soothing but America grimaces and takes it as pitying.

"Shut up, England."

England rolls his eyes and sighs, hand between America's shoulder blades as he progressively rubs circles there in an attempt to lighten the mood. "It was bound to happen." He pauses when America flinches, face hidden in his hands as he leans over the side of the bed. Bad word choice, then.

"I knocked you out." America says it slowly and deliberately, each word practically spit out like poison. England's hand hesitates for a moment before resuming the circles.

"Briefly."

"Brief–? God, just shut the fuck up, England," America all but groans, burying his face deeper. He feels the mattress shift when England comes to sit next to him, the material of his pant leg brushing America's abdomen. He hadn't even gotten that far, just necking and rubbing, and right when he goes for the pants he feels it come over him like a tsunami.

"Your head is very hard, lad," England admits in the silence, making America snort.

"You should get your soft-spot checked out," he counters.

"So you're going to mope all night, is that it?" England inquires. America nods and England withholds the urge to sigh again. "I thought you weren't a quitter."

"You're expecting round two?" It sounds doubtful and dejected.

"Yes."

"Then go fuck yourself."

That's enough of that. England scowls and swings his legs over the bed, getting up and heading for the bathroom. If he doesn't have anything to look forward to then what's the point with touching? He isn't one to indulge in false temptations. "Maybe I will," he says back derisively.

"Oh, get off it," America snaps, lifting his head from his hands and glares at England, hating how he looks so casual in the arch of the bathroom door.

"I would, but there's little to be desired," he says back, noticing the way America's face flushes.

"You're such an asshole. You know what this –" he gestures vaguely to the pillows on the ground where he dropped and did the 'Charleston' as England still calls it, "How I feel about all this."

"Yes. And?"

America balks. "And? And nothing. Nothing, England. Just go take a piss or whatever." America grumbles and slumps back on the bed, covering his face with a pillow. He listens to the sound of his breathing for a few moments before the bed dips again and the pillow is taken forcefully from his hold after a few attempts.

"Just – give me that," England says, frowning down at America when he manages to remove the object. "Child." America sticks his tongue out at him. "I never pictured you to be the self-conscious one," England mulls over with a raised eyebrow. America looks away.

"I'm not self-conscious," he lies.

"You're acting like you just shot me in the face with a rifle."

"No… More like a BB gun," America concedes. He stills when England puts his forehead to his and has no choice but to look him in the eyes.

"I hate to tell you this, but I've been injured far worse than a red bump on my forehead," England explains.

"It's not the… Okay, it is the hitting you a little," America admits, unable to withhold a small grin when England scowls at that admission. "It's just mainly the situation, I guess. I can't walk down the street or eat some cereal or even have sex right without breaking out in a jive. Yeah, I'm going to be mad. So sue me."

England is silent a moment before he appears oddly genuine. "I believe we aren't given anything we're not capable of dealing with."

America blinks up at England, chewing anxiously at his lip. "So, what? That's why I'm the only one with this issue? 'Cause I'm the only one of us who's strong enough to handle it?" America starts to snicker and grabs England by the hips. "Hey, wait a minute, England. Are you saying I'm the strongest?"

England jolts, staring in incredulity at the now ego-boosted individual beneath him. Shit, this must look like appraisal. Like he is saying America is the top dog, has been the top dog, and will forever be the top dog amongst the countries and then some.

"That's not what I'm saying at all. Let go," he says with a frown, squirming in America's hold. The blonde refuses to release him, however, instead choosing to grin.

"Are you saying I'm the best?"

"No."

"I'm wonderful?"

England pinches America's hand and feels his own face feeling flushed. "Let go, you're making me puke." America's sitting up and kissing his cheek with a raspberry.

"Go on, say it, England," he taunts, his previous fit completely forgotten. England shifts in America's lap and leads his mouth up to his, letting his lips rest there a moment before pulling away, America now quiet. His hands frame America's face as he looks down at him seriously, no falsity in his words this time like there was before.

"I'm saying that you're fine, America."

America stares, and this time when his arms pull England to him in a big bear hug, body flopping him down on the mattress as he starts to tickle and poke the shrieking man, America knows this to be true.

He is fine, and for once, that doesn't seem quite as bad.

Prevalent notes:

Monacans: was a tribe in the 1600s around Virginia where the English settled. They were a form of Siouan-speaking people and inhabited the area of what I think was N. Carolina, if I remember right. I figured America stayed with a tribe in the area where England had a greater chance of meeting him.

Most Native American tribes: that I know of who recorded any similar case with epilepsy blamed it on a wicked spirit or witchcraft. Usually they would try to perform rituals or give roots and (in one case I saw bird's blood) other things to remedy it.

People in the 1600/1700s: believed that epilepsy was contagious, and that it was a form of demons/witchcraft and the like messing with the body. They were often institutionalized in psychiatric hospitals that were being established at the time, children abandoned, used as entertainment to provide funding for the hospitals, and beaten and chained. It wasn't until the mid to late 1700s that people started calling for advancements and proper care in medicine to treat this disease. So, naturally, America was nervous to disclose this to England. And he also was subjected to the very hospitals later that England protected him from. IRONY.

The War of 1812: should be common knowledge by now. France and England wanted us to trade with only one of them, basically. We, as a new country, didn't like that, so we just stopped trading with both of them. They didn't like that, war, yada yada yada. Bye bye, capitol.

WWI meeting: was after defeating the Triple Alliance, Europe (in this APH case) held meetings for progress on it. America went into isolation after Wilson lost in 1920, but for the great desire to throw a Charleston reference in here because I love that dance, I allowed America to visit one last meeting before going into complete isolation. Please, allow me this one selfish pleasure.. :)

ECT: was started in Italy in 1938 and moved to Britain in 1939. It was mainly used to treat mental disorders like depression and schizophrenia, but it was also used to try and cut down the rate of seizures in some epileptic patients. Lothar Kolinowsky was an assistant to Ugo Cerletti, a man in Rome who started to use ECT on epileptic pigs, and Kolinowsky was supposed to come to the U.S. to start treatments here. These had various results, but some people even went comatose in the epileptic cases.

Hitting someone on the head: can sometimes cause a seizure. America is a combination of a lot of different forms of epilepsy here, since he is a country and a unique case himself separated from the rest, I deemed that yes, he also could get induced seizures if hit hard enough. Not uncommon in some cases of epilepsy.

Hope you enjoyed. :)