For the lovely Immortal x Snow on her birthday! 3 :*

I don't own Hetalia

England stumbled into his house at approximately one a.m. He was fighting a losing battle with his eyes over whether they should stay open, and another one with his stomach over whether he should throw up. The question was which he was going to lose first. For one brief, triumphant moment, as he felt the fuzz of his front hall carpet on his cheek, he thought he would fall asleep before he hurled up the boozy contents of his stomach. Then he heard a voice.

"Good grief. What happened to you?"

Iggy looked up in dismay to see France, sparkling, immaculate and coherent, standing above him. He groaned.

"What was that?"

"Mmka..." he slurred into the carpet. Definitely going to be sick first.

"Sorry. I still didn't catch that." For once, France didn't sound mocking. Just genuinely confused.

The drunken country took a deep breath. He could get out this one word before he lost it.

"MURRCA," he declared emphatically.

He narrowly avoided vomiting on France's shoes.

. . .

"Hey! England!"

Everything was fuzzy: his vision, his hearing, his head, his mouth. The entire world had been inundated with cotton balls and polyester fiberfill.

"Wake up, England!"

On second thought, all the fuzz wasn't so bad. It muffled the pounding in his head.

"England! France said you wanted to see me?"

He didn't want to see anybody. He blinked. He wasn't even sure he could see anybody. No. His heart plummeted somewhere into the depths of his wobbly stomach. He would recognize that leather bomber jacket and those glinting eyeglasses anywhere.

For God's sake, America, go away! he thought.

"'Chudoinear?" he mumbled.

"France told me my name was the last thing you said before you passed out," the hyperactive nation exclaimed, hand pressed melodramatically to his heart. "I had to come."

"Go 'way."

"What if you were calling to me in your last moments? What if you couldn't bear to part with me as you had in the pub? I could not refuse the last wishes of the dying! How could I-"

"'MURICA!" England cradled his head in his hands. No shouting. Shouting bad. He pulled the blanket over his head and curled up. "Go 'way." Leave me to die in peace.

America sniffed loudly. "Fine. If you don't want me after all..."

"Noahdonnnnn."

The younger nation stood up and walked to the door. Just before he shut it behind him, however, he stuck his head back inside. England, buried under all the blankets and pillows, could not see the look of concern on his face.

"There's a hot bath running, and tea waiting in the dining room for when you feel ready to get up. Okay, England?"

"Go 'way."

America couldn't see the smile curving his big brother's mouth slowly upwards, but he thought he could hear it. He shook his head as he gently closed the door.

"'Murica..." he laughed to himself. That's kind of catchy.