Russia had been visiting America when the disease had hit. Borne out of Canada of all places, it was a bacterial strain resistant to all current forms of vaccines, carried on the backs of rats and mice and insects before seeping into the water supply and into the lungs and brain of the infected. Information spread quickly, half of the world's nations made aware of the fact within the day. Though none of them thought it wise to panic, especially England, who kept his calm demeanor even once the infection—barely clinging to life on his boats and planes—made it to his shores.
America had closed his borders with his brother, if only to be safe. He had figured it to be something like the scare of swine flu a few years back, though some twist in the nation's gut told him otherwise. A sorrowful, knowing tug that had pulled on him as he had spoke to his coughing, sneezing brother, joking and laughing with him for the last time.
Russia had been there when America had received the news that Canada had been declared a "forsaken" region by the World Health Organization, had heard the nation scream and had been there to grasp America firmly by the shoulders as the proud country had sunk to the ground, face in his hands, shaking and sobbing and crying for his brother. He had comforted the young nation the best that he could, despite his own shaken nerves, though knowing their was nothing he could really do to ease the lost of America's twin.
The pain the nation felt for his brother made Russia worry as well for the nations that he cared for-even if he suspected some of the relationships were forged in a one-sided fashion. Part of him wanted to stay with America, but another part of him wanted to go back home, to get in contact with certain nations—his sisters, Lithuania, China—but this was not an option, as soon America's ports and airports shut down completely, in futile hope to contain the disease to the North American continent.
Although it was illogical to think, it seemed that the closing of all contact with the rest of the world was making the disease fester in strength. And the actions of the young nation, mind and body now crippled with sickness, seemed to prove this.
Russia could see that it was killing America, to be in the cities, the festering nodes of sickness. The young nation had insisted he be around his people, assisting in hospitals and clinics, but more often than not he became a patient himself, falling to the floor with trays of bandages and medication, coughing out his lungs and burning with fever. Nights where America wasn't restlessly moaning from the heat of his body or vomiting into the trash can that Russia held before him were spent with ceaseless crying and endless tears, for his brother, England, France-anyone who the infection had spread to. Anyone who it had killed.
There are lesions all about America's face. Russia remembered a time when America's skin was clean. He remembered when the nation didn't sob in pain whenever Russia tried to touch him.
It was unbearable to watch. And so, Russia had decided one morning to spirit the infected nation off somewhere where he would possible find more peace of mind. After a thankful night of sleep, America awoke in a fresh, new-smelling bed in a small, two-story farmhouse surrounding by miles of waving amber grains.
He had been angry at Russia at first, but too weak and feverish to use the far-gone super strength of his. So he had let Russia bathe his brow and try to feed him a simple gruel, which was promptly thrown up.
After a few weeks of living in the cottage, isolated from any and all other contact from the outside world, Russia found himself on the floor, America's dinner smashed against the hardwood, hand against his ribcage as he coughed furiously into his palm. The dread in his stomach spread as fast as the infection did, though Russia found he could still walk and talk and think, unlike the fast-deteriorating America.
The young nation could barely speak anymore—and when he did, it was either incoherent nonsense or half-garbled sobs of utter pain and misery. The scleras of Alfred's eyes were turning beet red, and his tanned and soft skin had begun to break out in thick, reddened lesions that spread from his arms to his chest to his neck and face. It soon became painful for the American to simply lie down on the bed.
America was wilting faster and fast inside the home. And so, one day, Russia decided to lift the naked, sweating boy out of his bed-trying his best to ignore the miserable whines—and carry him outside, into air that smelled as sweet and fresh as ever, despite the dark stain of infection that was slowly creeping across the land.
And Russia walked, bare feet, irritated with the beginnings of his own lesions, stepping over the earth into the fields of wheat that surrounding the tiny home. Russia saw America's eye's open as he walked, stirred by the gentle touch of the soft amber against his skin.
Russia walked and walked until he felt that he had gone far enough, until he thought his aching feet and bruised lungs could carry him no more, and it was in this spot where he rested America as gently as he could on the ground. And America, instead of jerking and crying from the pain, simply sighed and curled up on the ground, as if the softened earth was the confines of a baby blanket. The look on America's face was not one Russia had seen in a long time-not since before the death of his brother.
Russia settled down as well, and although the touch of the earth did not have the same healing effect for him, the vast nation still felt as peace, the grating of his breath soothed somewhat by the smell, touch, taste that was all around him. He shut his eyes, his hand reaching down to touch the prone America, to run his fingers through his hair. So very much like—
And then America's voice came reedy and strained and thin and foreign—though Russia had not heard him speak in such a long time, maybe that had always been how Alfred had sounded—and what America spoke, what he sang was a song Russia had heard before, a song that Alfred had sang to him back the seemingly halcyon days of the twentieth century.
O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountains majesties,
Above the fruited plain
And though America's voice was tinged, and fringed in cough, Russia could not help but reckon it to the most beautiful and angelic hyms he had heard back in his churches at home.
America, America
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood,
From sea to shining sea!
America's voice grew to a swell before quickly falling silent again, back into the labored, struggling breaths. Russia wished he himself could string together his anthem for America, but he had long grown tired of the weak, pathetic timbre of his voice. America's weakness was beautiful, and spoke of defiance even in the face of the intense adversity. And while Russia wished that he could match that, this once, but he found himself far too tired to open his drying mouth, or to lift a finger to do anything other than stroke fingers through America's hair—his amber waves of grain, Russia thought with an inward smiling, wondering if America had ever thought of his locks in such a way.
Russia lasted long into the night, until the moon bathed both him and America, who still lay curled up on the ground. The way the moon-full and wide and gleaming—shone on his hair and skin made him appear ghost-like, the color of the rolling white and clean tundras back home. It was then that Russia finally decided to lay himself down, next to America, hands closing around the other nation's, the pale faces of both America and the moon the only thing that he could still see.
And the moon grew bigger and bigger and whiter—whiter than anything Russia had ever seen before, and there was America and the moon and white and gold and Russia and the tundra and the golden waves of wheat and in the end there was no black as he drifted off and away.
I wrote this real quickly, sorry if it's bad. ;; I'm hoping to get the next few chapters of B&B up soon, but in the meantime, there's this.