Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Thank you to silverheartlugia2000 and sabilandako you say for reviewing. Critiques and reviews are greatly appreciated.
It was black, everything was black. If there was an escape, England couldn't think of any. His head reeled and it hurt to breathe. His eyes felt watery, even though he was sure they were closed. It felt as if his skin was on fire.
Sounds came to him first. Patchy, but audible.
"Until this lifts, there's nothing we can really do." A firm voice echoed, but was devoid of reassurance.
"But we cannot just leave 'im like zhis!" The first voice was accompanied by a heavily accented one, drenched in worry. It almost sounded like...
"Frog...?" England croaked, without realising he had said it aloud. This was quickly followed by the sound of hurried footsteps and of wood being pushed against the floor, probably a chair being pushed back.
"Angleterre? Can you 'ear me?" France asked worriedly.
As if in response, England opened his eyes. After the brief pain of opening them to light, and being so tempted to close them again, he noticed he was in his bedroom, with a worried France and a man he didn't recognise, peering over him.
Light no longer spilled through the windows, as it was firmly blocked not only by curtains, but the oblivion of night. The lampshade at his night stand was on along with the main room light, illuminating the ancient patterned wallpaper that hung to the wall for dear life. Two chairs were parallel to his beside, for the two inhabitants.
"What-" He coughed before he could continue any farther. France, obviously away of the situation, quickly dashed off, but returned none the less with a glass of water in his hand. After France helped him up, England took the glass off of him, nodding curtly and gratefully swallowing the water which grated against his throat with every gulp.
After finishing off the water, he set it on the night-stand as the stranger continued to evaluate him with his penetrating gaze, poking and prodding him as he checked his condition, and France only looked worried. Taking a breath which thankfully didn't catch, he asked,
"What happened?"
France threw his arms up elaborately, and before he could have a speech on how terrible something was, the man interrupted,
"You fainted due to lack of oxygen getting to your lungs. This was caused by the smog that has recently settled on London."
"Smog?" England asked, befuddled. Sure, there was a bit of fog by lunch, but there was no smog, surely.
This time, France managed to interject before the other being could.
"Oui Angleterre!" He exclaimed. "There 'as been so much pollution created by your factories an' cars, it finally condensed an' put you in zhis state!"
England continued to stare blankly, his gaze flickering from France to the man in his room, still confused. Wait...why was there a man in his room?
Turning to the said person in question, he asked,
"Who are you and what are you doing in my house?"
The man seemed to glare for a moment, accentuating his features, and reluctantly drew back, halting his examination. He was a middle aged man, with slightly curled black hair, a wide jaw and heavy rimmed glasses, none of which helped with the 'friendly' demeanour. A hefty black leather bag lay atop the chair next to him, and Arthur could guess where this was going.
The said person in question answered,
"I'm doctor Frederick. I was called here by Francis after he found you in your house collapsed."
Arthur merely nodded and then turned his attention to France, asking,
"What were you doing in my house then?"
Francis, at the mention of the question went from concerned to near-embarrassed, and stuttered before replying sheepishly,
"Spreading ze Christmas cheer?"
England merely looked at him in disbelief, and before he could retort about how he was probably out to grope something and 'accidentally' ended up at his house, a coughing fit overcame him. He was getting really tired of this bloody cough.
Francis was with him in an instant, rubbing his back in circles comfortingly and murmuring words of support whilst the doctor observed Arthur with a passive gaze, quickly going to jot something down on a notepad on the night stand. Once the coughing fit had subsided, England thankfully finished off the remaining water, and Dr. Frederick stated,
"He'll need plenty of bed-rest. As long as the people suffer, he will too, so there's no need to waste medical supplies."
France's face morphed into anger and was about to argue when he was interrupted yet again.
"You can stay with him if you like. My office number is on the paper. Call me if his condition worsens."
And with that, the doctor stood up, grabbing his bag in the process, bidding them farewell and exited the house.
Standing from his kneeling position after tending to England,ignoring how his joints clicked, France exclaimed,
"I 'ave never, never seen somebody so...so...insolent!" If Arthur wasn't in such a bad state, he was sure that Francis may have gone to strangle the man himself.
Grabbing his arm gently, but firmly, Arthur stated,
"Francis, it's okay. He was only explaining the conditions."
"But still!" Francis insisted, but stopped after looking at Arthur and the expression he was wearing. It was slightly pained but understanding. Mon Dieu he thought If old eyebrows isn't complaining, 'e must be ill!
"Let us get your temperature taken, non?" He announced brisking past England, making his way to the bathroom when he heard a weak but still irritated voice saying,
"I can take care of myself frog."
He smirked, tension taken off his shoulders as he collected the required items. At least 'e is well enough to insult me he thought relieved as he gracefully made his way back to the sick nation.
The hours passed in relative peace. France tended to England, who-despite being ill- managed to spew out insults faster than a sailor. All was going well. That was until lunch, or more specifically breakfast.
Arthur had woken at around 3am when the doctor was checking up on him, France reasoned. Plus he said he was going to make himself lunch before he passed out, so why is he making such a fuss?
"I'm sorry Francis but I really don't feel like eating this." England stated, pushing the food on the tray farther away from him, as if it made him safer.
"Why not mon chère? Do you feel nauseous?" He asked concerned. So far England had managed to keep everything down-tea, water and cough syrup- but he didn't want to change that.
"No, I just don't want to eat." England tried to reason with a huff, unconsciously crossing him arms over his chest.
"Please Angleterre, you 'ave not eaten since yesterday! We do not want you getting malnourished now, oui?" Francis responded with genuine concern etching his face.
This caught the Brit by surprise. He didn't want Francis to think he was being stubborn, but he didn't want him to worry over him either. God knows just how flamboyant and dramatic the French can be.
Sighing, he sat up and faced the Frenchman stating,
"Only if you let me eat it by myself."
"Of course, mon ami." France replied with a smile. It was only French toast after all.
Picking up a slice of it, England quietly nibbled at the toast, forcing it down his throat despite the scratching agony it caused him. The food itself didn't taste horrible, it actually tasted quite good, but the reason he didn't want to eat it was because his throat hurt enough merely swallowing tea- and some with honey to soothe his throat at that. Hell, breathing even hurt. It sent needles dancing across his lungs and fire down his throat, even though they were inside away from the pollution.
Francis, noticing England's brow furrowing worriedly asked,
"Is everything alright Angleterre? Do you feel ill?"
"No, I-" Arthur hurriedly placed down the remaining toast and covered his mouth, preventing half chewed pieces of toast from flying out of his mouth as he coughed. Stopping himself from choking, Arthur quickly swallowed the toast, but soon after realised contents of his lungs had gone down with it as well.
It was not settling well with his stomach.
Francis stopped rubbing Arthur's back after noticing the silence was not accompanied by a sigh of relief or any relaxation of muscles and quickly realised why after looking at his face. Arthur had gone deathly pale and was starting to hunch over.
"Mon chère, do you think you are going to be sick?" He asked, voice pinched in worry.
Arthur simply nodded, hunching over farther and not caring when France picked him bridal style and rushed him to the bathroom. The moment he was placed down on the cold marble floor, Arthur placed his hands on the toilet seat and was violently sick, ash and the consumed items from before coming up as he did so. Francis would occasionally brush the bangs out of his face as his stomach rejected its contents and would rub his back murmuring supportive words the other times. Despite this, France felt pretty useless.
He had never really seen Arthur in such a weak state since WW2, and in nation terms it wasn't that long ago. But if a little air pollution brought him down to that level, was it really just a little?
Realising England has thrown up all he could and was now dry heaving, France helped him back into a sitting position and gave him a damp wash cloth to clean himself up with. England nodded weakly, and proceeded with getting himself to a decent state whilst France flushed the toilet and cleaned up any other possible remnants of this event.
Once all of that was sorted, Francis made his way back to Arthur, putting the wash cloth on the edge of the sink to be cleaned later and asked softly,
"'ow are you feeling mon ami?"
"Like shit." England replied bluntly, rubbing his face with his hands in fatigue and slight embarrassment. It was bad enough throwing up, but in front of the frog? It was almost too much.
France seemed to wince slightly at the swear, but then changed his face back to the normal 'pervy smile' as he helped England brush his teeth and then left him to get changed into a pair of his pyjamas.
After a little while Francis looked at an old grandfather clock he had in the corridor, reading the hands. 'e 'as been in there for five minutes...surely it doesn't take that long to put pyjamas on?
Slightly worried, France got up from leaning against the wall and rapped at the bathroom door.
"Angleterre? Is everthing alright?"
No answer.
Becoming anxious, France knocked on the door again and stated,
"I am coming in now, if you are not covered up, it will not be my fault if I see!" He added his typical 'Ohn ohn ohn', hoping to get an insult as a reply from Arthur, or hear a scurrying as he speeded up getting dressed, but was met with silence again.
"Angleterre?" He asked nervously, not trying to hide that he was feeling as such as he opened the door.
"Mon Dieu!" Francis exclaimed, rushing in and falling to his knees as he discovered Arthur on the bathroom floor, his trousers on and shirt half buttoned, panting heavily, flesh slick with sweat and face pinched in pain.
"Angleterre, can you 'ear me?" France asked, letting anxiety get the better hold of him as he shook England gently, but shaking him none the same.
"Mgh..wha? Stop it frog." England grumbled weakly as slits of eyes forced their way open, revealing dulled and glassy emeralds as he weakly pawed at France's arms.
"Oh Dieu merci, do not do zaht to me Angleterre!" Francis exclaimed, taken over by a tide of relief but which rapidly changed to concern as England asked,
"Why? What happened?" And quickly added, "And why am I on the floor?"
"You collapsed you silly fool! You are sick!" He replied, voice crippled with worry.
"Collapsed?" England asked wearily, struggling once again to keep his glazed over eyes open.
France, not bothering to ask for permission, quickly placed the back of his hand to England's forehead, and retracted just as fast once he felt the inferno radiating from it.
"Let us get you to bed. You need rest to recover, non?" He asked, gently picking England up, getting a 'mmph' in reply as he walked back to the bedroom and tucked England in with a thin sheet.
England was out before his head hit the pillow.
Francis, after taking Arthur's temperature yet again and discovering it was at a startling 40 degrees Celsius, hurriedly went about placing a cool cloth on his forehead, then making his way downstairs.
Approaching the phone, he picked up the ear and head piece- it's so convenient now that they come in one piece- he thought to himself. Placing it to the side of his face, he held up the piece of paper with the doctor's phone number on and hesitated. The man was of no use when he arrived, only stating what he already knew and refusing to give him any pain killers, so what was the point in calling him?
Francis pondered this for a moment but then thought,
There is no way I can handle Arthur in this state by myself, but even so...
Chewing on his bottom lip lightly, he was just about to call the doctor an idea struck his mind, and he went about calling up those numbers immediately. They would definitely help.
Besides, it had been a while since they'd all gotten together.