The sky seems to be mocking America, despite the clouds and coldness, it wasn't dark. Quite the opposite, actually. The bright sun and thin clouds made for a strange atmosphere, not bright and happy, but not sad an dark either, a boring middle. It seems rather dull in the destroyed city.
America could just about make out the camp a few yards away. They are in the middle of a park with only small patches of green grass dotted everywhere, the tree's leaves were a light green, and the small play-area is rusted an obviously hasn't been used in a long time. There are dozens and dozens of yellowed tents dotted around under the trees in small clusters. In the middle of the large park-slash-camp is the largest tent, quite a few feet wide, has three flags on it. The Mongolian state flag, Union Flag and Old Glory. One of the English soldiers look at America and nods toward the large tent as the rest of the soldiers break off. America carries England over to the tent with Mongolia following them.
As America enters the tent, he sport for beds, two of which are occupied by an American and Mongolian soldier which both look badly hurt and bandaged. A nurse walks up to them. She looks young, in her late twenties, and her brown hair is tied into a bun. Despite her tired face she has a determined and serious look in her eyes and the loose, greenish t-shirt and trousers she's wearing look blood-stained and dirty. However, he cannot tell if she's English or American, because she's definitely not Mongolian, until she speaks. Her green eyes scan England, before landing on his wound. "Put him in a free bed," She says with an American accent. "I'll get the others,"
America walks to one of the two free beds, the once closest to the back of the tent, and gently places him there. The younger nations's eyes scan the Brit's unconscious body. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up toward Mongolia's tanned face. "He'll make it through, you know how much of a stubborn ass he is..." She chuckles and so does America, very quietly. Shuffling is heard and about three nurses come into the tent, one of them being the one from earlier, the other two being Mongolian. They all rush towards England, saying instructions that America didn't really listen to, and shoved both him and Mongolia away. America is about to protest before Mongolia stops him by placing a hand on his shoulder and attempting to take the unwilling American outside. Reluctantly, America follows her.
Outside, America sighs and watches as his hot breath rises up into the bright, cold evening sun, and disappears into the dull clouds. Mongolia looks over to him and sighs, "America...I-" She pauses, "I don't know what its like to be in your position, but I do know what England would want you to do." America shifts his solemn eyes to her, "He would want you to be strong. Now, I know its cheesy, but it's true. Do you think England's the type to do something without thinking? He wanted to save you, he wouldn't have just done that for many other people, I don't think. You're more precious to him than you think, you can't just spend your time moping about because of him," She finishes as America turns to her.
"Is he not precious enough for me to mourn him?" He asks and continues without giving Mongolia a chance to reply, "You know, I always wanted to be his hero. It ended up being the other way around," He laughs dryly as tiny, hot tears run down his face, "He saved my life. And now he will probably in the next few months...and it's all my fault..." An almost mute sob escapes his lips, and the tall country feels arms wrap around him.
"He will not die," Mongolia whispers in a determined, however shaky voice, "He won't...He can't...He can't leave us..." Mongolia now begins to quietly sob into America's chest, gripping onto him for dear life. "I'm scared America," Her voice is now trembling.
"S-so am I Mongolia. I'm terrified..." America's voice wavers as well, fat tears now running down both of their faces and getting America's clothes wet. It is a while before America feels a light tap on his shoulder. He wipes his eyes and turns his head. The three nurses are staring there with neutral expressions, though one looks rather pleased. The American nurse motions for them to go inside, the two waste no time and don't notice where the three women went.
They walk into the tent, empty other than England's tent, and walk up to their unconscious friend. 'He looks so peaceful...' America notes, looking at his sleeping face, it's calm, without any creases and his mouth is open very, very slightly to allow the old nation to breathe. His hair is disheveled, giving him a cute look. Looking down his body, America notices the nurses have taken off his shirt, leaving his blood-stained-bandaged torso bare. America also notices that one of his thighs is bandaged, which is probably why he was limping earlier. He hums and shifts in his sleep, a small smile coming to his somewhat-cleaned face. America smiles too, a carefully hopeful smile, as if he believes he can't but does anyway. How can he not? He loves England and England loves him. Hope is a godsend and now America it is in his view. England is alive, and if America can protect him, he will hopefully remain that way.
America and Mongolia walk up to England's bedside. America kneels before his ex-mentor and grasps his hand, expecting it to be cold, but it is warm in his hand. Just like when he was a child, and England would hold his hand as they took a walk through his rose garden. They still sometimes did, just without holding hands. America sighs and Mongolia leaves the tent, giving them some privacy. "We were just talking about you," He begins, "And crying. That's how much you affect me, ya' know? Only you could make me cry and hold someone...And Mongolia. I never though I'd see her do that! heh..." America attempts to lift the atmosphere between him and a comatose England. He sighs once more, "You've only been out a few hours and I already miss you. You and you're stupid eyebrows and stupid insults, and stupid hair, and stupid getting yourself hurt for me!" He ends up shouting and another fat tear rolls down his cheek, "Why me, England...? "He says, barely a whisper, "Why did you have to go and get yourself hurt for me? Why aren't I lying there?" He lets out a frustrated and upset huff, "You're more of a hero than I ever was, you stupid caterpillar brows..."
"Who are you calling stupid?" America hears a wavering voice say.
