Prompt: Sixth sense

Characters: England, Canada

Notes: Between not getting enough sleep, quitting caffeine, and experiencing the side effects of my second COVID-19 shot (totally necessary, still not fun), I've been a bit under the weather lately. What better way to cope than projecting my feelings onto characters?

England felt like crap. For several days now, he'd been battling a fever that had eventually confined him to the sofa. (He could have stayed in bed, but being in the living room made him feel less like a slob. Lying in bed all day was for the lazy.) His sinuses ached with the pressure of being congested, which only became worse with his constant coughing. On top of that, he could sleep only in snatches, with long, restless bouts of tossing and turning in between.

He couldn't help feeling a little sorry for himself, which he hated. Pity parties did no one any good. Besides, it was just a mild case of the flu. He'd been through worse.

Still, the knowledge that he was running low on medicine weighed on him. He was down to his last two capsules of Lemsip. Absently, he wondered whether he could try twisting open each capsule and splitting its contents into two doses. A number of problems with this idea quickly became clear. For one, he was pretty sure the medicine was meant to be taken all at once. For another, prying open the capsule would require a level of fine muscle control he was currently lacking. Not to mention how much he would have to squint and strain his eyes to see in the dim light.

Definitely a last resort, then.

He was normally so careful to keep his first aid kit well stocked. How had he been caught off guard like this?

England groaned and rubbed his forehead. He'd have to be even more careful in the future.

Shivering, he wrapped the afghan tighter around his weak body and tried to get some more sleep.

At some point—was it hours later, or only a few moments?—there was a knock at the door, although England didn't immediately recognize the sound. Only when someone called his name did he understand what was happening, and even then, it took him a moment to identify the speaker.

Canada.

Great.

To be fair, of all the people who might decide to check on him, Canada was far from the worst. In fact, he could be a good companion in times of illness—attentive, but not pushy; sympathetic, but not consumed with worry. He was a quiet, calming presence. But England didn't want to see him. Or, more accurately, he didn't want Canada to see him like this. (Canada had seen him ill, injured, or otherwise weakened more than once during his time as a British colony, but England preferred not to think about that.) When it came down to it, England just wasn't good at being sick, and he didn't want Canada to know.

Still, if he didn't let Canada in, he'd probably bring reinforcements. And that, more than anything, was what England didn't want.

Damn it.

England called out, "Just a moment," and immediately broke into another coughing fit. Leaving the afghan on the couch, he pushed himself to his feet and paused for a moment to let the both the hacking and his sudden dizziness subside. Then, he trudged to his front door and opened it a crack.

"Hello, Canada," he said, trying to make himself appear as normal as possible. He didn't think he'd be able to fool Canada, but it was worth a try. "What brings you here?"

Canada gave him a rueful smile. "Sorry to make you get up. I know you aren't feeling well."

Of course Canada knew. England frowned. "How did you find out?"

"Your ambassador told my ambassador, who told me."

England rolled his eyes and muttered something about wishing he could fire people.

"That, and you weren't answering your phone," Canada continued. "Even America and France were starting to worry. I figured you wouldn't want them knocking down your door, so…"

He spread his hands and shrugged.

England remembered coming out of a hazy fever dream to the sound of his phone vibrating on the coffee table. He also seemed to recall being too tired to realize he should check to see who was calling, if nothing else. Maybe he couldn't return calls without revealing his illness, but he could at least have sent one of his standard "I'm fine, don't worry about me" texts.

"Now… could you please let me in? So you can go back to resting?"

True, returning to the sofa was a very attractive idea. But England wouldn't give up without trying another deflection tactic.

"Well, you've seen me. You know I'm alive." He tried to laugh but ended up coughing instead. He struggled to hide his shivering. Christ, but the wind was cold. "Isn't that enough? I'm quite all right on my own, Canada. No reason for you to fret."

Canada sighed and said, "You shouldn't lie about the obvious, England." In a quieter voice, he added, "It's clear where America gets it from…"

Were he feeling better, England would have said something about youths needing to respect their elders. Instead, he simply grumbled. This was a losing battle, and he needed to conserve his resources to hold Canada off at their next impasse.

When he opened the door all the way and gestured for Canada to come in, Canada smiled and thanked him.

"I'm sure you have plenty of medicine, but I brought some just in case," he said while following England to the living room.

"I do, but, well, it never hurts to have more."

"America told me to buy some sugary stuff to help you get your energy back, but I didn't think you'd want that," Canada added. He set down his backpack and took out the medicine. "Sorry, they only had the liquid Lemsip."

England grimaced. The stuff worked, he couldn't deny it, but at the cost of tasting like unripe lemon with notes of battery acid. To make matters worse, it contained paracetamol, meaning he couldn't wash the taste out of his mouth with a shot or two of whiskey.

But that was a worry for when he ran out of the capsules.

"Have you had anything to eat recently?" Canada asked, although he could tell the answer from looking at the coffee table, which was bare but for the two empty cups of tea England had managed to make yesterday during a brief respite from the flashes of pain afflicting every bit of his body.

"Don't bother, Canada," England said, slowly lowering himself onto the sofa. His body felt ready to crack should he move too suddenly. The concentration it took to handle himself gently had become draining. "I'm not likely to keep anything down right now."

"I'll make you something anyway," said Canada. His next words came out as a murmur, mostly to himself: "Maybe soup. I brought the ingredients for that." Then, addressing England again, he added, "If you're feeling better later today, you can have it then. And if you're still feeling bad… well, you should probably eat regardless."

It sounded so sensible, like something England would have said all those years ago when he was looking after a young, sick Canada. Kids really did grow up to be like their caretakers, he mused, deliberately pushing out of his mind Canada's earlier remark about where America got his stubbornness from.

"Do you need anything else before I head over to the kitchen?" Canada asked, picking up the empty teacups.

England shook his head.

"All right." Canada paused, seemingly trying to decide what to say next. He studied the teacups as he thought, not meeting England's eyes. Finally, with another of those rueful smiles that filled England with shame, he said, "Let me know if you do."

England didn't reply, only pulled the afghan up to his chest and watched Canada go. They had said so little, but both could read between the lines, much to England's discomfort. Canada knew he was lying about not needing anything, and while he wouldn't pry, he wouldn't ignore England's needs either—the needs that called out for attention like open wounds, no matter how hard England tried to conceal them. He needed help changing into clothes that weren't soaked with sweat and getting to the washroom when he felt a now-familiar rolling in his stomach and the sour taste of vomit in his mouth. Most shameful of all, though, was his need for companionship, especially in the middle of the night when strange dreams, confusion, and restlessness assaulted him. He just wanted someone to be there. And Canada would be. Canada knew, and he cared, and he would help. Even if his touch disturbed as much as it comforted.

As his eyes grew heavier and, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he started to sleep into unconsciousness, England wondered dully why did getting what he wanted—what he needed—had to hurt so much.