Author's Note: Thanks for bearing with me, guys! November looks like it's going to be a busy month for me, but I'll try to keep going through these requests as best as I can. :) Enjoy!
America isn't sure how he falls asleep in between the torrent of water inundating the ship, the blasts of ferocious lightning and thunder striking every few minutes, and the low moaning of the wind. He doesn't realize the storm is over, until he wakes up with crusty eyes and an exhausted Canada slouched against his left shoulder.
His muscles are sore and stiff from sleeping on the creaky, wooden floorboards for yet another night, and as he does his best to stretch and massage the worst of the tenderness away, Canada's eyes flutter open and his mouth parts just enough to take in a tiny gasp of breath.
"Hey," America greets him cheerfully, trying to keep their spirits up, even though he feels absolutely awful on both a physical and emotional level. "Good mornin'."
Canada rubs his face, stares at America in a state of confusion for a moment, and then recalls the events of the previous night. "Bon—hi," he corrects himself.
"Yesterday was strange, huh?"
"Yes."
"At least no one knows we're here," America says, a smidgen of pride in his voice. "How much worse can it get than that storm? I bet it'll be smooth sailing from here."
Canada makes a noise of agreement that doesn't sound particularly convincing, and his skepticism increases tenfold when a mosquito plonks itself down on America's hand and bites him.
"Agh," America yelps, smacking the mosquito away a fraction of a second too late. There's a little white bump left behind on his skin, and he's tempted to rub and pick at it.
Amused, Canada stretches his legs and lets out a quiet laugh.
"What's so funny?" America frowns, still not entirely sure how he feels about this kid. He's a little weird, and it's going to take some more prodding and investigating before he's willing to trust him. "It could've just as easily gotten you… Ugh, why's it so hot in here, again? It's hard to breathe. I wish we could just go up to the deck."
Canada shrugs his shoulders.
"Not much of a talker, are you? Well, that's okay. I can talk for both of us," America huffs.
Ignoring the jibe, Canada murmurs, "Maybe I should tell France I'm here. He'll be angry, but he'll take me home, and I really miss home."
Instantly opposed to the idea, America looks straight into Canada's eyes and exclaims, "You can't do that! You'll get me caught, and I don't want England finding out I'm here. He'll start talking in that really scary voice he always uses when he's upset, and then his face will turn all reddish purple. He'll give me a lecture about how I've gotta be more responsible and aware of the consequences of my actions—the usual. If he finds me here now, he'll probably give me a strapping, and then I'll never get to be the captain of my own ship!"
To America's great surprise, tears start tumbling down Canada's cheeks.
"H-Hey, don't cry. What're you cryin' for?"
"I should have never left home. I'm hungry, France is going to hate me, and it smells bad here," Canada whispers, shaking.
Feeling something stir in his heart, America dabs at Canada's tears with his fingers and smooths his hair back like England has done countless times for him. "It's all right. It's not so bad down here. Just think about it, if you hadn't run away from home, you'd never would've met me! I'm a fun kid!"
"I g-guess."
"You just have to get your mind off of the bad stuff. Think about something happy, like how we're on an adventure, and we don't have to listen to any adults because they don't know we're here. We're free! We can do anything we want," America explains, jumping to his feet. He takes a second to think, looks to make sure there's no one close enough to hear or see him, and then starts prancing around back and forth between the supply crates, holding up one hand and pretending to brandish a sword. "Shiver me timbers!" he says in the most exaggerated manner possible.
A smirk lifts Canada's frown as he watches America make a fool of himself.
"They say yer the fearsome Canada, King of the Seven Seas, but yer no match for me! Take this!" America shouts, driving his imaginary sword forward.
Deciding to play along, Canada rises and draws out his imaginary weapon of choice as well. "You'll never take me alive!"
They battle it out, swooshing their hands back and forth and pretending to knock one another over every now and again. At one point, Canada traps America in a corner, and just when it seems like Canada will deliver the final blow, America dashes past him and somersaults over to the other side of the hold.
"Ready to give up?" America asks haughtily.
"Never!"
Except they don't have a choice in the matter because there's a sound of movement nearby, and both boys quickly duck back into their hiding spot, staying completely still as they try not to breathe too hard.
Fortunately, it's just a false alarm.
They both snicker when the coast is clear and lean against the wall behind them, grinning from ear to ear.
"Hey, America?"
"Yeah?"
"D-Do you think…? Do you think we're maybe...?" Canada shakes his head and sighs. "Never mind, it's stupid."
"No, tell me! What's stupid?"
Canada bites his lip and says in a rush, "Do you think we're brothers?"
America knits his brows together in thought. "Brothers? I don't know. We do look a lot like each other."
"Wouldn't France or England have said something though? France never told me I have a brother."
"Maybe they forgot."
"How?"
America sighs this time, throwing his hands up into the air in frustration. "I don't know! Maybe they didn't want us to know. England's done a lot of things lately that I don't understand, so maybe it's just one of those things we won't know until we're grown-up."
"Isn't it mean not to tell someone they have a brother?"
"Yeah, it is, but England's a mean guy, so I can see why he'd do something like that."
Canada glowers. "I never say mean things about France. You shouldn't say mean things about England."
"Why not? He can be a real jerk."
"Well, with France, even when he does things I don't like, he says it's because it's what's good for me," Canada explains, scuffing the tip of his shoe against the floor.
"Yeah, England says that, too. Adults say it when they want you to listen to them, but it doesn't mean they're right all of the time," America grumbles. "It's not right for England to always be leaving me and going off and doing fun things without me."
Canada nods sympathetically. "France leaves a lot, too."
"Does he ever take you with him?"
"No. Only once or twice."
"Well, England doesn't take me at all. He says the world's too dangerous," America complains, feeling the same pit of hurt and hollowness he always feels when his caretaker walks out the front door without him. "But it doesn't matter now because I'm here, and he's going to regret he ever made me stay in the house."
Canada, on the other hand, continues to defend his mentor. "I still love France, even though he's not always around. He always takes care of me, makes me food, and sings to me when I can't sleep or don't feel well."
America's stomach flips, and he throws up into one of the nearby crates filled with some sort of rope or twine. The pit of hurt gets bigger, and while his head is still hanging over the edge of the crate, he mumbles, "England doesn't care about me. He thinks I'm a burden."
Finding a good place to hide on a ship is hard—harder than one would think, given the size of the structure.
Canada tries to find a place for them to relocate after the combined smell of the salty sea, unwashed sweating bodies, and America's recent… accident in the crate becomes too much to simply ignore. The first day isn't too bad, but by the second and third days, Canada is also just about ready to be sick.
America, meanwhile, isn't confident he'd be able to move from their spot even if he wanted to. The heat is killing him, and he doesn't understand how Canada can sit directly next to him with hardly a bead of sweat on his neck. He's burning up. A few more days, and he'll be a raging ball of fire.
"You don't look so good," Canada tells him, stating the obvious.
America blinks through his heavy-lidded eyes and wonders why there are two and a half Canadas in front of him. His head aches, he can't think straight, and his stomach just seems to be getting worse and worse by the hour.
"Want some water to drink?" Canada asks.
The thought of water makes him extra nauseous. He's not thirsty even though he hasn't had anything to drink since yesterday afternoon.
Hot, hot, hot.
Canada seems to be extremely worried. "M-Maybe I should get help?"
"No," America begs, despite the protests in every muscle and nerve in his body. "Don't…"
"But you're really sick."
"No, I'm not. It's just the heat from the—"
"It's not any hotter than it normally is down here," Canada argues, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm going to get help."
"No, Canada! Stop!" America shouts weakly, watching the boy saunter off down a hallway. He wants to follow him and pull him back, but he can't even lift his arms anymore. Somehow, they've turned into jelly without his permission. He smacks his dry lips and moans, feeling so hot that he wants to crawl out of his skin. He's going to melt here.
Where's Canada? He isn't coming back. There's some muffled noise far, far away, and America's eyes get too heavy and tired to stay open. He waits and waits for what seems like forever and a day, until finally, someone touches his arm.
He peels his red-rimmed eyes open once more and expects to see Canada, but instead, it's a very irate albeit concerned England with the wavy-haired man, France, hovering behind him. England's lips move as he says something, but America can't hear a word of it. So, in response, he lets out a long groan, and it makes him feel a little less abysmal.
England's arms pick him up, and he lies in his grip like a sack of spuds, not even managing to wiggle a toe. He wants to scream for England to let him go—that he can walk just fine on his own, and he doesn't need the man doting over him, especially not after their recent quarrels. Nonetheless, his voice fails to work, and he gets carried down a narrow corridor, up a set of stairs, and into a nice, cozy room with a giant bed in the middle—the captain's quarters.
England sets him down on the bed, disappears in a blur of color momentarily, and then returns with a bucket and a wet rag. Without warning, the wet rag is dropped onto America's forehead, and he whimpers at how cold it is, even though he's been trying to escape the heat all of this time. England mops up his whole face with it, still looking incredibly angry, although there is a glimmer of fear in his green eyes.
Canada is now standing at the foot of the bed, peering over at America with the same wide, doe-like eyes he had when America first met him a few nights ago. Beside him, looms France with one hand on Canada's shoulder to reassure him.
This isn't heroic or mature in the least, America laments, wishing he could at least sit up and preserve what little dignity he has left.
"—Merica? America, can you hear me now?"
"Yes," America mutters as a shiver runs down his spine and causes him to flinch.
England makes a tutting noise and presses a hand firmly against his forehead, holding it there for a few seconds. "Good lord, what have you done?"
"Ughh…"
"Just wait until you're out of this bed," England growls, struggling to contain his exasperation. He scans America's figure with roving eyes, and then, he picks up his hand and inspects it. It's the hand where that pesky mosquito bit him.
"What is it?" France asks, coming closer.
England runs a thumb over the bite and frowns. "It's either malaria or yellow fever. I'm willing to bet on yellow fever. Look at his eyes."
America manages to wriggle slightly. "What's wrong with my eyes?"
"Shh," England says, feeling his forehead and cheeks again. "I don't want to hear so much as a peep out of you, or so help me God—"
"Don't act like you care," America snaps.
"Of course I care, foolish child! Seeing you lying comatose in the hold of my ship when I believed you to be in Boston is not something I can take lightly!" England snarls, tossing a blanket over America before tucking him in. "You're going to send me to an early grave. How you came up with such a reckless plot is beyond me!"
From the other end of the room, France snorts with laughter and says, "I never thought I'd live to see my dear Angleterre turn into a mother hen."
England, surprisingly, doesn't even acknowledge the snarky comment. His focus remains entirely on the sickly America in front of him. "Stay in bed. I'll contact the physician."
"No!" America cries out, hating this horrible turn of events. How's he going to prove to England he's big enough to be on his own and travel with him now? England will just use this incident as an example of how frail he is, and how he still needs someone to keep him out of trouble.
"You're not in a position to argue," England states sternly, pressing his hand to America's forehead one more time for good measure. "I can see I've been too lenient with you, that's why you think this behavior is acceptable."
America groans and tries to hold himself up with his jelly arms, but England carefully pushes him back down. "I don't—!"
The rim of a mug of water collides with his lips, and England tilts it just enough to let the water dribble into America's mouth. "Drink and stop fussing," he says, as if America is no better than a sulky two-year-old. When a good portion of the water is gone, England relents, sets the mug aside, and sighs. "There we are."
Slowly, America feels his eyes closing against his will again. He hears England and France exchange a few more words near the doorway, and Canada shuffles away with them when France announces he's in for the lecture of a lifetime.
"How could you do this to me, mon lapin?"
"Je suis désolé, Papa," Canada apologizes sheepishly, voice a little squeakier than usual.
And with that, the door is shut behind them, and America is left to sleep, even though sleeping this late in the day isn't a grown-up thing to do.
The creaking of the floorboards wakes him, or maybe it's the weight on the other side of the bed that suddenly makes itself known. Either way, America rouses out of the thick daze of lethargy, still feeling hot, fevered, and generally disgusting.
England lies next to him (this is his bed, after all), and when he sees America shift about, his expression becomes softer. "How are you feeling?"
Why is he being so nice? He has every reason in the world to give America an earful for causing so much chaos and then landing himself in bed like this, and yet, England doesn't seem angry at all—not even a little bit. He seemed frustrated earlier, but now, it's like they're back home in Boston and nothing has changed.
The tenderness in England's tone makes him blubber like a baby, and America blames the fever for making him so irrational and sensitive. The emotion of the moment overtakes him, and he cries just because he wants to. His muscles are still sore and bothersome, he's caked in his own sweat, and his stomach burns with an acidic sensation.
England, for his part, is quite alarmed. "There, there," he coos, brushing America's stray hairs away from his clammy forehead. "The doctor had a look at you while you were asleep. He says you'll be just fine with enough rest, so there's no need to fret. Why don't you try to drink some more water and go back to sleep?"
America shakes his stuffy, congested head and mumbles, "Where's Canada?"
"Who?"
"Canada," America repeats, louder this time.
"Ah," England says with a nod, remembering. "He's helping to clean the upper deck as his punishment."
"Are you… gonna make me clean, too?"
"Oh, you'll be doing more than that, but we can discuss your punishment at great length once you've recuperated."
"I wanna see Canada."
"Perhaps he'll come to visit you later."
America kicks his legs out and frowns. "It's all his fault."
"If it weren't for him, you'd have grown even more ill," England reprimands. "You owe him your thanks."
"He's my brother, isn't he?"
England's mouth falls shut and he stiffens. "Yes."
"You didn't tell me I have a brother."
"No, I didn't," England sighs, looking somewhat guilty, "for reasons you wouldn't understand."
"I understand," America snaps back, sitting up halfway. "It's because you want me to be alone forever, and you don't care if I don't have any friends or no one comes to visit me or—!"
England purses his lips and interjects, "Canada is a French colony. It is both politically and culturally amoral for you to be—"
"He's family!"
"Not in the way you think," England retorts, tone getting sharper the more America says. "It just simply isn't proper."
"I don't care about being proper," America huffs.
England looks like he's about ready to dive into a long lecture about the importance of good mannerisms and diplomacy in relation to the rest of the Empire, but he stops himself when America gives a particularly loud and strong sneeze, casting silence upon the room.
"We'll talk about this another time," he promises instead, pushing America to lie down insistently. "Go to sleep."
"Just because you hate your brothers doesn't mean I have to hate mine," America says, immediately feeling bad about it when he sees the sad look on England's face. "England, I—"
"We'll talk about this another time," England repeats before rising up off of the bed and sweeping out of the room.
