PaperBackWater: I'm alright right now, nothing special. Thank you for asking— and you?

Open chocolates, dirty dishes, containers of half-eaten sweets litter his desk and entertainment center. Every trash bin in his apartment is filled past the brim with rotting fruit peels and tissues and paper he really should have recycled; a while back, America had earned some nasty stains on his floor from a particularly old bag of garbage that he'd tried to take out, and that had been the end of him and throwing out his garbage. Those goddamn stains. He'd never thought to clean them, but now they show up dark like blood on his carpet. Really, it gives him quite a bit of anxiety to think of them, of the rotting, of the smell, so he moves on, still not entertaining the idea of cleaning them as he does a mental sweep of his bedroom and living room. Both feature mountains of mail, piled on the floor and coffee table and couch; his sheets smell like mold because his dryer is broken and he'd been too obstructed by the state of his house to spread them out after washing. Nearly everything he owns is covered in a layer of dust.

America would have cleaned today, he thinks as he gets into bed. He doesn't really remember what he did today, but it must have been important— he must have been kept busy by it, to now be climbing into bed without having cleaned anything. America knows who he is: he is not lazy, he is not sick. He's just been busy, that's all.

…

In the morning, he sits in the kitchen, debating whether or not to eat. He decides on coffee and an already opened package of chocolate. He hates the idea of wasting calories on something he won't enjoy— sweets never satisfy him anymore, no matter how badly he craves them— but he wasn't raised to waste food. The chocolate makes his teeth ache.

While he eats, he looks over his to-do list:

1. Fix your dryer.

2. Clean your room.

3. Clean your living room.

His schedule is pretty much clear after work today, but he'll be tired— he'll clean his room, and then tomorrow, on his day off, he will fix his dryer…

Work doesn't end up being noteworthy; at least, he doesn't remember it. He doesn't remember to clean his room, either. Instead he goes to his bathroom— the only room in his apartment with a mirror— and stares at himself. He's seen plenty of emaciated people in his life, but he had never been the sort to go for that look; he'd thought it had made them look like children, and he had only ever wanted to look strong. If he doesn't want to look like that, then why, why is it that he still looks healthy, despite being able to see his ribs and his collarbones and despite his joints looking much larger than his biceps?

The only thing he ever remembers anymore is spending hours each day negotiating with his mirror to please, please let him see that he is sick. He stands in front of the mirror and begs his God to please let him think rationally about this. He'd always had his suspicions that his disorder, whatever it happened to be at the time, was a product of vanity, that he had only ever been in a hell of his own choosing. When he's standing in front of the mirror, acutely aware of his God's lack of response, he can't help feeling like he was right about that…

There's really no need to get that deep, America thinks, hazarding a smile at himself. He's not sick. Mirror said so. Case closed.

It's only upon getting into bed that night that he realizes he didn't clean.

America wants to get better, but he actually isn't sure how. It's been so long since he'd bothered to plan out breakfast and lunch that, no matter what he does, it seems he never has time to fix himself proper meals. Things should be easier when he travels to other countries, because it's more justifiable to stop for a bite to eat pretty much anywhere— things should be easier and they're not.

"¿Cuánto cuesta?" He asks a woman selling shucos.

"Diez quetzales."

"¿Diez?" It's a bad habit, repeating things back even when he understands them. His accent in other languages is alright, overwhelmingly nationless, but he always second-guesses. He's never completely sure what he's hearing anymore, not even in English.

"Ten quetzals," the woman says. America stiffens a little. "Toma, mijo. Come," she continues— Take it, son; eat— and hands him his plate.

America pulls out his wallet, but the colors swim in his vision. It's been such a long time since Guatemala; he doesn't really understand what he's looking at. The woman turns away and starts taking the order of someone else. His legs feel weak; he really can't imagine he'll stay upright much longer if he stands around, so he leaves.

He counts every chew during his first bite, getting to about twenty…. but he'd eaten a little too hastily. He can make each future bite into thirty chews, he tells himself, and this counting is how he avoids dying of embarrassment on the walk to the OAS meeting hall. Ten quetzals, he thinks. It wouldn't have been difficult to pay; it was immoral not to, immoral and impractical when he's carrying around so much money. That woman must have thought he was an animal, that he was starving or pitiful or weak. Nothing is ever easy anymore.

…

When he's three-fourths of the way through his sandwich, Mexico asks, "¿Dónde está tu Tex-Mex?"

America jumps. He hadn't even realized she'd entered, but now that he sees her, he tries to smooth it over: "Hi, Mexico. I couldn't find any canned corn." He doesn't bother to mention that he only ever brings Californian food; he doesn't think it's necessary, not when he's so tired.

"So you didn't bring anything?"

"No."

"Well," Mexico says. "That's alright. I'm sure there's more than enough to go around."

"Mexico, I'm sorry, but I'm— I'm super tired. I don't really feel like talking."

Mexico nods and pulls out her phone instead. America is glad for the company; he is comforted that Mexico will stay by him either way. But now all he can think about is corn.

In a truly New World fashion, he really misses corn. He's been eating it for pretty much his entire life, in vast quantities, either roasted or steamed or ground into something else. He can't even remember the last time he had corn or anything made with corn. America had never even really liked corn, but things are always different when they're gone.

The other nations are nicer to him than they used to be. Some of them even bring corn, and it's not the same the way they make it, it's not sweet and plain as it is in his country. But he's not in his country, and when he goes back he's not going to have corn.

It's easy to convince Japan to skip the next UN conference. It feels, these days, like all America has to do is suggest something to get it done. He's not used to it and it makes him uncomfortable.

Soon they're sitting in a restaurant in New York, and Japan is eating a pastrami sandwich and America is sitting with a coffee. Usually he might think to get something a little more substantial when in front of other people, but all he's been able to think about lately is how it's been about a year since his last UN conference. He should be dead right now; if he'd played his cards right, he would be.

Sitting in this restaurant with Japan, he really doesn't want to be dead. But the thought still comes to him anyway, because he likes the idea of being so stubborn. He makes himself order a sandwich just because of that.

"So, how was California?"

"California was great," America says. "Yeah. It was great." He can't actually think of anything he could say about his experience in California. He has, after all, been to California multiple times before. "I had a Californian burrito."

"Just one?"

"You've clearly never had a Californian burrito. They're huge, dude. Like, the size of a chihuahua. Or a… premature baby."

America had actually been in Northern California for his meeting, and as such did not have any Californian burritos, which are native to San Diego. He figures Japan doesn't need to know that.

"You had other things too, right? Not just a burrito?"

"Yeah. Of course, man. I had, uh, avocado muffins. That was pretty neat. There's this really good bakery in L.A.— it was actually probably just regular, but you know how everything is better in the sunshine?— and the Mexican candy is so cheap there, even at tourist shops, and I had a ton of salt water taffy, and elote, and— and cioppino!"

"What is cioppino?"

"A San Franciscan stew. Seafood and all that. You know, the ocean is right there. But they have it in San Diego, too, sometimes. It's, like, a Californian Italian thing." America swallows. "And I had ice cream while I was there, too… and they have really good Japanese food down there, you know, maybe a little different from yours."

"It sounds like it was a good trip."

"You should really come over sometime, man."

"Yeah. Maybe sometime in the summer?"

"Maybe."

America didn't have any of the things he told Japan about, but whenever he goes to the grocery store now he walks past the international, seafood, and candy sections and thinks of summers of elote in Dallas, or salt water taffy in Seaside Heights, or cioppino in his favorite Italian restaurant in San Francisco. He doesn't feel like he's going to be able to enjoy these things by next summer. If he'd known he wasn't going to get better, would he have taken the time to have them while he was in California? He wants to believe he would have.

Japan takes a sip of water, sets it down, sighs. "Arthur's been asking about you," he says. "He's worried. We're all worried."

"Arthur's the reason I didn't want to go to this meeting," America snaps. "Did you know he's been avoiding me? For, like, the past year. I'm tired of going to meetings all the time and trying to talk to all these people that don't want anything do with me. It's so humiliating."

"I don't know about everyone else, but if it feels like Arthur isn't talking to you, it's because he doesn't know what to say."

Alfred looks down at his coffee as Japan finishes his sandwich. The coffee has milk in it, and it had come with a package of Biscoff cookies. He regrets that. He can't eat it on top of the sandwich— but really, what's another two hundred calories when that sandwich must have been at least five hundred?

"Well, there's nothing to say," Alfred says. "I don't know why he's worried." Alfred unwraps his cookies and starts eating, acutely aware of Kiku watching him. "Is that why everyone has been so nice to me lately?"

"We're worried, Alfred," Kiku repeats.

Alfred goes to the restroom before they leave. As he's passing the mirror, he stops to look at himself. His collarbones, his hollowed cheeks, his sharper jawline. He looks better than he used to, he thinks. Better and still healthy.

Why the hell did he ever eat that sandwich and those cookies? And why'd he have to have milk with his coffee? If he keeps eating like that, he'll round out again, he'll never get sick enough to recover— hell, if he keeps it down…

…

On the way home, America's heart aches. He'd parted ways with Japan rather abruptly, too ashamed and otherwise uncomfortable to really linger. The first thing he'd thought, sitting on his heels in front of that toilet, had been, There are no words to describe this.

Now he realizes there are: there's enamel erosion, swelling, acid reflux, heart attacks, seizures. There's blatant stupidity and so, so much pain.

When he enters his house, it occurs to him that he is going to die. Maybe not immediately, or even soon, but it's sure to happen. Briefly he entertains the idea that he already smells like death, that it smells like moldy sheets and rotting food; that he already looks like death, that it looks like fucked up skin and flat hair and tired eyes— but realistically, he knows it'll be even worse.

A review would be hella peng. Have a great day and happy Easter, if you celebrate. I love you. Stay safe.