He had been working for what felt like hours, and had long since grown weary. Usually customers that came to this French restaurant were polite, classy patrons, but not today. Today everything was going wrong. Not only were the customers rude, and impatient, but somehow he'd messed up each one of their orders. Frantically, he dashed from table to table, his head reeling.

"Sacre Bleu! This is a nightmare!" He cried aloud.

"If you can't handle the pressure, then wake up!" Another waiter dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

France groaned and opened his eyes, slowly realizing that he had been having a fever dream, and something cool and wet was on his forehead. His tired eyes drifted down, taking note of the quilt that encompassed his body. Shivering, he was grateful for the added warmth it could offer. He closed his eyes.

"Wait a moment… where am I?" the thought entered the Frenchman's head, and he opened his eyes once more.

"France, how are you feeling?" A voice came from close by.

France looked up, that sounded like Britain. Sure enough, a blond haired man swam into his line of vision. He had bushy eyebrows and stern, emerald eyes.

"Oui… Britain, is that you?" France asked, his head pounding with every word.

"Of course it's me, Frog. Who else would it be?" Britain said firmly.

True enough. France glanced around, his head punishing him for the simple motion. This did indeed look like Arthur Kirkland's living room. Tall bookcases lined the far wall, proudly housing several hundred books. There was a dormant fire place that seemed well taken care of, and- France had to close his eyes, surveying the room was making him dizzy.

"France, you aren't going to pass out again, are you?" Britain asked.

"Non…" France replied, eyes closed, "I am just a bit lightheaded…" the Frenchman put a hand to his forehead; he blinked his eyes open as his finger closed around the wet cloth. He looked at Britain questioningly.

"You were running quite a fever, Frog… I had to cool you down somehow." Britain said simply.

"Why, mon cher?" France asked weakly.

"Well I wasn't going to bloody well sit there while you boiled to a bloody crisp! Honestly, Frog." Britain snapped.

"Non. I mean… why did you bring me home with you?" France asked tiredly. His entire body ached. Even his throat was starting to feel raw.

"You passed out, France. I wasn't about to leave you lying there in the board room. I could have bloody well made you someone else's problem if I wanted to, but I'm not that kind of person. You're dreadfully annoying, France, and I loathe you so. However…" Britain faltered.

France's blue eyes were completely focused on him. Despite them being dulled with fever, they were watching him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

Britain shifted uncomfortably. Why was it so hard for him to admit aloud? It had been running through his mind since the moment he'd noticed France was sick! He took a deep breath, "You're like an older brother. Despite our differences I can always rely on you to be there." Britain said, blushing slightly as he was usually never so straight forward about his feelings.

France smiled weakly, "Oui…I know, Arthur."

Britain blinked, "You never call me by my human name, has your fever gone up?" he placed a hand on France's forehead.

"Non, mon cher. I am grateful to have a younger brother like you." His voice came hoarsely.

"Your throat sounds agitated. How about I get you some ibuprofen and a nice hot cup of tea?" Britain said, perhaps concerned with the new symptom, or perhaps he simply wanted to get out of the uncomfortable conversation.

"Oui… only could you bring me some wine instead, mon cher?" the Frenchman croaked.

"Bloody Frog! You're sick, and if you think I'm about to bring you any form of alcohol you can just bloody well bite your tongue!" Britain said firmly and walked out of the room.

France smiled lightly to himself and rested his eyes a moment. He loved to tease Britain; even now it made him feel slightly better. Suddenly, the Frenchman felt something rising in his chest, the sensation working its way into his throat. He tried to clear his throat, but it was to no avail as he broke into a coughing fit.

"Are you alright in there, France?" Britain called from the kitchen.

France shivered as the coughing subsided, he felt so cold. Why was he this cold? For the love of all things beautiful! It was summer. Summer was supposed to be hot and humid… So why did he feel like he had gone to visit Russia in the middle of winter without so much as a jacket? France clung to the quilt around him, desperately seeking warmth.

"Bloody hell! Frog, are you listening to me?" Britain called again.

France didn't answer, his throat was raw and he simply felt too cold.

Britain felt his guts twisting in worry and he burst back into the living room "Francis! I swear, if you're just trying to scare me, you're doing a bloody good job!" he paused as he saw France shivering uncontrollably.

"France, are you alright? …You had better answer me, you wanker." Britain threatened, though his voice was full of concern.

"Mon Ami… I am so cold…" France shuddered weakly.

Relieved to see that France was at least still conscious, Britain let a small sigh escape his lips, "Let's get that ibuprofen in your system. With any luck, it'll bring down your fever and you won't feel so cold."

Not waiting for an answer, Britain hastily collected a pair of ibuprofen and a glass of water before returned to the still shaking Frenchman. He set the glass of water down on a nearby tea table and helped the older nation into a sitting position.

France was trembling horribly, but managed to down the medicine. He looked absolutely miserable.

"Would you like me to get you an extra blanket?" Britain found himself offering.

"P-please mon cher.. I am freezing…" France said weakly and broke into another coughing fit.

"I'll be right back." Britain promised, "And Frog, if you so much as move one bloody foot, I'll tie you to that sofa!" he threatened. Again, he didn't truly mean it, but he was genuinely concerned for the older nation.

As his coughing subsided, France groaned and let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes. He tugged the quilt closer to himself as he shivered; he was so tired… and so cold…

"Here you are" Britain was saying as he came back into the living room, another blanket in hand.

France opened an eye, "Merci." He said weakly as the Englishman wrapped the second blanket around him.

"I'd like to take your temperature, Frog. I know the ibuprofen can't have kicked in just yet, but I want to see how high your fever is." Britain said firmly, reaching for the thermometer.

France was too weak to resist, and permitted Britain to slip the thermometer under his tongue.

Britain stood close by as he waited for a reading. He hoped desperately that France's fever hadn't gotten too high. "Stupid Frog.. How'd he even bloody get sick?" Britain wondered to himself. France didn't know the answer to that himself.

BEEEEP!

The thermometer proclaimed it had done its job. Britain carefully removed it, feeling a bit hesitant to look at the reading. "40.5°C." he read aloud, his heart sinking a little. So the fever had risen. It wasn't a full degree, but France seemed so much more miserable than he had been only hours before at the meeting. Britain weighed his options; there was still one more thing he could try. "Frog, it's time for a shower." He stated.

France blinked "…What was that, mon cher?"

"You heard me, you wanker. You're getting a cold shower whether you like it or not." Britain said firmly, already helping France into a sitting position.

"If you can support your own weight at all, please do so… you're not exactly a piece of cake to lug around."

"Mon cher… You are so rude to me!" France whined tiredly.

"Shut up, Frog. This is for your own good." The Englishman half lifted the older nation up off the sofa.

Though he felt utterly exhausted and dizzy, with Britain's support France was able to walk in a somewhat straight line. Regardless, by the time they reached the bathroom, France felt on the verge of passing out.

Moments later, France's voice wrung throughout the house "AUGGGGGHHHH! SACRE BLEU! YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL ME, AREN'T YOU?! S'il vous plait! S'il vous plait! Make it stooooooooooooop! ARGGHHHHHHH! YOU'RE FREEZING ME YOU BRITISH SON OF A – GAHHHhhh! It's so cold!"

Britain steeled himself to his older brother's cries as he held him under the running water. France needed to cool down, even if at this moment the cold seemed unbearable to the older nation.

Eventually, France's cries died down. The initial adrenaline the cold water had pumped through his being abandoned him, leaving his throat incredibly sore. "Please… Britain…" he croaked weakly, "Shut the water off."

Britain complied with his request and studied the ill nation before him. He was standing there in nothing but his pants and, if Britain had to guess, boxers. He knew it wouldn't do to let France stay so thoroughly soaked, and so he fetched him a towel and a pair of spare pajamas that he might change into. Though he seemed sapped of all strength, France convinced Britain he could dress and dry himself properly. Britain hesitantly agreed on the terms that if France wasn't done within twenty minutes, he would check up on him.

Fifteen minutes later the bathroom door creaked open as France leaned in the doorway for support.

Britain had to do his best not to laugh at the sick nation. His spare pajamas hung awkwardly on France's slightly taller frame. The sleeves and pants in particular seemed just a bit too short. However, they would certainly be more comfortable than France's usual attire.

"Mon Ami… What is so funny?" France asked tiredly.

"Nothing." Britain swallowed his laughter and looked at France seriously, "I can take you to the guest bedroom so you can rest. It'll be better than the bloody sofa"

France coughed a few times, "Merci.. That would be wonderful." he sighed tiredly.

Britain nodded and helped the older man into a charming and well kept guest bedroom. He peeled back the covers and France fairly crashed onto the bed. He was so tired; his whole being ached so badly…All he really wanted to do was sleep.

Britain tucked the warm blankets around his ailing friend "Do you need anything else?" he asked with surprising tenderness.

His initial instinct was to say no, that all he wanted was sleep, but he recalled something from earlier, "Mon cher…might I have some tea… if the offer still stands…" he asked hoarsely. His throat ached badly, and he hoped the tea might soothe that sensation while warming him up inside. Maybe then he'd sleep peacefully.

Britain blanched. "Bloody Hell! The tea!" he raced out of the room, leaving an incredibly confused Frenchman behind.

Britain bolted into the kitchen, just to see his fears were confirmed. While he'd initially started brewing the tea, he had entirely neglected it when France's fever had risen. Now the tea had boiled over onto the burner and the kitchen was full of steam. Britain rubbed his temples; this was turning into a very long day.

Author's Note: So here's chapter 2 of my Hetalia Fanfic. Not sure how many chapters there will be, maybe one or two more. Initially, I thought this would simply have two chapters, but as the inspiration flows it is taking on a small life of its own. How am I doing guys? Reviews inspire me and make me happy! =D

P.S.

40.5 Degrees Celsius = Approx. 104.9 Degrees Fahrenheit.