He knew he couldn't simply leave things as they were. Britain dashed over to the stove and turned the burners off to prevent the situation from getting any worse. Thinking quickly, he pulled the chain of an overhead ceiling fan to try and clear the steam from the room. Then, putting on a pair of oven mitts, he took the over- boiled pot of tea and poured it out into the sink. He didn't want to risk giving it to France when the poor man was already sick. The tea sizzled and steamed as it hit the cool metal of the sink and flowed down the drain. Britain set the teapot aside and pulled off the oven mitts. Now he just had to clean up the stove top. He soaked a sponge, grabbed some paper towels, and then set about cleaning the burner. He worked carefully, as not to burn his hands on the still heated metal.
A few minutes later, the stove top was clean and the steam had disappeared. However, Britain still didn't have the cup of tea he'd promised France. He was sure if the older nation found out what had happened, he'd never let him hear the end of it.
"There's no way I'm telling the bloody Frog." he muttered to himself.
Though Britain hated the idea of instant tea, it certainly beat allowing his ego to be smashed. He'd just have to let the teabag steep long enough before bringing the cup to France so he might dispose of it and allay any suspicion. France certainly wouldn't know the difference! Satisfied with his solution, Britain set about making France a cup of tea in that fashion.
Not long after, Britain was stirring a teaspoon of honey into a cup of green tea. He'd been sure to dispose properly of the teabag. He faintly wondered if France liked milk in his tea. Britain himself enjoyed his tea with a dash of milk, but seeing as he could not be certain as to France's preference- he supposed he could always come back for the milk if the older nation truly desired any. Satisfied that the tea was at least passable, Britain carried it off toward the guest room.
He had left the door open and as he neared the room, Britain heard coughing coming from inside, "You okay, Frog?" he asked as he came in.
France took a moment to catch his breath, "Oui… Mon Ami." He croaked.
"Here, I brought your tea. I hope it's to your liking." Britain held out the cup to the sick country.
France took it shakily and sipped the warm concoction. It wasn't bad. The honey felt good as it slid down his raw throat. He took another sip, "Mon Cher... this instant tea is not bad, no?" he said weakly.
Britain's face flushed, "How the bloody hell do you know it's instant?!" he asked in surprise.
"There is a distinct taste…Mon Cher." France drank down more of the tea.
"Well yes, but how can you bloody tell the difference?" Britain asked.
France smiled weakly, "How could I call myself your older brother or even you friend… if I did not know anything about the tea you love so?"
Britain blinked and felt his mouth creeping into a smile in spite of it all. France really did care! Granted neither of them showed it very often, but when push came to shove- they were brothers.
France finished the tea and handed the cup back to the Englishman, "Mon Ami, I am very tired…" he said weakly.
"Right, I'll let you rest then. I'll be back to check on you within the hour." Britain said as he turned to leave the room.
"Mon Cher?" France's voice came from behind him.
Britain turned to the sick nation "Yes?"
"Thank you… for everything." France said as he closed his eyes, sleep threatening to claim him with each passing second.
"You're welcome…my friend." Britain said and left the room.
France drifted off to sleep quickly, his aching body nestled into the soft warmth of the guest bed.
Britain returned to the kitchen with the empty teacup and set it aside for the time being. He hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning and was rather hungry. He considered France might be hungry later as well, and decided on fixing something that both of them could enjoy. He selected beef stew and began to gather ingredients for the dish. Though Britain's culinary skills were somewhat…lacking, beef stew was one of the few select dishes he could usually prepare without incident.
After a while, a pleasant aroma filled the kitchen. Britain hovered proudly over his pot of stew, stirring it carefully "Now who bloody said I couldn't cook?" he smiled to himself "I make the finest stew in all the world, if I do say so myself."
When the stew was finished, Britain turned off the stove and began ladling some of the marvelous dish into a bowl. He'd eat his dinner, and then go check on France. Britain sat at a small kitchen table he often used when he didn't feel like eating in the dining room's lengthy table all by himself. He ate the stew calmly; with each bite he marveled at what a good cook he was. As he finished up his meal, Britain rinsed out the bowl and set it aside to be washed shortly. Right now, he wanted to check on France.
The Englishman decided it best to bring the thermometer along as he retraced his earlier steps to the guest room. He moved quietly, careful not to rouse the ill nation from his slumber. He made it to France's bedside and peered down at the sleeping Frenchman. France was deeply asleep; Britain needn't have bothered with his careful creeping around. Nonetheless, Britain felt he couldn't be too careful. He slipped the thermometer into France's mouth and waited for the reading.
"Please go down; please go down. For the love of her Majesty, please go down." Britain prayed silently, hoping that France's fever wasn't as high.
BEEEEEP!
Britain found he had been dreading that sound. So far it had been nothing but the bearer of ill tidings. Nevertheless, he found the courage to pull the thermometer out of the Frenchman's mouth and glanced at the reading.
He let out a sigh of relief, "Thank God."
The Thermometer read 39.7°C.
"Well, that's still not good, but your temperature has gone down." Britain told the sleeping nation.
"I think I'll fetch a wet cloth for his forehead and then set about cleaning up." he told himself. Not only could he use a shower, but there were a few other things that needed to be straightened up now that France seemed to be a bit better off.
After he had fulfilled the first and easiest of his tasks, Britain began the clean up. He decided to start in the bathroom, knowing that France's discarded clothes were probably strewn across the tile floor. He was right, of course. Britain scooped up the French nation's clothing and carried them to the laundry room to be washed.
Britain didn't particularly like to run such a small load through the wash, and so he gathered some of his own clothing that could do with a cleaning. He placed the articles of clothing into the washer with care; he was certainly not one to overload it.
It wasn't terribly long before the washing machine was humming away as the load began. Britain then proceeded to the kitchen. Obviously, France wasn't going to be waking up any time soon, so he might as well put the stew away for the time being. Britain carefully poured the remainder of the stew into a few leak proof containers and placed them on the bottom shelf of the fridge. With that out of the way, he wiped down the sink and prepared to hand wash his dirty dishes, pots, and utensils.
He scrubbed each item thoroughly. Perhaps it took a bit longer this way, but Britain didn't mind. He liked his dishes to be pristine. His hands bobbed up and down in the soapy water as he worked, and his thoughts drifted back to France.
Earlier, he'd admitted to France that he was like an older brother to him, but France had already known. Indeed, he seemed to feel that Britain was his younger brother. Had France always felt this way?
Surely not! He'd tried to invade Britain and had picked on him terribly in his childhood. Then again…didn't siblings argue by nature? Wasn't it indeed a fact that brothers all over the world quarreled over matters every day? No matter what the argument, whether over a silly toy, a woman, or even moral conduct- brothers were bound to have different views.
Perhaps this feeling did go back to his childhood, Britain thought. Sure, France had picked on him… but hadn't he aspired secretly to be like him? He realized he'd looked up to France. France would always be his older brother; indeed he had always been. It was okay for brothers to fight and annoy each other, but deep down in their heart of hearts, they were the best of friends.
Britain felt something wet against his cheek and realized he was crying, "Bloody hell, Frog." He muttered to himself. He dried his hands on a towel and wiped his tears away with his thumb, "If you saw me this sappy, you'd make me out to be a bloody wanker." He finished up washing the dishes, and after drying them thoroughly, he put them away in their rightful places.
The Englishman moved to the living room and neatly folded the blankets that had been left in disarray. He'd leave them on the couch for now, on the off chance France might want to relax there tomorrow. Britain picked up the wooden chair he'd sat in earlier and carried it back to its rightful place next to the lamp.
He surveyed the room a moment, then proceeded to tidy up a few more things before he felt satisfied. It was probably best to check on the wash, Britain decided. His instincts were dead on and he moved the load over to the dryer. He felt a bit anxious to get his shower, but first he wanted to check up on France again.
The older nation was still fast asleep as Britain approached his bedside. France's shivering had calmed significantly since earlier; Britain took this a definite positive. He smiled at his older brother softly and decided he'd refresh the cool wet cloth and then get his shower.
Britain was glad France's condition was improving. Taking care of the Frenchman was hard work. Not to mention, seeing him ill tugged a bit at Britain's heartstrings. He was glad at long last he could relax a bit and get a nice, calming shower. Britain walked up a flight of stairs into the master bedroom that thankfully, had its own bathroom as well. He closed his bedroom door and set out a pair of mint green pajamas as well as undergarments on his bed.
Moments later, Britain was standing in the shower, letting the warm water work its magic. It had been a long day and the hot water soothed him greatly.
When he was through showering, and dressed in his pajamas, Britain looked to the clock on the wall. It read Nine o'clock in the evening! He didn't think it was possible, but somehow this day had flown by and dragged on instantaneously. Ordinarily, he might stay up a while and read a well-written novel. However, this day had been tiring. Surely, it couldn't hurt to turn in early?
The more Britain thought about it, the more it seemed like a wise decision. With his mind made up, the Englishman decided there was clearly one last thing to do before bed. He made his way back down the stairs, and headed for the guest room. He made his way over to the French nation, checking him over carefully. Satisfied that France would be alright for the night, Britain headed out the door.
"Sleep well, big brother France." He whispered as he went.
Author's Note: Probably only one more chapter to this, but we'll see how it plays out. I hope you all have enjoyed chapter 3! Reviews make me happy and inspire me to write more! Thank you all so far for your kind reviews! See you next chapter~
39.7 Degrees Celsius= Approx. 103.4 Degrees Fahrenheit