January 2013
"Flu reaches epidemic level in US as virus spreads through Canada… Worst Case in Over a Decade."
Must. Not. Get. Sick.
Must. Not. Get. Sick.
America cringed as he chanted the mantra in his head, covering his face with his scarf as the man next to him on the train let out an enormous sneeze, sniffling wetly afterward.
Part of him knew the action was fruitless. It was only natural that since so many of his citizens were getting sick, he'd soon be affected by the virus as well. He could wave off the germs and dodge the phlegm as much as he pleased, but it wasn't going to make the slightest difference.
Still, America was in complete, and utter denial.
He hadn't been ill in God knows how long, and he wasn't going to break the habit now. He was hosting a world meeting next week, and he had to appear in tip-top condition to prove to the others that his country was doing just fine and was on the road to a hasty recovery.
Currently, he was looking for a scapegoat to blame this accumulation of the virus on. He was completely content with placing some of the blame on England, whose citizens had shared the lovely, "winter-vomiting bug" with America's already flu-ridden people. It was a double whammy, really.
He felt his heart skip a beat as his throat become a little dry and scratchy, causing him to painfully swallow.
It was all in his imagination—he was sure of it. If he kept thinking about it so much, he'd definitely get sick. He just had to divert his attention to other matters. Mind over body!
Yes, surely that would work.
Must. Not. Get. Sick.
Will. Not. Get. Sick.
The Day of the World Meeting:
America let a long groan ripple from deep within his throat as he nuzzled his face against his pillow. His alarm clock hollered nearby, urging him to roll out of bed and start off the day. With another unabbreviated moan of indignation, he flung his arm across the mattress and slammed his palm of his hand on the device, intending to hit the snooze button but failing as he knocked the entire mechanism off the bedside table and sent it crashing to the floor, unplugging it from the wall in the process.
"Oops," he murmured belatedly, shivering as he pulled up the covers closer to his body. Every muscle on his being seemed to be rebelling against him that morning, even the gums of his teeth; each aching in its own unique way as he bit down on air. He shuddered as his cellphone vibrated next to his glasses on the clock-less nightstand, signaling a text message. Dejectedly, he snaked his arm out from under the blankets to snag his iPhone, reading the message from Canada with a long sigh.
"How are you holding up?" it read.
America sniffled weakly, typing back a lazy reply. "I'm just freaking dandy, Mattie. How 'bout you?"
It took a few moments for Canada's response to get through. "I think this flu is finally starting to catch up with me. Tell everyone I won't be able to make it to the meeting. I'm staying in the hotel."
"Aw, a little flu and itty bitty Mattie is out of commission?" America teased, scrubbing a hand across his nose in frustration. Maybe his allergies were acting up…
"Why aren't you being affect—wait, you're sick too, aren't you? You must be!"
America bit his lip nervously. There was no way he had the flu. "No way, man. The hero never gets sick, remember? My immune system is a boss! Anywayz, I have a meeting to host. C u there?"
Some conniving little voice in the back of his clouded mind told America that Canada was now going to make it a personal challenge to attend the meeting. If his brother America could make it through the conference with the flu, Canada could do so without a problem as well. The last thing he wanted was to appear inferior to his twin!
Sure enough, America had received another text message just thirty seconds later. (Canada had undoubtedly been debating his decision for a good fifteen seconds.)
"Yeah, I'll be there."
America smirked, involuntarily snapping his head forward when a sneeze erupted out of his nose and mouth. He gruffly snagged a few tissues off of his nightstand and scrubbed his nose roughly, huffing in disbelief. He could still beat this.
He could NOT be sick. Dejectedly, he sent Canada a final text to end the conversation.
"OK, bro! :D"
Tossing his phone aside, he rolled out of bed and stumbled over to his closet, sniffling loudly as he tried to find his dress shirt and tie. He wasn't in the mood to go through the troubling of dressing like a 'ruffian' just to annoy England today, so he'd dress in some more appropriate attire instead. He shrugged on his shirt and changed into his black slacks, mourning over the loss of his sweatpants for a moment. His bed was calling him to return to the blankets and bask in another refreshing hour of sleep, but his schedule just wouldn't allow it.
He rolled his shoulders in a circular motion, as if to shake and massage the fatigue out of his system. Turning away from the disheveled blankets, he slipped on his leather shoes and made his way into the bathroom to fix his hair. With a frown, he noticed that his cowlick, Nantucket, had wilted significantly overnight; something that both Canada and England would surely notice if he didn't do something about it quickly.
Grabbing his hairdryer, he plugged it into the wall and turned it on the highest setting, directing the hot air at the cowlick to force it to set itself upright. Yet, by the time he had turned off the device and returned it into its proper cabinet, the strand of hair had obstinately lowered itself once more.
With a grumble of dissatisfaction, America reached for some hair mousse, working a generous amount into his hands before sculpting the cowlick into the desired position with vigor, begging it to follow his demands.
In the end, it took a fair amount of hair gel, more mousse, and another standoff with the hairdryer to finally get his hair looking like itself again.
Checking his watch frantically, America brushed his teeth and made himself a cup of coffee, opting to skip out on breakfast due to his sudden loss of appetite. His stomach seemed to be making strange gurgling noises, and he didn't want to test the dangerous terrain by filling it with foreign substances.
After that, he grabbed his briefcase and slipped on his bomber jacket, racing to the bus stop to make it for the scheduled morning commute. Thankfully, the bus had arrived no more than a minute after his own arrival. It was as crowded as always, meaning he was going to have to stand as though he was entrapped in a can of sardines, pressed up against a multitude of people.
This wasn't normally an issue, but today seemed to be an exception. By the time he had exited the bus and transferred himself to the train station, he was sweating profusely with cold sweats, causing him to place a cool hand on the back of his neck to rid himself of the awful chills running against his warm skin. Standing on the musky train a moment later, he was sure he was going to collapse at any moment if he didn't sit down.
Fortunately, an uncommonly kind teenager gave up his seat precisely at that moment, asking if America would like to sit down.
Bewildered by the sudden generosity of the boy, he nodded gratefully and thanked him, plopping himself into the seat without hesitation. If random strangers thought he looked ill enough to need to take a seat, then what were his fellow nations going to think when he arrived to the meeting?
When the train finally pulled up to his stop, he rushed out of the wagon and made his way up the stairs before walking the final few blocks to building at which the meeting was being held at. He passed through security and made his way into the elevator, getting off at the fifty-third floor with a breath of relief and another sneeze which he muffled with help from the sleeve of his bomber jacket.
"You took your time getting here."
America jumped in surprise, swiveling on his heel to meet England's stiff figure for the umpteenth time. Hastily he righted himself and tried to discreetly scrub at his nose to eradicate the residue from his little sneezing fit. He all but grimaced in disgust at his own actions.
"Hey, England. Still an early-bird, I see," he playfully teased the other man, trying to come off as energetic and obnoxious as always.
One look at his former guardian told him that the man wasn't buying into the façade.
Crap.
England advanced on him, inspecting America very carefully in a way that made the young nation feel squeamish.
"Feeling alright, there? I do keep up to date on worldly affairs, unlike some," England began pointedly, antagonizing America coolly as well. "And American politics are, unfortunately, part of that repertoire. Thus, I am well aware of your current predicament. I knew you'd be a stubborn cow and show up anyway, so I decided to humor you by arriving early to make sure you didn't keel over during the journey."
America pushed his glasses up his nose, trying to stifle another sneeze as his exhausted brain tried to process everything that England was saying. That man sure liked to give everyone an earful…
"What are you trying to say?" he found himself asking to avoid the long background history of whatever the nation was going to lecture him about.
"That you are in no condition to host this conference. You ought to go back home," England urged, eyeing his former colony critically. "Be sensible for once in your life."
America battled against the temptation to sneeze, eyes somber. "Not an option, dude. The chocolate-chip muffins have already been delivered and set out. We don't want them to go to waste. Those babies are expensive. So, see you inside the meeting room?"
England crossed his arms over his chest, trying to paint himself as someone who was extremely peeved and unconcerned. "The meeting has been cancelled for your own good. Go home, drink some tea, and get back to us in four to seven days."
"WHAT? You can't just cancel a meeting that I'm hosting without my permission!" America gawked, fever-glazed eyes glimmering with weary rage.
England shook his head with a sigh and reached out a hand to feel America's forehead, only for the gesture to be slapped away by the American a second later. "I already spoke to your boss, and he agreed with the decision. I'm supposed to escort you back to your house in one piece."
"But I'm perfectly fine!"
"You don't say?" England rolled his eyes with the hint of a smile. America had always had problems with admitting weakness since he was a child. "How about we put off this fight until you're better suited to take part in it, hmm?"
America unclenched his teeth and opened his mouth to utter some hurtful words in England's direction, but had to stop himself when his stomach flipped over on its side. He slammed his mouth closed again and hurriedly threw a hand up to his lips before racing for the nearest restroom, leaving a stunned England to race after him.
He kicked open the stall door and fell to his knees, regretting not having the time to lock it as he retched violently into the toilet.
A moment later, a firm hand was placed on his upper back, soothingly patting the area before another hand slithered its way under his sweaty bangs and slicked his dark blond hair back. He wanted to kick England in the groin and push him away, frustrated with himself for allowing himself to be seen in this vulnerable state, but his body wouldn't allow him to rebel. His limbs loosened under England's touch as he brought up more saliva along with the coffee he'd ingested a little over an hour ago.
"I'm quite sorry about that, truly. I hadn't meant to share the winter-vomiting bug with you as soon as I had recovered. Unfortunately, I can't control what my citizens spread onto yours," England apologized sincerely. "It's downright awful, I'm afraid, especially combined with the flu."
America merely groaned, flushing the toilet after he was done and sitting back on his heels.
England offered one of his rare, genuine smiles in a sympathetic way, patting his little brother's shoulder with a sigh. "Let's say we get out of here, take you home, and forget this ever happened?"
America almost nodded at the suggestion, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed again with some comic books close at hand, but had to decline after remembering that Canada was still on his way, and that he had to prove to his twin that he hadn't given up in proving to him that he was fine. He couldn't lose to that hoser this time!
"I can't, I'm meeting someone," he explained with a wince at how terrible his voice sounded.
England stood up and wet some paper towels in the sink before passing them over to America so that he could clean himself up. "Who on earth could you be meeting at a time like this? In any case, you can call them and relay to them that you aren't available today. Now, I'm going to call a cab so that you won't have to take the subway again."
America scowled, knowing that refusing wasn't going to do him any good. England was going to drag him back home no matter what. Luckily, just as they were exiting the restroom a few minutes later, they bumped into Canada.
Well, more like America nearly trampled him because he hadn't noticed he was there, but regardless, his twin had stuck to his word also.
"Hey, guys. Has the meeting started yet?" Canada asked softly, voice strained.
Too put it lightly, England was furious to see that Canada had showed up when he had given France strict orders to keep the young nation in the hotel room. He roughly gripped America's wrist in one hand and Canada's in the other, pulling them both into the elevator with him and into the awaiting cab down on the busy street.
"I cannot believe the lot of you! Why do something so foolish when you are both clearly under the weather. Have you any common sense? I expected this from Alfred, but you, Matthew?" Arthur ground out each word with bitter disappointment as the trio stood in the empty elevator. He stamped a hand onto Canada's forehead, shaking his head in disbelief when he felt the heat that rested under the skin there.
"I'm sorry for making you worry, England. America said he was coming to the meeting and that he expected me to show up as well so—"
A vein pulsated on England's forehead. "Ah, so this was another one of your silly competitions? See who can drop dead last, eh? Can't you two act your age for once? Responsible adults would have never been in this position in the first place because they would have received their flu shots."
America stuck his tongue out with an airy laugh. "My immune system needs the practice! Besides, vaccines are for squares."
England narrowed his eyes. "I got vaccinated."
"Thanks for proving my point, bro," America grinned, patting England's shoulder pityingly. "I'll just head home now, since I know that I haven't lost any bets. I'm gonna cancel one of your meetings, England. Y'know, to even the score eventually."
The doors of the elevator finally opened, and the trio filed out of it.
"Anyway, I'll see you guys later. If you get the urge to call me, don't!" America exclaimed, planning to escape the premises as soon as possible.
"Not so fast, lad," England interjected, grabbing America's arm and pulling him back. "You didn't think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?"
America slumped his shoulders. "Nope, but I was hoping I could. Then, you had to go and kill my dreams."
England led them through the lobby and out onto the busy street, ushering them into the cab that he had asked for. "We're all going to your house, Alfred. There, you'll kindly offer one of your ample guestrooms to Canada, so that he doesn't have to spend the next week recovering in a stuffy hotel suite."
"Ugh, and then you'll finally leave and get off of our case, right?" America questioned optimistically, still hoping that England wouldn't subject himself to babysitting them.
England ruffled America's hair as he sneezed to irritate his nose further. "Sorry to rain on your parade, but no. Then, I'll be watching over the pair of you, since you're obviously both feverish and unable to take care of yourselves. You proved to me that you're both still children after today's display."
Canada and America simultaneously groaned.
"You know how he gets at times like these. His bedside manner is horrible," America relayed to Canada before coughing roughly into his twin's shoulder.
"Ugh, Alfred. Would it kill you to cover your mouth?" Canada grimaced, pushing the ill nation off of him with a sigh.
America scrubbed a hand over his cherry-red nose. "It's not like I'm gonna get you sick. You're already sick, anyway, so it doesn't matter!"
"Still, it's proper hygiene," Canada chided, sounding an awful lot like England when he did that.
When the cab pulled up to America's house, the nation took out his keys and unlocked the door, flipping on the light as he stepped inside and allowed the others in. "Welcome to La Casa De Los Estados Unidos."
Canada raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "You've been brushing up on your Spanish?"
America smiled proudly. "Yeah, well I thought that since Mayor Bloomberg of New York has started speaking and reading his announcements in Spanish, I should give it a try too."
"You should work on the accent… It's a little… Well, it's really bad," Canada admitted provokingly, squawking indignantly when his twin hit the back of his head in retaliation.
England hung up his coat on the coat rack in the doorway, quite familiar with America's house due to his many visits. "That's enough of that, lads. America, find a room and a change of clothes for Canada, if you don't mind."
America huffed, muttering under his breath, "Two minutes in my house and he's already ordering me around."
England ignored the comment for the meantime. "And then I want both of you in bed so that I can further assess the situation and your conditions. According to the news, this isn't your everyday case of sniffles."
"Assess our conditions?" America pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and met his former guardian's eyes. "I can assess my own condition just fine. Besides, I remember all the horrible things you used to do to me when I was a colony."
England smiled wanly. "Oh, yes, I was such a terrible brother for sitting at your bedsides all night, treating fevers, reading countless stories, and singing multiple lullabies."
"I meant your old-fashioned 'remedies'," America shuddered, recalling the memories with a shiver down his spine.
England waved off the critique. "Home-remedies are the most effective. Now, stop chatting and get Canada settled. I'm sure he's had enough of your nonsense for one day."
Canada smirked cheekily, glad that he always was on the receiving end of England's good-side.
America pouted, but led Canada upstairs anyway, finding him a suitable room right next to his and giving him one of his plain white t-shirts to sleep in along with a pair of fleece sweatpants.
Shortly after, Canada stepped out of the bathroom down the hall with a mischievous smile on his face. "You're getting kind of fat, America. These pants are kind of big on me."
America blushed, offended. "They're sweatpants. They're supposed to be big."
"Whatever you say," Canada replied with a sneeze, poking fun at the self-conscious nation before lying down on the cozy bed that was inviting him to sleep. He thanked his brother shortly, dismissing him from the room a minute later as he tiredly allowed himself to recuperate.
Meanwhile, America made his way back to his room and changed out of the clothes that he had put on for the postponed meeting. He thoughtfully dressed himself in matching attire to that of Canada's, knowing it was a pet peeve of the other nation. Canada hated it whenever England suggested they wear matching outfits as children. Being twins, Canada had made futile attempts at making himself stand out from America, always trying to look different even though they had nearly identical physical features.
Then, he pulled out his iPad and began surfing the web while listening to some music, yawning absent-mindedly every time a particularly slow song would lull him. He was even beginning to doze off until he felt another presence come into the room.
"You're supposed to be resting," England frowned, walking up to the bed and attempting to feel America's forehead again. Once more, his hand was swatted away.
"I am resting," America insisted, setting his iPad down and meeting England's eyes challengingly.
England took a seat at the edge of the bed, causing America to have to move his legs to make space. "Why must you be such a difficult patient? Canada was obediently taking a nap when I went in to check on him. You on the other hand, enjoy making my job difficult. Now, let me check your temperature to make sure your brain isn't frying as we speak."
The nation procured a thermometer that he had brought into the room with him, using separate color-coded ones for each of the twins. He took the blue device out of its case and turned it on.
"Under your tongue," he ordered, flourishing his hand as he did so to emphasize the command.
Begrudgingly, America reluctantly parted his lips, allowing England to adjust the thermometer in the correct position before the nation withdrew his figure once more. He wandered to and fro about the house while waiting for the reading to be finished, carrying some extra supplies into the room and laying them on the bedside table. Among them were a bottle of Motrin, a cool compress, a fresh box of tissues and some fruit flavored cough drops.
America frowned at the items, already annoyed with England's fussing. "Yuh dwon't havta—"
"Not a peep out of you until the reading is done!" the elder nation hissed instantaneously in response, effectively shushing his patient.
Fortunately, the thermometer beeped just then, signaling an end to America's vow of silence for the time being as England retracted the stick from his mouth and examined it with a long sigh.
"A hundred and two, point one. That's nearly thirty-nine degrees in Celsius. You're burning up."
He retrieved the cold compress that had been set aside and bathed America's face with it before setting it on his brow, all the while keeping up the look of distaste on his face. He fished out a spare blanket from a nearby storage closet and tucked the nation in snuggly, slapping down the urge to smooth out his former colony's hair just as he used to do.
"For once in your life, stay put," he said, thin-lipped.
America grinned devilishly, blue eyes alight. "I'll try—since you asked so politely."
England merely scowled, leaving the room briefly to collect a glass of water. He passed America two pills of Motrin, watching as the young man tossed the medication into his mouth before taking the proffered water from England and taking a greedy sip.
England took the empty glass back, adjusting America's blankets once more before heading to the doorway of the bedroom.
"I'm going to make some tea, and find a suitable… basin for you to make use of if you feel nauseous again. I apologize once more for spreading the bug to your citizens. There wasn't much that could be done to keep it contained. A few days of rest and you'll be just fine," he promised, turning out the light as he spoke. "Try to sleep. Don't hesitate to call me if you need something, and I mean it, America. Don't prance around the house in your condition. I'd hate to have to take a trip to the hospital in this cold weather."
America simply groaned, burrowing into his blankets as a strong sneeze erupted out of him, rattling his entire body as he tried to settle back down.
"Bless you."
"Stop smothering me, England. I'll be fine, so don't worry."
"If I had a quid for every time you've said that phrase…" England trailed off, shutting the door halfway as he retreated into the lit hallway, still carrying the empty glass. He'd always wondered how he had managed to refrain from obtaining a heart attack while raising those two boys. Perhaps, he had always underestimated the extent of his patience.
America, on the other hand, was silently plotting a way to set up another bet with Canada to make the entire house-arrest situation much more bearable. If he was going to be stuck in bed for the next few days, then Canada was definitely going to go down with him.
And he knew just where to start.
He was going to need some more cough drops and a deck of cards...