The clock and America's ragged breathing become the only sounds in the room, covering England's soft, almost non-existent breathing.
It has only been 20 minutes since England sent America back to the bed for more rest. “I'm fine,” He insists, but in the end, he is sent back due to his lack of power to deny much at all– still flushed, still short, difficult breaths, sweaty, clammy– there is little to deny when he looks like he is ready to fall down and sleep forever.
Sleep forever; it means to die, England has come to learn. America dying– the thought wears his mind out, he blocks it out and focuses on the face he had been watching, resting.
It has been 4 days since he fell ill; every morning, he attempts to awaken, to get up and say he is okay now and he has to go to work and that he will come home and take England out to dinner again. Then England makes him go back to bed, one way or another. He usually winds up pushing him back to the bed.
25 minutes have passed; it feels like 3 hours to England. It feels so long because he is so worried, he longs for when America will wake up, not ill, but full of life like he always is, will come up and say, “Good morning, Arthur!”
Another hour passes. Nothing happens. He is still asleep, and England changes the towel resting on his forehead. His breathing has calmed a little, England notes, but he looks the same as he did before. At the very least, England is thankful he has progressed from Day 1.
He'll probably get up again soon. I should heat up some food... France prepared quite a lot in the few hours he stayed; stored them in the fridge and said, “There's a lot, so give him as much as he wants. If he runs out, uh... just, just call me and I'll tell you what to do next.” Worried as he is, England prays he will not have to be call the French man.
He walks into the kitchen in silence, so eerie that it bothers him– as if he didn't hate the kitchen enough already. The knives have been packed in a cabinet, courtesy of France.
England pulls the fridge open and pulls out a pot, half-filled with the chicken soup France left behind. There are several pots of it, really. According to him, chicken soup is good for treating pneumonia, so there's plenty of it. He also left the ingredients for Cream Soup in a plastic ShopRite bag, with instructions on how to cook it on the paper (France cuts the vegetables, puts all of them in separate containers, even the amount of water in a specific container, and prays even England's horrible cooking skills can't screw it up).
Not only that, Tomato Soup and other easy to eat foods. “Alfred has so much food, I don't fathom how he eats it all. Then again, I suppose some of this is your share too.” He remembers France say. China also left a bowl of pills out on the counter; “Give him one after every meal. Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner, okay- aru?”
The pot boils quietly, and England stirs it gently, back and forth, watching it bubble and the heat dissipate into the air. He turns the stove off, grabs a plate and pours some soup into it, and heads back into America's room with a tray full of soup and water and medicine; as usual.
He peers in, and America looks at him and smiles weakly; “Hey, Arthur.” He says, voice dry from sleeping.
"France cuts the vegetables, puts all of them in separate containers, even the amount of water in a specific container, and prays even England's horrible cooking skills can't screw it up"
Haha, oh France, I don't think even England could mess that up. xD
Arthur has somewhat gotten over his fear of the kitchen! yay!
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Hold Me Close [35/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-17 06:03 am (UTC)(link)It has only been 20 minutes since England sent America back to the bed for more rest. “I'm fine,” He insists, but in the end, he is sent back due to his lack of power to deny much at all– still flushed, still short, difficult breaths, sweaty, clammy– there is little to deny when he looks like he is ready to fall down and sleep forever.
Sleep forever; it means to die, England has come to learn. America dying– the thought wears his mind out, he blocks it out and focuses on the face he had been watching, resting.
It has been 4 days since he fell ill; every morning, he attempts to awaken, to get up and say he is okay now and he has to go to work and that he will come home and take England out to dinner again. Then England makes him go back to bed, one way or another. He usually winds up pushing him back to the bed.
25 minutes have passed; it feels like 3 hours to England. It feels so long because he is so worried, he longs for when America will wake up, not ill, but full of life like he always is, will come up and say, “Good morning, Arthur!”
Another hour passes. Nothing happens. He is still asleep, and England changes the towel resting on his forehead. His breathing has calmed a little, England notes, but he looks the same as he did before. At the very least, England is thankful he has progressed from Day 1.
He'll probably get up again soon. I should heat up some food... France prepared quite a lot in the few hours he stayed; stored them in the fridge and said, “There's a lot, so give him as much as he wants. If he runs out, uh... just, just call me and I'll tell you what to do next.” Worried as he is, England prays he will not have to be call the French man.
He walks into the kitchen in silence, so eerie that it bothers him– as if he didn't hate the kitchen enough already. The knives have been packed in a cabinet, courtesy of France.
England pulls the fridge open and pulls out a pot, half-filled with the chicken soup France left behind. There are several pots of it, really. According to him, chicken soup is good for treating pneumonia, so there's plenty of it. He also left the ingredients for Cream Soup in a plastic ShopRite bag, with instructions on how to cook it on the paper (France cuts the vegetables, puts all of them in separate containers, even the amount of water in a specific container, and prays even England's horrible cooking skills can't screw it up).
Not only that, Tomato Soup and other easy to eat foods. “Alfred has so much food, I don't fathom how he eats it all. Then again, I suppose some of this is your share too.” He remembers France say. China also left a bowl of pills out on the counter; “Give him one after every meal. Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner, okay- aru?”
The pot boils quietly, and England stirs it gently, back and forth, watching it bubble and the heat dissipate into the air. He turns the stove off, grabs a plate and pours some soup into it, and heads back into America's room with a tray full of soup and water and medicine; as usual.
He peers in, and America looks at him and smiles weakly; “Hey, Arthur.” He says, voice dry from sleeping.
OP
(Anonymous) 2009-05-17 06:18 am (UTC)(link)Haha, oh France, I don't think even England could mess that up. xD
Arthur has somewhat gotten over his fear of the kitchen! yay!
Author-non
(Anonymous) 2009-05-17 07:03 am (UTC)(link)Yes! Though it's probably only cause France hid the knives. -bricked-