Another hour or two flies by, the room in silence as England watches America eat in silence, assisting him when he starts getting dizzy and can't see where his hand is anymore.
“Sorry for troubling you like this.” America says sheepishly, and past the rough exterior of his voice, raw and hard, England can hear the apologetic tone and shakes his head. “You've been taking good care of me all this time, it's the least I can do... I'm sorry for troubling you as well.” He says politely, but America waves it off with his hand.
“It's fine, really. I'm just glad you're getting better,” America says, and England looks away, a small blush sneaking onto his face. America chuckles, though winds up coughing as England stands and pats his back until it passes.
“Thanks,” he says, “I'm done eating. You should take it and leave. Don't want you catching what I have, right?” England pauses; America makes perfect sense, but he doesn't want to leave, but... but he should anyway. He can't stay too long, after all. Two pneumonia cases in the same house is not exactly the ideal image of helping America.
“... Your welcome. Call me if you need me. I'll be back in another hour...” England says, voice quiet, and takes the tray and leaves. America watches him leave before he flops back on the bed.
He has to hurry up and heal, heal so that England doesn't look so distressed, and that he'd smile and they can have fun again, just like a few nights ago; “Damn it, body, why did you have to give out now...” America mutters a rhetorical question to himself and cuddles under his blankets, staring at the white ceiling as it swirls in his eyes, and he stares at it quizzically, before shrugging it off, and pulling the covers over himself.
The house has no sounds besides America's breathing, England's breathing, and the running water as England wipes the dishes clean, and leaves them to dry on the rack.
Afterwards, it's just England's foot steps as he walks place to place, around the house aimlessly; he must have toured the house, or at least, the part in which he actually goes to, at least thrice before he sits on the couch, and waits there, until America is due for another check up.
The hour passes, passes again and again, it's 11:03 in the night when it happens. England asks, “Why do you take care of me anyway?” as America is put back on the bed to rest. He is dizzy and drowsy, and England frowns. He does not expect an answer, so he stands and leaves.
“Because I love you...” America mutters out, eyes barely visible before he closes them fully, “Let's go on a dinner date again...” his final words before he drifts into sleep, and England stands in silence.
A smile ghosts over his lips before he leaves, and goes on about business as he always does. The next few days, those days, England never brings it up again. He acts like he never heard it.
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Hold Me Close [36/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-17 07:38 am (UTC)(link)“Sorry for troubling you like this.” America says sheepishly, and past the rough exterior of his voice, raw and hard, England can hear the apologetic tone and shakes his head. “You've been taking good care of me all this time, it's the least I can do... I'm sorry for troubling you as well.” He says politely, but America waves it off with his hand.
“It's fine, really. I'm just glad you're getting better,” America says, and England looks away, a small blush sneaking onto his face. America chuckles, though winds up coughing as England stands and pats his back until it passes.
“Thanks,” he says, “I'm done eating. You should take it and leave. Don't want you catching what I have, right?” England pauses; America makes perfect sense, but he doesn't want to leave, but... but he should anyway. He can't stay too long, after all. Two pneumonia cases in the same house is not exactly the ideal image of helping America.
“... Your welcome. Call me if you need me. I'll be back in another hour...” England says, voice quiet, and takes the tray and leaves. America watches him leave before he flops back on the bed.
He has to hurry up and heal, heal so that England doesn't look so distressed, and that he'd smile and they can have fun again, just like a few nights ago; “Damn it, body, why did you have to give out now...” America mutters a rhetorical question to himself and cuddles under his blankets, staring at the white ceiling as it swirls in his eyes, and he stares at it quizzically, before shrugging it off, and pulling the covers over himself.
The house has no sounds besides America's breathing, England's breathing, and the running water as England wipes the dishes clean, and leaves them to dry on the rack.
Afterwards, it's just England's foot steps as he walks place to place, around the house aimlessly; he must have toured the house, or at least, the part in which he actually goes to, at least thrice before he sits on the couch, and waits there, until America is due for another check up.
The hour passes, passes again and again, it's 11:03 in the night when it happens. England asks, “Why do you take care of me anyway?” as America is put back on the bed to rest. He is dizzy and drowsy, and England frowns. He does not expect an answer, so he stands and leaves.
“Because I love you...” America mutters out, eyes barely visible before he closes them fully, “Let's go on a dinner date again...” his final words before he drifts into sleep, and England stands in silence.
A smile ghosts over his lips before he leaves, and goes on about business as he always does. The next few days, those days, England never brings it up again. He acts like he never heard it.
OP
(Anonymous) 2009-05-17 08:06 am (UTC)(link)*dies*