Canada slowly shook his head, disbelieving, “You can’t be. You’re doing fine on your own. England’s been entirely upset about it.” He placed a hand over America’s forehead, startled by the lack of fever. In fact, the entirety of America’s body was racked with shivers. America leaned into that hand, his eyes closed and he made a small gasp, as if the heat from Canada’s hand soothed his entire body. His shivers only increased though. Canada eyed his brother worryingly, wondering about the implications.
“It feels as though I am though. It’s so cold. So unbearably cold, and I feel sore everywhere, like I’ve been trampled by a horse… And this hunger, God help me Canada, I’m so hungry, but whenever someone brings me food, I can’t- I don’t know what- Nothing helps!” America’s fingers clenched at the bed sheets like they were the only thing keeping him in this world. He closed his eyes and let out a muffled moan.
“So hungry,” he whispered. “Feels…It feels as though I’m eating myself inside.” He gave a great shudder and moaned at the loss when Canada startled and took away his hand. He tried reaching for it, but got caught up in another attack of thick coughs, forcing him to turn over in his bed and cough into his sleeve. His body shook with each wheeze of breath, and eventually the sound of coughs gave way to the sound of choking. America’s hand came up to grasp at his throat, scratching at it raw while trying to support himself on his bed with his other. Canada started, and in a panic, looked around for anything that might help, but saw nothing. He moved to the edge of the seat and leaned over the independent country in worry, rubbing at America’s back until the choking subsided.
He had slumped back onto the bed at first, but Canada, unsure whether that was safe for someone with such a thick cough, encouraged him to sit up in a crouch on the bed facing him. He pulled some of the quilts over America and raked his own hand through the others hair, tucking some strands that had been clinging to his forehead out of the way. When he let go to lean back into his chair, America, with a speed that alarmed Canada greatly considering his illness, grabbed hold of Canada shirt, halting his actions,
“No, stay!” came out the raspy voice. America cleared his throat.
They both tried not to notice the splatters of blood that stained the fabric of the arm America had been coughing into. America’s grip on the shirt only tightened. His eyes flicked distress in the lamp’s light.
1789 - Part 4
“It feels as though I am though. It’s so cold. So unbearably cold, and I feel sore everywhere, like I’ve been trampled by a horse… And this hunger, God help me Canada, I’m so hungry, but whenever someone brings me food, I can’t- I don’t know what- Nothing helps!” America’s fingers clenched at the bed sheets like they were the only thing keeping him in this world. He closed his eyes and let out a muffled moan.
“So hungry,” he whispered. “Feels…It feels as though I’m eating myself inside.” He gave a great shudder and moaned at the loss when Canada startled and took away his hand. He tried reaching for it, but got caught up in another attack of thick coughs, forcing him to turn over in his bed and cough into his sleeve. His body shook with each wheeze of breath, and eventually the sound of coughs gave way to the sound of choking. America’s hand came up to grasp at his throat, scratching at it raw while trying to support himself on his bed with his other. Canada started, and in a panic, looked around for anything that might help, but saw nothing. He moved to the edge of the seat and leaned over the independent country in worry, rubbing at America’s back until the choking subsided.
He had slumped back onto the bed at first, but Canada, unsure whether that was safe for someone with such a thick cough, encouraged him to sit up in a crouch on the bed facing him. He pulled some of the quilts over America and raked his own hand through the others hair, tucking some strands that had been clinging to his forehead out of the way. When he let go to lean back into his chair, America, with a speed that alarmed Canada greatly considering his illness, grabbed hold of Canada shirt, halting his actions,
“No, stay!” came out the raspy voice. America cleared his throat.
They both tried not to notice the splatters of blood that stained the fabric of the arm America had been coughing into. America’s grip on the shirt only tightened. His eyes flicked distress in the lamp’s light.