The first thing Canada noticed was that the room was ultimately dark. The door clicked shut as he closed it behind him. He managed to take a step inside before already stumbling over something. A small curse was said to himself over the noise he’d made, and he soon recognized the object to be a fine stool for a desk off to the right side of the room. He picked it up and placed it beside the table before finding a gas lamp on the wall and turning the flame higher. It flickered at the edges of glass while it’s light danced across the room, allowing Canada to see his surroundings.
There was a small cot by the other wall, on which lay a mountain of thick winter blankets, and cotton sheets, piled on top of a quiet mound of a body underneath. A straight backed wooden chair sat next to the bed, close enough so that one could lean over the occupant and place cooled cloths over a fever that refused to go down.
Canada really hoped this wasn’t some sort of nation type plague.
The bedding rustled as he cautiously took a seat in the chair, as if the nation underneath was uncurling himself from a fitful slumber. A deep intake of breathe filled the room with sound, and the blankets moved again in the soft lighting. Canada placed his hands in his lap and waited, but it was a few more moments before any other noise was made, and even then the voice that made it was low and raspy, hardly louder than a whisper.
“Canada?”
“Oui?”
Another rustle, this time accompanied by a raspy breath, “You’re not French anymore.” It was a statement, as if someone would have to remind Canada himself. His fingers curled into his breeches, but he kept a steady gaze on the bed.
“…No, I’m not. The Treaty of Paris, I… I serve completely under England now.” He didn’t know whether to feel proud, angry, or embarrassed admitting that to America. If America noticed his hesitance through his illness, he made no mention of it. The raspy voice asked a question in stead.
“Does England know that you’ve come here?” It caused an uncertain flush to cross Canada’s face before he answered.
“No. If I had told him, he wouldn’t have allowed it. Plus, it sounded urgent from what your courier told me, so I chose not to wait.” Another movement from underneath the blankets, followed by a suppressed rack of coughs. And then another shuddering breathe was taken after a few moments,
“Did they…Did they tell you what was wrong with me?” Another cough, and then the blankets shifted, as if the figure under them had curled in on himself again. Canada noticed this and was at a lost of what to do. He unclenched his hands from his pants, and moved to place a hand on top of the bed sheets, but faltered in his movement before he could decide.
“The letter they sent, it said that you had fallen ill, and refused to eat or drink anything. And that no one knew what was wrong, or if it was even a real sickness. They thought it might be consumption but…” The hand which had been hovering by the bed, grasped the top covers and pulled them down slightly, “We can’t get sick like the rest of our people. America, what’s wrong?”
A thin hand came up from under the covers to join Canada’s own. The way it felt so cold and clammy despite being under so many blankets surprised Canada enough for him to clench his grip on the blankets and pull them down enough to see a curled up America in the center of the bed. Under sweat soaked bangs, golden under the lamps flicker, a pale face turned up to look at Canada. His eyes were bloodshot - reddened and tired, and he looked two shades too pale for America, with shallow dips and curves from not eating. He took in a deep rattling breath and then winced, as if something in the air caused him hurt. He swallowed something in his throat,
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.
Canada eyed his brother thoughtfully, “In the letter, it said you wouldn’t let anyone near you. No doctor could even sit by your bedside without it causing you some pain. Is that wrong?” He moved closer to the bed’s edge, pulled America’s hand away from where it had been clutching at his throat, soothed over where he had left angry red marks with his fingers.
America‘s eyes were hazy and red, his breath was coming out in hitched puffs, like it was strenuous to keep on living, “Yes…No. I don’t know. It hurts, feels like it burns everywhere, and I can’t concentrate on anything because the smell is too much. All the sweat and dirt and I hate it… I hate it so much.” He made a quiet noise when Canada caressed his skin, leaned into the touch, closer.
Canada’s hand faltered at the admission, then swept up to America’s forehead again, pressed against the chilled skin - too cold, why isn’t there a fever? - and leaned a little closer in his chair. His knees touched the edge of the cot.
“…But?”
America’s eyes slid close at the returned touch, and he let out a breath of relief, which turned into a small hitch of a cough he tried to suppress. His fingers loosened on Canada’s shirt somewhat, and he gave a weak yank , as if he was unsure whether he wanted his brother closer or not. His eyebrows furrowed under Canada’s hand,
“But…the closer I get, the more I feel like…Like this is the moment of anticipation for something. It hurts so much, but the closer I get the more I feel that I know how to get better, but I just can’t figure it out. I keep thinking closer, and closer, but then it starts to hurt, and I don’t know what to do.” He gripped at Canada’s shoulders with both hands, held himself upright. He opened his eyes to stare at Canada, and the hazy blue eyes that met Canada’s seemed like the most heartbreakingly entrancing thing he’d ever seen.
“The part of me that says closer, it terrifies me, because I don’t know what it means.” One of America’s arms trembled on his shoulder, and he grasped his brother’s elbow in order to steady him. Canada suddenly felt too warm for the room, and wondered if America could feel the extra heat through the hand on his forehead. Those eyes wouldn’t let go of his gaze though, so he didn’t bother asking. It didn’t seem important.
“Maybe you should try to find out…” he heard someone suggest, but he didn’t see America’s lips move.
America leaned forward in a surge, but stopped short, hovering a few inches from Canada’s face. The whole movement seemed entirely slow to Canada. He wanted to blink away this sudden fogginess in his mind, but after opening his eyes once, the motion seemed entirely too tiresome. Instead he focused on the way the lamp light was casting shadows over America’s too thin face, growing and shrinking with each flicked of the flame. His brother’s eyebrows were knitted with worry, and his voice sounded forced.
“I’m scared.” he admitted, and Canada saw his lips moving this time. Saw him getting closer, and that hand that had been resting on America’s forehead fell to his cheek, then his neck, only to rest on his shoulder. An odd imitation of a hug. Canada made a quiet noise of agreement, but he didn’t know what exactly America was referring to.
Those eyes seemed too bright for the room, unfocused and almost drugged. He wondered if America felt as exhausted as he did right then.
But then the grip on his shoulders tightened hesitantly, twisted into the fabric, and dragged him closer into that flickering hazy blue.
Canada wasn’t aware they had kissed until America pulled away.
With their foreheads rested together, America took in another raspy breath, made a noise like it pained him to breathe, and closed his eyes. Their arms were looped around each other’s back by now, and Canada had come to be half on, and half off the bed, sitting on one leg. He vaguely wondered when he had moved from the chair.
“So thirsty…” America gave a shudder in his brother’s arms. Canada loosened his embrace in concern,
“Should I ask for glass of water?” He made to stand up, only to be pulled back down by America.
“No. No, stay.” Arms looped around him again, keeping him close, and before he knew what was happening, he felt cold lips burn across his cheek, and didn’t that feel good, “I don’t know,” a breath of words by his ear, “I don’t know what I-” lower down, and America trailed off. But Canada couldn’t care, because he could barely hear him over the delicious blue haze that had filled his mind, and wormed it’s way through his entire body.
Oh God, he thought. This illness really is contagious. I’ve already caught it, and this is the first stage of symptoms. Tomorrow I’ll wake up shivering and half conscious. And then I’ll have to tell England. He’ll find out I visited America without his consent and be completely furious and-
Ow.
Ow
“Ouch!” And whatever spell of allure was broken with his exclamation, and just as close as he and his brother had been one moment, the next America was pressing against the bed’s wall, scrabbling against the sheets as if he could slip through the brickwork behind him and get further away. His eyes were wide with a look of morbid terror, his fingers twisting into the bedding. A thin sheen of swear covered his face and sounds of his heavy breathing fell into the air. Chest rising and falling from the exertion under his nightgown.
Canada underwent a bout of dizziness, as if he’d just received a jolt of adrenaline, only with no purpose to use it. A sudden blood rush to his head caused his eyes to flutter, desperate to retain awareness. One of his hands came up to cool his forehead. He felt flushed, too warm for the room, and wondered if his face was as red as he thought it was. He willed the feeling down and waited for the spell to pass, breathed slowly.
His other hand lay hovering over the left of his neck which prickled from what felt like a bees sting.
Scared, he touched delicately at the hurt, wincing at the contact of too raw skin. His fingers came back covered in-
-It was dark in the low lighting, an inky brown, sticky and shiny but there was no mistake for what it was -
Now that he recognized it, he could smell it as well, coppery in the air around him. He felt a line tickle down his neck to soak into the cotton of his shirt. He pressed his hand back against it, trying to stifle any flow. If England found stains in any of his shirts, there would be awkward questions. He glanced questioningly up at America, pressed against the bedroom wall in front of him. Bright eyes were wide with mortification.
“I’m sorry!” his voice sounded lower, the dry rasp nearly gone, more like the America Canada knew so well, “I didn’t mean to, honestly. Oh, God.” His lips were darkened with blood. Canada watched as he wiped his sleeve over them before noticing the darkened stain. He blanched a sickly colour once again and looked as if he might be ill.
“I didn’t want anyone near me- I couldn’t concentrate. Felt like I was drowning. I thought it might be different if you visited. I know you. I asked to see you alone because I thought- but now- Oh god, I didn’t even realize what I was doing, and I still -” He turned his eyes from the darkening of his sleeve, let his gaze roam over Canada’s hand staunching the trickle. His eye’s fell half lidded, regaining their clouded quality, “I still want…”
But then America shook his head and clamped a hand over his mouth, as if it would stop the thoughts from forming in his mind.
A flush spread over Canada’s cheeks, even as a knot twisted in his stomach, whispering words into his subconscious. The silence in the room was deafening when America wasn’t talking. A thought was forming in the back of Canada’s mind, but he didn’t dare think upon it further. His brother slumped against the wall, as if suddenly remembering how tired he was. Canada took the opportunity to clear his throat,
“America,” he didn’t know what to tell him after that. I feel faint, but you must be feeling better, didn’t seem appropriate.
America’s tired eyes turned to his brother’s, even as his hand fell from his mouth, scraping against the points of his canines. Canada wondered how he could have missed their elongated edges before. A cough finally reached the air from America’s throat again, and he clutched at his throat in absence of mind,
“What’s happening to me?” As if terrified that Canada would voice the answer to what they were both thinking.
Letting go of the hurt on his neck, Canada inched closer on the bed to his brother. America’s breath caught in his throat, the sound dancing in the air with the creak of bedsprings. He pushed out an arm, as if to keep Canada distant from him. He tried to shield his body from his brother, curling in on himself.
“Don’t.. Don’t come closer. I can’t- I-” a shuddered exhale, and Canada pushed the arm down, settled in front of his brother, facing the curled up body by the wall. He snaked a hand around America’s arms, pressed it to his chest.
He beat of a heart ran rampant under his fingers. America’s look of surprise almost convinced him that his brother had forgotten he had one. America’s hand drifted from his throat to rest over Canada’s fingers.
“You’re not dead. Your heart’s beating strongly,” and suddenly it occurred to Canada that he wasn’t sure who he was reassuring. “Something like this can’t kill you.”
The hand flexed over his own, as if unsure weather to believe Canada’s words. His eyes shifted from their enclosed hands, back to Canada face, where eyes shone with a barely controlled tremor, “What if it happens again?” Canada’s mouth went dry at the whisper. America’s words stumbled into his very core, and he realized. Heard the fright in the words, and directly veiled under that, the curiosity America had in everything he said. And oh god, he heard it and realized and knew,
America was going to need to do this again.
Perhaps multiple times. Even as a routine in all possibilities. Though, if the necessity presented itself again, and America pushed it off, grew chilled and delirious. Starved off the feeling until someone came to visit just like Canada, and America, half dead in misery and delirium, couldn‘t find his conscience to stop himself. If Canada hadn’t stopped him earlier, just how far would his brother have gone?
And the second realization twisted into his stomach, rose up to his throat, where it stayed a lump of cold discomfort - something that couldn’t be swallowed. America seemed to realize it to at that same instant.
“What if I kill someone?
Dear god, he could. There was always the possibility that he could. And just who would be there to stop him when America had his hands around one of his own citizens throats. Or comfort him from hysteria when he looked down at the half dead human in his arms and convince him that it wasn’t his fault. Or be strong enough to put themselves in America’s hands and trust that the other would stop when they said so.
Canada knew the answer had been wringing in his gut for the past ten minutes. He took a deep breathe, let the air fill with a stagnant pause as he let the words form on his lips. He was doing this for his brother.
He was terrified even as America reddened eyes squinted in confusion. It seemed like his voice took centuries to travel to Canada’s ears,
“What?” America’s fingers flexed over his brothers hand on his heart with the question. Canada let his hand slip from the grasp, and allowed himself to clench the sheets beneath them.
“I..” he averted his eyes, “If it happens again, and you think you need to-” His eyes flashed to America’s mouth for the second, eyeing the dried blood touching the corners of his lips. “I’ll do it. I mean, you can use me to um, help. You’ve already done it once already, might as well finish what’s been started eh?” And at the look of horror on America’s face, he quickly explained himself,
“Not that way of course! But, we both know you’ll stop if I say so now. And it didn’t hurt that much. It mostly surprised me. And if it makes you feel better… I’ll do it.”
The room itself seemed to be holding it’s breath after Canada’s words. He watched as his brother straightened himself out against the wall, uncurling in the slightest hesitance. His expression was wary, as if trying to find a reason why this was the horrible idea they both knew it was.
“What about England?” he ventured, and Canada’s eyes flashed,
“Angleterre pouvez aller à l'enfer! Just bite lower and I’ll just start wearing cravats. You and I both know that this is the only answer. We can‘t die from blood loss, and I‘m stronger than any of your citizens. France once told me that he was shot through with a cannon ball, and remained on the field for five days bleeding before he was found. This is the most sensible choice we have.” he breathed deeply, then closed his eyes, calming his frustration. His fingers were twisted into the sheets by his knees, and he took care to unwind them. When he opened his eyes again, America was staring at him with tired eyes, as if the entire conversation exhausted him.
“Canada…” a breath of resignation, wherein Canada’s own got caught in his throat. He turned on a small smile, a flicker of his exuberant self shining through, “You’re not French anymore.”
Canada let out a breath of amusement, his shoulders sagging from their taught position. He shook his head, and it was at that moment that he knew everything was going to be alright.
“No, I’m not.”
More silence, broken only by the flicker of shadows against the walls from the gas lamp. And then America shifted against the blankets, uncurled himself fully and pushed away from the wall.
“Alright…Alright” America’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Canada leaned into the touch until his brother’s knees were on either side of his, and America was leaning over him. He forced himself to breathe evenly. A warm stupor was filling his body again and he felt the heat reach up into his cheeks as America grasped both his shoulder and half dragged him closer. Canada placed trembling hand on his brother’s waist, steadying him overtop of him.
“Tell me when to stop if I go too far.” America sounded scared, but his eyes were returning to that gorgeous ocean haze that Canada had fallen into earlier. He almost scoffed at the words, but nodded instead for his brothers sake.
“I always do.” And one last quirked smile from America that made this all seem like a game, and not something that could potentially kill either of them, and then he leaned in.
This fic is so awesome! ^-^ I've never enjoyed a vampire story more, and this seems so much more of a realistic portrayal of how someone would feel if they just became a vampire and realized they needed to feed. Good job Author!Anon,
Canada was entirely more aware this time, and could feel the short breaths of America spilling over his cheek as his brother leaned into him. Felt the briefest brush of cheek against cheek, cool against warm, and his fingers twitched at America's hips, clutched, pulled him closer against him. America accommodated by shuffling closer until they were both comfortable.
"Don't tell England," came whispered into his ear, and it seemed like the words traveled at light speed down his body to tangle in the center of his chest. Canada closed his eyes. His breathing sounded too loud to himself.
"I won't." Oh god, they wouldn't be able to tell anyone. Not when across the ocean, Europe was frenzied over witches and demons who would slink into the shadows of night with similar intentions. No, they wouldn't be able to tell.
And then the hot line of America's tongue traveled from the base of his neck to the top and Canada almost forgot the breathe once more. Hot and wet against his dry skin, and his face heated up at the feeling. Then it happened again, and again, and oh god he must be licking off the dried blood from before. He thanked himself that his eyes were closed as that delicious daze returned.
Canada swallowed deep in his throat, withheld a shudder as America paused for the contraction of his throat to stop, and then there was that tongue again.
God, that delicious, heated, rapturous tongue. He couldn't understand how America could be so hot when just an hour ago he was freezing to the touch. This, Canada could enjoy, along with that fog encompassing his mind, dragging him deeper and deeper until he couldn’t even remember where he was other than that America was with him, on him and he felt closer than any boundaries or borders could permit. So when America wobbled on his knees against him, unsteady in front of him, Canada pressed his hand down his brothers sides and clenched into the cotton of his shirt and pulled- There was a jostle as America leaned forward at the same moment that Canada did. A stagnant moment where America didn’t want to let go of hid brothers neck, and sounds of wrinkling bedsheets under them took over. Eventually they settled, both in the center of the bed, knees tucked under them as America sat in Canada’s lap, arm pressed flush against his shoulder, carefully holding his northern brother’s neck while his fingers traced the curls at his nape. It almost felt like a heatfelt hug, thought Canada. Although he could barely feel America in his lap, like the country was afraid to hurt him anymore by adding weight in his lap. And the position they were in was hardly as innocent as a hug. More likely embarrassing with America’s legs on either side of his. Practically obsene in fact. He was sure if England ever saw him now, the man would fall from shock. That, or perhaps drag him away and give him another stern lecture about proper conduct in front of others and how to be polite and curteous in the absolute most gentlemanly way. Canada groaned at the wave of embarrassment that washed over him at the thought, only the feel more when America quickly jolted against him and leaned back to stare with inquisitive eyes, afraid the noise was from pain. He was breathing heavily, Canada could hear him trying to quiet the noise as it came out. His face scrunched up at how awkward this all was between them. Awkward and embarrassing and wholly new, but was it really like they had any idea what to do anyways?
“Sorry, just thinking. I feel fine.” He shifted awkwardly under America, stared at his hands holding the shirt infront of him.
“Your eyebrows are furrowed,” whispered America, he was leaning into his shoulder again. Canada wanted to laugh because America’s were too. But America’s lips closed over the part of his throat that still stung from sensitivity, and he let the laughter die in his throat, focused on keeping still.
Writer!Anon hasn't given up on this yet! Just been a bit busy from moving and school starting, and then I had to transfer the files onto my new laptop. I'll got about 5-7 more parts just for this scene in particular (part 1) but depending how patient OP is, as well as how much assignments I have, I may write a 2nd part following their relationship through the civil war and 1812, and then finally a 3rd part where the nations discover them (lol prompt where are you? ;A;) Thank you for your patience so far!
OP is just about dead from the awesomeness of this part.
And speaking of that, yay update! And don't worry, I totally understand how real life can get in the way or stuff like that.
And as long as you do fill I am very patient. I can wait, don't rush yourself. As long as the author doesn't abandon the story I can wait for however long. Also I am intrigued on what you have planned for the Civil War and 1812, drama!.
I love the way that you are describing the actual event. Nice.
Can't wait for the next update and once again, wonderfuly done on this part.
Oh yes! I'm glad you didn't abandon this. This whole fill is made of AWESOME. \;A;/ I can understand IRL stuff getting in the way though, even though I'm seriously dying of impatience to read more.
There was a very obscene sounding suck, and he practically melted under the other. The spot twitched in pain, the skin raw and abused and pressured by mouth and tongue. America licked at the puncture he’d made earlier, closed his lips over it, ran his tongue over it once more. Then again, and again, and it was doing horribly delicious things to the temperature in the room, thought Canada.
He could feel himself bleeding under tongue and lips, his heartbeat reverberating loudly through his head from a mixture of shock and something he didn’t really want to describe. But that feeling twisted inside of him, deeply rooted, so he couldn’t forget it for even a minute. Squirming, and hot, and yearning, and god it felt amazing when America sucked just…ohgodyes right-there. There, where it was just a bit too raw, but he could forget the prick if he concentrated on the way his brother’s tongue ran over the puncture marks, and the way a hand massaged the other side of his neck, kneading and tugging in mindless direction.
When America leaned away once again, it left Canada feeling disoriented, and entirely more sated than he should have been. America, however, was panting a storm on the edge of frustration. He seemed to be struggling with words, as he closed his eyes and raked a hand halfway through his hair before clutching at the roots.
“Canada, I can’t- It’s not enough, I need to-“ he spoke feverishly fast, as if his mind was a blur and it was his job to gather tangled threads and somehow make a pattern out of them.
Canada’s mouth felt dry, and he felt embarrassed that his breathing had become partially laboured from their activities. He licked his lips, pursed them to try and stop the chapping. He almost started when America grabbed his shoulders and pulled him against him. He could feel his brother shudder against his body, forehead pressed against his shoulder. Absently, in the far recesses of his foggy mind, he realized America was having trouble with something and so he lifted a hand, cramped from clutching at cotton fabric harshly, and soothed down the line of America’s back. The body gripping on top of him froze.
“Canada, are you okay with this?” and the twist of fingers in the shoulders of his shirt compelled him to take this more seriously than he had any other moment in his life. Because America was scared, and he was the only one who could help.
And he thought about it, actually thought about it, and when he did, and felt the strain from the broken skin on his neck, and his brother against him, with nothing but stained cotton and skin (borders) between him and me, and him and me, and him and-
“Yeah”, he breathed.
In response America dragged his head up to that punctured spot and it itched in anticipation. He dipped his head against it, nuzzled his nose into the curve of Canada’s neck, the strands of his hair curling and falling against skin that didn’t belong to him.
“This isn’t enough. I need more” And Canada’s breath stopped because –ohmercy, he didn’t think it would really be this shocking to hear that.
But maybe America didn’t notice, or he was too wrapped up in explaining, but he felt the lightest press of sharp somethings –teeth, god those are teeth- press against that itch.
“I need…” And then those teeth lifted away and there was a squeeze of arms grounding him to the here and now once again.
So glad to see this updated, author anon! I wont give up on you, I feel the same way with my current fill because I'm always so busy.
I was actually thinking about this the other day, and I was super excited to see it on the fill list! Great chapter, I love how America is scared and Canada seems perfectly fine. Can't wait until you get into more modern times and how they deal with it as adults.
I just JUMP in glee whenever I see this has been updated. It is painfully slow since the updates are so rare but I'm not giving up if you're not giving up. =3=! This is amazing, hot and adorable.
And besides I totally have no right to complain about the rare updates. I'm even worse with my own fills. orz
oh, much love. Love and love and then some more love marinated in love with love on top and even a side order of love dipped in love on a lovely bed of love. WriterAnon, this CommenterAnon has love for this fill.
Will sit on fills post and stalk. Will give more love with love etc etc etc when new part is posted.
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1789 - Part 3
(Anonymous) 2010-08-17 04:46 am (UTC)(link)There was a small cot by the other wall, on which lay a mountain of thick winter blankets, and cotton sheets, piled on top of a quiet mound of a body underneath. A straight backed wooden chair sat next to the bed, close enough so that one could lean over the occupant and place cooled cloths over a fever that refused to go down.
Canada really hoped this wasn’t some sort of nation type plague.
The bedding rustled as he cautiously took a seat in the chair, as if the nation underneath was uncurling himself from a fitful slumber. A deep intake of breathe filled the room with sound, and the blankets moved again in the soft lighting. Canada placed his hands in his lap and waited, but it was a few more moments before any other noise was made, and even then the voice that made it was low and raspy, hardly louder than a whisper.
“Canada?”
“Oui?”
Another rustle, this time accompanied by a raspy breath, “You’re not French anymore.” It was a statement, as if someone would have to remind Canada himself. His fingers curled into his breeches, but he kept a steady gaze on the bed.
“…No, I’m not. The Treaty of Paris, I… I serve completely under England now.” He didn’t know whether to feel proud, angry, or embarrassed admitting that to America. If America noticed his hesitance through his illness, he made no mention of it. The raspy voice asked a question in stead.
“Does England know that you’ve come here?” It caused an uncertain flush to cross Canada’s face before he answered.
“No. If I had told him, he wouldn’t have allowed it. Plus, it sounded urgent from what your courier told me, so I chose not to wait.” Another movement from underneath the blankets, followed by a suppressed rack of coughs. And then another shuddering breathe was taken after a few moments,
“Did they…Did they tell you what was wrong with me?” Another cough, and then the blankets shifted, as if the figure under them had curled in on himself again. Canada noticed this and was at a lost of what to do. He unclenched his hands from his pants, and moved to place a hand on top of the bed sheets, but faltered in his movement before he could decide.
“The letter they sent, it said that you had fallen ill, and refused to eat or drink anything. And that no one knew what was wrong, or if it was even a real sickness. They thought it might be consumption but…” The hand which had been hovering by the bed, grasped the top covers and pulled them down slightly, “We can’t get sick like the rest of our people. America, what’s wrong?”
A thin hand came up from under the covers to join Canada’s own. The way it felt so cold and clammy despite being under so many blankets surprised Canada enough for him to clench his grip on the blankets and pull them down enough to see a curled up America in the center of the bed. Under sweat soaked bangs, golden under the lamps flicker, a pale face turned up to look at Canada. His eyes were bloodshot - reddened and tired, and he looked two shades too pale for America, with shallow dips and curves from not eating. He took in a deep rattling breath and then winced, as if something in the air caused him hurt. He swallowed something in his throat,
“I think I’m dying,” he told Canada.
1789 - Part 4
(Anonymous) 2010-08-17 06:26 am (UTC)(link)“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 5
(Anonymous) 2010-08-17 06:29 am (UTC)(link)America‘s eyes were hazy and red, his breath was coming out in hitched puffs, like it was strenuous to keep on living, “Yes…No. I don’t know. It hurts, feels like it burns everywhere, and I can’t concentrate on anything because the smell is too much. All the sweat and dirt and I hate it… I hate it so much.” He made a quiet noise when Canada caressed his skin, leaned into the touch, closer.
Canada’s hand faltered at the admission, then swept up to America’s forehead again, pressed against the chilled skin - too cold, why isn’t there a fever? - and leaned a little closer in his chair. His knees touched the edge of the cot.
“…But?”
America’s eyes slid close at the returned touch, and he let out a breath of relief, which turned into a small hitch of a cough he tried to suppress. His fingers loosened on Canada’s shirt somewhat, and he gave a weak yank , as if he was unsure whether he wanted his brother closer or not. His eyebrows furrowed under Canada’s hand,
“But…the closer I get, the more I feel like…Like this is the moment of anticipation for something. It hurts so much, but the closer I get the more I feel that I know how to get better, but I just can’t figure it out. I keep thinking closer, and closer, but then it starts to hurt, and I don’t know what to do.” He gripped at Canada’s shoulders with both hands, held himself upright. He opened his eyes to stare at Canada, and the hazy blue eyes that met Canada’s seemed like the most heartbreakingly entrancing thing he’d ever seen.
“The part of me that says closer, it terrifies me, because I don’t know what it means.” One of America’s arms trembled on his shoulder, and he grasped his brother’s elbow in order to steady him. Canada suddenly felt too warm for the room, and wondered if America could feel the extra heat through the hand on his forehead. Those eyes wouldn’t let go of his gaze though, so he didn’t bother asking. It didn’t seem important.
“Maybe you should try to find out…” he heard someone suggest, but he didn’t see America’s lips move.
America leaned forward in a surge, but stopped short, hovering a few inches from Canada’s face. The whole movement seemed entirely slow to Canada. He wanted to blink away this sudden fogginess in his mind, but after opening his eyes once, the motion seemed entirely too tiresome. Instead he focused on the way the lamp light was casting shadows over America’s too thin face, growing and shrinking with each flicked of the flame. His brother’s eyebrows were knitted with worry, and his voice sounded forced.
“I’m scared.” he admitted, and Canada saw his lips moving this time. Saw him getting closer, and that hand that had been resting on America’s forehead fell to his cheek, then his neck, only to rest on his shoulder. An odd imitation of a hug. Canada made a quiet noise of agreement, but he didn’t know what exactly America was referring to.
Those eyes seemed too bright for the room, unfocused and almost drugged. He wondered if America felt as exhausted as he did right then.
But then the grip on his shoulders tightened hesitantly, twisted into the fabric, and dragged him closer into that flickering hazy blue.
1789 - Part 6
(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 04:38 pm (UTC)(link)With their foreheads rested together, America took in another raspy breath, made a noise like it pained him to breathe, and closed his eyes. Their arms were looped around each other’s back by now, and Canada had come to be half on, and half off the bed, sitting on one leg. He vaguely wondered when he had moved from the chair.
“So thirsty…” America gave a shudder in his brother’s arms. Canada loosened his embrace in concern,
“Should I ask for glass of water?” He made to stand up, only to be pulled back down by America.
“No. No, stay.” Arms looped around him again, keeping him close, and before he knew what was happening, he felt cold lips burn across his cheek, and didn’t that feel good, “I don’t know,” a breath of words by his ear, “I don’t know what I-” lower down, and America trailed off. But Canada couldn’t care, because he could barely hear him over the delicious blue haze that had filled his mind, and wormed it’s way through his entire body.
Oh God, he thought. This illness really is contagious. I’ve already caught it, and this is the first stage of symptoms. Tomorrow I’ll wake up shivering and half conscious. And then I’ll have to tell England. He’ll find out I visited America without his consent and be completely furious and-
Ow.
Ow
“Ouch!” And whatever spell of allure was broken with his exclamation, and just as close as he and his brother had been one moment, the next America was pressing against the bed’s wall, scrabbling against the sheets as if he could slip through the brickwork behind him and get further away. His eyes were wide with a look of morbid terror, his fingers twisting into the bedding. A thin sheen of swear covered his face and sounds of his heavy breathing fell into the air. Chest rising and falling from the exertion under his nightgown.
Canada underwent a bout of dizziness, as if he’d just received a jolt of adrenaline, only with no purpose to use it. A sudden blood rush to his head caused his eyes to flutter, desperate to retain awareness. One of his hands came up to cool his forehead. He felt flushed, too warm for the room, and wondered if his face was as red as he thought it was. He willed the feeling down and waited for the spell to pass, breathed slowly.
His other hand lay hovering over the left of his neck which prickled from what felt like a bees sting.
Scared, he touched delicately at the hurt, wincing at the contact of too raw skin. His fingers came back covered in-
-It was dark in the low lighting, an inky brown, sticky and shiny but there was no mistake for what it was -
Now that he recognized it, he could smell it as well, coppery in the air around him. He felt a line tickle down his neck to soak into the cotton of his shirt. He pressed his hand back against it, trying to stifle any flow. If England found stains in any of his shirts, there would be awkward questions. He glanced questioningly up at America, pressed against the bedroom wall in front of him. Bright eyes were wide with mortification.
“I’m sorry!” his voice sounded lower, the dry rasp nearly gone, more like the America Canada knew so well, “I didn’t mean to, honestly. Oh, God.” His lips were darkened with blood. Canada watched as he wiped his sleeve over them before noticing the darkened stain. He blanched a sickly colour once again and looked as if he might be ill.
“I didn’t want anyone near me- I couldn’t concentrate. Felt like I was drowning. I thought it might be different if you visited. I know you. I asked to see you alone because I thought- but now- Oh god, I didn’t even realize what I was doing, and I still -” He turned his eyes from the darkening of his sleeve, let his gaze roam over Canada’s hand staunching the trickle. His eye’s fell half lidded, regaining their clouded quality, “I still want…”
But then America shook his head and clamped a hand over his mouth, as if it would stop the thoughts from forming in his mind.
Re: 1789 - Part 6
(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 07:44 pm (UTC)(link)This is just alkjfghakfjh *A* Everything about this fill, I love to bits and pieces and I hope you don't mind that I'll be silently stalking it. :> ♥
Re: 1789 - Part 6
(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 09:47 pm (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 11:16 pm (UTC)(link)Waiting eagerly for the next part.
1789 - Part 7
(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 06:47 am (UTC)(link)“America,” he didn’t know what to tell him after that. I feel faint, but you must be feeling better, didn’t seem appropriate.
America’s tired eyes turned to his brother’s, even as his hand fell from his mouth, scraping against the points of his canines. Canada wondered how he could have missed their elongated edges before. A cough finally reached the air from America’s throat again, and he clutched at his throat in absence of mind,
“What’s happening to me?” As if terrified that Canada would voice the answer to what they were both thinking.
Letting go of the hurt on his neck, Canada inched closer on the bed to his brother. America’s breath caught in his throat, the sound dancing in the air with the creak of bedsprings. He pushed out an arm, as if to keep Canada distant from him. He tried to shield his body from his brother, curling in on himself.
“Don’t.. Don’t come closer. I can’t- I-” a shuddered exhale, and Canada pushed the arm down, settled in front of his brother, facing the curled up body by the wall. He snaked a hand around America’s arms, pressed it to his chest.
He beat of a heart ran rampant under his fingers. America’s look of surprise almost convinced him that his brother had forgotten he had one. America’s hand drifted from his throat to rest over Canada’s fingers.
“You’re not dead. Your heart’s beating strongly,” and suddenly it occurred to Canada that he wasn’t sure who he was reassuring. “Something like this can’t kill you.”
The hand flexed over his own, as if unsure weather to believe Canada’s words. His eyes shifted from their enclosed hands, back to Canada face, where eyes shone with a barely controlled tremor, “What if it happens again?” Canada’s mouth went dry at the whisper. America’s words stumbled into his very core, and he realized. Heard the fright in the words, and directly veiled under that, the curiosity America had in everything he said. And oh god, he heard it and realized and knew,
America was going to need to do this again.
Perhaps multiple times. Even as a routine in all possibilities. Though, if the necessity presented itself again, and America pushed it off, grew chilled and delirious. Starved off the feeling until someone came to visit just like Canada, and America, half dead in misery and delirium, couldn‘t find his conscience to stop himself. If Canada hadn’t stopped him earlier, just how far would his brother have gone?
And the second realization twisted into his stomach, rose up to his throat, where it stayed a lump of cold discomfort - something that couldn’t be swallowed. America seemed to realize it to at that same instant.
“What if I kill someone?
Dear god, he could. There was always the possibility that he could. And just who would be there to stop him when America had his hands around one of his own citizens throats. Or comfort him from hysteria when he looked down at the half dead human in his arms and convince him that it wasn’t his fault. Or be strong enough to put themselves in America’s hands and trust that the other would stop when they said so.
Canada knew the answer had been wringing in his gut for the past ten minutes. He took a deep breathe, let the air fill with a stagnant pause as he let the words form on his lips. He was doing this for his brother.
“I guess that’s what I’ll be here for.”
1789 - Part 8
(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 06:49 am (UTC)(link)“What?” America’s fingers flexed over his brothers hand on his heart with the question. Canada let his hand slip from the grasp, and allowed himself to clench the sheets beneath them.
“I..” he averted his eyes, “If it happens again, and you think you need to-” His eyes flashed to America’s mouth for the second, eyeing the dried blood touching the corners of his lips. “I’ll do it. I mean, you can use me to um, help. You’ve already done it once already, might as well finish what’s been started eh?” And at the look of horror on America’s face, he quickly explained himself,
“Not that way of course! But, we both know you’ll stop if I say so now. And it didn’t hurt that much. It mostly surprised me. And if it makes you feel better… I’ll do it.”
The room itself seemed to be holding it’s breath after Canada’s words. He watched as his brother straightened himself out against the wall, uncurling in the slightest hesitance. His expression was wary, as if trying to find a reason why this was the horrible idea they both knew it was.
“What about England?” he ventured, and Canada’s eyes flashed,
“Angleterre pouvez aller à l'enfer! Just bite lower and I’ll just start wearing cravats. You and I both know that this is the only answer. We can‘t die from blood loss, and I‘m stronger than any of your citizens. France once told me that he was shot through with a cannon ball, and remained on the field for five days bleeding before he was found. This is the most sensible choice we have.” he breathed deeply, then closed his eyes, calming his frustration. His fingers were twisted into the sheets by his knees, and he took care to unwind them. When he opened his eyes again, America was staring at him with tired eyes, as if the entire conversation exhausted him.
“Canada…” a breath of resignation, wherein Canada’s own got caught in his throat. He turned on a small smile, a flicker of his exuberant self shining through, “You’re not French anymore.”
Canada let out a breath of amusement, his shoulders sagging from their taught position. He shook his head, and it was at that moment that he knew everything was going to be alright.
“No, I’m not.”
More silence, broken only by the flicker of shadows against the walls from the gas lamp. And then America shifted against the blankets, uncurled himself fully and pushed away from the wall.
“Alright…Alright” America’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Canada leaned into the touch until his brother’s knees were on either side of his, and America was leaning over him. He forced himself to breathe evenly. A warm stupor was filling his body again and he felt the heat reach up into his cheeks as America grasped both his shoulder and half dragged him closer. Canada placed trembling hand on his brother’s waist, steadying him overtop of him.
“Tell me when to stop if I go too far.” America sounded scared, but his eyes were returning to that gorgeous ocean haze that Canada had fallen into earlier. He almost scoffed at the words, but nodded instead for his brothers sake.
“I always do.” And one last quirked smile from America that made this all seem like a game, and not something that could potentially kill either of them, and then he leaned in.
Re: 1789 - Part 8
(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 07:04 am (UTC)(link)OP.
(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 07:59 pm (UTC)(link)Love. Complete and total love for you.
I love this, I am in love with this.
Can't wait for the next update.
Re: 1789 - Part 8
(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 10:28 pm (UTC)(link)1789 - Part 9
(Anonymous) 2010-09-14 04:12 am (UTC)(link)cheek as his brother leaned into him. Felt the briefest brush of cheek against cheek, cool against warm,
and his fingers twitched at America's hips, clutched, pulled him closer against him. America accommodated
by shuffling closer until they were both comfortable.
"Don't tell England," came whispered into his ear, and it seemed like the words traveled at light speed
down his body to tangle in the center of his chest. Canada closed his eyes. His breathing sounded too loud
to himself.
"I won't." Oh god, they wouldn't be able to tell anyone. Not when across the ocean, Europe was frenzied
over witches and demons who would slink into the shadows of night with similar intentions. No, they
wouldn't be able to tell.
And then the hot line of America's tongue traveled from the base of his neck to the top and Canada almost
forgot the breathe once more. Hot and wet against his dry skin, and his face heated up at the feeling. Then it
happened again, and again, and oh god he must be licking off the dried blood from before. He thanked
himself that his eyes were closed as that delicious daze returned.
Canada swallowed deep in his throat, withheld a shudder as America paused for the contraction of his
throat to stop, and then there was that tongue again.
God, that delicious, heated, rapturous tongue. He couldn't understand how America could be so hot
when just an hour ago he was freezing to the touch. This, Canada could enjoy, along with that fog encompassing his mind, dragging him deeper and deeper until he couldn’t even remember where he was other than that America was with him, on him and he felt closer than any boundaries or borders could permit. So when America wobbled on his knees against him, unsteady in front of him, Canada pressed his hand down his brothers sides and clenched into the cotton of his shirt and pulled-
There was a jostle as America leaned forward at the same moment that Canada did. A stagnant moment where America didn’t want to let go of hid brothers neck, and sounds of wrinkling bedsheets under them took over. Eventually they settled, both in the center of the bed, knees tucked under them as America sat in Canada’s lap, arm pressed flush against his shoulder, carefully holding his northern brother’s neck while his fingers traced the curls at his nape. It almost felt like a heatfelt hug, thought Canada. Although he could barely feel America in his lap, like the country was afraid to hurt him anymore by adding weight in his lap. And the position they were in was hardly as innocent as a hug. More likely embarrassing with America’s legs on either side of his. Practically obsene in fact.
He was sure if England ever saw him now, the man would fall from shock. That, or perhaps drag him away and give him another stern lecture about proper conduct in front of others and how to be polite and curteous in the absolute most gentlemanly way. Canada groaned at the wave of embarrassment that washed over him at the thought, only the feel more when America quickly jolted against him and leaned back to stare with inquisitive eyes, afraid the noise was from pain. He was breathing heavily, Canada could hear him trying to quiet the noise as it came out. His face scrunched up at how awkward this all was between them. Awkward and embarrassing and wholly new, but was it really like they had any idea what to do anyways?
“Sorry, just thinking. I feel fine.” He shifted awkwardly under America, stared at his hands holding the shirt infront of him.
“Your eyebrows are furrowed,” whispered America, he was leaning into his shoulder again. Canada wanted to laugh because America’s were too. But America’s lips closed over the part of his throat that still stung from sensitivity, and he let the laughter die in his throat, focused on keeping still.
Re: 1789 - Part 9
(Anonymous) 2010-09-14 04:14 am (UTC)(link)Re: 1789 - Part 9
(Anonymous) 2010-09-14 04:19 am (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2010-09-14 04:48 am (UTC)(link)And speaking of that, yay update! And don't worry, I totally understand how real life can get in the way or stuff like that.
And as long as you do fill I am very patient. I can wait, don't rush yourself.
As long as the author doesn't abandon the story I can wait for however long.Also I am intrigued on what you have planned for the Civil War and 1812, drama!.I love the way that you are describing the actual event. Nice.
Can't wait for the next update and once again, wonderfuly done on this part.
Re: 1789 - Part 9
(Anonymous) 2010-09-14 07:36 am (UTC)(link)1789 - Part 10
(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 04:22 pm (UTC)(link)He could feel himself bleeding under tongue and lips, his heartbeat reverberating loudly through his head from a mixture of shock and something he didn’t really want to describe. But that feeling twisted inside of him, deeply rooted, so he couldn’t forget it for even a minute. Squirming, and hot, and yearning, and god it felt amazing when America sucked just…ohgodyes right-there. There, where it was just a bit too raw, but he could forget the prick if he concentrated on the way his brother’s tongue ran over the puncture marks, and the way a hand massaged the other side of his neck, kneading and tugging in mindless direction.
When America leaned away once again, it left Canada feeling disoriented, and entirely more sated than he should have been. America, however, was panting a storm on the edge of frustration. He seemed to be struggling with words, as he closed his eyes and raked a hand halfway through his hair before clutching at the roots.
“Canada, I can’t- It’s not enough, I need to-“ he spoke feverishly fast, as if his mind was a blur and it was his job to gather tangled threads and somehow make a pattern out of them.
Canada’s mouth felt dry, and he felt embarrassed that his breathing had become partially laboured from their activities. He licked his lips, pursed them to try and stop the chapping. He almost started when America grabbed his shoulders and pulled him against him. He could feel his brother shudder against his body, forehead pressed against his shoulder. Absently, in the far recesses of his foggy mind, he realized America was having trouble with something and so he lifted a hand, cramped from clutching at cotton fabric harshly, and soothed down the line of America’s back. The body gripping on top of him froze.
“Canada, are you okay with this?” and the twist of fingers in the shoulders of his shirt compelled him to take this more seriously than he had any other moment in his life. Because America was scared, and he was the only one who could help.
And he thought about it, actually thought about it, and when he did, and felt the strain from the broken skin on his neck, and his brother against him, with nothing but stained cotton and skin (borders) between him and me, and him and me, and him and-
“Yeah”, he breathed.
In response America dragged his head up to that punctured spot and it itched in anticipation. He dipped his head against it, nuzzled his nose into the curve of Canada’s neck, the strands of his hair curling and falling against skin that didn’t belong to him.
“This isn’t enough. I need more” And Canada’s breath stopped because –ohmercy, he didn’t think it would really be this shocking to hear that.
But maybe America didn’t notice, or he was too wrapped up in explaining, but he felt the lightest press of sharp somethings –teeth, god those are teeth- press against that itch.
“I need…” And then those teeth lifted away and there was a squeeze of arms grounding him to the here and now once again.
“Canada, are you okay with this?”
Re: 1789 - Part 10
(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 05:21 pm (UTC)(link)more more mooooore?
Re: 1789 - Part 10
(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 05:28 pm (UTC)(link)I was actually thinking about this the other day, and I was super excited to see it on the fill list! Great chapter, I love how America is scared and Canada seems perfectly fine. Can't wait until you get into more modern times and how they deal with it as adults.
Re: 1789 - Part 10
(Anonymous) 2010-10-12 05:24 am (UTC)(link)I look forward to the next parts~
Re: 1789 - Part 10
(Anonymous) 2010-10-12 10:27 pm (UTC)(link)And besides I totally have no right to complain about the rare updates. I'm even worse with my own fills. orz
op
(Anonymous) 2010-10-13 12:52 am (UTC)(link)That being said yay an update!
This was oddly sensual, I like how you described the process and everything and unsure Alfred.
Bravo!
Re: 1789 - Part 3
(Anonymous) 2010-08-17 07:15 am (UTC)(link)Will sit on fills post and stalk. Will give more love with love etc etc etc when new part is posted.
<3
Re: 1789 - Part 3
(Anonymous) 2010-08-17 05:56 pm (UTC)(link)Alfred being sick, the worrying founding fathers, and CANADA and his questions!!!
:D :D :D Faving and totally stalking the fills page!