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England, like most nations, was never entirely sure what caused his particular illnesses. Similar to the human body, it felt random and unfortunate, but there was always, without fail, an underlying cause. Pinpointing the cause was something he'd given up on long ago, however, because what good did it do? Typically anything crucial was already being worked upon to the best of his country's ability and physical symptoms hardly ever gave predictions for the events but rather followed them...
So honestly there was no point in trying anymore. A shift in currency exchange rates could cause the flu while something actually significant would barely touch him. It was obnoxious and felt like an immature prank from some unseen force and if there was anything England despised it was immaturity.
Yet this... this one was troublesome.
It had started six months ago and had rather taken him by surprise. Migraines were a thing he was vaguely familiar with, but not something he had had the pleasure of suffering before. Headaches? Yes-- oh lord, yes. He'd raised America, of all nations, after all. Headaches were a familiar friend of his. Migraines were simply headaches' mean older brother and quite honestly he had enough of those for himself, thank you.
Perhaps it had been overly optimistic of him, but England had hoped that he would be able to attend the upcoming world meeting without bringing along with him one of these newly chronic nuisances.
Fate would not be kind to him this day.
It had started as a low thrum in the morning-- a kind of hum that settled itself in him as though prepping him for the pain to come. He could recognize by now the way it pulsed in his head harmlessly, simply waiting, like the egg of some terrible beast on the verge of hatching.
The scent of the lobby's coffee had been the thing to really set him off.
A wave of nausea had roared up in him and he felt the impending pains start to tear and warp his thoughts. He'd completely swerved out of the path of America, who seemed to have been trying to greet him, simply escaping to the main conference room where hopefully the area would be free of the retched stench of freshly brewed beans.
It mostly was, but the scent lingered.
Surveying the room he stared hard at the occupants and tried to gauge who would be the least annoying. Spotting Canada, he nearly ran to sit next to the lad, much to the nation's visible surprise.
The soft voice of the once-colony gave him the gentle, confused greeting of, "Good morning, England."
"No, no it's really not." He found himself muttering before realizing that that was hideously impolite and turning to face Canada properly, "Yet if it is a good morning for you, I welcome it." Something about the attention must have caught the lad off guard because he flushed slightly and started to sort through his papers with a touch of hesitance.
Just as the boy opened his mouth to speak again, a crash to his right jolted England out of his temporary reprieve.
"Wow, old man, are you hitting on my brother? That's pretty gross of you to do at a meeting you know." America said, voice loud enough to draw the attention of others. The loudness made England's entire body churn in pain.
He swallowed the pain in order to exhale tense words: "So help me if you do not shut your mouth I will shut it for you."
America simply laughed, loud and boisterous, and let his arm fall hard along England's back as he shook him in a way that was probably meant to be good natured. "Lighten up! You really need to take that stick out of your ass; it was just a joke!"
England pushed the brute off of his person and tried to ignore the scent of the coffee--three creams, two sugars--that sat at Alfred's potion of desk. Part of him wanted nothing more than to knock the damn thing over but that was childish and he was not childish.
The American looked put out by being ignored, but the meeting started before much could be done about it.
And for once, England truly regretted his personal policy of not taking sick days.
Things had started out alright. He'd listened to the host speaking before others began to rise to present their information. Neutral topics like climate change were discussed while more heated ones like trade and resources were touched upon gently. No one came here to start a war, typically, so all in all the meeting was just as bland as any other.
England could feel himself disintegrating as time went by. Speeches were okay, but the squabbling and the interruptions--especially those made by his delightful, coffee-slurping neighbor--really drove the nail in his mind deeper. Thorough notes began to slip into skim notes that quickly fell into the occasional, halfhearted scratching before he just gave up entirely and put his pen down.
Whether or not anyone noticed, he couldn't really tell. His head was in agony by this point and he kept having to pin his eyes shut to block out lights-- little pieces of reflective metal like pens or buttons just glimmering at him conspiratorially. At one point he wondered if this was some sick experiment that everyone was in on but he couldn't follow that train of thought very far.
The absolute worst, however, was how every booming word from America's mouth made his head reel and his senses scream at him. He'd clutch his head, take deep breaths-- anything just to make it stop. Eventually America must have noticed because he was oddly, thankfully silent for longer and longer periods of time and England could almost pretend that he wasn't in tremendous pain.
Break came and he fled the room like the hounds of hell were on his heels.
Despite being away from the noise and the smells he found no reprieve. The fluorescent lighting of the hall made his stomach lurch and jump and he just barely found the washroom in time to stumble onto his knees and vomit up the contents of his stomach into the bowl.
England hadn't realized that he'd left the stall door open until a hand started to gently stroke his back and he jolted slightly but was too consumed with the task of emptying his stomach to do anything about it. When he finally finished, the silent figure handed him a paper towel from the sinks and the British nation wearily wiped his mouth before disposing of the item and flushing down his disgrace.
Turning to the other nation, he was both surprised and not to see America looking at him with an unreadable expression. Blue eyes studied him a moment before lips curled into a painfully gentle smile and he murmured an uncharacteristically soft, "Hey..."
England felt himself hesitate and swallowed the saliva that had gathered in his mouth to wet his throat. It burned. "Hi..."
America stood, offering him a hand up and, feeling almost dazed by all of this, England took it. "You look a little green around the gills." The idiot said, still with that same painfully gentle and quiet tone. England felt slightly humiliated by it, as it made him think of the way lovers might murmur sweet nothings.
Still, he had the energy to level the man with a spectacular glower for such an inane comment regardless.
Looking slightly defensive, the other nation merely shrugged. And then, doing something entirely unexpected, he grabbed England's hand and started to lead him out of the room. Although the he wasn't sure where America was taking him, he didn't have the energy to really protest and the unusual behaviour had him caught off guard enough that he was almost curious as to what the idiot was up to.
They ended up at an empty break room and America shut the door behind them with a click and led him over the sofa.
England glared at him. "If this is supposed to be some kind of proposition, you're a lot thicker than I had you pegged, boy." America just shook his head and pointed at the sofa. "What? Speak, damn it, I don't have the patience for your games today."
Seemingly defeated, America looked put out. "Lay down and rest. Geez."
"I don't need to rest." England lied, defensive and frankly taken aback.
"England..." The nation whined and it felt like a shot had gone through his head. "England, c'mon, you're not feeling well. It's so obvious." A tug at his sleeve, like a child, "England, don't act like this. You're all prickly..."
"Stop." He ground out, feeling the whine scrape at his head like claws. "Stop fucking... saying my name like that..."
America faltered. "England?" He asked, seeming to change his tone. "... England?" It was a mix of worry and concern that he wasn't used to hearing, but it was killing him to hear it right now.
"Stop, just stop with the fucking name." He felt himself beg, letting himself sink onto sofa as he buried his head into his hands. The pain was unbearable and the idiot had no volume control even on a good day and the confusion he could feel swallowing him made him feel lost, like a child in the woods.
A weight settled next to him and after a long minute he heard a husky voice in his ear, "Arthur...?"
The sound made him jump... but it didn't hurt nearly as badly as the alternative. He stared at America, the light reflecting in his glasses making England's head spin. "That..." he began, feeling choked, "works."
Something about the way England was wincing tipped America off and the nation removed his glasses, placing them on a side table. "Is that better Arthur?" He asked, painfully gentle.
England stared, the events before him too surreal to comprehend. "... Yes..."
A beat of silence. "You're crying." America pointed out.
"... Am I?" He asked, feeling absurdly stupid. Raising a shaking hand to his face, he felt a wet streak. "Ah. Lovely." England replied, bitter.
Something about his response must have bothered America, because he leaned towards uncomfortable close. "It started when you left during the break." He told him.
England wasn't sure how to react to that news, so he didn't.
"I thought you had to have noticed but you didn't react to it..." And like some kind of damned hero, America invited himself to wipe the streaks away like England were some sort of princess. "Was this my fault?" He asked, looking completely serious.
A scoff. "You're too self-absorbed." England reprimanded.
That satisfied America for a moment, but as he was still leaning in close England couldn't help but be captured by those blue eyes. There were no glasses over them... It felt so strange to look at.
"Arthur?"
Every time that word left those lips England felt himself choke on his tongue. "Ah... hm?"
America inched closer, straightening slightly. He moved a hand to the back of England's head and gently guided the nation's cheek to his collarbone. "Just rest."
England didn't have any means of resisting this, but when he shifted slightly he could hear the other nation's heartbeat. It didn't hurt to listen to the steady thrum of life in America's chest, so he gave in and lay against him for a time, losing his thoughts in the beat.