#and an old woman form where shes out to get you now. you get heatstroke. maybe you die

[smrtnik07]

woe....heatstroke be upon ye! [sequel to my rodya post]

[dainty-baneberry]

Prompt #23: Parched

Dainty sat in the sun-hot desert sands of Ahm Araeng and felt rather sorry for herself. She didn't indulge in acts of self pity very often. It wasn't her nature to dwell on could-have-beens or what-ifs. She was entirely too practical and remorse did little to solve whatever predicament she found herself involved in. Therefore she did not waste her time with it.

Usually.

Today, however, she was having a good, hard wallow in her regrets at having pranked Ryne and ending up resembling a Sin Eater. Despite the best efforts of Y'shtola, Urianger, Ryne and the Crystal Exarch there was no easy explanation for her current appearance. With no way of knowing why she looked as she did it was somewhat difficult to figure out how to undo it. Alisaie shielded her eyes as she surveyed the bone dry, parched landscape until she spotted the small dot of white midst the tan sea of sand. She had heard about Dainty's change although out of respect to those recuperating at the Inn at Journey's End Dainty had not visited the area in person. Those who had been so affected by Sin Eaters would likely be further traumatized by seeing Dainty's currently sin eater like form. “What do you suppose she is doing?” Ryne asked nervously, stroking her fingers through her red hair. “I... I would suggest that she is meditating but...Dainty straight doesn't.” Alisaie spoke with a pretty little frown that wrinkled her brow far more than a 16 year olds ought be. “Indeed. Never hath thine companion of many summers been much inclined to quiet pursuits within her owneth mind.” Urianger observed. “She's sulking is what she's doing.” Thancred offered with a shrug. He admired Dainty as the Warrior of Light, and stood in awe of what she could do, and the sacrifices she made for the Scions, the Realm and for their very Star. But there was no friendship lost between the Hyur and the Au Ra. As much as he respected her as a Warrior he tended to find her companionship frustrating on a social level. The fact was that they were simply too similar. Both had very little respect for authority and were prone to dark sarcasm. Unfortunately this led to certain incidents where Dainty mouthed back to one of the few authority figures Thancred did respect and rubbed the former Rogue turned Gunbreaker the wrong way.

Similarly Thancred had not been nearly respectful Dainty felt he ought to have been to people whose friendship she had come to cherish very deeply, rubbing the Warrior the wrong way. “I...I ought go talk to her. Apologize again.” Ryne said, gathering her courage to do just that but Urianger's gentle hand at her shoulder held her in place; “Dainty has heard thine words of atonement, child. She desires them again naught, I assure thee.” “But....” “If thou feels most strongly compelled to action I might suggest thou bringeth her a drink of water. Truly she hast been sat upon these hot sands overlong for my liking.”

“Yes. Mine too. For all her strength and tenacity Dainty can get heatstroke as easily as you or I.” Alisaie agreed. “I've some cold milk at hand. Let me get you a skein to take to her Ryne. Dainty is fond of milk.” “Dainty looks of milk.” Thancred quipped, earning himself a sharp look from Alisaie but a small rumble of amusement from Urianger.

It was true. In her current form Dainty was as pure white as a cup of the creamy beverage. Ryne dutifully carried the drink to the Au Ra woman sitting in the sands, her approach did not take the slender Dainty by surprise despite Ryne's light steps making no noise on the sun baked sand. “A drink, Dainty?” Ryne offered with a smile, struggling not to give into the urge to fall over herself apologizing. Thancred, Y'Shtola and Urianger had all told her it was not necessary and she knew they were right but it didn't feel that way when Dainty's glowing eyes locked into her. “I wouldn't say no.” Dainty quirked a smile but it did not reach her eyes as she extended a hand for the skein.  Her throat was quite parched, now that she thought about it. “Are you quite certain you are ok, Dainty? Its so hot...and...and you might get heat stroke and...” Ryne's confidence failed her as Dainty's eyes seemed to bore through her. The dark magenta and glowing white gaze remained on Ryne's face even as Dainty downed the cold milk in one go. “The sun feels good on my scales, besides, my rump is quite cool, so it balances out.” Dainty offered and saw the intense confusion that writ itself instantly across Ryne's features. Dainty instantly thought to be sarcastic then reminded herself swiftly that the child deserved it not. It was not Ryne's fault she had been imprisoned the day she had manifested her Oracle of Light powers, and been deeply sheltered until the day Thancred had sprung her free. As an amnesiac Dainty had oft been scolded for not knowing things she had never been taught, or could not remember and had always vowed never to do that to another. Dainty gave Ryne a carefree smile that reminded the girl of their time helping the Nu Mou of Pla Enni. “Here.” Dainty patted the sand beside herself, willing to be distracted from her pity party for one by the friendly girl's company. “Dig down about 15 ilms and see what that gets you.” Ryne hesitated, unsure where this was going but did as directed and discovered a rather peculiar thing. Moisture, and coolness on her fingertips.

Ahm Araeng was not quite as parched as it seemed. “Oh! There must be a spring or something....” “A natural aqueduct runs deep below the sands but there's a few places where it comes close to the surface  Its why the Inn at Journey's End remains so cool despite the desert heat. There's not enough water flowing to support a full oasis but, its enough to keep me cool no matter how long I bake myself here.” Dainty explained then grinned. “And, the heat of the sand above it feels rather good on my damned back.” At this the Au Ra flopped over backwards, burrowing into the hot sand and putting a wrist across her eyes with a contented noise of relaxation. Ryne quickly settled herself with her haunches in the cool, damp sand and lay, as Dainty did, with her back in the hot baked sand. It did feel quite pleasant she must own, even if the sun was very bright so that she was forced to close her eyes. She put an arm across her eyes to shield them further still. Even just closing them was not sufficient block the red glow. “How did you know about the aqueduct coming to the surface just here, Dainty? Did someone tell you about it?” Ryne asked hopefully, eager to hear a story about Dainty's many adventures on the First since the woman seemed inclined to be chatty. “My horns. Auri...I mean... a drahns horns give them spatial awareness above and beyond most of the other races. Second only to that granted to Garlean’s by their 3rd eye.” “Oooooh.” Ryne thought she had read that once, in one of the many, many books of Urianger's that she would avidly bury her nose in whenever Thancred and she visited. “Hey, Dainty?” “Yes, Ryne?” “What's a Garlean?” @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[the-canary]

Too Damn Proud - S.R (2/5)

Summary: The man was born with two left feet, but damn could he steal a heart. (Modern/Dancing AU! Reader/Steve Rogers)

Prompt:  “Is now a good time to confess my love or should I come back in a week?”

Masterlist

A/N: This is for @whiskeybucky‘s writing challenge. i am sorry in advance if anybody gets Quinceañera flashbacks towards the end of this chapter because that was pretty much me towards the end. 

Feedback is always appreciated.

Part 1 

Mondays and Thursdays from 6 to 7pm with at least 24 hrs advance notice before rescheduling, is what Steve agrees with the dance instructor over the phone.

He doesn’t tell Sam, but Bucky had overheard the ending of the phone call and as his shift ends and Bucky’s begins, the older man can’t help but smirk.

“Good luck, Stevie,” the dark-haired man grins probably remembering his own times trying to teach the blond how to dance and silently praying for his new teacher, while patting Steve on the back as he heads to Queens with a nervous excitement running through his veins. It takes him a good 30 minutes to find the street where the studio is located, on top of a warehouse with some swing music playing loudly from one of the windows.

“Here it goes, Rogers,” Steve breathes, taking two steps at time. By the time he is at the front door, welcome by a sign and a dark-haired woman, the music has stopped though there is still an abundance of laughter and talking. He takes a deep breathe before stepping forward to the tight-lipped woman.

“H-Hi,” he manages to stutter out as dark eyes flicker with amusement for a moment,”Steve Rogers, coming in for dance lessons.”

“Your first session, I’m guessing?” she asks before introducing herself as Maria, the receptionist and everything else of Dancing All Night Studio.

“That obvious, huh?” Steve lets out a nervous laugh.

“Yes, but you came to the right place,” Maria nods, as some young girls come out from the hallways. Some wave goodbye to Maria, others are sending curious gazes towards Steve. However, before any of them can ask him anything, his name is being called by a woman wearing a black form fitting top, leggings, and a brightly colored sash tied around her hips with her hair pulled back. You smile before asking.

“Steve Rogers, I presume,” you ask as he nods. You motion for him to follow you down the hall after telling Maria she can start locking up, “I hope you brought more comfortable clothes to dance in.”

“Sweats, sneakers, and an old tee. Just as you asked,” Steve motions to the small duffle bag he is carrying and you smile, still completely professional. You stop and motion to a room.

“You can get dressed here,” you point before motioning to the room at the end of the hallway, “I will be waiting there for us to start. Please don’t take long, if not you hiding in the locker room will count as your first class.”

“Have people really done that?” he questions, but you shake your head as a grin breaks out of your professional facade that stops him for a moment.

“Not yet, but I’ve heard stories from Sam,” you explain, as Steve groans before entering the room though all he can hear is your sudden laughter through the paper thin walls.

 6:10 is when you finally start with Steve standing in front of you in comfortable clothing though with an uneasy look on his face. The room is filled with with the dim light of the sun since the summer allows for it a bit longer than usual. The mirror wall to your front and the red brick interior to your back. Your hands on your hips, as you can’t for the life of you help but feel excited about teaching the urban legend that is Steve Rogers due to his inability to dance, according to Sam. Though the teacher side of you tries to be kind, non-judgemental, and patience.

“So, first thing first,” your voice has Steve’s head popping to his left to look at you, waiting, “Why do you want to dance?”

“W-What?” Steve responds. He had been waiting for you to just start telling him how to move, like Bucky had back in high school, not questioning his motives. It caught him off-guard, but it was refreshing in a sense. It wasn’t like you were digging into his innermost thoughts, which always worried him when meeting new people.

“Why dancing?” you repeat again, taking him out of his inner monologue. Blue eyes look towards the mirror in front of him, for a moment staring at a skinny 5’4 kid who could barely be out in this sort of weather without getting some sort of heatstroke. Steve Rogers was lucky to be alive, to have made it this far and maybe this was the first step in enjoying it --survival-- in a different way.

“Never coulda before,” Steve remarks, looking straight at you, “Wanted to try now. Maybe, even dance with a pretty gal.”

“Well, I’ll promise you’ll get to do all that and more!” you exclaim, clapping your hands together as an old Elvis Presley song begins to echo in the room. Steve looks at you in confusion since you two had talked about learning older dances -- swing, the waltz, and such-- before anything else.

“I wanna see how flexible you are first,” you laugh at the horror that slowly disappears on his face as it turns into understanding, “The King’s music is the best to show off those muscles!”    

You move your arms to and for before thrusting your hips forward. You wait for Steve to follow your motions for the rest of the song. One song turns into another as you move around Steve with a huge grin on your face, shaking your hips and twisting around every so often, though your eyes never leave his body as you try to get a sense of how he works -- it was part of your individualized dance curriculum. On the other hand, Steve is a stiff as a board while simply moving back and forth or shuffling his feet. It wasn't until a song from a familiar Elvis movie starts up that he begins to loosen up -- you are quick to take note of it too.

By the end of the session, you are sweating bullets as you hand Steve a cold water bottle, as he just seems to be breathing heavily. You shake your head and let yourself fall gracelessly on a chair nearby.

“So, what do ya think?” you ask, as he gulps the water done in one go and you try not look at his Adam’s apple. He sighs and looks down with a slight smile.

“I think I can do this,” you know he is trying to psych himself up, because nobody is really up for dancing unless they are born for it or have a very extroverted personality -- the one which you have the former of.

“Good, then I’ll see you next Monday,” you smile, as you throw a small towel at him before he bids your goodnight with a sweet and polite smile. There’s a brief fluttering in your stomach and you push it back, fully knowing that this isn’t the time for that.

 The next two sessions go back to your usual structure of explaining what dance you are going to be teaching and doing the steps, as the couple watches on, except since Steve is just one person. This has you with your hand cusped with his and the other on his shoulder. You had stopped the song again because he had stepped on your toe again , but he was making progress.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just had something on my mind,” he tells you, as you turn to look at him with a frown. You motion him to sit down, knowing from experience that you weren’t going to get anywhere if his mind was occupied.

“Well, what’s on your mind?” you ask, as he finally sits down, “A pretty gal?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out like some lovestruck teen, which causes you to quirked an eyebrow “Sharon, and I was thinking about asking her out dancing, but…”

“But?” you echo back his worried sentiments.

“Nat told me she’s really into salsa music,” Steve explains as he scratches the back of his next,”And I’m more--”

“Old fashioned,” you finished, as he gives you a smile in gratitude for finishing his sentence, before you continue, “So, what’s the problem? We could just finish the waltz and change some of the dances we had planned. No big deal.”

“Really?”

“ Really really . You learn how to dance, ask her out, and Steve Rogers gets the gal in the end,” you shrug, unsure of why you feel a hollow ache in your chest for a brief moment, “Maybe, I’ll even choreograph the wedding.”

“Thank you so much,” he grins as you nod, brushing past the stickiness that comes with unknown emotions and getting that stupid, wonderful man to dance without stepping on your goddamn toes.   

Part 3 

[feynavaley]

Hetalia Fanfiction – Overheated Ch 2

Summary: “America has noticed that Canada has been feeling down lately. Being the heroic big brother he is, he takes the matter in his hands and drags Canada out of the house for some brotherly bonding. In Texas. In the middle of summer. Too bad Canada, a northern nation, doesn’t exactly have a good heat tolerance. Needless to say, things don’t go as planned.”

Part 2/3. The full chapter is under the cut, use your phone browser if you can’t see it from the app.

AO3 | FFN | Previous | Next | List

Chapter Two

Alfred F Jones, the United States of America, wasn’t crying. Nope. Absolutely not. Those tears that glimmered at the corners of his eyes had nothing to do with his emotional state.

And he definitely didn’t sniff.

It was just that… Canada was so impossible at times. Considerate, polite and soft-spoken? As if. In his dreams, maybe. America couldn’t wrap his mind around how his younger brother had managed to fool so many nations into thinking he was one of the sweetest, kindest soul that inhabited the planet.

Okay, maybe it was because he actually was. Most of the time, at least. And then, without any warning, he would fly off the handle as he had done a few moments earlier. Alfred couldn’t believe he had been so hurtful. Not when he had done absolutely nothing to deserve it, especially.

In spite of common belief, America actually always noticed Canada. Well, almost always. But the point was, he had noticed how dejected and tired his little brother had looked during the meetings. He hadn’t had time to address the issue then, but he hadn’t forgotten about it, which was why he had decided to do something nice to cheer Matthew up.

But instead of being grateful, his little brother had decided to throw a hissy fit. Sometimes, America really couldn’t believe him.

‘Well, serves him right,’ he thought surly, shaking his head, ‘If he wants to keep crying over himself, I won’t stop him.’

The thought didn’t make him feel any better.

Alfred was so absorbed in his thoughts that he completely ignored a dull thud, but the sudden shout that followed it jerked him back to reality.

“Oh my God, somebody call an ambulance!”

America jumped to his feet, scanning his surroundings.

“What happened?” he asked urgently, immediately pinpointing the person who had given the alarm – a middle-aged, plump woman with greying hair.

He actually didn’t need to ask. A moment later, his eyes fell on the spot the woman was pointing, where two passers-by were converging, summoned by her shouts.

A slim form was sprawled on its side on the asphalt.

The slim form of a fair-skinned boy in his late teens with his face partially obscured by wavy, glossy strawberry blond hair.

Alfred’s heart missed a beat.

Matthew.

America didn’t register the strangled gasp that seeped through his lips, nor that he had started running – the only thing that mattered at that moment was his little brother’s pale, frighteningly unmoving form.

In his haste to reach him, Alfred shoved the woman away, but didn’t offer any apology – he didn’t have time for that.

In a moment, he skidded to his knees next to his brother, the previous quarrel completely forgotten.

“Mattie? Matthew! Answer me, Mattie!” he shouted as he shook Canada by his shoulders.

The boy’s head merely lolled from side to side, unresponsive. His breathing was ragged and uneven.

America rolled him on his back, internally panicking.

‘What happened? Was it something in Canada? An attack, a natural disaster?’

But no, he would have heard his brother cry out in pain if it had been so. America would never forget the excruciating pain of 9/11, nor Canada’s agonized screams for Halifax. It was more likely that there was something wrong with Matthew, not Canada.

His trembling hand found his brother’s neck.

He immediately felt his pulse, faint and erratic but there, and…

Shit. Shit shit shit…

How had he not seen it before? Matthew was burning up.

Alfred could feel the panic seeping into his brain, but he forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to think straight. He didn’t have time to panic.

His hands cupped Canada’s face. The skin was frighteningly pale and dry to the touch.

‘Heatstroke,’ his mind supplied numbly, ‘An advanced state.’

How on earth had he not noticed until then?

A whirlwind of scenes passed through Alfred’s mind, finally clicking together like the pieces of a puzzle. Matthew complaining about the heat. Matthew asking him to please please get in the shades. Matthew stumbling when he got down his horse. Matthew holding his head. Matthew’s flushed face and glassy eyes. Matthew wrapping his arms around his stomach. Matthew not drinking. Matthew being snappier than usual. Matthew wavering as he stood up.

Alfred clamped a hand over his mouth. He could feel the acrid taste of bile to the back of his throat.

Shit shit shit shit…

His fault. To put it plainly, it was. His. Fault.

But he had no time to wallow in self-pity, not right then. Later, maybe, but now he had to help Matthew.

Finally tearing his eyes away from his brother’s face, Alfred looked around, assessing the situation. The woman had fallen on her knees at his side, and she was bending over Matthew, her face scrunched in maternal concern. Two men had reached them, their expressions clouded with identical worry. One had a phone in his hands, his trembling fingers swiftly composing a number.

“You! Get me a taxi!” America ordered sternly.

The man started, confused. He looked about to retort, but one look at America’s unwavering eyes changed his mind. It was his nation in front of him, not a simple teenager.

“And make sure it has air conditioning.”

The woman gasped.

“But… shouldn’t you get him to the hospital?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Alfred shot her a stern look, lifting Canada’s upper body so that his brother was leaning against his chest. The boy’s head lolled against his shoulder.

���He’s my little brother, I’ll get him home,” he said.

Unlike the man, the woman didn’t seem so easy to convince.

“Where are your parents?” she asked, her eyes wide.

Alfred gaped at her for a moment. ‘Our parents?’ He was aware that he and Matthew looked like teenagers – technically, their bodies were biologically in their late teens – but he had never been asked that question before.

“We don’t have parents!” he screeched in the end.

A little too dramatically, maybe. Whoops. Well, he didn’t really have time for a nosy citizen of his, right then.

The woman recoiled. She looked about to say something else, but the second man intervened before she could.

“Well, we should get him inside, anyway,” he said, looking critically at both Alfred and Matthew.

That was actually a good idea.

The man bent down, stretching his hands towards Matthew’s legs, but Alfred stood up, cradling his little brother’s limp body to his chest. The man’s eyebrows rose.

“Are you sure you can do it by yourself? He looks quite thin, but he’s tall. Can’t be that light…”

Alfred shot him a grin.

No, Canada wasn’t very light. He was only a little shorter than Alfred, and while his body was much leaner, it didn’t lack muscles, but that was hardly a problem for America. He could have carried his brother effortlessly for miles.

The man frowned but followed him, staying close to his side as if ready to catch Matthew if America looked about to drop him, while the woman ran inside the diner. Alfred saw her call frantically for one of the waitresses, and the second woman’s eyes widened as she talked, undoubtedly explaining her the situation.

As soon as Alfred crossed the doorway, he was hit by a gust of cool air.

There weren’t many people sitting at the tables, and all of them trained their eyes on them, a few even made as if to stand up. A tall waitress in her thirties ushered Alfred to a secluded corner.

“Put him here,” she said, gesturing at a sofa.

Alfred complied wordlessly before crouching next to the seat, gently tapping his brother’s cheek.

“Mattie?”

There was no answer, not even a moan. The boy’s breathing was still laboured.

Alfred bit his lower lip.

A slender hand placed a blue ice pack on Canada’s forehead. Turning, America saw that it belonged to the young waitress who had brought them the second glass of coke before. Her dark eyes were shining with worry.

“Have you already called for an ambulance?” the older waitress asked.

“He wanted a taxi,” supplied the man who had helped them inside. He was standing next to the sofa, his arms folded across his chest.

The waitress frowned at Alfred.

“Heatstroke is a very serious condition, far more serious than one would imagine at a first glance,” she stated in a stern voice, “Is he your brother? You should really get him to a hospital.”

‘You really think I don’t know that?!’ America wanted to snap, but he knew she was only trying to help.

“You can’t force him to go, Matthew wouldn’t want to,” he retorted instead.

It came out more forceful than Alfred had meant, but it was true. Canada wouldn’t have wanted to be taken to a hospital. It was tricky, nations healed far too quickly for humans not to start asking questions, so they tended to take care of their injuries by themselves, or in the worst cases, they relied on few, trusted doctors.

America would have called one of his, but the one living closer to Texas was on holiday in Madagascar, and all the others were hours away. Besides, he knew how to take care of a heatstroke, and he had everything he needed at home.

His listeners’ frowns deepened.

“Are you both of age?” asked the man.

Alfred nodded. Actually, he wasn’t sure whether Matthew was seventeen or eighteen, but it didn’t really matter, not when they both were centuries old.

(A small pang of guilt twisted his stomach. Could he really be that oblivious that he didn’t even know his little brother’s age? But no, he had no time for that. Not now.)

The man let out a sigh, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

“…Then we can’t really stop you.”

A deep silence enveloped the group. The woman who had given the alarm had taken to fanning Matthew with a newspaper. There were identical expressions of deep concern etched in the lines of everybody’s face, their eyes were all trained on Matthew’s unconscious form.

In spite of everything, America couldn’t help but feel pride swell in his chest at how helpful and nice his people were, at how they were able of such a display of concern for a boy they had never seen before.

“I mean, our uncle is a doctor,” he added hastily, suddenly realizing how harsh his words had been. “He should be home right now, he had the night shift so it’s his free day… He’ll know what to do.”

Everybody seemed to relax slightly.

“Just… don’t do this again,” the oldest woman sighed with a gentle shake of her head. “You kids, believing you’re invincible… How long were you out in the sun for him to end up like this?”

She hadn’t meant it like a reproach, it was closer to a weary remark, but it still filled Alfred with guilt. Matthew had been completely aware of his limits. He, on the other hand…

Right then, the man who had called for the taxi walked through the door. He quickly looked around, then started heading towards the people cluttered around Canada’s unconscious form.

“The taxi’s outside,” he announced.

His light blue eyes were clouded with worry, and his forehead tightened even more when they fell on Matthew’s unconscious form.

“He doesn’t look good. Are you really sure…”

“Yes, our uncle is a doctor,” repeated Alfred, lifting Canada into his arms.

He tried to ignore how limp he was, and how heated his forehead felt against the bare skin of his neck.

The group of people that had gathered around flanked him, following him to the door. Alfred had almost reached it when a tug to his pants stopped him. A little girl, no older than four, was looking at him with wide dark eyes.

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Lucy! Don’t bother them!”

A second girl, who looked around ten and remarkably like the younger one, dragged her away.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” she said, keeping a firm hold on her sister’s hand.

America summoned a small smile for her.

“Nah, it’s all right. Thanks for worrying, Lucy, Mattie’s going to be just fine. I gotta go now, though.”

Without sparing a second glance at the girls, he headed towards the taxi.

A moment before going through the door, his ears caught Lucy’s voice a second time.

“Is that his big brother? Oh, then he’s totally going to be fine.”

Alfred’s chest constricted at her words, at the absolute certainty they were laced with.

Oh, yes, Mattie was going to be fine, he hadn’t lied. But that had nothing to do with Alfred being there. Canada was going to be fine because he was a nation, and as such, he was going to recover. Simple as that. If it were for Alfred, he would be in an ICU by then.

As promised, a taxi was waiting for them outside. The man who had called it rushed to open the door and Alfred slid inside, setting Matthew next to him, leaning against his shoulder.

The boy had yet to regain consciousness. So close, America could hear even more the way he was wheezing, seemingly struggling with each intake of breath.

After telling the driver the address, he still managed a wave and a ‘thank you’ to all the people who had so nicely helped them, but as soon as he closed the door and the taxi pulled into the road, the smile slipped from his face.

The driver, a middle-aged, paunchy man, gave them a quizzical look through the rear mirror.

“Are you really sure you don’t want to be taken to the hospital?” he asked.

For what had to be the hundredth time, Alfred shook his head.

“Just take me to that address, please. Our uncle is a doctor.”

He could feel his patience thinning, he was sure he was going to start screaming if somebody asked him any more questions. Matthew needed help, not the sacred inquisition! Which was what everybody was trying to do, technically, but still.

Luckily, the man kept his mouth shut, even though he kept glancing at them. Alfred ignored him.

“Come on, Mattie, it’s time to wake up…” he tried a few times, prodding his little brother, but Canada remained unresponsive.

It wasn’t good. If he were a human, America would have brought him straight to the ER.

Luckily, not many people were around in the heat, and the driver didn’t seem to mind breaking a few speed limits, so he soon pulled in front of America’s house.

The boy fumbled for a moment with his wallet, then threw fifty dollars at the driver.

“Keep the change!” he yelled as he picked up Canada. A moment later he was off, running through the lawn.

Once inside the house, America didn’t waste a second to place Matthew on the king-sized bed he used for his visits, stripping him of all the clothes except for his boxers. He placed a thermometer in his mouth and occupied the time until the response frantically running through the house in search of all the items he needed, almost tripping and breaking his neck several times in the process.

Finally, America returned to Canada’s room, his arms full, just as the thermometer beeped.

Alfred dropped everything on the desk and hurried to take it off, his eyes immediately darting to the numbers on the display.

106.34

America’s heart missed a beat.

Oh fuck…

He took another glance at Canada’s still, wheezing form.

That was bad. That was so much worse than he had thought… his head was almost spinning with the realization.

But he couldn’t afford to panic, Canada needed help. Right. Now.

First things first: Alfred needed to cool him down. The ice packs were for that. America swiftly placed them on Matthew’s forehead, chest, groin and under his armpits.  After that, he sprayed the boy’s body with cold water. He briefly wondered whether he should have put him directly into the bathtub, but that would have prevented him from giving Canada intravenous fluids – he couldn’t recall Matthew drinking at all during the morning, he must have been severely dehydrated by then, nation or not.

Thankfully, America’s house was stocked, he had some bags of saline solution. Carefully, Alfred took his brother’s slender wrist into his bigger, rougher hands and inserted the needle, trying to be as gentle as he could. He dimly realized it didn’t make much sense – Matthew was far too gone to feel anything – but the mere thought of causing his little brother any more pain made his stomach twist painfully.

When he was finally done, Alfred dropped on the edge of the mattress, running his fingers through his brother’s soft hair.

“Oh, Mattie…” he whispered.

His brother’s unconscious form didn’t offer any answer.

America had to stifle a sob. He had only meant to cheer Canada up, how had everything managed to go so wrong?!

That’s because you don’t listen. You never do, and in the end, somebody else pays the price for your ignorance.

There was nothing he could say to counter that thought. Mainly, it was because it was true.

Only when the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, America realized that he had been worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Swallowing, he diverted his gaze from Canada’s pale face, trying not to listen to his shallow breaths.

‘I need to do something.’ He couldn’t afford to break down, the least he could do was to ensure Matthew was being taken care of properly.

Trying to divert his mind from any thought, America took to methodically changing the ice packs and wetting Canada’s body, ensuring that not a single part of him was ever dry, and periodically checking his temperature.

Finally, after what seemed centuries, Matthew’s fever was down to 102.56. Still quite high, but not dangerous in the slightest, especially not for a nation.

And Canada seemed to be breathing more easily. His breaths still had a ragged edge, but they were deep and regular. His pulse wasn’t that fast anymore, either, nor as weak as it had been when he had collapsed.

America’s head spun for a moment, he had to place a hand against the wall to steady himself. He gave a deep exhale, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes.

It was okay. Matthew was going to be okay.

For another time, with far less haste than before, America gently ran a damp cloth on Canada’s abdomen – and suddenly he stopped, chocking.

He hadn’t noticed it before, his mind muddled by urgency and concern, but now he couldn’t take his eyes off it. Dark, half-healed bruises stood against the pale skin of Canada’s abdomen, green and yellow patches covering his ribs in a sickening display.

America’s trembling fingers hovered over the worst discolouration, that was on Matthew’s stomach, not daring to touch it.

Actually, it probably wouldn’t have hurt Canada, not even if he were awake. The bruises looked old, mostly faded, but Alfred knew enough about that kind of injuries to realize how bad they must have been at the beginning, how painful.

But how? How had Canada hurt himself so much?

Alfred took a deep breath, forcing himself to consider all the options.

Sure, it might have been just an accident. Canada might have fallen down the stairs, or something like that, God only knew how clumsy his brother could be at times.

And yet… there was something, a sort of tightness in his stomach, that made America think it wasn’t the case. Which could mean only one thing: somebody else had been the cause of Canada’s bruises.

America’s blood boiled with rage at the thought of somebody daring to lay his hands on his little brother, his mind screamed for revenge – nobody should be allowed to cause pain to Canada and walk away unpunished. And America would see to that, he swore to himself, clenching his fists.

Before doing so, however, he needed to find the culprit. He needed to think rationally.

Alfred quickly excluded the option of a human: Canada was a kind soul, and he didn’t like fighting, but America knew that he was a lot stronger than people gave him credit for, he wouldn’t let himself be beaten up like that by a mere mortal. Not under normal circumstances, anyway. Besides, Alfred was reasonably sure that Matthew had spent the last few days holed up in his house, doing paperwork, and any bruises caused by human hands before that would have faded too quickly to be still that visible.

Which left only one option: a nation had been the cause of those injuries.

The timing was right, there had been a World Conference ten days earlier, and bruises dealt by another nation would take some time to heal.

America ran a hesitant finger through the length of Canada’s abdomen, feeling the still heated, smooth skin, the now gentle rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

He looked so peaceful, so young…

His other hand clenched into a fist, taken by the sudden impulse of punching something. America managed to restrain himself, but just barely.

Who?

Who would have ever wanted to hurt Canada?! Did anybody have a grudge against him? Why would they?

Canada had done nothing wrong, nothing that could have angered other nations. They didn’t remember him often, but the times they did, America had heard only praises about him.

Who, then?

Russia? Oh, the commie bastard looked like a probable option, and America would have jumped at an excuse to bash his head in, but… if he had to be honest with himself, Russia was actually nice to Canada. Well, as nice as somebody as creepy as Russia could be, and America was sure it wasn’t done without a secondary intent, but… he didn’t see him just beating up Canada and then keeping silent. Russia would have bragged about it, or at least looked at America with that creepy, secretive smile of his to let him know he had missed something vital. Would he have any reason to keep silent?

Confusion was slowly breaking through Alfred’s anger. The truth was, he still very much wanted to punch somebody, but he had no idea of who. But maybe…

Alfred gritted his teeth. No, he didn’t need anybody’s help. He was the United States of America, he could figure it out on his own.

His eyes fell again on his little brother’s unconscious, battered body. He looked so delicate, so vulnerable… barely older than a child. In spite of that, somebody had decided to hurt him, to place those ugly marks on his pale flesh. And it might happen again, if America didn’t put an end to it.

Pride be damned, Alfred whipped out his phone and punched in a number he knew by heart.

After a few rings, an annoyed, familiar voice answered from the other end.

“What the fuck do you want, Alfred?! This has better be bloody important, I’m in Paris for an EU conference, you git, I don’t—”

America didn’t have time for that.

“Do you know if any nation has a grudge against Canada?”

A few moments of silence preceded the confused answer.

“…What?”

A single word. Innocent, maybe. So full of unawareness. Of ignorance, of indifference – especially coming out of the mouth of somebody who should have cared.

America finally lost the grip he had been so strenuously holding on his last vestiges of patience. He did manage to stop himself from punching something or throwing the phone across the room, but not the wail that bubbled up his throat and seeped through his lips.

“What do you mean ‘what’? Canada! CANADA! Mattie! My little brother! Your most loyal colony! Do I have to spell it for you?! C—A—N—A—”

“I KNOW WHO CANADA IS, YOU BLOODY WANKER!” England was screeching as well. “WHAT I MEANT WAS, WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT ALL OF SUDDEN, MORON?!”

“Oh…”

So he hadn’t forgotten.

America had to backtrack from his previous position. He felt a little guilty for verbally assaulting Arthur like that, but he wasn’t going to apologize. He was justified, after all, it wasn’t like England had never overlooked Canada, and his nerves were frazzled after everything that had happened.

A few moments of silence followed England’s words, then, America heard somebody else talk from the other side of the phone. He couldn’t understand the words, but the French accent was unmistakable.

“Yes, we are talking about Matthew, frog. How many other ‘Canada’ do you know?” England said, and his voice sounded weaker, as if he had put down the phone.

“Now, Alfred, what were you saying about somebody having a grudge on Canada?”

Arthur’s voice was still tinged with annoyance, but there was also something else. Concern.

“Mattie’s hurt,” Alfred said briefly, “He has bruises all over his abdomen… mostly healed, but they had to be painful at first. Somebody must have beaten him up quite badly. At the last Conference. Have you got any idea of who it might be?”

A stunned silence met his words.

“Wha—What are you saying? Are you sure?” All the anger was gone from Arthur’s voice, replaced by a shocked concern.

Alfred’s eyebrows twitched.

“Of course I’m sure, I’m not fucking blind! Now, do you have any name or not?”

“But… who would…”

England sounded still in denial.

America huffed. Clearly, that call had been a waste of time.

“I mean, Canada is such a sweet and considerate nation, why would anybody… frog, stop it! Yes, Matthew is… oh bloody hell, no, he’s not okay! Do you know of anybody who might want to hurt him?”

The phone was put down, and a muffled, frantic conversation followed England’s words.

America could feel his irritation growing. He was about to hang up when England put up the receiver.

“France doesn’t know anything, either,” he stated, having regained control of himself. “But… How did you know? Is Canada with you?”

Right then, America realized why he had dreaded calling England. Not only he didn’t help with his investigation, now he also had to…

“…Yeeah…” he answered awkwardly.

“And then, why don’t you try asking him, you git? Better yet, let me talk to him. You’ll never realize it if he’s lying, and he might do it to prevent you from doing something stupid…”

America swallowed. His throat felt dry.

“Aactually, I can’t do it. You see, Mattie’s kinda like… uhm… unconscious.”

Silence fell after those words. America contemplated hanging up the phone, but he wasn’t fast enough.

England had regained his ability to talk, and, to put it simply, exploded.

“WHAT?! And you are telling only now, you wanker?! WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?!”

‘How did he know it was my fault?’

Sometimes, Alfred was mystified by England’s ability to read him and Canada.

“Uhm… you see…” he mumbled, feeling like the worst criminal in history.

He took a shaky breath, then capitulated.

“Please don’t yell at me I know I was stupid I know I know I feel so horrible now but I just wanted to cheer him up I would have never thought it would happen I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t think I’m the worst brother ever I’m supposed to protect him instead I didn’t even listen I…” His voice trailed into a muffled whimper.

“What?” Arthur didn’t sound angry anymore, but there was a panicked edge in his voice. “Alfred, take a deep breath. Tell me what happened, start from the beginning. Is it that bad? How is Matthew?”

America clenched his fists, trying to calm his thundering heart. (And he didn’t sniffle. He was the United States of America, the strongest nation on the planet. That. Wasn’t. A. Sniffle.) Then, he told England everything that had transpired, feeling uncomfortably like a small child confessing his misdeeds to a frowning adult.

To his credit, Arthur didn’t scold him or yell at him, probably realizing how guilty Alfred was feeling. A long, weary sigh escaped his lips once America was finished with his tale.

“Oh, bloody hell…”

“I’m sorry,” America whimpered again, feeling more and more like a child chastised by his parent. “I know it was my fault, I—”

“Never mind that, now,” England interrupted him tiredly, “And don’t worry about the bruises, either. I’ll ask around if anybody knows anything… Just take care of Matthew. Heatstroke is a very serious condition, it could even have long-term consequences…”

A strangled whimper seeped through Alfred’s lips as muffled exclamations in French started at the other end of the phone.

“Oh my God, Canada isn’t going to recover? It was my fault! It was dealt by another nation, it’s more serious than a normal heatstroke, I—”

“Stop it, both of you!” shouted England, “Francis, stop whining, you aren’t helping! And Alfred, for God’s sake, think rationally! You didn’t hurt Matthew intentionally, yes it’s your fault, but indirectly. That doesn’t count as a nation hurting another nation, you git! And you know how important is intent with those sort of things. Canada is going to recover fully. I only meant to say it might take a bit longer than you thought, but no more than a month in the worst possible scenario, and that’s only if he was truly unlucky.”

“…Are you sure?” America asked in a trembling voice.

“Yes, Alfred, I’m sure. Matthew just needs to rest, he’s going to be fine. Just don’t let him do anything strenuous for a few days, okay? By then, he’ll probably be all right, banning any complication.”

Arthur had taken to taking in a soothing voice, almost like Alfred was still a little child. For once, the boy didn’t complain, but clung to those words like a drowning man to a life vest.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t still fully calm down.

“Complications? Like?”

England took a sharp breath, hesitating.

“…The heat might have done some internal damage, I’ve heard it can happen,” he said in the end, tentatively.

America gasped. Of course, he already knew that. But… somehow, he had managed to banish that thought to a corner of his mind. Hearing those words come from Arthur’ mouth, however, suddenly made it look like too much real.

“Of course, I don’t think it’s the case,” England went on hastily, “You must not forget that Canada is a nation, he’s much more resilient than a human. And, even if that did happen, he would recover fully, it would just take a bit longer.”

Not to mention the amount of pain involved.

America was aware that Arthur was on the same train of thoughts, for he fell silent, but he found himself grateful that Arthur avoided voicing it. He was already feeling enough guilty as it was.

“In any case, try to keep an eye on Matthew when he wakes up. And if you think he’s in pain, or there’s something amiss, take him to a doctor as soon as you can, I repeat, he would recover anyway, but it can be quicker with proper medical care.”

Okay, that sounded logical, and easy enough. Alfred’s thundering heart finally started calming down, the panic receding. He realized that his hand had been holding to the phone like a lifeline, and forced himself to loosen his grip.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he murmured, sending another glance at Canada.

In spite of all the commotion, his brother hadn’t moved a single muscle. His breathing, however, was almost back to normal. He was going to be okay. America had screwed up, and badly, but it wasn’t going to have a lasting effect.

“Alfred?” Arthur’s voice sounded tentative again, and gentle, much too gentle. It was the kind of voice he used when Alfred was in pain, or deeply upset. “Do you need me to come over? The meeting ends tomorrow, I can take a plane and be there by the evening.”

Muffled words followed his statement.

“… And Francis, too. I don’t know how much help he could be, but he won’t stop pestering me until  I tell you…”

A small smile stretched Alfred’s lips. He hadn’t stopped feeling guilty, but somehow, he also felt lighter.

“Nah, I’ve got it, man. Leave it to the Hero! I can totally take care of Mattie!”

England snorted.

“…You git.” America could almost see him shake his head on the other side of the phone. “Fine. Just… tell me when he wakes up, okay? And call me if there’s anything wrong, I’m definitely coming.”

“Yeah yeah. Will do it, old man.”

England sighed, but for once, he didn’t jump at the insult.

“…and Alfred? Don’t beat yourself too much over this. It was an accident, you didn’t mean it. Matthew would tell you that if he were awake, too.”

No, he wouldn’t.

Before collapsing, Canada had made it far too clear whom he blamed for the situation. And yes, sickness might have played a role in his words, but that didn’t mean he didn’t truly think at least part of what he had said.

Which didn’t mean Alfred couldn’t appreciate Arthur’s effort.

“Artie? Thank you,” he said softly.

Big brother, he wanted to add, but found himself unable to do so. He hoped that Arthur would understand anyway.

“Don’t mention it. I’m not doing it for you, bloody wanker, it’s your brother I’m worried about.”

But his words were light, and Alfred knew he didn’t mean them.

“Yeah, sure. Well, I’d better let you go, I guess your weary old body needs sleep. And say hi to Francis for me! Bye, Iggy!”

America hung up in the midst of England’s sputtering, not exactly comfortable, but a lot less upset than he had been before.

The bruises on Canada’s body were still there, angry and dark, but suddenly, they weren’t the main issue anymore. Besides, England had said he would take care of that, and an angry England was never good news. America didn’t envy anybody who would find themselves in his path if they hurt one of his precious former colonies. Yes, Canada’s attacker, whoever he or she was, was in good hands.

Alfred brought a hand to Matthew’s forehead, sweeping back his bangs. Still hot, but not nearly as bad as it had been before.

“Wake up soon, little brother,” he murmured, “Everything is fine. I’ll make everything all right again, I promise.”

(word count: 5,747)

Notes: 

106.34 °F = 41.3 °C; 

102.56 °F = 39.2 °C

I don’t have any medical training, so, while I did a lot of research on heatstroke, even in medical books, there might still be inaccuracies. I apologize for this.

English isn’t my first language, I apologize for any mistake. Feel free to correct me!