Oneshots (countryhumans)

Feverish

Bold Text = Non-english language (Russian in this case). Y'all know the drill.

——————————————————-

Russia looked terrible.

And that wasn't just America being impudent. He literally looked terrible. Deep circles beneath his weary, unfocused eyes, skin unnaturally pale—which was saying something, considering Russia typically had the complexion of a vampire—and hair significantly unkempt, sticking out strangely beneath his fur hat. And, strangest of all, he was shivering.

America frowned. Russia, who (even proven historically) thrives in winter. Russia, who calls America a baby when he (rightfully) points out that keeping the thermostat at a crisp 66 degrees fahrenheit (the superior temperature scale) was not something a normal person does. That Russia was currently trembling, even as the afternoon sun of a pleasantly warm spring poured through the home office window.

"Seriously, at least take an ibuprofen or somethin'... you're shakin' like a damn leaf." America remarked, brow furrowed in concern. Russia blinked, fingers pausing briefly over his keyboard as his foggy mind attempted to decipher his words.

"Ah. Ny.. No... good... fine." Was his slurred response. America stared incredulously.

"No.. no you're clearly not fine. Take the rest of the day off, who gives a damn if U.N. gets pissy?" America threw his hands up, bewildered by Russia's dismissal of a perfectly good reason to skip work. And who actually takes working from home seriously? One of the few things the two had been able to agree on since the beginning was their distaste for menial paperwork or the endless migraine-inducing reports, treaties, debates, and sanctions that constantly vied for their immediate attention. It wasn't like Russia was a stranger to flat out blowing off work, so why is it that he decides to be overly committed now of all times?

If he had been forced to work out of necessity, ie. extremely crucial work for his government, then America wouldn't be allowed to sit so casually across from him, much less be in his house. Now that he thought about it, the only reason he was in the Russian's house was likely that he was too delirious to care when he found the American on his doorstep.

America guessed Russia's refusal to take a break had to do with his inability to admit any kind of
weakness whatsoever. He still vividly remembered the time it took three days to convince Russia to go to the hospital after a skiing accident left his wrist clearly crooked and purple (it was, in fact, broken).

But it was even more ridiculous watching the amount of effort it took him to type a single word on his laptop. Enough was enough. America leaned across the desk, shutting the laptop screen with one hand and placing the back of his other on Russia's forehead. He nearly yanked it back when he felt the heat but the other seemed strangely unbothered, staring into space. It took him a full 5 seconds to get his bearings and properly react.

"Ach—Stop this. I need... I need to finish," He trailed off, weakly swatting at the American's hand.

"Sweet Jesus, you're hot.. Temperature I mean... Well, you're also—okay, I'm rambling now, you need to lay down or somethin'!" America sighed. Russia stared at him blankly. "What, you gonna make me drag you to bed?" America groaned, crossing his arms. He raised a brow as the other smiled slowly.

"Ha.. why do you want always to take me to bed.." Russia nearly giggled in his delirium. Now it was America's turn to stare.

"I cannot believe you actually just—" America pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, "—okay, this is fuckin' weird, do I need to take you to the hospital or somethin', fucks wrong with you?!"

"Many. Many wrong things... no, many things wrong. Are wrong. No hospital." Russia slurred, stupid smile still on his face. America had enough.

"Alright big guy, that's enough," He stood, pulling the Russian's chair back from the desk. "C'mon, up ya go. Go on," He coaxed the other out of his chair, growing concerned at how wobbly Russia was now that he was standing. "Lord—if I didn't know better I woulda thought you were drunk."

Russia grumbled some protests but was either too wobbly or simply did not care to try and struggle against the American. America managed to drag the other down the carpeted hallway and to his bedroom.

"Sit here a minute," He forced the other down in the bed and stifled a laugh as Russia slumped over like a sack of potatoes. America pulled back the comforter, which was tucked in abnormally neat, and tried to move him, "Mkay, now just, c'mon, roll this way, there—" He, with some difficulty, got the other positioned correctly enough to drape the covers over him. Russia glared at him despite visibly relaxing, eyelids heavy.

"Fuck you, idiot," Russia mumbled against his pillow.

"Okay, whatever man. Imma grab you some meds," America tried to remain indifferent, but couldn't help but smile.

By the time he had returned with said medicine and a cup of water, Russia was already out cold, chest rising and falling rhythmically. America opted to sit next to him, solely to be extra cautious in case his fever worsened, definitely not because he enjoyed being this close to Russia without getting glared at or insulted.

After what felt like days, Russia awoke in a cold sweat, disoriented and still quite feverish. He threw off the blankets and pushed himself up so quickly he got lightheaded, grimacing at the pounding headache forming between his temples. It certainly didn't help that a hand on his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"AH! FUCK, WHAT?!" His shout was met with chuckles from the American, who he forced a glare at the second his heart beat steadied.

"Hah... Sorry, didn' mean to frighten ya there. Here, take these," America grabbed his wrist and placed two tablets of ibuprofen in his hand. Russia eyed the pills for a moment, brows furrowed.

"Take... oh, right," He popped them in his mouth taking a glass of water from America to wash it down. "Why are you in my bed," Russia continued to sip the water, side-eyeing the other as he did so.

"I'm on your bed, for your information, and I was just makin' sure ya didn' die on me, okay— hey, don't look at me like that! You're the one makin' it weird," America defended himself matter-of-factly.

"I feel like shit," Russia groaned, closing his eyes to escape the irritating brightness of the overhead lights, headache beginning to intensify. "Light... switch off... please."

America did as he asked, closing the blinds while he was at it and sending the room into near complete darkness. America made a comment about the curtains being perfect for wartime blackouts, but Russia was beginning to feel the effects of the medication, drowsiness combining with exhaustion from his fever and zapping all his energy in an instant.

"I should probably get going, don't wanna disturb your beauty sleep," America smirked, but was slightly perplexed by the frustrated sigh the other let out.

"Yes, go," Russia muttered, but there was a strange undertone behind it.

"I can swing by later and drop off some food. I take it you won't be fixin' anythin' for yourself in this state," America proposed, half expecting rejection. He got the opposite.

"Okay," Russia's voice was almost a whisper, all the contempt gone from his gaze, replaced with what could perhaps be described as... longing? America wasn't willing to let himself become delusional just yet. Still, he smiled, patting the other on the shoulder one last time before slipping out of the room as quietly as possible.

——————————————————-

1278 Words

Ayy, Happy new year! Hope you enjoyed another chapter from a sleep-deprived loser <3 As always, please forgive me for any errors, I plan on proofreading in the morning but I could not be bothered right now. I'm tired.

ALSO— I'm going to give requests a try! I think it'd be fun so leave a request for characters or a oneshot idea if you'd like and I'll try to get to it asap. I'll also make an announcement for it.

Other than that, that's all I have for y'all today(night) have a good one!

—Author