The Winged

Chapter Five

My upload schedule is amazing *sarcasm*

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America has had his fair share of mistakes.

It's just something a living thing does. Making mistakes that is. Some of these mistakes are deathly, others embarrassing. America’s current mistake was.. both of these things.

It started with something simple. Well.. simple maybe wasn't the right word, moreso common. Common things are supposed to be easy, but his common somehow managed to tear apart his composure at the slightest inconvenience.

Of course his curse would disturb him with the one thing he so desperately needed to avoid. Contact, closeness, intimacy. Whatever you wanted to call it, and whatever it is he needed to stay away from it.

The winged were affectionate, they were supposed to be. Affectionate and social and all the things that America shouldn’t be. That he couldn’t be.

He was the type to shoot for the stars and battle and claw and curse anything that tethered him to the unforgiving ground. The wings give people the illusion of freedom, unadulterated and pure. They lull you into believing you can reach those stars letting your fingers graze the clouds before ripping you out of the sky.

The wings gave him no choice. What the wings wanted, they’d do everything to get. Unfortunately for them, so would he.

He was basically fighting himself.

Being near people was excruciating and terrifying. It made his mouth dry and his fingers roll in his palms anxiously. Yet his body drove him to push closer. Desperate for anything. Acting like it was denied the ability to breathe.

It quite literally pained him to deny the wings anything. His denials left America living most of his life on pain medications and feeling of near constant nausea. It could be a weird mix of his own anxieties that managed to worry him ill, maybe it was the medication. Either way America got sick, a lot.

And here we approach the problem.

The periodical bout of illness hit him like a train. He was shaking. Truly, it doesn't get more pathetic than that. It was a normal occurrence, pathetic, but normal. Something he'd just simply deal with.

The feeling of it all was familiar.

The sweat drenching his clothes. The fabrics clammy against his heated skin. All so expected, yet still he couldn't be still. The discomfort made him squirm. He ached. It was enough to turn his knuckles white as the fingers dug into his palm as if peeling the skin from his body would solve the scorching itch.

He didn’t want to acknowledge the frustrated tears clouding his vision.

Another wave of nausea plagued him. Bile piled into the back of his throat, scorching it while the liquid lathered his tongue with its acidic taste. He couldn't help but gag from the entire thing.

Hurling was the outcome of this, but currently, there was a small problem.

A simple fact that prevented the situation from dramatically easing. Because of course nothing came easy to him. 

As any could notice, looking around the medium sized room. There was only a singular door out of the space. Not a big deal, nor unusual. The room didn't have a bathroom connected to it.

Maybe, it should be no big deal, but the thought of dragging himself, in such a pathetic state through the halls, made his gut twist. The anxiety spiking in his gut quickly led to more gagging.

It was quite the cycle. Shitty and painful and miserable, but he dreaded the irreversible alternative.

Fumbling, with slow, unfocused clumsy fingers he reached out. Ever so tediously they wrapped around the sleek rectangle. “2:47” He made out from the bright screen between his blurred vision.

That's pretty late. No self-respecting self-sufficient countryhuman would be wandering the halls at this time. His thoughts slurred together. It made sense. He felt like he was dying.

It took far too much effort to drag himself up off the bed. Legs wobbly and ground swirling beneath him. Nothing felt stable, each teetering step threatening to throw him off balance as he made his long totter to the door. Another wave of nausea hit him as he leaned against the wooden surface, heated face pressed against the cool polish.

This shaky bout of movement continued into the hall after a short battle between America's blurry sight and finding the golden handle. He was quickly realizing his mistake

Oh god this was a stupid idea. Where even was he?

It was all too tempting to find the nearest wall and collapse back onto it in defeat.

Time Zones are odd things, and additionally something America forgot entirely about. Something that people's internal clocks do not immediately adapt to.

It was a little confusing at first, a blurred form danced in front of his vision. It took him about five seconds to realize that said form was in fact talking to him. His muddled mind recited the words he wanted to ask. Unsure if the question left his numb lips.

He distantly recognised a hand wrapping around his arm and side. The itch worsened, as if bugs swimming under his skin were trying to flee the places of contact.

His stomach lurched violently at the sensation.

He only vaguely registered being dragged along, and the vague sense of movement he was contributing to. Eventually, he recognised the smooth porcelain surface that graced the palms of his hands. A pressure settled on his back.

Having finally arrived at his destination he gagged over the bowl. Releasing the contents of his stomach until he was certain the onslaught retching was over. Haphazardly he leaned back into the wall behind him. Eyes firmly glued shut as he battled back the nausea. Things slowly cleared. The ringing in his ears settled and with it he had the sudden remembrance of his unknown audience.

“Should.. Call.. ambulance?” an unidentified voice questioned, works filtering in and out of America’s queasy mind.

“Well.. maybe.. drinking?” Another chimed.

He needed to get a hold of himself.

With an unawarance of how long it took he cracked open an eye. Feeling slightly unnerved to see his brother hovering in the doorway with Japan sitting a few feet away from him. Of course it was her.

The blurring had cleared, but his head still pounded insistently as he focused on keeping his breathing even.

Japan had already shot him a smile. She watched him with sharp calculating eyes. Studying every twitch. She was the absolute worst person to have caught him like this. He paused in preparation before gritting out his first words to the two.

“What the fuck are you staring at?” Perhaps it would’ve had more affective if he wasn’t slumped against the bathroom wall after having puked his brains out, for Japans didn’t even bother to wince.

“Are you alright?” Fake, practiced, poised concern.

Nobody was this worried about someone who acts as foul as him when his space is invaded. She was always looking for something from him. Hell knows what.

“I’m fine.”

This time, Canada chimed in “Do you wanna see a doctor?”

“No.”

“.. You threw u-”

“Happens. Close the door on your way out.”

Canada looked to Japan. Whose focus was still solely glued to America. She was still studying him, scrutinizing. This was a golden opportunity for her to try and establish trust, he needed to scare her off.

Japan spoke finally. “Are you drunk?”

A long pause. He supposed he’d rather be titled an unruly drinker then whatever other assumptions would be made. Canada talks to a lot of people. Something like this is guaranteed to be spread by him.

“I was. Now fuck off.” There it was, a twitch from Japan. He was getting on her nerves. Perfect. “Get out.” He pressed, scrunching his eyes in a glare.

“Fine.”

And just like that he was left alone.