literature

APH (fanfic) - Amsterdam (part 4)

Deviation Actions

Domingo-Jirafa's avatar
Published:
1.2K Views

Literature Text

"Mon ami," France pleaded to his friend as he broke into another bout of dry, clawing coughs, "are you absolutely certain there is no cause for worry? You barely touched your food!" he wailed, as though not eating were the worst symptom of all. "And all this coughing and hacking," he continued dramatically, "I swear it - you sound like you are dying!" Spain rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly.

"Francis, I am fine," he assured. "This is merely left over from the fever before. All that phlegm and whatnot." The blonde was certainly being dramatic, but France was not so sure that his anxiety was unwarranted. And here his friend was, brushing off his concerns like they were nothing! Francis disregarded Antonio's words, for he was not blind could easily see that he was unwell.

Spain's tanned face had faded to a sickly ashen color but his cheeks remained scarlet with thick blood, a look that France knew he'd seen before but could not quite place. His green irises were coated in a impenetrable fog, not unlike cobweb over moss. He did not make sharp turns; and if he did, he sometimes would sway dangerously to one side. His coughs were arid and tearing away at his throat; they were not the wet of someone's immune system attempting to rid itself of the last of a virus. Francis could not help but feel that this was merely the beginning. Spain's uneasy gaze encouraged this.

Ill or not, however, Francis knew that Spain could be slippery when he wanted. One moment they'd entered the meeting room together, the blonde pestering his friend with concerns for his health, and the next, he was getting distracted by people and snippets of gossip all over in the ten minutes before the meeting began and Spain had gone and hidden behind Sweden, discussing some sort of trade agreement with the cold Nordic. "Coward," he muttered to himself with a small breath of laughter. Antonio was obliviously at ease with the tall Swede, after having escaped Francis - and he appeared the only one who was. Poor Sri Lanka was cowering between Sweden and the apathetic South Sudan, apparently in the attempt to choose the lesser of two evils! Still chuckling heartily, Francis filed past Ghana and Georgia, seemingly in an earnest discussion. Ghana's eyes did not leave his companion's - the Frenchman stored this in the back of his mind for later use. Poland might find it interesting. When he came across Germany, he was caught rather off guard. He was markedly agitated and had lost all pretense of a cool demeanor. Automatically France assumed that something terribly wrong had happened with his friend, Italy. Perhaps it concerned Spain's odd behavior as well! The Frenchman hustled over to Germany and began demanding,

"What is wrong? Has something happened to one of the Italies?" Germany whirled on him and examined the other blonde with an exasperated gaze.

"Of course not! The meeting - there are exactly five minutes until it begins and look at everyone loitering around with no concerns! We'll be run off schedule!" Francis huffed, wondering why on earth he thought Germany might be concerned otherwise. If something serious had happened in Italy, he would be the first at his side, though whether it was out of habit or love, Francis still could not figure out. "Why did you think something was wrong with Italy?" Germany asked of France skeptically, scrutinizing him as a doctor would an ill patient.

"Oh, no particular reason," he replied smoothly, having had centuries of practice avoiding questions he'd rather not answer. "I just thought to myself, 'Now, Francis, there is only one man that could drive Ludwig that crazy!'" he teased, snickering at Germany's unamused expression.

"Do not call me by my name," he snapped, turning around to reorganize his impeccable stack of files and effectively dismissing France, whose signature laugh could be heard resounding in the room, mingling with the rest of the world. A few around him snickered as well and he shut his eyes for but a moment. Around him, all the sounds of the world were mingling - soft voices fluttered with gentle flirts, heated ones argued aimlessly, rational ones debated, and many chitchatted calmly, each one commanding its own attention. France strolled at a leisurely pace past the G section and into the F. There were very few of these countries and he found himself seated by his longtime and unexpected acquaintance, Finland. He heaved a sigh, already worn out by the meeting that had yet to begin.

"Some of us cannot take a joke!" Francis complained lightly to his companion, referring to his conversation with Germany. He earned a polite smile in return as the platinum blonde finished signing off on some paperwork - a well-timed glance revealed it to be a trade agreement renewal with the Netherlands - and swiveled his chair slightly to face France. His feet barely brushed the ground.

"I know what you mean," he replied kindly, light laughter bubbling in his throat. "I've seen you overreact once or twice, though usually not in connection with your love life. Your sore spot tends to be your military failures," he rambled, barely allowing France a minute's time to feel annoyance pinch at the back of his mind. He began to question why it was that he hung out with Finland anyhow when the little nation proceeded to remind him. "The other day, actually, I was out with Iceland and Denmark and Iceland said something - oh, what was it he said... Something about some night where Denmark was drunk and throwing himself at Holland, calling him the same names he usually calls Sweden - min elskede, and whatnot - and Denmark is normally fine with jokes about his drinking, but he got so angry, he stormed right on out of the restaurant we were at! He and Iceland still haven't spoken!" Francis gave a small 'O' as a prompt for Finland to continue, and the little Nordic obliged happily. "Between you and me," he confided to his fellow nation, glancing around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, "Denmark and Sweden have been bickering a lot less lately. It's like Danmark starts arguing with a wall, but he's not as persistent as usual. He just gives it an attempt and then quits and leaves. Maybe he's just maturing fast all of a sudden," the Finn concluded uneasily, shifting his weight and squirming in his seat slightly. Quietly, however, riding on a whisper so still that Francis barely was able to catch it, he said, "but I think something's wrong." He let out a breath again and fretted to the blonde, "But you can tell Sweden's bothered by it. I hope it's not affecting him, whatever Danmark's up to." His eyes, like a huckleberry by a creek, glimmered with a tender, shining concern for his dear friend and the Frenchman found himself wondering why he and Sweden were no longer together, as they'd been for many years. Curiously, he inquired to Finland,

"What happened between you two anyhow? You seem like you still care for him, oui?" Finland's cheeks went slightly rosy, as though reminded of a sweet and gentle memory, but the light of the sun faded from his eyes, leaving behind a dull ache, not unlike a dry pebble.

"We knew each other too well," he murmured, turning his chair back to face forward and signaling very clearly that the conversation was over. Just as well, too, for at that moment, Serbia stepped up to her podium and reconvened the General Assembly, a relaxed expression now on her previously pained face, presumably in a better mood now that she'd taken a break from the unruly crowd of nations.

Francis barely found the energy to jot the occasional note down on his paper throughout the meeting. As time wore on, he was increasingly distressed by the Finn's words. He had heard many reasons for break-ups and disagreements over the years, but never had he imagined couples would be divided by boredom with each other's personalities. When the Nordics had been together, France had not thought there'd ever be a more perfect couple to grace the world - after all, each was as dull as the other, what with one speaking too much of inconsequential things and the other not speaking at all. Annoying as the smaller of the two could be, Francis had admired their quiet and enduring romance, despite its lack of flair and adoration. There had been a time when he'd wished them every happiness. To hear that they'd fallen out of love because of boredom tickled his itching heart, like a thin sheet over a blackened and burned carcass.

Very little could shake off his agitated mood. He supposed the lack of distractions in the stuffy, American meeting room was partially to blame. If only he'd been the one to choose the architecture! What soaring windows there would be! The natural light leaking in would bounce directly off of the horizon-colored decor and shine on gold-leafed embellishments. Artwork would hang in every empty space, providing ample beauty for the world to behold. Everyone would know why he was recognized as the world's capital of the arts! Lazily, France daydreamed, tapping the edge of his pen against his manila folder with little conviction.

He was not snapped out of his trance until the oddest noise resounded about the room: a snort. He perked up to discern its location, along with many others, but was unable to do so. After a moment, it sounded once more - practically as loud as a foghorn! All eyes now fell upon Spain, who'd taken it upon himself to have a siesta in the middle of the meeting. A thunderstruck Serbia snapped,

"Oh, someone wake him up and kick him out!" This outburst prompted a round of laughter from everyone, accented with a well-timed snore from Antonio. The timid Sri Lanka laid her hand upon his shoulder, her expression markedly uncomfortable, and delicately shook him. Spain did not stir. She tried once more, with even less force as the world trained their eyes upon her. She shyly removed her hand and murmured 'Spain' a few times in an effort to wake him. She was rewarded with a gentle snore and a shifting head. Francis was among the handful that were still giggling and shaking their heads with exasperation. Prussia trotted up from wherever he'd been choosing to lurk and placed a hand on the blonde's shoulder, as though using him for balance, breathless with laughter as Sri Lanka attempted to wake the last of their trio. He would have spoken, France was sure, were it not for his lack of air.

All this cheerful activity must have been getting to the impassive South Sudan. Irate, the unapproachable, modelesque woman, jerked Antonio violently and hissed in his ear,
"Wake up!" The laughter succumbed to silence when still Spain did not stir. The woman jammed two fingers along his jaw, in the precise location of his carotid artery. Confused, as though waiting for a punchline to a joke, the nations watched the stoic woman. Antonio would jump up and snicker at any moment now, searching for Prussia's approval of his practical joke, France was sure.

"He's bleeding," South Sudan announced, her voice low, as his body convulsed and he let out a sodden retch, as what appeared to be a black clump of liquidated gum fell from his lips with a near soundless plop upon the tables. From the corner of his eye, Francis watched as the blood spilled away from Gilbert's snow-pale cheeks in fear. His own body had gone rigid with shock against Prussia. He could not tear his gaze away from the horrific sight. Neither of them had guessed that his fever had descended into such a state and as Spain's body slid off onto a disgruntled South Sudan's lap, they simultaneously lurched forward, scrambling over the other nations in haste to reach the brunette's side. They took up his body in their arms, France sinking upon his knees onto the carpet, Antonio's head falling gently into his lap. Prussia was muttering softly in German, of which he was only able to understand 'please' and 'Toni'. The brunette's breathing was shallow, only increasing as he heaved up bile and vile blood on the blonde's pants. All around, others craned their necks to behold the horrific spectacle. In frustration and heavy fear, Prussia cried out in German, thankfully repeating the message in a more common tongue.

"Someone find out what the fuck's happened to him!" The answer materialized from the most unlikely source.

"Dude, that's not a fever anymore," America said sickly, affirming France's fears. "That's the Spanish Influenza."
Title: Amsterdam
Summary: After Greece chooses to default and revert to the drachma, Spain is taken seriously ill due to an economic collapse. In wake of his sickness, a stream of heartbreaking secrets come to light.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance
Previous installment: domingo-jirafa.deviantart.com/…
Next installment: N/A
This one requires a bit of an explanation of what I'm doing here. So it's my headcanon here that when a nation's economy gets bad enough and they begin approaching complete economic collapse and inner-country disarray, the personification begins approaching death. When this happens, their fever becomes a different illness or, as they'll be calling it in my story, 'manifests' into a epidemic from their past. For example, England would have the Black Plague, America might have something along the lines of Swine Flu or the Avian Flu or something of the sort, stuff like that. Spain has the ever-mysterious Spanish Influenza that killed healthy, full-grown humans in hours. Didn't affect the children and elderly as much. It's absolutely horrific, you should go google it. When you do google it, you'll find that it actually hit America the worst of all, hence why he was the one to notice it and speak up in the meeting. However, back in the day, it was the general stereotype that Spain got the worst of it. The reason for this is that a lot of the other countries such as America were wrapped up in World War 1 and didn't want information of a possible weakness leaking out. As Spain was neutral during that conflict, he was perfectly open about it. Also about the couching up blood stuff - the reason why this happens in this particular flu is because people end up coughing so hard and so frequently, that they tear the insides of their lungs. Also, in regards to the previous chapter, Spain's passing out and bizarre dream - that was actually a hallucination, another symptom of the Spanish Influenza. Happy reading!
© 2013 - 2024 Domingo-Jirafa
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In