Overheated

Chapter 3

Notes: The warnings are always the same. I'm not a medical expert, English isn't my first language, and I'm not that good at it, so there might be mistakes (nobody commented on it in the previous chapters, though. Does it mean I'm doing fine? Guys?! Please, I really need validation on this. I mean, this is literally one thing I cannot judge on my own, I don't realize if something is written in a way that sounds odd to a native speaker. Please say something!)

Also, this chapter is super long and very dialogue-heavy. And as you've certainly realized by now, I can't write dialogues. And there is no plot, it's basically only fluff. You have been warned, read at your own risk.

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Chapter Three

Canada woke up slowly, awareness gradually seeping into his mind.

He was lying on something soft and comfortable – a soft mattress, a bed. Sleeping. His mind dimly registered that there was something amiss, he didn't recall going to bed at all, but he still felt so exhausted... he didn't care, he just wanted to slip back into the soothing embrace of sleep.

Yet, he couldn't do it. He had the nagging feeling that there was something deeply wrong, something he shouldn't ignore.

As he started coming closer to consciousness, Matthew realized that he wasn't as comfortable as he had previously assumed. On the contrary, ad deep uneasiness was settling into his limbs. The mattress was comfy, yes, but it was also wet, strangely sticky. And so was his body, actually. It felt oddly heavy, hot and cold at the same time, and unpleasantly sore.

And now that he thought about it, that wasn't even his bed.

Groaning, Canada pried his eyes open with a considerable effort. At the same time, he felt a weight shift on the mattress.

"Mattie? Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

Alfred? Am I dreaming?

But it was real, for the rough hand that went to cup his face was definitely his brother's one – although the touch was far too gentle to belong to him.

Matthew blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the blur of colours in front of his eyes, and felt his glasses being slipped on his face in the process. The colours slowly rearranged themselves into the shape of his older brother, bent over him. And oh – he recognized that ceiling. It wasn't his house, but his bedroom in America's house.

What on earth am I doing in Texas?

"Al?" Matthew managed to croak.

His voice sounded weak and scratchy, and he suddenly realized that his mouth was parched, the tongue feeling swollen.

"Mattie!" his brother's shout sent a spike of pain through his brain – yep, apparently, he had a headache, too. And quite a bad one, from the look of things.

"Ugh... Al, please don't..." he muttered, trying to bring a hand to his throbbing forehead, but his action was met by an unexpected resistance, some kind of tugging, a prickling pain.

"...What..."

"Oh, I'm sorry Mattie, I didn't mean to... Wait, don't do that!"

America's hand gently blocked his arm against the mattress.

Blinking owlishly, Canada shifted his gaze to his right wrist – and was met with the surprising sight of an IV line embedded into his vein. Which explained why he had been unable to move, but nothing else. If anything, the mystery was deepening, why did he need an IV?