A Fading Light

Is

UK sat in his chair, a chair that had been made from roots woven in a pattern around a wooden frame, going through some plans for ways of reducing pollution and littering. America had given him the idea of implementing systems that require the use of recycling in public spaces and food services, and he was hoping to expand on that further.
"Perhaps if I add in volunteer clubs for people to help recycle and learn about its effects...then maybe more people would want to do it. Especially the children, and if they know more about plastic and its dangers then they'll be more informed on what to buy and..." he thought aloud and mumbled some more, brainstorming different ideas in his head and writing down the ones that made most sense. "Hm, alright...yes, that could work." UK began taking notes again and, soon enough, had enough potential solutions and ideas to form a small portfolio. He gathered his things together and decided to call America. As the phone rang he brought a small cup of tea to his lips, taking a sip.
"Hello, you have reached the voicemail of America. Leave your message after the beep. Beep!" UK sighed and set his tea back down on the saucer.
"Hello, son. I just thought I'd call you to see if you were willing to meet with me to have a chat about that idea you had on recycling. I've expanded on it, and was hoping to discuss it with you. Please call back as soon as you are able. Have a pleasant day." He ended the voicemail and leaned back in his chair. "That's strange of him, he usually always answers my calls...I wonder if he's just busy with something?" UK questioned aloud.

America listened to the voicemail play, unable to call back. He can't move his arms that far, as it disturbs his aching ribs too much, and his nose hurts like hell so talking would be quite the difficult task for him. He continued laying there, almost as if he was waiting for something. He wished he could pick up the phone and answer his call, he really did, but he was practically immobilized, and could only lay there staring at his phone longingly.

UK huffed. It's been a few hours now, and there was still no answer from the American, even after the two other voicemails he'd sent. This was really worrying for him actually. He isn't normally away from his phone for this long, even if he were busy. UK considered his options, then decided to call one last time. Just as he expected, it went to voicemail once again, but he wasn't upset at that anymore.
"Hey again. It's been a few hours now and I'm getting quite worried. I don't really care if you want me to or not, but I'm coming over," UK said and ended the voicemail. He grabbed his folder and got up to get ready to leave.

America had fallen into an uncomfortable sleep, and was woken by the forth voicemail to play through. He eagerly listened to it, wanting to feel the comfort of hearing his father's steady voice.
"Hey again. It's been a few hours now and I'm getting quite worried. I don't really care if you want me to or not, but I'm coming over," the voicemail played, then it beeped, signaling the end of it.
America felt relieved, then started to feel anxious and panicked. How would he react? What if he's just like the others? Sure, he's been nice to him now, but what if it's all an act, and he's only being kind to him to get something out of him, to guilt-trip him into doing something horrible, or blackmail? He teared up. Now his own father was going to turn against him. America didn't want him to see him like this. He tried to sit up, then winced heavily at the pain from his bruises and ribs. Crying a bit, he forced himself up and to the side of the bed. He stopped to take a breather. The pain was great, and he was almost sure he'd just made them worse.
America stumbled pitifully to the bathroom and locked himself inside. He opened the cabinet behind the mirror, roughly rummaging through and knocking quite a few items over. When he finally found what he was looking for, he snatched it out and closed the door, paying no mind to the mess he just made. He made a hoarse whine as he retracted his arms. America shakily opened the bottle of Tylenol and tried pouring out a couple tablets. Instead about five to eight came out. Too blinded by his pain to care, he popped some in his mouth and swallowed them dry, coughing afterward. How many? He wasn't sure. His vision was blurred from his crying from the pain. He just wanted it to end. America tried closing the bottle, but his hands were shaking with his growing anxiety. He didn't want UK to turn against him too! How was he supposed to keep going without the only reason for him wanting to keep living there? Even if he, as country, can't die, he would've definitely tried. Over and over, until the one time it finally works. Because enough neglect of one's country can cause it to crumble, right?
He gave up on trying to close it and submitted to just setting it on the sink, to which he had accidentally dropped it at an angle, causing its contents to spill all over in the sink and the floor. He shuddered and sobbed.
America, through his tears, heard a knock on the front door and froze. No. No, no, no, no, no! He can't be here, not now! America was an absolute mess still, and his legs felt weak. The knocking came again. Maybe it's someone else? He hoped so. America dragged himself painfully to the door and peeked through the peephole.
It was UK. America sighed out defeatedly. Moving hurt so much, so he may as well resign to his fate. Besides, there was still a chance he could actually have good intentions, right? Albeit low, but still there.
"America? Are you in there?" UK called. America shook in confliction, debating whether to trust him or not.