Being Human (COUNTRYHUMANS)

Human

America knew that this day was coming.

The weakness in his joints was almost unbearable, making his everyday life slow down to a trudge, not just an inconvenience, but a hindrance. It was harder to get out of bed, to walk downstairs, to make coffee, to drive- he was becoming frailer by the day. Not only that- the soft aches deep inside his muscles. The headaches. The constant sickness. The cracks. He was ill, he knew it. He didn't need to look at himself to know the condition of his country. Protests became riots, and riots became revolts- on both sides, but neither side would admit it. They were tearing him apart, from the inside out. He denied it at first, an extra coffee in the morning could fix everything, but with how high profile he was, his peers, his family and friends, and business partners, they knew.

The United States was dying. He was dying.

America was sure to slowly withdraw himself from his social life as it happened- it wasn't hard to, with the fatigue and weakness at times keeping him in bed. He knew some people were worried, but of course, they cared for their public figure. A countryhuman's ailment was a sure-fire sign of a country's weakness. His country tried to cover it up, but it was too late. Canada worried about him, to his dismay. It pained him to see the sadness in his little brother's eyes if he showed weakness to him. Canada knew what was coming for America. He knew that his big brother was standing on his last leg, he could feel his grief already.

So he cut him off. He didn't need his brother to remember him on his deathbed. He wanted to save everyone the bother of having to be there when he turned to dust. It was just because he cared.

Now America was once again anchored to his bed, arms weak and legs heavy, head pounding. The layout to him was still so unfamiliar, he had rented a house in Canada only to escape the turmoil of his own country. A part of him felt like a coward for leaving, another part told him he needed the quiet. The room was dark save for the windows, as it was morning, it was light enough so that America could watch the cracks on his arms. They had gotten bad enough that he could swear that if he gave his limbs a little too much force, they would just snap off. He knew that they were just surface level, but each look at them reminded him of his reality. And they hurt. Going over them one more time, he counted a total of... twenty-six separate cracks on his left arm. Thirty on the other. Twelve on his left leg... sixteen on the right. Three on his neck. Not normal. They just went with the look he wore right now, anyways. His muscle was gone. He hadn't been able to get a haircut in months, the red and white locks obscuring his sunken and tired eyes, skin sticking gauntly to his bones.

Was this what it was like to be old?

America let out a whimper as he felt and heard another crack in his body. He curled up, blankets tightening around him, the comfort doing nothing to stop the dull pain. He sucked in a breath, feeling another sting. It was on his chest. He silently waited out the pain, all the pain medications were out of reach anyways, taking in soft and shallow breaths to not disturb the new wound. He slowly relaxed as the pain dwindled and subsided. He silently added another point to the number of cracks on his chest. Ten now.

He never got up. He was too fatigued- his head hurt too much and some of the cracks were still fresh. He was in a constant state of wincing, hands feebly, and vainly grasping at his chest to try and scrape the pain away. At this point he wished Canada was here with him, it could make the ride to death smoother- but he couldn't stand to see his brother grieve. He was always a crybaby. He was a pushover and a recluse, and America was the only one who protected him. He worried about his little brother's future. He could only hope to god that his baby brother could handle himself. Even if it was without him.

"Canada-" He called out, his voice halted by a small wheeze of pain from yet another crack on his body, this time in his spine. There was no use in calling his brother's name, he was on the other side of the country, but it made him feel a tiny bit better to know that if he hadn't pushed him away Canada would be here right now. But he wasn't. His body shivered again, devoid of touch or warmth. He needed warmth- but the only thing he could hold were these sheets and himself. "Canada..." He breathed out the name again. Who was he kidding? His brother was never going to be here. Whether by his own choice or America's.