The Kids In the Stars - Pt.1
America came in late, late enough that the meeting had already started without him. Conversation had settled into a low, steady rhythm when the door opened, the sound cutting through the room and drawing more attention than anyone meant to give it. He stepped inside and shut it behind him carefully, then paused for half a second before moving forward.
Something was off immediately. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and that alone was enough to shift the mood. His face looked drained, pale in a way that didn't match the lighting, and there was a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. He looked unfocused for a moment, eyes flicking across the room before settling on the table.
His voice sounded rough, quieter than usual, and he didn't add anything to it— no excuse, no humor, no follow-up. He pulled his chair back and sat down, the scrape of it against the floor louder than it should have been. He adjusted once, then stilled, one hand resting on the table while the other stayed close to his side. The skin on his hands was cracked and reddened, and when his fingers flexed, it was slow. Someone asked if he was alright as he was adjusting.
America looked up too quickly, then stopped himself, blinking once as if refocusing. "Yeah," he said, automatically. It didn't sound convincing, and he didn't try to make it. He drew in a slow breath through his nose and let it out just as slowly, shoulders staying tense the entire time.
"Let's just start," he added after a moment.
The meeting continued, but the countries all kept their eyes on America. America had leaned forward slightly, listening more than speaking. When he did talk, it was brief and only when he had to. He paused after each time he spoke, swallowing once before settling back into silence. His eyes fixed on the table or the documents that were displayed in front of him.
At one point, his hand shook where it rested against the surface. He noticed immediately and curled his fingers in, pulling his hand under the table until the movement stopped. He didn't look up, and no one commented on it, but the moment lingered.
As the meeting went on, Germany's voice finally cut through the room, calling America's name to signal that it was his turn to present. America didn't react. He was leaning back slightly in his chair, elbows close to his sides, rubbing his temples with the flats of his fingers as if trying to work through a pressure headache. For a moment, it wasn't clear whether he hadn't heard or was deliberately ignoring it. The pause stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable.
"America," Germany said again, louder this time.
That did it. America flinched, hand dropping from his temple as if the sound had startled him. He looked up with a faint crease between his brows and nodded once. Slowly, he pushed his chair back and stood. When he started toward the front of the room, his pace stayed slow, each step placed with more care than usual. Somewhere behind him, Russia muttered something under his breath— clearly not kind —but America didn't turn around. He didn't snap back, just kept walking as if he hadn't heard. America would always snap back— especially if it was Russia.
Germany watched him closely as he reached the front, a frown already forming. "Are you alright?" he asked, the question direct and unembellished.
America lifted one hand in a vague, dismissive wave, not even looking up as he did it. "Yeah. I'm fine," he said, but the words came out in reflex rather than reassurance. He turned toward the podium, one hand resting against the edge of it for balance. For a brief second it looked like he was collecting himself before speaking.
This was the part he usually loved. America liked presenting, liked talking, liked filling the room with noise and jokes and commentary that barely stayed on topic. He liked being the loudest voice in the room, the one everyone had to pay attention to. Now, as he started to speak, his tone was flat and restrained, stripped of its usual energy. He got through the first few points mechanically, his eyes half lidded and words slower than normal. Then his voice trailed off mid-sentence, the pause stretching as he stared ahead without blinking. No one had time to question what would come next.
America swayed, barely perceptible at first, then more noticeably. His hand tightened against the podium as if trying to steady himself. His mouth opened like he was about to say something else, but no sound came out. The next moment, his knees buckled and his weight pitched forward, his body going slack as he collapsed.
The room erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped back violently as both the Allies and the Axis were on their feet almost instantly. England and France reached him first, dropping to the floor beside him as his body seized, muscles locking and jerking uncontrollably. America's breathing turned erratic, shallow and sharp, his limbs moving in ways he couldn't control.
"What the hell is happening?" someone shouted as the room descended into overlapping voices.
"Check the news," England barked, already rolling America on his side to keep him from choking. "Now. See if there's been an attack— anything at all!"
"There's nothing," Germany said sharply, already pulling up reports. His fingers slid quickly over his phone as others began searching as well.
Japan confirmed it a second later, just as quickly, eyes flicking across his screen. "No alerts nor strikes. Nothing unusual."
England didn't look convinced. "Check again. France, check it yourself!" he snapped, not looking up. Then, more sharply, "America— bloody hell, Alfred. Snap out of it!"
France didn't argue with the stressed Brit. He was already scrolling rapidly, pulling from multiple sources at once. His expression tightening as he searched. Around them, the room buzzed with panic and confusion, voices overlapping. No one was quite sure what to do as America continued to convulse on the floor, completely unresponsive.
France straightened a little from where he was crouched, one hand still hovering uncertainly near America's shoulder as he glanced back at his phone. He scrolled once more, slower this time, and gave a small, helpless lift of his shoulders. "There are some protests," he said, not loudly, but clearly enough to cut through the noise. "Nothing unusual. A few large gatherings, some fights, the usual headlines. Nothing violent enough to explain...this."
That did nothing to calm England. He swore under his breath, fingers tight where he was bracing America, eyes darting around the room like he was waiting for the walls themselves to start closing in. "That doesn't make any sense," he snapped, voice sharp with panic he wasn't bothering to hide. "You don't just drop like that for no reason. Something's wrong. There's always something wrong!" He looked up at the others, as if daring someone to contradict him. Then his eyes shot back down at America when the convulsions finally began to slow.
The seizure eased unevenly, the violent tension in America's body giving way to smaller, weaker movements before stopping altogether. His breathing hitched once before it settled into something shakier but more regular. For a moment he lay completely still, eyes half-lidded, and his face still pale. The room held its breath until America stirred.
It was subtle at first— a shallow inhale that turned into a cough, his fingers twitching against the floor as sensation returned. His brow creased and he shifted slightly, like someone waking from a deep, disorienting sleep. America stared at nothing in particular as he tried to orient himself, blinking a few times. He made a small sound in his throat, confused more than distressed. He attempted to lift his head a fraction before realizing that was a mistake.
England leaned in immediately. "Easy," he said, more urgently than gently. "Don't move. Just— don't move."
America blinked at him, slow and uneven, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words. His gaze drifted, unfixed, taking in faces hovering above him without recognition. One hand lifted weakly, then fell back to the floor, his breathing still uneven as the room waited to see how much of him had actually come back.
England leaned in closer, one hand braced against the floor as he searched America's face for any sign of awareness. His voice dropped, losing its sharp edge as he spoke again, this time using the name he rarely said out loud. "Alfred," he said firmly. "Al, look at me. What's going on?"
America swallowed, his throat working like the words were physically stuck. His brow knit together in frustration, and he drew in a shaky breath that didn't quite make it all the way down. His lips moved once, then stopped. When he tried again, the sound that came out was rough and incomplete. He squeezed his eyes shut like that alone might help force the thought into shape.
Before England could press him again, someone knelt down on America's other side. Canada didn't say a word like usual, only holding a folded cloth that was darkened with water. He placed it gently against America's forehead, careful not to jostle him.
America let out a long, unsteady sigh the moment it touched his skin. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction, just enough to be noticeable. His head tilted slightly into the cloth as if instinctively seeking the relief. France ran his hand through America's hair slowly, trying to push his hair away from his eyes. Germany, Italy, Japan, and China all leaned over Canada and France, worry in their expressions. Russia peered over England, curious but not at all kind.
"It's...the protests," America muttered finally.
The words were barely audible, slurred together and strained. England straightened slightly at that, his expression tightening as he shook his head once, sharp and disbelieving. "No," he said, flatly. "That's not it. Not like this." He looked down at America again, voice lower but firm. "You've dealt with protests before. You've never been this bad over them."
America's eyes opened again, unfocused at first, then slowly tracking to the side until they landed on France. It wasn't a dramatic look, just a quiet, exhausted one. The kind that carried a request in it. America's jaw tightened slightly, like he wanted to say something and didn't have the strength to try. France noticed it all.
France straightened a bit and let out a low breath, running a hand back through America's hair before looking over at England. "Hey," he said, calm but firm. "Ease up. Look at him." He gestured lightly toward America's dazed look. "The kid's in pain. Whatever this is, now is not the time to interrogate him."
England's jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he might argue. Frustration was written plainly across his face, but he exhaled sharply through his nose and scrubbed a hand over his face. The edge drained out of him, replaced by something closer to dread. He straightened slowly and let his gaze sweep the room, sharp and searching, landing on a handful of figures scattered among the seats.
His eyes paused briefly on Afghanistan, then North Korea, then Iraq and Iran. Finally, they flicked toward Russia, lingering there a second longer than the others. None of them said anything. One by one, they shook their heads—some curt, some annoyed, some genuinely confused —but all of them unmistakably denying involvement.
England's shoulders sagged just slightly with relief. He turned back toward the front of the room and fixed his gaze on Germany. "Cancel the meeting," he said, voice clipped and leaving no room for debate. "Whatever this was supposed to be about, it can wait."
Germany hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding, already reaching for his notes and issuing quiet instructions for the others to sit down and gather their things. The room buzzed again, but this time it was subdued. The earlier panic settled into something heavier as chairs scraped back and voices lowered.
England returned his gaze to America, his expression softer now, concern etched deep across his face. "Alfred," he said quietly. "We're done here, the meeting is over." He shifted his grip, making sure America was steady before moving him into a sitting position. "France and myself are taking you home."
England shifted his grip once more and moved to get America on his feet, bracing himself before pulling him up. America came with him a second too slowly, his weight lagging just enough to throw things off. Even though he was only an inch taller, the imbalance made England stumble half a step as America leaned forward unexpectedly. England caught himself with a sharp breath and a muttered curse, tightening his hold to keep them both upright.
America let out a low, strained groan the moment he was fully standing. His knees locked like that was the only thing keeping him vertical. His shoulders tensed as his head lolled forward. Canada had stood now, watching his fathers rush to his brother's aid. France moved in, slipping to America's other side and taking some of the weight without a word. That was when England noticed the dark drop hitting the floor between their feet. Blood was dripping from the corner of America's mouth.
"Bloody hell—" England hissed. He dug into his pocket and pressed a handkerchief firmly to America's lips, swearing under his breath as he did. "This isn't a bloody protest," he muttered angrily. "This is not what protests do to you."
France didn't say anything. He stayed steady and quiet, his arm firm around America's back. The room had gone strangely still again, most of the others too focused on what was happening to notice who had already moved ahead. Canada held the door open, silent and unobtrusive, stepping back to give his family space. No one acknowledged him. No one ever really noticed he was there.
The walk to the car was short but miserable. England guided America into the backseat with more force than he meant to use, then climbed in beside him before France shut the door. America slumped against the seat, head tipped back slightly. The handkerchief was still pressed to his mouth but England was holding it. France was already in the front seat, pulling up the map and typing quickly.
England turned toward America. "Address," he demanded.
America shook his head, small and stubborn. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes shut tightly.
England's temper flared and he grabbed ahold of America's jaw. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make him open his eyes again. "Don't," England snapped. "I'm not guessing, and you know bloody well that you can't be seen by a doctor. Tell me where you live."
America swallowed, winced, then finally muttered the address under his breath. His words were slurred but still understandable. France entered it immediately and pulled the car into drive, the city sliding past as they drove.
A/N: You can find the story on Wattpad, I upload one chapter every day (besides Fridays). My username on there is the same: riathepanda
You can offer story requests and give me ideas through comments or asks. I'm in several fandoms─ Hetalia, My Hero Academia, How to Train Your Dragon, Supernatural, Scooby-Doo, and Call of Duty. I also write mystery and military themed stories, but those don't attract attention.
Furthermore, I only work on one story at a time. Wattpad requests are prioritized over Tumblr. Lastly, I only post my first chapter of my stories on Tumblr. I use Tumblr for requests, questions, and updates.
I hope to see you on Wattpad, thanks for reading!
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