Author's Note: I can't stop writing about Hetalia. HALP. I suppose there are worse problems to have though, right?

This story is kind of heavy. Drugs and depression are involved-you have been warned.

France knocked on the doorframe, noting with an unpleasant jolt that the door was cracked open. That wasn't like England at all, to just leave the front door open like that...

"Angleterre?" he called as he stepped inside. The place was an absolute mess-papers strewn haphazardly about, all manner of furniture and trinkets littering the floor...France cringed as he saw one of the parlor room chairs protruding from one of the windows, jagged glass announcing how it got there. The curtains had been partially ripped from their rods, lying messily across the parlor room floor. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the room in an eerie orange light as France cautiously crept farther inside of England's home.

"Angleterre, are you in here?" he called worriedly as his boots crunched onto something. He cursed under his breath and looked down at the object. What remained of a shattered bottle of some kind of alcohol...whatever it was, it definitely wasn't wine and smelled foul.

"Oh, Angleterre," he muttered as he shook his head and wandered into the kitchen. It was as if the room had been upturned; pots and pans, utensils, even a hunk of moldy bread littered the crowded countertops. France's nose wrinkled as he heard a mouse squeak from somewhere, but England was nowhere to be found.

He cautiously made his way into the dining room, which was in a similar state as the rest of the house so far. The long dining table had been overturned and lay pitifully on its side, a tattered burgundy tablecloth clinging to one of the corners and splaying out onto the floorboards. It was as if a hurricane had blown through, France noted vaguely as he heard a thump from above his head. He frowned, pausing only for a moment before making his way up the staircase. Music floated to him from one of the rooms on the upper floor. Not melodic and elegant like his music. No, this was very formal and regal-sounding, like a march being played from a single lonely violin.

He stopped dead as a peal of maniacal laughter met his ears and the music abruptly screeched to a halt. He shivered; that was not England's laugh. Hell, England hardly laughed, but when he did it certainly didn't sound like that, like one teetering on the edge of madness. He absently fingered the pistol at his side. If there was an intruder, he'd be ready.

He drew a deep breath as the violin sprang to life again from one of the rooms down the hall. He had to stifle a cough-something wafting through the air choked him. Smoke? Was something on fire? Steeling himself, he slowly walked down the corridor and stopped in the open doorway at the far end. England was facing away from the door, toward a wall whose paper and adornments had been literally ripped free and deposited onto the floor at his feet. He hummed merrily as his violin shrieked and belted out possibly the worst rendition of "The World Turned Upside Down" that France had ever heard. The man's hair was disheveled, clothing messily hanging off of his thin frame as he swayed unsteadily to the wild sounds of his violin.

France tore his eyes from the man in front of him and scanned the interior of the room. The air was filled with a thick haze, stinging France's nose. It was wafting from a pipe strewn on the windowsill to England's right. He frowned; he recognized that smell from somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. It certainly wasn't tobacco.

He watched sadly as England tottered unsteadily and thumped against the bedside table at his left. He clumsily caught himself, dropping his bow and violin to the floor with a clatter. He giggled, stooped to pick them up, and ended up falling over instead. He lay on the floor in a heap, snickering and waving his arms about haphazardly.

Bleary green eyes suddenly found France in the doorway and surveyed him with disdain.

"Ah, so you're here," he said flatly. France fully expected him to frown, but he didn't. A delirious grin crept slowly across his haggard face instead, making France nervous, "Come to rub it in, have you?" he sighed as his head lobbed unsteadily onto his right shoulder.

"No, I came here to check on you," France corrected gently as he stepped inside of the room and crouched on the floor in front of England, "I hadn't seen you for a few weeks since-"

"Since you turned America against me?" England asked brightly, as if he were asking what time it was. France's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked the other man over. He looked...odd.

His concern only intensified as England suddenly burst into a peal of hysterical laughter, sliding down where he had been propped against the wall and onto the floor.

"What is wrong with you?" France asked quietly as he reached over and pressed his hand to England's forehead. He felt warm, but he didn't think he was running a temperature or anything. England looked up at him, blinking slowly and grinning.

"What're you doing, Francis?" he slurred as he tried to bat France's hand away and failed. His arm stopped short, falling tiredly onto his chest instead.

"Seeing what's wrong with you," France answered worriedly as he coughed. That smoke in the air was thick, starting to make him feel strange. Fuzzy, almost-

France frowned deeply as a sudden rage took hold of him. Part of him wanted to smack England while another part longed to embrace him all in the same instant. England. His poor, poor England. France refrained from either impulse, settling instead for hoisting the other nation to his feet and pushing him out into the hallway.

"HEY!" England yelled indignantly as he stumbled out of the room and staggered into the wall across from the room. France slammed the door of the room closed with a scowl, keeping the smoke at bay as he glared at England quietly.

"Opium," France declared as he grabbed England's wrist and shook it, "You've been smoking opium,"

England blinked up at him, pupils barely visible in a sea of emerald green as he dissolved into a giggle fit. He slid down the wall, but France held him aloft by his arm.

"Oh no you don't," France warned as he literally dragged the other man down the hall toward another bedroom.

"Franciiiiiiis," England whined, tugging weakly against the other nation's grip, "C'mon, what're you doing?"

"Getting you somewhere you can sober up," France snapped, trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat. It was horrific, seeing England like this. Worse than he'd feared. England had always been a strong, independent nation. Undaunted, unhindered, and unafraid...and yet, here he was. Broken, defeated, and alone. It had only been a month since America finally obtained his independence, and the Brit clearly wasn't taking it too well. Not that France had expected that England would be cheerful about it, but this? He cursed himself for waiting so long, wanting to give England some time to get himself together. If only he had gotten here sooner...

England giggled as France directed him into what he assumed was a guest room and sat him onto the mattress. France sighed, shaking his head and bringing over a chair from the far end of the room. He plunked it in front of the bed and sank into it tiredly. England seemed to be having a difficult time sitting up as he tottered unsteadily, grinning like a fool.

"Angleterre-" France stated, but England cut him off.

"You...you just shut it, Frog," England sighed as his head lolled dizzily to the side. He lurched back into a sitting position, only to nearly fall over again.

"I think you should lie down," France suggested, but England was having none of it.

"Don't you tell me what to do," he warned, "I'll kill you, you know," he added darkly. A split second later, he had dissolved into laughter once again, falling back onto the mattress and waving his arms around. France looked on sadly as England's laughter finally began to trail off, replaced by silence as he sank into a drug-induced slumber.

France waited a few moments to make sure he was asleep, then gently lifted England's legs so he was lying on the mattress instead of halfway off of it. England mumbled something, but didn't wake. France sighed, taking the opportunity to excuse himself and look at the state of the rest of the house.

To say that it was a mess would be a gross understatement.

"All right," France sighed as he shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, "Let's get this cleaned up," he said to himself.

He would start with the kitchen.

A couple of notes: "The World Turned Upside Down" is the tune the British army played when they surrendered at the end of the Revolutionary War. Poor England. :(

Also I had to do some serious Wikipedia/Google searches to look up symptoms of opium usage and withdrawal symptoms. Nasty stuff-don't do drugs, people. I read that one of the symptoms is having really tiny pupils, which is why France mentions how small England's pupils are. Opium trading had a big part in history, especially as Britain's influence in the East grew.

Don't worry, England-France is here to help you out now. I wanted to portray him in a non-flirty/creepy way here, since I get the feeling that he really does care about the younger nations, especially England.

Thanks for taking the time to read! ^_^