Just a short drabble I did and thought I'd put up here while writing the next chapter of The Boy Witch. I wrote this off the top of my head/without planning so I hope you enjoy it nevertheless!

Warning: Drug Usage/Overdosing

Germany entered the abandoned warehouse and immediately questioned why he was there again. He was probably the only one there in their right mind. Everyone else was high from who knows how many different drugs, most of which were illegal.

Walking between various groups and people doing various things, he scanned the faces for the one he was here for. No one spared him a look.

Finally, in the back he saw who he was looking for laying on what looked to be an old mattress. Standing over him, Germany knew both of them were going to be in for a rough night.

"America, you need to get up." The other remained unresponsive and Germany sighed before hauling him up to his feet and dragging him out. It wasn't until they were in the car and nearly back to America's house that he became conscious.

"Where am I?" Germany didn't respond, knowing it's better for the other to figure it out for himself. If he didn't, well, that made it easier to tell how far America was gone.

"Germany? Where am I?" He breathed out heavily through his nostrils, but still didn't respond. At least America remembered who he was. The times when he didn't, could barely remember who he, himself, was were the worst, full of kicking and fighting and pain. Though pain always seemed to follow America.

They pulled up in front of the house and Germany did his best to lead America inside. The other was still asking where he was the entire way.

Germany wanted nothing more than to throw America through the front door and leave him, leave him there to sleep in his own vomit smelling of smoke and drugs. But he didn't. He pulled him up the stairs, led him to the bedroom, and left him on the bed before moving to the adjoined bathroom. He got a wet washcloth and went back to the other. He always went back.

Rubbing the washcloth over America's face, he noted the wide-blown pupils and the mouth forming words but not speaking.

"Do you know what you took?" America didn't acknowledge him, lips still moving. Germany glowered at him, but it went as unnoticed as his questions.

America's mouth went still and Germany paused, waiting.

Slowly, he began to place a hand on the other's chest, and felt a rush of anger when he felt nothing.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He whispered, curling his fingers to grip onto America's shirt. After a few moments he resumed his task of wiping the other down, hoping to get rid of some of the grime and smell. When he was done, he waited, sitting on his side of the bed.

The sun was rising when he heard America take a gasping breath before coughing.

"What happened?" Germany wanted to shout at him, curse at him, punch him.

"You know what happened."

You OD'ed, even though you told me you were done, you were clean. Germanywaited for the apology, refused to look up from his hands, just wanted to be donewith America, because pain followed America.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't even remember what happened last night." America wrapped his arms around him, but Germany remained still. He didn't want to forgive America, didn't want his love or affection, didn't want anything to do with him. But he also did. He wanted to feel needed, he wanted to act like everything was fine, wanted to help America the way America helped him.

After the war, Germany felt like he didn't deserve any compassion, anything that would help him, anything that was good. But America gave him those things and more, and he would never forget that.

"It's okay. Get washed up, I'll make us breakfast."