DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, all rights go to the great and powerful Himaruya

WARNING: Likely inaccurate drug references

America was bored. Very, very bored. There was nothing on TV, nobody was on Facebook and none of the websites he followed had updated. After much aimless wandering around the house, he finally settled on going for a run. He was nearly to the door when his house phone rang. "Y'ello?"

France was the one to answer, "'Ello, America, zere is somezing I need to tell you."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure zat your brozzer is 'igh on somezing."

America blinked. "What?"

"I just got a phone call from your brozzer, and I'm not sure exactly what 'ee said, because 'is speech was razzer slurred and 'ee sounded 'igh."

"That doesn't make sense, dude." He wondered if France was getting back at him for that one prank call. "Are you messing with me? 'Cause it's not funny."

"What makes you zhink zat? I zhought you knew, being 'is brozzer and all."

America frowned. "Still doesn't make sense," he said, almost to himself. "Whatever, I'll call him."

"You do zat." France hung up the phone, and America stood there hoping that France had misunderstood something. He dialed Canada's number and grew increasingly anxious as the phone rang. Finally, Canada answered, "Hey, bro, what's up?"

"Canada, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Dude, America..."

America twitched at his brother's tone, which was all too familiar to him, thanks to his days in DCPD Narcotics. "Yeah?"

"You've got to try this stuff, it's like, awesomeness."

"Oh my God my brother is high," America murmured, and hung up the phone. "How did I not notice? I mean, he's my brother I should've noticed!" He put the phone back on its charger and went out to his car. He yelled at both himself and at Canada for the entire drive from Washington, D.C. to Ottawa, Ontario.

Once at his brother's house, he got out and pounded on the door, shock having given way to rage. This rage doubled when Cuba answered the door. Of course, Cuba, who else? "Get out of the way," he growled.

"Whoa, dude… Canada, there are like, two of you…"

America rolled his eyes when he saw the beer can in the other man's hand and pushed him out of his way. He went into the living room and nearly had a seizure when he saw Canada laying out on the couch, calm as could be, smoking what looked suspiciously like crack cocaine and sipping from a can of beer.

"Hey, America," he greeted, obviously out of it. "Sit down and have some of this, it's amazing."

America stood rigid right where he was. "No. Put that down and come with me."

"No way, man, I'm fine right here."

"Canada, I don't want to have to hurt you," America threatened.

Canada tried to give his brother a death glare, but the effect was effectively dulled by the cocaine and alcohol in his system. "I don't want to go with you," he said, and took another drag from the crack pipe.

America only barely managed to control his temper. "That's it," he snarled. He stepped forward, took the pipe from Canada's hand and chucked it at the opposite wall, against which it shattered.

"What was that for?"

America responded by pulling Canada to his feet and forcing him to walk towards the door.

"Hey, get offa me!" Canada whined.

"No." America dragged Canada out the door and to his car.

"Dude, your car is really shiny."

America rolled his eyes and pushed Canada into the passenger seat, fastening the other man's seatbelt as he was too out of it to do it himself. He got into his own seat, pulled out of the driveway and started going south.

"Where are we going?"

"My house," America said through gritted teeth. His shoulders were hunched and he was clearly angry.

Canada poked his cheek. "America… dude… you look pissed."

America glanced at his brother and suddenly felt a pang of sadness. He couldn't stay mad at the violet-eyed man; they were too close for that. Instead, anger gave into a deep sense of betrayal. "Canada, how long have you been doing this?" he asked, for some reason wanting to know just how long he had been oblivious.

"…Bleventeen..."

America sighed and went back to driving. He forced himself to act natural as he pulled up at the border and handed over his passport.

The border patrol agent sniffed. "What's that smell?" he asked.

"I have no clue," America said semi-honestly and with a straight face. He had a feeling it was Canada, and hoped desperately that it wasn't. He could say that it was a lost cheeseburger causing the odor, but this was his precious El Cameno that he would never ever lose food in.

"Well, I think we're going to have to search your car. If you'd just pull into that spot over to your left, and then wait in the building until we're done, then this should only take about a half hour."

"Mmkay." America had had his car searched perhaps six times, all in different vehicles, and pretty much knew the drill. Different car, same old thing. He did what he was told, miraculously keeping hold of his temper when Canada threatened to have him trampled by a moose when he led the insane northern country inside.

"This isn't your house," Canada said bluntly.

Well, at least he's attached enough to reality to recognize what isn't my house. Wait, is crack a hallucinogen? Or does it just make you stupid… I really should've paid more attention during the rants on the symptoms of all those stupid drugs. America never had paid attention to this during his stint in DCPD narcotics; he had always been freaked out by it. "I know. Now sit down and be quiet."

"Why should I?"

"Matt, please," America said, exasperated. He used his brother's human name so not to weird out the secretary.

"You're not the boss of me."

"Matthew Williams I will strangle you with the laces on my boots if you don't do what I say," he hissed.

"Fine, fine." Canada sat down and traced random patterns on the arm of his chair while America slowly pulled his frustration back under control.

"Hey, America?"

"What?"

"How come you're so mad?" Canada was looking at him with dulled concern and America felt a vague urge to punch something. Ugh, what is wrong with him? I thought I was supposed to be the stupid impulsive one, and here's Canada drunk and on crack!

"Don't worry about it," he sighed.

Twenty minutes later, the agent from before came into the room. "Okay, we're done with your car, but I still need to see your passports again."

America handed his passport over and realized something he had completely forgotten before: Canada didn't have his passport.

"Okay, Alfred Foster Jones and… um, where's his?" The border patrol agent gestured towards Canada and America mentally kicked himself.

"My idiot brother forgot his passport," he explained.

"I'm not an idiot! Do you know who I am?"

America fixed his brother with a harsh glare and said, "You're the guy I'm gonna strangle if you don't shut up!"

Canada stood and pointed a finger at America. "I'm Canada!"

The only response this gleaned was a slap across the back of the head. America gave the border patrol agent an exasperated look. "So I guess I'm gonna have to get his passport and come back?"

"Um, yeah."

America groaned, took back his passport and took Canada by the shoulder. "C'mon, bro, we're leaving." He steered the other man towards the door, fully ready to get this over with.

"Get off me." Canada waved his brother off, started walking to the door, stumbled and fell. America caught him and led him out to the car, unnerved by the sudden clumsiness of the usually coordinated northern nation. "Now are we going to your house?" Canada asked when they were in the car.

"No. We need to get your passport. Then we'll go to my house."

"Oh."

Once back on the road, America again felt the same sense of sadness and betrayal that had hit him before. His shoulders were slumped as he drove north, and anyone who noticed him would say he looked rather depressed.

He pulled into the driveway and got out. "Don't go anywhere," he warned, not that Canada could work the seatbelt in his current state. America went into the house and took the passport from where he knew it was kept. He glared for a moment at Cuba, who was passed out on the couch, and went back to the car.

The blond nation got in and pulled out of the driveway, and started driving south. Again. He drove in a steely silence, while Canada poked at the window.

"It's like a force field…"

"That's a window, Canada."

Canada, ignoring his brother, continued poking it, and America got an idea. He lowered Canada's window and watched the other man's reaction.

"What? What is this sorcery?"

America smiled in spite of himself and rolled the window back up.

"Oh my God, it's back!"

Next, America turned on the car radio.

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me maybe.

"Whoa, where's that music coming from?"

America went through every feature of the car as they drove for the border, and Canada became convinced that his brother was a wizard. They pulled up to the border and America retrieved the documents from his pocket.

"I see you're back," the border patrol agent from before said in greeting.

"With both passports this time," America responded, and handed said papers to the man.

"So what takes you guys to the States?"

"I'm taking my brother over to my house for a visit," he said vaguely, gesturing towards Canada.

The agent raised an eyebrow. "You guys are brothers? You have different last names."

America gave the exact same explanation he always did to this, "We're technically half-brothers, same mom, different dads."

"Ah. Well, have a nice day." He handed back the passports, and the North American brothers went on their way.

They drove calmly for several miles, but about when they passed a sign welcoming them to Maryland, Canada began to look a little green.

"Canada, are you okay, bro?"

"Ugh…"

America pulled into the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. "You look a little green, dude."

Canada opened the door, leaned out and vomited on the cement.

Well that happened. I sure hope none of that got in the car. "You okay, bro?"

"Better…"

"You want anything?"

"Can you get some maple syrup?"

"Sure. Just stay here."

"Uh huh."

America took his wallet and dashed into the store. He quickly bought two bottles of maple syrup and came back to the car, all in less than three minutes.

"That was fast," Canada said weakly.

"I know. Here's some maple syrup." He opened the cap and handed it to his brother, who drank half its contents in about ten seconds.

"Thank s, bro."

"No problem. Now close your door so we can go home."

Canada did as he was told, and they got back on the highway and were soon at America's house in Alexandria. America turned off the car and helped his brother into the house, setting him down on the couch. "Hey, how 'bout I make some pancakes? That cool?"

"Sure, I'll help." Canada made to get up but was gently pushed back down by his brother. America was not about to eat anything made by a high Canada.

"No, I'll do it myself. You just find something to watch on TV, kay?"

"Mmkay."

America went into his kitchen and calmly went about making the pancakes. He blinked in confusion when he heard Canada say, "heheh, that lady's orange," but then he realized that the other man had settled on Jersey Shore. In America's opinion it was a show that really only could be appreciated by a high person or an idiot. Both of which his brother seemed to be.

Several minutes later, there was a tall stack of pancakes, two plates, two sets of silverware and two bottles of maple syrup sitting on the counter. "Yo, Canada, the pancakes are done."

"Woohoo! Pancakes!" Canada was in the kitchen so fast that America could swear he heard a pop from air rushing into the spot Canada was previously occupying.

America laughed at his brother's obvious excitement. "Dude, calm down, you'll get your pancakes." Although his speech and mannerisms were calm and lighthearted, he was beginning to grow worried. It's almost eight-thirty, shouldn't he have… saned by now?

He split the pancakes and put them on each plate, and handed one to Canada, who took it back into the living room to eat. "I need syrup!" he called.

"Mmkay." America took his own plate and the two bottles of maple syrup back to the couch and set them on the coffee table.

The Canadian struggled with the cap for a moment before handing it to his brother. "America, it won't open."

America flipped the cap open and handed it back to the other man. Canada poured most of the bottle over his pancakes, and commenced chowing down. The blue-eyed nation watched how clumsily and messily the other ate, and suddenly lost his appetite. Why would he do something like that? Doesn't he understand how that stuff messes you up?

A mean little voice in America's head responded, Of course not. All he cares about is his next fix.

He morosely picked at his food while Canada inhaled his own.

"Hey, America?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you get some napkins or something?"

America glanced over at his brother and saw that he had managed to get maple syrup on his hands and somehow on his forehead. "Yeah, sure." He got up and took his plate into the kitchen, then got a roll of paper towels and brought them back to the other nation. "Here." He handed the roll over and went back into the kitchen to deal with the dishes.

"THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!"

America dashed back into the living room to see the paper towels half unrolled and all over the place. He resisted the urge to beat his head against a wall, instead tearing off two sheets and handing them to his brother.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Canada cleaned up his hands and face, and America took his plate and the paper towels back into the kitchen.

"Hey, America, I didn't know you had a cat."

"What? I don't have a – and you're asleep."

Canada had fallen asleep on the couch.

America sighed, put the dishes into the sink because he didn't feel up to properly dealing with them and turned off the TV. HE took the blanket from the guest room usually reserved for his brother and spread it over the violet-eyed nation's sleeping form. "G'night, bro," he murmured before retiring to his own bedroom, and was asleep at nine-fifteen.