A/N: Hello! Welcome to my creepy messed up mind. Yes I know there isn't any M rated material in this chapter, but this fic will get dark, so I wanted to give a heads up. Prepare to meet a brain child inspired by a few episodes of Hoarders I saw on my vacation of Florida. Not sure how often this is going to be updated, as I have a few other prodjects underway that will be posted as soon as I can get them done. But I will get to the end of this at some point, so stick with it!

Mistakes are my fault, but do not blame me!

And if the page breaks don't work, I am going to kill someone.

Something was not right with England.

At first, France had laughed to himself about the possibility of something being wrong with his rival, but the more he looked, the more he noticed.

Sure, England had always been thin, but was he loosing more weight recently? Had his skin always been that pale? If France really thought about it, England had been closing himself off lately. Saying less in meetings, staring more at his shoes that at other people, and, worst of all, refusing to go drinking.

If that wasn't bad enough, he had recently developed this watery cough that sounded horrible and made France cringe every time he heard it.

Of course France was worried. He couldn't just walk up to England and ask what was wrong though. He wanted to though, but England's glare just seemed a little more defensive than usual. He seemed almost like a rabbit put on edge, quivering and just waiting for the danger to present itself so he could run as fast as humanly possible.

France did not want England to run. As long as it didn't really seem like anything was really wrong, France was simply stuck in the half agony of watching England from a distance, wondering.

Wondering.

But every time he saw England he seemed to be getting worse. Bags appeared under his eyes. The next meeting America pronounced a grand total of twenty seven words wrong, and England didn't bother to correct him. He forgot his speech at one meeting, and arrived late at the next. France gave him a teasing grope to the ass and England didn't so much as blink.

France was almost tearing his hair out in panic now. Even when he was deliberately trying to pick a fight with him, England barely responded.

This was not good. This was not good at all.

"Allemagne, can I speak with you?"

"Ah, France. I noticed you weren't paying much attention. Do you want a second copy of the notes on the proposed trade agreement?"

"No, that wasn't it, exactly."

"Well, what is it, exactly?" France sighed, deciding to take the direct approach.

"I'm worried about England." Germany sighed, sort of expecting something like this, although not from France.

"I'm sure he's just got a bad cold, France. And I know he wouldn't appreciate you sticking your nose in his business. Just wait and he'll get back on his feet in no time."

France just inhaled slowly, nodded and walked away.

In truth, Germany was a bit worried, but not for the same reasons. The economies of Europe were all closely linked, and if whatever was happening was affecting England this bad, what would happen when the others started feeling the effects?

France was surprised to find England still in the parking lot, surveying the rows of cars. He was swaying slightly on his feet, and France would have thought him drunk, if not for the fact that they had been in the same room for the last six hours.

"England, are you okay?"

The Brit turned slowly, swaying dangerously, his eyes unfocused and cheeks flushed, as if he had a fever.

"France, what are you-?" It was in that moment that the Brits legs gave out beneath him, and France leapt forwards to catch him before he hit the ground.

"Mon cher, are you sure your okay?"

"Mph. Just tired. I can drive, as soon as I find my car." France put a hand to England's forehead, but pulled back when he felt just how hot it was.

"Non, nononononooo, you are in no condition to drive, Angleterre. I will take you home."

"No, I'm fine," England paused to take a shaky breath, "I'll just go, and then you can wander off and do… whatever it is you usually do."

"Mon dieu, Angleterre, you can barely stand. There is no way you are going home alone."

England looked like he wanted to protest, but France firmly pulled him in the direction of his own car.

The green eyed man looked sullen as he sunk into the passenger seat, choosing to stare out the window, rather than acknowledge the worried looks that France was shooting him every once in a while.

"Still live in the same place?" France asked, without energy. England's replying, "yeah," was barely herd as the vehicle pulled out onto the road.

England was asleep by the time France reached his house. France walked around the car, opening the door and taking the Brit into his arms. He was shocked at how light the other man was.

England began to stir by the time France reached the door.

"Francis? What are you?" France swallowed hard. England must be really out of it, in order to be calling him by his human name again.

"It's okay, England. You're home." France jimmied open the door with one hand, and then pulled England inside.

He dropped the slowly awakening England onto a kitchen chair, and went to rummage through the freezer to find an ice pack, because the Brit was burning up, but when he opened the freezer door, it was empty. Curious, France opened the fridge. Nothing but the light that turns on when you open the door. The Frenchman turned to the cupboards, opening them in turn, finding nothing but a few odd objects, and a thick layer of dust.

The kettle was rusted on the inside.

A vaguely more awake England looked around, meeting France's eyes. He opened his mouth as if to question, but France silenced him with a, "hush, amour. I will be right back."

Francis walked among the halls he thought he used to know, but wasn't finding anything recognisable. Where were the pictures that used to line the walls? The once pristine paint was peeling in several places; cobwebs were building up on the ceiling.

France turned to the bathroom, only to find that the light didn't work. The master bedroom revealed only a sparse blanket and a mattress that was half ripped to shreds sitting in the middle of the floor. Was this where Arthur slept every night? Surely not, he had more pride than that.

But door after door lead to empty room after dust filled room, and the further he got into the house, the more he noticed a horrid stench, which soon threatened to take over his senses. He found the staircase leading to the second floor, and the banister was a little less dusty than the rest of the house, so France was going to investigate, when a loud thunk alerted him to England's presence. When the shorter man caught sight of France on the staircase his eyes became panicked, and he stretched out a hand.

"No, Francis, Don't!"

But it was too late. Francis had bolted up the staircase.

A panicked scream of, "ARTHUR!" rang out in the night, only seconds after.

"Damnit, Damnit, Damnit." Never had Francis ever thought he would be in a position like this. Desperately pacing his apartment with a blissfully asleep England, frantically wishing that America would just pick up his damn phone.

"Hi, you've reached the answering machine of the awesome Hero! I'm to busy to come to the phone right now so—" Francis ended the call with a growl, before running his hands through his hair. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing here, all he knew was that he had to do something, and fast.

He hit redial.

Finally, Alfred picked up his damn phone.

"Geez, France, can't you tell when a guy is busy."

"Oh mon dieu, Alfred, thank goodness I got through to you."

"Yeah, geez, make it quick man, I've got things to do."

"Alfred, I need you to get on a plane and come to Europe, something's wrong with Arthur and—" Francis was cut off by the American's laughter.

"Oh come on, man. Best April fools ever! Something's wrong with Igs, I'll tell you what. He's got a stick up his ass. Thanks for the call man, I really needed a laugh."

And then he hung up.

Francis went into full overdrive panic mode. What could he do, he had no idea how to tackle this on his own, but Alfred seemed to be fuck all when it came to others wellbeing, what could he do?

He stared at his phone for another minute, before thumbing through his contacts, and finding someone else.

A/N: Suspence! GASP! Who is France calling?

I haven't totally decided on pairings yet, so if there is something you want to see, let me know.