AN: So this came out of the blue, after a friend of mine wrote a murder story, and I had inspiration! Woo. I'd set this during ap arty of some sort, but it's not really specified, this is just a little oneshot thing I did.

WARNINGS: Crazy/Snapped France, human names used and character death

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia isn't mine, I mean, look what I do to the characters... heh heh

England, quite sensibly, had presumed he was alone in the bathroom as he washed his hands, and to be fair, he was for most of it. Then suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he was startled - everyone was downstairs! Then again, he reasoned, it was getting late so maybe some nations were beginning to go to bed. His brain finally caught up with him when he realised that any sane person would wait until he was finished before entering, or just find another bathroom. He looked up into the mirror.

"France?! What the hell are you doing, get out!" he said stubbornly, hastily wiping his hands on the towel by the sink. France's grip only tightened on his shoulder, and he squirmed to get free of it.

"Ah England, I need to use the bathroom, that is all," he said quietly, so quiet in fact, England had to strain to hear it properly.

"Really, there is another bathroom in here, why must you insist on using the one I'm using?" he demanded, turning to face him angrily. France looked at him, his eyes somewhat darker, but maybe that was the dimmer lighting in the bathroom. "Because then, the whole thing would be pointless, mmm?" He purred, and England narrowed his eyes at him."What... thing?"

France merely grinned, a wide grin that showed off his perfect teeth, and England shuffled, trying to wrench his arm from the French nation's grip. "You need to be taught a lesson, England."

"A... lesson?" France chuckled darkly, his other hand coming to curl into England's shirt. "Oui, mon Angleterre, a lesson - you need to stop looking don't you?"

"Looking?" England's brows furrowed, and he brought his hand up in an attempt to pull Francis' hand off.

"Don't play dumb Arthur, I saw you, you and him. You think I don't see?" England shook his head, exasperated.

"Francis I really don't see where you're going with this, what's wrong?" he said, impatiently tapping his foot. France's face suddenly switched, the fait smile replaced by a sneer.

"You belong to me, England and you seem to be forgetting that."

"Belong to you, what do you mea-" Then one of France's hands collided with the side of his head, perfectly timed to send him falling to the floor with a soft thud on the mat under their feet. France chuckled to himself as he locked the bathroom door, and set about his work.

Arthur foggily came too only moments later, but there was something wrong - something very wrong. He was lying somewhere, somewhere cold and there was something wet on his back. His eyesight slowly came back to him, and he was staring straight at the side... of his bathtub? There were a few inches of water, and as his hearing came back, he realised the tap was still on, and the level was quickly rising. His cheek, shirt and legs were soaked

but there was something else.

Hands. There were hands pinning him down - one painfully hard on his midriff, the other uncomfortable encasing his chin. He tried to turn his head, but the hand restrained him, fingers jabbing into the soft skin.

"Now, now," the words floated down to him, only one ear free to hear. "Don't squirm so England, you'll only make more mess..."

As though it were his cue, England started to writhe under France's cool hands as the water level rose. His heart hammered in his chest as he scrabbled, but his head hurt and it made it so much harder to think straight. The water was starting to cloud his right eye, and he could feel it inch up his nose and mouth, and he began thrashing harder against the man's hold, kicking his legs out. Yet France took it in his stride, swinging a leg over the edge of the tub to press England's legs into the water. He could feel the Frenchman's fingers wrap themselves ever so slightly tighter around his neck, stealing breath from him like it was nothing. For one moment, he thought he might have overthrown the French nation, when he released his midriff for a second. He threw himself up, only for his head to collide with the tap, and end him sinking back down in a haze of water and pain.

The water completely covered him now, and his heart was beating his ribcage. His lungs began to burn as France pinned him to the bath and he pressed his lips tighter, in a last attempt at holding on. He could see through the water, the blue eyes of the delusional French nation, and the halo of golden hair that hung above him like sunbeams. He reached up for them, like he used to when he was younger. Francis used to let him plait it when he was bored...

Then suddenly there was something sharp in his stomach, and he gasped. Water filled his mouth, his lungs as crimson began to fill the bathtub too. England was acutely aware of a pain running through his stomach, but the hazy blackness that was filling his line of vision was rather distracting, as the fast thud of his heart slowed to a more melancholy beat. With a final thud it gave up, and England had one last glance of blue before the world slipped away.

France stood over the tub, smiling placidly. Now his England wouldn't look at anyone else, and nobody would look at him. He shook his hands off, unlatched the door and left as though nothing had happened. Now he would wait for someone to find the body.