A/N: Hello!
So this story is going to have a Trigger Warning, as there are mentions of verbal abuse and self-harm and eating disorders and suicidal thoughts later on. I'm just putting that out there because I don't want anyone to relapse.
Summary: "God I'm so fat." "No, Alfred. You're not. You're –" "Stop it! I am and you know it! The whole world knows! Just stop okay?" Trigger Warning, Human AU, and F.A.C.E. Family.
Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.
Alfred got on the scale and sighed. This was the twentieth time in ten days he'd weighed in; and even though he worked out like the world was ending, his weight wasn't dropping. Not even five pounds were gone. What the hell? Was the scale broken? Was he not working out enough? Alfred furrowed his brow as he read the revolting number again. His stomach churned, something obviously wasn't right.
So he got off the scale and tried again.
Then again when the same number showed...
…And again…
Each time the scale showed the horrible number of 180 and the American wanted to scream. But he didn't. His parents and brother were still sleeping and he didn't have the heart to wake them yet. Well, Matthew anyway. He could care less if he woke his parents up. Wait, scratch that. He did care because he knew he'd get ripped into just like every other time he made a mistake.
Turning away from the scale with disgust, Alfred looked into the bathroom mirror. His blue eyes reflected back slightly duller than normal and dark circles hung underneath them from lack of sleep. Blonde hair framed his face and was tousled in all different directions with his usual cowlick. To Alfred none of this mattered, all that mattered – all that he could see – were how chubby his cheeks were. Pinching said cheeks; he pulled the skin as far as it could and whimpered when he saw the result. God, why did he have to be so damn fat?
Alfred let go and took off his shirt to examine his stomach instead. He turned this way and that, looking at himself in the mirror. His stomach seemed to bulge over his boxer's waistline even though it barely did. And the blonde despised that. He despised that so much. Why couldn't he just have some abs? Would that be too much? All his friends had abs. Ludwig, Gilbert, Antonio, Berwald, Vash – all those guys had at least a two-pack. And some of them didn't even work out regularly!
The American growled and clenched his fists, completely disgusted with himself. He didn't look in the mirror after that, opting to take a shower as an alternative. So he shed his boxers and turned the water on as hot as it could go. Perhaps the steam would help sweat out a few more calories.
Forty minutes later, Alfred walked out of the bathroom clean and refreshed wearing his clothes for the day: A pair of dark-washed jeans, a plain white shirt, his glasses, and his beloved bomber jacket that he constantly wore. His hair was brushed (except for that one cowlick that refused to behave), and overall he looked far better than when he'd woken up. Except that he didn't feel any better, not really.
Alfred quietly made his way down to the kitchen in search of some breakfast. Maybe the rest of his family wasn't up yet and he could eat whatever he wanted. Yes, that would be nice. No Dad to pester him about what he ate and how much. No Papa to agree and then pester him about his clothing. And, even though Alfred loved him, no Mattie to just stand in the shadows and watch only to console him later on. It would be a nice break, the sixteen-year-old mused somewhat happily, bounding down the last set of steps. He was about to turn the corner and walk straight into the kitchen when his hopes were suddenly dashed by the sound of tea cups clinking. Alfred inwardly groaned. It looked like his dad was up. Maybe I should just go back upstairs, he thought. His stomach suddenly gurgled with hunger though and so the teenager clenched his fists and mentally steeled himself. He was going into the kitchen, he was going to make breakfast, say hello to Dad, eat, ignore whatever pestering, and then leave. That was his plan and it was going to work, damn it!
Alfred strode into the kitchen and sure enough, there was his dad fixing some tea. The man's back was to him, so he hadn't noticed his son come in, but the boy could tell he was pissed about something by the stiffness in which he held himself. He was dressed in a collar shirt with some jeans, so Alfred guessed he was going to go teach at the University today, and his untamable blonde hair was brushed as neat as it could be.
After a moment or two, Alfred decided to make his presence known. "Hey Dad," he said casually, heading toward the refrigerator.
His dad whipped around quick and his green eyes narrowed along with his bushy eyebrows. "Good morning, Alfred," he answered, his British accent thick. "How long have you been in the shower for this time?"
"Not long."
"Not long?"
"Yep."
"Explain because if I counted correctly you were in there for quite some time, young man."
"Dad, it was just a quick shower. It's not like I committed a crime," Alfred reasoned, rolling his eyes.
"'It's not like I committed a crime'," His dad mocked cruelly. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did. Heaven forbid if the nearest McDonald's gets robbed because of you. How long were you in the shower?"
"I thought you already knew."
"Stop talking back and answer me."
"Well, I dunno. Probably twenty minutes, why?"
His dad snorted and took a sip of tea. "Twenty minutes, my arse. You were in there for forty minutes. Do you know how much water you are wasting, Alfred? Has that ever occurred in your egotistical mind?"
Alfred winced because yes, yes it had.
Quickly, he got out the orange juice and poured himself a glass before moving towards the pantry. All the while his dad was ranting on and on about water bills and the drought and all kinds of things. He stopped his lecture only when Alfred pulled out the newly bought Nutella jar. Green eyes scrutinized it as the teenager opened the lid, grabbed a piece of bread, grabbed a knife, and started to smear the Nutella all over the bread like it was butter and jam.
"What the devil are you eating? Is that chocolate? In the morning?" Alfred's dad asked, disgusted.
Alfred made a noise of agreement before saying, "Gilbert said that this thing was 'as awesome as Gilbird'."
"Who's Gilbird?"
"His pet bird."
"He's comparing food to a bird, now? Blimey that's ridiculous."
"Not really, I think what he meant was that it tasted pretty good. So I bought a jar to try."
"Well," Alfred's dad exclaimed, "It's not like you need to anyway."
Alfred looked up from his chocolate-covered bread and furrowed his brow. "Why?" He asked.
As soon as he asked that, he wished he didn't. He really, really wished he didn't because he knew what his dad was going to say. And quite frankly, he didn't think he could take anymore shit about his weight.
The Brit smirked over his cup of tea, knowing that he had his son right where he wanted him. "It's not like," he started icily, "you need any more calories or food. Look at you, Alfred! You're already fat enough as it is, or do you not get that?"
Alfred grit his teeth and said nothing, instead pushing away his breakfast. His appetite was gone now.
But his dad continued on relentlessly. "Oh so you're pushing away your food? What a waste. Aren't you going to eat it?" When the teenager shook his head, he said, "No? Lost your appetite? Well that's a first. If only you worked out more and ate less maybe then you'd lose weight. Wouldn't you think so, Francis?"
Alfred turned around to see his other dad - or the one he called "Papa" - come into the kitchen. He was already dressed for his work as a fashion designer (which basically was just stylish clothes he'd designed) and his long, wavy blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Upon hearing his husband's snide remark, he shrugged and replied in his French enunciation, "Oh but Arthur, doesn't Alfred already work out?"
Alfred thanked the stars that at least someone had noticed. Meanwhile, Arthur scowled and defended, "Well yes, I guess so, if running in the morning and night counts as 'working out'."
"I also do push-ups and curl-ups," Alfred pointed out.
"See? He's doing just fine," Francis said, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder. Then as an afterthought, he stated, "Now if he would get some new clothes…"
"You know what?" The American exclaimed, feeling sick of the conversation and glancing at the clock. 6:45. School didn't start until 7:15, and it took a half-hour to walk to school from his house. "I'm going to be late for school. Where's Mattie at?"
"Mathieu? Good question, I do not know. Hold on, is this Nutella?" The Frenchman asked, picking up the jar.
"Yes Papa, it is. Dad, do you know where he is?"
Arthur had turned back around to refill his empty cup when Alfred had spoken up. But now he looked over his shoulder and simply said, "Gilbert came by while you were wasting water. He's already gone."
Alfred groaned. It looked like he was on his own today. Again. This wasn't the first time it had happened; in fact it had started when Alfred introduced Gilbert to Matthew last year. The German – Prussian! – and the Canadian had hit it off and now were best friends. Anything Gilbert did, Matthew was somehow involved. It wasn't that Alfred was jealous, per say, it was just that sometimes he missed his brother and grew lonesome. But only sometimes...
"Oi!" Arthur snapped. "Are you going to school or not?"
"Oh! …Yeah…I'm goin', I'm goin'," Alfred mumbled, turning to walk out of the kitchen. Waving a hand, he said, "Bye."
The Brit merely said a half-hearted, "Good bye."
The Frenchman, however, looked over his shoulder and caught Alfred's eyes. "Alfred, mon fils, do you have your lunch?" He inquired.
The American's stomach lurched and knotted at the same time when the word "lunch" was brought up. Truth was, was he hadn't been planning on eating anything today. He didn't want the extra calories and besides, lunch was stupid. Who ate it anyway? Not him, that was for sure. Skipping lunch wouldn't be a bad thing, it would help him actually. But Francis wouldn't see it that way. He'd make him pack a lunch and he'd make sure he'd eat it, forced or not. Coughing nervously, Alfred lied, "Yeah. It's in my backpack. Gotta run! Bye!"
The last he saw when he exited the kitchen was his papa narrowing his blue eyes suspiciously, lips in a tight line. The teenager quickly grabbed his backpack from where it lay by the door and rushed outside. He was sure that if he had stayed any longer, Francis would hold him back and ask questions. And Alfred didn't want that. He didn't want his papa - or anyone - to know about anything that was going on.
Because all he wanted was to be skinny and not fat. Was that too much?
Translations:
Mon fils – My son (French)