SUMMARY: The trans anorexic, the self-harming emo, the nympho, the klepto, and the alcoholic with anger issues. They meet in a support group.
DISCLAIMER: Do not own.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello, welcome to my first Hetalia fanfiction, and the first work on my new account!
I just love mtf trans!America and no one can stop me. I like the name Amelia because it means "industrious" or "striving".
Also; even though I am doing research on the behaviours, symptoms, effects, etc. of the various conditions, my information is not perfect, so if you see some glaring issue, please let me know and I'll try to change it.
This will also probably be more light-hearted than it sounds.


Amelia Jones sighed as read the number on the scale. She was gaining more every week. Somewhere inside herself, deep inside, she knew that it was good for her. That part, however, was very hidden, and in that moment she only lamented on her weight gain.

She pulled on her loose bomber jacket over a big t-shirt, along with loose jeans and sneakers. She looked over at the toilet, in the back of her mind entertaining the idea of vomiting her breakfast into it.

"Amelia, it's time for Support Group!" She heard her mom call. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. She tucked a loose amber curl behind her ear, and halfway in its path to her side, quickly brought her fingers up again to loosen the lock, hair falling in front of her face, before making her way downstairs.


Arthur Kirkland slipped on his many, many rubber logo bracelets, covering up his scars. He was putting on his favourite red kicks when the door opened.

"Oi, Artie! Mom says it's time for your weird club!" Peter, Arthur's younger brother said, his head peeking through the entrance. The blonde backed up quickly as Arthur threw one of his shoes at him.

"How many times have I told you?! Don't come into my room without knocking!" Arthur yelled at his annoying younger brother, the latter merely laughing and skipping down the hall to his own room.

The green-eyed teen sighed, getting up to collect his fallen shoe. He put it on, then went to the mirror to tie his red chequered scarf around his neck. As he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his blonde roots were showing through the black.

"I'll have to fix that." he muttered to himself, checking his appearance one last time before grabbing his iPod, headphones, and heading downstairs.


Francis moaned, hand working its way up and down his hard shaft. Bucking his hips up, he came with a shout. He reached over to his bedside table, grabbed a tissue, and began to wipe himself off.

Once he was done, had tossed the tissue carelessly to the side of his bed, and had laid back on his soft sheets to relax, his phone rang.

"I wanna fuck you like an animal. I wanna feel you from the inside. My whole existence is-"

"Hello?" Francis answered, annoyed. Who would dare disturb him in his post-orgasm haze?

"Oi, arsehole. It's time for Support Group; you better not leave me alone for this."

"Rosbif, you interrupted me right after a most splendid orgasm."

"ARGH! Shut up you bastard! Just get your arse over here!"

"How about I get my ass over there if you let me take your ass once I'm there?" Francis chuckled as he heard a click.

Oh well, he had nothing better to do.


The man wore a pair of dark burberry sunglasses, a long blonde wig, fake breasts, white leather gloves, a green pullover sweater, black leggings, and black pixie boots as he entered the store.

He busied himself looking at handbags, pretending to examine the colours and materials, when he really had his eyes on one white-gold watch in the display case to his right. He looked around, reviewing the location of every security camera in the vicinity. There was one that was pointed even remotely in his direction, and it was not facing the true destination. He glanced over at the salesperson behind the watch counter. She looked bored, leaning over the counter and twirling an amber lock round and round her finger.

Perfect.

Yao went up to her, smiling.

"Hi," he greeted in a voice higher than his normal octave. "May I try on some of the watches?"

"Of course." the woman said, her fake smile even more half-assed than expected. "Which one?"

"I'd like that one." Yao pointed to a rose-gold watch with a thin leather strap.

"Good choice." she said, reaching under the glass to take the item out. Yao resisted the urge to roll it eyes. It was so obviously not a good choice at all. The size of the watch was far too disproportionate to the thin strap, and the rose-gold didn't match his skin tone at all.

He took it from her, resting it over his left wrist. He pretended to appraise it for a moment, before turning his lips down into a practiced frown, slight and refined.

"I don't like it all that much. How about this one?" he pointed a finger to the grand prize: a white-gold watch, a chunky chain, roman numerals marking the 12, 3, 6, and 9 with small diamonds marking the hours in between. With a mother of pearl face, it was perfect.

His insides felt jittery as he tried it on, clasp locking perfectly around his slim left wrist. Perfect fit.

"There's nothing I want, but money and time. Million dollar bills and a tick tick-"

"Yes?"

"Yao, are you at Support Group?"

Shit.

"I'll be there right away." he said in a serious manner. Maybe he could make it look like he had to go to the hospital or something.

"Yao-" Yao hung up.

"I'm sorry. That was my father; my mother is in the hospital." he turned to go, starting to walk away quickly. He brought his right hand to his eye, under his sunglasses to wipe away a fake tear. He made it out of the store and into his silver, demure car. This one he had actually bought; it wouldn't do well for such a big thing that he couldn't get rid of to be suspicious while he was out stealing.

"Yes!" he exclaimed to himself once in the safety of his vehicle, pumping his fist in the air as he started the car. He zipped out of parking lot, internally cheering his awesome victory. As he left the vicinity, he ripped off the blonde wig, tossing it onto the seat beside him.

Now that the heist was successfully completed, it was time to go to Support Group.


"I will not go to Support Group, Katyusha." Ivan spoke as he took a large gulp from his vodka bottle.

"Oh but, Ivan, you must." his older sister said, twiddling her fingers together. "The school said that you have to attend support group or else you'll be expelled."

"They will not expel me. I am star student." he replied.

"Ivan…" she quieted at the sharp look from her younger brother. She backed out of the room, leaving her brother sitting in the dark living room, surrounded by bottles of vodka, both empty and full.

"Natalya," she hissed once she arrived in the kitchen. The younger girl stared back in response.

"Can you tell Ivan to attend his Support Group?" she asked hesitantly.

"He would be more likely to listen to you." Natalya responded, face impassive, words biting and bitter.

"You have a greater effect on him." Katyusha bit her lip, trying to ignore the threat in her sister's tone.

Natalya's shoulders drooped. "Fine. I will convince him to go." The older sister let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

The long-haired girl shuffled into the living room, stopping in the doorway.

"Ivan." she spoke, though it came out more like a yell. Ivan jumped at the sound of her resounding voice. "It is time for your Support Group." A dark aura seemed to emanate from her, chilling the dark room.

"I- I-" he stuttered, trying to flatten himself against his chair.

"You will go to support group." she repeated, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes, sister!" he said nervously, jumping up and out of his seat. He backed away, towards the front door, and away from his sister.

"You can not drive." she commented, voice icy.

"I will walk." he responded, opening the door and darting out into the sunny day. Temporarily blinded by the light, he held up a hand and continued on, fast-walking away from his house, away from his scary sister, and, unfortunately, towards Support Group.


"Hello everyone!" a green-eyed brunette exclaimed. "Welcome to Support Group! I'm Ms. Elizabeta." She looked around at the diverse group of teens before her. "Since it is the first meeting of the new season, we have many new faces today, so this is a message to our newcomers and a reminder those of us returning: Support Group is a safe place where we can talk about our problems, issues, anything that you need support for, or sometimes we'll talk about something unrelated for fun. To start, let's go around the room and say our names, an interest we have, and why we're here." She looked to her left and to her right. On the left was a meek-looking girl, her head down, her clothes baggy, and her shoulder length hair covering her face. To her right was a burly man who looked very intimidating. Eenie meenie…

"Why don't you start?" she asked, leaning slightly towards the girl on her left and away from the intimidating Swede to her right.

She met Ms. Elizabeta's gaze warily before turning her head back down. "I'm-" No, she had to be stronger than this. She brought her head up to face the rest of the group, but left her hair covering most of her face. Be brave, she told herself. Be a hero.

"I'm Amelia Jones. I'm anorexic, and I love comic books." Amelia looked to Ms. Elizabeta for confirmation that she had done well. The woman smiled at her, much to Amelia's relief.

Next was the black-haired teen beside her. Amelia thought that he looked kind of goofy. His black hair was swept severely to the side, and he wore red sneakers, black skinny jeans, a punk t-shirt, a multitude of wristbands, and a scarf to match his sneakers. It reminded Amelia of a cowboy.

"I'm Arthur." He said, casually saluting the group with two fingers. "I self-harm and I like punk music."

"I'm Francis. I have satyriasis, though the term more commonly known is 'nymphomania'. I've also been chasing after this rosbif beside me for years, but alas, he still claims to be straight." Francis heaved a heavy sigh, ignoring the way that the Brit beside him had turned a shade to rival his scarf.

Ms. Elizabeta coughed lightly, bringing her hand to her lips to hide her barely repressed smile.

"I'm Yao. I am a kleptomaniac and I like cooking." He tucked a stray black lock behind his ear, white-gold watch glinting in the light.

"I am Ivan. I should not be here. I like tinkering, plumbing, sunflowers, and vodka." said the violet-eyed teen.

"For what reason were you recommended to this group?" Ms. Elizabeta asked.

"My principal says that I will be expelled if I do not attend. He did not like me whacking students with my magical stick."

Ms. Elizabeta nodded, a bit confused, and the group continued. Next was Lovino, who had had Sydenham's Chorea for almost a year, accompanied by OCD, emotional liability, personality changes, and more would have been known had the explanation of his brother, Feliciano, who had come for moral support, not been cut off by a red-faced Lovino. Next was a tall blonde with slicked-back hair and clear blue eyes. He sat stiffly in his chair, eyes darting around the room. His brother spoke for him.

"This fellow here has OCD and is depressed. He's also got social anxiety. The Awesome Me has been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder, whatever that means. West likes reading and I have a pet bird, who is almost as cool as I am."

The meeting continued on, several more people introducing themselves. Eventually, or rather, finally to one Arthur Kirkland, the group meeting was over.

As Ms. Elizabeta said a closing statement, how she was happy to have met everyone, how she looked forward to seeing them all next week, blah, blah, blah, Arthur was tapping his foot rapidly, trying to keep silent. He couldn't wait for this to be over, but he couldn't be an uncouth hog to the woman either.

The Brit jumped out of his seat the moment that Ms. Elizabeta dismissed them, crashing into the amber-haired girl beside him. He blushed as he felt her small breasts through her shirt.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" she asked quickly, looking surprised and nervous and afraid. Her limbs closed in on themselves, her shoulders slumped, and she somehow gave herself the appearance of being smaller in a matter of seconds. Her outward appearance mirrored how the embarrassed Brit felt inside.

"No, no. It's my fault, I apologise." The black-haired boy said, feeling lost a bit at how pretty this girl was. "Let me walk you out." he uttered, surprising himself. The girl nodded meekly, and they proceeded out of the room together. What was her name? Oh gosh, what would he do?

"I- I'm Amelia. I'm sorry for making you do this." she finally said after a minute of silence.

"Oh, truly. It was my fault, and it's no problem to walk you out." Arthur comforted her, feeling a sense of relief himself that he did not have to ask for her name. The girl, no, Amelia, nodded almost imperceptibly before averting her gaze.

Arthur studied her as she focused on the ground. She had shoulder-length, wavy amber hair that hung like a blanket over her face. The fact that she wore loose-fitting clothes, along with her blanket-like hair and her looking like she was trying to shrink herself clued Arthur into a simple fact- she was not comfortable with herself. One fact that contradicted this simple fact was the bomber situated on Amelia's shoulders. It was… different for someone trying not to be noticed to wear such a prominent jacket. The anomaly in behaviour intrigued the Brit.

"I like your jacket." he complimented, the girl's eyes darting towards him quickly, hair suspended in the air for a moment before falling back over her face. "It's a bomber jacket, right? World War II?"

"Yes." she replied simply, tucking her hair behind her ear to reveal wide blue eyes. She looked almost hesitant for a moment, biting her lip for a quick second before letting her words flow out. "Though really, it debuted post-World War II. This design, with the fur collar was first created in 1940, but it didn't have it's current name until 1947. It's called the 'G-1', not to be confused with the A-2; that was the one used during World War II. There wasn't much of a difference between the two, except for the fact that the A-2 has a, oh, what's it called, fold over collar? Like the one on a button-up shirt. The A-2 was used for the Air Forces, and the design's been redone recently, and the G-1 is used for the Navy and Coast Guard, and has stayed basically the same to this day.

"I started wearing this one after I read Captain America, though at the time I hadn't known about the difference between the G-1 and the A-2. I don't really mind though, I still really love this jacket. My dad bought it for me after…" Suddenly her eyes, previously bright as she spoke about the jackets, dimmed into horror. She looked at Arthur's face then looked back towards the floor, loosening her hair. She had nearly told this person, this stranger, about how she received this gift to celebrate her starting estrogen treatment. Not only that, she had gone on about her jacket in such an irritating way. Oh god, what had she done? She had probably just scared off this nice guy, though a bit odd looking, by her annoying existence. Oh god, oh god, oh-

Her thoughts were interrupted by slender fingers brushing against her face. She paused in her step, and her body stiffened. Amelia glanced at the hand, and became wide-eyed when she saw the red scars peeking out from the displaced bracelets.

"You have nothing to worry about." the voice beside her crooned, the fingers tucking her hair behind her ear. As she turned to face the voice, she felt… exposed, bare, yet she noticed that inside those green eyes was their own struggle. There was pain there too, but it was tinged with something so warm that for a moment, she forgot the feeling of being under a microscope, even as those eyes pierced her. The boy before her managed a smile, a small upward turn of one side of his mouth, barely there, yet speaking volumes.

"I enjoyed it."

They held each others' gazes, neither wanting to break the moment, when a phone started ringing, the sound blaring to their ears.

"Don't want to be an American idiot. Don't want a nation under the new mania. Can you hear the sound of hysteria? The subliminal mindfuck Amer-"

"Hello?" Arthur greeted, cringing.

"Arthurrrr, get out here, Mom said we can go get ice creammmm." sang the voice of his annoying brother.

The teen in question pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'll be out in a minute." he replied grudgingly, hanging up before his brother could say anything more. He looked to Amelia, but the moment had been shattered.

"I have to go." he said lamely. Amelia nodded, face tilted slightly downwards, gaze somewhere around his neck.

"C- Could I have your number?" He cursed his stutter, but his words seemed to do the trick. Blue eyes snapped onto green, head nodding imperceptibly.

The Brit handed the amber-haired girl his phone, where she typed her contact in a rapid-fire way.

"I'll see you around." she said quietly.

"Yeah, I'll see you." With that, he turned and left, walking away, dazed, leaving a blushing and just a little bit happy American behind.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading!