A/N: This can be quite triggering to those suffering/recovering/recovered from anorexia or any other eating disorder. I really hope I capture the feelings involved with the disorder, and I do dottybox-o's AU justice. In this AU, the characters are not countries. Arthur has monophobia; the acute fear of being alone and having to cope without a specific person, or perhaps any person, in close proximity.
Disclaimer: The characters of Hetalia do not belong to me, nor does the AU.
Francis stepped on the scales, his eyes clamped shut. He froze, waiting. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and looked down. His heart broke at the number on the scale. 150 pounds. His eyes filled with tears, and he dropped to his knees. He held the tears back, his sadness being replaced with disappointment and disgust. He shakily sat down against the bath, the tiles of the bathroom floor cold against his bare skin. He stared into space, thinking. Minutes passed, and voices in his head were screaming at each other.
Fat.
Disgusting.
Worthless.
Greedy.
"Francis? Is everything alright?" Arthur's concerned voice drifted up the stairs. Francis turned his head towards the door. He called out in reply, his voice thick and distant.
"Y-Yes. I'm fine." He rose to his feet, looking for his clothes. His eye caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Staring back at him was blond man with a tear-stained face. His gaze drifted down to the man's body. His hands snaked across his body, feeling the skin. He pulled at the flesh. His mind contorted the image, so that all he saw was imperfections. His stomach wasn't flat. His arms lacked toning. His legs were long but feminine. His chest was boyish. His skin tone was uneven. He ripped his stare from the reflection, grabbing his clothes. As he dressed, he planned out what he needed to do.
He was done with eating. Food and wine had done this to him. They had made him into this unsightly monster. They were the enemy. He would stop today. From now on, there would nothing fattening or sugary for him. He would keep a food diary, tracking his progress. He needed to feel light, airy and weightless.
He trudged downstairs, his mind on elsewhere. Arthur eyed him carefully as the Frenchman wandered into the living room. "Are you sure you're okay? You were up there for an awfully long time..." He was worried. Normally when Francis spent a long time in the bathroom, it was because he'd been admiring himself in the mirror, and would come downstairs beaming. Now, however, he looked depressed and distracted.
Francis looked up at him, his blue eyes lifeless. His face was paler, and his hands shook slightly. His voice was quiet as he spoke. "Yes. I'm perfectly fine, Arthur?" He jumped to his feet. "Do you want dinner?" Arthur raised his eyebrows, surprised by his love's sudden mood swing.
"Yes, if you insist." He watched Francis leave the room, wondering what on Earth was going on. He shook his head slightly, returning to his book. Soon enough, he was lost in the story.
Francis entered the kitchen, sighing. He gathered the ingredients for Arthur's meal, placing it on the counter. He stared at the bag of pasta, mincemeat, tomatoes, onions and peppers. To anyone else, spaghetti Bolognese seemed a healthy, wholesome meal. To Francis, it was sent from the depths of Hell to ruin him. The tomatoes, onions and peppers were okay, but the starchy pasta and red meat weren't allowed. He began to prepare the meal, his expression turning to one of slight disgust. Once this was done, he washed his hands. And again. And again. He scrubbed the skin, desperate to remove the traces of meat from them. While he left Arthur's food to finish cooking before he served it, he opened the fridge. He searched for some 'safe' food; vegetables. He pulled out an iceberg lettuce, a baby cucumber, and a carrot. He washed, then sliced the vegetables carefully. He added some leftover pepper, arranging them carefully in a bowl for himself. He pushed it to the side, dishing up Arthur's food. He placed both bowls on the table. He wandered back to the living room, poking his head around the door frame.
"Cher, dinner is ready." He watched as Arthur was snapped back to reality. The Englishman closed his book after marking his page, and uncurled himself, rising to his feet. Francis led the way, nibbling on his lip. He pulled out Arthur's chair, allowing him to sit down before he did. Arthur smiled slightly, noticing that Francis' usual habits were returning. However, he frowned when he noticed that they were eating different things, and that Francis had water instead of his usual glass of red wine.
"Francis, why aren't we eating the same thing? And have we run out of wine or something?" Francis froze at Arthur's questions. He swallowed, blinking several times. He slowly lowered his gaze, unable to meet Arthur's eyes. He gripped his fork tightly.
"I... I can't eat those things any more. They're bad for me."
