Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, this wouldn't be a fanfiction. Also, this story contains some triggering content, such as an eating disorder and depression. I'm not trying to be offensive to anyone with/ or have had these problems, so if I do give off a bad vibe, or put anyone into a relapse, I apologize. Also, I rated this fanfiction T, because some of the scenes may be a bit graphic, and there are definitely going to be hints of sexual themes.

You can review if you'd like, and it would be very much appreciated.


France gazed into the mirror in order to observe his own figure, and was disappointed in what he saw. There was nothing he could love about his body, not with the rolls of fat overshadowing what beauty he could possess. It was a vile sight. An image that France just wanted to forget, but there was no way it would ever leave him, for his recent obsession had already etched the sight into the depths of his mind. The image he despised the most that would always taunt him at every waking moment. Taunt him for his imperfections, taunt him for how worthless he was, but more importantly, taunt him for the fact that it would never be forgotten. His boyfriend, America, would always compliment the feminine, yet masculine form he interpreted from France, but the older nation thought otherwise of the 'sweet nothings'.

Sometimes, France would wonder why America even bothered being his boyfriend. Why anyone would bother acting benevolent towards him. He was sick of their pity; sick of watching the other nations go through the trouble of concealing the ugly truth. I deserve ridicule, France thought as he continued to pinch at the fat on his stomach, maybe the insults would motivate me to stay in control. Well, he couldn't say that the other nations never insulted him. The fact that some nations thought of him as a pervert, or a weakling still hurt, but it was nothing compared the agony feeling fat gave him. There was not a single nation that ever called him fat, and yet he still did not cease to think he was.

His stomach continued to lurch, feeling violated by the food he had just eaten. As much as the French cuisine hurt his stomach, France couldn't help but resist it. The food was delicious, and it's aroma could mesmerise almost anyone into binging at their stomach's delight. This was the one thing France could absolutely not stand; it was the fact that the only talent he was proud of also had an aftermath that did nothing more than add extra pounds. Why can't I even manipulate my own personality? France thought angrily, not even acknowledging the tears that slid down his face, Why do I always have to be such an idiot? How come I can never control my sexual urges? Silent tears continued to drop onto the floor when he concluded his thoughts, How come I can't control my urge to eat?

Once France finished mentally scolding himself, he walked over to the shower, and turned on the faucet in order to drown out any sound. Then he kneeled down in front of the toilet seat, and pulled his hair back with one hand. Anxiety began to prickle within his stomach, but France reassured himself, "I'll feel better once these toxins are out of me. When I become thin and handsome."

Once that was said, France shoved his fingers down his throat, and kept them there until vomit began to pour out of his mouth. The process continued, and when he was not in the process of vomiting, he would always whisper to himself, "This is for Amerique. I'm improving myself for Amerique."

By the time his stomach was empty, France flushed the toilet, and cleaned up the vomit from his hands. Then he turned off the shower faucet, and brushed his teeth in order to rid himself of the foul scent of bile. When he was finished making himself more presentable, he left the bathroom, and headed down to the living room where America was watching the newest episode of Supernatural. With a fake smile plastered on his face, France sat down next to America, and wrapped an arm around him. America returned the affection by snuggling against him, and asked, "What took you so long?"

"It was nothing cheri," France answered, still maintaining the smile, "I was just distracted by something."

"Oh," was all America said, before adding, "For a moment I thought you were in some sort of trouble, and that I would have to save you. Being the hero and all."

France laughed at this, and stated, "Your heroics never get old."

America blushed at the compliment, and replied, "You know, I could never get sick of your personality either."

Lies. Was all France could think in response to the admiration as he continued to go along with America's affection. Unfortunately, he was forced to keep up with the task when the younger nation continued to go on with the compliments while running his fingers through France's hair, "Also, I usually don't like it when boys have long hair, but damn! On you it's the hottest thing ever! Seriously, it's just so silky and so shiny and…."

As America continued to ramble on, France felt a nervous tremor tickle his spine. He tried to grab his boyfriend's attention, "Amerique-"

"Don't even get me started on your flawless-"

"Amerique!"

When America stopped talking, France continued, "Why don't we just watch the émission de télévision, okay?"

At this, America rested his head on the older nation's shoulder, and continued to watch the show. Meanwhile, France gazed at the youth next to him. He's too beautiful for me, France thought, fighting back tears, I'm sure he would've been happier with a nation who is more attractive. One that's not a fat, perverted idiot like me. When America's eyes became more droopy from the warmth, France continued on with his depressing cogitation, I think he's only dating me out of pity. He's just so generous, and his charity is something I don't deserve.