Goodness, look at me! Just look at me! Starting a new story without ever finishing my others? Ah, I'm a horrible, rotten person. But I had this idea in my head for a few days, and I was too excited not to write it down. I had to, you see?

This is based off an old children's book I love, 'The Pinballs' by Betsy Byars. Even after all these years, it's still one of my favorites. Please check it out (it really isn't a long read at all, and just very heartwarming). I changed a few things in my story, especially a certain person's gender (Gilbert is based off the main character, a girl by the name of Carlie) and just a few other events, since I don't want to keep it EXACTLY the same.

Uh, anyway, enjoy...

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or The Pinballs.


Gilbert found out that life was difficult at an early age. He was easily able to blame his mother for this, too. She had a tendency to go through husbands as if they were shoes. Her husbands were often the reason he didn't enjoy life as much as he should.

The first husband, Gilbert's biological father, was gone shortly after Gilbert was born. His mother always stated how nice he was, how special he made her feel, but if he was so nice, then why didn't he want to stay with them? Gilbert had always wondered such, but he never received a definite answer, not from his mother, not from anyone.

The second father brought with him his own five children, all of whom were older than Gilbert and treated him like shit. The two girls were okay, they just poked jabs at his pale complexion and silver hair. The three boys were the ones who bullied him. He was able to evade them most of the time, since he knew the neighborhood and they didn't. With this father, they lived in such a small house, so, more often than not, Gilbert was forced to sleep on the floor. When he did get a chance on the bed, he had to share with the three older boys, resulting in much pushing and shoving. He found he'd much rather take the floor.

The third father barely paid any sort of attention to Gilbert. He'd come home at odd hours every morning, smelling of whiskey and sex, and would sleep until late afternoon. His mother didn't seem to mind, so long as he brought in some sort of money. Luckily, he most certainly did. Neither of them knew what his job was, but so long as they continued living off of his wealth, they were happy. This father was the only one who brought Gilbert presents, making him Gilbert's favorite, even if he did make the house reek of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

The fourth father was the one who finally tested Gilbert's patience. He yelled constantly, at both him and his new wife, berating them every moment he could, especially Gilbert. It was this man who called him worthless, ugly, good-for-nothing, idiotic...whatever. He'd come up with his own insults and use such colorful language, just to see the misery in Gilbert's eyes.

It built up a rage inside of Gilbert, until he finally found the guts to yell right back.

The day he yelled started off as a normal day. Later on, though, Step-Father #3 (as he came to be known to Gilbert), ordered his step-son to cook them all some dinner. Normally, Gilbert would have gladly done so, but not this time. For this time, Step-Father #3 managed to throw in some jab at Gilbert's lack of friends, flat-out saying that he wasn't loved. This caused Gilbert to blow up.

"Don't tell me what to do!" the boy screeched, meaning to yell about the hurtful comments but finding himself getting more angry over being ordered around. "You're not my dad, so quit acting like it!"

His father- step-father, he corrected himself- turned a dangerous color of crimson as he stood from his spot upon the dirty, old armchair. "You ungrateful little worm, do you know how much I've sacrificed for you? If it wasn't for me, your mother would have kicked your sorry little ass out, and you'd be living on the fucking streets!"

Gilbert faced his mother, his ruby-red eyes blazing with anger. "Tell him that's not true!" he screamed. "Tell him to leave me alone!"

And his mother, the tall, blonde beauty that she was, simply looked away from her son, her gaze hard and unsympathetic, uncaring.

Feeling more than betrayed, Gilbert turned back to his step-father. "This is your fault! Before you came along, everything was perfect!" But that was a lie, and everyone in the room knew it.

Step-Father #3 laughed bitterly. "You little shithead. I'm probably the best thing that's happened in your pathetic life."

"Shut up!"

"You don't know what's good for yourself," the man continued. "You're just a selfish asshole! No wonder your father left you!"

Something snapped inside of Gilbert, and he felt a piercing shock of absolute hatred run through his veins. He stomped forward, clenching his fists and blinking away tears. "Shut up!" he screamed again, screamed it over and over. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut-!"

He didn't see the hand coming, but it came. It shot out and smacked his face, the sound seeming to echo throughout the now silent house. Gilbert felt his head spinning and he swore he could see stars. However, he managed to retaliate, weakly slapping his step-father's own cheek (which, in his current state, seemed more like his hand brushing against the man's face).

"No one slaps me without getting slapped in return," he gasped out, right before his eyes rolled back and he fell.

He was sent to a foster home until 'difficulties between [his] parents could be worked out'.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he had asked the social worker, looking a bit bemused by how quickly things were happening.

The social worker barely cast him a glance. "It means until your parents get their act together and learn how to properly look after a child," she said.

Gilbert blinked. "Until my folks learn parenting skills?" When the woman nodded in confirmation, Gilbert groaned and rolled his eyes. "How unawesome. I'm gonna be in this fucking foster home for the rest of my life."

X. X. X. X. X.

Arthur more or less made himself a loner at school. It just came naturally to him, considering he was also a loner in his own home. His father would stay out late at nights, playing poker or going to some bar with his friends, so Arthur just had to fend for himself. He learned early on that his own cooking wouldn't actually suffice, though, so he usually picked something up from the nearby KFC. At first, he hated the chicken, the way it spread grease over his fingers and whatever else he touched, but it soon came to be his comfort food, his favorite food. He'd sip tea and eat chicken as he finished his homework or read through one of the many books he'd check out from the local library.

He hated the setup, though. He didn't mind being alone so much, he told himself that, but sometimes he just really wanted someone beside him. Sometimes he just really wanted someone to listen to him talk about school or life in general. He thought that, if his mother knew what exactly he went through, she'd come home and take him away, take him to live with whatever cult it was that she joined, where they'd probably treat him well and fix him homemade meals every day.

The only problem was that he didn't know where she was.

He clearly remember the night she left. His parents thought he was sleeping, but he listened to their argument, every last bit of it. "I need to go," she had told his father. "I need to live, need to breathe some more!"

"Need to live?" His father scoffed. "What are you doing right now, then, Emily? Dying?"

"George-"

His father slammed his hands into the table. "No, you listen to me, Emily. You have a son. You can't just run away from him! He's not just my responsibility, he's yours!"

In the end, though, nothing his father could say changed his mother's mind. Arthur fell asleep behind the couch and when he woke, the house was emptied of nearly all things that had belonged to his mother. What was left, his father burned.

He spent every moment he could searching for information of where she went. He couldn't bear just living with his neglecting father. He needed her. He'd flip through the daily magazine they had subscribed to, desperate to catch any sign of her. He thought he never would, but one day he did. One day, he did strike gold.

There was a large picture on page 47. He didn't read the article at all- he was much too interested in the picture. The picture that showed his mother, sitting with a bunch of elderly people, working on some sort of hammock. She looked happier than she ever had before, and he found himself drawn to the photograph, just staring.

Admittedly, perhaps showing it to his father wasn't the most intelligent idea in the world. If he thought it through, he could have read the article to find out where exactly she was. But his excitement won over, and he hurriedly presented the picture to his father.

Once his father laid eyes on it, he snatched the magazine from Arthur's hands and refused to look his son in the eyes. "That's not her," he snarled. "You're mistaken."

"But it is," Arthur protested. "I know what she looks like."

"It isn't her!" His father's voice was loud and angry. Arthur didn't know what to do, so he just stood there in shock, watching as his father stomped away.

He didn't seek out answers after that incident. He did want that magazine, goodness knows he did, but he caught his father burning it later on the night, just as he did to everything else that belonged to his mother. They spoke of it no more, and life continued on as always; lonesome and quiet.

However, there was one escape Arthur had- writing. He loved to write more than anything in the world. Knowing this, his teachers encouraged him to write more and more, until he was finally persuaded to enter in a local essay contest. The topic was 'what I want most', and Arthur easily stole first place with a beautifully written piece about his strong desire for a friend. He cheerfully told his father, who congratulated him and promised to take him to the award ceremony, where he'd be able to shake hands with the city mayor and would receive a prize of twenty dollars.

He was never more enthusiastic for anything in his whole life. He dressed nicely that day, somehow putting on that infuriating tie and somewhat combing down his messy, blonde hair. Once satisfied with his appearance, he had climbed into the passenger's seat of his father's truck and waited.

Not even ten minutes later, his father came from the house, blinking in confusion when he saw Arthur in his truck. "What're you doing?" he asked, his words slurred together.

Arthur stared right back at him, realizing with disbelief that he was drunk. "The award ceremony is tonight."

His father scoffed. "No, it's poker night. Tuesday's are always poker nights, you know that." He opened the door to Arthur's side. "Get out."

Arthur's face pulled into a frown, his green eyes widening, knowing that his father wasn't going to take him. Still, he refused to let this knowledge deter him. Maybe if he argued enough, they would go. "You promised."

"Out!"

"No. You promised. You did, you said we'd go. You were proud of me." He felt his lower lip quivering, but kept his tears back.

Arthur's father seemed to have lost his temper, though. With a growl of anger, he forcefully pulled Arthur from the truck, yanking his arm a bit more than necessary and depositing him in the yard in a rather harsh manner. While Arthur struggled to stand to his feet, bruises already forming from where his father grabbed him, his father had made his way to the driver's seat and locked all the doors. Arthur heard the engine start, and he panicked.

He wasn't going to give up, not yet. He wanted this more than anything. He wanted people to see what he wrote, wanted people to recognize him, wanted to be famous, at least in his small town.

He finally found his balance and ran to the truck, determined to pound at the windows until his father gave in. It never happened, though. His plan didn't go through. When he was just behind the large truck, it suddenly shot back in reverse.

He had felt a blinding pain and heard the cracking of bones, but he still wasn't sure what happened, for he blacked out right after that. He found himself in the hospital later on, with two badly broken legs. His father pleaded with the judge, sobbing that it was a new truck and he meant to go forward and he just had a little too much to drink. This didn't change the fact that Arthur was hurt and had suffered years of neglect. He was sent to the foster home until his father was able to 'rehabilitate himself'. His father cried even more at this, apologizing over and over again.

Unlike his father, though, Arthur didn't shed a single tear.

X. X. X. X. X.

Alfred never knew either of his parents. He was found in the front yard of two elderly sisters- Thomas and Jefferson. People always marveled at their names (according to their story, Thomas Jefferson was their father's favorite president, so he saw it fit to name his twins after his idol), but they didn't ever seem to mind being given such masculine names. In fact, since it was what their father wanted, they actually gave off the vibe that they loved their names.

Even though Alfred was given a name ("Alfred after our father," they had said, "And the F. for the fun of it."), they never referred to him by such. They would simply call him 'boy' or 'youngster' or, his personal favorite, and the one rarely used, 'sweetie'.

He always wondered why his parents had abandoned him. Not that he minded being raised by the twins, but he just wanted to know more about his mother and father. Was he not good enough for them? Was he too ugly or did he take up too much of their time? Why did they abandon him?

One thing he never did, though, was express his questions to the twins. He was just thankful they took him in, thankful they cared for him. Besides that, he wasn't too good at expressing himself. Sure, he'd smile and laugh, but that was only ever because the twins stated how much they enjoyed seeing his smile. They told him he looked lovely when he smiled, so he did it often, always desperate to hear them compliment him again. He longed to please them, longed to make them happy, just so they would lavish him with even more attention.

There was one instance when he found their father's old wristwatch. It had been missing for many, many years, and he discovered it while cleaning out underneath his messy bed. When he showed it to them, they cried tears of joy, beyond excited to see the familiar object. They even reached out and touched his arms and gave his head a pat.

That was the only time they ever made contact with him.

Because the government didn't know he existed, he didn't have to go to school. The twins taught him a few things, and he was able to watch an hour of television on their tiny, static-filled television set, so he knew the basics. He never had any wish to go to school, either, so the twins never forced him. He didn't like the idea of such a large crowd, full of unfamiliar strangers and such massive buildings and loud sounds. He liked staying indoors or just playing in their backyard. He liked listening as they read to him from that large Bible (one of the only books they owned, and the only one they loved). He liked watching soap operas that he could never understand, bringing the twins tissues when they needed them.

They didn't exactly converse much. Sure, sometimes the twins would read him a story or sometimes they would ask him for a favor, but they never actually held conversations. Some days, they barely even said anything, only a 'good morning' and a 'good night'. Never once did any of them say 'I love you'. Alfred always figured it was because they didn't ever need to. He knew they loved him, and they knew that he loved them.

He wished he could say it, though, at least once. He wanted to say that phrase, wanted to feel it come from his mouth. He just couldn't. He didn't exactly know how.

As the twins turned older and older, they would always joke about their deaths. "We were born into this world together, so we'll leave this world together," was what Thomas always said. Or Jefferson. He never did figure out which one was which. He didn't even believe they knew themselves who was who.

One day, their joking came true, though not in the form of death. Thomas (or Jefferson) happened to be walking outside, trying to pick up a fallen stick that was in her path. She fell over, though, and Jefferson (or Thomas), who was right behind her, tried helping her up. This resulted in herself also falling right beside her sister. Scared, they both cried out for help, and Alfred used their ridiculously old phone to call the hospital, which is where he learned that they both broke their hips in the exact same places and which is where the government learned that Alfred existed.

He was sent to the foster home until 'a permanent family could be located'.

With a sinking heart, he realized that the statement didn't mean it would be his real family.


The next chapter is already done with (I'm actually uploading a story and working ahead?), so look forward to that sooner or later! This won't be too long of a story- five or six chapters at most. If you enjoyed it, please feel free to leave a review or something!