Thank you to all the darlings who have read, reviewed, favorited, and followed! Bit better time this chapter around, shed off one week. I don't really know how this chapter is, but since it's not so dreadful that I want to tear out my eyes, I'm putting it up. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Couple(s): America/England

Warnings: physical/verbal abuse, self-loathing/self-deprecation, coarse and offensive language, heavy subjects

AU. Enjoy!


Alfred didn't really remember much of the football game. Before it began, he'd taken more painkillers, but it didn't work. The pain was too excruciating to be suppressed by the measly pills he swiped from the kitchen cabinet. His head had been in a mess when he arrived.

The marching band had played the National Anthem, as per usual. Everything after he stepped out on to the field, however, he couldn't recall. Except one thing.

Flashes, sparks of memories from after the game were burned into his mind, intensely and terrifyingly vivid. The echo of his uncertain footsteps and the angry stomping of his teammates as they filed into the locker room. Alfred's own heavy breathing, eyes desperately trying to focus on the ground ahead. Then, he was sitting down on a bench. The vibrant, angry whispers from his teammates pervaded the air, paired together with derisive sneers and heated glares, all bearing down on Alfred. Yet he was too focused on staying conscious to care. No one confronted him or spoke to him, not even the coach.

Soon, he was all alone. And the next thing he knew, Alfred was lying down in bed in the darkness, curtains drawn and leaving only the red glare of the alarm clock. How did he get here…? Alfred couldn't recall coming back home. His thoughts were a jumbled mess of incomprehension; it was an effort to put his attention on any one thing.

Tired… he was so tired. An exquisite, pulsating cadence reverberated through his bones and into his core. So much pain, so much exhaustion; how was the human body capable of bearing forces of such intensity?

Turning on to his side, Alfred let his eyes fall closed, relaxing the tension in his muscles. He let himself sink into the mattress, let his pillow soak in the tears that streaked down over the bridge of his nose and collected at his cheek in a moist pool. Silence wrapped around him in a comforting blanket. It lulled his mind and body to accept the comforting touch of oblivion, to momentarily forget about the pain.

The tears were forgotten as well as Alfred sunk deeper into the depths of unconsciousness.


The weekend passed by rather uneventfully. A rare peace settled over Alfred; that man wasn't bothering him, and none of his friends were trying to call him. It was the perfect time to lay low and give his body a rest. The only time he ventured out of his room was in the dead of night or early in the morning to get some food, where once or twice he'd caught that man snoozing away on the couch again. The amount of liquor bottles littering the room had increased, but Alfred couldn't care less about cleaning up.

The highlight of his weekend was when Arthur called again on Sunday. They talked for hours, and Alfred deftly avoided talking over webcam, leaving him with only the comfort of his friend's voice, his laughter and his lecturing. All of it brought him back to the days –only half a year ago, but it felt so much longer— that he could see Arthur and physically touch him, see his smile and the way his cheeks flushed when he was embarrassed…

When they hung up, the sky was splashed with hues of pink and orange streaking the sky. Alfred closed the curtains to hide the beautiful display and sat down on the floor. An aching emptiness consumed him, depriving him of the brief traces of happiness that came with hearing Arthur's voice. His absence created a void, a wide, cavernous fissure that Alfred couldn't hope to fill, wouldn't dare try to fill. Hearing Arthur's voice, it was like the hole was being stitched up, only to be ripped open again when his voice faded from his mind, leaving the gap wider than before, and more painful.

Francis and Kiku continuously tried to help him overcome Arthur's absence, whether it be through distraction or even talking about it, but he knew it was all for naught. He cared too much, too deeply, for the Englishman, to overcome the distance that was now put between them. At times such as these, Alfred wished he could turn his emotions off and just become numb. Numb to feeling, to caring.

It'd happened before, just after Arthur had left and when his mother and Mattie had left. In the wake of their abrupt disappearance, Alfred had been in shock, unable to grasp the fact that all the people he'd loved had left him. Only until the beating started did he snap out of it. When he did, a torrent of emotions engulfed him, and he was a mess day and night, crying until his eyes had no more tears to shed, starving himself until out of the sheer need for survival, he ate, not going outside.

But slowly, Alfred became accustomed to being alone and the raging storm of emotions had subsided. It was replaced with a subtler ache, one that trickled in the despair and hopelessness drop by drop, not as rapid but just as lethal of a descent.

And now, there was yet another thing he had to deal with. Whatever happened at the football game to cause such anger in his teammates couldn't have been good. Alfred had most likely cost them the game. Thinking of how they would retaliate didn't make the prospect of tomorrow one he looked forward to. Well, whether he wanted it to or not, tomorrow would come, and he would have to face them. Letting that thought settle in, Alfred stood up and readied himself for bed, sleeping shirtless for the fourth night in a row.

As soon as he hit the pillow, he was out like a light.

Images of his mother and her screams, her pain, tormented him during his sleep. Fitfully tossing on his bed, he was forced to relive moments from the past years, moments where he looked on as that man beat his mother and he cowered behind a door, frozen and tormented by his own cowardice. As he slept, tears soaked into his pillow to mirror the sobs in his memories. Most painful of all was the day he looked into Mattie's room and found it bare.


Sunrise on the following morning found Alfred sitting under his favored lamppost, observing the sky with dulled interest, clouds rimmed with the soft glow of the morning sun, birds flying overheard and calling out to each other. It was a rather tranquil picture, but Alfred found that he could take no delight in the beauty that dawn brought. Not the crisp, cold air he breathed in, nor the light breeze that rustled the branches of the surrounding trees.

With delight's nonappearance, he was left with a sadness that came through being unable to appreciate it. Last year, he sat in this very spot, waiting for Arthur to arrive, admiring the sunrise and embracing the world around him through his senses. To be unable to feel such a thing now, to be left with only the shadow of memories, it added to the weight bearing down on his shoulders and pushed him even further into that pool of darkness that clung to him like tar and made the surface inaccessible, sinking down and down. He should have already hit the bottom, but it had no bottom; it was an abyss of heavy sludge, too thick to move in, with no escape…

Leaves crunching beneath feet broke the tranquility of the moment and forced his attention outward. Alfred looked up to find his coach approaching him with his thin lips set in a grim line, and his washed, slate-blue eyes looked down at him with weariness. Opposing his stiff muscles and aching injuries, Alfred forced himself to stand and greeted his coach with a quiet "Hello."

"Jones," the coach started, sighing with disappointment clinging to the end of his breath, "Come to my office, now. We have things to discuss."

"All right." He nodded, and after walking his bike up to the rack and locking it up, he followed the coach and they both sat down.

His coach leaned forward in his seat and folded his hands together on the desk. "Jones, ever since freshman year, you've been a vital asset to the program and you've excelled both academically and on the field. I could have not asked for a better quarterback and captain than you. However," he put a significant amount of stress on the word, forcing Alfred to look up from his lap and meet the coach's gaze, "this year, your performance level has dropped considerably. You have nearly cost us many games, and now this past game was lost. Not to mention that your grades now don't even allow you to play on the team." There was a pregnant pause, and Alfred kept his face passive, knowing what was to come. "Having said all of that, I must regretfully say that you're off the team."

He gave Alfred a sad look, but Alfred didn't react. "All right, Coach. Thanks for everything." With cold indifference, he left the room and began to wander around campus.

A range of emotions churned around in his mind, giving him brief flares of sadness, indifference, and even hurt, but what he settled on was that fact that he deserved it. He was a detrimental factor to the team, so it was a given that he should be taken off it. In hindsight, Alfred wondered why he'd bothered to join again in the first place. Things were becoming unsteady even before the tryouts, and yet he still tried out? He was being given nothing less than what he expected. Thoughts darkening, coils of self-contempt developed and latched on in his mind, refusing to let go. How could he expect to be useful to anyone when he was this pathetic, weak person?

Alfred let out a derisive snort and sat down in front of the door to his first class, retrieving his iPhone from his pocket and putting on a playlist of less-than-joyful songs. The music made waiting for the day to start more bearable, and soon enough, people were standing about, chatting in their little circles. Many stares and fingers were directed at him, but Alfred paid them no heed, choosing to ignore the outside world for as long as he was allowed.

Francis arrived earlier than usual, walking up to him with a concered frown in place. Taking out his earbuds, he heard Francis say a quick greeting, "Salut, Alfred. Are you all right?"

Offering up a grin, he nodded. "Yup! Why wouldn't I be?"

His voice lowered to a whisper. "The football game…" Trailing off, he pursed his lips in a frown.

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, "Yeah, I wasn't up on my game Friday. Probably just lost the knack for it, really. Well, c'est la vie. That's life."

By the skeptical look on his face, Alfred knew that Francis didn't buy it. For once, though, the Frenchman didn't pursue the subject further. They talked about Francis' weekend for the most part, which apparently consisted of assisting his mother with the cooking for a dinner party and spending time with Kiku. He gave little input as to his own weekend, since there wasn't much to say about it, except that he'd talked to Arthur.

When Kiku arrived, the two conversed over manga while Alfred let his mind wander. It wasn't long until the teacher arrived and they took their seats. Cradling his head in his arms, Alfred shut his eyes, not caring if the teacher reprimanded him for sleeping in class. It was better than being awake to let his mind torture him. But even in sleep, the chance for peace was only fifty-fifty.


The morning passed by without incident until lunchtime. Alfred was sitting in one of the halls near the cafeteria, once more blocking out the world with music. Not in the mood for eating or conversing, he stayed out here to avoid his friends. It was peaceful for all of ten minutes.

And then his former teammates showed up.

The guy that had tried to pick a fight with him the day before the game stood before Alfred, the same two lackeys with him. Somewhere within his memory, he was finally able to scrounge up a name: Drystan. Funny, how he could be around the same people for four years and barely be able to remember their names. Without warning, a hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt and forced him up, making him come face to face with a disdainful sneer and narrowed eyes.

"You fucking bastard," he barked, tone dripping with venom, "you lost us the fucking game! Thanks to that, the scouts have withdrawn their decisions. Because of your shitty-ass playing!"

Suddenly, a fist came in contact with his stomach, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs. The hand left his shirt, and Alfred collapsed to one knee, keeling over with one hand clutching his stomach. He looked up at his assailant with apathy, which only seemed to enrage him more.

"Oi, you two. Hold him."

The lackeys did as they were told and he was dragged up, arms locked in place and his body vulnerable. Another fist slammed into his gut, followed by another, and another, and another. The beating continued on incessantly, and all the while derogatory, taunting words were shouted at him, but Alfred simply blocked them out, since it was nothing compared to the insults that man used against him on a constant basis.

There was a pause in the beating, and then a fist collided with his nose, the nosepiece of his glasses cracking and the bone giving way under the powerful fist with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed out from his nose in rivulets, trailing down to smear on his lips and collect at his chin, where it then traced down his neck and over his Adam's apple, soaking into the white material of his shirt.

Another fist connected with his cheekbone, and heat blossomed in his cheek, which was soon coupled with pain. A crack! was heard as the blow damaged the lens of his glasses. He flinched, eye shutting for a moment so the small shards wouldn't get in his eye. Alfred felt the burning of tears glazing over his already-blurred sight, but he refused to let them fall.

"Good-for-nothing cunt." Drystan spat scornfully, signaling for his lackeys to step back. Without their arms to hold him up, Alfred collapsed to the floor, pain curling in his stomach and pulsing from his broken, bleeding nose.

"Have fun with your little queer friends." He laughed, and they turned around, about to walk off.

Alfred's head snapped up, eyes alight with anger, and he growled out dangerously, "What did you say?"

Drystan turned back around, raising a brow. Then, a mocking smirk curled up on the guy's lips, and he snorted in amusement, "You heard me. Go and play with your faggot friends, faggot." The three laughed. "Glad we won't have to see your pansy face at practice anymore."

Adrenaline rushing through his veins and rage curling his hands into fists, he stood up. With one quick movement, Alfred neared Drystan and his upraised fist slammed into his nose. The jock stumbled back, holding his nose and looking at Alfred with offense.

Fury twisted his lips into a snarl and he retaliated, swinging a punch directly toward his eye. The impact shattered the whole lens and pain flared up like a raging monsoon, his vision going black for a few seconds. Disoriented with ears ringing at a deafening pitch, he fell back to the floor.

Drystan looked at his hand with anger, blood dripping from the lacerated knuckles. Giving Alfred one last kick to the stomach, he turned away and headed toward the cafeteria.

"See you later, faggot!"

Alfred clenched his teeth together and ripped off the mangled glasses, letting them fall to the floor as he squinted his eyes in pain and clutched at his bleeding nose. Dragging himself to sit against the wall, he took deep breaths in and out, trying to lessen the pain. His shirt was effectively ruined, the blood from his nose having soaked the neck of it to a deep red color. How long was it until lunch ended? Damn, he didn't know. Just as he didn't know how he was going to clean up this mess.

His nose was definitely broken, or at least fractured. A persistent ache pulsated through the wounded parts of his face. Already, he could feel a bruise forming on his cheek, and his eyes were swelling up painfully. Damn, this day has just gotten worse and worse.

Stumbling into an upright position, he collected his pack and glasses with the hand that wasn't clutching at his nose. He was about to head off to grab his bike and skip the rest of the day when a familiar voice shouted from across the corridor.

"Hey, Alfred!"

Turning, he saw none other than Gilbert Beilschmidt waving at him with a grin on his face, accompanied by Ivan Braginsky, a Russian in the same year as Alfred. Gilbert had graduated the year before, but sometimes came around to harass Ludwig (his little brother), or to hang out with friends. It wasn't unusual to see these two in each other's company, as it seemed that they were together, or so Francis had told Alfred last year. He and the German weren't the closest, but they'd had their laughs together, especially when discussing whatever prank Gilbert had been planning.

The grin fell and gave way for an alarmed frown when he caught sight of Alfred's state, face bloody and bruised. Rushing up to him, he exclaimed, "Scheiße, you look awful! What happened?"

Debating whether or not to tell the truth, Alfred quickly realized that there was no room for lying in this situation. What could he say, having been found beaten up like this at school? "Oh, I tripped?" Yeah, right.

Reluctantly, he spoke the truth. "Bastards from the football team picking a fight, is all." Vague, but true.

"Aren't you on the football team?" he asked in confusion.

Alfred shrugged a shoulder in response. "Not anymore."

Pursing his lips, Gilbert shook his head and bit out, "Those arschlöcher!" Looking over at Ivan, he asked, "Ivan, would you be okay with skipping for the rest of the day?"

Smiling with curiosity in his eyes, the Russian nodded, "Da. Where are we going?"

"My house," he turned back to Alfred. "Mutti's a nurse, she can help you out." When he saw the skeptical look on Alfred's face, he added, "Unless you want to go to the nurse's office and explain this to them?"

He had a point. But there was a chance that a nurse would catch on to his other injuries. If that happened, he'd be in deep shit. Still, he couldn't possibly go back home with his sight as distorted as it was without glasses and with his eyes swelling. Needing no further consideration, he agreed. "Okay, I'll go. But why does he have to go to?" he gestured toward Ivan, who was wearing that eerie smile again.

Gilbert cackled, "In case you end up collapsing and need someone to carry you." Despite his laughter, Alfred could tell that his words were dead serious.

The three left campus, Alfred riding along in Gilbert's car while Ivan followed him with his bike in the back of his truck. Ten minutes passed with the blaring of some German rock music, and then they were pulling up the driveway of Gilbert's house.

Paying little attention to the details of the house, Alfred slipped out of the passenger seat when the car came to a full stop and steadied himself, walking around to meet Gilbert and Ivan. Together, they entered the house, and Gilbert called out in a loud voice.

"Mutti, ich bin zu Hause!"

"Oh, willkommen zu Hause, Gilbert!" she called back, coming down the stairs.

Gilbert's mother was fairly young, or so he thought; he couldn't be sure with his vision as blurry as it was. Her hair was a pale chestnut color, and her skin seemed almost as fair as Gilbert's, and her eyes were a light blue color. Dressed in black slacks and a flowery blouse, she looked ready to go out to a fancy lunch.

When she stopped before the three, her expression turned to one of surprise, then of concern as she hurried up to look at Alfred. Her eyes roamed his face and body, inspecting thoroughly in the way that nurses and doctors did. "Oh, sweety, what happened to you?" she asked in that accent that both brothers had.

Opening his mouth to respond, he found that Gilbert was answering for him. "Some guys beat him up at school. Can you fix him up?"

"Yes, I can, but it'd be better to go to the hospital." Addressing Alfred, she said, "They'll have more effective treatments."

Quickly, Alfred rushed to oppose. "I don't want to go to the hospital," he said adamantly.

Looking at him uncertainly, Gilbert's mother sighed. "It goes against my practice to not send you to the hospital, but if you're that determined…" she smiled, "I'll do what I can."

"Danke, Mutti!" Gilbert grinned.

"Now, what is your name?" she asked.

"Alfred Jones," was his short response.

Putting out her hand, she said, "I'm Anna. It's a pleasure to meet you, Alfred," when he took her hand, she shook it and continued with a chuckle, "though I would've preferred under better circumstances."

Forcing a smile, Alfred chuckled with her. She led him to the living room, and the trio sat down while she brought her equipment from upstairs.

Gilbert and Ivan sat on a loveseat together, leaving Alfred with the couch to himself. The bleeding was finally starting to slow to a trickle, and for that he was grateful. Now, if only he could see

"So, why aren't you on the team anymore?" The question from Gilbert put Alfred's focus on the pair sitting together.

He shrugged, "Haven't done so hot in the last few games. And my GPA's low." Another true response. He was on a roll today.

Nodding, Gilbert changed the subject, darting from topic to topic. All the while, Alfred gave only the necessary comments, and even Ivan spoke more than him. It was still bizarre to see the two so close, holding hands and sitting flush against one another. Ivan and Gilbert had had a sort of strange relationship through most of high school, seemingly hating each other but often seen together. It'd been a surprise when they got together near the end of last year, and apparently they were still going on strong…

Maybe too strong.

During their conversing, Ivan had pulled Gilbert into his lap and started feathering kisses along his neck, arms wrapped around his waist. Abruptly, Gilbert's words were cut off by a soft moan following a rather hard kiss against his neck. Alfred observed with a brow raised as Gilbert turned in the Russian's lap to face him, berating him for his teasing. Ivan responded with a smile and pulled the German down into a kiss. It started out chaste, but got deeper as they continued, rather disturbing licking and slurping and moaning sounds coming from the two.

Face flushing red, he halted the two when he said, "Um, guys, still here."

Gilbert turned around with a sheepish grin, cackling out an apology, "Sorry." Looking over his shoulder, the German said, "Not in front of company."

"All right." Ivan conceded, his tone rather sulky.

Gilbert's mother came back down the stairs not a moment later, a large first-aid kit in hand. After going into what appeared to be the kitchen and coming back with a cloth and an icepack, she sat down beside Alfred. Opening the kit, she revealed a plethora of gauze rolls and several bottles of antiseptics, among other things. "Okay, take your hand away from your nose and let's get you cleaned up first."

She gently wiped clean the blood trailing from his nose to his neck with an alcohol wipe and then started on dabbing at the small cuts on his cheek and above his eye. The process was much easier to bear than the care he'd done for himself only five days ago. Soon, he had ointment smeared on his bruises and small gauze strips over the cuts. After giving him a pain reliever and instructing him to hold the ice pack over his nose and eyes, she put the kit back and then left the house to run errands.

With Gilbert's encouragement, Alfred imposed on the couple and relaxed for a few hours in their living room, listening to the T.V. The painkillers were kicking in and helping with his not only his face, but the rest of his body as well, and the cold felt nice against his swollen eyes and nose.

Thinking back to the beating, he wondered if this was what it would be like from now on. Getting beaten both at home and at school, facing the scorn and malice from both that man and his schoolmates. Alfred didn't know if he'd be able to withstand such a constant onslaught. Ever since school started, it'd been an escape from home, an escape from the pain and the hate and everything else that poisoned it. But now it'd even spread to his one place of solace. It was almost laughable, how the hatred and hurt seemed to follow him wherever he went.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?"

"What?" Alfred edged the icepack over so he could look at Gilbert through one blurry eye. He was holding a cell phone away from his mouth, looking at him questioningly. "Uh, sure."

"He said yes, Mutti," the German spoke into the phone, "At Feli's? Ja, okay, bye." He set the phone down on the glass coffee table. "Mutti will be home in a few minutes. Ludwig's having dinner at Feli's."

When Gilbert's mother arrived, she made a rather simple meat and vegetable stew, but it was the most delicious thing he'd had ever since his mother left. It made him realize just how little he'd been eating, since he had to keep himself from gulping the whole bowl down. But his mother didn't mind; with a smile and a chuckle, she only said that she was glad he liked it, and he was able to fill himself with three servings of the mouth-watering stew.

The sun had already set by the time they he left Gilbert's house. Ivan had offered to give him a ride home, and he accepted graciously, although to say that the ride home was comfortable would have been a lie. Ivan and Alfred weren't exactly friends, but their differences were set aside for the time being. Whether it was because of Gilbert or because Ivan felt sorry for him, he didn't know.

Dropping him off and unloading his bike, Ivan drove off after bidding him goodnight.

Without daylight, his movements were clumsy as he locked up his bike and made his way through the front door. Gilbert's mother had given him an ice pack to take home as well as the bottle of pain relievers from earlier, and he was set on collapsing on his bed and letting the cold sooth the swelling. However, his plans were ruined when he opened the door to his bedroom and found that man sitting on his bed, beer bottle in hand, and angry, bloodshot eyes staring at the door.

"Where the fuck have you been?" He snarled, standing up. "Causing more trouble, eh! Worthless brat…" his mumbles became incoherent for a moment, and then, "…shouldn't have to take care of you when it's your Goddamn fault that they left! She didn't want to take care of you, so I'm stuck with your shitty ass!"

Alfred could only stand there in the doorway as the man stomped toward him. He shoved past violently, causing Alfred to stumble to the side, his head colliding painfully with the doorframe. It ached where the impact occurred, adding to the many bruises along his body.

A door slammed behind him as presumably the man went to his room. Alfred shut the door and set down his pack, throwing his mangled glasses in the trash and taking out the spare he kept in the drawer of his computer desk. Hopefully these wouldn't end up broken as well.

He placed them on the nightstand, since his eyes were too swollen to wear them right now, and changed into his sleep clothes, then turned the light off and eased down on his bed. With the ice pack covering his eyes, Alfred took out his phone and dialed the number of the only person that could ease the aching he felt.

Putting it to his ear, he heard it ring, and ring, and ring. For the first time since Arthur moved to England, he didn't answer the phone.


I feel awful for putting in such offensive terms. But I'm pretty sure I put them in for a reason, so they're not just extraneous insults to pack more needless hurt. (._.) And I tried to add a bit of comic relief here, though I'm not entirely sure if it worked...

Also, I really didn't want to give Mister Evil Jock a name, or Gilbert's mother, but for the former, I really didn't want to keep saying "the guy," so... *trails off* for the latter, there were introductions to be had!

Translation guide ahead *sigh*: (swear words omitted)

Salut - (Sa-loo) - Hi (informal)
C'est la vie - (Say la vi) - That's life; Such is life; It is what it is (French expression)
Ich bin zu Hause - (Eekh bin tsoo hau-zeh) - I'm home
Willkommen zu Hause - ( ) - Welcome home
Danke - ( ) - Thank you

Feel free to correct me on these... I haven't learned German... yet!

Thoughts and opinions, anyone?

Reviews are love. They are, they are.

Thank you for reading! *sets out plate of caramel fudge squares*