Author's Note: The next chapter is the final one! Thank you all for showing this fanfic some love. :D

Day 10:

"Gilbert, thanks for all of your help, dude," America said courteously to his departing companion at the airport while simultaneously refusing to become too sentimental.

The elder nation caught the world power in a bone-crushing hug, giving him a few firm slaps on the back. "No problem, Dummkopf. If you ever need Uncle Prussia's awesome guidance again, just give me a call."

America rolled his eyes, but eventually nodded obligingly. "Will do. You really do know how to make the best schnitzel."

Prussia grinned cockily, releasing America out of the vice-grip and instead opting to drape an arm around his shoulders. "Duh, I told you so. And if that Engländer tries to feed you any of his black pudding or Schwein pie again, I'll call for backup."

America let out a short laugh, happy to note that England was out of earshot and window-shopping around the gift stores. "It's good to know you've got my back."

"Ja. Well, good luck with the rest of your diet, and you two take care of yourselves," Prussia murmured softly, retracting his arm from America's shoulders and taking hold of his carry-on luggage. In all honesty, he was going to miss the hamburger-loving American. It'd been fun getting him into shape again, and it'd given Prussia something interesting to do.

"Bye, old man," America joked testily, watching as the other man scowled at him and finally managed to catch England's attention, waving to him before disappearing towards his gate.

"I hate to admit it, but he was quite helpful."

America spun around, now realizing that England had abandoned his interest in the shops and was standing beside him. The blue-eyed nation sighed, shoulders slumped upon seeing that England was studying him critically.

"Yeah… I don't know if I'll be able to work out on my own now. I mean, I'll probably head to the gym a few more times, and then do exactly what I did last time; cancel my membership and gorge my face with Hershey's chocolate bars," he admitted to his former mentor. "All of this progress would have been a waste—and not to be a Debbie Downer or anything, but I'm just trying to be realistic. Two weeks isn't going to make me change my lifestyle for centuries. Eventually, I'm gonna stumble across a burger."

England regarded America with a strange look before speaking. "What's brought on these sudden thoughts? Obviously, you aren't going to be on a diet for all of eternity—just until your cholesterol levels and overall health begin improving. Then, you can eat your beloved junk food in moderation while sticking with some of the changes you've made during your diet. And honestly, Alfred, who needs to be drinking soda with every meal and inhaling crisps, anyway? You'll still be fine and dandy without those monstrosities killing your heart."

America bit his lip firmly, hands slightly shaking by his sides. "Yeah, b-but… That's not the point. I can't do this."

"And why not? You've succeeded thus far."

"You don't understand!"

"Then feel free to explain because you're being absolutely incorrigible right now," England huffed, watching as America stuffed his hands into his pockets and pouted at him with that horribly infectious frown. "Perhaps, you're having caffeine withdrawals again."

America glared, inwardly seething. "That's not it. Maybe if you were more supportive then I wouldn't have gotten myself into this mess in the first place!"

"How do I have anything to do with your hamburger addiction?" England inquired, suddenly growing defensive while also hoping that America wouldn't cause a scene in the middle of the airport.

America brought a hand to his head, exasperated in every sense of the word. "Because I use food for comfort!"

The pair was silent for an arduous moment, the din of the airport still resonating around them and becoming more apparent as they did so. England gave America a long look, contemplating what to do in this situation, and how to fix it. Unfortunately, all that England could formulate in his frazzled mind was, "Oh, Alfred."

He led the American to the bench adjacent to them, urging him to sit down. "How long has this been going on for?"

"The bingeing? As long as I can remember," America mumbled.

"No, not that," England amended, taking a seat beside the younger nation. "The depression."

"What depression?"

England narrowed his eyes. "Don't play stupid with me, Alfred. If you're lacking the greasy food to console you, then it's not surprising that you're suddenly feeling depressed. However, I must commend you for your efforts at being stoic about it. You hid it quite well."

"For your information," America began heatedly, straightening out his hunchback. "I've just been feeling a little down today. It's at moments like these that I grab some burgers, but I don't have that option right now, so I'm pretty irritable and pissed off. Even when I was on the crazy McDonald's diet, I wasn't depressed long-term or anything. Everyone feels… off on some days. I'd overeat whenever that happened, but I still ate the junk food even when I was feeling fine and happy."

"Alright, then what's been the cause of your gloomy mood swings?"

America glowered. "You make it sound as though I'm some hormonal teenager."

England merely bit his lip to contain his snickering. "Well, you're barely an adult physically. You're not even allowed to drink alcohol in your own country."

"Don't remind me," America groused. "You'd think a guy whose over two hundred years old could have a good beer every once in a while, but no, I'm 'underage'. It's alright though because each time I go to Europe, I get hammered to make up for the lost time."

"Charming. Now, can we get back to the issue at hand? What's been bugging you?"

"I don't know. It's a lot of little things," America admitted sheepishly, turning his gaze away from England to absently watch some passersby. "Sometimes it's just the loneliness of it all that gets to me. I mean, like I said, I've been around for over two hundred years and have been pretty much subjected to watching everything and everyone change around me while I stay exactly the same. When there isn't any international business to tend to, I'm basically tied down to my house for hours on end. The occasional visitor comes in, but usually I just sit around and stuff my face to keep from dying of boredom and isolation. I don't really have a job outside of being a personification. You'd think that riding solo all the time might motivate me to go out and stay active or whatever, but it's easier said than done."

England sighed, standing up from the bench and taking off in the opposite direction. He let his former colony's words sink in as he made his retreat. "Come along then," he called behind to the other nation. "I've got just the cure for this terrible little habit of yours."

America jumped up and lagged behind the older man, eyes filled with curiosity. "Really? What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to have to make a few phone calls. I can't guarantee that my remedy will be ready by the end of today. It's going to take quite some time for it to be delivered," England replied cryptically, a sardonic smirk working its way onto his face. There was no doubt in his mind that America was going to be up all night, waiting for this 'cure' to his overindulging to present itself.

And sure enough, America was nearly bouncing in and out of his shoes by the time they had reached the car. He'd fired a million and one questions at England like an easily excitable child, struggling to settle down long enough to plop into the driver's seat.

"Perhaps you shouldn't be driving while you're in this state of mind," England suggested, berating himself for not leaving the nation back at the airport to wallow in his misery. He would've personally paid for a plane ticket to ship America off to some remote island just to get him out of his hair for a little while.

America rolled his eyes. "Psh, dude, I could drive even if I was half-dead."

"I'm just surprised that you're old enough to drive. I ought to ask to see your license," England responded mockingly as he slid into the passenger's seat and closed the door.

"Cheap shot, you old geezer. How old are you? Bet you've been around too long to count."

England scowled, nudging America in the ribs with his elbow. "Insolent brat. You're complaining about being around for less than three hundred years while I've been around for about twelve hundred, give or take a few. Quite frankly, my age is debatable."

"Hah, I was right," America laughed, adjusting his rearview mirror as he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "You are an old grandpa. Got any gray hairs yet?"

England spluttered indignantly, blushing heavily. "No, of course not! Normally, a country's physical age goes up one year for every fifty years that the country exists. I say normally because you, for some unknown reason, sprouted upwards and grew up far more quickly than expected. Had you grown at the average rate of the rest of us, you'd still be four years old physically."

"At least we know that I'm not a late bloomer," America said with a proud smile. "Every nation is different, I guess. Doesn't growth all depend on how quickly the land is settled and cultivated?"

"Sometimes, but there are other factors as well. Breaking away from your motherland is one that you should be familiar with. Had you stayed with me, you'd still be an early teenager at most," England huffed as he made himself comfortable for the long drive back to America's house.

America turned up the heat in the car while keeping his eyes plastered to the road the entire time. "Don't tell me you're still bitter about that. The rest of the world has moved on, man."

"I'm not bitter," England reassured, waving off the accusation. "Not about that, at least. I'm peeved with you for plenty of other reasons."

America chuckled lightly, surprising his fellow nation. "That's what I figured you'd say."

"Now, stop chatting and focus on the road. Though, I must point out that your dashboard is absolutely filthy. Do you ever sort through the stuff you have stockpiled here?" England queried with a grimace.

"Hah! That's nothing. Open the glove compartment, and tell me what you think."

Out of sheer curiosity, that's exactly what England did. He blinked several times to take in the mountain of broken flashlights, torn maps, strewn tissues, and scratched CDs in all their glory.

"And what's this?" he asked with a growing tone of amusement before taking out a CD. "A Coldplay record? Didn't you once tell me that you vowed to never listen to 'limey British music' because it was far inferior to your 'classic' American rock bands?"

America's cheeks instantly flushed upon his secret being discovered, digging his nails into the steering wheel as he tried to come up with a plausible excuse for his accustomed taste of music. "I-I never said I never listened to British bands. Besides, Coldplay doesn't count. They are popular internationally."

England continued his search through the albums, smile increasing in width by each passing second. "Then what are Adele, One Direction, and—" he paused to laugh in disbelief, "You've got Canadian music in here too? Nickelback and Joni Mitchell seem to be some of your favorites judging by how used these CDs appear to be."

"That's enough," America muttered furiously, reaching across England's lap to slam the glove compartment closed, barely missing the man's fingers. "I forgot that I left those in there."

"I learn something new about you every day."

"Just so you know, Adele and One Direction don't count either because they're also internationally famous. Nickelback gets confused as being an American band all the time, so that means they don't count too." America tried to explain rationally in order to defend his pride.

England nodded mockingly. "Yes, yes, of course. How could I have made such a mistake? Well, please explain how Joni Mitchell fits into the picture while you're at it."

America bit his tongue, feeling his face burn as he gave into humiliation. "Joni's music is emotionally reassuring."

England broke into another fit of laughter, eyes filling with tears. "While that may be true, I never expected you of all people to be listening to such mature music. I wasn't taken aback at seeing One Direction in your range of tastes, but everything else baffles me. Nonetheless, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson from this."

"Don't let you go through my stuff unless I know exactly what I've got hidden?"

"No, before you go around acting like a bigot about how fantastic your American music is, learn to show a little respect and appreciation for those who are obviously superior in musical production."

America scoffed with a small shake of the head. "Superior, my ass."

England drew out a long breath, turning his gaze up toward the sky. "They never learn."

Day 11:

He couldn't believe it.

It was a miracle.

It was a delayed Christmas miracle.

He had actually managed to take a trip to the gym and back without stopping even once for something to eat. He'd successfully assured himself that he would eat at home, refusing to give in to the enticing temptations of visiting the McDonald's down the block. Not to mention that New York City had a Starbucks on every freaking corner and he would've killed for an espresso.

But no, he hadn't made it this far to give up now. Perhaps he could give up after his two weeks were up, but not now; not when he was so close to reaching his goal.

Thus, he sauntered his way up the driveway in high-spirits, fully looking forward to bragging to England about his major accomplishment. After all, the older nation had suggested that he tag along to help out, but America had been adamant about getting back into the habit of training on his own.

With a bit of sweat still lining his forehead and his limbs aching slightly after their workout session, America dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the front door to his house, shivering at the temperature change as he stepped into the foyer.

"England?" he called questioningly, hanging up his coat. "I'm back, and I didn't cheat on my diet, so I hope you have a good snack with my name on it!"

"Yes, well done. I'll be down in a minute, lad. I've got something that I need to show you."

America knitted his eyebrows together, hoping England hadn't found another dieting remedy to torture him with again. He kicked off his sneakers and took his usual spot on the living room couch, yawning widely.

He had nearly dozed off and thought he was hallucinating for a moment when he opened his eyes to see Canada standing in front of him with a large box at hand.

"Mattie? Dude, what are ya doin' here?" America swiftly got up and embraced his brother in a bear hug, squishing the box that was in between them.

"Alfred! Let go! I have a fragile delivery in here!" Canada gasped, pulling away from the American and hugging the box to his chest protectively.

Just then, England padded into the room, looking as stiff as always.

America glared at the man. "England, why didn't you tell me ol' Canada was coming over? I would've set up the other guestroom for him and made him some pancakes."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Canada intervened with a calming hand on America's shoulder. "I drove all the way from Toronto to make this special delivery that England and I have had planned for over a month now."

"You drove from Toronto? That's about an eight hour ride!"

Canada nodded his head, eyes visibly fatigued. "Believe me, I know. That's why you better appreciate the gift because there are no refunds."

"Alright, so what's in the box, and what's the occasion?"

England walked up closer to the pair, arms crossed over his chest. "You didn't think that silly book was your only Christmas present, do you? I thought you knew me better than that."

America bashfully picked at the lint on his jeans. "Well, I mean, yeah. I was wondering if there was anything else, but I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Plus, it's the thought that counts. I'll be happy with any present I get."

"I believe you'll be much more content with this gift. Naturally, I planned to give it to you on Christmas Day, but there were a few… problems. You'll understand what I'm talking about in a moment. Now, sit down and open it," England said in his not-so-irritated-voice, which meant he was in quite a good mood.

America did as he was told, sitting back down on the couch and taking the box from Canada with a huge grin. "You really didn't have to get me a second gift. Now I feel like I should've gotten you both something more impressive."

"Just open it already!" England ordered with a roll of the eyes.

"Okay, okay! Chill!"

Gently peeling away the folds of the box, America peeked into its contents and immediately felt his face split open into an ear-to-ear smile. Reaching his hands into the box, he removed the bundle of joy inside, brimming with excitement and happiness.

"A dog! You got me a dog? It is mine, right?"

"Of course it's yours, you git. It's one of those yapper dogs your so fond of. He's a Yorkshire terrier and a proud British breed, mind you, even though he's Canadian-born."

America laughed heartily, nuzzling the puppy's face. "Hey, little guy! I'm America, but you can call me Alfred since I'm your new, super-cool dad!"

Canada felt his heart swell, glad to see his brother pleased after the arm and leg that he and England had gone through to get the cute little ball of fluff. "He's a toy terrier, so he's going to be medium-sized when he's full grown. The lady at the puppy boutique reserved him for us a month ago, but we couldn't get him to you in time for Christmas because he was still too little to be sold. Not to mention I had to get him vaccinated before I could cross the border with him. Do you like him?"

"He's perfect," America assured, scrunching his face up as the puppy licked his nose. "I haven't had a dog since the 1800's!"

England felt a smile working onto his face as well. "Hopefully, he'll keep you company while your home alone. He'll need to be walked frequently too, which will make sure that you're getting out of the house every day and not sitting on the couch like a vegetable until you start to rot. I can't think of a better cure to your laziness than having a pet around. Take good care of him."

"Of course. I'm gonna spoil him like crazy," America promised obligingly.

Canada stretched out a hand to pet the anxious puppy. "Any ideas for a name?"

"I can only think of one. He just seems like a snazzy entrepreneur with a secret fortune, and he'll probably be a romancer someday, so I'm gonna name him Gatsby."

"Like 'The Great Gatsby'? I didn't think you read your own country's books."

America's face grew very serious for a moment. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Mattie."

Then, Gatsby proceeded to attack America's hand as though it were a squishy chew toy.

Day 12:

After implementing a variety of persuasive tactics, America managed to get Canada to spend the night in the extra guestroom. He would've felt terrible making his brother drive another seven hours north, seeing as the man refused to take a plane because he dubbed it a 'waste of money' for traveling such a 'short' distance.

Nonetheless, the exhausted Canadian gave up his effort at politely declining and soon found himself dozing comfortably away in the inconceivably cozy bed that he'd been offered.

However, when morning arrived, Canada knew that he would have to pay for his mistakes. There was no way that America was going to let him leave straight after a quick breakfast. He would definitely insist that he stay and sightsee the city for a while or take part in some ludicrous activities that his brother had undoubtedly planned.

Sometimes he wished he could be more willful than his twin.

And as predicted, Canada was coaxed into joining America in a game of hockey for old time's sake. He couldn't refuse an opportunity at participating in some healthy competition, especially not after America had made some rude comments about France in his presence to instigate some fiery disdain for one another.

He should've known better than to take the bait for horseplay, but he'd been itching to get back on the ice again.

In all fairness, England had tried his best at stopping them, claiming that hockey was a dangerous and barbaric sport that had no place in civilized company.

As usual, they'd ignored their former guardian's warnings, and rented out a nearby ice rink for the afternoon to ensure that the playing conditions were more satisfactory than if they'd been skating on a lake.

Once that was taken care of, the twin nations loaded themselves and their hockey gear into America's car. They were about to exit the driveway when England came running out of the townhouse, swearing and muttering atrocities under his breath as he raced to reach the car with a red box close at hand.

He heatedly banged on the window of the driver's side, demanding that the blue-eyed nation hear what he had to say.

Rolling down the window with a smug look on his face, America began mocking the elder. "England? I thought you wanted to stay behind because you refused to watch us 'break our necks like bloody fools'."

England chewed furiously on his lip, very pink in the face as he struggled to find the proper words. "You need someone to supervise your idiotic schemes. Besides, you forgot the first-aid kit," he explained, holding up the metal box that he had brought with him. "A-And, I bloody well raised you both… I can't just sit back idly while you attempt to kill yourselves. You both know how violent your games always turn out to be… I left Gatsby with fresh water and food, so that's settled as well. You'll have to walk him as soon as you get back, but—"

"England," America interrupted with a knowing grin. "Just shut up already and hop in."

Frustrated with the entire situation, but unable to take the position of being neutral, England begrudgingly sat in the backseat, wringing his scarf in his hands in worry. Those two were going to drive him to an early grave; he could already feel it.

When they arrived to the rink, the game began promptly with neither twin sparing a second before pulling on their gear and skating out into the middle. They cautiously asked if England would mind refereeing the showdown, but he unsurprising refused and instead took a seat on the sidelines, arms folded across his chest.

"Whatever, we don't need a ref for this," America reassured, biting down on his mouth guard to protect his teeth from being knocked out.

Canada's eyes seemed to glint with excitement now that he was completely in his element. A game of hockey was all it took to get him out of his shell.

England was thrilled to see America more energetic and active than he'd ever been in the past few years, but that didn't mean that he was going to enjoy seeing him being beaten to a pulp by his twin brother.

A short countdown and they were off, skidding on the ice and bumping into each other as they fought for the puck, ramming elbows and shoulders multiple times. It didn't take very long at all for Canada to gain the upper-hand, skillfully scoring in the first few minutes of play. He played with a cool-mind, calculating each movement as he gracefully glided past America's defenses without the need for a second glance at the other nation's position.

Nevertheless, America put up a good fight. Where he lacked skill and raw talent, he made up for with sheer ambition. Thus, they were rather evenly matched with Canada just barely surpassing him.

It wasn't until a controversial slash at the back of Canada's legs occurred until trouble began to stir.

Staggering and hitting the ice as a result, Canada angrily glared up at America, spitting out his mouth guard to speak clearly. "What the hell was that? You tripped me! I should automatically be granted a win since there are only two of us and normally you'd be sent to the penalty box for that!"

A spark seemed to go off in America's eyes, setting off his temper. "What are you talking about? I barely nudged you! It was completely accidental. You were the one who had to be a sissy about it!"

"You won't even admit that you did it because I was in the lead and you knew you were going to lose!"

"No, you're just paranoid and reading into it too much!"

"You're a sore loser ever since my national team defeated yours during the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver! Just admit it; you still haven't gotten over it!" Canada seethed, throwing down his hockey stick.

"Ooh, hitting me where it hurts," America backfired sarcastically. "Be prepared because I'm gonna crush your team in 2014."

"I want to see you try!"

England, who had been peacefully reading the National Geographic magazine that had been dropped off in America's mailbox earlier that morning to shield his eyes from the ongoing savagery, finally decided that his cue to intervene had arrived. He marked off the page he had been on and stepped to the edge of the rink.

He prepared his sternest tone of voice, his paternal instincts growing in intensity by each passing moment. "Boys, that's quite enough for today. Gather your things and turn in for the day, if you'd please."

The twins paid England no mind whatsoever. Instead, Canada and America each had one hand on the other's shoulder while the opposite hands rose to throw the first punches.

Fed up, England ran onto the ice in his shoes, trying to steady himself carefully as he worked his way toward the brothers. "Hey, hey, hey!" he shouted over the pair as they spat derogatory remarks at each other. "Cut it!"

The punches that the brothers launched at each other were rather harmless, especially considering Canada's inability to be too rough with anyone, let alone his super-powered twin. America on the other hand just prodded the other twin in the gut with the intention of getting him to back off. He didn't put much force behind the maneuver, but made sure he got his motive across.

After witnessing America in many real fights while in the military, England was used to getting him to calm down, but he'd never had to do it on ice while the other nation was clad in heavy, protective gear.

Grabbing America's arm, England yanked on the appendage, startling the young nation as he realized that a third person had arrived in the picture.

Unfortunately, England had foolishly stood in between the two. Before he could shout out another protest, America's other fist that was not trapped in his grip had gained momentum and collided with his face. It seemed that after being startled, the nation's strength had become untamed.

And this time, the punch was very real and very painful.

Groaning, England released America's other arm and held his left cheek, eyes stinging and skin burning as he drew in a harsh gasp.

"Jesus Christ, England!" America immediately screeched, ripping off the gloves on his hands and rushing to the elder nation's side in immense concern. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit you! You stood in between us and I didn't realize it was you and—"

"It's fine. I'm alright," the injured nation lied steadfastly, even though he felt as though his jaw was about to shatter into pieces. He knew it had been a complete accident, and he didn't want to condemn America for a slip-up.

"Nice job, America," Canada said bitterly with a shake of the head, following the pair from a short distance.

"Shut up, Canada. He was the one who stepped in the middle of us. You could've easily hit him too," America replied hastily before putting a consoling hand on England's shoulder and guiding him off of the rink. He looked extremely guilt-ridden, like a puppy who'd torn apart an expensive pair of shoes. "I'm really really sorry, England!"

"I know. It's alright," England reiterated, taking a seat on the sidelines again and gently massaging the side of his face with a wince.

America frowned, meekly attempting to pull England's hand away from his face. "Let me see it."

England shook his head roughly, hand still plastered to his cheek. "Leave it, America. It's nothing."

"Dude, I know that wasn't 'nothing'. I was the one who hit you. I'm not exactly a weakling, y'know. Now, let me see it. I might've broken your jaw or something."

Persistent fingers finally wrenched away England's hand, leaving America to kneel down and gingerly take hold of England's chin, turning his face to the side to get a better look at the damage.

Still remorseful, America reluctantly spoke up. "It doesn't look too bad. I've seen way worse. We just havta get you some ice and pain meds."

England glared at both of the twins. "That's not necessary."

"C'mon, Canada, we're callin' it a draw for now. We gotta go home."

"A draw? I was winning!"

"Really? I can't remember, so it's a draw," America stated coyly before changing into his shoes and ushering the other two nations out of the rink.

On their way home, America stopped to buy some ice from a nearby gas station, demanding England to hold some up to his face even though he insisted numerous times that he didn't need it.

Needless to say, America was dead-set on making it up to his mentor, still feeling his heart ache horribly after having hurt him.

Later that night, as arrangements were made for Canada to head back home in the morning, America realized for the first time that he had allowed himself to openly reveal his concern for his former guardian. He swore that he didn't care all that much and that he was only worried because any good friend with a heart would be worried, but he knew he was lying to himself.

The agonizing feeling swelling in his chest was more than enough proof of how much he cared.

Now he knew what England felt like whenever he was the one who was injured or in trouble. It was no wonder the man had set out to help him through this dieting experience. He would've done the same exact thing for England.

And for the first time in a very long time, America experienced a genuine emotion that he hadn't felt toward the man in many years.

And that emotion was gratitude.