"So maybe this doesn't start right away, you know?" America suggests, stalling.

"Right," Britain murmurs. "America, if you don't want to talk about this, you don't have to."

"No, no, I really feel like we should." America adjusts the phone, pinning it to his shoulder as he pushes around his food. He feels bad for wasting the time Britain had spent to come visit him. "So— well, it started in the 1800s, right? I was pretty new and stuff, I guess, and the first decision I made when I didn't have anyone watching over me was that I was gonna starve myself. I just didn't wanna grow up. Uh, but I did. I mean, look at my country now— I really wouldn't be allowed to die, or anything like that."

"Right."

"So I didn't learn my lesson that time."

"Would you say you've learned your lesson by now?"

"I don't know. I guess."

In the 1950s, America becomes obsessed with gaining as much muscle and as much strength as possible. He isn't worried because he feels it is a far cry from the past. For a while, it doesn't feel like he's doing anything bad; he is trapped in this endless loop of workouts and protein, and he is losing hours of each day to just doing weight repetitions in his basement, but it is good because getting stronger and working out is good.

While the fasting had passed rather quickly, each day in this new phase drags on. America struggles to get in his protein goals, and he struggles with all the work he has to do in his few free hours. The only thing America can pull out of this protein-fueled nightmare is the time where he's nearly crying because he has finally, finally seen progress in his shoulders. There's finally definition to them, they don't look so disgustingly round anymore, and for a moment he is not restricting in the year 2022— for a moment he is sitting in front of a mirror in his room with his shirt off, flexing in the mirror and marveling at the results, convinced that the pain he's in is worth it.

It's just so goddamn impossible for America to believe that he is here, starving himself. He knows he never saw and never will see such progress in his physique again, and he is in pain— a different sort from the past. While back then his body had ached from working out, now his legs are screaming with some sort of deficiency and his heart is palpitating, even though he's just laying down. His entire body feels tense, but stretching hadn't fixed it and neither had the shit ton of water he'd had when the pain had first started. America's really at a loss for how to fix the problem, so he tries to distract himself instead.

He reads a couple articles on foreign relations, and then he just lays there and tries to rationally think through how he's feeling (kind of like he wants to cry, but mostly just shitty), and about the whole situation with Britain. He really ought to call, he thinks. He wouldn't even tell Britain about the pain, or the restricting. They would just talk.

Instead of calling, America starts making a list of every time he has ever lost control of his situation. Such incidents used to happen more frequently— at parties, hospitals, funerals. They happen a lot less now that he's older. He's glad for it now, even if it's made him a little more tightly-wound.

…

In the morning, America's legs still hurt. He grips the banister as he goes down the stairs, and though the pain he's in can't possibly be from his disorder (since he doesn't have one), he decides he'll eat normally today. He's still in control, but he wants to prove it to himself.

For breakfast, America grabs a package of matcha powder that Japan had sent him. America had tried it back when Japan had first sent it to him and it was new and still fit into his rule, and he'd made it with water and it had ended up extremely creamy. He sets some water to boil, but then he thinks, No, milk. Calories and all that. It'll taste better with milk, too.

He warms milk instead and mixes the matcha powder into it. When he sits down, he remembers that to eat normally, he must actually eat. This is the part that catches him off guard a little, that keeps him from eating better and more often. America never buys food in significant quantities anymore— he finds it to be a little too much commitment, given that he hasn't been eating much lately and doesn't want to decide what he does eat ahead of time— and he has been slowly whittling through the dried and canned things he'd bought. He mostly has cans of vegetables now, but he still has one can of corned beef hash left, so he opens it and takes it back to the dinner table.

While he's sitting with it, he calls his doctor's office. Once he'd started skipping breakfast, he had gotten used to having free time in the mornings, but just because he's eating doesn't mean he can't be productive. His health has been declining recently— blacking out, lapses in memory, now the muscle pain— and he figures he ought to tell his doctor about it. America knows it can't be his eating habits because when he used to starve himself he had only been tired and cold all the time, and he doesn't think he's lost weight as drastically as he had back then. Since it's not his eating habits, he needs to make sure he doesn't have a brain tumor or some weird disease. It's actually starting to worry him.

As he's eating, the muscle pains go away. He hangs up just as his doctor's assistant answers.

…

By the next UN conference, America has decided he would actually like to keep talking to Britain, mostly because he has realized that nobody cares if he does or doesn't eat. He goes to the parts of the city they used to frequent, but he isn't surprised not to find Britain there. If he didn't have to put up with New York 24/7, he'd probably explore the hell out of it, too.

It's not surprising, either, when he realizes that Britain is avoiding him. He hadn't realized it while they hadn't been talking, but now he notices just how little he infrequently he is ever even remotely near Britain— as a matter of fact, Britain seems to exit conversations as soon as he sees America approaching. It disappoints America, and he spends the entire conference wondering why it happened. He really wants to believe it's the eating disorder thing, but he thinks it might actually be that he's a piece of shit. Either way, Britain is gone.

For a couple weeks, America puts more effort into developing proper relationships with others. Though he's known pretty much every nation for a long time now, he realizes now that most of them just speak to him out of politeness; even the ones that care what he has to say have no interest in actually being friends. He tries connecting with his citizens, but he's unable to because everyone "his age" was raised on the right side of the twentieth century. Every conversation he has these days seems to fall flat; somehow he only engages the formal and the disinterested. America doesn't even remember how he used to talk to others, but he misses it. He's really losing his edge.

The twentieth or thirtieth failed conversation in a matter of days finds him hurting himself for the second time in a single-stall bathroom while his coworkers have a meeting. Suddenly, not eating doesn't seem to make him more charming or cool or disciplined. He'll just have to try harder.

A/N: Do you guys remember the "Hetalia Academy" episode? I completely forgot that existed. Pretty crazy stuff. Anyway, sorry I haven't been updating lately. I've been sick. But! Oh man do I have some hot and cool stuff coming out. A review would be hella peng. Have a great day and stay safe.