A/N: I has returned! Ignore that horribly incorrect grammar usage, by the way. But it's true. I'M BACK! Did you miss me~? Here's another chapter for you awesome people ^_^ It's mainly a filler, but here you go.

So sorry for not updating this past week, but the teachers were being butts and assigning all kinds of crap before the winter break. *bangs head against the desk repeatedly* TO. MUCH. WORK. AND. STUDYING. But whatever, I coped with it. Don't want my grades to suffer~! However, this will NOT be a dead fic. I won't ever quit this story; just want you all to know that.

Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.

"Oh my god," the American breathed, looking out the windshield. His albino friend stopped singing to look too, and his red eyes grew wide.

Getting out of a car in front of them (which Alfred recognized as his papa's) was Matthew. His face held a pained expression and his hair was in slight disarray. It looked as if he had just been in a fight with someone – not physical, but verbal – because overall the teen looked drained. Tired. Done.

Alfred could sympathize; he often felt that way. But right now he didn't feel sorry for Matthew, because right now Matthew was no longer his brother. He was his rival. His enemy. And, in Alfred's mind, opponents didn't deserve sympathy. Not even his adoptive brother deserved it because if it hadn't been for his perfection, Arthur would've been proud and happy about Alfred. If it hadn't been for him, Arthur would've loved Alfred. If it hadn't been for him, Arthur would've not nagged to Alfred about all his imperfections and how fat he was and how Matthew was always better and how the American should be more like the Canadian.

"Look," Arthur had once remarked to a seven-year-old Alfred as he was painting one day, "see how Matthew paints? The strokes are even and inside the lines. Not jagged and outside the lines like yours. Try to copy Matthew."

Or when the two brothers were in the fifth grade; Matthew sat first chair for the cello in his orchestra and Alfred was in second chair for the trumpet section in his band. But the American had still gotten scolded about it. "Matthew is in first chair, Alfred," the Brit had said, exasperatingly. "Why can't you be in first chair too? Can you not play correctly? Is it too much for you and your peanut-sized brain? Perhaps Matthew could give you pointers so you can do better."

"But Dad, second chair is good too, right?" Alfred had asked hopefully.

His dad had shaken his head and the message was clear: No, it's not.

"But the trumpet and the cello are two separate instruments, Dad. That's like comparing an apple to an orange: it's not fair. Can you at least be proud of me? I worked hard to get second chair."

The plea had fallen on deaf ears. Arthur was already engrossed in grading papers and hadn't heard his son at all. Nor had he seen how tears had welled up in Alfred's blue eyes; but that was probably for the better. He would've probably told the American to grow up and stop crying and stop being weak.

Then again in seventh grade, Alfred had finally finally gotten Straight A's on his report card. When he'd shown his parents, his papa was so proud of him that he took him – and only him - out for ice cream. But his dad wasn't proud. His dad had read it, frowned, and commented, "What's this? Two – wait, no three – A Minuses? Alfred, I am appalled. I expected better from you. Matthew doesn't even have one A Minus. How is it that you have three?"

Or there was the time when the American had scored the winning touchdown in American Football for his team only a year later. Instead of congratulating him, Arthur had griped about how American Football was a ruffian sport, and how Ice Hockey – which Matthew played – wasn't and that Alfred should play that instead.

Stupid, stupid Matthew, Alfred thought, continuing to look out the windshield and clenching his fists. Why does he have to be so goddamn perfect and I don't? Why? Papa and Dad love him more than me because of it. I bet if I died they wouldn't care, but if Matthew died they would be a mess. Oh god why? What does he have that I don't?

A new voice entered his mind just then. It hissed, For starters, he's skinny. He's not a fat pig like you are. He's not selfish like you; he's not ugly like you; he doesn't eat as much as you. Overall, he's more desirable. Nice, lean body and wavy hair. His eyes are unusual while yours are a cliché blue. He isn't disgusting. He doesn't eat ten thousand burgers every time he goes to McDonald's. He's not fat…

"So," Gilbert asked, interrupting Alfred's inner turmoil, "what are you going to say to Birdie?"

"Matthew? I don't know," Alfred admitted. He watched his brother walk over to Gilbert's car, somewhat angrily.

"Well you have to say something to him."

"No I don't. He probably just wants to speak with you. Why talk to me when he has you?"

The albino rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. "I'm just going to go on a limb here, but the Awesome Me is getting the vibe that you two are not on good terms right now."

The blonde tore his gaze away and looked at his friend. "Well you're right," he verified curtly. "We aren't."

"So what are you going to say to him?"

"Nothing. I'm going to say absolutely nothing to him."

A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence until Matthew tapped Gilbert's window. The Prussian turned off the music, rolled down the window, and smiled easily. "Hey Birdie," he greeted. "I missed your awesome presence at lunch. Where were you?"

Vaguely, Alfred wondered if he had missed lunch, would Gilbert ask where he was next time they saw each other? No, no he wouldn't, the troubled teen concluded. He wouldn't even care.

Matthew sighed and replied quietly, "I- I had somewhere to be. Look, can I speak to Alfred?"

Gilbert glanced nervously at the mentioned person, who was looking stubbornly out the windshield. "Ja, about that...he's kind of not in the mood right now…."

"I don't care; I need to speak to him."

That comment made Alfred turn his head to look at his newfound rival. It was out of character for the quiet Canadian to speak so forcefully, but when he did it was because of something serious. "What do you want?" Alfred snapped. It came out a little harder than he meant to, but he didn't feel bad.

Matthew flinched back as if he'd been burned. "Out-Outside," he stuttered. "I-I want to talk to you alone a-and in private."

"How long will this take?"

"A-A minute…I swear."

The American grumbled but got out of the car anyway. Together, the brothers walked over to Francis's car with Matthew leading the way. When they reached it, the Canadian held out the passenger door and motioned for the American to go inside. Alfred reluctantly did and shut the door behind him, and a second later Matthew did the same. Sitting there in the quiet would've been okay had it been not so damn awkward. Alfred soon got sick of it and grumpily asked, "Okay dude, what the hell did you bring me here for?"

Mathew ran a shaky hand through his hair, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I know," he began, turning to his body to face his brother, "that you are angry and hurt from this morning. I get that. But can you please push that aside for a minute?"

"Ha! No."

"Al…"

"Don't call me 'Al' anymore! I don't like it!"

Matthew sighed.

Alfred crossed his arms defiantly, glaring.

"I want to apologize for ransacking your room," the Canadian said slowly after a moment.

The American snorted and shook his head. "Why do you even bother?"

"Because I'm your brother and it's the right thing to do."

Perfect Matthew. Always doing the right things; never getting in trouble; always being perfect. Why can't you be more like him? A voice sneered in Alfred's mind.

Biting his lip in agitation, the American questioned, "Why were you ransacking my room? It's my room, not yours. It's mine. You had no right to go in there and mess it all up."

The Canadian pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "I get that and I'm sorry, Alfred. Really, I am. But –"

"'But' what? Are you making excuses now?"

"N-No."

"Uh yeah, you are. Don't deny it. Maybe –"

"Maybe if you stopped interrupting me I could tell you!" Matthew screeched. His eyes held flames in them and Alfred shrunk back. He knew that when Mattie was pissed, he was not something to mess with. "Maybe if you got off your high horse you could hear what I'm telling you! Alors ferme ta gueule déjà et attention, s'il vous plaît!"

Wide eyed, the younger brother stared at his older brother and didn't even dare to breathe. Meanwhile, the older brother closed his eyes and counted to ten to regain composure. Once it was regained he opened his eyes and said, "Merci."

Alfred nodded dumbly back.

"Now what I'm trying to tell you is that not only am I sorry, but Dad is too." Matthew held up a hand when Alfred opened his mouth to say something. "Non, Alfred, no speaking just yet. What he said was wrong, and there's no excuse for it. He does regret it; believe me, he does. And he wishes for you to come home so you two could talk it out. That's it. If you have something to say, say it now."

Acting as nonchalantly as possible given the circumstances, Alfred asked, "Did Arthur really say this, or was it all you?"

"Dad," corrected the Canadian, "did say this."

"And how did he feel when you came back home and ditched school?"

"That is so off-topic, Alfred."

"No it's not. C'mon, tell me."

"Well he was…shocked, I guess."

"Did he rip into you?"

"No, why would he?"

Yes, a voice inside Alfred agreed. Why would he when it's Matthew? Why would he when it's Mr. Perfect? When it's the favored child?

Suddenly, the American punched the dashboard – shocking his brother – so hard it hurt. He cursed himself for his stupidity and kicked open the door, hastily getting out. He felt sick to his stomach and hurt. Of course, how could he have not seen this coming? Laughing bitterly, he wondered why he even cared what his parents thought anymore. It wasn't as if they paid attention to him except to criticize and point out flaws. Heck, they wouldn't even apologize in person to him. They didn't love him. No one did. No one would ever want to. Why would they when they saw this fat, ugly, selfish monster?

"Alfred!" Matthew called, getting out too. "What was that for?"

"That?" Alfred asked rhetorically. "That was for Arthur and his sorry-ass apologies."

"What…? But he –"

"Oh just shut it. Here, you wanna message to take back home? 'Cause I have one especially for the stupid Redcoat:

"Dear Arthur Kirkland-Bonnefoy,
Go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
Alfred F. Jones."

Matthew put a hand to his mouth and his violet-blue eyes grew ten times the normal size. "A-A-Al…"

"I told you to stop calling me that!" Alfred's voice rose.

"B-But –"

"Oh what now? You want another message? I've got loads; I've got tons I want to say to him. Here's another message:

"Dear Arthur Kirkland-Bonnefoy,
That was the most pathetic attempt at apologizing ever. Congrats, you've just won first place in the Asshole Competition.
Sincerely,
Alfred F. Jones."

"Stop it, Alfred! People are looking; you're embarrassing yourself," Matthew cried.

It was true; students walking by were giving him strange looks. Some of them stopped their conversations just to listen to him, only to start whispering after they heard. Alfred could care less at that point. He honestly, truly could. He was fed up and tired and just ran out of fucks to give. So he waved his arms around, gesturing to the school and its surroundings. "Haven't I already?" He shouted. "Haven't I already embarrassed myself enough? I've sunk so low, who gives two shits if I sink any lower? NO ONE! NO ONE WILL, MATTHEW!"

A car door slammed, and there was the sound of footsteps hitting the pavement in a run. All of a sudden, someone grabbed him around the waist and pulled him away from his brother. Alfred thrashed about, trying to get free, and elbowed his captor in the stomach. Hard. "Fick!" Someone cursed, immediately letting go.

However, someone else grabbed him again and dragged him farther away before he could escape. "Shhh," the person soothed as Alfred tried to get away. "Shhh. Just breathe malen'kiy medvezhonok."

The American stopped protesting quick and his eyes grew large. Ivan, he thought. Oh shit its Ivan. What did he call me? Was it bad? Oh god now I'm never going to hear the end of it. Oh god oh god oh god…

Ivan didn't seem to notice Alfred's distress, though, and started to rub circles in the American's back. His touch was surprisingly light and soothing, and he smelled of sunflowers and clean laundry too, but it was hard to for Alfred to relax when everyone was staring at them.

From somewhere within the crowd of students watching, a person yelled, "HA! THAT'S SO GAY!" A few people laughed and Alfred felt his face heat up, but it didn't bother Ivan. Instead, the Russian just kept rubbing small circles and humming softly. And the American couldn't break free due to how strong his rival was.

Finally, after about five minutes, Ivan let Alfred go. The American, who was calmer than before, turned around to face him. "What –" he began, only to be cut off.

"Something is bothering you," Ivan stated bluntly, making eye contact.

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "Yeah well, it's none of your business."

The Russian shrugged. "True. Are y-"

"I'm fine, stop asking."

"Nyet, you aren't. Five minutes ago was not 'fine'."

"Yes, it was. I'm just letting off some steam. And didn't I tell you to leave me alone?!"

"Da, but I'm not going to."

"Why the hell not?!"

"Because you are not okay, Alfred. You are not 'fine'," Ivan said. His violet eyes seemed concerned and his tone was soft yet stern.

Alfred flinched and walked away from his rival and back to Gilbert's car, not even bothering to say goodbye. He was okay, he was fine. All he needed to do was lose weight and he'd be good to go. Ivan didn't know anything. Ivan didn't know the truth.

Because in truth and actuality, Alfred was hurting; but he was moving forward. He was dealing with it. He was losing weight so he wouldn't feel disgusted with himself. He was fine. And no one would tell him different because they would be wrong.

Alfred was right.

Alfred was fine.

Alfred was okay.

Translations:

Alors ferme ta gueule déjà et attention, s'il vous plaît! – So shut up already and pay attention, please! (French)

Merci – Thank you (French)

Non – No (French)

Fick – Fuck (German)

Malen'kiy medvezhonok – Small Bear (Russian) [Russian Term of Endearment]

Nyet – No (Russian)

Da – Yes (Russian)