A/N: Oh the holidays! Distracting me from writing this story! :P By the way, HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Heh, to be honest I had a lot of options to chose from while writing this. Too many options, if you ask me. For instance, I could've made Alfred run away and there be no sleepover. Or there would be a sleepover; it would just be really awkward. Or something in between even. TOO MANY CHOICES! *Flails arms wildly*

So this is what I came up with. Love me or hate me for it (just no flames). ^_^

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

He stopped short when he saw the sight before him. His chest tightened and loosened over and over again from guilt and suddenly he felt as if he didn't belong. It was like playing "Who's The Odd One Out?" and having people choose him because he didn't fit with the other choices. The feeling didn't sit right in Alfred's stomach at all. And he hated it. He hated it because it was true. He hated it because it proved his life had been a lie. He hated it because it had caused others pain. And what kind of hero inflicts pain on others? Obviously not a very good one.

Alfred shook his head. Who was he kidding? He was no hero. He could never be someone's hero. He could try, but that would only result in failure. The attempt would have him come crashing down within an instant, leaving him broken and battered on the floor. Why should he try? It wasn't as if anyone would want him to be his hero anyway.

Blue eyes welled up in tears as he looked upon the scene again. There was Feliciano fussing over Ludwig, all the while crying. Ludwig had his hand on his stomach and Alfred realized that it was the spot where he'd elbowed his captor. His captor had been Ludwig; Gilbert's brother who hadn't minded if he slept over even though he'd already planned to host Feliciano.

Then there was Gilbert who was hugging a sobbing Matthew. The Canadian was gripping the Prussian's black shirt and was crying on his shoulder. In turn, Gilbert was stroking Mattie's hair in vain effort of comfort. From where Alfred stood fifteen feet away, he could tell that he was also muttering phrases to the mess in his arms. Somehow the American didn't think the sleepover agreement still stood.

It honestly looked as if a disaster had occurred. And maybe it had. Maybe the disaster was Alfred, tough as it may seem. Now everyone had their heroes – Matthew's was Gilbert and Feliciano's was Ludwig – to protect them from him, a fat whirlwind of out-of-control emotion. Everyone had someone to comfort them and lean on. Matthew had Gilbert and Gilbert had Matthew. Ludwig had Feliciano and Feliciano had Ludwig.

But who would comfort the hurt cyclone known as Alfred?

Alfred looked backwards and saw Ivan still standing there, watching. No, he thought brokenly, Ivan doesn't count. He will never ever count. He just did what he did to humiliate me. That wasn't comfort.

And it suddenly dawned on him, in a split second revelation, that he wasn't wanted. Not by Gilbert. Not by Matthew. Not by Ludwig. Not by Feliciano. Not by Ivan. Not by his parents. They tolerated him – they tried to put up with him – but they didn't want him. I CAN'T STAND HIM! His dad's shout echoed in his ears.

Alfred turned away from the parking lot and began to briskly walk away. Wiping away threatening tears, he internally responded: It's okay Dad, I get it now. You're right. You're right, you're right, you're right.

Because I can't stand me either.

He didn't return home, nor did he answer his phone when someone called or texted him. It wasn't as if anyone would miss him if he disappeared anyway, right? They were probably just calling out of courtesy or politeness. If Alfred told anyone that he rode the bus all the way to the harbor, they wouldn't care.

Eventually the calls and texts stopped.

Alfred sighed and sat on a bench in a park. The setting sun made the ocean sparkle and illuminated the place with orange, purple, and red hues. It was peaceful, and should have taken Alfred out of his misery, but he couldn't help but mope. How long had it been since the first phone call? Was it two or three hours now? Was that how long it took until his family and friends stopped trying and started to celebrate? "The Wicked Alfred of the West is dead!" Is that what they would cheer while opening up the champagne bottle?

Suddenly his phone buzzed again. Another phone call. Alfred pulled out his phone from his jeans pocket and read the Caller ID: Unknown Name, Unknown Number.

Frowning, he decided to answer it out of curiosity. "Hello?" He asked.

"Alfred?"

The American nearly shrieked and threw his phone at a tree when he heard it was Ivan. Instead, he put the phone in his lap and looked at it in revulsion. What the hell?! He thought angrily. How does Ivan know my number?!

"Alfred? Are you there?"

Said person put his fist in his mouth to stop from screaming in rage.

"Hello?"

Alfred hung up. "I knew it," he chided himself. "I knew I shouldn't have picked up. Damn it! Why do I have to be so stupid?"

He got up and punched the nearest tree over and over again in order to let off some steam. Each punch, the tree trunk seemed to morph into a different person's face. First was Matthew, followed by Arthur, which was then followed by Ivan. Herr Beilschmidt's face popped up along with Mr. Adnan's and all the other teachers Alfred hated to some degree.

His hands stared to hurt, but he didn't stop. Rather, he threw his punches harder. Eventually there came a noise of something cracking and Alfred screamed. Putting his hands close to his eyes – which were now blurry from tears – he saw that they were covered in blood and splinters. On his left hand, two of his fingers from the knuckles upward were bent unnaturally. Alfred thought he was going to be sick. Oh god what had he done to himself?

Alfred looked about the park and to his surprise realized that it was dark. He whimpered, remembering all those horror games he played that took place in a park, and tried not to cry. Stop being such a baby, the American told himself weakly. Hear that? Yeah, that's the sound of cars and civilization, dumbass. Now move your fat butt towards it!

So Alfred ran as fast as he could out of the park, ignoring the way the pain intensified in his hands from doing so.

Five terrifying minutes later and Alfred was leaning heavily on the crosswalk sign, out of breath. The park lay behind him – thankfully – and all he wanted to do now was go home. To hell if his parents would shout at him, at least he understood why now.

He pressed the crossing button with his elbow awkwardly since his hands hurt too much. The nearest bus stop wasn't far, maybe he could run to it? It would hurt, but he'd be losing weight. Alfred didn't think he'd be able to do push-ups for a while, which would mean that he'd have to double the amount of curl-ups and running just to make up for it.

And what about food? The American didn't think he could live much longer if he kept on not eating. A diet sounded good, but what would be the best? There were so many to choose from! Maybe a restriction diet would work? Alfred had heard of those from Health Class when they were studying Eating Disorders a few years back. And it wasn't as if he had an ED, because he didn't. That was ridiculous. Guys don't have Eating Disorders – those were for girls. Everybody knows that! All he wanted was a diet that could help him lose weight faster. Surely that wasn't so wrong?

The crosswalk sign turned white and Alfred jogged across, gritting his teeth. Damn his hands for getting all cut up and bruised and broken. Now it hurt like hell. When he reached the other side of the intersection, he contemplated on just walking to the bus stop. But then a voice sneered, What are you? Weak? Run you fatso! Run!

So Alfred ran. He ran all the way to the bus stop and jogged in place until the bus arrived. He ran up the steps on the vehicle and jogged to an empty seat in the very back. People gave him weird looks, and his gut churned at the thought of strangers thinking of how fat and stupid he looked. He sat down, resting his injured hands in his lap, and tried hard not to tear up. "They're just strangers, they're just strangers," he chanted softly in effort to console himself.

Thirty minutes later and Alfred was getting off the bus. The voice commanded him to run again, and he obeyed it. This will make me skinny, this will make me skinny, he repeated in his mind, ignoring the pain again.

When he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, Alfred wondered if Charlie Brown had worse luck than he had.

When he saw his dad waiting outside his house on the porch, Alfred concluded that Charlie Brown had nothing on him.

Steeling up his nerves, Alfred got up and jogged up the rest of the way. Arthur's green eyes glinted in the semi-dark like a cat's, and the teenager found himself wishing he hadn't come home. There was no greeting between the two of them as Alfred went inside with Arthur following him. In fact, the silence only made it worse for Alfred. If his dad had shouted at him, that would've been better. If his dad had made some snide remark about him, that would've made it less scary. But as it were, the dad had done nothing other than head to the kitchen, leaving his son alone.

Alfred stood in the foyer not knowing what to do. Head upstairs? Follow his dad? Stand there like an idiot? He glanced at the clock that hung on the wall. 9:30. Great, he mused. Matthew should still be awake. Isn't that just fuckin' fantastic?

Looking down at his hands, he decided to clean them up and started to head to the bathroom. The teenager left the door open as he filled the sink with hot water. It would hurt like a bitch, but that was the price of his stupidity, right? "Ah!" He gasped, wincing when the water hit his hands. It stung.

After about a minute of getting used to the feeling, he started to wash them. He made sure to get all the blood out along with whatever dirt there was. And when that was done, he drained the water, carefully dried his hands with a towel, and started working on getting the splinters out. It took him a while, but eventually every last bit of wood was out. Alfred applied bandages to his cuts and finally finished mending himself.

But there was still the problem of his broken fingers. Would his parents take him to the ER this late? He didn't think so. Arthur wasn't talking to him and Alfred didn't know where Francis was. Sighing, he walked out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen.

Arthur walked out as soon as he walked in. The motion hurt the teenager, but he carried on like there was no problem. He washed a pear and ate it before going back into the refrigerator and pulling out another. The food felt like lead in his stomach, so he got himself a tall glass of water to wash it down. Francis strolled into the room as that was happening and was shocked to find Alfred there. "Mon Dieu!" He exclaimed.

"Hi Papa," Alfred greeted back, trying to keep out the happiness and hurt in his voice. They don't want you. They don't want you.

"Alfred, where have you been? You wouldn't answer your phone an – what happened to your shirt?!"

The teenager's face fell as he looked down. The shirt had blood on it from where he'd rested his hands while on the bus. Never mind that his fingers were broken, just worry about his bloodied shirt. Oh yes, that was his papa's way of thinking. As long as the clothes were alright, you were fine too. If you had a cracked skull and you were bleeding all over the place, so long as none of the blood got on your clothes you were fine. No need to worry.

The logic made Alfred sick.

"Um," he began, feeling embarrassed and stupid. "I, uh, I…"

Francis crossed his arms and glared meaningfully at him to continue. "You…?" He prompted.

Alfred held out his broken hand in response and watched his papa for a reaction, half-expecting a "You'll be fine. It's just swollen a bit.". However the Frenchman walked closer and narrowed his eyes as he gently touched the two cracked fingers. The American winced due to the touch and bit back a scream. "Dear Lord," Francis muttered after a minute. "What did you do to yourself?"

"Ha, this is going to sound pretty dumb but I was at the skate park and landed wrong." A lie; but it was only to save the teen's humiliation.

The American steeled himself for the tangent that was going to follow, but was surprised when none came. Instead, Francis grabbed his wrist – from the other hand – and dragged him into the living room. Arthur was there sitting on one of the white sofas, reading a book by the lamp with his glasses on. He looked tired, almost sad, and when he looked up his green eyes were clouded with millions of emotions. But Alfred guessed it was from the book and not their fallout. "Francis?" He questioned curiously, ignoring Alfred who was standing next to the Frenchman. "When did you get home?"

"Roughly five minutes ago," Francis answered before announcing, "I'm going to the hospital with Alfred."

"What? Why?"

"Have you not seen his hand? Two of his fingers are broken! It's a miracle that he hasn't cried yet."

Arthur got up abruptly. Worry was etched onto his face – shocking Alfred – as he walked over to where his son was standing. "Give me your left hand," he ordered. Alfred did, and let out a hiss as his dad grabbed it and turned it this way and that. Bushy eyebrows furrowed in concern as he lightly touched a broken finger, causing his son to cry out in pain and jerk his hand away. "Blast it, Alfred! What did you do?" There was no malice in his words as he asked that question, only panic and concern.

Alfred stuttered a lying answer. "I-I landed wrong at the skate park…"

"Bollocks," Arthur muttered, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. Turning to his husband, he said, "Francis stay here, I'm taking him to the ER. Hopefully we'll be back shortly."

Both Francis and Alfred had a look of surprise on their faces. But before they could question anything, the Brit grabbed the teenager's uninjured hand and dragged him over to the foyer, mumbling to himself the whole way. Dropping his son's hand, he snatched the keys from a bowl that sat on a table by the stairs. Tossing them to Alfred he commanded, "You already have your jacket on so get in the car. Heat it up; the last thing we want is for your broken hand to freeze."

Catching the keys, Alfred looked at him incredulously. "Why're you –" He started only to be cut off.

"We'll talk in the car. Just do as I say." Then the British man turned to the coat rack and started to search for his coat, leaving the stunned American to do as he was told.

But all Alfred could do was wonder what had gotten into Arthur.

Eventually he came to his senses and made his way out to the car. He unlocked it, getting in the passenger seat and putting the key in the ignition to warm the automobile up. His dad was right, it was cold.

A minute or so later and Arthur came running out of the house; hurriedly getting into the car. Slamming the door, he glanced at Alfred quickly before looking out the windshield. Then he revved up the engine and put the car in reverse, looking back to make sure he wouldn't hit anything.

Alfred could see Francis standing by the door watching them leave, and he couldn't help but think about his brother. Where did Mattie go? He hadn't seen him since the school parking lot incident. Surely he would've at least glimpsed him by now.

"So," Arthur started while shifting gears. The car he drove had a stick shift because he claimed that it was more reliable than the automatics most Americans drove. "You hid out in the skate park and broke your fingers?"

"U-Uh yeah…" Alfred confirmed shakily, lying once again.

"Bullshit. Even I know you well enough to know that you hardly ever go to the skate park. Where did you really go?"

"Nowhere."

A silence followed and Alfred busied himself by watching all the streetlights blur together. He didn't – he wouldn't – tell his dad that he was lying. That was just asking for trouble. Arthur couldn't stand it when someone lied to him straight to his face. And Alfred had been doing a lot of that lately. Besides, why would his dad care? Arthur had never taken an interest into whatever Alfred had to say unless it was to pick out mistakes.

Arthur spoke up just then. "Look, Alfred. I know you're not telling the truth, so just come out and say it. Where were you?"

Alfred didn't respond.

The British man sighed. "You won't get in trouble if you were with a girl doing you-know-what."

The American teenager turned red with embarrassment and he sunk in his seat, wishing he was invisible. "Oh god Dad," he exclaimed. "Why do you have to bring up the sex talk right now?"

"Or even if you were with a boy," Arthur continued, ignoring his son's discomfort. "It would be fine. I used to that when I was your age - maybe a little older or so."

"Do I really need to know about your sex life? And how the hell would I break my fingers while fucking somebody?!"

"Language, Alfred."

"Sorry."

There was another silence for a while, and the teenager marveled at how long it had been since his dad had talked to him like that. The conclusion was: almost never. Soon, Alfred gradually lost the red in his cheeks and started to regain his composure. But only to sink lower and turn redder than before when his dad said, "It's happened to me before."

"DAD!" Alfred exclaimed, horrified with his eyes wide.

Arthur chuckled. "Point is, is that you must have been doing something important enough not to answer your phone. So what was it?"

"Well I was so not hooking up with someone." And I doubt I ever will because of how fat I am…

"Alright, I believe you."

A stoplight turned red and Arthur rolled to a stop to wait it out. Taking a deep breath in, he said, "Alfred, I have something important I want to tell you."

Alfred glanced at his dad, a bad feeling forming in his stomach. "Yeah?" He asked.

"I just want to say I'm sorry."

Translations:

Mon Dieu - My God (French)