A/N: *Squeals and dances around bedroom like a lunatic* Thanks so much for the 60 reviews, 77 favorites, and 112 follows! Like seriously, I'm so happy right now I can't even begin to explain! I didn't know this story would attract so many readers, what with the topic being done so many times before, but now that it has I can't stop smiling about it. Thanks so much people! ^_^

*Calms down* Now, as for this chapter, all I'm saying is: This is a filler; Native America is America's biological mom; Vladimir Braginsky is the name I gave General Winter; and just when you think things are getting better~…*mischievous smile and walks away*

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

Not daring to breathe, Alfred looked at Arthur. He knew it had taken his dad a lot to set aside his pride and apologize, but for some reason he just couldn't fathom why. Why now? Why didn't he apologize sooner, when things weren't so estranged between them? And that wasn't all that was bugging the teen. He also didn't trust the apology. Never once in the time he had lived in the Kirkland-Bonnefoy house had Arthur apologized to him. It had always been either Matthew or Francis doing it for him. Another question danced on his tongue: what? What was Arthur regretting? Was he regretting the sex talk or the fallout or every bad thing he did to Alfred?

The American knew that he should accept the apology right away and let that be the end of it; but he just couldn't. Not with so many questions dancing around in his mind.

Not with the hope that maybe – just maybe – the two could have a normal father-son relationship.

He wouldn't completely forgive him right away. Oh no, he wouldn't; not with all the shit he had to deal within the past few years. But slowly over time he might. So Alfred swallowed the lump of foreboding in his throat and asked, "For?"

As expected, Arthur tensed and a voice crossed Alfred's mind warning: Do you see now? You're making your dad uncomfortable. He's a ticking time bomb, one wrong thing and he'll blow. Stop it right now if you want a shot at normal.

The British man ran a hand through his hair and eased onto the gas when the light switched back to green. "I'm sorry," he started, looking out the windshield, "for not telling you sooner."

Both the hope and the bad feeling rose as Alfred stared in shock. This is it; this is the moment I've been waiting for where he apologizes, one part of him exclaimed while another sneered, This is it; he's breaking the news that you're going to be disowned for being too much of a nuisance.

The teen took in a shaky breath and broke his gaze away to look out the windshield too. "Telling me what?" He prodded on carefully.

Arthur's eyes darted from the windshield, to his son's face, and back to the windshield again. "Telling you about how I really feel, Alfred. It shouldn't have come out the way it did in the fight, what with me yelling, and that was wrong. I should've just calmed down and spoke in a level voice and told you the truth."

"And was what you yelled the truth?"

Arthur didn't answer, and it wasn't as if he needed to anyway. Alfred now knew the truth, however horrible and acidic it was. Alfred now knew the big, ugly, terrible truth.

His whole world nearly shattered.

He couldn't see; he couldn't breathe; he couldn't hear; he couldn't think. He felt…numb, to say the least. Like the world lost all feeling and everything was in black and white and gray. So this was what had gotten into Arthur. This was his master plan. Warm up to his son; give him a taste of what will never be; and then BAM! Shatter the world by going back to his normal cold self.

And this wasn't the apology Alfred had been hoping for. This wasn't the apology he had been expecting. But what was he to do? Throw it away? It was the only apology he had ever gotten – and probably ever will get – from Arthur, and he should savor it no matter how bitter the taste.

So why didn't he want to?

I CAN'T STAND HIM! I wish he was more like Matthew…Can't go messing it up like always…Can't there be just one day – one day, Alfred, that's all I ask – where I feel good and proud about adopting you? Not ashamed of it? Pray to God I don't see your fat, disgusting face…Heaven forbid if the nearest McDonald's gets robbed because of you…Has that ever occurred in your egotistical mind? You're already fat enough as it is, or do you not get that?

…Oh…

The jarring words snapped Alfred out of his daze.

…Oh…

He could see again; he could think; he could hear; he could feel.

Oh.

And in those few recovering seconds all he could feel was anger. Hurt anger rising from his heart and spreading into his veins. Ten fucking years – ever since he was six – of verbal putdowns and comparisons and this is the kind of apology he gets?! A half-assed apology that hurts more than soothes?! No…no…that just can't be right…That just can't be true.

"Is that," the teen started, struggling to keep his voice calm, "it? That's the only apology you're going to give me?"

Arthur looked at him and narrowed his eyes. "What? Are you being ungrateful now? I set aside my pride to apologize and that's how you repay me?"

"N-No… but –"

"But what, Alfred? I loved you like my own son, taught you things, raised you, and am now taking you to the hospital due to your stupidity and that is how you repay me? By saying, 'that's it?'."

Alfred wanted to scream. He wasn't trying to be ungrateful. He wasn't trying to upset his dad. He was just done waiting for something that looked like it would never happen, but at the same time did. Gripping the seat with his good hand, he growled, "No. No that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? Because frankly, Alfred, you've been a mess lately. Just what is wrong with you? Has it finally gone through your thick head that you don't own the world? That Matthew is better than you? That you're fat and not –"

"STOP! STOP IT!" The teen shouted, clutching his ears. He was falling apart, he could feel it. "I can't handle you always making snide comments about my weight and my failures. I can't handle you always comparing me with Mattie. I just can't handle it."

"Why not? Is it because you can't handle the real world? Is that what you're trying to say? If so then GROW UP!" Arthur's face was red and he was clutching the steering wheel with trembling hands so he wouldn't hit Alfred. "You need to learn your goddamn place in the world, Alfred. That's what you need to do. You need to learn to respect your superiors and peers and not go yelling at them and punching them. You need to know when you're in the wrong. You need to learn not to be so fucking stupid that you break your bones. And most of all, you need to learn to be grateful, you fat, loathsome, ungrateful son of a bitch!"

If his dad had slapped him, it wouldn't have hurt as bad as what he had just said. If his dad had slapped him, maybe the teen could retaliate. If his dad had slapped him, perhaps their relationship would be different for the better - crazy as that may seem.

But Arthur hadn't slapped Alfred.

Well, at least not physically. Mentally yes; but didn't he always? Every single putdown and comment and comparison – weren't they all just a slap in the face? A wake up call to reality? Earth to Alfred! Here's your daily dose of reality, comin' right at ya!

And maybe…maybe…just maybe…Alfred deserved them.

Maybe…just maybe…Alfred was really all of the things his dad said he was.

The American numbly turned and looked out the passenger window, putting his head to the glass. The windowpane was cool against his skin and rattled underneath from the motion of the car. And then he thought.

He couldn't recollect much from his mother – as he was only four when she left him – but vividly he could picture her beside him, reading a book. She had a small figure, but was strong, and her skin color was light brown. Her long, black hair was pulled into a braid most of the time and she smelled of pine trees. Alfred could remember that only because of the way she had hugged him goodbye for the last time. He hadn't known what was going on at that point, but he knew it wasn't good. So he had started to cry. But his mom hadn't even turned around to look at him.

But the question was: Was his mom a bitch?

Somehow Alfred didn't think so, but maybe that was just his biased opinion from being her biological son. After all, he couldn't remember much other than vivid, happy memories. But what if she really was a bitch? Arthur and Francis clearly showed their distaste when he brought the topic up, saying that he was theirs now and to forget about her. And she had abandoned him when he was small – but Alfred knew that there was a special reason for that. There just had to be otherwise it wouldn't make sense. What kind of mom abandons her child like that? Either way, Arthur had no right to bring her into the conversation like that.

Or did he? In the end, Arthur had raised Alfred and was his adoptive father. He made the rules of the house and was the one with absolute authority. So, ultimately, he had a right to call Alfred whatever he liked.

Fat, loathsome, ungrateful. Check, check, check. Alfred already knew that he was all those things. However it still bothered him. Especially the fat part, but he was working on it. Wasn't he? He was running, he was exercising, and he was dieting; so why wasn't he wasn't losing any weight? You lost a pound, remember? He thought in effort to comfort himself.

But then he heard his dad's voice sneering: But you're still a fatass. One pound doesn't make a difference. Lose more before you congratulate yourself, wanker.

And the American – surprisingly – didn't even feel angry at the voice anymore. Clench his hands, squeeze his eyes shut – he did none of it. Instead, he felt himself silently agreeing to every last, hurtful, imaginary word.

Overall he felt broken inside; but he could mend the broken feeling just like his broken fingers. Only he'd do it without a cast and mend it with weight loss. Once he lost enough, he was sure the feeling would go away.

It just had to.

"Come on, ingrate," Arthur snapped at Alfred suddenly, parking the car in the parking lot. "We've arrived."

Alfred's only response was getting out of the car and closing the door. The hospital stood before them in all its bittersweet glory, windows illuminated and doors unlocked to receive patients. The two trudged towards it and made their way to the Emergency Room, where they checked in and waited. The pain in the teenager's fingers was dull now that he had grown accustomed to it, but that didn't make it any more comforting.

Looking about the room, he realized that it was unusually quiet. There were barely any people there. Just this one elderly couple; a sick little boy who was coughing and shaking nonstop, much to the mother's distress; Arthur and him; and finally a woman who had a swollen cheek and black eye. So it wasn't any surprise when his name was called relatively shortly after.

The nurse led Alfred and Arthur to a room, asking standard questions. That was fine with Alfred; he answered the questions easily. And whatever he couldn't answer Arthur did for him, taking on the act of a worried father. It scared the teen that his dad could put on a mask and lie so quickly. However, he wasn't surprised. He'd seen it happen countless times whenever someone was over or they were somewhere in public. It was the only time Arthur was actually nice to Alfred.

But what scared the American the most was when people believed the charade. When people would look at his family and say, "Wow, what a nice family they are. They have it all! Caring parents, ideal boys, a fine house to live in…that must be the perfect lifestyle."

But the strangers didn't realize how wrecked they were. How fractured his family really was. How his dad would inflict hurtful comments right where it hits the hardest; how his brother was the favored child who didn't do anything wrong; how his papa would constantly nag him or get in a fight with Arthur. If there was one word Alfred could use to describe his family, it wouldn't be "perfect". It would be "dysfunctional".

Suddenly Arthur's voice penetrated his thoughts and brought him back down to reality, joking, "Alfred, are you alright? Don't go zoning out on us now."

There was an edge to the words that only Alfred heard and he grimaced, translating it in his head. Pay attention and don't make me look like someone who raised an idiot. Or else. "Yeah, Dad," he lied. "I'm fine. Just a little distracted 'cause of my hand and all."

The nurse smiled at him and chimed in, "Oh that's perfectly okay. Heck, it's normal even. Just get on the scale over there so I can measure your weight and you're all good to go see the doctor."

Alfred looked to where she was pointing, his stomach churning when he saw the scale. "Um, do I have to go? I mean, I only broke my finger…"

"True, but this is how we run things here. It's in case you need a surgery or something else happens."

"But that seems a little farfe–"

"Just do it, Alfred," the Brit ordered, eyes narrowing.

The American swallowed whatever words he was going to say and reluctantly walked over to the scale. Getting on it, he couldn't help but think; God now the nurse will know exactly how much I weigh. She'll think I'm fat. And Arthur too - he'll never let me hear the end of it. Why do I have to be so fat?

But when the nurse was finished weighing him (and measuring his height), she made no other comment than, "The doctor will see you shortly" before leaving them alone.

Arthur slumped into a chair, looking tired. Glancing at his watch he muttered, "Great. Just perfect."

"What is it?" Alfred asked.

"I'm missing the new episode of Sherlock just because of you."

"I thought it had already aired by the time I got home?"

"Well you thought wrong. As always."

The teenager didn't even try to apologize.

An uneasy silence passed before the British man inquired calmly, "So my boy, how much did the scale say?"

"178." So the American had lost another pound – probably from the afternoon's events – but he still felt like he was going to throw up.

Arthur snorted and shook his head, messy blonde hair swaying back and forth. Then he started to laugh.

Alfred smiled uneasily, bracing himself for whatever would come next. Usually when his dad laughed at him, a shitstorm followed. And he so did not want one right then.

Arthur stopped laughing and opened his mouth to say something when a knock sounded from the door, cutting him off. The doctor entered in with his white uniform and closed the door behind him. Alfred. Couldn't. Breathe. The doctor wasn't just any doctor, oh no it wasn't. This doctor just had to be Ivan's grandfather. Alfred could tell. He'd seen him before.

Vladimir Braginsky made his way towards them, realization dawning on his features. His pale eyes sparkled with interest and his gray moustache quirked upwards when he smiled. The smile seemed to make the American's blood grow cold – he never felt comfortable being around him. Briefly he wondered how Ivan could stand living with the guy, but then he remembered that Ivan was a freak. And psychotic. And weird. And creepy. And Russian.

"Greetings," Vladimir said in his very thick Russian accent.

Dude, this guy's accent is even thicker than Ivan's. How will I be able to understand him? Alfred panicked. Oh no. What if he tricks me into signing a contract that makes me a communist? What then? I don't want to be a communist! What if he says something critical and I won't be able to comprehend it due to his speech? OMG I'd be so doomed…

Arthur stood up and shook hands with the doctor. "Hello, Mr. Braginsky. Fancy meeting you here; I didn't realize you had a medical degree."

"Well yes, I do. Medicine is medicine no matter where you go."

"So I assume you got your education in Russia?"

"Da, that is correct."

"And might I ask just why you had to leave your homeland?"

"Nyet, I'd appreciate it if you did not," Vladimir rejected curtly. Turning to Alfred, he asked, "Zdravstvuyte, Alfred."

The teen shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "H-Hi, Dr. Braginsky…"

"What brings you here?"

"Um...I think I broke my hand…"

"And may I see this so-called broken hand?"

So the American meekly held out his left hand, not wanting to upset the older Russian man. That guy scared the shit out of him for some strange reason and he didn't want to be on his bad side. But that didn't mean that he liked it when Vladimir chuckled as he examined his hand. "Can you move your fingers?" The doctor inquired.

"Can't. It hurts too much."

"Let's go take an X-ray then."

And then the three were off running tests and helping to get the injured teen fixed up.

Francis opened up the door for Arthur and Alfred when they finally got home two hours later. "Well that took longer than expected, oui?" He asked when they were all inside the house.

"Can it, frog!" His husband snapped, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up.

Francis raised an eyebrow but didn't question it, figuring Arthur was merely tired. Turning to his son, he noticed that Alfred was now sporting a hot pink cast that started at his fingers and stopped at his wrist. "So it the fingers were broken after all?"

His son nodded tiredly while slipping out of his shoes.

"And hot pink was the chosen color?"

"It was the only color they had."

The Frenchman nodded in understanding. "If you are hungry or thirsty I can make you something," he offered.

Alfred shook his head and declined, "No thanks, Papa. I think I'll just to go to bed."

"Hmm…If you want you can stay home tomorrow."

Arthur looked at Francis as if he'd just grown another head. "Francis!" He exclaimed.

Said person turned to the other man and merely shrugged. "What? It's Friday and I have off. And Alfred needs to recuperate anyway, right? Where is the harm in him staying home?"

Before his husband could say anything, Alfred gave a small smile. "Really? I can really stay home tomorrow?"

"Oui. I'll call the school and tell them that you're sick."

"Thank you so much, Papa."

"It's nothing. Now go to bed."

Giving another small smile, Alfred left. Francis and Arthur watched him go before heading off to the living room, wherein the Brit flung himself on one of the sofas. The Frenchman sat down on another and asked, "So how did the apology go?"

Arthur glared at him. "It didn't work," he answered bluntly.

"Why not?"

"Alfred was being Alfred. So, by natural definition, he just completely threw the apology out the window."

It was silent as Francis digested the information. Somehow, it seemed like something Alfred would do; but at the same time it didn't. He got the feeling that his husband wasn't telling him everything. So he took a wild stab in the dark and guessed, "Did you lose your temper again?"

"No…" Arthur growled. But after seeing Francis' knowing look, admitted, "Oh alright maybe just a little. But he made me so mad because he was so rude to me after I apologized!"

The blue-eyed man sighed. "You can't keep doing that if you ever want a better relationship with him, bien adoré."

"I know," the green-eyed one acknowledged, voice cracking slightly as he blinked swiftly. "I know. But I just can't help myself and that makes me so angry and I wind up taking it out on him most of the time and – bloody hell I'm blubbering like a girl now."

"Oui, but that's alright; you are probably tired. Come on, let's go to bed. Tomorrow will be better."

Arthur nodded and got up, taking Francis' offered hand - he was too tired to protest otherwise – and together they made their way to the bedroom. After doing all his nightly routines, the Brit collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Maybe tomorrow would be better after all.

Translations:

Zdravstvuyte – Hello (Russian)

Bien adore – Darling (French)