A/N: 27 REVIEWS IN ONE CHAPTER?! HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?! O_O That's, like, never happened to me before. *Flails arms wildly and dances around room* AIIEEEEEEE HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?!

Thank you, people :3 It felt amazing when I saw all the attention this story got. YOU ALL ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN AWESOME! And the fact that some of you shared experiences/life stories just really touched my heart :') Thank you all so much.

I also really liked how a few of you guys realized that Alfred's actually in healthy weight. That he's not fat or skinny, but right where he should be. And I would've so given you all an early update if not for the fact that my writing privileges had been banned for the week. I'll be sure to make it up to you people, though ^_^

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

The Monday back had been rough for Alfred, to say the least. Gilbert, Ludwig, and Feliciano all kept their distance from him; their eyes appraising him as unstable. Alfred had tried to apologize, he really honestly did. But it had failed. Gilbert had blown him off; Ludwig – while he had accepted the apology – was a little wary; and Feliciano tried to pity him.

And the American hated the pity. He wasn't damaged or unstable; he just had had a meltdown on Thursday. After all, he was human, wasn't he? Wasn't he allowed to have breakdowns once in a while? Overall, he was perfectly functional, perfectly stable. Yeah, he had a few cracks, but didn't everyone?

Matthew didn't fully forgive him, either. That was to be expected, so Alfred didn't question it. However, he did question where the Canadian had been all weekend. "I didn't go anywhere," his brother had answered nonchalantly, shrugging. But the American knew he was lying when he saw both Matthew and Gilbert exchange glances to each other, the former blushing ever so slightly.

Stomach churning, Alfred had accepted it and had just nodded. It's only fair, he had thought, that if I can lie to Matthew, he can lie to me. And now that we're…enemies…and not brothers, who says we have to be truthful? Heck, I didn't even have to apologize to him!

At lunch, no one – not one of his friends, save for Kiku – had bothered to ask about the cast. It should've been easy for them to notice, what with the plaster being hot pink and all, but they seemingly didn't. Or they did and didn't ask; didn't care enough to, anyway. There had been a ripple of unease as soon as Alfred sat down, too, and pretty soon the American realized that he wasn't wanted.

So he left, muttering a quick farewell.

And no one called out to him to stay. They hadn't even replied.

That had hurt the teen the most. The pill of being unwelcome was hard to swallow, no matter how much the blonde had silently agreed with his friends about it. Nobody wanted him. Nobody would ever want to. Why would they? So they could have someone to pity?

History had been awkward. Ivan had taken a seat next to him and had inquired about his cast and how he was doing. Alfred found himself angry to the point he couldn't talk, just grip the pencil he was holding tighter. So his friends hadn't wondered if he was fine, yet Ivan did? What kind of messed up world was this?!

"Alfred?" The Russian had said after the American hadn't responded.

Breathe, Jones. Breathe.

"Please answer. I know you're ignoring me, but I want to know why."

In. Out. In. Out.

"I want to help you."

In…Out…

"Please just stop with these games, Alfred."

"Just. Leave. Me. Alone," Alfred had hissed, trying hard not to lash out to his rival.

Ivan had given him a quizzical look and opened his mouth to say something when the American turned in his seat to glare at him. "For god's sake, Braginsky! Just shut the fuck up and let me be on my merry fucking way, would you? I'm not going to tell you anything because I know exactly what you're going to do! So just let me be, okay? It's none of your goddamn business!"

That had shut up Ivan up real quick and he didn't talk for the rest of class. Alfred tried not to feel guilty when he saw the Russian's shocked and hurt face, instead just taking out his red notebook and doodling for the rest of the time. He had what was coming for him. That'll teach him not to be so damn nosy, the American thought angrily.

Over the course of the next five weeks, much was the same. Alfred started to slowly estrange himself from his group of friends, opting out to go and run - even though he wasn't supposed to - instead. It wasn't as if the group necessarily cared, in the teen's mind at least. They didn't try to stop him anyway.

Ivan kept his distance, too; although sometimes the American caught the Russian looking at him. However, the two never talked with each other anymore unless it was absolutely necessary. There were no more insults, no more challenges. It was a kind of quiet that neither had ever experienced before.

Alfred started a diet where he wasn't allowed to eat gluten or protein. The new diet was strict and sometimes he felt as if he couldn't do it. But each time he looked in the mirror and saw how fat he was, and each time he checked the scale, he felt the compulsive need to lose more. So he kept to the strenuous diet along with doubling the amount of exercise.

Nobody questioned it.

There were occasional doctor visits to see if the bone was healing correctly – which it was, thankfully. And pretty soon there came the time were the troublesome thing came off. It felt strange to Alfred at first, due to him having to rebuild up his hand and use it again, but now he could at least run without it hurting.

Everything was once again normal.

And Alfred was once again hurting.

172 pounds.

That was how much Alfred weighed last time he checked. It was still a horrible number, it was still way up there, and he wasn't happy with it. Not in the slightest, not in a teensy-bit. Gilbert weighed less than him – only 164 pounds – and the only reason he knew was because he had overheard that particular conversation during lunch.

But 172 wasn't the number showing on the scale now. It was 173, one pound higher.

Alfred wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to punch the wall. How? How?! How did he gain a pound?! How?! He let out a frustrated yell and threw the weighing machine to the other side of the bathroom. Running a hand through his hair, he started to tremble. What did he eat today?

For breakfast he had had half a piece of gluten-free bread with some water. Okay, okay, that was alright. That was normal. The American released a shaky breath and nodded to console himself.

For lunch he had had - what? An apple and a soda, right? Wait, no. Kiku had – for whatever reason – reached out to him and forced him to eat two rice balls and some sushi. Alfred didn't know much, but he knew the Japanese food had at least 300 calories total. Plus it had gluten in it. Add that onto the apple, soda, and his breakfast and suddenly he didn't feel too good.

Then Alfred and his family had gone out to eat in order to celebrate Francis' promotion. Now his papa's clothes would be selling in France too, not just the United States. What had Alfred ordered for dinner again? A regular salad? That wasn't too bad...

*FLASHBACK*

…Except for the fact that Francis had forbidden him to have that for dinner. "For an appetizer, I would understand," The Frenchman said to him gently, "But for dinner, non. Choose something else, Alfred."

"But-" The teenager protested, only to stop when he saw Arthur's harsh glare from across the table.

"I'm pretty sure there has to be something in here that's alright for you to eat," Matthew spoke up softly next to him while looking over the menu. "And even if there isn't, I'm sure one day of bending the diet won't hurt you."

"Mathieu is right; one day won't hurt you," Francis agreed, nodding.

Alfred bit his lip and remained quiet. He couldn't do this. He could not do this. One day would totally wreck him. One day slip up and then BAM! Binge eating will follow suit. He had some self-control, but not much; and he knew that. "You know…" he began shakily. "I don't think…"

Arthur narrowed his green eyes at him and demanded quietly, "Just pick something, Alfred."

"I-I don't –"

"Stop being difficult already and just pick."

The American held back a whimper; he didn't like the look of fury in the British man's eyes. So he averted his eyes and looked down at the menu instead. Since it was a French restaurant, there were only French dishes. None looked very appealing. There was a dish called "Light Salade aux Lardons" which was basically just a salad with a poached egg and something called "lardons". Alfred had no idea what the fuck a "lardons" was, but decided to get it even so. After all, it was a salad. It couldn't be that fatty? And it wasn't as if he hadn't already broken his diet today anyway.

His papa sighed at his choice and shook his head disapprovingly. "As long as you eat all of it," was the only comment he made.

After the food had arrived, the family toasted to Francis' good luck before eating. Alfred quickly realized what a "lardons" was just by looking at it. His stomach did a flip – was that bacon? Oh god he could not eat that. Oh fuck no. No no no no no no. What kind of a salad is that?! He freaked out internally. Bacon is fattening! I can't have that! This has got to be a joke. This must be a joke.

"Something wrong, Alfred?" Francis asked from across the table.

"Um, is that – is that bacon?" Alfred questioned, pointing down at his dish.

"Oui."

"Why is there bacon? Isn't this a salad?"

The Frenchman shrugged and said, "That is simply how the dish is made. It's actually quite good."

"Uh huh…" The American looked down at the plate with revulsion.

"Do not believe me? Try it, you'll see."

"Yeah…well the thing is, is that I kinda can't have bacon. Diet and all, ya know?"

"You are still eating it."

Maybe if you hadn't been so fat, you wouldn't have had this problem, a voice hissed in the back of Alfred's mind. Maybe if you weren't so ignorant you would've known what a "lardons" is. Tch, what a fool you are. A great, big, fat fool who doesn't know which sock belongs on which foot.

"Can I - can I just put the bacon on the side?" Alfred tried again weakly.

"No. You need protein," Francis replied flatly.

"I take vitamins."

"Vitamins only get you so far. Now eat."

"But-"

"Alfred."

The teen bowed his head and clenched his fists in frustration. He was cornered. Stuck. And he knew it. There was no way his papa would relent now, no matter what happened.

Picking up his fork, the American felt his stomach churn as he sparred a piece of the food and put it into his mouth. He cringed at the warm taste of lardon mixed with the flavor of the overall salad and hesitantly swallowed.

Fat, the voice said.

Some egg, a piece of bacon and a little bit of lettuce went down next.

Fat.

More lettuce, more egg, but no bacon this time.

Fat.

Lardon and egg.

Fat.

Just lettuce.

Fat.

Nothing.

Fat.

Alfred set his fork down and held back a strangled cry, hugging himself. He didn't feel well at all; his stomach felt as if there was a thousand pound weight stuck in it and he felt bloated. And was it just him, or was the place closing in on him? Oh god, he thought. Oh god oh god oh god.

The blonde searched wildly with his blue eyes for an exit. He wanted to run off all the fat and calories he'd eaten for the day. He wanted to get rid of the rock sitting in his stomach. He wanted to not feel so claustrophobic. He wanted to feel empty once more.

But he couldn't do that.

Not here, in this nice restaurant.

Not here, when he was wearing one of his best set of clothes.

Not here, with his family staring at him.

"A-Al, are you -?" Matthew started timidly.

"I-I'm fine, so please stop calling me that," Alfred replied back icily. Getting up, he lied, "I just gotta, um, go."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Go?" He asked.

"Yeah, uh, you know. Go."

"Oh…Well go then! And make sure to wash your hands."

Alfred nodded and left the table, asking the nearest waiter where the restroom was. The feeling in his stomach was getting heavier, and he felt bile start to rise in his throat. He needed to get there soon or else he just might throw up all over the place…

Bursting through the restroom's door, the teen made a beeline for an empty stall. He locked the door hurriedly before hanging his head over the toilet bowl, choking. Never ever would he normally resort to throwing up – the feel of acid and the aftertaste was just disgusting – but this was not a normal day. If he had to throw up his food, then he would throw up his food. It was another less-appealing way of losing weight, but it was affective.

However, now that Alfred was standing over the toilet waiting, the bile in his throat seemed to creep back down into his stomach. He waited until his stomach settled before daring to walk out again. No one else was in the restroom, so he took the time to not only wash his hands, but to also check his appearance thoroughly. Suddenly a feeling of despair swept through him, and he found himself sinking further into loathing his appearance. "I'm still so fat…" he mused aloud sadly, putting a hand to the mirror. "What am I doing wrong?

"No, no tears, Alfred. Be a man. Men don't cry. Men…don't…cry…" The teen choked back a sob. He couldn't even handle a plate of freaking salad before he felt the need to lose it. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't this diet working? Why did he have to be like this giant-ass whale that just fucking eats and eats and eats even though it's not?

Why couldn't he just be skinny?

Shit, now he was crying. Alfred wiped away his tears with his hand. He was a loser. He was a fool.

He was fat.

Told you so~. Told you so~, the voice sang. You don't have what it takes. You're a NOBODY! YOU'RE A DOWNRIGHT NOBODY! YOU'LL NEVER GET TO BE LOVED BECAUSE NO ONE WANTS YOU! NOT YOUR FRIENDS; NOT YOUR FAMILY! THEY THINK YOU'RE A NUISIANCE! THEY THINK YOU'RE A SELF-PITYING SON OF A BITCH THAT CAN'T DO SHIT! And you know what? THEY'RE RIGHT! YOU CAN'T EVEN KEEP A MOTHERFUCKING DIET!

Face it, shithole. You'll never be loved. You'll be forever alone because no one wants a fatass for a lover. No one wants a man who cries every fucking time he looks in the goddamn mirror. No one. Why? BECAUSE THAT MEANS YOU'RE FUCKING WEAK! And who wants to love a weak person? No one.

Alfred covered his ears and clenched his eyes shut; the tears coming out swifter now. The voice was right. The voice was right. The voice was right.

The restroom door opened a minute later and the teen hurriedly opened his eyes and dropped his hands. A man came through the door whistling, but when he saw Alfred he stopped. He had dark hair with two cowlicks sticking up and an adhesive bandage over his nose. Thick eyebrows – they kinda reminded Alfred of Arthur – were sitting above his green eyes. He was tanned skinned and it looked like he worked out. He's got a better body than I do, the teen thought. "Hey mate," the man said in an Australian accent. "What 'appened to you?"

"M-Me?" Alfred asked, pointing to himself dumbly.

"Yeah you, do ya see any other guys in here? You look like a mess."

"O-Oh, um, well…"

"Somethin' bad 'appened, didn't it?"

The teenager racked his brain for a lie he could tell. There was no way that he would admit to some random stranger he had been crying over food. That was embarrassing. "Y-yeah," he started unsteadily, lying. "My girlfriend – she – she just broke up with me."

The man's hard face softened and he gave the teen a sympathetic look. Crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, he said, "Figures. That's always tough. Think you'll be alright then? It seems as though you really loved her."

"I-I don't know if I'll be fine, to tell you the truth…"

The Aussie pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the American. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a professional card. He handed it to the teen, who took it with a trembling hand. On the card read: Kyle Brown – Therapist. Below was the location of his office along with the phone number.

Alfred looked up from the card to Kyle quizzically. He was slightly offended because he really didn't need a therapist. He was fine, dammit! But all Kyle did was smile and say, "In case you need anyone to talk to." Then he started to whistle again and made his way over to a urinal.

The American thought it best to leave after that. Quickly, he splashed his face with water to make the slight puffiness in his eyes go away so his parents wouldn't hold a Spanish Inquisition on why his eyes were somewhat red. Opening the restroom door, he realized that his stomach still felt heavy with food. Note to self: Check scale once at home. He deliberated, making his way back to the table.

*END FLASHBACK*

So here Alfred sat now; back against the door, hands holding his head, and knees to his chest. He checked the scale as he said he would. That he did do. But some part of him wished that he didn't. Some part of him wished he would stop worrying around about his weight. However it was a very small part, so small Alfred almost didn't register it, and so it didn't make much of a difference.

Light Salade aux Lardons. He'd eaten all of it, per Francis' request. Now he felt like a whale. What else had he eaten after that? Oh right, he'd also eaten Crème brûlée. Just how many calories were in there again? About 600? 500?

Fuck.

How could he let himself go like that? No wonder why he'd gained a pound. You're such a fatass. The voice told him.

But what could he do now? He didn't want to throw up – that was vile. He also couldn't go out for a run – it was late at night. The only other option was to forgo eating tomorrow and possibly the next day and run more. He could do that. He'd done it once before, hadn't he?

With that all resolved, Alfred got up and started to change into his Batman pajamas, avoiding looking in the mirror. Once he was done, he made his way to his room and grabbed his iPod from the self. Putting in his earphones, he turned on the device and put it on shuffle. Then he lay in his bed, closed his eyes, and just listened to the music.

And for a first time in a long time, Alfred felt calm.