A/N: ~PLEASE READ

So I read all of the reviews you guys gave me (I always read every one of my reviews, not just the "loudest") and I've done some research (this whole fic needed research) and I've come to the conclusion that for the sake of this story and conflict and everything, that Ivan and Alfred will not get together.

In other words: No romantic RusAme. They're just going to be friends – if even that. Sorry if any of you are disappointed; but after reading so much about Anorexia, and how it damages relationships, I don't think it's going to happen between the two any time soon. It would ruin the whole concept of Al's disorder.

Speaking of Alfred's disorder, I know in the last few chapters I've been doing such a shitty job on focusing on that. I apologize profusely. My head got too big and I thought, "Hmm a little touch on the outside world couldn't hurt." Didn't mean to make the outside world overrun the actual conflict. So sorry people. From now on I'm going back to focus solely on Alfred and Anorexia as best I can.

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

The weekend soon showed its face, although to Alfred it really could have come faster. Part of the reason why, was now not only was Ivan being annoying, but his brother started to chat him up too. It was mostly about relationship advice, to which Alfred really didn't give a rat's ass and grumpily shoved his brother off. "But Alfred," Matthew had groaned once, standing outside the younger's door after being kicked out. "I don't know what to do!"

Alfred had answered from inside bluntly, "Don't have sex in an occupied house. And if you do, don't be so loud about it."

"Alfred!"

Or if it wasn't relationship advice, it was aimless conversation that Alfred never paid attention to. But he did wonder where Matthew got the sudden burst of confidence to just start a conversation.

Another part of the reason why the weekend took so long was Aunt Michelle. She seemed to never leave; and the teen was starting to get the vibe that it would be another one of her long visits that lasted for two or three weeks. Those visits tended to be torture for him. But since it was the weekend, he could go out all day and not deal with her until he got home. Perfect.

But the main reason why, was that the weekends always signified free running times. On the weekends, he could go wherever he liked whenever he liked for however long he liked. It was bliss. The feeling of losing weight, the feeling of the wind, the feeling of being in control. It made him happy. It made him want – no, crave – more.

When Alfred had first started, he could only hit a mile before he ached. However, he now strived for seven miles. Most of the time he could hit that easy, other times he couldn't. And it was times like those that made him despise himself even more. After all, anyone should be able to run seven miles, right?

Wrong.

Obviously he couldn't. Why? Because Alfred was lying when he said he could run that far. He couldn't - and that put him such a foul mood. He should've been able to hit the seven mile mark by now. It drove him nuts when he got too tired or the cramping got too much and he had to stop. If Feliciano – who ran track and played soccer – could run that far, then so should Alfred.

…Track. Now there was a sport other than American Football the blonde wanted to join. The only problem: Varsity tryouts had already been held. Next year, the American promised himself. Next year I'll go. Next year I'll tryout.

But a fat ass like you wouldn't be able to make the team, the voice pointed out.

Alfred grit his teeth and said nothing, just kept on running. He ran and ran until his feet felt like they were bleeding and sore, but only then did he slow to a brisk fast walk. It hurt like heaven – the running – and no matter how far he ran or how long, he always wanted more. The fact that he was fast walking now made him agitated beyond belief. If he had his way, he'd be running forever – or at least until he dropped. Yet, he knew that his stupid, fat, lazy body wouldn't be able to take it and that he had to rest.

As he walked, the teen couldn't help but wonder if he had finally lost the binging weight. With Aunt Michelle being there (and constantly hovering over him) he hadn't had the time to check. The thought of the scale made him extremely anxious. What if he gained instead of lost? What if he had reached the Plateau of Weight Loss and hadn't budged from the frightening 173? Alfred had read from blogs and weight loss books that there came a time where the body's metabolism caught up and the person didn't cut down. Oh god, what if that person was him? How would he be able to lose weight if exercising no longer worked?

You could purge. You could fast. You could just work extra hard. You could take diet pills. You could get yourself on a better restrictive diet. The voice consoled him. You may not be the sharpest knife in the kitchen, but you should be able to figure out a way. If you really wanted something, you would find out a way to get it.

Alfred nodded to himself. The voice was right. Ha, the voice was always right! He'd find a way. No need to panic. He'd continually find a way to be skinny, no matter what he had to do.

…But what if he didn't?

The blonde felt his stomach churn. But what if he didn't? What if everything he did had just gone to waste? Down the drain? What if the metabolism got caught up before he reached his goal? What then? No. No, he didn't think about that – didn't want to think about that. He'd still – he'd still find a way. He was sure of it!

But what if he didn't?

Despair crept through him. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. Alfred didn't think he could bear it if he couldn't drop the numbers. Hysteria clouded his mind just thinking of it! He'd rather die than have that happen to him.

Uncontrollably and unconsciously, he started to hyperventilate. It was inevitable, wasn't it? Everyone who ever went through whatever he was going through had this happen to them, right? It was perfectly normal, wasn't it? The Plateau of Weight Loss was just another obstacle he had to overcome. That's it. That's all it ever is, was, and shall be. Another obstacle.

Then why was he so damn scared?

Alfred noticed that his hands were shaking, so he tried to take a deep breath in to calm himself. Then another. And another. You're being irrational, Jones, he told himself. How dare you be so weak!

He still felt shaken up by the time he got home, though. Especially when he saw Aunt Michelle sitting on the front porch, reading. He also saw that his parents' cars were gone, which meant that it was only her there. Stomach once again churning, he walked up the steps and tried to walk past her without being noticed. No such luck. "Alfred," she greeted. "Where have you been? Its dusk already and you now just come home."

Alfred's throat felt tight with guilt. She was a guest, and he had been selfish for going out running to avoid her. God, could he get anymore fucked up? "I was out running," he answered hoarsely, turning to her.

"Running? Why?"

"'Cause that's just what I like to do."

"Are you on the track team?"

Lie? Don't lie? It might sound suspicious if he said no… "Yeah."

Confusion. Suspicion. Written all over her face under the trust and relief. He knew. It was always like that with people. "Oh," she said. Nodding now. Acceptance.

Wariness. Distortion of what she said. Clouding the teen's mind as he felt himself get pushed back.

Anxiety. What did she think of him? Did she think him a liar? Did she think him fat?

No room to breathe. Her brown eyes were watching him. Since when had they gotten so keen? He felt himself get judged. He hated that feeling. It scared him so.

Her lips started to move. No sound came out. What was she saying? Alfred didn't know. He was too stupid to know.

Panic. Anxiousness. He wanted to take a shower and check the scale. That's all he wanted to do right now. Why was she holding him back? What was she saying?

Michelle got up. Walked to him. Held out her arms. Enveloped him in a hug. She smelled nice. Of daises and perfume. Why was she hugging him?

Shock filled Alfred. Couldn't she see how sweaty he was? How fat? He didn't deserve this. Not at all. He didn't want a hug.

But it felt so good. To be just hugged like that. As if someone loved him.

"Alfred, Alfred. Ma douce neveu. You're perfect how you are. Don't change," she whispered.

Walls. Crashing down. Tumbling. Losing it. No. No. He didn't deserve this. Not at all. Why was she doing this?

Tears. They were threatening to fall. Too much kindness. Too much love. He couldn't cope. Not once had Arthur ever done this. Not once.

No crying. Crying was weak. Crying was selfish. No…crying…

Michelle let go. Brown eyes were sad. Did he do something wrong? He didn't understand. What had he done wrong?

Stupid. Selfish. Fat. Ugly. Weak. Words to describe him darkened his mind. That's what he had done wrong, he realized. Michelle was merely pitying him.

"Alfred," the islander spoke softly, yet forcefully. "Whatever you're telling yourself right now: stop. It isn't true."

It is, he wanted to shout. These thoughts in my head are! These voices. They're all there. They're all true. What more do you want from me?! Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to hate myself? WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?!

Turn around. Head inside. No words. No tears. Don't talk. Keep walking. Up the stairs. To his room. From his room to the bathroom. Pajamas in hand. Close the door. Turn the shower on. Don't look in the mirror. Strip. Step inside the hot water.

Feel only the numbness.

Don't feel emotion.

Tears blur.

Cry.

170. The scale read 170. Alfred didn't have the heart to cry anymore, so he just stood there looking at the number. True, he'd lost three pounds since the binging incident, but he was still so fat. He wanted – had expected, really – to be under 170 by now. What the hell? Was there something wrong with him? Then there came a scary thought: What if this was just the beginning of the Plateau?

Another thought occurred to him: Was he not focusing enough? While he lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling, was he supposed to be exercising more? Oh god. Oh god what had he been doing lately? Sitting around on his fat ass, that's what.

Alfred got off the scale and turned to the mirror. He took hold of his shirt and turned sideways, looking at his stomach. No abs, just flab and fat reflected back at him from the looking glass. Alfred felt sick. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curse the world and run and cry and die all at the same time. The American hated himself for it, because each one of those were signs of weakness. And heroes were never weak.

Desperate now, the blonde turned the other way to see at least some sign that any of his methods were working. And what did he see? The same as before: A fat, disgusting, pathetic, useless, selfish Alfred looking back at him with wild eyes.

Why wasn't he skinny yet?!

He faced the mirror once more and leaned in, pinching his cheeks and pulling them outward. True, there was a little less than before. But only a little. The fact disgusted him. He hated it. He hated – no, he loathed – his whole appearance and being. Yet that was nothing new.

The teen let go of his cheeks and staggered back to the scale. Please, he begged in his mind. Please show me a lower number.

A few seconds later and the scale came back with the result: 170 pounds.

And suddenly Alfred couldn't feel anything anymore. As in, he felt more than numb. More than emotionless. He didn't feel there. At all. He didn't feel alive. Listless. His eyes were seeing, but not seeing. His ears were hearing, but not hearing. How? How was it that in all the time he spent running and not eating (or eat as little as possible), he only dropped ten pounds? That wasn't right. No way. He should've been losing more. What an idiot he was. Just how lazy was he? He needed a punishment for himself. Something that would hurt. But if he couldn't feel, how was he supposed to hurt himself?

Lethargic blue eyes swam around the bathroom for something to use. Something glinted by the sink, and it took a moment for Alfred to comprehend that it was a razor. He didn't know how, but soon he saw his hand grasp the thing and roll it about in his hands. Would this work? The blonde didn't know. He heard it hurt, but how was he supposed to know? Only one way to, he supposed.

Bringing up the razor up to his left forearm, he turned it sideways and pressed downwards, dragging the blades across his skin. Immediately, pain erupted through him and he bit his lip to stop from crying out. Tears pricked his eyes and he threw the weapon across the bathroom, completely disgusted with himself. Staggering backwards, he sank down against the door. What had he done? Looking down at the cut, he noted that it was shallow. However, it was still bleeding and hurt like hell. What had he done to himself? The only good that came from it was that he felt alive again.

Well what did you expect from it? The voice exclaimed. Did you want to feel good about yourself? No, wait. You did it for attention. IDIOT. You're such an attention whore. Someone will look at you, then at the cut, and back at you thinking you did it all for attention. You cut yourself for attention. Poor, little Alfred. Self-harming to be an attention whore. "Look at me! I'm Alfred F. Jones! Attention whore extraordinaire! Watch me commit suicide next so I can be loved!"

Alfred put his head in his hands and cried. He cried from frustration and pain and anger. He cried from hate and sorrow. Loud, ugly sobs racked through him, but he couldn't stop. He was such a fuck up. His tears intermixed with blood and ran down his pajamas, but he didn't notice. Was this how normal people lived? Constantly afraid of life? Constantly worried about food? Constantly having voices in their heads shouting at every failure they made and did? Or was it just him? Was he just alone with all these problems? Alone, like always? His family abandoning him in more ways than one; friends estranging themselves away from him. Was that just him? Was he destined to be alone his whole life?

Suddenly his stomach heaved, and Alfred felt himself start to throw up. Quickly he rushed over to the toilet and hung his head over the bowl, puking up his guts. The acid burned his throat and mouth and the taste and smell was horrific. The blonde was caught between sobbing and retching now, unable to stop both. This was what he got when he cried too hard.

A knock came from the door. "Alfred?" Aunt Michelle's voice asked tentatively. "Everything alright in there?"

Alfred couldn't answer.

"Alfred, I'm coming in."

Before he had the chance to stop her, the brunette opened up the bathroom door and walked in. Upon seeing the scene, she gasped and her eyes grew wide. There was a trail of blood from the door to the toilet, where her nephew was trying his hardest to stop vomiting. The floor was wet and the bathroom was steamy from the hot shower, and it smelled horrible. Quickly, with tears in her eyes, she ran over to Alfred and kneeled beside him. Rubbing his back, Michelle soothed, "Alfred, sweetheart. Shhh. Alfie, calm down. Shhh. Calm down."

Only Alfred couldn't calm down. He was embarrassed at having been caught and humiliated beyond belief that his aunt saw him breaking down. So he shook his head instead. He just wanted her to go away.

Michelle wouldn't take no for an answer, though. So she stayed, rubbing his back and occasionally running a hand through his wet hair. A few minutes later, when the blonde seemed to have run out of tears and bile, she flushed the toilet for him before dragging him up and to the sink. Turning on the faucet, she instructed gently, "Wash your face and brush your teeth."

Said nephew did. As he was doing so, she grabbed some toilet paper (since there were no paper towels) and began to clean up the blood. That was when she noticed something. Flushing the red toilet paper away, Michelle turned once again to Alfred, who was now putting his toothbrush away. He turned to her, looking like a kicked puppy, and she tried her hardest not to cry. Holding up the bloodied razor, Michelle asked, "What's this?"

Instantly Alfred flinched away. "I-It's a razor…"

"I know it's a razor. But why is it bloody?"

"I was shaving and it slipped and I cut myself accidently," Alfred lied.

"Let me see where it cut," Michelle said.

"N-No."

"Alfred."

Timidly, Alfred held out his arm. He felt ashamed, and when he heard the islander suck in her breath, the feeling intensified along with guilt. But Michelle didn't say anything. Instead, she just threw the razor away and started to wrap toilet paper around the cut. Silence hung between them until she was done. Then she put the toilet paper on the counter and took his hand, leading him out of the bathroom and downstairs. "We need to talk," was all she said. Her voice sounded strained, and Alfred saw her wipe her eyes a bit.

And that was when he realized how much pain he was causing Aunt Michelle.

Translation(s):

Ma douce neveu – My sweet nephew (French)