A/N: You people are really supportive, you know that? I open my inbox, expecting flames for last chapter, and get nothing but positive (if slightly disappointed, but hey that's fine) reviews. You all ROCK! And now we've reached 216 reviews, 170 favorites, and 243 follows. Honestly never thought this story would reach this much, but it has and *insert overplayed Pharrell Williams song* I'M HAPPY~! Thank you so much. It really means a lot to me :)

I also changed the date. So Alfred and Ivan's study date did not take place on Friday (as mentioned a few chapters ago), it took place on Thursday. Michelle came in on Wednesday. It made more sense that way to me. (Omg keeping track of days is confusing, so if anything is like, wrong, I'm so sorry.)

ANDDDDD this is split in half. Half of Alfred's POV and half of Michelle's POV.

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

Aunt Michelle wasted no time, much to Alfred's dismay. After sitting him down on the white couch, she then sat across from him and crossed her legs. Tears were in her eyes yet she didn't cry, and he quickly realized this was her determined look. She was being brave. And for what? What was she being brave for? Alfred? The teen didn't want her to be brave for him. He didn't want anything to do with her right now period.

But maybe, a soft voice suggested in the back of his mind, this is your help. This is where you can tell your problems and not be ridiculed or brushed off. Aunt Michelle is concerned – genuinely concerned, Alfred – for you. To tell her what's going on would be healthy. She would help you fight your demons. She'd lend support. She could even become the loving mother figure you never had. You can rely on her, Alfred. Tell her what's going on.

Alfred blinked, unsure of whether to trust this new voice. Before he could make up his mind, however, the islander took a deep breath and began. "Alfred," she started gently, "how are you feeling?"

This question left him somewhat confused and shocked. In all honesty, he had been expecting her to rip into him about what he had done. Yell. Scream. Shout. Call him names. Just like Arthur. But she isn't like Arthur, the new voice pointed out. She isn't like Francis. She's different.

Michelle didn't rush him to answer. Instead, she just sat there, hands on her lap, solely focused on her nephew. It made Alfred slightly uncomfortable and he squirmed a little in his seat, trying to look anywhere other than her. That was when it dawned on him that he was sitting on a white couch with bloodied pajamas. His blue eyes involuntarily grew wide. Papa, he thought. Papa will have a fit when he sees this! But he couldn't check if there was a stain or not due to his aunt sitting less than five feet away, watching him.

Watching him. Watching. Him. Checking to see if he was unstable or not. Looking to see if there was anything to tell his parents about when they arrived home. Eyeing how fat he was and making calculations on how to best beat him lower. No, Alfred. Stop, the gentle voice said firmly. That's not true.

The teen realized, in that instant, that this new voice was a liar.

Just like you, the old, menacing voice taunted.

"Alfred," Michelle spoke again, snapping him out of his panic.

"Huh?" Alfred responded. Then instantly kicked himself of how rude that was.

"I asked how you are feeling."

"Oh."

"And?"

"Fine," he choked out. "I'm okay, honest."

The aunt's face softened. The nephew hoped she believed his lie. "Are you sure?" She inquired lightly.

Alfred nodded his head slowly. He just wanted to leave.

"Well, let me tell you how I feel, okay?" Michelle prodded on. "I feel scared. No wait, not scared. Well I suppose it is that feeling in some regard, but not entirely. More of concerned…

"Anyway, I feel worried about you, Alfred. Ever since I have been here, which was since Wednesday, I haven't seen you eat all that much. Sometimes not at all. If you did eat, it would be very small portions. Not to mention how much you run. I've never seen someone run so much!

"I used to think, 'He's probably fine. He's probably taking care of himself. Striving to make weight for whatever sport he plays.' Or when you were gone for a long period of time, I thought you were with friends."

Friends. Alfred's gut twisted and he winced. He didn't have friends. Not anymore. They were all gone, alienated from him because they didn't like him any longer. Maybe because of how selfish he was. Maybe because of the monster he had become. Either way, he now didn't have anyone he hung out with; no friends.

But Michelle didn't know that. In fact, she continued on, her brown eyes getting sadder and sadder by the minute. "Yet you come home, say hello, and head straight on up to your room. And if not the bedroom, then the bathroom. I used to think, 'He's probably tired, and he's such a hard-working boy.' Or, 'Perhaps he needs to use the toilet.'"

The woman's speech wasn't helping. It was only making the teen feel worse. Guilt ripped inside him, tearing him apart. Somehow this was all his fault. Somehow, someway, he had caused her pain. Get used to it, the mean voice sneered. You always do that. You always will be doing that.

"But all this time, I felt something wasn't right. Not how Arthur treats you – that I know isn't right – but with how you treat yourself. And today, the feeling only reinforced. Seeing you cry and throw up at the same time, I felt…I felt…oh what's the word? Hopeless. Sad. But above all I felt scared. Not for me, but for you."

The words she said came out distorted in his mind. Not for you, but for me. Alfred turned away, he couldn't face Michelle any longer. Why didn't she just let him leave? Couldn't she see that he was a volatile object that would just burden her and hurt her? "I need to go," he said quietly, about to get up.

Michelle reached over and placed a hand on his arm. "No," she replied back forcefully. "You are staying here. You scared me, Alfred. That razor – that razor was – that bloody razor tore my heart apart. To know that you cut yourself –"

Hot anger suddenly boiled up within the blonde. So this was what this was about?! Some stupid razor and what he did with it? Yes, he cut himself. Yes, that was a mistake. No, he won't do it again. Turning to face her, he said in a low voice, "I do not cut myself. The razor slipped. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get something other than freaking toilet paper to cover the wound." Then he yanked his arm away.

Looking hurt, Michelle let the tears spill out from her eyes. "Be that as it may," the brunette allowed, "that doesn't change my feelings. Is there something bothering you?"

"No. Nothing. I'm perfectly fine."

"You can trust me. I promise I will not tell your parents."

Alfred sighed, some of the anger retreating a little bit. Tell her? Don't tell her? The blonde decided to go with the vaguest answer available. "I'm just working through some things right now, okay? Running helps me cope with it. That's it, Auntie. That's all that's happening. May I go now?"

"…Yes, Alfie. You may now…"

So he left, leaving a torn woman behind him.

The first thing Michelle decided she was going to do when Arthur and Francis came home, was have a chit chat with them about their son. This, she decided while checking to make sure no stains were on the couch, was best for Alfred. Surely if she couldn't open him up, then his parents could. If they went through and asked, that is.

Francis, she was sure Alfred would welcome. Arthur, not so much. It didn't take a genius to know of his mistreatment towards the youngest son; but then again, he did it in such a subtle way it was hard to tell what was going on most of the time. Oh well, only one of them would be needed, she supposed.

Going into the kitchen, Michelle made herself some tea. She tried to take her mind off of Alfred, but found it extremely difficult. There was something that seemed…off…about him lately. For instance, why did he constantly lie? Was it to self-reassure himself with false facts? Or was it to reassure whoever he talked to? The American was far from fine if he was cutting himself. So why did he keep insisting otherwise? It made no sense!

Taking a sip of the tea, the islander gazed out the window. Alfred was a complex mystery. Such a mystery could only be solved by Sherlock Holmes; yet the consulting detective wasn't real. He couldn't help.

Michelle sighed and went into her guest bedroom, waiting for the parents to come home.

Two hours later, the door opened and in stepped a laughing Arthur and Francis. Upon hearing them, Michelle closed the book she was reading and made her way into the hall. "Hello," she greeted.

"Hello, Michelle. How was everything?" Arthur replied back easily, smiling.

"Not so great, actually. There is something I want to talk to you two about."

At that, the smiles were wiped clean off the couple's faces. "Oh?" Francis asked nervously. "What is it?"

Brown eyes glanced quickly upstairs where Alfred was in his bedroom, then back down again. Green eyes narrowed, apparently having not missed anything. "In the living room," Arthur ordered. "Now."

The three of them made their way to the sitting room, wherein the Brit and the Frenchman sat next to each other on the same couch Alfred previously occupied. Michelle stayed standing and clasped her hands together, rocking back and forth on her heels. How was she going to phrase this correctly? Sucking in a deep breath, she looked at both of them and said, "Something is wrong with Alfred."

Arthur snorted and shook his head as Francis pursed his lips. "Blimey," the Brit began. "There's always something wrong with that drama queen."

"No, this time it's serious, Arthur. There's something wrong with him."

Francis chimed in, "And what is wrong with him?"

"I caught him in the bathroom earlier today, cutting himself." Upon seeing the wide eyed stares, Michelle explained quickly, "Okay so not in the act. But I found him by the toilet, vomiting and crying at the same time. There was this bloody razor, which I assume he used because of the cut lines on his forearm, lying on the opposite side of the room. When I confronted him about it, h-he said everything was alright. Th-That he was fine. And –"

"Calm down, Michelle," Arthur said to the nearly-in-hysterics woman. "That's just Alfred being Alfred."

"W-What?"

"Alfred is known to spark up drama just to get attention. I wouldn't be surprised if this was his motive. If he says he's fine, then he is fine."

"But Arthur," Francis intervened worriedly. "This is a bit too far. Cutting himself? Why on Earth –"

"To get attention, Francis," the Brit blatantly answered. "Excuse me for saying this, but he's a bit of an attention whore."

Somewhere – Michelle didn't know where – rage started to form within her. She couldn't believe her ears, she just could not believe her ears. A parent who has a child that was cutting should be worried! Not brush it off and label the poor kid as an attention whore! What gave Arthur the right to say such things? That was absolutely, positively ugly of him. Down to the core.

It suddenly dawned on the islander that this is why Alfred didn't open up. He was afraid he'd be labeled as something so disgusting. It all made sense. Just how many times had Alfred gone to Arthur, begging for help, only to be ridiculed? Michelle didn't know. To be honest, she didn't want to know for fear the number would be too much to handle. It all made sense now.

Glaring at her host, eyes blurry from unshed tears, she shakily said, "No."

Arthur made a face. The kind of face he made when he was being challenged. Michelle knew that face all too well from growing up, and before she'd back down. But not this time. This time someone's life was possibly on the line. This time there would be no backing down. "Excuse me?" Arthur exclaimed.

"I said no," she repeated, taking a steady breath in to calm herself. Be brave, the woman told herself. "Alfred isn't an attention whore. Shame on you to think that way."

"Shame on me? I'm not the one who is pathetic enough to stoop so low as to cut! I'm not the one who –"

"This isn't about you! This is about your son! He's hurting right now and you –"

"I what? I don't read into it because it's meaningless self-pity! That's what it is! That is exactly what it is! I refuse to encourage such behavior!"

"It's not self-pity! He's physically hurting himself to try and achieve something."

Francis watched her warily. "And do you know what that is?" He asked.

Michelle ran a hand through her hair. "No," she answered truthfully.

Arthur gave a chuckle. "See? Everything is –"

"Not okay," she finished for him, glaring. Angry tears were streaming down her face now. She couldn't help it, she cried when she got upset. "From what I can gather, I think he might be developing an eating disorder."

"Please. The bloke wouldn't do that. He's not like that."

"Then tell me this, Arthur. Answer my questions. When was the last time you've seen him eat a full meal?"

Arthur replied easily, "At the restaurant a few nights ago."

"When was the last time he missed a day running?"

"I don't know. My schedule is busy and I don't have time to keep track of what he's doing."

"When was the last time –"

Throwing his hands up in the air, Arthur proclaimed, "This is bloody ridiculous! Alfred doesn't have an eating disorder! If he says he's fine, then he's fine. He's cutting himself for attention, too. That's all there is to it. Now this discussion is done and closed. Goodnight, Michelle!" Then he briskly got up and left, practically fuming. Michelle watched him go.

Francis sighed heavily and got up as well. Walking over to the brunette, he put a hand on her shoulder and said, "I'll go talk to him." Then he too left.

Leaving Michelle, crying and angry, to wonder who the "him" was.