A/N: *Gets blown away by amount of reviews*

*Calls from afar* I HAVE DECIDED SOMETHING! Because all of you are so awesome, the 250th reviewer will get a oneshot of their choice. If you think you're around the 250 area, leave your prompt in the review and I'll tell you all who the winner is next chapter. It can be anything, really. Sound good? ^_^

Moving on~! OMG I WATCHED THE NYOTALIA EPISODE AND IT WAS SO AWESOME LIKE ASDFGHJKL *mind explodes* Poor Estonia though xD

I'm so not happy with this chapter, by the way. It feels kinda forced to me :/

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

The weekend passed slowly after that. Alfred did his best to avoid Michelle, not wanting another confrontation; which then quickly morphed into trying to avoid everybody in the house. He could sense that Arthur was pissed at him from the harsh glares sent his way; and it didn't help that his papa kept trying to corner him just so they could talk. The blonde had a horrible feeling that he knew what the talk would be about. His cut itched from beneath the bandage just thinking about it. And he was pretty sure he knew who had told.

Told you that you couldn't trust her, the voice sneered. You pretty much can't trust anybody anymore. And even if you could, who would believe you?

At last Monday dawned. Alfred couldn't wait to get out of the house for more than six hours without being questioned. Getting up out of bed hurt due to all the running and exercise he had done - and partly because he was tired, though he blamed it on the week day – but somehow he managed to get ready. He checked the scale, per usual routine, and read the number. 168. "Two pounds down, a lot more to go," he mumbled, feeling resigned.

What? No rage? No angry outbursts? You think this is good? The voice exclaimed. Whoopty fucking doo! You got under 170 pounds! You cut down! Would you like a medal?

Alfred bit his lip and made his way out of the bathroom.

Let me tell you something, you sad idiot. Losing two pounds is not an accomplishment. Avoiding meals and eating zero is not an accomplishment. Anyone can do it. Now if you hit 150 by the end of this week that would be an achievement.

Alfred took a sharp breath. There was no way. No one could lose that much in such a time frame! That was impossible.

Fine, the voice huffed. Be a fat loser.

No! Alfred cried in his mind. I'll do it! I'll lose that much! I'm not…I'm not a loser…

The voice was smirking – the blonde could feel it. Prove it.

The American felt grim determination fall into place. He'd do it. He'd do it and no one would stop him. Somehow. Going into his room, Alfred mulled over different methods. Pills worked, he heard. As did puking; but he didn't want to go down that road yet. Maybe when nothing else worked...

Could he get diet pills from the local pharmacy? Was that even possible? If it was, it would benefit him a lot. Yes, that would be his new method. Diet pills and exercise. Of course he would still need to eat in order to have enough energy to run and burn off calories. As much as the thought revolted him, it was true. Energy drinks and caffeine only got him so far. Perhaps that was where he was going wrong; he wasn't eating enough in order to gain energy. Yet when he did eat, it upset him. God why does this relationship with food have to be so difficult?! Alfred thought in despair. I hate it! I HATE IT SO MUCH!

The blonde kicked the bed in frustration before looking out the window. Eat? Don't eat? Energy? No energy? The answer was obvious. Why couldn't he do it? What was wrong with him? Oh that's right; everything was wrong with him. God he just needed a new diet. A diet that worked and didn't make him feel bad.

That was when he got a genius idea. Quickly, he ran over to his desk and slid into the rolling chair before starting up his laptop. Anticipation writhed within him. Maybe, just maybe…

The monitor blinked to life, and Alfred logged on. His wallpaper of the Avengers popped up, but he barely batted an eye to it. Instead, he pulled up Google and typed in: restrictive diets that work.

In less than a second, multiple websites were shown. They were mainly debates or information about Caloric Restriction, though. Alfred huffed in annoyance. This was going nowhere fast. What are some good diets to make you lose weight? He typed in.

Again, nothing he was looking for.

Skinny diets.

Aha! So now there was something! The feeling of anticipation grew stronger in his chest. Alfred clicked on a picture of a chart he saw where a girl was shown before the weight loss and after. It did look promising; that he had to admit. Maybe it would work on him too.

The Healthy Skinny Girl Diet. The chart title read. Rules: Any veggie intake does not count, it takes 21 days for this habit to form, and pink days are weekends.

Day 1 – 900 calories
Day 2 – 800 calories
Day 3 – 900 calories
Day 4 – 1,000 calories
Day 5 – 950 calories
Day 6 – 1,100 calories
Day 7 – 1,100 calories

And so on for the next 2 weeks. Good luck ^-^

It wasn't a bad deal, to be quite frank. Except for the 21 days thing. And the whole "Girl" part. And the pink. But hey otherwise Alfred was up for it!

So the teen saved the chart on his laptop, even putting it as his wallpaper, before logging off. The diet, he decided while making his way downstairs, would start now.

Upon entering the kitchen, he saw his papa reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee in his hand. This was so not a good sign. The Frenchman only ever drank coffee when something was troubling him – or so he claimed. Add that onto the fact that whenever he was troubled, he had to talk about it, and Alfred debated on whether or not to leave early. Too late, he quickly realized. Francis was getting up to rinse out his coffee and would undoubtedly spot him standing there by the doorframe like some sort of idiot that took up too much space.

…Or maybe not. Huh. His papa barely glanced at him. Perhaps he didn't see him? No, that couldn't be right. Alfred was right in front of him – all 168 pounds. Anyone would notice such a fatso. "Alfred," Francis' voice sounded tired. "Good morning."

Shit. So maybe he had. And maybe it would've been best if the teen had just left. "Mornin'," Alfred answered automatically.

"There's something I want to talk to you about."

The bandage around Alfred's arm started to itch again. To be honest, the boy had completely forgotten about it until just then. Refusing the urge to scratch, the teen asked, "Oh?" He felt his defensive walls start to be put up.

"Now I know that this is tough for you, but why?"

"Dude that is such a vague question."

"Alfred," Francis sighed exasperatingly. "You know what I am talking about. This has been bothering me all weekend. The least you can do is answer."

Did you hear that? The voice said. It's been bothering him. You've been bothering him.

"But I don't even know what you're talking about, Papa," Alfred replied, the guilt hitting him hard.

"Someone has told me – and your dad also – that you've been…well…hurting yourself. Is that true?"

"What? Me? Hurting myself? Pfft no. Why would I?"

To feel alive. To gain attention.

Francis gave him a skeptical look, raising an eyebrow. Leaning on the kitchen counter, he casually crossed his arms. "What happened on your arm?"

More guilt. Intermixed with absolute shame and disgust. "The razor slipped," Alfred lied quickly. He felt trapped under his papa's fierce gaze. How would he admit to such a thing? That practically labeled him as an attention seeker. And as weak. And by admitting that he had cut would also be admitting he had a problem. Which he so didn't.

After a minute of absolute terror, Francis nodded slowly. "Okay, I believe you. Just know that you can talk to me about anything, alright?"

Alfred looked at his feet, feeling uncomfortable. Anything? Even those urges he got whenever he stepped foot into the bathroom to slice his skin open? His food problems? His feeling alone? Did those all qualify? Or did they just raise his papa's red alarms? Could he really just go up to his papa and say, "Hey, I'm feeling a bit down lately. I've got this voice in my head shouting at me all the time and pissing on me. Food repulses me now too. Oh and yes, I did cut myself. But it's all good, ya know? Because obviously you don't care. You NEVER care anymore. All you ever do is shit on me about my clothes and style.

"Take a good look. I'm a motherfucking mess. And you know what? I'M DONE. I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE. ARE YOU LISTENENING TO ME? DO YOU SEE WHAT A SHITTY SON YOU'VE BROUGHT UP?! A SON THAT CAN'T FUCKING HANDLE A WHOLE GODDAMN MEAL ANYMORE? ONE THAT'S ALONE ALL THE TIME?! DO YOU SEE ME? HUH? DO YOU?

"…Where were you when I needed someone to lean on? Back when I could still stand up? And now that I've crumbled, you show up…"

Only Alfred didn't say any of those things. It made it seem like Francis was to blame – which he wasn't. This was all Alfred's doing. It was all his fault. No one else's. And in that split second, he realized what the word "enemy" meant. "Enemy" meant "Inner Me". What if the enemy – the problem – wasn't food? What if the enemy was Alfred himself? The teen felt his legs go weak.

You're killing me here, the voice argued. That's bullshit and you know it. Food has always been the problem. Food will always be the problem until you reach your goal. Any fool would know that. Nice try on finding a scapegoat, idiot.

"Do you want any breakfast?" Francis' voice asked.

"No," Alfred mumbled weakly, still not meeting his papa's eyes. "I'm not hungry. I just...need to go…"

"Pardon?"

"I need to go. I'll be late."

"It's barely 6:30, mon fils. You have time."

"No I really don't. I'm supposed to meet up with my project partner to discuss some things."

Liar, Liar pants on fire.

Finally the teen looked up at his parent, who had a worried frown on. "Alright," the elder said slowly. "If you say so. But Alfred, may I say something?"

The younger nodded once, looking over his shoulder since he was halfway out the kitchen.

Francis looked him dead in the eye and said, "You're beautiful no matter what, Alfred. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong. So very wrong."

The stare held for a minute longer until Alfred broke it, turning away and rushing into the foyer. Wherein he threw on his shoes and backpack and hurried outside into the brisk, early winter air. Tears threatened to fall as he ran away from the house. Away from all the lies. The deceit. The yelling. The pain. And all the blonde could think was:

Why didn't you tell me this sooner? Why now, when I'm no longer beautiful? When I'm ugly?

"Today we're going to be working on masks," Signor Vargas exclaimed proudly, clapping his hands together. "You may choose whatever expression and emotion you want, so long as it's clearly displayed. This will be graded along with your sketches that you did for homework. Since you all know how this goes, just come to me when you're ready to get your slab of clay. You may all start working now."

Alfred looked around at his fellow classmates, who were all getting out their homework assignments and turning them in to the Homework Bin. It was Art Class, and he had no clue what was going on. He didn't zone out in this class, due to it being his favorite, yet he never heard of this homework assignment Signor Vargas was talking about. So he got up and made his way to the teacher's desk, where the Italian was sitting surrounded by clay. "Um excuse me," Alfred began nervously. God, Arthur would have his head chopped off if he saw the missing assignment. That was practically the only reason Alfred did them anyway.

Signor Vargas looked up, smiling. But when he saw that it was Alfred, he frowned. "Ah yes, Signor Jones? How can I help you?" He asked.

The blonde's stomach clenched. The fact that one of his former friend's grandfather was treating him like this hurt. "I was just wondering about the homework thing. I didn't know we had that."

"Sì, I know."

"What?"

"No worries, it wasn't assigned to you," Signor Vargas went on, smiling again.

Alfred stared at his teacher in disbelief. "Why not?"

"Because it was only assigned for the people who need extra points. As long as you show me a sketch today, you can go and make your mask."

"But wait I never heard you say that la –"

The brunette's gaze hardened suddenly. "That's because I didn't. I'm helping you out here. Now go. Sketch it out and come back before the bell rings, or I will give you a zero."

The blonde gulped, stuttered out a thanks, and went back to his seat. Getting out some paper and a pencil, he wondered which emotion to convey. Scared? Upset? Happy? Angry? Sad? None of them called out to him. None of them clicked. So instead he started to sketch out a head shape on his paper. From there he added eyes. Then a nose. And a mouth. Eyebrows – not too thick – came next. Along with ears and hair. They were all so very basic and nondescript.

Alfred felt lost, staring down at his paper. What now?

Well what does the public want to see? A thought drifted through his head.

Happy, he answered.

So draw that, the thought advised.

And Alfred did.

When he was finished, he held the paper at arm's length and looked at it. The sketch had its hair all tousled up, eyes seemingly laughing. A huge smile was plastered onto the face, though it looked a little forced. The nose and ears were abnormally large, too. Alfred felt sick looking at it. The whole thing seemed…off. The smile, the eyes. Everything. Just off. He hated it. "Why can't you just be happy?" He grumbled aloud.

The girl sitting next to him gave him a weird look. "Wow someone's pissed," she said.

Alfred turned to her and handed the sketch over. "Well yeah," he answered. "You would be too if you saw this piece of shit."

The girl took the paper and studied it. After a few seconds, she shrugged. "Not really. I mean, your sketch is happy."

"It is?"

"Sure. The sketch is smiling, isn't it?" When she saw Alfred's dubious look she narrowed her eyes. "What? You can't see that?"

No, he thought bitterly. Aloud, he muttered, "Whatever." Then he got up and went back to Signor Vargas' desk.

Upon turning the sketch in, the teacher gazed at it for a while, lips slowly turning into a frown. Then he solemnly nodded and muttered something in Italian before giving Alfred a slab of clay. The whole time he never looked at the blonde. Never spoke to him.

It kind of hurt the teen. Was the teacher disappointed in his sketch? Did he do something wrong? Was the smile not real enough? Then came a scary thought:

What if Signor Vargas saw right through the mask?

Translation:

Sì – Yes (Italian)