A/N: Hey people. First off, I want to explain why I haven't updated in 2 or so weeks. It's just that I've been going through some issues and haven't felt up to writing this story. I mean I could've, but I didn't want to because it would've been majorly horrible. Some of you are probably like, "Well at least it there would've been a chapter!" But this story means a lot to me, and to do that wouldn't be fair, and I'd panic on how to get it back on track again, and right now that's more than I can handle.

Second off, the winner of the prompt-contest-thing is CandyCane460 (guest). Congrats on that; I'm writing it right now, so it should be up soon.

Third off, this story is coming to a close. I know how it's going to end, and I got a general idea of how to get there. Also, I kinda feel as if I'm dragging this out for too long :/ Right now I'm thinking 5 more chapters until it's finished (chapters are gonna be longer so instead of every week update, it might be every other week). Even so, I think it's too long.

Fourth and finally, I really appreciate the reviews. And how some of you share your own experiences and everything. That really helps me make this story more realistic and better. Thanks a million for that, people.

So those are all the announcements. Enjoy the chapter.

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

The next day was Tuesday.

The next day was hell.

At least for Alfred.

He made his way to homeroom reluctantly, eyes downcast and looking at the floor. The floor was safe. The floor didn't judge him. If he were to look up, he'd see people. God only knew what they were talking about. Probably about him, due to their eyes shifting his way and then away again. Probably bad things too. That is pathetically self-centered, the voice sneered. Why would they want to talk about you?

Alfred bit his lip and kept walking, faster now. He knew it was ridiculous – his behavior – but he couldn't stop worrying. It was scary. It was dark. It was irrational. But it couldn't be helped. When people saw him, did they see how fat he was? When people talked, was it about him? When the teacher called on him, were people waiting to see if he was a dumbass and got the question wrong? No, he thought. No that's stupid.

But then why did it feel like everybody was watching him 24/7?

The feeling was suffocating. At times the blonde felt like he couldn't breathe. Couldn't relax anymore, either. Getting judged…it just…he just…it was frightening! Because here are all these people, surrounding him, and he couldn't read minds to know what they were thinking. To know what they were judging him as. Did they not like the way he dressed? The way he walked? The way he talked? Was he being annoying? Whenever he talked aloud, did they hear what he was hearing? A simple reply he gave such as, "I like that idea, too." Did they think he was egotistical because he used the word "I"? Alfred never talked about himself much, he usually let other people talk about what they were doing or feeling or the like. But when he did, was he selfish? When people asked him, "Hey Alfred, how are you?" (Which they never did anymore, to be honest) and he answered, "I'm fine. You?" Did that qualify as self-seeking?

And was it selfish for being sad all the time now? Alfred could no longer see the bright side. He no longer felt happy. Everything he did, it felt wrong. He didn't know why he wasn't happy anymore, either. All he knew was that he just wasn't, and that he was dragging down his peers with him into the endless abyss. That, he knew, was selfish. No one should have that thrust upon them. No one. The blonde felt as if he should wallow in there himself, alone like always. But at the same time he wanted someone to lean on…

The biggest kicker, though, was that Alfred saw how other people had it worse than him. There was always someone who had it worse. Always. So, at least to the American, that deemed his problems insignificant. So what if he had a dad that yelled at him? At least he had a dad, whereas others didn't. So what if he didn't like eating food? At least that option was there for him, whereas in Africa kids smaller than him didn't have such an option. So what about his problems? They weren't important, because other people had it worse than him.

Alfred was being majorly selfish and ungrateful.

And he knew it.

Taking his seat in the back, the blonde got out his red spiral notebook and started to draw. Mr. Adnan was going on with the morning announcements, but that was nothing new. Vaguely, the American saw Natalya take her seat in front of him. Her shoulders were straight and her posture stiff. Alfred wondered if it was something he did.

Ten minutes later, and Mr. Adnan was done talking. The paper the teen was drawing on now held five figures on there; only one looked human. The first was sitting hunched over, hugging itself, isolated and alone; its eyes were bottomless pits and its smile was forced too wide. The second was a skeleton, literal skin and bones; its eyes were angry and its mouth was pulled into a sneer. The third looked somewhat regular, if you took away the scars lining its arms; its eyes were gleaming and its mouth was pulled into a Joker-like smile. Not too far away stood the fourth ghoulish figure, looking on edge and scared; its eyes were crying and its mouth wasn't smiling. And finally, in the middle, stood the human figure; whose eyes looked frantic and helpless and whose mouth was pulled into an ugly cry.

Alfred took one look at it before ripping it out and crumbling it up. He was disgusted with himself for having drawn such a horrid picture. Just who drew things like that anyway? Getting up, the blonde was about to go throw it away when the paper ball was wrenched from his hands. Blue eyes grew wide, and Alfred quickly turned around to see Natalya smirking meanly at him. "What's this?" She demanded harshly.

"N-Nothing…"

"Liar."

The American watched in horror as she opened it up. The Belarusian pursed her lips together, studying it. Looking over at him with narrow eyes Natalya hissed, "You disgust me."

Alfred felt each word hit him like a rock. "W-What did I do?" He asked.

"Is this how you've been seducing my precious Vanya? Hmm? By drawing these macabre pictures?"

"Who's Vanya?"

"Don't play dumb with me!"

"But I really don-"

"Zatyknisia! You've already gone on a date with him haven't you? On Thursday? And now again today after school?"

Oh, Alfred realized. She must mean Ivan. "Look, if this is about Ivan, I swear nothing is going on. We're just project buddies, okay? I would never –"

"LIES!" Natalya screeched, advancing towards him. All of the class now turned their heads to look at them; Alfred felt his face go red with embarrassment at having an audience. "You big, fat šliucha! How DARE you even get close to him! He doesn't deserve you! You're not good enough for him! You'll never be good enough for him!"

"Settle down over there," Mr. Adnan called from his desk. "Everyone get back to work."

Most of the class did, and the American felt his blush die down a bit. At least there wasn't an audience anymore. Heart heavy, he said, "I don't want to fight with you on this, Nat. But –"

"It's Natalya," the Belarusian corrected, growling.

"Seriously though, there's nothing going on between me and Ivan."

"Prove it then. Tell him you can't go to the library today."

Alfred gulped. He couldn't do that. That project was for a grade. "I can't –"

"If you don't, I'll make your life a living hell. And if you tell him I threatened you, I will end you."

Natalya was staring at him with disclosed murderous rage; and something told him if he didn't break it off, he'd have hell to pay just like Natalya said. So he nodded numbly, and the girl nodded sharply before turning around and taking her seat again.

The bell rang not even a minute later, signaling the start of classes. And it was then that Alfred remembered that Natalya still had his ugly drawing.

Somehow he knew that wasn't the last he'd see of it.

The American slipped into the locker room unnoticed. It was lunch, and instead of just heading to the track immediately, he came here to change into his running gear. Running with jeans wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world; that he could say from experience. And the fact that he didn't want his shirt to get all sweaty posed a problem too. So the only running outfit he had right now was his gym uniform. It wasn't his first choice, mainly because the sleeves were short, but it was the only option he had.

Getting to his locker, he unlocked his number lock and began to change. Once done, he threw his regular clothes in the basket before locking up again. He inspected his tennis shoes, making sure they were tied. With everything set and finished, he made his way out and onto the track.

Then he began to run.

One lap passed easily. Three, four, five. Alfred didn't even break a sweat. Six, seven, eight. Two miles down.

The bell rang.

Alfred didn't hear it.

He felt free. He felt in control. He felt alive. Who would want to stop such a feeling? Sweat trickled down his forehead, and the blonde wiped it away. Ten, eleven, twelve. Three miles gone by. He started to pant and his throat felt dry. Yet he didn't stop. Not until he hit four miles.

Fourteen. Other people were making their way onto the track now.

Fifteen. Were they the next class? Or did they just like to run too? Lunch couldn't be over surely?

Sixteen. Four miles at last. Alfred stopped running and started to fast-walk, putting his hands on his hips. Taking deep breaths, he noticed that it really was the other class. Shit, he panicked half-heartedly. I'm late.

However he didn't rush to the locker room. Instead, he ambled slowly over. School doesn't really matter, the voice pointed out. What matters is that you're running.

Upon reaching the locker room, he entered and made his way over to his own locker. The room was empty as he changed quickly, not wanting to get caught. Looking up at the clock, the blonde saw that he had missed over half the period already. Whatever, he thought. It's just Language Arts. I'll just wander the halls 'til it's done.

And that's what he did.

An hour later and he was sitting in History. To say he was anxious was an understatement. Just how was he going to tell Ivan no? Well you better think of something quick, the voice said, because here comes trouble. Blue eyes flew to the door from where Ivan was entering from, and Alfred's stomach clenched.

As soon as the Russian sat down, the American poked him in the shoulder. As soon as he did it, he instantly regretted it. Who poked people on the shoulder to get their attention?

"Hello, Alfred," Ivan greeted, turning towards him with a frown.

"Um hi," Alfred responded. His gut churned when he saw the frown. Is it because of me? He wondered.

"Did you need anything?"

Oh god he's annoyed. "Y-Yeah…I needed to tell ya I can't – I can't make it today after school…"

"What? Why?"

Think of something. THINK OF SOMETHING. "Something came up."

"Oh okay."

Oh okay? What's that supposed to mean? Oh okay, I don't need you anyway? Oh okay, fuck you, Alfred? Oh okay, just throw our grades down the drain?

Alfred flinched away and back into his chair as if he had been burned. He didn't think he could look at Ivan any longer.

As soon as the bell rang, signaling the end of school, Alfred got out of there. Fast. He ran out the building and to the public library. There was no chance of Ivan going there now, seeing as though he'd cancelled the study date, so it should be safe to research his own personal things. Little did he know that someone was following him, however.

You disgust me…you'll never be good enough... Natalya's voice raced through his head. Well he'd done it, hadn't he? He cancelled. And for what? Just so she would leave him alone?

You disgust me.

What was the use? All it had done was get Ivan pissed at him.

You'll never be good enough.

Alfred blinked, trying to get the stinging out his eyes. Why wouldn't her voice just leave him alone?

You DISGUST me you big, fat -!

"ARGH!" He shouted out loud, running faster. He needed to get farther away.

You'll NEVER be good enough.

Finally he reached the library. He entered in silence, eyes roaming for a hidden corner to dump his stuff at. Finding one alcove to the side, he walked over and deposited his backpack before making his way to the health section. Blue eyes scanned over books endlessly. The blonde needed a book that had food and caloric amount in it. Something that would tell him what was okay to eat, and what wasn't. Because on this diet he had currently, it ruled out practically everything. Tch, the voice sneered. You realize the chart isn't the law – it's a guideline. Bet you anything you can do better than a mere 900 calories.

Now that he thought about it, Alfred figured that 900 calories was a bit much…

He could obviously do better.

After all, the less he ate and the more he exercised would get him skinny faster. And summer was only two seasons away, too. By the rate he was losing weight, he'd still be fat. But with this new diet…

There was one! Right over there! Alfred grabbed the book and tucked it under his arm for safe-keeping. Now all he needed an exercise book before he could disappear into his alcove to read. Yeah, he realized he would probably need more than one source, but for now it was fine. The blonde didn't want to seem too conspicuous what with all these books.

Five minutes later, and Alfred was sitting down and reading, using the wall as something to lean on. His eyes hungrily took in the words listed on the page. Chicken meat, the book read, has a total of 306 calories for one cup.

The American got out a pen and jotted that on his hand. Then he flipped a few pages until he reached another interesting one.

White Rice has a total of 206 calories per cup, the words said.

Alfred jotted that down too.

And so on so forth it went for the next half an hour until the American had no more space to write on. Frowning, he set that book aside and got out the other one. He read about which kind of exercises burnt the most, which worked on the stomach area, which exercises were better than others, etcetera. While reading, he was shocked to find out that running burnt less calories than cycling. Actually, cycling seemed to be first on the list of highly-recommended exercises. It burnt up to 1,000 calories an hour. Such cut down wasn't possible with running for that time frame.

Cycling, Alfred mentally noted. I gotta keep that in mind.

Suddenly the book was wrenched out of his hands. "What the -?!" the teen exclaimed, looking to see who was the culprit.

It was none other than Ivan who stood there, flipping through the pages. When he was done, he turned to Alfred, a disappointed look on his face. "Funny you seeing here, Jones," he said coolly. "I thought something 'came up'."

"Braginsky," Alfred snarled, getting up. "What are you doing here?"

"I followed you."

"You what?!"

Ivan shrugged nonchalantly while Alfred gaped at him.

"What the fu - you know what? Whatever. Just give me my book back," the American demanded when he finally found his voice again.

"Nyet. Why should I?"

"Because that's my research you're holding!"

"Hmm what a shame."

Yeah well why the fuck did you follow me anyway? I'm the biggest shame you'll ever see! Alfred wanted to screech. "Look dude, I don't know about you, but that shit's important to me. So give. It. Back."

Ivan made a face. "Why are you reading this anyway?"

Anxiety crept in, silently finishing Ivan's trail of thought: Why aren't you reading your stupid little American comic books? The ones with the heroes who you'll never be?

"S-Stop being a dick and just give it back."

"Nyet."

And unexpectedly Alfred grew tired of it all. He didn't want to fight anymore. Not with Ivan, not about the books he read, not about his weight. He felt as if he didn't have any control in any of it anymore. Helpless. Defeated. Just so fucking done. "You know what?" he said, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulders, "Fine. Take the book. And take this one too." Then he shoved the book about food into Ivan's arms before walking out.

Wow, real mature Alfred. Way to fucking go. Do you want a medal? DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU'VE JUST DONE? He'll find out, tell people, and then BAM! People will think you're fucked in the head. "Stupid son of a bitch," they'll say. "He's a disgrace to his family, I'm sure." The voice berated. For Christ's sake, can't you go one day without fucking up?

"Hey wait! Alfred!"

Keep walking. That's it. Just walk away from all your problems.

"Alfred!"

Pain skyrocketed from where Ivan grabbed Alfred's arm. Alfred swore he felt the cut open up again, and he grit his teeth. Yanking his arm away (which hurt even more), he spun around and said, "Watch where you grab."

Ivan stood there frozen, his violet eyes wide. They glanced up from the hidden bandage to the American's face. Slowly, realization dawned on his features and he breathed, "Oh. Sorry."

"What do you want?"

"I want to know why you can't be honest with me."

The blonde gave a weak laugh. "Really? Dude, are you serious?"

"Da," the taller teenager replied seriously.

"It's because I don't trust you. I don't trust you at all. Now can you please just leave me alone?"

"Why did you cancel today? And don't you dare lie to me."

"I can't tell you, man."

Ivan sighed and got something out of his coat. It was a folded piece of paper, and when he opened it up, Alfred recognized it as his drawing. Immediately he paled and backed away. "Where – where did you get that?" The blue-eyed teen asked.

"Natalya," the violet-eyed teen answered simply. Then he shrugged and said, "She said she made this drawing for me. But obviously not, from the way you are reacting."

If he finds out that I drew that. If he finds out then I'm as good as dead. "I-I didn't draw that, if that's what you're implying…"

"Really? The figure in the middle kind of looks like you."

Anxiety distorted everything to: I don't believe you. And about that figure in the middle? Well, that ugly figure reminds me of you. Because you're ugly and disfigured and look absolutely lost. Get a life, loser.

Alfred ducked his head and didn't meet Ivan's eyes. How could he? They weren't equals. Ivan was better than him.

After a long moment, Ivan said, "So it was you who drew this." It wasn't a question, but a statement to which Alfred nodded dumbly.

Because what else could the shorter teenager do? Ivan knew now, and nothing would change that. No matter how many denials there were. That's what you get for drawing stupid things, the voice hissed. "Sorry," Alfred apologized hoarsely. Whether it was for the picture, or for the project, or for being an all-around screw up, he didn't know.

He coughed once to get rid of the lump in his throat and mumbled, "I…I gotta go, Ivan. See ya."

As the blonde turned to leave, a gentle hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to turn his head around. Blue eyes met violet ones, the latter appearing to search for something. It felt oddly…safe. Just being held captive in the gaze; and despite himself and their horrible history with each other, Alfred hoped Ivan could see the hidden message he was conveying. The one he couldn't ever say. The one he would never admit aloud.

Help me. Save me. I'm hurt. I'm alone. Be my friend. I need someone. I'm breaking apart at the seams. Breathe me.

After a moment, Ivan retracted his hand away almost as if he'd been stung. Then he turned and left, running a hand through his beige-colored hair.

The motion hurt Alfred so much he wanted to cry. So he asked – no, begged – for help the only way he could handle, and this was how it was received? By being frowned upon? Well what did you expect? The voice said bitterly. For him to be your knight in shining armor? To be your superhero? Face it, he's not going to be. Never was, never will. Why?

Because people don't ever change.

By the time Alfred got home, he felt numb all over again. He headed straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping the noise would cover what he was about to do. Then he rolled his sleeves up, took the newly (albeit secretly) bought razor, brought it up to his forearm, and sliced.

Pain rippled throughout his body and he felt alive again. He no longer felt numb. The blonde held his forearm under the water so the blood would drain away. It stung. After that, he washed the razor before turning off the shower. Quickly, he got a new bandage (having moved the First Aid Kit up to the bathroom) and wrapped it around the newly made cut. Taking a shuddering breath, he hid the materials again before walking out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

Alfred collapsed on top of his bed, feeling extremely guilty. He said he wouldn't do it again. He had promised his Aunt Michelle. Well…not exactly…but still. Somehow he felt as if he were letting her down. And not just her, but his whole family. The American felt as if he were punishing them simply for being related – however adoptive that may be.

He wished he could die. That way everyone would be free of him. To end it all would be so easy. No one would miss him. The only one Alfred could picture attending the funeral would be Aunt Michelle, and even then it was a stretch. His parents wouldn't come due to the embarrassment of having an imperfect stain on the family name. His brother wouldn't come due to being too busy with Gilbert. His ex-friends wouldn't come either. Not even his teachers would miss him or attend. Alfred would be buried alone, no one grieving.

Or maybe it would be the opposite. Maybe his parents would realize where they went wrong; their hearts being ripped into shreds of blame along the way. Maybe his brother would cry his heart out and regret not spending more time with him. His ex-friends would sob at how they shouldn't have ever let him get so far out of reach. His teachers would look at his empty seat and sigh. Alfred would be buried loved, everyone grieving.

Now everybody loves me, the blonde thought, smiling bitterly into his pillow.

But was it that kind of love he wanted?

Was it that kind of love he deserved?

Translations:

Zatyknisia – Shut up (Belarusian)

Šliucha – Slut/Whore (Belarusian)