A/N: I am never taking this long a break from this story again. NEVER. But I wanted to get the request up before I posted this short, new chapter (btw it's up now and called "Unexpected Bundle"; so if any of you are looking for something more light-hearted, there's that).

Admittedly, I've never had anorexia. That part is all based on imagination and research, so the fact that I'm getting this realistic makes me so relieved. I have anxiety, though, and it hits hardest when I'm out eating in public. I can't eat with other people there watching, but at the same time I can't eat alone. I have to constantly have a distraction. And I also have major anxiety around my friends. "Am I pretty enough? Do I eat too much? Is the reason why she's pissed because of me?" Things like that. I'm working on it, but I'm not sure it'll ever go away :/

Fedya = the Russian nickname for Alfred. (At least that's what I found on the Internet)

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

The first thing Ivan did the next time he saw Alfred was give him a hug. It happened right before the homeroom bell rang while the American was putting stuff away in his locker. It genuinely shocked Alfred so much, he didn't know what to do other than try to fight down the blush that was creeping up on his cheeks. Ivan was hugging him. Ivan was hugging him. And for what? Alfred didn't deserve it. He was just this giant hot mess that took up too much space.

Something in his heart broke – or maybe it was being fixed – when the Russian whispered, "Please don't do this to yourself. You're beautiful; you're smart; you're loved. Please, Fedya."

Am I? Alfred thought. Am I really all those things? Even now? When I'm so far gone that I cut and think about killing myself?

Yet despite the dark thoughts crowding his mind, the hug felt surprisingly nice. To be embraced like this…it hadn't happened in a long time. Aunt Michelle's hug was different than Ivan's – but maybe that was due to the American on the verge of meltdown back then. This hug felt comforting. Warm. And very much needed. See Alfred? Someone does care about you, a nice voice said tenderly. You're important.

And Alfred, for a split second, believed it.

But then Ivan pulled away and the warmth felt gone and guilt came crashing over Alfred for even enjoying the hug and Ivan was looking at him with such tenderness and Alfred felt the world closing in because he. Didn't. Deserve. Any of it. Now people were staring at them and whispering. Oh god what were they saying? Natalya was there, fury in her eyes, and Alfred knew his world would become a living hell because he had failed at pushing Ivan away. But hey, he deserved that.

The bell rang; someone laughed. Ivan waved goodbye and left. "Don't go!" Alfred wanted to say. "Don't go! …I'll be alone again."

You were always alone to begin with, the mean voice sneered.

But he didn't say any of those things. He didn't want to seem desperate. So the American just stood there, looking at the direction where the Russian had left, feeling lost.

True to her word, Natalya successfully made Alfred's life even more miserable. People started to poke fun at him; nasty rumors about him skyrocketed; he even got a few hate texts, although god knew how they got his number. Even classmates and former friends turned on him simply because they believed the lies. In short, Alfred became a target at school for harassment.

Weeks passed by slowly, and in that time a number of things happened. Aunt Michelle left; and Alfred was distressed to see her go back to Manhattan, where she lived. He didn't know who else he could turn to now. Ivan was out of the question; whenever he was around him, anxiety levels spiked even more. He couldn't turn to his papa; the Frenchman would only pity him and try to make him eat. So the only thing Alfred could do to let go was get out his razor blade.

Or exercise. Alfred had persuaded his parents to let him go to the gym, saying that he wanted to become healthier. While Francis was suspicious, Arthur found no problem with it and let him. "It's about time," the Brit had remarked.

So now Alfred worked out there every day. He cycled, he jumped rope, he ran, he did aerobics. Anything that let him lose a lot of calories. And the best part about it was that the machines counted the caloric loss; so he knew exactly how much he was losing. Add the heavy exercising to his restrictive diet of less than 900 calories, and the American was losing weight. Fast. By the time he hit the eighth week, Alfred had lost a total of 46 pounds; leaving him at about 122 pounds. In order to hide his major weight loss, the American wore baggy sweatshirts and baggy jeans. No one questioned it. After all, it was winter.

Alfred's clay project was done. It was an ugly mask; deformed with cracks in it. The smile was too wide; and the nose looked like Pinocchio's. He hated it. So he painted the nose and smile red, the cracks black, and the eyes teardrop blue. Then he added the word "Liar" on the forehead in bright red. It was ugly. It didn't deserve to be in the room. Signor Vargas' eyes even widened when he saw it, and he suggested (in private) that Alfred go see a counselor. The American refused, saying he didn't need "help". The Italian man had just looked at him incredulously.

The history project was nearing its due date too. As the end of the marking period drew closer, Alfred found himself spending more time with Ivan. Of course it was just to finish, and they never really did anything that wasn't school related, but that didn't quell the bullies. The tormentors always attacked hardest after the American hung out with the Russian. "Hey faggot!" One of them would say. "Anything interesting happen? Huh?"

Alfred tried to ignore them...

"I said answer me dammit!"

…in hopes that maybe they'd stop…

"You're a freak! Natalya was right."

…but they never did.

Some days, the blonde didn't want to get out of bed. And it wasn't because of the bullies. Bullies, he could bear with. The real reason he didn't want to get out of bed was that he didn't have the energy to. It physically hurt to move sometimes; to walk felt like his muscles were on fire; to stand would give him cramps. Francis had been worried when Alfred had started to complain. He even went so far as to suggest going to the doctor – which his son had quickly objected to. So instead, he had just gotten some over-the-counter pain medication for him. The meds helped greatly, and soon Alfred didn't have such a want to stay in bed all day due to physical pain. However, he still felt his energy ebbing away. But he blamed it on the morning time and not his lack of food.

"I will be skinny," he whispered to himself one night. "I won't be fat anymore."

Alfred felt depressed. It didn't take much to trigger the feeling either. Which was silly, because Alfred was so not depressed. Depressed people lay in bed all day, self-pitying their existence. Depressed people either lost a lot of weight or gained a lot of weight. Depressed people felt alone and scared and helpless and worthless and, well, depressed. They felt as if their lives weren't worth living. Suicidal. And most times, the depressed person didn't even know they were depressed. Depression had many different outlets: the classic I-don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed; or shopping-for-a-temporary-high; or one-more-cut; or one-more-pill; or I-like-to-joke-about-my-shitty-feelings-and-get-people-to-laugh.

Alfred wasn't depressed, he was just temporarily down. When he'd reach his weight goal, he'd come out of his sadness. He was sure of it.

"Loser!"

"Fatso!"

"Man whore!"

"I heard you fucked Ivan last night. Is that true?"

All these shouts. All these voices. All these accusations. Every one of them aimed at him. The American wanted to disappear. His stomach clenched, his eyes were on fire, his throat felt swollen. They were all true, weren't they? Except for the fucking and whore parts, but other than that…

He thought he would've been over this by now. Two and a half months of torture and he should've been used to it. But he wasn't. Because each word hurt so much. His razor was his best friend now, they saw each other at least once every other week. His forearms were littered in cuts, each one slowly getting deeper than the last. One time, Matthew had seen them. "Alfred!" The Canadian had gasped. "What happened to your arm?"

Alfred had yanked his sleeve down. "Oh nothing," he lied, shrugging his shoulders for good measure. "I just tripped and fell."

His brother had believed it, although Alfred wished he hadn't.

And now here he was, at school, his cuts itching beneath his shirt. He was walking with his head down, and he almost made it to homeroom, when someone called, "Mr. Jones!"

Alfred flinched and turned around. What did I do? He thought when he saw a teacher walk towards him. He recognized it as one of the school counselors, Mrs. Héderváry. "M-Me?" He stuttered, pointing to himself.

"Yes you," the teacher said, patting down her hair. "Mind walking with me for a bit?"

"Um, I have cla –"

"Don't worry about class. I'll write you a pass, okay?"

"O-Okay."

The bell rang and soon the hallway was emptied. The two walked down to her office in silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Once they stepped inside the room, Mrs. Héderváry closed the door and sat down on her chair. Alfred still stood awkwardly by the door, unsure of whether or not to sit down. The counselor noticed this and motioned for him to take a seat, smiling. "Don't be shy, I won't bite," she said.

So Alfred sat. "Aren't you Gilbert's counselor?" He asked, slowly remembering his ex-friend lament over what a bitch she was.

Mrs. Héderváry rolled her eyes. "Yeah. He is very…headstrong."

If he's headstrong, then what am I to her? What is she thinking of me? The blonde wondered, terrified. "Cool," he managed to say.

The counselor shrugged before focusing her green eyes solely on Alfred. "How are you doing?" She asked.

"I'm fine." Came the automatic reply. "You?"

"I'm worried to be honest. It's been brought to my attention that you have been bullied as of late?"

"Wait what?"

Rude much? The voice scoffed.

"Alfred, I want you to know that my office is a safe place. Whatever you say in here, will stay in here. I promise."

That's just what she wants you to think.

"Okay…"

Don't trust her.

"Good. Now, have you been bullied?"

Don't you dare tell her!

"…Sorta…but don't worry, I'm used to it," Alfred lied, smiling for emphasis.

Mrs. Héderváry frowned and her eyes looked troubled. "You're used to it?" She repeated.

"Uh huh. It doesn't bother me."

"Okay. Are you doing alright at home? Everything okay there?"

Alfred hesitated. Was everything fine? Between the yelling and the arguing and the cutting and the crying, was it? The American looked down and played with his sleeves, wondering if he could tell the truth. The whole truth – not just parts of it – and nothing but the truth. No. No it's not. My parents fight, my brother's hardly there anymore, I feel so freaking alone all the time. But hey, at least no one is hitting me, right? Or like, abusing me. People have it worse. So don't worry about me, 'kay? I'm not fine.

"N –" the blonde started to say, then stopped himself. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? He didn't need to do this. And what could Mrs. Héderváry do about it anyway? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then again, what did he have to lose? Nothing. "No," he finished slowly.

Mrs. Héderváry wrote something down. "Do you want to talk about it?" She questioned softly.

Did he? Yes. He did. He really, really did.

Attention whore, the voice hissed.

Biting his lip, he looked around the room. The lamp, the desk, the American flag, the small Hungarian flag, anywhere but her face. I want to, he wanted to say. I really want to because everything is bottled up inside and its eating me up and my world's crumbling and I can't freaking deal for much longer. But at the same time, it would be selfish to talk to you about my problems; and I'm trying to be selfless.

I'm trying. Yet no one sees that. All people at school see is a big, fat, gay slut. All my parents see is a failure. All my brother sees is someone to come running to for relationship advice. All I see is the exact opposite of what I'm striving for.

I hurt myself SI style. Take the razor and just watch the blood spill out. The pain keeps me alive. It reminds me that I'm alive. And I hate that. Everything would be better off if I were dead, you know what I'm saying? Like, you wouldn't have to be burdened by me or whatever. Ha, I bet Natalya would love it if I died. She'd dance on my grave.

I know this is so off-topic, but Natalya's what started the bullying. She saw Ivan hugging me and totally flipped her shit. I guess I deserve it, cuz you know. I'm not good enough. I'm also an easy target. The guy with no friends whose fat and can't eat a proper freaking meal. Perfect, amiright?

Please stop looking at me like that, it's making me nervous. I can't tell what you're thinking. I feel like everything's my fault. I feel so trapped; like I'm in a cage and everybody's watching me and I can't freaking relax or breathe or –

"Alfred? Alfred are you alright?" Mrs. Héderváry asked.

Alfred looked at her with wide eyes; he hadn't realized that he had been hyperventilating. "I'm – I'm sorry. I just. I – I don't." He stuttered. "Y-Yeah. I just don't know what got into me, ha ha." A humorless laugh followed.

Green eyes studied him with care – and Alfred found himself wanting those eyes to belong to his dad, not some counselor. But he knew that was wishful thinking because his dad never really cared about him. I CAN'T STAND HIM! A memory screamed.

"If I may ask, what were you thinking of just now?" The Hungarian asked.

"Just a project for school," Alfred lied.

"I see. Do you want to talk about it? You must be feeling a lot of stress."

"Nah. I don't want you to worry about me, Mrs. Héderváry."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a silly project and there's like, no use talking about it."

"I don't think it's silly."

Alfred shrugged and looked at the clock. The period was a quarter done. "May I go now?" he pleaded.

Mrs. Héderváry sighed and jotted something down on a pass. Handing it to him, she said, "You can always come talk to me about anything. It's a judgment-free zone."

Anxiety creeped in: You can come back, but you'll be judged. Or, you know what, don't come back at all; since you were unwilling to cooperate. I don't like you. This is just my job.

"…Okay."

"Have a nice day, Alfred."

"You too."

Alfred walked out, feeling guilty. He missed his chance for help because of what? He was being too stubborn? Too difficult? What was it that always held him back? He almost turned around and went back there, but decided against it. You don't need help, the voice spoke. You've got me. And you are fine – just unspeakably fat.

"Am I though?" He mumbled, walking up the staircase. "Am I fine?"

Stop with the self-pity! It gets you nowhere! Yes, you are fine. Stop acting like you're not. Dear god you're so pathetic and weak.

Alfred bit his lip. The voice was right. He didn't need help. What had he been thinking? He hadn't, as per usual. He hadn't been thinking.

And it had almost cost him everything.