A/N: Over 300 reviews? Dang. I never expected it to reach this high with the reviews. Let alone having all these favorites and follows too. Thank you all so much! And for the kind words you people said. They honestly made my heart swell so big I thought it'd burst. Here's an extra long chapter for you guys :3

Sadly, I'm thinking after this chapter that there's only gonna be 2 more chapters. At the very most 3, depending on how long the chapters are. I now know exactly what is going to happen and how it'll end. All the chappies are already planned out too. (Hopefully none of you will flame me for the ending).

In reply to WhiteOrchidChinadoll: Go for it! I really would like to read it. But you'll have to give me credit. Also, please please please make sure that if you use Alfred, he's anorexic. Those two things are all I ask. Thank you :)

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

The second Alfred walked in the house, he knew something was wrong. The whole atmosphere felt shaken up, heavy, and serious. And when he threw his backpack by the stairs he heard murmurs coming from the living room. So quiet were the murmurs that he couldn't distinguish who they belonged to and what they were saying. Immediately, a hundred different thoughts ran through the teen's mind; so he tried to silently make his way upstairs. No such luck was given, however. "Alfred," his brother's hoarse voice called out. "Come in the living room; we need to talk."

The blonde cringed and didn't move. If they don't hear me, then they won't know I'm here, he thought.

"Alfred, I know you're there. You had closed the door pretty loudly," his dad explained from the other room.

Closing his eyes, Alfred counted to ten. He did not want to see his family right then. His family were the least people he wanted to see. But he had to otherwise he'd get ripped into. "Be right there!" He replied. He hoped his voice didn't sound as frightened as he felt.

What do they want? What did I do wrong? The American pondered.

Upon entering the living room, he saw Arthur seated next to Francis and – surprise, surprise – Matthew seated on the floor. Each one of them had a grave expression on their faces, yet his brother looked the most unsettled. Briefly Alfred wondered if his parents were also as upset, but then dismissed it when he concluded that they were, in fact, not. Again anxiety coursed in him when he suddenly was hit by the revelation that it was because of him that they were all like this. He had unsettled them somehow. But what did I do? The blonde wondered frantically. What did I screw up this time?

He sat on the edge of the nearest sofa – which was right across from his parents and brother – and tried not to tremble. "Um, hi guys?" He greeted.

Idiot, the voice growled. What kind of greeting was that?!

"H-HI Al-Alfred," Matthew stuttered, looking as if he were about to cry.

Francis put a hand on the Canadian's shoulder in a form of comfort. "Shhh, it is okay, Mathieu. Don't worry. Your father and I will take care of this," he soothed.

Matthew nodded weakly.

Oh god what did I do? Alfred panicked. Knots formed in his stomach and he wrapped his arms around his gut, hugging himself. After all, this was the only form of comfort he was going to get. He always had to console himself nowadays since hardly anyone was ever there. And whenever knots formed, hugging them always seemed to help a little.

But not now. Now it didn't.

Arthur looked Alfred dead in the eye. "We – Francis and I – got a phone call today," he stated blatantly.

"Oh?"

Please don't let it be from school…

"It was from the school. They wanted to check up on us - see if everything is on par."

…I knew it. Shit shit shit shit.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. He shouldn't have said anything to Mrs. Héderváry. He shouldn't have said no. He should have said yes. Lied to her. Told her he was truly fine. That his parents treated him well. That he wasn't bullied. Insist not to call home. Begged her not to call home. But he hadn't done any of those things; and now he was stuck with this conversation. "And is it?" He asked.

"You tell me," his dad replied flatly.

Alfred didn't want to answer, so he looked away to study the ground. NO! NO IT'S NOT! YOU TREAT ME LIKE SHIT BECAUSE YOU HATE ME! ALL DAY EVERY DAY! YOU TELL ME IF THAT'S ON PAR.

"Alfred."

"What else did they say?" The blonde asked, changing subject.

Francis sighed. "They have also informed us that you've been getting bullied. Care to explain?"

Care to explain why you're such a fuck up? Care to explain why you've attracted bullies? Care to explain how much at fault you are? Anxiety distorted.

"What's there to explain? I get bullied, yeah. No big deal."

Alfred looked up with wide eyes when he heard Matthew let out a strangled cry. Perfect Matthew looked beautifully awful. He had his uniquely colored eyes filled with unshed tears; a hand to his mouth to try and stop the crying; and his whole body racked with quiet sobs. Honestly, Screwed-Up Alfred didn't know what the big deal was. Someone shouldn't be crying because their brother got bullied, they should be angry – no. They should be furious – that their kin was getting treated so badly. And what was it to the Canadian anyway? They never spent much time together. Why was Matthew crying? There was no need.

Biting his lip, Alfred watched as Francis got off the couch to sit next to the older teen. Then the Frenchman pulled the Canadian into a hug, and whispered, "Ne pleures plus. Tout ira bien."

This caused Matthew to nod.

"Let it all out," Arthur gently said, looking at the two on the floor. "It's alright."

Alfred hugged himself tighter. It felt like a knife was thrown at his stomach. He remembered when Francis had embraced him like that. It had felt safe and nice, but had stopped when he had reached his teenage years. From time to time he found himself missing it, but no matter how hard he cried, his papa wouldn't hold him like that anymore. And Arthur never really comforted him. Once or twice on occasion, but even then it was a light pat on the back. He never uttered kind words to him, just a harsh, "Grow up. Men don't cry."

So Alfred stopped crying around them.

Now, looking at the scene before him, the American felt his heart snap in half. They were treating Matthew with such love. And the funny part was, was that Matthew wasn't even broken. He had everything Alfred could only dream of having. Loving parents, a boyfriend, a nice body, perfect grades, no enemies. Everything was there. So why was he crying?

Alfred felt tears well up and Arthur quickly glanced at him, cold as ice. Look what you've done. He's crying because of you, his eyes seemed to say. Now don't you even think about sobbing! You have nothing to sob for, you worthless piece of shit!

The American wiped his eyes, ashamed. Taking in a shuddering breath, he averted his eyes again. "Can I go now?" He pleaded. I want my razor in my hands. I want to hurt myself. I need a break from this.

"Can't you see how distressed your brother is?" Arthur questioned.

"Y-Yes. But –"

"But nothing! This is because of you; so don't you dare ask for anything right now, young man!"

"N-No Dad," Matthew cut in weakly, still crying. "Don't – don't blame Alfred. He didn't do anything. It's – It's my fault, really."

"Don't say such things," the Brit snapped. "How the bloody hell is it your fault?"

"I was the one crying. Alfred –"

"Alfred was the one who caused you to cry."

"Non, he wasn't. I just have a lot going on right now."

And I don't? Alfred thought selfishly.

"But he was the straw who broke the camel's back, so to speak."

No argument came from the Canadian.

Alfred reluctantly looked back at his brother. When he saw that Matthew had pushed Francis out of the hug, he felt a sudden surge of anger. Didn't his brother see how lucky he was?! To be held like that didn't happen very often! If that had been him, he wouldn't have ever let go. Never ever. But when it came down to it, that hadn't been him. That would never be him. "I'm sorry for making you cry," Alfred apologized bitterly.

Matthew sniffed and shook his head. "Don't be," he replied, wiping his eyes.

"So you're being bullied, yet you haven't bothered telling us this?" Francis questioned, changing the subject.

Alfred shook his head no. "I'm used to it."

"What kind of things have they been saying?"

A shrug. "Nothing really. They've called me names, spread rumors."

"About?"

About me being a slut. But I can't tell you that otherwise you might think it's true. The teen thought, dismayed. So he lied, "That I cut. They call me emo and weird shit like that."

Arthur hitched his breath before walking out of the room, running a hand through his hair. A door closed, and all was still. Guess I'm not worth his time, Alfred mused sadly. It hurt him, but that had to be expected, right? Since his dad never cared about him anyway, this should be normal.

Francis sighed and closed his eyes. "And do you harm yourself?" He inquired idly.

"No."

Liar. You want to right now. Don't deny it.

Matthew watched Alfred sadly, a frown on his face. "Why did Dad leave?" He asked suddenly, turning to his papa.

But Francis just shook his head. "Alfred," he said, changing subject. "Is there anything else we should know?"

The teen shifted nervously and thought, Yeah. That I hate myself. That I need to constantly lose weight. That I think I'm fat. That I do cut. That it hurts to live. That I have this voice in my head that tells me to be better all the time. That I want to die. That I'm a burden to you. The last one you already knew though.

But what's the use of telling you my problems? You obviously won't do anything. You won't hold me like Matthew. YOU WON'T CARE. I'll tell them to you and then whoosh! They fly right out the window. I'm being selfish for telling you too. Majorly selfish. I can fix these problems on my own. No self-pity here.

…But I'm afraid that if I tell you everything, you'll try to fix me. And if I'm fixed and not broken, who am I? Who? This is a part of me now and as much as I hate it I can't be without it because this me; this is who I am! I'm Screw-Up Alfred. I'm Fatass Alfred. I'm Everything-Everyone-Despises. I'd be lost without this constant need to be skinny. And I hate it! I hate it I hate it I hate it!

It's just that I want to tell you something. I want to be fixed.

It's just that I don't want to tell you anything. I don't want to be fixed.

Shaking his head, Alfred replied, "No."

Francis opened his eyes and took a long look at his son. "Okay. About the bullies –"

"Don't worry about it, Papa. I'm used to it. I'll be okay."

Matthew stared at him. "No." He forcefully said, tears once again welling in his eyes. "Don't say that! Don't you dare say that again!"

"Say what?"

"That you're okay – that you're used to it. Don't. You. Dare. You can't keep living like this, Al! Look at yourself! You're skinny as heck, yet you still want to lose more. You're always missing meal times. You're always looking so depressed and afraid. Just stop it already! Okay? Stop it!"

Alfred clenched his fists as he looked at his distressed brother, feeling nothing but sudden fury. Why did his brother always have to lie to him? What happened to the distance they had kept? "Why the fuck do you care?!" He yelled. "All you say to me nowadays is Gilbert this and Gilbert that. There's never anything else! NEVER! Excuse me if I don't want to talk about your boy toy!"

"But all you talk about is food!"

"Haven't I always? That's what's gotten me fat to begin with!"

"It's becoming an obsession."

"I am not obsessed!"

"Yes, you are –"

Francis got up and intervened. "ENOUGH!" He roared. When both his sons stopped yelling at each other and only settled for harsh glares, he continued in a deadly calm voice, "Alfred, Matthew is right. It is becoming obsessive. At the same time –"

"You know what?" Alfred interrupted, getting up. "Fuck. This. Matthew is always right and I'm always wrong. That's just how it works here, huh?" Upon seeing Francis open his mouth, he said, "Don't bullshit me. I know it's true. And Arthur – Arthur doesn't give two shits what I do! Everything I do is a failure in his eyes."

"No-o. Al-Alfred that's not t-true," Matthew blubbered through tears.

"Don't you dare fucking cry again, Matthew!"

"Alfred!" Francis reprimanded.

"I-I can't help it if I feel I'm going to lose a br-brother," Matthew countered back before fleeing to his room, sobbing. Francis gave one sharp glare at the American before going after the Canadian.

Alfred angrily stared at the place where they had occupied. It wasn't fair. His brother got to be comforted – got to be hugged – and what did he get? Nothing. Even though he was the broken one, he got nothing. No form of consolation. No gentle looks. N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

Selfish, the voice hissed.

The teen bit back an angry shout and stomped out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

A week passed and the blonde continued to drop the pounds. Five pounds gone. Six pounds gone. Seven. Eight. No matter how much he lost, it wasn't enough. Not to him anyway. He still wanted to lose more. So he started another diet called the ABC Diet. Alfred had read it wasn't recommend, in fact it was dangerous, but it was the diet with the least caloric intake he could find. On the diet, the most he could eat was only 500 calories – which he totally ignored and decided to go less than. Why? Because it made him feel in control.

And Alfred loved feeling in control.

He didn't get the chance to feel like that very much. Amidst his home life where his dad was the one with the reigns; and school where Ivan along with the bullies controlled what he did; eating and exercising seemed like the only thing he had control over in his life. And even though he put himself through hell every day, it was a beautiful kind of pain. He didn't enjoy it, but he would when the results came in.

Speaking of school, the project's due date came across. Alfred honestly didn't give a single fuck about it, focusing more and more of his attention on his weight. On the Thursday afternoon of the presentation, the American skipped and went to the gym instead. Ivan would be pissed, he knew. But that was Ivan's problem and not his, so he didn't worry too much.

Friday morning showed its face, and Alfred was almost too scared to face Ivan. And when he saw him, he quickly ran in the opposite direction. Coward, the voice sneered. You'll have to see him in History.

When History finally did roll around, the Russian took his sat beside the tense American. After about two moments of silence, the bigger teen remarked, "You weren't there yesterday. I had to present on my own."

"Um," Alfred replied, feeling guilty.

"It really was a shame; you would have done wonderfully."

"No I wouldn't have."

"Da, you would have. Your communist point of view was on point."

Alfred looked at Ivan. "Dude, in case you don't know this, but I can't present anything to the class. Much less participate."

Ivan looked blankly back. "Why not?"

"It's something called 'laying low' and 'not-giving-people-more-ammo'. Basic survival, ya know?"

Much to the blonde's surprise, the beige-haired teen nodded slowly. "Do not worry, Fedya. It will get better," he consoled. "They will stop eventually."

Will they though? Alfred wondered. Out loud he asked, "So you're not upset with me?"

"Of course I'm upset. You ditched me, da?"

"Yeah…"

Selfish.

Five more weeks passed and Alfred was struggling. Not with school – school was just a place he haunted now – but with himself. During the day, he'd suddenly feel dizzy and have to stop what he was doing in order to not faint. It was frustrating; especially while he was working out. Not only was he having dizzy spells, but also fatigue ones too. Some days it was so bad he couldn't even get out of bed. On those days Arthur would come in and lecture him on how irresponsible he was behaving and that he held no sympathy for him.

On the upside, Alfred now weighed at 108 pounds. He would have lost more had he not lain in bed some days. His metabolism was also slowing down, and soon he couldn't get past the horrible number of 108. Something told him that was wrong, but he didn't have enough energy to fight with himself over it. Once he gained more energy, he was sure his metabolism would come back and he could lose more.

He hated looking in the mirror more than ever. Yeah, his ribs and hip bones showed a little. And yeah, his fingers were bony and his cheekbones looked defined. But his stomach – at least in his eyes – still held some fat. And that was unacceptable. Not to mention the unexplained hair loss that occurred. "Dear fat," Alfred said, looking down at his stomach. "Get the fuck off my body."

Yet it didn't seem to.

In the very back of the blonde's mind, he knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew he looked like a walking skeleton. But he couldn't stop. It was addictive – losing weight – and Alfred was afraid that he now could no longer control it. He felt as if he couldn't tell himself to stop. "YOU HAVE A PROBLEM!" He screeched to the mirror one night when he was alone. "YOU HAVE A PROBLEM, YOU FAT SON OF A BITCH! WAKE UP! STOP HAVING THIS PROBLEM!"

But he couldn't stop.

It was affecting his family too. Matthew didn't want to look at him anymore; Arthur was revolted by him thereby treating him more harshly; and Francis desperately tried to get him to eat. Alfred remembered one night where he had overheard his parents talking about him. "I can't stand to see him anymore, Francis!" Arthur had wailed. "He's skin and bones."

"I know; believe me I know." Francis had replied gravely.

"It's just – why? Why does he have to constantly lose weight? It's killing him. Just what is he trying to prove?"

There was a silence as the Frenchman thought. Finally, he slowly had said, "Anorexia."

"What?" Arthur had asked.

"I think – no, I'm fairly certain – he has anorexia."

"Bollocks. He doesn't have an ED. Eating disorders are for females."

"Non. They happen in males too."

"Tch, well you're no doctor or therapist so how should you know?"

"Observation."

Another silence. Then an anguished moan. "I refuse to believe that this is Scott all over again," the Brit had argued. "Dear god when Alfred told us what his classmates were saying, my memories…"

"It won't be like your brother. I promise," Francis had said softly.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well I found a card in his room with a therapist's name on it. I think we should –"

"No, I don't want a stupid therapist getting involved."

"But if we don't do something –"

"Save it. I don't want to hear it."

An exasperated sigh followed, but the Frenchman didn't say anything more.

In the end, Alfred hadn't gone to the therapist. Though a small part wished his papa had taken him.

The following Tuesday was bleak and gloomy. Rain came down hard enough to where Alfred took the bus to and from school. It irked him, but he didn't want to get sick.

He fell asleep in History while the teacher lectured about the Korean War. Ivan woke him up just before the bell and asked if he was alright; to which the American replied he was merely tired. That was true in both ways – he felt fatigue, and he was tired of living. What more was there?

His anxiety levels were still present, however he found a way to cope with them that didn't involve cutting. Cutting, the blonde had come to find out, only made him dizzier from blood loss. So he tried to reserve the blade only for numbness. All the same, it was hard. His razor had become his comfort and reliever, without them he felt overwhelmed. Alfred couldn't talk about his feelings to anyone – no one would understand. No one would want to hear his problems. Everyone had enough of their own.

Walking back to his house from the bus stop, Alfred felt as happy as the weather. There you go again, the voice chided. Moping in self-pity. What a shock.

The teenage boy sighed in response.

Coming up the driveway, he noticed two things. One, his dad standing on the porch watching him. And two, that Francis' car was gone. Instantly memories of when he broke his arm flowed through his mind. None of them were good, and to say that Alfred became wary was an understatement. "Hi Dad," he greeted quietly, walking up the porch steps.

Arthur's green eyes narrowed. "You didn't think to bring an umbrella?" He hissed.

"I thought the rain would stop."

"Well obviously it didn't. Quit being so stupid, Alfred."

"Sorry," the teen mumbled, going inside.

Arthur followed him and closed the door. Putting his hands on his hips, he said, "I need to have a word with you."

Uh oh. You pissed him off now, the voice snickered.

"Um –" Alfred began before being cut off.

"What the sodding hell is wrong with you? You're grades are dropping, the school calls because you skip classes, and lately you've been irritable. These problems never existed when you were little! What have you been doing?"

"Look –"

"It was a rhetorical question, dumbass! I know exactly what you've been doing. And let me tell you that it's not worth it. You're throwing away your future; you're chance to go to college; your life. For what?! What reason are you doing all this for?"

To make you proud, Alfred thought. To be in control for once.

"Answer me, Alfred!"

"I-I want –" The teen began.

"'I want this' and 'I want that'; always so needy," his dad sneered. "It's pathetic. You're pathetic."

Alfred hung his head in shame. He didn't want to be needy. He didn't want to be pathetic.

Arthur didn't end there though. "Alfred, look at yourself! You're a twig!" He exclaimed. "Do you know what this leads to? Do you? Death. That's what it leads to. Do you want that?"

"I'm not going to die," Alfred whispered.

"Oh really? How much longer can your body take this shit treatment? You've been doing this for ages now, don't you think it's time to stop?"

"No. I wa – need to be skinny."

Then Arthur did something Alfred hadn't ever experienced before:

He broke down.

The blue-eyed teen stood there, watching as his father leaned against the door with closed eyes. Arthur put a hand on his mouth to keep from weeping aloud, although his shoulders quivered slightly from them. Tears streamed down his face and he bowed his head, ashamed. For the first time in Alfred's life, he saw his dad in pain. He saw what he was doing to him. Alfred had broken Arthur. He had killed him on the inside. After all there was only so much a man could take.

Feeling majorly guilty at making his dad cry, the teen gently – albeit awkwardly – reached out a hand and touched the British man's shoulders. It was supposed to be comforting, but apparently it only made his dad flinch away. "Get out, Scott," Arthur ordered through muffled hands.

"Dad?" Alfred asked, eyes wide and backing up.

"I SAID GET OUT! LEAVE! I CAN'T DEAL WITH YOU ANYMORE! PACK YOUR THINGS AND JUST GO AWAY!" Arthur yelled. "I WON'T HAVE ANOTHER ONE IN THIS FAMILY! I WILL NOT STAND FOR IT! GET OUT!"

Frightened, Alfred fled to his room. Tears streamed down his own face as he hurriedly got out his suitcase and started to throw clothes in. He hadn't meant for it to be this way. He hadn't wanted to get kicked out.

Running to the bathroom, the teen quickly grabbed his shampoo, conditioner, body wash, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb. After brief hesitation, he also took his First Aid Kit and razor. Then he threw them all in a plastic bag and tied it up, taking it back to his room. He emptied his backpack, figuring that he wouldn't need to take his school supplies with him. The red notebook fell out; and when he saw it, he threw it in the trash. He didn't care anymore.

Quickly he stuffed his backpack with the plastic bag and various other possessions. A picture of him and Matthew, his iPod, his charger, his wallet that contained 50 dollars. Once he was sure he had packed everything he needed, he took one last look about the room.

Then he left.

It only took him 20 minutes.

Arthur was waiting by the door. Alfred desperately wanted him to say, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I was angry. I'm not going to kick you out. I love you." But the Brit didn't, instead slamming the door once Alfred was outside in the rain.

Where am I going to go? The American thought, standing on the porch.

Michelle, a reassuring voice told him. Go to Aunt Michelle.

But she's all the way in Manhattan, there's no way. Alfred replied hopelessly.

Take a train; you have just enough money, the nice voice pointed out.

Taking a shuddering breath, the blonde nodded and started to walk away. Whipping out his phone, he dialed his aunt's number. "Please pick up," he pleaded. "Please."

"Hello?" A familiar voice answered after a moment.

"H-Hi Aunt Michelle," Alfred greeted, wiping his eyes.

"Alfred! It's so nice to hear from you. How have you been?"

"Not so great. Is it okay if I come over to your place for a while?"

"What? What's going on? Are you alright? Did something happen?"

She's not going to want to take me in.

"It's just…I did something stupid and Arthur got kinda…upset."

"Oh."

And uncomfortable silence followed. She doesn't want me, the teen realized. She's going to tell me no.

Something rustled in the background, and finally the islander said, "Sure thing, Alfie. Do you want me to come get you…?"

"No, it's okay. I'll take a train down." The teen hastily reassured.

"That's going to be at least a four hour ordeal if you were to leave from downtown Boston."

"I know."

"Do you have enough money?"

"Yeah, I think."

"Okay. What time will you be arriving?"

What time will you be arriving so I can enjoy what's left of the good times? Anxiety translated.

"I don't know," Alfred admitted sheepishly. "I haven't had time to book anything."

Stupid.

"Alright well, let me know when you do," Aunt Michelle said. "Right now I've got to go. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay."

"Bye, Alfred. Love you."

Anxiety twisted it to: No I don't.

"Bye, Aunt Michelle." Alfred managed to say through his suddenly swollen throat before ending the call. Rubbing his eyes to stop the newfound tears, he told himself to stop crying. Crying was useless. Crying got him nowhere. So what if he got kicked out? That happened to other teens throughout the world. He wasn't special.

There was no reason to cry.

Translation(s):

Ne pleures plus. Tout ira bien – Don't cry anymore. Everything is fine. (French) [Special thanks to Rikka Yomi for correcting it]