A/N: IT'S THE LAST CHAPTER! CAN I GET A "WHOOP WHOOP!"? To be totally honest, this is my longest fanfiction EVER and I FINISHED IT. *Pops champagne* I'm so proud of myself *cries happily*

One, last, big ginormous thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favorite, and followed! The reviews - whether they were for every chapter since the beginning, or newer ones, or even just a random review - all helped shape the story and kept it going. So THANK YOU. I couldn't have asked for a better viewers :D

Ya'll are gonna hate me for the end though…

Oh! I also want to make this an actual published story. Of course I'd have to change the characters and the plot and make it more dynamic, but the basis of the story would stay the same. "Breathe Me" serving as a guideline of sorts. What do you people think? Would you read it?

I know this Author Note is ridiculously long, but one more thing. This story was based off the song "Breathe Me" by Sia. It's such an amazing, heart-wrenching song.

I think that's it. Until next time, readers! Maple out! *disappears in a puff of air*

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

Aunt Michelle's apartment was comfortably sized and slightly disorganized. Light blue paint adorned the walls along with a few pictures. Alfred had always known his aunt to be into photography and fashion (she took pictures for a modeling company to make a living); but from the way her apartment was decorated, he never would have guessed. The only pictures on the wall were of family and friends instead of models; the only thing to give any indication of her work was a single mannequin by the large window. That, and a high-end camera lying on the kitchen island near sprawled out magazines and books.

The kitchen itself was small yet comfortable. The sight of a fruit bowl on the wooden counter made Alfred's stomach growl and he found he desperately wanted a pear. Yet he didn't want the extra calories. And how rude of him to just take food out of the kitchen? He was a guest! Guests didn't eat unless offered. It was only common courtesy after all. No, he shouldn't eat. At all.

Then why did he have the sudden impulse to?

"…And here's the living room," Aunt Michelle said, gently pulling on her nephew's thin arm.

Blue eyes slowly studied the area. Like the kitchen, it was small in a comfortable fashion. A lone leather couch was placed in front of the medium-sized television. Bookshelves were pushed against the walls half-empty. Vaguely, Alfred thought of the disapproving look Arthur would've cast it. A bookshelf always had to be full in the Brit's eyes.

Just thinking of the man made the teen feel weighted down. He'd let his father down. His weight loss hadn't pleased the green-eyed man – it had revolted him. Then again, nothing the boy ever did pleased him. Not anymore. Alfred should've been used to the treatment; he should have seen the ending situation coming.

But he hadn't.

Tears pricked his eyes and he wiped them off angrily.

"Your bedroom is this way," Aunt Michelle instructed, casting him a worried glance.

The door she opened was to a little room with a window. Its walls were white instead of blue and a soft-shaded yellow bed was pushed up against the wall; a nightstand placed near it. The closet was on the other side – thankfully without a mirror – as was the dresser. It was all very simple and plain. Michelle fiddled with her hands as she explained. "I didn't know what you might like in your room," she started. "So I left the walls bare. Feel free to decorate them with posters while you're here. As for your bed sheets…we can always go shopping for something else. If you like, that is. No mirrors are here since, well, you know, I thought it might be triggering…

"You look tired so I'll let you sleep. Bathroom is across the hall, but there are rules. You have to tell me when you go in, oui? There's no scale in there either. I think that's it. Do you need anything…?"

"N-No, Auntie. I'm fine." Alfred stammered, chest constricting from the loss of the scale.

"We'll talk more after you've rested then. If you need me, I'll be in the living room. Sweet dreams, Alfie." With that she squeezed his hand in reassurance before closing his bedroom door.

The blonde stood there for a moment, tiredly surveying the room once more. Then he cast his things to the side before ambling over to his bed. Once his head hit the yellow pillow, he was out like a light.

By the time Alfred awoke again, it was five in the evening. Sitting up, he remembered he was at his aunt's apartment and that sooner or later he had to face her. But not now. He felt too gross and needed a shower. Yawning, he ran a hand through his hair – several locks falling out – and blinked the sleep away. Then he headed for his suitcase and took out some baggy sweatpants, boxers, and a sweatshirt. He got his plastic bag out as well, holding it tightly against his chest. That was when he remembered he didn't have a towel. Hesitant now, he exited his bedroom and walked over to the living room to ask Michelle where to get one.

The living room was empty.

Biting his lip, he looked in the kitchen. No one there either.

Panic surged in his chest. Where did his aunt go?! She had said that she would be in the living room, didn't she? Alfred turned and walked back along the hallway, noticing a closed door. Probably her room, he thought. Knocking on the wood, he asked, "Aunt Michelle? Are you in there?"

No reply came. Alfred didn't go in; he didn't want to be rude. He glanced further down the hallway and saw that the bathroom door was open. Anxiety squeezed in his chest. Should he just go in and wash up? That way he could be somewhat clean. But Aunt Michelle told him not to go in unless he told her, and he really didn't want to displease her. He didn't want to be kicked out again. "Aunt Michelle?" He called out in the empty apartment, afraid. Where did she go?

No answer.

"Hello?"

Again the silence stretched before him.

"Auntie!" Alfred cried again, stumbling away from the closed door. His throat felt swollen and his eyes burned. She couldn't have just left him, could she? No…no she wouldn't…she couldn't. He depended on her for support. But what if…what if she didn't want to help him? What if she was just another Arthur? The walls closed in on him. He couldn't breathe. He neededher. She said she'd helphim. She said so. She had promised.

Well where is she then?! The voice hissed.

"I don't know!" Alfred retorted out loud. His legs felt weak.

She left you. Alone. The voice continued harshly. She doesn't want you. She doesn't love you. Go pack up and leave. You're unwanted.

The teen flinched and blindly staggered back to his room. He thought Michelle would help him. He thought she cared. How wrong he was. Bitterly packing away his clothes and plastic bag back, he zipped the suitcase up and grabbed his backpack. It looked like no one wanted him anymore. He would leave for good then.

The blonde made his way to the foyer. Just as he reached out to turn the knob, the door opened. And there stood Michelle holding take-out bags. Upon seeing him, her face turned startled. "Alfie," she whispered, making her nephew's heart hammer. "What are you doing? Why are you leaving?"

Face flushed, he tripped over his words. "Thank you for l-letting me stay here f-for a bit. But…but I gotta go…"

"Why?"

"I-I woke up and I didn't – I didn't see you so I thought-t that you – you didn't want me anymore…I'll just go."

Michelle put down the food and pushed him back into the apartment. "You stay here," she ordered firmly before going back to retrieve her purchase. Closing the door, she pointed to the stools around the kitchen island. "Sit."

Alfred sat, his nerves skyrocketing.

Michelle dropped the food bag on the counter before taking a seat across from him. Her brown eyes studied him and Alfred recognized her brave face falling into place. "I'm sorry," she began, "that I left you alone. I was out getting some dinner before the lines got too long. I thought that since you were sleeping I would have time. I now know to leave a note.

"And Alfred, you'll never be unwanted here. I want you to understand that, alright?"

The teen swallowed thickly, not entirely believing her.

The islander noticed and her gaze hardened as she leaned forward. "I mean it."

Alfred nodded. He wished she didn't lie to him.

Gaze softening a little, Michelle leaned back and asked, "Would you like something to eat?"

"No."

"No?"

"No thank you. I really don't need the extra calories. God I'm so fat."

"No, Alfred. You're not. You're –"

"Stop it!" Alfred exclaimed. Why couldn't she see how fat he was?! Why did she have to lie to him all the time?! He was so sick of it. Fed up. Done. "I am and you know it! The whole world knows! Just stop okay?"

Michelle looked at him sadly.

She's gonna kick you out. You shouldn't have lost your temper, dumbass, the voice chided.

"What happened with Arthur?" The woman asked instead, changing topic.

The teen's breath hitched and he shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it. "I don't know," he lied.

"Oh I think you do."

"He kicked me out," he admitted softly after a few silent moments. Maybe if he didn't say it loudly, it wouldn't be true. Maybe if he said it loudly, it would only make him face reality. He didn't know. He didn't want to know.

The islander's eyes widened and tears brimmed her eyes. "He what?" She exclaimed. "He kicked you out?!"

Alfred winced. It really wasn't that big a deal. "Yeah. He was waiting for me when I came home from school…called me Scott…told me to get out…so I did…" His voice fell away with each word. The pain hurt too much.

Michelle paled. Unexpectedly, she got up and dashed around the kitchen for something.

Her nephew noticed and flinched. "D-Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"It's not...it's not you..."

BANG! Went the cupboards.

"Then wh –"

The drawers slammed, silencing Alfred.

Michelle turned around and sagged against the counter with a cigarette in hand. Her fingers trembled as she lit it and took a drag. She only ever smoked when she felt distressed. "I really don't think you should ask who he is," she remarked, her voice trembling a bit.

"But I was –" Alfred tried again. He wasn't going to ask who Scott was, he knew that already. Scott was just a dead member of the family. So why did Aunt Michelle become so defensive all of a sudden?

"But nothing! This discussion is closed and done!"

"…I'm sorry." Please don't throw me out.

The islander sighed and rubbed her forehead with her hand. Taking a few more drags, she caved in and explained quietly, "Scott was Arthur's brother. He was the life of the party and loved telling jokes, and I really loved him. He was my first boyfriend." A sad laugh and another drag. "We broke up because of…reasons…and he developed depression along with bulimia and self-harmed himself. It was tough for your father to watch, especially since he was close with him and couldn't do anything to stop it. W-When Scott died, Arthur was traumatized. I remember Francis staying over at the Kirkland's house a lot to try and help." The islander looked as if she were about to breakdown. Oddly though, she didn't; opting to smoke instead.

Alfred swallowed thickly. He had no idea. He didn't know. God he hadn't known. Just how much pain had he been inflicting on Arthur then? No wonder his dad couldn't deal. It all made sense now. But what about Aunt Michelle? Could she deal with him? She had been in a relationship with Scott after all. Surely some bad memories would resurface. The blonde found that he didn't want to hurt the only one who still loved him.

I suggest you leave now for forever, the voice advised.

Biting his lip, he stood up and walked over to his aunt. In a selfish gesture, he hugged her, whispered his thanks, a goodbye, and then pulled away. Smiling ruefully at her sad expression, he turned and ran out the door. His heart died, but he was going to do it. There would be no turning back. No one would ever get hurt by him again.

He wouldn't ever hurt himself again. No more cutting. No more scales. No more voice. It would be so much better. Alfred wrapped his arms around himself as he descended the stairs, trying to picture a life without any of those things. Just to see if he did have something to live for. It turned out he couldn't picture anything carefree or worth living for, and it shredded his soul apart. There was no love interest, there was no family, and there was no cause. It was just him and his fat self.

You have Michelle. Don't do this! YOU HAVE MICHELLE! The back of his mind screamed. YOU LIVE FOR HER! SHE WOULDN'T WANT HER NEPHEW COMITTING SUICIDE!

Alfred took a shaky breath. No, he resolved. She'll kick me out if I stay. And after that I'll have NO ONE. I'LL BE ALONE AND FAT AND FUCKED UP AND SCARED. Can't you see I'm only doing what I'm bound to do sooner or later? I have nothing left. It's not easy being strong all the fucking time and I'm sick of it. I want the pain to stop; I want to die.

No one will ever love me.

Outside the apartment complex it was dark. The only lights were from the streetlights and as people passed by, he took one last look at his surroundings. New York City, the place where he would end it all. All of the shit he had to go through; all the pain; all the fat; everything just gone. His last hurrah; his final stand. Numbness consumed him as he started to walk.

"Alfred!" A voice shrieked from behind him.

Said teen slowly turned around and saw Michelle running towards him. Her brown pigtails flew and her green dress swirled around her. It was too dark to see if she was crying, but he figured that she wasn't. "I'm sorry," he whispered, backpedaling farther down the sidewalk. And he was. A little.

Then he turned sharply and dashed into the busy street.

For a few hours Alfred had believed Michelle when she had said he'd be okay again. But now he could see she was lying and just trying to keep him afloat. Alfred would never be okay again. He was still too fat, still too selfish, and still too weak to be okay again. He didn't want to be okay again.

A car screeched.

Someone screamed.

He felt a hard impact.

And before Alfred lost consciousness, he wished he could have been skinnier.

Michelle knew she looked like a hot mess. Her mascara was surely smudged from all the crying and her hair was definitely frazzled. What she would have given for a cigarette just then to help calm her down. It wasn't like she smoked on a regular basis – far from it, actually – the only time she ever pulled out a Marlboro was when she was extremely distraught. And sitting in the ER most certainly qualified as distraught.

The woman wiped her eyes for the millionth time since the accident. It was crazy that less than an hour ago Alfred was alive and well (or as well as he could be considering the hell he lived in), when now she didn't even know if he was alive. It wasn't fair! Her mind kept replaying how Alfred had turned to look at her in the sea of people, his face eerily serene except for his eyes. His blue eyes had looked frightened and sad and alone and guilty. Michelle remembered him mouth something before diving into the street. Suicide. It was Scott all over again. Perhaps she should've never told him; that had to have been what set him off.

The car to hit him had been a fast-driving taxi. It had tried to swerve out of the way, but to no avail. A scream had ripped through several people's mouths including hers as she watched, frozen in horror, the teen get slammed. Alfred's dangerously thin body had lain motionless on the ground drenched in blood afterwards. From beside her, she had heard a woman call 911. Other than that, Michelle couldn't feel or hear anything, shock filling her. Oh god. Oh god no… "ALFRED!" She shrieked, running out into the street, tears streaming down her face.

When she had reached him, she collapsed on her knees and took hold of his face. "Alfred," she begged. "Alfred wake up. Alfred, please. Please wake up. S'il vous plaît se réveiller."

But the boy hadn't woken up.

Ugly sobs had writhed within her body. She couldn't lose him already! He was going to get better. He was going to live. They were going to work on being happy.

Soon everything had become blurry. Sirens wailed and the paramedics came. They asked her who she was, who Alfred was, their relationship, and what had happened. Michelle had told them, hysteria nearly rendering her speechless. She remembered how they had taken Alfred on the ambulance. One of the paramedics kept shooting her sympathetic glances. Like he knew that the teen wouldn't make it. Of course they let her on too, but the ride had been a blur.

Now Michelle was here, stuck waiting in the Emergency Room. Already she had contacted her brother Francis and his family. He had been absolutely horrified to learn what had occurred and promised to be there as fast as he could. Although the islander wondered how long that would take.

"Michelle?" A nurse called.

Nervously, Michelle stood. "Y-yes?" She stuttered.

"I'm so sorry but –"

"Don't tell me. H-He died? My nephew died, didn't he?"

The nurse didn't have to say anything – her look said it all.

And Michelle screamed.

Translation(s):

S'il vous plaît se réveiller – Please wake up (French)