Notes: TRIGGER WARNING: This fic talks a lot about eating disorders, so please stay away if those make you uncomfortable in any way. I want you guys to stay safe.

This was written with everything platonic, but I think no matter who you ship you'll be happy with this.

Title from The Chainsmokers "Sick Boy"

Chinese Translation: . ?novelid=4059226

He doesn't like this at all.

Arthur stares in the mirror, running his hands over his ribcage, catching on each of his prominent bones. The truth is, Arthur has always been bony. It's just how he was raised, foraging through forests, and running around generally malnourished. He's tried putting on weight, but for some reason he's never seemed able to.

He's tried eating larger meals, he's tried the stupid nutrition shakes, he's even tried eating America's greasy, fattening food, but nothing works, because as much as he denies it, Arthur has never been good with food. He can't cook to save his life, and he burns anything he comes in contact with.

There's nothing he hates more than admitting there's something wrong with him, and he just wishes he was more muscular. He's the British empire for heaven's sakes, he's fought in more battles than he can count and has ruled over half the world at some point.

So why the hell is he so scrawny?

He tries to hide it with thick sweaters, but there's just no disguising how petite he is. There's no disguising the fact that he's always the first one done eating, the fact that sometimes he just has tea and biscuits instead of a meal, the fact that anything he eats is used immediately because his body has adapted to barely getting by.

But this isn't 1000 anymore, and he has enough to eat, and he doesn't want this anymore.

He likes spending time with Kiku, because he seems to understand, and Arthur suspects he has the same problem Arthur does. He just wishes he could be taller, or more muscular, like Ivan or Ludwig or Alfred.

Arthur had never thought he'd possibly be envious of the boy he used to call a younger brother. Alfred had just been a colony, a small insignificant port in the new world, and Arthur had been the mightiest empire in the world.

But now America is massive, and very possibly the most powerful nation at the moment. Arthur could care less about America's power, because he knows the young nation is unstable, but right now he is very envious of how perfect Alfred looks.

It's not fair, Arthur thinks, that one can't be brawny and brainy. As intelligent as he is, Arthur knows he isn't very attractive, what with his scrawny frame, pale skin, messy hair, and massive eyebrows. It's not fair because while Alfred is a complete moron, and can't read the atmosphere to save his life, he looks perfect. Ladies fawn over him. He's muscular and confident. People flock to him in a way that Arthur will never understand.

Arthur wonders if Alfred even has to work out. He's always been abnormally strong, so it's no surprise how muscular he is, but does he just rely off his natural strength? Or does he actually exercise? Arthur poses the question to Kiku in jest, and the Japanese man just stares at him, giving him that look he sometimes has that gives you the eerie feeling that he knows something you don't. Arthur drops it after that, realising that Kiku is actually good friends with Alfred, and possibly even knows about the boy's exercising habits.

Still, even with Kiku's foreboding glares, Arthur tries to avoid the younger nation, hating the feeling of being old and less than what he was. Of course he can't avoid America forever, they both play major roles in the G-8 and conferences are held every so often.

Arthur has to admit, when Alfred enters the meeting he doesn't look quite as perfect as he usually does. He looks pale and his glossy hair has lost it's shine, almost as if he's been ill- not that Arthur is concerned about the boy. But his blinding smile is the same, so Arthur ignores it. Afterall, what kind of problems could the boy have? He's always on cloud nine, blissfully ignorant to life's problems.

He knows it's selfish, but Arthur can't help but think that Alfred doesn't deserve to have problems. He's powerful, he has money, he has resources.

Really, what problems could he have?

It was starting to become a problem.

Alfred has always known his eating is fucked up. How can he forget with everyone shoving it in his face, "Oh look, America's gaining weight," and "I can't believe you haven't died yet, eating all that fast food". He silently takes the sharp jabs from the other nations, from his boss, from his people. Because all they see is food going in, but they've never seen how the food comes out.

The don't see the way Alfred runs on the treadmill in the early hours of the morning until he's dizzy and can't lift his legs anymore. They don't see the way Alfred leans over the toilet, fingers clawing at the back of his throat until everything comes spilling out again. They don't see the diet pills, the laxatives, the scales, the weight logs, they don't see him drowning.

He won't let them see, because he knows it's a problem, and America doesn't have problems. America is confident and carefree and doesn't give a shit about what the world thinks of him, but Alfred is sinking, sinking under the weight of a million expectations.

Alfred knows what an eating disorder is. He knows he has one, not sure which one, because none of the ones he hears about seem to fit him, but if he had to peg him to one he'd say he were bulimic. He overeats in manic binge eating sessions, then purges it through the treadmill or over the toilet. If it weren't for the fact that he also starves, he would be a textbook case of the disorder.

He's attended meeting after meeting, held by his Health Association. They say again and again that it's a problem, because 50 million Americans have an eating disorder and every hour another one dies from it. And Alfred stays silent through those meetings, because anything he could say would be so hypocritical his brain would bleed out his ears.

He's not sure if he has an eating disorder because of the high percentages in his country, or if there are such high percentages in his country because of his eating disorder, but he prays it's not the latter. He couldn't live with himself knowing he was making his people suffer in such a way.

He tries to quit. He has regular mealtimes and cuts his exercising until he thinks he'll go crazy. Alfred will go a couple days or maybe even a week without purging, but then someone will comment that he's gained weight, or maybe he'll have to attend another one of those god-awful Health Association meetings, this one on obesity. And he'll go home and throw all his progress to the toilet. He'll restrict again until he can't walk in a straight line anymore, because a third of his people are obese, because America is fat and Alfred believes he is too.

Alfred's weight is like a pendulum, and he's sure it's not healthy how often it changes. He can't remember the last time he had anything more than coffee in the morning, can't remember the last time he got more than three hours of sleep because he's so busy trying to fix everything.

Everyday there's another hurricane, another shooting, another protest, another country begging for his help, another country threatening to hurt his people, another problem. His people are hurting, America is hurting, and Alfred is hurting, and he wished it would all just stop. But the world keeps turning, and Alfred has to wake up every morning to new problems.

Every few months is a G-8 meeting, and Alfred wears at least three layers of clothes so they can't tell how much weight he's lost. He wears gloves so they don't see the scars on his hands from his own stomach acid. He puts on cologne so they don't smell the vomit and the sweat and the general smell of death that follows Alfred everywhere now days. He even resorts to wearing makeup, using concealer to cover the bags under his eyes and give his face a little more color.

Alfred sits through the meeting, sipping water from a pepsi cup because he knows they'll get suspicious if he doesn't have something fattening on him. He gets in an argument with Arthur even though he doesn't want to, because that's normal and he needs to look normal or people will start asking questions. Arthur makes a quip about his weight and Alfred barely holds back the retort that while Alfred does have the highest obesity rates in the G-8, Arthur is a close second. Instead he says something about Arthur's cooking and the man starts yelling until Germany shouts at them to shut up and listen to what's going on.

After the meeting, Matthew asks him if he's okay, because he looks pale and he hasn't called in a while and he also apologizes for worrying so much in the same breath. Alfred assures him that he's fine and that he's just been a little busy and a little stressed and prays that Matt doesn't pry further into the lie.

Matt buys into it and tells Alfred that he should call more often and that he misses him. Alfred smiles and cracks a joke, even though his heart is aching, because as much as he fears someone discovering his illness, something deep inside him wants someone to find out. He wants someone to cuddle him after nightmares and wipe his tears and tell him it's okay. He wants someone to plan his meals for him, to stop him from purging. But he also knows that he's too stubborn and selfish to deserve that, so he stays silent.

If you wanted to be coddled, then why the hell would you flaunt being so independent, you moron.

But he doesn't really want to be coddled, per say, he tells himself. He just wants to be loved, and he wants to be happy. Was that too much to ask? Wasn't it human nature to crave affection?

Ah, but you aren't human, now are you?

Kiku comes to talk to him, and Alfred just nods, smiling. He can't hear what his friend is saying over his own jealousy, because Kiku is so thin. He doesn't need to watch what he eats, he doesn't need to throw up when he eats too much. Alfred recalls a few weeks ago when Kiku confided that he wanted to gain a little weight, that he thinks he's too thin, that every once in awhile he'll get so distracted he'll forget to eat a meal. And Alfred just screams inside because he's so jealous he thinks he'll explode. He's jealous of Kiku's weight and metabolism and diet. He's jealous that Kiku can just forget to eat, because Alfred can't ever stop thinking about food and calories and how badly his stomach hurts.

Of course he doesn't say any of this to him. Alfred says he thinks Kiku is great the way he is, but that he shouldn't skip meals. He feels like the biggest hypocrite in the world, and he must've sounded off because Kiku looks at him weird, like he had just realised something about Alfred he'd never noticed before, and doesn't bring up the topic of weight again.

Later Francis and Ivan hear Alfred throwing up in the meeting hall's bathrooms and confront him as soon as he walks out, wiping vomit off his chin with his jacket sleeve. Francis is almost as big of a worrier as Matthew is, so Alfred isn't surprised at his hysterical interrogation, but he's shocked at how worried Ivan seems. He'd never thought the icy nation had cared, but here he was, just as panicked as Francis.

Alfred assures them he's still just feeling sick from the recent hurricanes, and he hadn't said anything because he didn't want to worry anyone and he was already so behind on all his work. Ivan and Francis hesitantly accept the excuse and tell him he should really go home and rest. Alfred laughs and tells them he's too busy to rest and heroes don't need days off. Ivan and Francis relax, because Alfred seems normal enough, but they send him back to the hotel anyways, which gives Alfred an excuse to skip dinner.

That night, Matthew visits Alfred's room, asking he can sleep with him like they did when they were kids. Matt says he's cold, or lonely, or just that he misses his twin, but Alfred knows the truth. He knows Francis told Mattie about the vomiting incident and sent him to make sure Alfred is really alright, but Alfred is lonely and hurting, so he just rolls over as usual and lets his brother into the bed.

For the first time in ages Alfred feels warm and safe, like he could sleep forever in Mattie's arms. He can finally breathe as his twin smothers him in affection, and he feels so relieved he could cry. He doesn't realise that he actually is crying until Matt starts carding his fingers through Alfred's hair and whispering comforting words, holding his brother securely to his chest.

Alfred lets himself cry, nuzzling into the crook of Matt's neck. He's beyond grateful for his sweet twin who comforts first and asks questions later, who just lets Alfred cry and doesn't tease or judge him for it later.

They fall asleep in a puddle of arms and legs, and for once Alfred's sleeps through the night.

Notes: Poor Arthur has a lot of insecurities and is in denial about what's going on with Alfred

Matthew is an amazing brother (I love the North American Twins so much!)

Kiku is worried about his friend, Francis and Ivan are too

More crap is gonna go down next chapter

Reviews would be much appreciated!