Author Note: Hello, and welcome to my first published fanfiction! I've finally written something I feel worthy of posting here, and you've no idea the pleasure that writing this note brings me. This work, while it contains no OCs or self inserts, is semi-autobiographical. A little over one year ago, I was placed in residential treatment for eleven days due to my suicide attempts and depression. My sister is schizophrenic. This fanfiction, while being an ode to the fabulous relationship of Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones, is also an ode to how far we've come in the past year.

Other things which inspired this work: Listen to Your Heart by DHT, Mad World by Gary Jules, and the fabulous movie and book One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest

Warnings: Adult themes and content, strong language, Hetalia AU, some out of characterness because the plot requires it

Pairings: Main USUK, with some LietPol, GerItalia, and PruCan on the side.

Dear Peter,

As you may be aware, I, your older brother, Arthur Kirkland, have been shipped to the nut house to be 'cured' of my insanity. Please do not think any less of me-though that would be miraculous since you hate me-because of this flaw in my character. Mum, who died of suicide by electrocution a year after your birth, was also insane, so it's not shocking that I, the Kirkland heir most similar to her, am as well. I know we do not understand each other well, but I feel obligated to write home and contrary to popular belief, I hate you least.

I've always been considered odd. I was that child who sat in the corner in primary school, the child whose best friends were either in books or in my head, the child who at the age of six was reading Dickens for fun. Factor in my unusually distinctive eyebrows, jade green eyes, slight build, closeted sexuality, and British accent, and it's not hard to see how Fairy-King Arthur became my title. But personally, I always saw it differently: they were all crazy and I was the sane one. Funny how very wrong I turned out to be.

Talking to Captain Hook at the age of four is one thing. Talking to him-and more importantly, him talking back-at the age of twenty-three is an entirely different matter. Especially when your stupid frog boyfriend finds you explaining your relationship problems to the 'imaginary man' and decides to turn you in to the authorities. Then the authorities look at your track record, and they see that you've 'fallen' down flights of stairs despite the fact you are a ballet dancer. And they see that you 'accidently' burnt yourself whilst making tea, despite the fact you've been doing it since you were a lad. But most importantly they see the alcoholism. And suddenly, their voices grow hushed and the looks they send in your direction become tentative. And one word, one blasted word which hounded your mother to her death, is whispered: Schizophrenia.

Apparently, my abusive personality stems from something other than me being an arse after all. Turns out, I'm loony. I guess that explains why I wonder constantly what will happen when the moon falls into the ocean and Atlantis rises once more. As soon as the family heard I was the same sort of nut as mum, they made an executive decision and shipped me off here, to Hetalia Residential. I've learnt all sorts of things in the past one hour, twenty-three minutes, and thirty seven seconds that I've spent here, getting checked in, perhaps indefinitely. For example, when the large Russian nurse suggests you give up your cherry red Doc Martens because you might kill yourself with the laces, he's bloody serious. Ivan, as it turned out the nurse's name is, is perhaps the most daunting…thing I've ever witnessed in my entire existence. There is something so fundamentally off in his sadistic, child-like smile that it sends a cold snake directly down my spine.

I lie here in my new bed, which lacks a pillow because I've yet to earn one, writing this by the light of a humming ceiling lamp, waiting for my roommate to return from supper so that I may meet him. I've been told his name is Alfred. No other information has been released as of yet, but Alfred sounds a reasonable enough name. God, I hope he's at least as crazy as I. Ah, I hear his footsteps now! God, he sounds to be a galumphing oaf with those obnoxious stomps!

Goodnight Peter

Postal Script: I do believe I will write some more to you later, but for now, I must hide this document from the ogre I will apparently be rooming with.

Hero's log:

So apparently, I'm getting a new roommate today since Kiku….Anyways, I've been told his name: Arthur, and obviously I know his gender: male. But I also managed to get some information out of Ivan. He's a newly diagnosed schizophrenic, twenty-three years of age, British with a cute accent, and some very memorable eyebrows…whatever that means. I retain my vow of silence in Kiku's honor, so I'm not going to speak to him.

Right now, I'm supposed to be eating dinner, but I'm never hungry these days, so I gave it to Toris, who tried to get Feliks to eat something, anything. Course, it didn't work, because while weighing in at only ninety pounds, Feliks thinks he's orca fat. Reflecting on my day, I guess things aren't as bad as they once appeared to be here. I've got Toris and Gilbert. I'm Ivan's favorite patient for some odd reason. Yet still, the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had. Don't these people realize that they're just milling about in these little circles? I'm still afraid of the day when we run out of words and all we'll have left is tears to fill our cups. I'm slowly drowning in my sorrow. But it feels so…correct.

Mattie came and visited, brought that stupid stuffed bear I gave him years ago, like always. I wish Matt's love was enough, I really do. He's the best damn brother/sidekick a hero could ask for. But since I'm a selfish bastard, it's not enough for me. I'm an observer, but never a player for life. Matt cried today, always does though. I want to be happy, for his sake, but I'm incapable. Today, he asked me 'Al, why can't you return to the days when you smiled and laughed and were…glad?' I wanted to sob, shake him, tell him I'd never been happy, that it was a farce. But I remain bound to my undertaking. I'm the hero. I will live up to that, so help me God.

If I go crazy and go back to pretending, I hope I die. Maybe I should cut fate's thread before that happens, so that I may remain the champion. I guess finishing my degree is entirely out of the question now. Oh well…can't be helped I suppose. I saw fireworks last night, out my window. It reminded me of my birthday all those years ago when Mattie and I snuck out to honor my country's birthday with our first bottles of beer; born on the Fourth of July.

Matthew had me play the piano for everyone today. Said it reminded him of when I was okay, but I never was, was I? I played Chopin. I often express my emotions through my music. Actually it might be the only truth I've ever told other than my silence. I wish I had someone to sing for me. Nothing can touch me anymore, but did it ever? I don't want to die, yet I always wish I'd never been born, at all. The world around me melts into a quiet nothingness. Yet I am indifferent. Toris is indifferent to my silence. I doubt Gilbert has noticed at all. Feliks frankly doesn't give a damn as long as I keep my mitts off Toris. Toris isn't my type anyways. Too…feminine and brunette. I wonder who tops. They both look like women. Feliks is the one in a skirt, but Toris is far more submissive. They must take turns. I bet Ivan listens. Ivan's a sick piece of work. God really missed the mark there. The poor bastard has no soul. Every time I reach, it slips through my fingers and laughs at my dreams and plans.

Time to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Time to meet Artie, as I've decided to call Arthur. Not that he can hear my thoughts. I hope. There is no human decency. Life is a series of lies.

To sleep, perchance to dream of dying.

Love,

Alfred

Dear Peter,

He's a bloody selective mute. Alfred hasn't spoken since his last roommate left, actually. I'm not that peculiar. This makes me cheerier than it should. I'm a terrible person. How are things? I hope that the terrible triad of older brothers hasn't killed you or anything yet. My only wish is that when and if I give you these letters, you'll see I'm not what they say I am. They're saying that denial is one of the five stages of grief. Fuck them. I'm not round the twist or barmy or nuts or anything!

I don't belong here. There's a boy who thinks he's a girl, for Christ's sake! Actually Feliks has been rather pleasant to me, ever since I promised to 'back off his man, Toris.' I'm guessing that a lot of the men here are blatant homosexuals by necessity. I wonder about Alfred. He doesn't speak, so I can't tell. My money's on bisexual though. He stares at me often. I would mind, but his eyes are the most stunning shade of blue imaginable. Like a little piece of heaven fell down and landed in his sparkling orbs. He's really quite cute. I just have a hard time believing that anyone as young and beautiful as he could be so quiet. Seriously, I've been here six days and the closest he's come to speaking with me is a small smile. Ah, but what a smile…

My day here consists of group therapy, one on one therapy, medications, art therapy, meals, and a small amount of structured free time. I like art therapy. They let me write and draw. I drew a picture of us. We were dead. But we were with mum. She was smiling. Dad and our monster brothers were dead, but they were in Hell, their skin melting away in the vast heat. Mr. Yao, the art therapist, saw it. He gave it to Ivan. Ivan put it in my file. I cried. Maybe they are right. Did you know that my lifespan is probably about fifteen years shorter because of my diagnosis? I mostly cry at night, but sometimes I will just be talking and the floodgates will open and I am powerless to stop the tears gushing out.

In free time, we have a video game player-thing, I don't know which one. But it has several of those singing games where one person pretends to play guitar with a stupid little remote. Anyways, Feliks was singing Bohemian Rhapsody, but he was doing it all wrong. So I stole the microphone and did Freddy Mercury proud. And they all stood and clapped, for me, Alfred too. He beamed at me. So I volunteered to be permanent singer for the games. It made me feel something other than nil.

Everything is a fucking symptom here. Every choice I make is scrutinized. It's so…1984. But I digress. Tomorrow is visiting day and you are the only one on my list. I thank you for that. Alfred has someone named Matthew Williams. I hope it's not a boyfriend. I do not think I will give you these letters, but I will still address them to you because of your youthful je ne sais quoi. I miss my daily tea (and alcohol). I miss mum. I miss the lack of stigmas. I miss you. I'll never get another job now, and I'll be lucky if the library hires me again. Also Francis left a message, something about 'never wanting to hear from me again, because it is better that way, non?' French Bastard…

Goodnight Peter

Hero's log:

I like Artie. He's pretty and smart and his voice is like a fucking angel's. He made me smile. I can't help but fall for him a little every day. In another universe, we're together, we're happy. He returns my affections. He writes me poetry. I play piano for him. We make love often. In an entirely different universe, I never meet Artie. In that universe, I am dead. I'd let the rest of the world turn to dust just to be with him. He feels me somehow. I know it. The world is dead. I can't save it. But I can save Artie, and we can be each other's world.

Our souls are made of the same stuff. He sees words the way I see music. He drew his family. It was so vivid and true I had to excuse myself to cry. When I came back, he was in hysterics; Ivan had stolen it. A surge of white hot heat filled my being in that instant. I'm going to keep Ivan away from Artie no matter the cost. I've walked across an empty land; I know it because it is my soul. Then God gave me light. The light's name is Arthur.

Tomorrow Matthew comes to visit. Maybe he will insist I play. I know what songs I will play to woo Artie. He will know they are for him and he will love me. We will escape in each other's arms and face the ruins of civilization hand in hand. I want to kiss him. He has nice lips, they are soft and pink. I often stare at him unabashedly. His eyes are greener than anything I've ever seen before. He stares back. God wrote me this play, and it turns out, the play is not about me. It's about my love with Artie. Every logical part of my brain is telling me I've fallen far too far, far too quickly. But for the first time in my entire existence, I feel real, whole, and happy. I am no longer a shell. I heard Mr. Yao make a nasty comment about my love's enormous eyebrows. I tripped him while he was holding a wet painting. I laughed. Arthur smirked. A secret was shared between us.

For the first time in days, I wasn't Anhedonic. I felt pleasure. It coursed through my veins far quicker than any drug. I need Arthur. He turns my indifference into concern. I love his bushy brows. I love his entirety.

I belong.

Love,

Alfred