Carry You Home

Alfred's disintegrating, wasting away, but that's okay. He's getting closer to fine with every inch of fat chipped away, though it's not enough. Never enough. Anorexic!Alfred.

Poor Alfred. He's the Hetalia lightning rod for the eating disorder stories…D:

I had an on/off again bulimia problem few years ago, which I realize is significantly different than anorexia nervosa, so I hope I don't offend anybody if details are inaccurate. Still, spare a hug for Alfred, kay?

May or may not continue this.

Note: Clearly don't owe Hetalia.

~*oOo*~

"Hey hon, you want your usual?"

Yes, yesyesyes no. He shakes his head with a short bark of laughter. "Nah. I'm on a diet, sweetheart. Just water for me today."

The waitress' eyebrows disappear beneath her bangs. "Sugar honey, there ain't a lick of fat on you." She playfully prods her regular with her pen, and Alfred laughs again, though the room is steadily growing hotter and he feels like his lungs are being inflated far beyond their capacity.

Arthur peeks out from behind his menu, looking coolly incredulous. The two are breaking from the World Meeting at what is-was-Alfred's favorite restaurant.

"You're not having your stack of chocolate chip pancakes?" he asks, a smirk curving his lips as the waitress bustles off with Arthur's order. "I thought the world wasn't supposed to end until AFTER 2012."

Alfred leans back in the booth, tired, but not too tired to flick Arthur off. "Not hungry."

"Well, you should probably eat something. Although considering how long your 'diets' usually last, you'll probably be back here tonight for your pancakes a la mode." The man chuckles softly, and Alfred's nails dig into his palms. "I have to admit though, I am proud that you abstained from your favorite treat. Those things could put a hummingbird into a diabetic coma."

Arthur is proud of him. The swelling inside increases, though not necessarily in a bad way. How long has he waited for the man to say that? Over two hundred years of knowing each other, of Alfred being Arthur's ally in several wars, being the physical embodiment of the nation with the most enduring constitution to date…..

…..and the one thing that Arthur can take pride in his former protégé in is the fact that he skipped dessert. Alfred smiles back absentmindedly, though his hands are trembling underneath the table, and he's twisted his fork into what appears to be a pretzel.

"Not hungry today," he says simply, glancing out the window beside their booth. Arthur's smile blanches somewhat, and his unfortunate brows furrow in confusion.

"Are you sure? Because you didn't really touch much of your dinner last night. You just ate a few bites before you ran off to the pool and—"

"Hey, did you see France this morning when we were discussing the Olympic Committee? He looked like he had a stick shoved up his ass."

"Well, of course he did, considering it's MY turn to host them this year," Arthur sniffs as he fussily puts his napkin on his lap. "France has hosted the Olympics five times. He's only insisting that they be routinely hosted by Greece simply because MY name won on the ballot for this year, and he's jealous!" Arthur flushed with pride, smiling smugly.

England doesn't notice something's wrongwrongwrongdoesn' can't notice anything beyond his nose because it always goes back to him it's good that Alfred has him to talk to.

Arthur's proud of him. That doesn't stop the inward moaning, but it helps. He can soothe and cradle that feeling, which is like a disgruntled, suffering child.

It's alright. You're doing good. Doing better, anyway.

"Did you see that foppish twit during my slideshow of the stadium? He KNOWs that my opening ceremony is going to leave him and China in the dust, so naturally he'd start insisting—"

Arthur starts ranting on, and Alfred is relieved, because now it'll be completely useless trying to get a word in. All he'll have to do is nod now and again or murmur placating words in agreement while he lies against the soft booth, sleepysleepysleepy and eyelids extremely heavy.

It'd be nice if he could just close his eyes and drift out the window, but he's too tired to fall asleep. He's too heavy to float, so he just sinks to the bottom of the ice water that the waitress brings him.

_~*oOo*~_

In the beginning, it's difficult. He's not accustomed to going without, but that reminder makes him guilty enough to abstain from snacking when he's sad.

Which is most of the time these days. But it's well-deserved. It's a mite and sorry compensation for his failings, but he's trying.

Trying so hard. But it's not enough. The scale just continues to mock him when he anxiously hops on it, wishing that for once it would bring him good news. But he can hear it laughing even when he rushes downstairs to his basement for his exercise equipment, heart sick with dread as he pleads, to whom he doesn't know..

Just let me burn it off let me burn it off let me burn it off don't stay in me….

The gnawing at the base of his stomach is painful, but it could certainly be worse. When he thinks about breaking and filling his stomach with all the food he can lay his hands on, he goes online and looks up pictures of starving children from third-world countries—dirty, wide-eyed, and walking shadows all, with swollen tummies and pitiful ribs painfully prominent. He sees the half-dead children parading in his fitful dreams now, and he's taken to drinking almost half a gallon of water every night now to appease his wretched, spoiled stomach.

He's pathetic.

But he's America, and he's supposed to be strong. He knows his nation would cheer for him, if they only knew. The counselors and so-called "specialists" could harp on about "positive body images" as much as they liked. They were liars and hypocrites all.

His media wants him to be strong, to be thin, to be stylish, to be domineering, to be successful, to be powerful. The fatties are left to cry in the bathrooms alone when all they feel inside is small and weak and hopeless inside.

That's precisely how Alfred feels, because he is fat. The ring of plump love handles have been prominent since the early 20th century, and regardless of how hard he works, he can feel the jiggling when he runs. When he goes without meals. When he feels the familiar sting of acid behind his throat.

Alfred is bloated. He might have muscles, but the fat is unmistakably there, making him a disgusting disgusting unlovable fat fat stupid bastard whore slut. The words chime sweetly in his ears even as he jogs, trying to escape them, but they chase after him anyway.

America isn't supposed to be remotely insecure about anything. He was the policeman of democracy, the one everyone in the world looked to.

And scorned and mocked. You think he doesn't know? He only has to hear it in every bathroom during a world conference, while he hides in a stall and listens in on the heartless jokes made at his expense. He could only imagine what they say about him when he's not in the area. During one such conference, where France had joked that America's population would soon need stronger aircrafts to carry its bludgeon population, America had waited until he was alone to eject the contents of his stomach into the toilet, wildly wishing he could plunge his head under and drown in his own sick.

How fitting.

He sweats on the treadmill, lifts weights until he's dry-heaving, and he is forever grabbing for a measuring tape to see if his waist is getting any smaller.

Sometimes, when Alfred's self-control is fairly good and he abstains from eating for a day or two, the relieved nation sees some results and feels better, though in reality he is physically feeling like a wreck and it's never enough. He wants more, more gone, until he is lighter than air, until he has lost enough to finally feel proud of himself.

Though what he has to feel proud about, he doesn't know…

His people have gone back on so many promises, have caused so much harm. They seize the world's resources, burning, burning, burning them all away—Jesus Christ, did no one teach them how to share?—and they've thrived on years of hypocrisy. On selfishness.

But they're still his, and they're mostly good, warm-hearted people. The idea of others wishing them death, wishing him death, is agony, and he has to laugh it off while he dies a little bit more inside.

They hate him. They call his people immoral sluts, spoiled brats, and whores, yet they expect him to run to the rescue the moment a group of people decide that they can't play nice, or worse, are desperate to feed their children.

The twin scars on his neck throb as Alfred spews the half-eaten biscuit into the toilet, gasping. At least Arthur's cooking is slowly but steadily warping him of any desire to eat regularly.

And maybe then he'll be alright. Maybe then he can stand on his own two feet.

"You wouldn't deserve it in any case, Alfred…." Whispers the voices in his head as he empties out his fridge, determined to throw everything away.

~*oOo*~

"You've been losing weight, Alfred. Is everything okay?"

"Just fine, Mattie, just dandy."

"Mmm…you look kind of peaky." His twin casts him a concerned look with those blue eyes that are wintry as opposed to Alfred's summery sky-eyes. "I can send some muffins home with you if you like…."

"No!" Matthew sends him a startled look and Alfred laughs, laughs, laughs. "Nah, I'm just gonna stop on a restaurant on my home, Mattie. No point."

"At least take some maple syrup with you."

"Huh? Oh, uh, no thanks—"

Mattie thrusts the bottle into his hands and a helpless Alfred has to thank him, although he felt like he'd just been handed a canister of arsenic. Goo. Oil. Poison.

When he's a few miles away, he throws the little flask outside the window and watches it disappear in a snow bank.

Alfred, America. America, Alfred. It's hard to say which one is more pitiable, although Alfred feels like tearing at his skin when people insult his people. His young country is good, but he is not. The connection is incomprehensible to Alfred. If his country is good, and he is the country, shouldn't he be good?

But he's not. Can't be. He doesn't feel good. He just feels very old, very tired, and very thin at the edges, although he's fat. Fat, disgusting, lazy, and terrible. He needs to be strong, so that his country will love him, and believe in him to carry them through difficult times. With the economy the way it was and people growing steadily cynical, faith and patriotism have died considerably. Do so few people trust in him now? He feels the waning love in his veins, and it makes him sad, so terribly sad, so terribly worthless.

"I can't help but imagine the diabetic fat person you're likely to be in the next few years on your strictly-hamburger diet…."

Is that why people won't love him? He tries to be good, was one of the first countries to offer aid after the devastating earthquakes in Haiti and Japan and the 2004 tsunami that had destroyed so much. He was meant to thrive on the image of rebirth from the ashes, on beauty where there once was pain.

But looking into his mirror every morning, Alfred doesn't see the slightest sense of beauty, though he'd been called handsome quite a few times in his day. He sees the man who was forced by the foreigners who later became him that chased the indigenous peoples from their lands, his lands. He sees the man who broke England's heart, even when the country became unbearable to him even as a master will become unbearable to his slave. He sees the man who failed to come in and prevent the deaths of millions in concentration camps.

Some days, it doesn't feel like there's an Alfred anymore. There's just remorse, violence, and pain.

And an overwhelming desire to make it up somehow, to be lovable. Because oh, how America—Alfred—wants to be loved! He can't love himself, but that's okay, just so long as there are people who respect him and treat him as an equal, despite his age!

Chewing on his lip, Alfred starts preparing dinner for his best friend Tony, absentmindedly moving the sizzling meat around with his spatula, he doesn't want it it's disgusting it's sick and he's a fat bastard as it is, so he doesn't need it—fails to notice how the alien was watching him from the table with narrowed red eyes.

~*oOo*~

Aren't you going to eat?

Alfred winces as he presents the platter to Tony. Tony, who is so thin, who could probably consume 7,000 calories in a day and still be fit, Tony, the one who's stayed by his side for more than fifty years. He couldn't love the alien more, but he wishes Tony would speak to him in English right now. That voice—that mysterious, lilting, and knowing voice from his homeland—gets Alfred every time, and he knows it.

"Nah, I'm good, broseph," he says casually, clapping his scarlet-eyed friend on the shoulder. "I ate a lot of junk and stuff earlier. I'm full."

Tony only picks at his food, not lowering his red gaze.

I didn't see you eat breakfast, either.

"Well, lemme tell you, that lunch at McDonalds was seriously—"

You were in the basement all day. 'Working.'

Alfred blinks, blanches, and the colors. "Well, I'm not hungry." He tries to turn and leave the room, but Tony seizes the startled nation by the wrist and holds tightly. Damn, but Tony has a strong grip!

The alien tilts his head, looking unhappy. Sit and eat. Please. For me.

Alfred just stares at him, mouth watering, eyes stinging, yearning for Tony to understand, to not understand.

Don't you know what you're doing to me?

But who's thinking that?

Tony insistently drags Alfred to the table, and patiently starts spooning most of the contents of his own plate onto Alfred's empty one. The distressed country tries to protest, but Tony just abruptly claps a hand over the flustered nation's mouth, and continues what he's doing.

You think I can't see what you're doing? The alien asks gently, though there is no room in his voice for argument. Food is life, Alfred.

That's the problem. Alfred buries his face in his arms and tries not to cry as Tony slides a fork into his limp fingertips.

He isn't so certain he wants to be alive anymore.

Not that he ever has a choice in the matter, mind you.

~*oOo*~

Slam. Slam. Slam. Tony's little hands are pounding on the door over again. The little alien might be strong, but he isn't strong enough to break down the door, thank heavens. Alfred lies on the bathroom floor and shivers, wondering why his entire body feels so heavy. It's probably because of the stray calories he hadn't been able to purge.

Tony is swearing horribly outside the bathroom, and Alfred listens to him with vague interest as he drifts over his body, like a balloon tethered to a post.

How funny is it that the lighter he gets, the heavier he feels?

Still shivering, Alfred slowly drags himself over to the cabinet, shuddering at the feeling of the icy tiles sliding past his body. God, it's cold in here. He stands with difficulty and grabs out a towel before he sinks again to his knees, completely worn out. He's almost too tired to wrap the towel around himself, to offer some insulation against the freezing ground.

Alfred, Alfred, let me in, pleads his oldest friend. Alfred wraps the thin towel more tightly around himself and pretends he can't hear. There's a pause, and then the alien lets out a strangled stream of swearwords Alfred had no idea even existed.

You're sick…

Not sick. Getting stronger. The other nations saw it at the G-8 conference and were afraid. That's why they kept offering food to a country they normally loathed, just so that they could make him weak again.

"America? Wow, you are looking skinny, aru. Would you care for a Shinatty-Chan snack, aru?"

France scoffed and turned a slightly worried glance towards the silent young man, who was staring deadpanned at the conference table.

"Mon dieu, America, you are looking like one of the ghosts you fear so much! China cheri, it is obvious this boy needs one of my scrumptious éclairs..."

"Lad? Are….are you doing…well?"

England's voice was concerned, and Alfred's not certain whether to laugh or to claw out those anxious green eyes. Now he notices his progress. It only took him long enough; now England can congratulate him, can validate this blank and desperate period that America has had to call normal life. His shoulders rise hopefully.

But the man just looked at him like a dismayed parent. "Good lord Alfred, you do look like a skeleton. What has that bloody alien been feeding you? Come with me after the meeting's over, and I'll prepare some of my homemade scones…."

The balloons don't burst; they multiply. Russia cas a thoughtful look in America's direction.

"Nonsense, England. Your food would kill him. Better off giving him some borsch, da? Just the thing for a malnourished, starving dog."

"I think vurst vould do a better job, Russia," grunted Germany, frowning pensively at America. "What can't a big sausage fix?"

Of course, Italy needed a word in.

"Ve, but pasta is food for the angels!"

"I agree that whichever food America-san dines on for lunch today is ideal for helping him put weight back on."

"M-Maple…"

No one even noticed when America silently left the room, wondering vaguely why he couldn't walk in a straight line.

~*oOo*~