A/N: HIIIIIIIIIIIII! So. It turns out I'm not dead…just in a coma. So my body is magically writing this fic that ironically came to me at lunch. Beautiful, isn't that? I guess I should put the trigger warning. Here it is: eating disorder, gays, angst, bla bla bla the usual. Also, I am getting back to Breaking The Chain as soon as this chapter is published. My summer was much busier than I had planned, and, well, let's just say I procrastinate a bit. So have this as an appetizer then we can all have some GerIta for the main course! And also, grazie StarFormerAdira, you are quite the lovely beta for putting up with me and my procrastination. And for feeding me fics.

He ran. He ran as far as he could, but sadly, this was only to the end of his driveway. Ever since the other nations started making fun of his eating habits, Alfred had been trying to lose weight. By all means necessary. And he did. As he was making his way inside, he thought about how everything started.

"Dear God, Alfred! How many burgers have you eaten?" England shouted, finally showing irritation at his former colony who had popped yet another burger into his mouth.

"Six," America said through a full mouth.

"Six? It's only the first half of the bloody meeting! Are you mad?"

"Clearly," Alfred said dejectedly as he set down his burger. England rolled his eyes as France started snickering at America's sulking.

"Amerique, zat burger is lonely now, non? You should really finish it."

"I'm not hungry…"

"Well, isn't that a damn miracle," England muttered under his breath. But America heard. And the continuous jabs about his excessive eating at every meeting just motivated him more to lose weight.

America went into the bathroom when he got inside to begin his post-exercise routine. He stripped down to his boxers and stared in the mirror. His hair was dull. His skin was pale. But worst of all, his baby blue eyes no longer had that child-like whimsy to them. They were only windows to whatever dark thoughts America was having that day.

He reached down and pinched the tight skin on his belly as his stomach growled. All he saw, and all he felt, was the no longer remaining fat that the others would jeer at. Every time he thought about it, he felt ashamed. Not ashamed at how much he had lost, but ashamed at how he had gotten so big. America stepped on the scale. 113 pounds. When he started trying to lose weight, he was at 216. He had made progress, but not enough. It would never be enough. Not until he completely vanished, and there was nothing there for the others to laugh at.

Not even England.

Especially England.

America had let England down. He had tried so hard to raise America properly to feed him right, to go and play with him every day, but then America decided that he wanted to be independent. And like the spoiled child he was, he got independence. But for Alfred, all freedom meant was more responsibilities. He hardly knew how to take care of himself, much less a nation!

Thus, he ended up here. At the bottom of a dark hole, with walls far too smooth to even attempt to scale. Not that he would be able to. Ever since he tightened his diet to a vegetable every other day, and a bottle of water every day, his strength had been diminishing. The economy wasn't helping either. Alfred's days of swinging around ox were long gone. Some days he found that he couldn't get out of bed. And if he tried, he would simply collapse on the floor. Too exhausted to get back up, he would just pull down whatever bedding he could and sleep on the floor until he had enough energy to make it to the kitchen.

Alfred finished silently criticizing himself and put his clothes back on. He made his way to the kitchen, occasionally leaning on walls for support. When he got there, he opened the fridge and grabbed out a short piece of celery. Today was an eating day. He hated them.

He filled a glass of water and leant against the counter, gnawing on his celery stick. Eventually, he got bored of choking down the bland food and just threw it out.

As Alfred was making his way to lie down on the couch, he thought he had heard the phone ring. Couldn't have, though. Who would be calling him?

What he didn't hear when he went to sleep was the voicemail that came after the call.

"Alfred, poppet, I'm coming over today. No one has heard from you in over a month; not even Canada! You've missed meetings, too. Your phone seems to be in order, but I'm coming over to make sure you're not dead. Be there in an hour."

Had Alfred been awake, he could have answered the phone, or called the Englishman back and told him an excuse about why he couldn't come over. The house was a mess. He had explosive diarrhea. There's a hurricane in New York today. Something! But no, Alfred was once again, in an almost blissful state.

He didn't dream, though. Not anymore. And if he did, it was a nightmare.

England pulled into America's driveway, surprised not to see the nation's flashy sports car out of the garage for once. Perhaps he wasn't home? No…there were lights on. Alfred was probably just acting like a child and making it look like he wasn't home so that England would go away. That wouldn't work. England strolled up to the door and knocked a few times, to no answer. He tried the knob, to find it unlocked. So America was home, which led to his next question: where was he?

"Alfred! Where are you? I can tell you're home. I hope you realize this is quite chi-" England froze as he entered the living room. If he didn't see the steady rise and fall of his chest, he would have sworn Alfred was dead. England rushed over to America and shook him awake.

Alfred blinked away sleep and looked around to see England. His eyes widened in shock.

"Alfred, love, what's happened? What have you done to yourself?" England was terribly concerned with the state his ex-colony was in. Yes, he teased him like he was a schoolboy and America was the object of his affection, which was exactly the case, but England truly did care for him.

"I dieted," Alfred replied flatly, not looking England in the eye.

"Bloody hell, Alfred! This isn't dieting! This is starving yourself!"

"I'm sorry." Alfred just stared at the floor, hoping this was just one of those nightmares where someone finds out and eventually he does starve himself into disappearance.

"F-for what? You have absolutely nothing to apologize for!" England's mind was reeling. How could Alfred possibly be apologizing for this?

"Yes, I do. I never listened to anyone and my weight had gone too far. Now I'm trying to fix it."

England was taken aback by this. Alfred had done this over the senseless teasing from the other nations, including England, about his weight? A wave of guilt slammed into England's chest. He should have seen the signs. He should have seen this coming. Alfred had been more distant at meetings, before disappearing altogether. He had stopped taking burgers to meetings. Hell, England couldn't remember the last time he had seen America eat a bur – yes, he could. It was the day he outright snapped at him.

"Alfred, if anything, we should be the ones apologizing. I should. And I truly am sorry. I didn't notice we were causing you so much emotional distress…and I should have. But, on another hand, have you eaten at all today? When was the last time you ate?"

"Earlier today." England's apology had seemed sincere, but America didn't feel he could trust anyone right now.

"What did you eat?" England was hoping for all it was worth Alfred would respond with burgers, or any type of junk food.

"…some celery."

"That's not a meal! Come now, let's fix you something to eat." England helped America up, after seeing him struggle with the task, and settled him into a kitchen chair.

"Now, let's see if you have something we can put together," England said as he walked to the fridge. When he opened it, his stomach fell to the floor. All that was in the fridge was water bottles and two containers of cut up celery sticks, each stick about as long as a pencil. "Alfred, is this all of the food you have?"

"There might be some peanut butter and olive oil in the cupboard."

"Alright, so you have celery and condiments. No problem. I'll run to the store and get some food. Don't move." England went to put on his jacket and left.

Alfred couldn't move if he wanted to. This had turned into one of those days.

When England got in his car, he smacked his forehead on the steering wheel. How had they let this happen? How had he let this happen? They should have tried to contact Alfred sooner. He never missed meetings. He never shut up at them. He was always bothering some nation about some pointless discovery he had made that day. He was always happy. Or so they thought. But Alfred couldn't have been happy. Not with all of the constant talk about his weight. And he really wasn't that big either. The immature nations just needed something to give them a laugh. And laugh they did. But now, England was ready to cry.

He pulled himself out of his sulking and started the car. He had to blink back tears as he saw Alfred still in the kitchen chair, his head resting on the table. As England drove to the store, his mind kept wandering to America. When did this start? Was he doing this before he shut himself off from us? Is he doing…other things as well? England tossed that thought away, simply because he didn't want to think of America hurting that bad.

England grabbed a shopping cart, knowing that this wasn't going to be the only meal America had during his (chances are) long stay. England refused to leave Alfred's side until he was better. He would swear on his pride. And that was quite the promise for the gentleman.

England went to the baking aisle and got the ingredients for scones. He also headed to the back of the store to get some milk along with some vegetables and meat. He got some hamburger ingredients as well, in high hopes that when Alfred was back to…well…Alfred, he would go back to inhaling hamburgers.

As England was checking out, he saw the headlines of a few of the tabloids. The economy in America was as bad as he had suspected. Surely America knew this was affecting his people as well? No…he probably didn't. Even in his down times, he wouldn't do something that unheroic.

England let himself in with the groceries when he got back to America's house. America had indeed, from the looks of it, stayed put. This only saddened England further because he knew the only reason America wouldn't have moved was if he didn't have the strength to do so.

"Alfred, I'm back with some groceries," Arthur said as he put away the food, trying to get the younger nation's attention.

"Awesome."

"Do sandwiches sound alright?"

"Yup," came the quiet reply. America must have slept at the table while the Englishman was gone, for he seemed a bit more alert.

England fixed America a ham sandwich and set it down for him. America slowly lifted it and got himself to take a bite. This slow process continued until he was about a third through the sandwich.

Faster than either of the two nations at the table thought he was capable of, America got up and ran to the bathroom. England quickly followed and saw America kneeling in front of the toilet. England just held back America's hair as he vomited. When America was finished and had flushed, England pulled him into a hug.

"Not what you wanted?" England asked.

"No…it was good, I'm just not used to eating that much. I'm sorry…"

"Again, America, you don't have to apologize about this. Considering how much you've been eating, your body needs to get used to meals again. Come now, let's get you into bed. You're awfully cold."

America nodded in agreement and let England help him up. The two walked up to America's bedroom, England practically carrying the light American up the stairs. England helped America into bed and pulled the covers over him.

"Arthur?" America said, right as England was about to head downstairs.

"Yes?"

"Thank you," America said in a small voice. England would never truly know how much this meant to him.

"You're welcome."

When England got downstairs, he located his suitcase and brought it to the guest bedroom he knew all too well from those horror movie-filled nights Alfred insisted upon. England just couldn't find the entertainment in eating mounds of junk food while watching overly gory horror movies in the middle of the night.

Right now, England would do anything to see that America again; including sit through every single one of those movies twice…at McDonald's. But luckily, doing that wouldn't fix this problem so that was out the window. What he did need to do, was be here to support America. And that is exactly what he was going to do.