(TW!!: blood, anorexia)

After Alfred left, Ivan felt weird. Like butterflies were in his stomach. He blushed, covering his mouth. Do I like Amerika?! No. No, no, no, no! If my boss finds out he'll... Ivan began to pace, stressing over every scenario that could occur. First, his boss could find out and hurt him or Alfred. Second, he could try and get rid of his feelings for him but lose his friendship as well. Third, he could cut all ties with him. Fourth, he could try and hide it but fail.

He groaned, ruffling his hair. He had absolutely no idea what to do. He didn't like any of those options. Then a new scenario popped into his head. He could say that he was using him for information or power. His boss would have to let Alfred stay in his life then.

He settled on that just as he heard a knock on his door. He saw Alfred standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair slick with water. "Hey Ivan, I just remembered that the clothes I fell into the ice with were my last pair. Do you have anything I could...borrow?" He asked hesitantly. The Russian thought for a moment, before nodding and letting the American in.

"They might be a little oversized for you, but it's better than nothing" Ivan blushed at the thought. Alfred wearing one of his shirts. He handed him the smallest shirt he had, watching as he slipped it on. Alfred looked at him and blushed. "Could you leave so I can change?" He asked. The Russian blushed in embarrassment and nodded, walking out into the hall and shutting the door.

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Alfred looked at himself in the mirror, wearing Ivan's clothes. The pants weren't that big, with the shirt nearly reached his knees. It looked like a dress on him. He chuckled and grabbed a belt. The way Ivan had been staring before. It felt different. He disregarded it and opened the door, seeing the Russian standing next to it. Ivan looked at him and blushed, seeing how his shirt made him look tiny.

He let out a laugh and America pouted, "Hey! What's so funny?" He asked in a childish voice, glaring at Russia.

Ivan smiled, "Nothing, Fredka" the two walked downstairs to see the others sitting on the couch looking guilty. America paused, unsure if they really wanted to talk to them. As if he could read his mind, Ivan grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. He took a deep breath and walked over to them, feeling the tension in the air.

Canada looked at him, slightly confused by the oversized shirt, but guilt pooled in his lavender eyes. America opened his mouth to apologize when he realized he didn't really know what to say. He decided he would just be honest.

"I'm sorry guys, I went too far earlier...I know that not all of you insulted me and not all of you didn't worry about me before. It was wrong of me to blame you. I didn't show how I really felt and that isn't your fault." He said, "However. This doesn't mean I'm forgiving all that you said right away." His gaze turned cold, hovering on England and France. The two looked down, ashamed of what they had called him.

Ivan cut in, trying to lighten the mood. "Who wants breakfast?" He asked, catching the attention of a certain Canadian. "Do you have maple syrup?" He asked seriously. Ivan nodded and Canada walked into the kitchen. "Then gimmie forty-five minutes." And without another word, he began cooking. Whenever Ivan offered to help the Canadian shooed him away with a spatula. This made Alfred wheeze.

Once he was done, the scent of a full English breakfast and pancakes wafted through the house. Everyone's mouth watered, even Alfred's. He felt his stomach gurgle hungrily, angry at him for not eating anything.

Luckily, nobody heard it. He frowned, knowing that he wouldn't be able to eat it. Matthew worked hard to make this for them, and he knew he wouldn't be able to eat a single bite. His eyes dulled, tears beginning to gather in his eyes. He pretended to be inhaling the scent of the food to sniffle and wipe his eyes.

The Canadian called everyone over to reveal the breakfast. They all dug in with gusto except for America. He picked up his toast and took a small morsel, popping it into his mouth. He was met with sickening nausea but kept eating. He couldn't let them know. And he just couldn't hurt his brother's feelings.

He ate and ate, trying to ignore the insults in his head, keeping the tears from his eyes. He suffered through breakfast, his stomach deeply upset. He knew it was only a matter of time before it came back up, so he excused himself.

He walked into the bathroom calmly, but as soon as he shut the door, he was on his knees in front of the toilet sticking his fingers into the back of his throat. He violently gagged a couple of times before barfing. Every time he opened his eyes and looked into the bowl, his stomach churned so harshly that he began throwing up again.

Tears of pain slipped out, falling in with what was his stomach's contents. He finally finished after five straight minutes of dry heaving. He stood up, feeling fragile. He fell back to his knees, too weak to stand. He mustered up his strength and forced himself to rise.

He washed his hands and looked in the mirror. He saw a filthy mess staring back. He felt a sudden trigger of emotions and in a couple of seconds, his mood ranged from sadness to anger. Everything after that was fuzzy, like a dream.

He didn't remember plowing his fist into the mirror.

He didn't remember the shards digging into his knuckles and clattering to the floor.

He barely remembered hearing his own screams and seeing the blood gushing from his hands.

He was starting to blackout.

The only thing he remembered was the others breaking down the door and letting out shrieks.

One yell caught his attention though. One that's grief rang in his ears.

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мой подсолнух/moy podsolnukh=...nah,