(A/N: This is just a random idea I'm trying out. If you like it, well, cool! I do not own Hetalia.)

Alfred sighed as he turned onto his block. He hadn't even noticed how dark it was until now. No moon lit the streets, but stars shone brightly in the sky. The autumn air was cool and pleasant; it ruffled his chestnut hair as he walked. Nervously, his eyes glanced at his watch repeatedly. 10:02. On a school night. Man, if he doesn't kill me, it'd be a miracle. With an expanding pit of dread in his chest, he saw that his house lights were on and the blinds were open . . . but another minute lingering out in the darkness would mean another minute closer to his doom. Alfred, you aren't a kid anymore. You can defend yourself against him. You're already taller than him, anyways. He shrugged, opening the door to the one-story, rectangular blue house, the one with the square hedges and the dying grass. Maybe if he slipped inside quietly, nobody would notice his absence—

"Where the hell were you, Alfred Jones? You've nerve, don't you, coming back thirty minutes past curfew! You promised to be back by nine thirty, you promise me every day, and you always manage to break your word!" Alfred's father scolded him angrily. It usually scared him senseless, but now that he towered over him, the fear had diminished a little. He tried to focus on his father's abnormally large eyebrows as he informed Alfred, as he did every night, that he had brought shame on his family and the man who brought him in as a child.

Anyone with eyes could see that Arthur Kirkland wasn't Alfred's father. Arthur's hair was blonde and spiky; he had bright green eyes and the aforementioned eyebrows. Alfred, on the other hand, was stuck with one strand of hair that never stayed flat and bespectacled blue eyes. Because Alfred had never known his biological parents, Arthur was his family. He could've asked for better, but one can't pick and choose their parents.

"Are you even listening?" It was obvious that Alfred had spaced out; he turned his gaze towards his father, trying to cover his lack of attention.

"Out past curfew, shame on family, got it." He tried to walk away, but Arthur grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him in his tracks. If he felt rebellious, he could easily pull him away . . . but there was no messing with Arthur when he was angry.

"Alfred. F. Jones. I am sick and tired of your shit. Every day, you put me through the same stupidity, and I've about had enough!" Alfred wanted to back away a little, feeling the "enraged Arthur" emerging.

"I really am sorry, I'll try to be on time—"

"This isn't just about your damn curfew, Alfred. Did you know that you are failing chemistry? Of course, you never were smart, but I'm under the impression that you don't even try! You have seventeen missing assignments, Alfred!" Any sense of bravery shattered like a pane of glass. So he'd found out. He had kept it a secret for two weeks, trying to raise his grade on his own . . . if he told Arthur, he'd be dead. Alfred never dreamed he'd figure it out.

"I am?" he tried to play dumb, but considering the fact that he had just been indirectly called an idiot.

"Of course you are, you git! And before you ask, your teacher e-mailed me about your situation. Where the hell did those assignments even go?" All of them were filled to the brim with wrong answers. He didn't have the heart to turn them in, not while everyone around him found chemistry to be the easiest course they'd ever taken. He couldn't be the class idiot, not again . . .

Since third grade, nobody thought Alfred was particularly smart. He fell behind in math, and after asking for help became too embarrassing, he simply accepted that he was a failure, and nobody really noticed. When he reached middle school, however, people began to compare scores. They began to look at Alfred's papers. They started sneering whenever he shouted the wrong answer with confidence. And Arthur, as always, was never any help.

"Ask the teacher," he'd said. "Who cares if other students find out you need help? I pay taxes for you to fucking learn, not waste time on frivolous things like reputation . . ." Maybe if people would stop being assholes for a minute, he wouldn't have to "fret over his popularity". Maybe if Arthur would help him, like most dads did, he wouldn't be failing. It was pretty clear that Arthur had no time for Alfred. Sometimes, Alfred didn't even know if he cared about him.

"I have them all, I'll turn them in, okay? God, just let me sleep!" He tried to turn away again, but he was forced to meet Arthur's stern gaze.

"You will raise your grade in the next two weeks," he demanded. "Or you're dropping out of sports." Alfred's heart sunk. He played offense on the school soccer team; the game was his life, the only thing that made going to school worthwhile. If that was taken away from him, he may as well run away from home.

"That's not fair—"

"It's completely fair. Do you think it's fair to make me suffer through your failure? I just want my son to succeed—"

"I'm only good at soccer and stuffing my face, you said so yourself." Arthur looked appalled. Alfred felt his hands seize his arms, those green eyes burning into his head.

"You do not back-talk to me, Alfred! You think you know everything, don't you? 'Oh, look at me, I'm a stupid teenage boy and the world revolves around me! I don't need to listen to the man who's cared for me since I was five'! You are full of shit!" Arthur sighed; Alfred's heart pounded. He hated these moments, where Arthur blamed him for his failure. It wasn't his fault! It was Arthur who set the unrealistic expectations . . . not everyone can be a genius . . . those eyes burned into him, pained him, filled him with guilt and anger and tears. "I don't care if you have to beg and plead; raise your goddamn chemistry grade!" He released his son, who stumbled away from him. Alfred's bedroom was down the hall, waiting for him to collapse on the clothes-covered bed. He threw off his brown bomber jacket and climbed into bed, still in a t-shirt and jeans. The lights were off, and his mind wanted the day to end. But once a new one began, he had new expectations to fill. Raise the grade.

"Do I look like I can raise it?" he whisper-shouted to himself. "School is BS. When the hell am I going to use unit conversions? Do I look like a fucking scientist?" He removed his glasses and closed his eyes. "Why does my life suck?" he whispered to the ceiling. "I hate you, Dad."