A/N: So! This is my first ever fic I've decided to upload! I'm not worried about any of that "go easy on me" stuff. This was written for my English class but I actually wrote it with the intent to be a fanfic. But ya know... this is yaoi... well... very mild fluffy cute-ness! I hope you guys like it!

Disclaimer! I do not own Hetalia

Today is the first day of summer; the warm sun beating down on the streets of this pleasant London suburb. Almost like standing on the sun, from the lack of shade. Every home the same. Viridian lawns and glowing gardens keep watch on the children as they play. All parents of this neighborhood feel the need to protect the others' kids. That just makes my heart sing.

A warm breeze blows through my electric-blue-streaked-yet-still-straw-blond hair. I know they stare at me, they always do. I slightly turn to face them as I waltz down the sidewalk. I knew it. Each child, staring with eyes wide; the adults, polite enough to turn their gaze away after a short glance, but I get it. I don't fit the picture.

I look down at my, fairly scaled back from a normal day's wear, outfit. Ripped Sex Pistols shirt held together by safety pins and skinny black jeans loosely hang off me. Various necklaces dangle from my neck including my grandfather's dog tags from the second world war.

I sigh, stepping into the cool brought from the shade of the entryway overhang of my house. Gripping the handle, slowly turning, and then pushing it open, I glide inside. My parents are setting in the parlor with a cup of tea... Tea? Do they know how bloody hot it is out there? It doesn't matter, I'll just nag them about it later. I had something much more important to do.

Today was the day I'd finally do it. I mean, I've known I was gay for a while but I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone other than Lundy. I just felt ready to tell them.

"Mum, Dad?" they look up from their tea. "I have something important to tell you." I glanced nervously at them, seeing fear in my Mum's eyes, concern in my Dad's. "I'm gay." I finally, and quite timidly, state. After what seems to be hours my Dad is up, mug smashing against the table. The next bit is a blur but at some point I was slapped and pushed to the door. Seeing my mum weeping while steadying herself on the stair rail as I beg for my dad to reconsider. I play the but-I'm-your-son card only to have him snarl back with, "I only have three sons." I had three brothers.

I held my smarting cheek as I stumble down the steps onto the lawn. My eyes wide in shock, I barely found the gate of the white fence. I'm sure people were staring again but I couldn't bring myself to give a damn. Wandering down the street, I think of the only place I want to be right now and make my way to the nearest underground station.

I get off at the Queensway station, which is gladly only a short distance from the gardens. I'm sure the people that had the day off, no matter how few of them, were staring at me. The punk walking through Kensington Gardens. Finding a nice, shady tree that was out of the way of prying eyes, I plopped down on the roots.

In the distance I could hear people laughing, being happy in the gardens on their day off. The wonderful, magical aroma of the various flowers melted my tension, if only a bit. It was just enough of a bit for me to finally realize I was crying. Silent, warm tears rolled off my face, darkening the material of my jeans. That's when I allowed myself to cry. Soft, sighing sobs echo in my ears. Just quiet enough for no one but myself to hear.

A warm breeze swam through the gardens, tossing my hair lightly and bringing the taste of orange and dirt to my lips. I knew someone was there. Barely lifting my head I saw a blurry figure coming around a tree, their gaze fixed on me.

I quickly wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and took a deep breath. Now being able to see clearly, I notice that the person was a man; as much of one as you can be at his age, about 18 I'd say. He seemed to be worried about me, a glint of concern in his blue eyes. I have to get myself together, I never let anyone see me cry. Never.

"Are you okay?" he starts in an American accent. Figures. "Well, heh, I mean you can't be that okay but, well, you get the point." I smiled as he falls through that awkwardly worded sentence. Upon seeing that small twitch of my lips, he smiled himself. A bright, blindly beautiful smile.

"Yeah, I am actually." I mutter, still not feeling like opening up to him even though it feels right to do so. At that he walks over and plops down next to me, making me notice that he's covered in dirt. Probably a gardener, I mentally smile.

"Well, that's good, I can't stand it when people are sad." Now he leans closer to me, relaxing. Did I really appear sad? I guess I did, and that's understandable.

"I wasn't actually all that sad, trust me. Just more so... disappointed, I guess. And on top of everything, downright shocked." I'm opening up, why does he have this effect.

"How come?" I turn to glance at him at that comment and he catches on. "Oh! Sorry, I mean, you don't have to tell me. It's not my place anyway. But if you want to tell someone, I'll be right here." He smiled and patted the dirt off his shorts and wheat blond hair.

That's when the flood gate let loose. I ended up telling him everything. About the walk to the house, the mental pep talk, the spilt tea, Mum weeping by the stairs. And most of all, how dejected I felt after. I babbled on about what I was thinking on the tube here and how I just wanted a nice place to rest for a bit. I was crying again, and not just silent tears but actually crying; sobs wracking my body as I held my knees close.

I tried to keep it together, I couldn't let him see me like this. So vulnerable, so fragile, so weak. I can't cry in front of anyone. Never. The only exception was that once.

Lundy was 17 and I was 15. We were best of friends which is odd for brothers. I was home already when he got home from school; I was curled up on the sofa, crying like a baby. Him being the brother he is, came over and just hugged me. I finally told him what was the matter and he just smiled and hugged me closer. He said that he'd always be there for me, even when no one else was. And that made that day so much better, the first time I told anyone.

But now, here's this stranger, and I'm pouring my heart out to him. There's something about him that makes me trust him no matter what. I hate it. The way his eyes dive into my soul and scoop out all the goop that makes up what I think and feel. He's so honest and caring and- I'm fixating on him. Not good!

When I've finished my outpour of feelings, I noticed I'm being held. A meaningful hug that conveys true concern and emotion. I tense up upon this realization; he notices and backs away.

"I-I'm sorry!" he quickly stutters. "I just... thought you needed a hug." That's when he gives me those eyes; eyes that shine with dejection and slight embarrassment with lingering worry. He's not a man at all, that's my final decision. Not with that look, he's not.

"It's okay," I whisper, pulling him back in. "I really did need that. And you know what? I'll take you up on that offer of you staying right here." He smiled widely, like no one could believe. I made his day, and he fixed mine. I opened up to a stranger, and that probably was the best door I ever opened.