A/N: Thank you guys for the 100 reviews! :3 Never thought it get this much when I started it, and certainly not in 8 chapters ^_^

Shameless self-advertising *flicks back hair over shoulder*: If any of you guys like RusAme, I got a video on YouTube of the pairing to the song "Sweater Weather" by The Neighbourhood. Link is on my profile so go check it out! :D

I've actually been really eager to write this chapter, because this is where the story moves along. You'll see why~

Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.

He woke up before sunrise and got up and out of bed, checking the time with blurred eyes. 4:55. Groggily, he changed into his running gear before quietly tiptoeing to each of his family members' rooms in order to check if they were awake or not. The teen went to his brother's room, which was right next to his, first. Peeking in because the door was open, he saw Matthew curled up under the blankets with his stuffed bear, completely fast asleep. Next the blonde moved further down the hall to his parents' room, pressing an ear to the closed door. Nothing.

Alfred grinned crookedly and silently fled down the steps and out the door. Normally he'd get in at least 2 or 3 miles before heading back to take a shower. By then everyone started to wake up and didn't question where he'd been. But today, due to the binging yesterday, he planned to get in 4 miles - minimum. That was why he had gotten up earlier than normal; that was why he bothered to check if his parents or brother had been sleeping. Arthur and Francis both allowed him to run in the mornings and nights so long as it was after 5:30 AM and before 8:30 PM. "It's dangerous to be out in the dark alone," Arthur had warned sternly.

The American took five or so minutes to stretch out his muscles, not wanting one to tear or rip. If a muscle did tear, he wouldn't know what to do to lose weight anymore. Throw up? Full on starve? Alfred shook his head dejectedly. I think I'd rather kill myself, he thought as he started to jog.

The cold breeze against his face slowly started to wake him up. Eventually, Alfred was wide awake and he couldn't help but notice how different everything looked when illuminated by only a streetlight. It looked almost…scary. Especially the roads that didn't even have streetlights; those he didn't even venture to.

Everything was quiet – even the birds weren't up yet. The stillness was eerie though, and Alfred felt as if someone was going to jump out at him and scare him with every corner he turned. So he ran a little faster.

Half an hour later and the sky started to look lighter. Sunrise is almost here, the teen mused. Birds started to chirp as they awoke and cars passed him on their way to work. Feeling more comfortable, Alfred stopped running and started to once again jog. He was tired, his muscles were aching from running nonstop for over a half an hour, but he wouldn't admit it. "Pain is weakness leaving the body," he chanted over and over again. But soon he decided that enough was enough, and he made his way home.

The American came in through the door just as the clock struck 6. A little later than normal, but he didn't care. He felt good from the run and hurried into the kitchen to get some water. If he couldn't make the walk to school, he could always just take the bus. It wasn't an easy choice, because the bus sucked, but at least it was better than having to beg his parents for a ride.

"Hello Alfred," someone greeted from behind him.

Alfred jumped and banged his glass on the table, startled. Turning around, he saw Matthew leaning against the table with his arms crossed, still in his pajamas. "Hi Matthew," the American responded evenly.

"A little late coming home, eh?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're usually in the shower by now."

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "Have you been keeping track about where I am at what time? 'Cause, dude, that's a little creepy."

Matthew shrugged. "No, it's just that these days you do everything by routine. Anything out of the ordinary is out of character for you now. Anyway, I came down to talk to you before Dad and Papa come down themselves," the Canadian said, looking at his brother with hope in his uniquely colored eyes.

Don't get too close, Alfred, the American warned himself. He's not your brother anymore…"Oh yeah? What about?" He inquired, subtly inching away.

"I want to repair our friendship, Alfred. It's not easy living in the same house as your brother when your brother dislikes you. I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. I really am. Please forgive me?"

Perfect Matthew~, the voice sang.

Before Alfred to answer, Francis entered the kitchen looking happy and relaxed. "Bonjour!" he greeted to the Canadian first, not having noticed the American standing less than three feet away. He also didn't seem to mind his son in pajamas, something he normally would bug his other son about.

"Morning Papa," the elder son replied back easily.

"How did you sleep?"

"Fine."

Alfred tried to slink out before his papa noticed him, deciding that if he was ignored it was better to leave; but alas it was not to be because he accidentally knocked over the damn glass that was sitting on the counter. "Shit!" The American exclaimed, quickly getting the broom to sweep up the broken glass.

Francis turned towards him with a frown. "Alfred? When did you –"

"Practically the whole time," Alfred responded dryly, annoyed.

"…Oh…Well why don't you let me clear that up for you so you can go in the shower, hmm? You really need one."

"Well gee thanks."

The Frenchman gave him a look as he took the brush from his hand, but the American let him have it. He didn't want to be lectured today over manners and gratitude.

So he bounded his way up the stairs, grabbed his clothes for the day, and went in the bathroom to take a shower. As per usual, he checked the scale, cringed at the result, and made sure to take a really long shower. That way when he came back downstairs, it would be time to leave and he wouldn't be able to eat breakfast.

Forty minutes later, Alfred walked out of the bathroom feeling clean and refreshed. Teeth were brushed, hair was washed, clean clothes were on, and his body no longer reeked like sweat. He walked slowly down the steps, trying to kill the extra five minutes of time, and slowly started to put on his shoes. The teen then got up and called out, "I'm leaving!"

Nothing.

No good bye or anything to suggest anyone had heard him.

It stung a little. But only a little…

Grabbing his backpack, Alfred exited and began his long trek to school, trying to think of anything other than his dysfunctional family.

Lunch came around.

Alfred didn't eat.

He didn't even show up to his friends' table at all.

Instead he ran around the track.

And no one missed him.

History.

There was a time where Alfred really liked the subject, but now he wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was simply because he felt distracted or something. Or the fact that he sat next to the biggest jerk in the world. Or maybe due to his grades slipping from skipping homework assignments. He didn't know. He didn't want to know.

Mr. Chancy, the young history teacher with a styled mustache and brown hair, started to pace back and forth. Everyone knew what was coming because everyone who ever had Mr. Chancy as a teacher knew that whenever he started pacing, something big was going to follow.

Alfred couldn't help but stare; after all, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. Plus it wasn't as if Mr. Chancy was ugly to look at – because he wasn't. He was actually quite attractive, although the teenage boy would never admit it. All the girls in his grade would fawn over the guy and use petty excuses just to be near him, and Alfred was so not a girl. He could see why the girls had crushes on the teacher. Mr. Chancy wasn't old, for one. He was around 28 or 30. He wore nice clothes too (nearly too nice for him to be straight, the American thought) and had a mustache for god's sake! Not just a mustache, a styled mustache! And when he spoke or gave lectures, you couldn't help but want to hang onto every single word he said. Yes, Alfred mused, it's easy to see why the girls fawn over him.

"Alright class, listen up!" Mr. Chancy announced, clapping his hands together and stopping his pacing. Immediately the class hushed. "Now as you all know, it's the beginning of a new semester – which is perfect because this new project will take all of the semester to finish."

"A new project?" Someone groaned.

"Yes," the history teacher verified, "a new project. But this isn't any project, oh no it isn't. I'm going to pick your partner, give you a war or event to do the project on, and let you kids go have fun. If the war or event is over a long period of time – such as the Hundred Years War or World War 2 – I will let you and your partner chose to do a battle or event during that era.

"Finalized projects will be due by the end of the semester for 40% of your grade, so don't blow it. Make it neat and professional. I'll let you have creative license, so if you want to make a documentary or play about it as opposed to a threefold board, be my guest.

"However, you have to pass a certain list of requirements first. Works cited, a three paragraph essay, you know the drill. If you've forgotten, it'll all be in this blue packet I'm giving out," Mr. Chancy held up a blue packet of paper in his hand.

A girl, Alfred didn't know her name, raised her hand and asked, "So do we have to work with a partner?"

"Yes."

"What if we don't like the partner?"

"Suck it up. I've paired you with the person you work the best with, so don't worry."

A boy, whom Alfred also didn't know that well, questioned, "How will we know our partners?"

Mr. Chancy's face brightened as he smiled. "Good question, Andrew! I'll call two names up to my desk, one will be your name and another will be your partners, give you your war or event, and then let you discuss and start this thing. In the meantime, read pages 168 – 179 in your textbooks and answer the questions, please."

Andrew grumbled and slumped into his seat, pulling out his textbook.

Alfred did the same, minus the grumbling and slumping. He wondered who he got paired with. It wasn't as if it mattered anyway, because he hardly knew anyone in here besides Braginsky. And he highly doubted he would be stuck with him. At least, he hoped not.

Blue eyes couldn't help but glance to the right, where Ivan sat not reading the textbook. Instead, the Russian was reading a book that didn't look like it was printed in English. It looked like it was typed up in some weird figures that didn't seem like letters. Russian writing, the American guessed. What was it called again? Cyrillic?

Whatever, he thought. It's none of my business.

With every minute that went by without being called, however, Alfred started to get antsy. Slowly the room – where it started off as quiet – grew louder as groups formed. Friends were with friends. Or at least people whom they were civil with, and pretty soon it was just a handful of people left to pair. Alfred sincerely hoped it was someone who he didn't have conflict with, but with each minute going by his insides started to turn to ice. What if he'd been forgotten? What if he had to work alone? What if he was paired with that weird Romanian kid? He did not want to be paired with that weirdo at all. But the only question that seemed to circulate in his mind the most was: Who am I paired with?

The student watched as two classmates walked back to their desks. They seemed happy. Mr. Chancy looked up from his writing and suddenly Alfred got a bad feeling. The teacher opened his mouth and called, "Alfred Jones and Ivan Braginsky."

And suddenly heads turned towards them.

Alfred wanted to disappear. Maybe he had heard wrong? But one shocked glance at Ivan could tell that he didn't. Reluctantly, he got out of his seat, dread filling him. Oh god why? He wondered. Why him?

As he made his way to Mr. Chancy's desk, he couldn't help but overhear exchanged whispers and snickers. "Ten bucks say they can't get passed the first week without killing each other," one student betted.

Another replied easily, "Oh yeah? Fifteen bucks says they wind up fucking each other."

The people around them started to laugh. "Yeah," a girl agreed. "After what happened in the parking lot incident it's highly likely. Did you see how many YouTube views it has? Over half a million!"

Alfred wanted to die right then and there. His meltdown had gone viral now? Oh this was too much. This was just too, too much.

"Oh can it Charlene," a boy sneered at her. "They're nothing but a bunch of fags."

"Ivan is, but I don't think Alfred is," Charlene retorted. "I think he's asexual. I mean, he's never had a girlfriend or – Heaven forbid – a boyfriend. So it's either he's asexual or a narcissist."

Alfred's face was burning when he finally reached Mr. Chancy's desk. Ivan was already there, having walked slightly faster than Alfred, and was fiddling with the ends of his scarf. The American had no clue what the Russian was feeling or thinking, and he honestly didn't want to know. But he couldn't help but wonder how Ivan could stand all those downgrading comments.

Mr. Chancy smiled; and if Alfred could become an ice sculpture, he would. Something felt off by the teacher's smile. "Well boys, congratulations!"

Neither partner spoke or seemed enthused.

The history teacher didn't falter though and looked back and forth between the two of them excitedly. "For your topic you will be doing –"

Finally Alfred seemed to snap out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into and interrupted, "Hold on, sir. I mean no disrespect when I say this, but what made you think I could work with him?" He pointed to Ivan.

"Pointing is rude," Ivan said mildly, seemingly unfazed.

Frowning, the history teacher pursed his lips. "Aren't you two together?" he asked.

"What?!" Both students shouted in unison.

"No?"

"Damn right it's a no!" Alfred exclaimed, slapping the desk with his hand.

Ivan made a face, and Alfred couldn't make out whether it was in disagreement or agreement.

"Hmm guess that video was misleading then," Mr. Chancy said offhandedly while glaring at the blue-eyed teen. Disrespectful, Jones. Do you want detention? His brown eyes threatened. "No matter," he continued, "you two will just have to suck it up."

"So what is our project on?" Ivan inquired. From his tone he was bored.

"You two will be doing the Cold War."

Was that a joke?!

Translation(s):

Bonjour! - Good morning! (French)