Hello everyone! This is a short multi-chapter story set in a boarding school AU. It's pretty obvious, but the pairing is USUK. I apologise for any spelling and grammar mistakes, for over-use of cheesy cliches, and for general OOCness. Thankyou so much for reading, and please review!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.

The new boy was crying. Alfred had woken from a slightly odd dream involving a talking cucumber to the sound of pained, tearful sobbing. At first, he had wondered whether he should try to comfort him. Memories of his first night here, almost five years ago, swam to the front of his mind, and he remembered how alone he had felt. As if no-one in the world cared about him. How that feeling had torn him apart, and he had prayed for someone to rescue him.

But as the seconds ticked by, Alfred also remembered how, when he'd come into the room from his lessons earlier that day, the new boy had already been curled up under his duvet, hostile and unapproachable. So instead he lay in his warm bed, watching shadows dancing across the window and listening to the boy's unbridled crying.

It was 2:36, which meant Alfred had been awake for approximately 40 minutes. The lump in the covers of the other bed was still sobbing, and showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Alfred rolled over and watched the mound shiver and quake. Soft silver moonlight was pouring in through the window between the two beds, and the room was a pale grey colour.

He thought about how ironic it was that he was lying awake tonight, on one of the few nights he'd actually been able to get off to sleep. Insomnia had plagued him for so long that the darkened room was a familiar sight. The boy who'd shared the bedroom until a few days ago, Ludwig, snored like a hippopotamus, which in a weird way Alfred found he missed. He smiled softly to himself. When Ludwig had been here, he'd found the boy stern and haughty, but now he was gone Alfred remembered him fondly. It was strange.

At 2:58 he found himself slipping his ankles out from under the duvet and placing his feet upon the floor. It was a cold November night, and the cool air bit at his legs, but Alfred persevered. He stood up, ignoring the headrush, and tentatively took a couple of steps towards the other bed, where the stranger was still crying relentlessly. As he passed the window he glanced out at the wide, empty stretch of playing field and the distant shape of the gamekeepers house beyond.

He came to a halt a few centimetres away from the bed, suddenly nervous. What if the boy wanted to be left alone? What if he made such a bad impression that they could never be friends? Alfred's fingers played with the hem of the T-shirt he wore to bed as he contemplated his decision. Eventually, after what could have been a few seconds or a few hours, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Are you ok?" he asked. His voice cut through the silence like a knife. The lump under the quivers seemed to pause, and there were a few blubbering noises. Alfred imagined the boy trying to pull himself together, and felt suddenly guilty. "I'm Alfred F Jones," he continued, after a pause as empty as a vacuum, "Um- I share this room with you."

There was no reply, save for a small sniffling noise. It reminded Alfred forcibly of a wounded animal. "I- are you homesick?" poured out of his mouth like syrup. He regretted it instantly. Of course the kid was homesick, any idiot could see that much. An urge to rush back to his warm bed and bury his head under the covers ran through Alfred's body. But as he turned to go, the lump shifted and moved, and a face appeared.

The boy's eyes were wide and bloodshot in the darkened room. His hair, sticking up in every direction, was fairly short and rather damp. He had a rounded nose and a full mouth, and his expression was strangely resigned. The moonlight meant that it was impossible for Alfred to discern any colours, but he could tell the boy's skin was fairly pale. He looked young, and hesitant, and frightened.

Alfred wanted to reach out and hug him, anything to smooth out those delicate lines crinkling his forehead, anything to soothe his swollen eyes. But thankfully, he realised before he did so that it would completely freak the kid out. "I'm Arthur," the boy said very quietly.

For a few seconds they remained in that position: Alfred, shivering in his pyjamas, staring at the boy wrapped in his duvet, who watched him in turn with nervous eyes. Then Alfred smiled. "It's nice to meet you," he said, his middle class background seeping through and forcing his manners. The boy, Arthur, glanced at the hand being offered to him, then back at Alfred's face.

He blushed self-consciously, gave an embarrassed smile, and withdrew it. "The boy who was here before was a dick," Alfred blurted out. Arthur seemed to study him for an incredibly long time. Then, thank God, he smiled.

"Good," he replied simply. Alfred's eyes widened in surprise, then he frowned slightly. What on earth did he mean by that? "Good that I didn't like him?" he asked, puzzled. Arthur shrugged minutely. "Good that I don't have anything to live up to," he replied somewhat cryptically. Alfred laughed in relief, the sound too loud in the moonlight, and Arthur rubbed a hand self-consciously across his eyes.

Alfred suddenly realised with stunning clarity how embarrassed the boy must have been, to be interrupted in his sorrow. "So, er-," he started, anything to distract him from the guilty thoughts circling his head, "Where do you come from?"

And so they talked. Alfred told him about his childhood in London, the majesty of Buckingham Palace and the gritty poverty of the backstreets. He spoke of his three older brothers, two of whom were in the army, the other one in jail for assault. Of his mother, strong and haughty, who loved all her children with a fierce, terrifying passion. Of his heroic father, who had been scarred in more ways than one by his part in the war.

The car crash that had killed him, and the strange emptiness Arthur had felt at the funeral of the man who raised him. The wealthy new step-father he loathed, and his mother's reluctance to interfere as he was sent so far away from everything he had ever known.

"So…" Arthur said eventually, "What's the verdict?" Those words, reminiscent of someone speaking about a jail sentence, sparked another flame of pity in Alfred's chest. He buried it deep down. If there was once thing he'd learnt about Arthur from his story, it was that he was a fighter. He didn't want anyone's pity. "I think," Alfred said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "You're going to change everything." Arthur's eyebrow quirked upwards, revealing his surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged, blushed a little, glanced out of the window. "Well, I don't think this school's ever had a person who doesn't get given five hundred pounds a week from daddy as 'spending money' in it before. Or… or anyone who knows what it's like to go hungry." Arthur's expression was cautious, as if he was trying to decide what to think. "Then I guess you're right," he said eventually, "They're not going to know what's hit them."