Hi peoples, thanks for clicking on this fic.

Throughout the whole time I was writing this story, it kept changing categories. From T to M; from romance/angst to romance/hurt/comfort to finally romance/tragedy. It kept jumping around cause I hadn't written the whole thing out, and didn't know what it was exactly. Now that it's done, the categories are all completely correct (more or less) :)

This is kinda a sequel to my one-shot Through the Broken Windows, so you may want to read it as well.

Pairings: Eventual RusAme (probably, in any case it's about time I do a proper RusAme story seeing how much I love them 3)

Warnings: Cursing (I reserve the right to use bad words up to and including the f word); probably a bad demonstration of Catholic schools (its just going off the sterotypes I know, I don't think all Catholics are like this or anything. I don''t want to offend anybody); talk of violence; talk of drugs; and talk of sexual situations provided you catch the implied phrasing. Also, translations come after the foreign words in parentheses (sorry if translations are bad because I was using Google Translate, someone please correct me if I'm wrong).

Disclaimers: I got some of the inspiration for this story from Contradicting Beliefs by SweeneyOCD98, but the stories are not the same fundamentally. I also don't own Hetalia in any way, shape or form (unless having a serious obsession counts).

FYI: human names used

The truth is like a rose;

Beautiful, but watch out for the thorns.

-Rosebush

Ivan, as he always did, subconsciously ran a big hand through his thick hair as he read. He wasn't much of a talker, and when he did it was cryptic, so one had to rely on his body language to know his thoughts. Touching his hair was what Ivan did when he focused really hard, and it took all of his energy to keep his eyes on his English for Idiots book this late at night.

Ivan never talked much, but after coming to America last month, words rarely passed his lips because he was self-conscious of his English. While he had been learning English for the past few years, his thick Russian accent was still very prominent, saying 'v' instead of 'w' and strange syntax. The worst thing in Ivan's mind was his large and sloppy lettering that was more fitting for a fourth grader than an eleventh grader.

Much to his trepidation, tomorrow was his first day at his new American school, Blessed Cross. It was also the first time he had ever left Russia for a county that did not speak his mother tongue. That's why he was pouring over an English book late at night, trying to remember as much information as possible, so he would not make a fool of himself at school.

"Ivan," his older sister and guardian Katyusha said as she opened the door to his bedroom, "It's getting late and you have school tomorrow. Go to bed." She glanced down at the heavy book clutched in his sweaty hands, and a knowing look appeared on her face. "You're English is coming along well; you have nothing to worry about." She brushed back his long hair to kiss his forehead, "Xорошо спать (sleep well)." Katyusha had already left the room before she remembered to add, "And Ivan, you know Natalia and I are support you and your sexuality, but you may want to keep it to yourself at Blessed Cross. It's a really good Catholic school, and we can't afford to put you anywhere else."

Katyusha continued to talk, probably about how great Blessed Cross was, but Ivan was already lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. He'd completely forgotten about this particular problem. Between the obvious language and cultural barrier, there was also the fact he was a gay guy at a Catholic school. Chances are that he would be the only out gay at the school. A pang of sadness shot through his chest with the though that after finally coming out of the closet in ninth grade, he would have to clamber back into it. But he had to keep it a secret to protect himself, being poor and Russian would create enough difficulty already; there was no need to add to it.

Based on the far-away look in Ivan's eyes, Katyusha could tell he wasn't listening to her anymore. With his mind still gone, she gave him a kiss on the top of the head and whispered, "это все в порядке (it's alright)," event though she knew he would not hear her.

As Ivan got ready for bed, he moved through his task as though he was a robot; his mind still on the new school. Even as he crawled into the bed between the thin sheets, Ivan's mind didn't stop whirling.

His two sisters had long since fallen asleep when Ivan was finally able to slide into its welcome embrace. Even though the noise bothered them the first week, they no longer even heard the blaring music; the suspicious thumping from another apartment; the drunken yelling; the breaking glass; the barking, growling dogs; and the occasional scream, yet alone be bothered by the sounds. But even as they slept, all kept a tight hand wrapped around a weapon, whether it was a knife, a pipe or a small gun.

The next day, as the bus arrived at school, Ivan's eyes widened as he looked upon the grand cathedral that stood as the focal point of Blessed Cross's school grounds. It was a beautiful, gray stone, gothic cathedral with high spinning spires. Ivan had heard stories about the beauty of the church, especially the stain glass windows that made many cry the first time they gazed upon their ethereal beauty. Normally places of worship made him nervous because he was not religious by any stretch of the mind, but Ivan was actually excited to go inside and explore the beautiful building.

As Ivan walked up to the actual school building, he may have maintained his childish smile, but he was actually shaking inside. Being 6'4" made him noticeably taller than everyone else causing Ivan to attract more attention than he wished, and his large frame only made him more conspicuous. But the only indication of his nerves was how he continued to hike his red plaid backpack higher and higher onto his broad shoulders and stroke the pale pink scarf his sister stitched for him many years ago with slightly sweaty fingers.

Ivan stood awkwardly in the hallway, jostled by kids pushing down the hall to find their old friends after a long summer break. He nervously studied the other kids as he tried to find the least frightening person to ask for directions to Father O'Connell's, the dean's, office.

Ivan felt a soft tapping on his shoulder and looked down to see a medium blonde haired boy with a strange curl and blue-violet eyes. "Hi, I'm Matthew Williams," he said quietly, extending a hand, "you must be new, do you need any help?" A relieved smile quickly replaced Ivan's creepy, childish one, and his larger hand surrounded the smaller boy's as he gave a firm handshake.

"Ivan Braginski. Actually yes, vhere is dean's office?" Ivan asked, his thick accent making him color slightly.

"Follow me," Matthew said, grinning pleasantly and walking off in the opposite direction Ivan thought he was supposed to go.

"Here it is," Matthew said, pointing to a dark wood door. "I couldn't help notice you're Russian, and I hate to sound rude and like I'm stereotyping, but do you play hockey by any chance? We really need more some more big, strong guys on the team."

A genuine smile covered Ivan's face at the prospect of playing his absolute favorite sport again, "I vould love to play."

"Awesome, I'll talk to you soon. Good luck with the Father O'Connell; he's... interesting..." Matthew said, hesitantly clasping Ivan on the shoulder. Ivan nodded in thanks and raised a heavy fist to knock on the door. "Come in," a wavering voice called from inside the office.

"Ah, you're that new Russian 11th grader." Father O'Connell's voice contained a slight amount of distrust in his tone, "Vladimir Braginski, correct?"

A flash of annoyance shot though Ivan at the uncaring ignorance of the Father. "No Father, my name is Ivan Braginski."

Father O'Connell shrugged his shoulders in a dismissive manner, "All those Russian names sound the same to me... Anyways, here is your class schedule, a school map and a list of extra-curriculars. I hope you enjoy attending to Blessed Cross."

After he left Father's office, Ivan kept his face pressed right against his map as he traversed the school building, only looking up irregularly to check room numbers. After looking all over school, he finally found the English classroom and hurried in with less than ten seconds until the bell rang. He stood quietly next to the door, looking at the mass of kids talking and laughing, and he felt again that he did not belong here.

A grandmotherly-looking nun, sensing his panic, gave him a comforting smile. "Everyone settle down!" She called to the class as the bell rang, the kids still making jokes and talking, "My name is Sister Christine, and we have a new student. Why don't you tell us about yourself? Your name, where you're from, favorite sport, since this is English class, what your favorite book is, and your favorite passage of the Bible."

Ivan opened his mouth to speak but shut it again as he translated what he was going to say from Russian into English. "Hello, my name is Ivan Braginski, and I lived in Moscov until last month. My favorite sport is... ice hockey. And my favorite book... My favorite book is Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky. And I have not read enough of the Bible to have a favorite passage."

"Thank you, Ivan, and by the end of the school year, you'll have a favorite. You'll have to sit in the empty seat in the back; sorry it's at an empty table," the Sister Christine told him with an apologetic smile.

As Ivan walked to the back table, he attempted to ignore the snickers and whispers that surrounded him like a dark cloud. He pulled his scarf up over his reddening cheeks in a vain attempt to hide bright blush that so obviously stretched over his pale cheeks. "Stupid commie, of course his backpack's red... Do you see that pink scarf? He must be gay... That bastard needs to learn English; he's in America now... Do you see his uniform? It doesn't even fit him..."

Ivan dropped his bag next to his chair, pulled his books out of his bag and gave a nervous smile to his only tablemate. "Vhy did she say this table vas empty vhen you are sitting here?" Ivan asked Matthew.

"Eh? People don't really see me," Matthew said sadly, "You're the first one to notice me."

Ivan gently patted him on the hand, "Comrades pay attention to each other, da?"

The corners of Matthew's lips turned upwards at the kind thought, "Yeah, comrades... friends."

Later in class, Ivan's head was spinning with all the new grammar. The class was reviewing the grammar they should have remembered from the past few years, and everyone was understand it, expect Ivan. Coordinating conjunction, conjunctive adverb, and more... He kept confusing them, the words sounded so similar, especially to foreign ears. "Okay Ivan," Matthew lectured, as Ivan twisted his fingers through his hair, "remember that conjunctive adverbs are used–"

"Ivan," the nun called sharply, "you haven't spoken this entire lesson. Give me an example of a sentence with a conjunctive adverb.

Ivan's already snowy skin paled to the color of glaciers in fear, "Sunflowers are beautiful, and field is warm, da?" The nun gave him a sad, slightly condescending look, as the class burst out laughing at both his mistake and his accent. They had been doing that all class with no chance of stopping anytime soon.

"No Ivan, that's a coordinating conjunction. Also, you keep skipping articles; work on that."

Besides Matthew, there was only one person who did not tease Ivan nor laugh at his mistakes. In fact he kept shooting Ivan apologetic looks that he wished he would see. I really should do more than watch; I'm the hero, the golden-haired boy thought, as he slid lower into his seat in embarrassment. When the class started laughing at Ivan's latest mistake, the boy looked out the widow onto his ghetto that sprawled out under the hill of this good part of the city. He didn't want to see the way Ivan flushed as he pulled his slightly ragged scarf up over his nose. The boy didn't want to notice how cute the creeping rosiness that covered Ivan's ivory cheeks was; it was too dangerous a thought to have here.