A/N: Welcome to my UKUS prison AU! This may or may not be partially based off of the novel "The Hot House" by Pete Earley. A lot of the facts I use in here are from his book (you should read it).

WARNING: Vulgar language, prison slang, mentions of rape, manslaughter, and murder, homosexual sexual acts, minor gore. Read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: This is PURELY a work of fanart. I don't own Hetalia, nor the characters from Hetalia. I don't own "The Hot House", where I received my majority of facts. I am not gaining profit from writing fanfiction, if is just for entertainment.

On with the story! Enjoy the first chapter~

/

Alfred's first attempt at robbery had gone horribly wrong—for himself and the majority of the town. He placed his hand near where his .45 caliber pistol was at his side. He double checked to make sure that his black ski mask was snug and concealing. He looked over towards his best friend, Matthew, who would be assisting him in the robbery. Once receiving a nod from the other, he braced himself. As soon as he shoved the glass doors of the bank open, he and Matt brought their guns up, prepared to fire.

"Nobody move!" he barked. Civilians' eyes widened to the size of saucers. They noticeably shivered from utter fear, knees banging against each other. Just after he finished that order, he could feel a bullet whiz past him, just barely grazing his upper arm. His cerulean orbs darted for the source of the shot, only to land on a man in uniform. He didn't look happy, and he looked like he wouldn't hesitate to shoot at them again.

The next bullet that ripped through the air made contact with Matthew's chest in a split second. Horrified, Alfred lifted his childhood friend into his arms before he could collapse onto the floor. Matt in his arms, he bolted outside. He flung open the door, jumping into his car and laying the other male in the passenger's seat. He started up the engine before speeding down the street. He made a successful attempt in avoiding the screaming pedestrians in his way. Truth was, he could never kill any innocent bystanders. It's not like they'd gotten in his way on purpose.

Already, the high-pitched shriek of police sirens echoed throughout the area. Those in his way began taking a hint and hiding inside the little shops lined along the streets. His vehicle whipped past every residence or business in that town before he finally crossed into the next city.

Minutes passed, the sirens growing louder with each one that came and went. Sweat gradually formed on Alfred's forehead, dripping down onto the leather seats of his newly purchased Honda. A squad car lined up beside him, struggling to meet his pace.

He could just barely hear the distant scream of, "He's got a hostage!" His blood boiled deeply from that statement, causing his hands to tighten on the wheel and his foot to press harder on the pedal. Before he knew it, the automobile beside him was speeding ahead of him—way ahead of him, in fact. What were they doing?

Moments later, Alfred wished he had not asked himself that question. The car that had been beside him just seconds ago turned abruptly in front of him. These guys were nuts! He came to a screeching halt, his body jolting forward and almost slamming into the windshield. His heart was throwing itself against his ribcage desperately—even to the point where he struggled to come out of the car on police orders.

"Get out of the car!" one of the men ordered sternly, his firearm aimed at the young man. "Hands up! Get on the ground!"

Alfred obeyed, figuring that running wouldn't do him any good. He lifted his arms up above his head and knelt down on his knees, the cement scraping them. He could clearly feel every inch of his body trembling in fear—even his fingers as they floated in the air.

The officer who had barked the order lowered his gun, walking up behind Alfred and grabbing his wrists roughly. He snapped the shackles onto him, lifting him from the ground and urging him to follow into the squad car. As Alfred was thrown into the backseat, his eyes darted towards where Matthew now lay on the gurney, being pulled into the ambulance.

The blond could feel the familiar feeling of salted bodily fluid pricking at the corners of his eyes. Those mere tears eventually formed into whimpers, and then sobs. He struggled unsuccessfully to hold back the agonising emotion that was desperate to escape from his throat.

Alfred hadn't a clue what was to occur next—for him or Matthew. Speaking of which, how bad was his Canadian friend injured? He had undoubtedly seen a bullet slam into the other, but it couldn't be that fatal...could it?

Alfred's front teeth bit down roughly into the flesh of his lower lip. Surely, that bullet had just hit his arm. The hospital would stop the bleeding and remove that dreaded piece of metal. Matthew would rest up a little bit and he'd be fine. He'd be right next to Alfred in court, smiling at him reassuringly. Yes, that's what would happen. Everything was going to be fine.

/

"Alfred F. Jones, guilty of robbery and manslaughter."

Said man's eyes widened immensely at that single statement that had decided his fate. He glanced behind him at his grieving mother, cringing at the sight of plump tears rolling down her wrinkly cheeks. Her little boy, locked away at Leavenworth Prison—where some of the worst criminals in Kansas were locked up, just waiting to get their filthy little hands on him. Though, on the other hand, how could her picture-perfect son do something so horrid? She couldn't imagine how or why.

Alfred's attorney, a Japanese man by the name of Kiku Honda, frowned deeply. His gaze drifted towards the ground, but not before he gave the defendant a truly apologetic look. The young blond's lips inched up in a saddened smile. He wasn't angry at the man—Honda was a good guy and had done his best to prove his innocence. The jury simply wasn't on his side, that was it.

Alfred walked with his head down as two officers dragged him from the courtroom. Manslaughter? He hadn't killed Matthew. He just...he was just trying to help him! If anything, that bastard of a cop killed him! He grit his teeth, his nails sinking into the flesh of his palms. Briefly, he thought of protesting. But what good would that do? Rebelling against the jury's verdict would only get him into deeper trouble. Then...he was going to be thrown into the slammer for a thick fraction of his life? He knew what went on in there—he had read his true crime. Gangs, rapes, and even murder. A shiver ran up his spine at the very thought.

Alfred was led into a rather high-security van. He let his eyelids weigh down in attempt to calm himself. Despite his extreme stress and worry, he eventually drifted off into a dreamland circled with nightmares and horror.

/

Alfred's heart thundered immensely in his chest as he was led through the threatening steel gates of Leavenworth Prison. It had a reputation of being known as the "Hot House" due to the rather intense heat of the lower levels of the prison.

The blond was sure that the men beside him could feel him trembling. With every step into the state penitentiary, the rhythmic thumping in his chest increased.

A few more minutes of walking and a wee bit of paperwork later, Alfred was being urged into cell house A. He was ordered to enter his new "home" quickly, so his inmate didn't get the chance to bolt. The guard on the other side slammed the door shut before locking it. The American lad flinched at the loud sound, his eyes clenching shut in surprise.

The guard chuckled mockingly at his fear, strolling away. He glared daggers into the man's heavily clothed back, snarling. Asshole. He was more of a sadist than any manipulative psychopath in this damn prison. The guards didn't care if the inmates died, Alfred was sure of it. Hell, they'd probably jump at the chance to beat the living shit outta him. They didn't know him—and maybe he didn't know them either. But he knew one thing; those pieces of horse shit were all sheep, strolling alongside all the other guards—complete copies of each other. How does that make them any better than him?

Alfred was abruptly interrupted from his own thoughts by an unfamiliar English accent.

"Twats, aren't they?" the voice spoke.

The American man nearly jumped at the sudden sound. He whipped his gaze towards the source, heart thumping in fear and his brain awaiting something dangerous to occur. His eyes laid on the man who had spoken to him. They wore the same outfit, obviously, but the Englishman's was a smaller size. He was only a few inches below Alfred. The forest-green eyes that settled on him were freezing. Not in a literal sense, of course—rather, in a way that Alfred could assume that the man had seen a lot with those orbs. The Briton's head was topped with messy locks of gold, slightly darker than Alfred's own hair. He seemed fit—figure thin though muscled. His calloused fingers held a cigarette, lips meeting with the end of it every few seconds. Soon, his other hand was outstretched towards the young convict.

"Arthur Kirkland." he said.

With mighty hesitance, Alfred took the seemingly threatening hand and shook it awkwardly. "Alfred F. Jones." he mumbled coyly.

Arthur's lips curled up in a grin. "Pleasure." he said. The hand briefly disappeared into his pocket before coming back out with a half-full pack of cigarettes. "Want one?" he offered Alfred.

The other flinched slightly. "I'm good, thanks." he insisted.

Kirkland shrugged. "Suit yourself." he said. He shoved the cigarettes back into his pocket and strolled towards the lone bunk bed. "'Bottom's mine. You're up top." he informed the azure-eyed man. He brought his head down slightly so he could successfully sit on the bed without bumping his head. "Where are you from, lad?" he inquired.

Alfred pondered on whether or not to give away his hometown, but figured he best do so. "Lansing." he replied.

"I see. If you want to get specific, I'm originally from London. I moved to Leavenworth at fifteen years old." he chimed in. "Seven years later, I'm stuck in this place." he cackled. "Robbery of a bank—shot three people dead." Arthur said.

The fact that the man locked in the same room as him was a murderer didn't help his paranoia of certain scenarios running through his mind either.

"I'm in for robbery too." Stutters lined his words; he cursed himself for it.

The man rose a noticeably large brow at his statement. "That's it? No one dead?" Arthur asked.

Alfred gave a heavy, troubled sigh—his only sign of being even the slightest bit comfortable. "Well, according to the jury, yeah, I did kill someone." he grumbled, the rage that had previously been boiling inside of him restarting.

"Huh? I'm confused." Arthur replied, clearly as confused as his statement had led Alfred to believe.

"It's kinda complicated, but I guess it's bearable." He shrugged, proceeding to tell his tale with intrigued emeralds locked on him. "I wasn't the only one after the bank. My friend and I agreed to go through with our plan together. Turns out one of the dudes in there was a cop. This nut goes batshit and starts firing at us. I saw my friend get shot, but I didn't think it was that bad, so I just threw him in the passenger seat and started driving. One thing led to another, and I got caught. Next thing I know, I'm on trial for manslaughter and robbery." Every so often he would sneak in an upset growl with his story.

The orbs that had been so intensely glued to him widened. "Wow, that's a shame for you." The Brit's interest faded away along with the end of Alfred's story. He leaned back on his rather bulky mattress. "I'd love to help you out, but I've got my own shit to worry about. Even listening to that whole thing was a bit of a stretch for me!" he chuckled.

Alfred wasn't too surprised to hear those words—and he couldn't bring himself to be that angry. It's not like that'd help him anyhow.

Arthur's eyes no longer focused on his own—rather, they drifted upwards towards the bottom surface of the top bunk. "Oi, kid, how old are ya?" he inquired.

Alfred really hesitated on that question. Was it even needed? What if it put him in even deeper shit? Everyone always wanted a piece youngster ass. He remained silent, still fretting over whether or not to respond.

"Oi! Did you even hear me?" Arthur growled, his volume raising significantly.

That certainly was enough to make him decide. "T-Twenty-three." he responded, his voice cracking.

Immediately, the Englishman was brought back to his normal, calm state. "Oh, a youngster and a fish?" he asked, a few laughs bouncing from his lips. "Won't you have fun with that." he said in a whisper, as if not wishing for Alfred to hear him. "I'm thirty-three." he stated at last.

Thirty-three? Arthur had lived in this place for eleven years? That thought made Alfred's breakfast begin to rise up from where it rested in his stomach, but he pushed it back down.

"If it's okay with you, I'm gonna hit the sack..." Alfred mumbled, feet dragging up the ladder.

"Oh yeah, sure, no problem. But we got lunch in an hour."

"'Kay." Alfred replied.

The mattress wasn't as uncomfortable as he had expected—in fact, it was pretty decent. He laid his head down on the pillow, cerulean eyes gazing pointlessly at the ceiling. He wasn't as tired as he had let on, but it beat conversing with whatshisname. Putting his fear aside, Alfred forced his eyes to shut and struggled to ignore the dark, frightening sounds of the penitentiary. He couldn't keep track of when he completely went out, but it definitely took a long time.

/

A/N: Didja enjoy it? :D I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as I can.

Sorry if some of my facts are off (especially in law aspect). I dunno if you were aware or not, but I don't believe a 12 year old can get into law school.

Maybeee review? Favourite and follow, if you enjoyed? :3

Until next chapter~