I watched "Scott Pilgrim versus the World". You can thank that movie (OMG IT WAS SO GOOOOOD) for this fic as well for my new belief that we all explode into coins when we die.

Btw, Michael Cera is Canadian? Seriously, the first words out of my mouth were "He's not one of ours?" And my friend was like "You're not allowed to speak anymore."

So, yeah, I had planned to write an angsty threesome between Canada, America, and England. But, then, I realized that I couldn't so here's this thingy instead. XD Maybe someday, I'll write a threesome, someday...

Warnings: FAIL, OOC-ness, language, AU, slash, teenagers

Pairing: eventual Arthur/Matthew

"You want me to what?" Matthew hissed, indigo eyes incredulous, as he stared at his best friend, his fingers curled tight around the metal edge of his locker. "Has all that cocaine gone to your head?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Okay, for one, brometheus, I've been clean for two months, three weeks, two days and twenty-two hours." The blond leaned closer smiling brilliantly despite the skeptical glare his friend gave him. "And, secondly, you heard me."

"I am not going to sleep with the front man of your band's rival band just so you can win that stupid Battle of the Bands contest." Matthew slammed his locker shut and slung his book bag over his satchel. "That's wrong."

"You don't have to sleep with him." Alfred sighed, jogging to catch up with the other blond who was already storming away. "Just…make him fall in love with you and then break his heart—"

"Because that's not cruel at all." Matthew stated dryly, waving at one of his teammates. "I thought you were over it."

"I am." Alfred said adamantly, whirling around and walking backwards so he could stare pleadingly at his best friend. "This has nothing to do with revenge. It has everything to do with winning."

"Winning isn't everything."

"That's what parents tell their loser kids so they don't cry themselves to sleep because they suck ass at life."

"You just want to beat his band so he'll realize how stupid he was to kick you out of his band."

"So, so not true!" A beat of silence then. "Though I wouldn't be opposed to such an outcome…"

The two blonds continued to walk down the hallway, Matthew ignoring Alfred's excited pleas with a stoic expression.

"Al. I'm only going to say this once." Matthew came to a halt right at the exit doors of their school. "No."

And then he shoved through the doors, leaving behind a frustrated blond.

"Hey, Matt. You realize Jones has been staring at you for the past hour right?" Matthias asked, eyebrow quirked, as he skated by.

Matthew, who was going over a play with Berwald, rolled his eyes. "He wants to me to seduce Arthur and help sabotage his band so Alfred can win Battle of the Bands."

"Absolutely not." Anders and Fridrik said in unison.

"That's what I said." Matthew sighed, blowing at his errant curl that was bouncing lazily between his eyes. "He just can't take no for an answer."

"I could make him?" Ivan offered with an innocent grin that sent Raivis into a fit of shivers as the large Russian lazily skated up next to him. "I can be…quite persuasive."

"No, no that's okay Ivan." The blond reassured his teammate.

"I don't approve of him trying to pimp you out." Tino added as he stepped onto the ice. "You're not some prostitute—"

"Yeah, you don't show nearly enough leg." Matthias interrupted with a lewd smile, earning a swift blow to the head courtesy of Anders.

"And Arthur is a delinquent." Tino finished, glaring darkly at the wild-haired boy.

"'e's dang'rous." Berwald agreed.

"He's not that bad." Matthew argued with a slight pout. "Al's still bitter about being kicked out of Arthur's band."

"I'm not bitter!" Alfred hollered from the stands. "And I can hear you Mattie!"

Matthew's face darkened and he turned to face his friend. "Then you know I want you to GO AWAY!"


"He probably could." Anders pointed out.

Matthew scowled. "Ivan, maybe we need your special brand of persuasion."

"With pleasure." The pale-haired boy said with a cheerful smile as he tore off his helmet, gloves and jersey and began to hum as he made his way to Alfred.

A week later (and another $500 of therapy as well as a restraining order against Ivan), Alfred hadn't said another word to Matthew about seducing his former bandmate.

"So we finally decided on a name." Alfred babbled cheerfully, a friendly arm draped across Matthew's shoulders as the two strolled into the vintage music shop. Alfred, slurping on an extra-large strawberry milkshake and decked out in ratty jeans and a faded Guns N' Roses shirt, then proceeded to untangle himself from his best friend and bounced over to the country section.

Matthew, wearing a black tuque and dark red shirt, followed at a much more leisurely pace behind his friend, nose scrunching up when he saw Alfred pawing through Tim McGraw.

"We are now The BoonRock Saints!" Alfred crowed, grin splitting his face.

"Clever." Matthew replied, a small smile on his face. "Much better than Alfred and the Alfredettes."

"That name," Alfred said with a serious look. "was the shit."

"Yeah, shit. That sums it up nicely." Matthew teased, nudging Alfred with his elbow. "By the way, we came in here for a reason, eh?" He pointed over next to an innocuous bulletin board over in the corner of the nearly empty store. "The sooner you do this, the sooner you can go on and practice."

"Pfft, practice." Alfred said dismissively, ditching the CDs and already heading over to the board. "We've already got a kickass song ready to go."


"No, really, Mattie. With me on bass and with Stevie's drum solo—pen, please yo—and Angie's sex voice and Kiku on the keyboard, we're gonna rock so hard."

"Or crash and burn like the shite group you are." An accented voice drawled from behind them.

Both blonds turned and faced the intruder, both with wary expressions.

Arthur still dressed in the royal blue sweater vest and plaid pants of their high school, gave them a smug look.

"Nerd Council run late?" Alfred sneered, fingers tightening around his milkshake.

"Sharp wit as usual, Jones." The sandy-haired Brit replied. "Pardon me." And with that, he pushed between both boys, plucking the pen easily from Alfred's lax fingers and scrawling the name of his band on the next open space.

"The Rippers?" Alfred read with a laugh. "Lame."

"If your music is anything like your comebacks, we'll have no problem kicking your pathetic arses." Arthur grit out, finishing his writing with a flourish and then shoving the pen back at the blond. "Face it, git, you have no chance." He added, before sharply turning on his heel.

Alfred was unnaturally quiet.

Alfred's silence continued even during the ride back to his house. Knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel, the blond stared ahead with steely blue eyes. No matter how many times Matthew glanced at him during the drive, Alfred gave no indication of speaking.

When the two teens finally pulled into Alfred's driveway, his beat-up Ford sputtering weakly as the blond switched off the ignition.

"He thinks he knows everything." Alfred scowled. "Stupid limey bastard. We'll show him."

Matthew sighed. Though he had only moved to the U.S at the end of 8th grade, the blond was well aware of how the bad blood began between Arthur and Alfred. Moving next door to the vivacious blond, Matthew's first glimpse of Alfred had been him and Arthur practicing together in the younger teen's garage.

The two had become friends fairly quickly, sharing a similar taste in movies, music, and television. They bonded instantly, going so far as become blood brothers a week before 9th grade started.

(They both had matching scars on their palms—perfect mirror images much to their amusement.)

Thanks to Matthew's close friendship with Alfred, the blue-eyed boy had invited him to watch his band practice. Matthew had sat, in awe, as the young group stumbled through a few songs.

Of course, Matthew had also been there the day Arthur had kicked Alfred out of the band.

From what the teen understood, Alfred had been too stubborn and unwilling to listen to Arthur's direction. Arthur, on the other hand, was a bit of a control freak and anal-retentive jerk.

The two headstrong individuals had clashed and though Alfred gave Arthur a lovely shiner, he was kicked out of the band.

(That, of course, led to the period in Alfred's life known as the "I will never, ever, ever join another band ever" and he had withdrawn from everyone and had gained twenty pounds.)

It wouldn't have been so bad, if Alfred hadn't founded the band with Arthur in middle school.

Sure, for the next two years, Alfred pretended like he was over it. He eventually returned to music, starting small by teaching Matthew bass.

Of course, Matthew was musically retarded so Alfred decided it was a burden he'd have to bear for the both of them.

("You can be our groupie!" He said cheerfully.)

He'd recruited a few more people, with Matthew's help, and had a few gigs.

Unfortunately, the upcoming Battle of the Bands would decide which band would reign supreme and, much to Al's displeasure, Arthur's band was decent competition.

Alfred had been absolutely devastated when he lost his band.

"…I don't actually have to sleep with him, right?" Matthew asked quietly, leaning his head back against the seat's headrest. "Because those eyebrows are a huge turn off."

Alfred slowly turned to stare at him, blue eyes a little hopeful. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Mattie. You said so yourself that its wrong—"

Matthew knew Alfred would do the same for him in a heartbeat.

Matthew paused, briefly, before continuing, fiddling with a loose string on his shirt. "Well, there's no guarantee that he'll actually fall for me. As long as he's a little distracted…"

Alfred's lips curled into a bright smile and that was Matthew's only warning before his friend lunged at him and pulled him into a huge bear hug, forcing the old car to rock ominously.

Anders is Norway, Fridrik Iceland, Matthias Denmark, Angie (Angelique later) Seychelles, Stevie (Steven, later) Australia. Also, this fic reminds me of "John Tucker Must Die"...I hated that movie. :/

So...worth continuing?