A/N: First fic on ! This started just as something I wrote when I was depressed, but then Alfred and Arthur came in and BAM! Instant USUK Fic xD

Warnings: Fantasies(?) and Arthur's mouth.

Before criticizing, please have in mind that English is NOT my main language.


...Sometimes, I doubt. I hear you calling out my name, but it doesn't really register as it. Why would someone like you even talk to someone like me? I'm not like you, or your friends, or their friends. I'm just...me. And you're you: perfect.

And that's something I'll never be close to being, because I'm me. I'm not saying that I want to be you, but that I want to be with you, and that won't happen because we're different. You're charming, social, smart, handsome, athletic, slightly childish, adorable...And I'm wimpy, bad tempered, awkward, too serious, a bookworm, weak, ugly, plain imperfect.

Yet you talk to me kindly, calling me your friend, because you don't know how much that hurts me. I don't want to be friends with you, I want so much more...But I can't ask for it, because I'm not fit to be with you. There are always girls around you, there's always somebody that tries to talk to you, to get to know you and... I don't dare think what else they want. There's always somebody there, whose perfection, though never close to yours, is greater than what I could ever think of achieving.
But you still talk to me, call my name.

"Arthur" I hear, "Arthur, where are you?" I don't move, I just sit there, hiding the tears that come out against my will. "Arthur! Come out!" Even though it's my name coming out of your lips, it feels as if you were referring to someone else. It feels wrong to think that you are worried about me.

Suddenly, strong arms embrace me from behind.
"...I was really worried, you know?" from the tone of your voice I can tell it is sincere, but my heart refuses to believe it. Then you turn me around and quickly press your lips to mine, in a clumsy and rushed kiss. I can't respond, way too shocked, and the kiss ended just as suddenly as it began. Your blue eyes avert, and your embrace loosens almost completely. Hopefully, you don't take the blush in my cheeks the wrong way, but my eyes turn the exact opposite direction yours were looking.
"I really was worried..." you whisper, not looking at me. "And I still am. No matter what you think of me, Arthur" your eyes turn back to me with determination, "I'll be there for you, even if you hate me" I can see the disappointment deep in your eyes, then everything starts to blur as I feel tears coming back to my eyes.
"Look for someone else to tell those words to, Alfred" I say, tears streaming down my face freely as I smile weakly. "Someone who actually deserves them."
Your pained face turns into a frown now, and you grab my face with both hands, using your thumbs to clean my tears away. "You, Arthur Kirkland, deserve them more than anyone else in this world."
For some reason, that doesn't sound right. It's just a broken fantasy, one that I know will never come true. Because I just can't believe it when you call me 'your friend', when you call my name, it just feels as if you had called somebody else.


"Arthur?" said blond was interrupted from his scribbling by his best friend. "Are you alright? I haven't seen you around since lunch break, and I thought maybe you needed a hero, you know?" he got no response, so he walked closer to the other. "Arthur?" He bent down closer to his friend, who just hugged his notebook tightly with a light blush on his cheeks and refused to look at him.
"I-I'm perfectly fine, you-you git!"
Alfred blinked. "You're not."
"I am! Wh-what makes yo-"
"You stuttered an insult."
The Brit was confused now. "What?"
"You never stutter when you call me names, unless something's going on" he sat down next to his friend, looking at him intensely. "C'mon, what's on your mind, Artie? And don't say 'nothing' 'cuz I know you're lying!"
Silence.
"Artie?"
The temperamental blond said nothing as he stood up and pushed his notebook to the other's chest before running away. 'Dammit, Arthur!' he scolded himself. 'Now you won't be able to look him in the eye anymore, and you just made yourself look like a high school girl by running away!'


The bespectacled one just sat, staring at the door his friend just went through. "What was that about?" he asked out loud before looking at the notebook in his hands. He knew that Arthur liked to write in his free time, but he wouldn't let the American see what he wrote, so he was really surprised by this sudden outburst.
As much as he respected the Brit's friendship, he figured he wouldn't have another opportunity to see his work, so he opened it and started reading. He thought his friend was only a casual writer, but oh, how wrong he was. He was expecting short poems, an ode to breasts, and maybe a short story, but he was dumbfounded when he found myths arranged into well-developed stories, with well-defined and likeable characters. And poems. Beautiful poems describing the sad story of an unrequited love. Alfred would be lying if he said that the words that he read didn't get to his heart. That grouch really could write.
And at that last entry (he wasn't sure whether to call it a poem or a story), he blushed lightly. 'Alfred? Does he...? Does that...?' his mind overflowed with questions that remained unanswered, until it clicked. Then he smiled a true smile and grabbed a pencil.


"Arthur! Wait up!"
Said Brit stopped and turned around to find a panting American running towards him. He braced himself for the common tackle/hug that usually came along with Alfred, but that didn't come; the other had stopped in front of him and was actually catching his breath.
"What do you want, Alfred?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"What? I can't say hi to my BFF without a reason?"
Arthur flinched a bit. "It's 'can't I', you're asking a question, not making a statement, you idiot" the "Best Friend Forever" comment was partially ignored as the insult came out half-heartedly.
"Anyways" the American continued, ignoring his friend's correction, "you left your notebook in the library yesterday, so I thought I'd be the hero and bring it back to you!" he flashed a smile and handed said notebook back to Arthur.
The Englishman blushed slightly. So that was why he couldn't find it earlier! He had forgotten about what had happened the day before, but now he remembered. Had Alfred read what he had written? How did he react? Did he...understand? Because Arthur wouldn't ask for more, there was no chance for them to be more than friends.
"Hey, dude, you ok?" the American asked, bringing him back to the real world.
"Oh, y-yeah, I'm fine" he stuttered before taking the notebook with more force than needed. "Hurry up or you'll be late for your next period, git" he looked away. Alfred wasn't acting out of the ordinary. Didn't he read the story? Didn't he get it when the notebook was practically thrown at him? Sure, Arthur wasn't the best at showing how he felt, but even someone as thick headed as the American would get it, right?


That afternoon was as normal as it could get: Arthur had gone home, had something to eat, and then did his homework right before sitting down to write, to let his soul go free in the form of ink on paper.
He grabbed his notebook, and sat on his desk, opening it. He leafed through the pages until he found the most recent one, the one that Alfred had interrupted, and looked at it to re-read it, but something was different. Something was written in pencil, in a messy handwriting that he knew too well, under a clumsily drawn page break.


You know? I think it's funny. The way you don't notice the way I'm always happier when you're there with me. You always make my day look brighter, even if it's almost perfect already, because it can't be perfect without you. I must sound really cheesy, don't I? But it's the truth. Really, I can't imagine a day without you scolding me for using bad grammar, or without your beautiful green eyes (although I wish you wouldn't look away as often). Are you blushing right now? I love it when you blush, you look waaaay cuter (I'm not saying that you aren't cute when you're not blushing). I really don't get it when you call yourself imperfection. I mean, don't look down on yourself! You're smart, serious, mature...beautiful. I love your eyes, they remind me of the forest I went to when I was five and saw my first bird ever (pigeons don't count!). I love your eyebrows, yes, they're large, but that's exactly what makes them special and unique! I love your hair, it always looks different than the day before, yet it always frames your face perfectly. Your attitude is an essential part of you too, even though you are grumpy, temperamental and easy to go off, you're nice when you want to, and I know you worry about me, even when you scowl at me and call me names. You act tough all the time, but I know how much of a romantic you are in the inside. Don't ever call yourself imperfect again, Arthur, because in my eyes you're perfect. I know I'm not very good with words, and you're definitely the writer here, but there's something else that I want to tell you, and, if you'd allow me, I will use the idea in your story as a guideline.
"You, Arthur Kirkland, deserve them more than anyone else in this world," I say, holding your face carefully, as if you might break at the slightest force. "You are the most important person to me, you have always been, and will always be" at this point I don't even care if my feelings are unrequited or not, I just let myself go with the moment and move one of my hands to your waist to hold you closer to me, leaving the other one to cup your face and stop you from turning away.
Even though you blush, I can see it in your eyes: you still don't believe me, you still think this is a joke of some sort. And I hate it.
"Why would I lie to you, Artie?" I say, looking at you in pain. I don't like it that you think I'm joking when I'm actually being serious for once.
"...Because there's so many beautiful girls out there that would die to go out with you, and I..." you still manage to avert your gaze, but I hear the sniffles, so uncommon coming from you. "I'm nobody. I-"
"You're wrong," I interrupt. You look up at me with confusion in your eyes and a light frown on your face. "You're not 'nobody'. No, to me you're everything. It doesn't mat-"
"Let me go," you look down again and trying to push me away.
"No, Arthur, I-"
"I said, let me go, Alfred!" you push harder and I let go, looking at you with shock.
You step back and look at me angrily, your face once again stained with tears. "Would you shut up already?" you yell. It shouldn't surprise me since I've known you for so long, but it does, because this time it has something else, something that isn't just annoyance. "Stop saying that kind of shit! Stop fucking with my feelings! Do you even have an idea of how you make me feel? Did you even think about how much you were going to hurt me when you got up this morning and said 'Hey, let's make Arthur think I love him and then dump him for a random chick I don't even know! Oh, what fun it'll be!'? Don't you know how much I fucking love you, you jackass, or how much it hurts to know that you'll never love me back?" you close your mouth and your eyes as you turn around and run away.
I don't move, unsure on how to react, but I quickly make up my mind and run after you.


The Brit scoffed as he wiped the one tear that fell down his cheek. "That insolent git...Made me look like a love-struck teenage girl...And he left it unfinished," yet he smiled. "But at least he didn't do the 'Oh, Alfred you're my hero, I'm going to jump into your arms now so carry me away so we can live happily ever after!'"
The "note" had ended in the top line of the next page, which gave him an idea. He would get his revenge for being shown as the blushing schoolgirl.


The next day Alfred arrived just in time before the bell rang, so he had to rush to his locker as fast as he could to get his books, which didn't stop him from noticing the neatly folded piece of paper sitting on top of his things. He quickly gathered his books for his first period and stuffed the note in the pocket of his jacket before running to his history class.
Half an hour went by, and the American was deadly bored already. Just by chance, he put his hands in his pockets and felt something weird. He took it out and, seeing it was the note, opened it and started reading. It was the page that included the last line of his confession and, under it, a continuation written in a tidy cursive using a blue pen right under a perfectly straight page break.


I run away as fast as I can, stumbling because the tears in my eyes won't let me see correctly, and I hear you call out for me again.
"Arthur! Arthur, please stop!"
I don't, but you are faster than me and you grab my wrist, pulling me and making me fall back into your embrace. I struggle against you, but you only hold me tighter, hiding my face in your chest. I wonder why, and then I feel something warm on top of my head. Your breathing becomes unsteady and your voice comes out broken.
"W-why? Why won't you believe me?" your tears wet my hair and your whole body shakes as your grip on me tightens. "Arthur, I... I really do love you" you whisper.
"D-don't be ridiculous..." I say, your weakness calming me down for some reason.
"If loving you makes me ridiculous, then I'm fucking proud of it!" you manage to chuckle, even if it comes out between sobs.
I lift my hand, which takes some work considering how tight you are holding me, and pet your head soothingly, as I did when we were smaller and you fell, scratching your knees on the pavement.
Your sobbing slows down, as it did so many times before in our childhood, and your grip on me loosens, allowing me more movement. I lift my head and look at you in the face. Your closed eyes shot open and you look back at me with a confused expression on your face. I close my eyes tightly and rise on my toes to give you a quick kiss before hiding my face in your chest. I hear you chuckle again, but this time in pure glee, and you hug me tight, only this time I'm not trying to run away.


Alfred smiled and folded the note before putting it back in his pocket. History class was going to go even slower now that he looked forward to its end.


Arthur had wondered about Alfred's reaction during the whole first period, and even as he walked out of the classroom and towards his next class he was in deep thought. So deep in fact that he didn't notice the American walking up next to him until he spoke.
"I'm not that cheesy."
Arthur scoffed without looking at him. "Well, you started it. I wouldn't run away from something like that."
"Dude, you totally did too the other day at the library!" Alfred laughed.
A small blush crept over Arthur's face. "That's not the point, you idiot!"
"What was that 'so many times in our childhood' thing about, by the way? We both now we only met on the first year of high school, and even then we didn't get along."
"It started as my work of fiction, you know? I'm free to make up a past for my characters."
Alfred kept quiet for a couple of seconds, then grabbed Arthur's hand and intertwined their fingers.
"It may have been just fiction for you, but it was real for me," he said before the Englishman could complain.
Arthur turned his face to him in confusion, a blush spread across his face, and was greeted with a wide smile.
"And you say you're not cheesy," Arthur mumbled, turning away once again, unable to stop the smile forming on his lips.
"Are you going to cry and run away now because you don't believe me when I say 'I love you'?"
"Are you going to pull me into a bone-crushing hug and cry your heart out when I say 'I love you too'?"
"Don't tempt me, Iggy~"
"Git," he squeezed his love's hand softly.


A/N: I love Writer!Arthur, I really do.

R&R?