A/N: Hello there! This is the first of many USUK fanfics for my 100 Fanfic Challenge! The first prompt was Introductions/Meetings. I don't know how the hell I came up with this. It was an idea that was surfaced from the deepest recesses of my mind. This is a High School AU, with RichBoy!Arthur and PoorBoy!Alfred. My first fanfic, so go easy on me. No real yaoi or anything like that yet, just a strange meeting.

Disclaimer: I do not Hetalia: Axis Powers (sadly) nor Doctor Who (shut up I had to slip a reference in there XD), or Harry Potter. (God I'm a nerd.)

Note: None of these drabbles are related in any way. (Maybe later on I'll do a two-shot, but it's unlikely.)


Arthur stared blankly at the computer screen before him, fingers hovering tantalizingly over his keyboard. What could he possibly write? Nothing came to mind. He had already written an article about the dangers of childhood obesity and the dastardly food sold in this country….And although he would be more than delighted to write thousands more articles on the subject simply to stress the point, he was pretty certain that he would not be permitted to do so.

The young Brit let out an audible sigh and leaned back in the old, un-sturdy swivel chair he was seated in; running a hand through his sandy, golden locks in exasperation. He simply sat there and stared at the blindingly white word document before him for a moment, until finally he decided to wing it and see what his mind would first supply if he just began typing.

Somebody get me out of here.

He groaned aloud this time. Great. The only thing he could think to write right now was a desperate SOS. And Arthur was positive that wouldn't go over well with all 7 of the school newspaper's readers.

Arthur's large brow furrowed. What did these bloody Americans want to hear about, anyway? The only thing the teens in his school truly cared about nowadays was the latest celebrity gossip and all of that other convoluted nonsense. "Lord knows I have no desire to know about that," he muttered scathingly.

The young Brit had moved from his hometown in London to, as he put it, "this blasted, insufferable, country", no little than a couple of months ago, due to his Dad's work as a rather important CEO of a toy company. (It may sound whimsical and silly, but it was difficult work, mind you.) From the moment he had arrived, he had completely loathed the place. A disgusting, filthy country built off of grease and machinery, the Brit had said. Yet there was absolutely nothing Arthur could do about it. He had been shipped off to the nearest High School –Berkley Hills High School of San Francisco, California- and had been there ever since. The indignant 17 year old had refused to make friends with anyone, preferring his peaceful solitude over the noisy company of the American teenagers. Besides, he was pretty confident that those High Schoolers didn't quite like him either. But that was all well and good with him. He could just dig himself a comfortable little rut in the school as the stubborn, isolated new student. Arthur would get good grades; possibly get a scholarship to a good college, and then move far, far away from the place. He could find a way to endure his senior year at Berkley Hills High.

At least, that's what he had attempted to do so far. For the most part, it had worked out pretty well. Arthur spent his school days alone, doing homework or idly writing poetry in the vacant pages of his notebooks. He had taken up a Journalism class- since hardly any other students were in it, and those that were didn't dare to bother him more than necessary- and was doing great in all of his other classes. The young Englishman had finally become content with his life in California. Content, yes, but not happy.

But at the moment Arthur seemed to be particularly disgruntled with a severe case of writer's block. He tried desperately to come up with some sort of idea for a captivating front page story, but was still drawing a blank. Finally, the Brit stood from his computer and promptly left the room, too frustrated to write any longer (not that he had been writing much anything before). He would rather get an F in Journalism than deal with his writer's block, coupled with the splitting headache that seemed to be pounding against his skull, any longer.

Quietly, Arthur strode over to the vast kitchen in his father's large estate, scouring the cabinets for something to help with his headache. Finally, he settled on a couple of Tylenol. With a quick swig of water, he gulped down the pills, hoping that his headache would be cured in the next 15-20 minutes, as the box promised.

Yet as soon as Arthur had settled comfortably onto his expensive couch, contentedly curled up with a blanket, a steaming cup of Earl Grey, and his favorite episode of Doctor Who, he heard a rather loud knock on the door.

The young man sighed and checked the large, ornate cuckoo clock- that his father had attained on a business trip to Germany- above the fireplace. 11:30 at night? Who could possibly be visiting this late? And in the pouring rain, no doubt? His father wasn't home- Mr. Kirkland had belled his son earlier today and had told him he would be caught up at a very important meeting, and so he would not be home until late- and his mother wasn't home either. She was at the neighbors' dinner party that she had been invited to the week before. It would be obvious that no one but the Kirkland's peculiar son was home, due to the fact that both of his parents' Bentleys were absent from the driveway. So what could anyone possibly want with him?

Arthur sunk deeper into the plushy cushions of the lavish couch, hoping that maybe if he ignored the knock on the door, the person who had administered it would go away. Just when Arthur was finally assured that the knocker had left, however, he heard it again. Another knock, and louder this time. With that attitude, whoever was on the other side of that door was not likely to give up until his call was answered. Reluctantly, Arthur pried himself from his comfortable seat on the couch, paused Doctor Who, and strode briskly into the foyer, expression clearly irritated. With a harsh yank of the handle, Arthur thrust the door open, a scowl already plastered across his face.

Much to the Brit's surprise, in his doorway stood a sunny blonde teenager, who seemed to be about the same age as him- maybe a tad younger. His golden locks were severely dampened and plastered to his forehead; all except one little curl near his part, which seemed to stay as buoyant as ever. The mysterious teen's eyes were a deep, mesmerizing sapphire, the kind that even the sky on its best day would be envious of; though they were hidden behind a pair of square-framed glasses (which were fogged up from the rain). His clothes were completely drenched, and he was shivering like crazy, yet despite this his teeth were still spread into an overly cheerful grin. Arthur vaguely recognized the teen as one of the sophomores at his school that he had seen roaming the halls a couple of times, but had never really paid much attention to. What was this guy doing at his house?

"H-Hey!" the boy chimed brightly, trying to seize his teeth from chattering, though he seemed to be failing. "You're Arthur Kirkland, right? Sorry to bug you n' all, but my car broke down a lil' while ago n' I've been tryin' to find someone to help but everyone so far has slammed the door on me and uh…anyways I was just wonderin' if you could spare a sec and help me out?"

Arthur blinked. The blonde was a fast-talker, and oh Lord his grammar was atrocious. He let what the teen had said sink in for a moment, and then proceeded to stroke his forehead in deep thought. "Uhm…" he muttered, too tired to dwell on it much longer. Of course, he did not want despicable American teenagers traipsing around in his house, dirtying everything with their filthy hands, but there was something about the boy's hopelessly sunny attitude that made it hard to refuse. Plus, the boy was going to get hypothermia if he didn't get inside soon. With a sigh, Arthur inched the door open a little, just enough to let the teen in. "Come in."

The blonde nearly bounced into the house, his dazzling smile widening even more, if that were possible. "Thanks, dude! I 'preciate it n' all. …Whoa! Nice place, man! Jeez, you live it up big, doncha?" He turned to the young Brit then, an excited grin playing at his lips, blue eyes alight with wonder behind his foggy glasses.

Arthur raised one large, bushy eyebrow, thoroughly offended. He had always hated living in such a luxurious manner, hated how he got special treatment for it. People usually steered clear of him, preferred to leave the poor lonely boy be, unless they saw the apparent wealth his family possessed. That was when everybody wanted to be his friend, simply for what he had, not for who he was. He had always despised that. Besides, Arthur preferred a more simplistic way of living. As long as he had a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, some tea, and a nice book to curl up with, he could live perfectly fine, thank you very much.

"Well I didn't seem to have much of a choice," Arthur snapped, British accent heavy and full of annoyance. "And take your shoes off, you git! You're tracking mud all over the carpet!"

The boy looked down at his feet, which were still adorned with his tattered and dirtied running shoes. "Oh, dude, I'm sorry! I didn't notice!" he exclaimed, quickly yanking the sneakers off and setting them on the hardwood floor near the door. He sounded sincere, but Arthur was irritated all the same, rolling his eyes with extra exaggeration, simply so the teen could notice.

The teen suddenly turned to Arthur, his hand held out for a handshake, beaming. "I'm Alfred, by the way!" he chirped. "Totally sorry 'bout the carpet, dude. I'll help 'ya clean it if you want…"

Unwillingly, Arthur complied and shook Alfred's firm, calloused hand. He took note that Alfred, although he was only in his sophomore year, seemed to be much taller than him. "There's no need….Alfred…I'm perfectly capable of cleaning it myself."

Alfred dropped his hand then, stuffing his hands carelessly into the pockets of his worn-out (and still completely drenched) jeans. "Suit yourself." He shrugged.

Arthur folded his arms across his chest. "How long have you been standing outside, exactly?" he inquired. "You're bloody drenched."

Alfred bit his lip. "Uh…" he pondered. "Maybe an hour? I dunno. No one would help me out so I kept goin' from house to house and askin' for help."

The young Englishman flinched at Alfred's horrid enunciation. "Don't know. Going. Asking," he corrected, enunciating each syllable with great emphasis, as if he were speaking to a toddler. The teen didn't seem to understand that he was being insulted and/or corrected, however. He simply glanced around the house in wonderment, still obviously flabbergasted at how luxurious it was, a dopy grin plastered across his face. "What's the matter with you? Have you never seen a house before?"

Alfred laughed; a good-natured, infectious sort of laugh, which echoed throughout the cavernous estate. Arthur was a bit flustered by how charming it was, and coughed in an attempt to cover up the slight dusting of blush that threatened to color his cheeks. "O'course I have," said the American, still using that disgusting grammar of his. "But just not one as big as this….Wow. Is that a flat screen?"

The sunny blonde nearly rushed over to the TV in all of his excitement, gazing at it in complete and utter awe. "Wow," he breathed, admiring the incredible picture (which was still paused on Doctor Who). "Why isn't it, uh, movin'?"

Arthur snickered. "What? Didn't you know you could pause programs on the telly now? It's been like that for quite a while, actually," he asked skeptically, holding up the remote and pointing to the obvious 'pause' button in the center.

"Huh? Oh, I guess my family's a little outdated," Alfred chuckled. "We still gotta turn a knob, if we can get a signal, that is."

The young Brit seemed a little surprised by this. Tellies that were controlled by knobs? Did they even make those anymore? Arthur began to doubt the scorn he was feeling towards the teen. Maybe Alfred wasn't just admiring Arthur's belongings and his household because he was jealous, but because he simply hadn't seen half of it in his life. The thought seemed ridiculous to Arthur, but then again, many families were poor nowadays…

Arthur nodded. "I see," he commented brusquely. "Now, uh…You're completely soaked. You'll catch a cold soon if you don't change your clothes. …You might fit into some of my father's old things…"

"A-are ya' sure? You don't havta do that for me! I just need some help with my car…" Alfred protested.

"No, no, you really ought to have a change of clothes. I'll be right back." And with that, Arthur strode out of the room to fetch a fresh pair of clothes for the sunny blonde teenager.

As Arthur gathered a nice, clean set of clothes for Alfred to wear, he thought upon the teen for a moment. He was obviously admiring Arthur's house more than speaking to the Brit himself, and that angered Arthur as the same action always had. People always liked him solely for his belongings. Was this Alfred kid the same way? At first it had appeared so, but Alfred seemed…different than the others. The teen radiated a sort of childish innocence, in which he was simply excited by every little thing he saw. He had also been kind to Arthur….And he genuinely seemed like he had never seen anything like it in his life.

Well. Maybe Arthur could strike up a conversation with the American, see what he was like. Did he really admire only his belongings, or would he perhaps want to become friends… because of Arthur's personality?

Arthur suddenly realized what he was thinking as he snapped back into reality. Oh belt it, Arthur. That's absurd. He thought. He's a bloody American! Besides, you have a paper to write!

The Brit decided that his conscience was right. He would give Alfred a change of clothes, help him with his car, and try to get him out as soon as possible so he could finish his paper.

When Arthur returned, Alfred was sitting on the couch, flipping through a book that had been on the cherry wood coffee table before him. It was a hardcover copy of the latest Harry Potter Novel- The Deathly Hallows. Arthur wondered briefly what possible interest someone like Alfred would have in such a book, then quirked and eyebrow. He cleared his throat rather loudly, and Alfred looked up suddenly to see the Brit scolding him. "Found something you like?" Arthur asked scornfully.

Alfred's eyes widened and he set the book down gently. "Sorry!" he apologized. "I didn't mean to uh...pry or nothin'! I just saw it on the coffee table and I've been dyin' to read the last one, so…..I mean…yeah…Sorry!"

Arthur looked a bit astonished as he sat down next to the teenager, studying the cover of the large fantasy novel. "You've read the series?" he asked, though he attempted to hide his shock as he looked quizzically back up at Alfred.

"Well..yeah!" Alfred's lips spread into a sheepish smile. "I don't get to read much, 'cause I don't have that many books at home, but we have these from when my Mom used to read 'em….I didn't really have anything to do so I read 'em…But I haven't been able to get my hands on the last one! Mom doesn't have it, and I can't afford it and it's always checked out at the library…" Alfred's expression momentarily flickered to disappointment, but then suddenly he began beaming again. "But they're real great! And uh…sorry for lookin' at your book and all…"

At first Arthur didn't know what to say. Maybe this boy wasn't as dense as he had thought before. Arthur glanced around nervously, since he had never been any good at conversation, but then finally settled on something to say. "Well I haven't quite finished the last book either but…I can lend it to you when I'm done, if you like."

Alfred practically bounced out of his seat in enthusiasm, smile suddenly broadening. "Wow! You'd really do that for me? Thanks, Art!"

"Don't call me that," Arthur jeered, though his tone was not as irritated as it had been before. In fact, he couldn't help but let a small smile spread across his own face. Alfred's mood seemed to be palpable. For a moment, Arthur mused on how the sunny teen's smile seemed to be like the bright, warming rays of the sun, while his eyes were the endless beauty of a deep blue sky…

And then he mentally slapped himself and blinked back into reality.

Suddenly, Arthur noticed that Alfred was still drenched from head to toe. "Oh," he said, a bit flustered. "Here…I brought a change of clothes for you. After you change I can go and help you fix your car so you won't be stuck in this bloomin' storm any longer." Arthur crossed his arms and averted his gaze to the side, angry with himself that he had gotten so carried away.

Alfred was still grinning. "Thanks a lot, Art," he said, disregarding the Brit's earlier protests. "You've been a great help to me n' all….And you're a really cool guy! I hope we can be friends n' all after this!"

Normally, Arthur would've immediately protested against the very idea. However, this time, he thought about it for a moment. Alfred didn't seem like such a bad person after all. It seemed he really wasn't after Arthur's money. With Alfred, it all seemed to be genuine sincerity and longing for friendship with anyone he met. It was almost something that comforted Arthur, made him feel at peace to be in the presence of the sunshiny, fast-talking blonde teenager. He could walk by Alfred's side and revel in his cheerful attitude. It was just the sort of thing someone like Arthur needed, to be surrounded by someone as bright as Alfred. …..Although he was still an insufferable, grammatically incorrect, idiotic, and rather annoying American oaf…

"Whatever…"

After that, Alfred had bounded off to the bathroom to change into his dry clothes. The two had then taken a hike out to Alfred's beat-up pickup truck (which was rather far way, considering Alfred had walked around for quite a while in search of help). After much hard work, they had gotten Alfred's car fixed. Arthur had grudgingly promised to talk to Alfred in school the next day, and the sunny blonde teenager had finally drove off, having already dropped Arthur off at his father's large estate.

When Arthur returned, he saw his father's Bentley was in the driveway. As he stepped into the house, he noticed his father marveling at the mess he had left. The muddy shoe-prints on his Tunisian rug, the scuffs on the hardwood floor, the papers on the coffee table scattered around in every which direction, and a single sopping wet spot on his expensive (and completely white) couch.

"What on earth have you been up to, Arthur?" Mr. Kirkland asked.

Arthur just gave his father a small smile, and promised he would clean up as soon as possible.

Besides. He had a paper to write.


A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Remember, my first fanfic, so go easy on me!

Reviews amuse me. -WinkWinkWink-

~I. S.