Now before people say something-yes, I know there is a fanfic with the same title.

And yes, I did this on purpose.

The user hetalialovesyou is a friend of mine, and she has decided to completely resign from and , and so, she's trusted me to rewrite and finish the fanfiction she had been working on.

I know for those who were reading her fanfic are going to think it's a little different, and yes, it is. I've changed some things, but hetalialovesyou has agreed to it, as long as I keep the major twist. So, without further ado, I hope you enjoy this rewrite.

Characters do not belong to me

Plot belongs to hetalialovesyou

There he was.

Sitting in those sissy slacks that never had a single crease, that goddamn dress shirt that he must have a million of but all in different colors, and that sweater vest. That stupid sweater vest.

That sweater vest with its dorky pattern that reminded him of Harry fucking Potter—it was in his freaking dreams every night!

Alfred stared, his jaw locked tight as he watched a certain student's every single move. Nothing he did went unseen.

He watched as the boy with (surprisingly) disheveled hair took useless notes over the teacher's current lecture—which Alfred willingly chose to ignore and study his own makeshift subject:

Arthur Kirkland.

British exchange student and the only that on Alfred Jones' mind.

Sure, some people would call it creepy to watch someone across a classroom for hours (especially seeing as how he didn't even know the foreign student—much less had a single conversation with him) but to the American it was completely and utterly normal.

And his brother agreed with him on that, too! (Forcibly, of course, but no one else had to know that.)

His friends on the other hand, thought otherwise.

"Look, you American bastard. I'm fucking sick and tired of listening to you go on and on about that goddamn Arthur, you fag. Either you grow a pair, or you shut the fuck up you—"

"Oh, Lovi, Lovi, it's not nice to speak that way to your friends," sighed out a cheery tanned senior who was seated across from Alfred, and attempted to calm the obviously exasperated Italian beside him. While the brown-haired potty mouth resorted to grumbling Italian curse words under his breath, Alfred could only roll his eyes and let out a sigh.

They just didn't understand.

He was in love.

There was just something about that choppy blond hair.

"Alfred."

..And those God given emerald eyes.

"Alfred!"

Not to mention those caterpillar bushes the English student called eyebrows. Oh, Liberty Bell, how he wished he could—

"Alfred.. you're not even listening to me, are you?" He heard his brother whine from across the table, and in response stuffed his mouth with a few French fries.

"Sorry Matt," Alfred managed to say between large gulps of soda and huge bites of fries. "You're… just easy to ignore, y'know."

The curly blond sighed. Yeah. He knew that. He didn't need to be reminded of it, though.

"Instead of sitting here and telling us over and over again what Arthur did in class today.. maybe you should actually—I don't know, this is a wild leap—talk to him?" Matthew suggested, but his words only fell onto dear ears, seeing as how his brother had already gone on repeat about the way the foreign boy would carelessly run his fingers through his hair when writing and it "some fucking way" made it look even better.

It was then that everyone at the table groaned.

Quickly speaking up, Francis—a senior, and also another exchange student from France—said what was on everyone's mind. "Américain, won't you please go and talk to the d'Angleterre before I drag him over here myself?"

Here, Matthew sighed. "Don't worry guys; I didn't just say that five minutes ago."

"Alright, alright! Hot damn, I'll go—sheesh." The tanned student pouted, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stood up.

"Put us out of our fucking misery and go, you brutto frocio." Romano, the Italian from before spat out and Alfred stuck out his tongue in reply.

What great friends, he thought bitterly to himself as he stumbled towards Arthur's table with his tray in hand. Things were fine, until he realized he hadn't thought of anything to say.

What if he made a fucking fool of himself?

Oh, that wouldn't be pretty.

He could tell him a joke?

No. He was British. They had a weird sense of humor.

Say hello? ..No. That was over rated.

Time was running out, and when he had finally come up to Arthur's table, all the American could do was stand there and stare like a damn fool.

After a few moments, Arthur glanced up from his food to spot the other student—one he had never even seen before—stand by the end of his table, slack jawed.

He cleared his throat, and went back to eating, figuring the odd git would leave.

But he didn't.

Finally, heaving a sigh, the Englishman set his fork down and gave Alfred an icy glare.

"May I help you?"

Alfred's heart literally stopped. Words. Sweet baby Jesus, that accent was enough to let him die happy.

Obviously not amused, Arthur continued to give the junior an expectant stare, waiting for an explanation for that unnerving gaze of his.

"'Ello? Do you speak? Can you form bloody words—"

"DID YOU KNOW THAT AN OSTRICH'S EYE IS BIGGER THAN ITS BRAIN?"

The entire area around the Briton's table fell silent after hearing this, and the only thing the baffled student could manage to say in reply was, "w…what?"

With all eyes on him, the American scanned the room, gave a thumbs up to the table where his friends had been watching from afar, and took the chance to turn on his heels and run out of the cafeteria.

Matthew could only sigh and let his head fell onto the lunch table with a loud thump while the others erupted into fits of laughter, leaving Arthur sitting alone, his eyes still wide.

He wasn't in England anymore.