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Pre-note

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Hi! I'm NekoMushi, a recently-returned fanfiction author who has decided to post some old – like, seriously old – story ideas on the internet, so that the world can laugh at my noob-y writing skills and my poor character development.

I found this lying in the depths of my laptop and I didn't have to strength to delete it. I remember coming up with the story idea a long, long time ago whilst I was undergoing swimming lessons with a close friend. It's kinda horrific and I've already cringed multiple times since reading it.

So, enjoy my attempts at writing a decent USUK fanfiction.

I won't completing this, nor will I be completing any of the other chapters (which are basically re-drafts of the prologue.)

I'm just putting this here because I don't have the heart to wipe it completely from my computer.

I have not altered the writing in this is any way –though I have altered the structure because I had an annoying habit of typing massive blocks of text which were really difficult for people to read.

I've kept the rating and the genres the same because I intended to post the full story under those filters – but I've added humour because this made me laugh. A lot.

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Date written: 2012?
(I've gotten better over the last two years, I promise.)

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Arthur is going on holiday to the sunny shores of California's finest surfing beach for the summer. There's just one problem: he can't swim.
Maybe this bronze, bouncy, blond surf instructor can do something about that.

(Bad summary is bad.)

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Prologue

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University had always seemed like a terrifying dream, not quite out-of-reach, but seemingly too monstrous and incomprehensible to fathom, especially if one was adamant on moving halfway around the globe to attend such a place. And especially if that one, particular person happened to be me.

I had, naturally, loved to make things harder for myself, especially when it came to my education. Who else would've gone out on a whim, binge-drinking until three o'clock in the morning on a school night? It hadn't been my intention to be such a person, yet as high school had dragged onwards, I'd found myself committing more and more ridiculous acts of stupidity, in spite of my academic intelligence. Almost losing my virginity to some guy I hardly knew, nearly stripping out of all my clothes because I'd felt too hot one night in town, pole dancing on a lamppost in heavy rain, to name a few.

That had been pretty much the story of my life.

So, having left behind my raucous, alcohol-infused teenage years, I'd made the decision that I'd have liked to travel. Perhaps not all of the time, for I'd known that there would be some point in my life when I'd want to settle down and write a couple of books, but enough to see the world that I'd been kept from for so long. Young adulthood had awaited, and I'd wanted nothing more than to rush ahead and greet it with open arms.

Travelling had obviously included going to multiple countries, and that hadn't counted the numerous family holidays to Wales, Scotland and Ireland I'd had in my youth. Technically, those places (apart from Ireland) had not been abroad, so they'd never fascinated me. What could've possibly been fascinating about day after day of torrential rain?

To put it bluntly, Wales was not only one of the wettest countries I'd ever had the misfortune to set foot in, but there had been sheep everywhere. With Scotland, it had been the same, although, instead of rain, there had been a substantial decrease in temperature, a lot more snow and those fluffy bundles of bleating delight had been replaced with great, bellowing cows that'd spent most of the time generating noise and incredibly unpleasant odours.
Ireland didn't need any explanation. It was horrible and everybody hated us, the end.

And now we return to the subject of travelling and immersing myself in the joys of legal liquor and maturity. Having turned eighteen in April and finished school in June, the summer holidays had awaited, as had my A-level results and university offers. Previously, I'd taken five AS-levels, achieving As and A*s, so I'd had high hopes for my latest exam consequences.

I hadn't failed myself, I assure you for, not only had I been ecstatic when the final marks had come through, but I'd also been rash and boastful in my sudden freedom. Big choices had been laying ahead, such as future careers and university applications and, in a burst of euphoric jubilance, I'd grasped one of the ripest fruits on the tree.

Well, in other words, I'd combined my fantasy of roaming all of the countries with my higher-class education and accepted an offer that would take me all of the way across the Atlantic Ocean to America. Now, I'm a rather patriotic person at heart, hence my slight disdain at going to a place such as the land of full-fat fast-food and yellow taxis for uni, but that had been overruled by my rapture at being accepted into Stanford.

Stanford! Bloody hell, I'd almost had a heart attack.

Ranking number two in the whole world since 2012, I'd practically died from pure shock alone and been revived by elation. But, looking back, it had been understandable why they'd think of accepting someone like me, since my A-levels had flown by without a hitch. A* in English Literature, A* in History, A* in Mathematics and an A in Psychology. Maybe, if I'd pushed myself just that little bit harder, I might've been able to boost my grade in Psychology, but there's only so much one man – at the time, boy – can do, right?

Needless to say, it had been just about enough to ensure me a place in one of the best universities in the world, taking not one, but two courses! In Britain, they called it a combined honours and that was the name that I was familiar with calling it by, but in America, they referred to it as a Major and a Minor.

So, I'd guessed that had meant I'd be taking an English Literature and Creative Writing Major, and a History and Medieval Studies Minor. Not only was I going to Stanford – the name still leaves a nice essence on my tongue – I would doing a combined honours. Perfect. It seemed I was finally leaving behind my rebellious high school years and putting everything negative behind me for good.

Those summer holidays had been and gone in a state of bliss, and before I'd known it, I was kissing my mother on cheek, shaking my father's hand and being enveloped in many copious bear hugs by each of my brothers in turn at the airport.

I'd been the first out of all of my brothers to move so far for uni, since Cillian had attended Trinity College Dublin, Allistor had gone to the University of Edinburgh, and Dylan had been attending his final year of the Welsh College of Music and Drama. Connor and Peter had still been in school, the elder just starting his GCSEs, the younger just ending primary school.

Without so much as a glance over my shoulder, I'd been through the terminal gates and seated inside the belly of the great metal bird that would deliver me to what was supposedly "The Golden State." To be honest, there's not much to say on my arrival, nor should I elaborate on my living conditions or first thoughts of California. It's just how any other foreigner would see it: a lush haven, brimming with glittering celebs-to-be, a perpetually glowing sun and an overall look of seamless perfection.
Despite my previous doubts, I'd been hooked by the high-rising palm trees fanning out above me and the white sands beneath my feet. What a change to dreary England.

Stanford had been everything I'd expected and more, but I should explain that I hadn't exactly known what to expect at all. Complete with a brilliant haze of sunshine and my own living quarters, that I wasn't unused to since I'd been raised in an upper-middle class standard, flawlessness had captivated me.

I'd found my wandering hands drawn to everything, fingers running along smooth walls and stroking clumps of grass with a look of wonder in my eyes. This was America, a place I'd only ever heard of in movies and disparaged as the sort of place where fat policemen would sit at the roadside with a collection of sugar-dusted doughnuts and harlots would wander the streets, clad in nothing but bras and carrying impossibly large shotguns, aimed to kill.

Oh, I'd learnt long ago that stereotyping was childish and wrong, but wasn't that exactly what the subliminal mind-fuck America was supposed to be like? Skyscrapers, superlatives and super stupid Southerners.
Well, I'd been wrong before. B-but, that's a very rare occurrence!

I could go on and on and on about my freshman year, but I'll keep it short. The details aren't important, and I can always reiterate back to them if need be. No, it's not the place, or lectures, or accommodation that matters most; it's the people, and I should grace all of these strange, wonderful, unique people respectively with paragraphs and descriptions of their own.

The first person whom I'd esteemed close enough to call a friend had been one of my roommates. As I'd mentioned earlier, we'd had our own bed chambers, with a desk, chair and other necessities, but since I'd opted for the cheaper, self-catering option, I'd found myself sharing an entire passageway of various people. So, the word roommate doesn't quite fit, but technically, it's eligible.

He, along with eight others, would be sharing a rectangular community hall at the end of the corridor with me, filled with a washing machine for our clothing, two sinks for the dishes, a billboard for notices and timetables, a fridge and some cupboards for food storage and a long dining table with enough chairs to seat ten. Adequate, but nothing more.

Following the unpacking, I'd decided to greet my new "neighbours", since it was a polite and courteous thing to do and I'd knocked on the door to Room 5, situated opposite of mine with a hammering heart and sweaty palms. I'd never been very good at making friends, since most saw me as anti-social, boring and cold.

I admit, I hadn't been very popular in high school at all, having spent most of my time reading a book in the library during lunch or just wandering aimlessly around the playgrounds, searching for something of interest. However, I'd seen this massive move to another country as a fresh start, and that meant everything would be new. I'd figured that I should at least introduce myself to some people and deduce whether I saw them as worthy to spend my time with.

Or not, as the case might've been.

Standing on the other of the door that day had been Kiku Honda, a petite Asian who'd been born in America but had heritage over in Japan. Like me, he was quite, subdued and orderly, and I'd felt like we'd have become friends. My predictions had been correct, since we had become rather close, drawn together by our mutual love of knowledge and reading. We'd even joined a book club together.

Kiku, I understand, had been able enough to take a combined honours as well, Majoring Medical Statistics and Minoring Visual Art Studies. Not that I really knew what either of those were, but I'd acknowledged his hobbies enough to presume that they had something to do with computing, medical sciences, mathematics or artwork. He'd always liked drawing.

When the two of us were seated in any area on campus, he would always bring out a sketchpad and start to doodle something magnificent whilst I got myself engrossed in a book. Many might call that belligerent behaviour towards one another, but we were absolutely fine with it. More than fine, actually.

Sometimes, words needn't be expressed between two people, for they understand each other just by movements alone. It was these moments of silence that I think I appreciated the most. Although, at first, they were slightly awkward, our scope eventually expanded and we understood each other just a little bit more. Although, I can't say that those words always ring true on my part. There are some parts of Kiku that nobody will ever understand.

I met Francis, Gilbert and Antonio under rather oppressive circumstances. During Freshman Week, there had been a number of different clubs and activities available for the newcomers like myself, one of which being a meeting in one of the seminars for the L.G.B.T group, an association that literally stands for Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Trans.

You see, I am actually gay, attracted to exclusively males. Although I'm never really one for group activities, I had decided to check it out anyway and somehow, ludicrously, gotten sucked into a rather embarrassing storm of inanity. To my surprise, quite a few freshmen had actually turned up, some looking rather shy and bashful whilst others flitted around like social butterflies. I'd barely been standing in the theatre for a minute before I was grabbed by behind by none other than Gilbert Beilschmidt.

The specifics are totally unimportant, although I'd eventually come face-to-face with Antonio Fernandez-Carreido and Francis Bonnefoy. I'd scarcely been able to believe that they'd actually been admitted to Stanford of all places, since all seemed to harbour their own malicious quirks.

Let's begin with Gilbert. I can't for the life of me understand why he was at the club in the first place, since he constantly claimed that he wasn't gay or bi at all. He'd ranted on about how he was 100% straight, although Francis had later informed me that he had a boyfriend attending a different university up north.

When I'd later brought this Gilbert's attention, he'd justified himself by saying that his partner was so feminine that he might as well be a girl anyway…that never quite made sense to me, but I'm not about to argue with him. Studying International Criminal Law and Procedure, he's both loud (vocally and in appearance, I might add) and arrogant.

Not the type of haughtiness you might note in members of aristocracy, but more like the kind of annoying self-confidence that he holds within himself. This isn't one of his better factors, hence why we don't get alone very well. When we're still sober anyway.

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Author's Note

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It just...ends. Right there. I'm assuming that I finally realised how awful this prologue was at that point and just spared myself the pain of writing any more. Oh my gosh, the amount of unnecessary adjectives and adverbs. Why? Why? And the constant changing of tense! Why did I do that?

I don't even know if this was supposed to be an internal monologue or a legit scene-setter. Hopefully, the re-drafts will be better.
(That rhymed! :D)

I'll post the next one in a few days. There are two other drafts, so this story will have a total of three chapters. They'll both be up by next Friday since I'm going on holiday in two weeks and I'm assuming I won't have any internet.

Sorry for subjecting you to that.

Thank you.

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