Pffft. I love school when you can submit a fanfiction as a short story and get 100% on it. Seriously, I did. I think my teacher has a thing for yaoi, too!

Writer's Block

Arthur stared at the blank piece of paper in front of him. The way it sat there, taunting him, daring him to start writing. He scowled at it. Damn paper. How was he supposed to write a story for his English class if he had no idea what to write about?

The pencil tapped against the hard wood of the desk. When his teacher had assigned him the project, he had scoffed it away in ease. After all, he was a British immigrant to America – surely writing a story that could blow the classroom away, when he lived in a country as simple as this, would be easy! He could simply channel his inner Shakespeare and write the greatest short story of the century.

And yet here he was, two days before it was due, having no idea what he was going to write this bloody story about.

All right, Arthur, think, he thought to himself. A sudden idea crossed his mind. Maybe he could write one about his beloved England! Of course, a story about Elizabeth I! Satisfied, he put the pencil to the paper and began to write.

He made almost a page when something in the other room blipped.

Heavy brows furrowing, he stood up and made his way towards the sound. He made his way into the living room, where his laptop was sitting open. Sitting in front of it, he was greeted with an instant message.

Hamburger_Hero: hi artie!

Arthur frowned. Leave it to Alfred to message him while he was writing.

KingArthurXX: Go away. I'm busy.

Hamburger_Hero: aawww artie! so cruel!

KingArthurXX: Use proper grammar. And don't call me Artie.

Hamburger_Hero: whatcha dooooin~

KingArthurXX: I'm sorry. I don't understand idiot.

Hamburger_Hero: WHAT ARE YOU DOING

KingArthurXX: Better. I'm writing my short story for English.

Hamburger_Hero: oh, that stupid thing

Hamburger_Hero: I already finished mine

KingArthurXX: Unbelievable. What is it about?

Hamburger_Hero: Aliens

KingArthurXX: ...

KingArthurXX: I don't have time for this. Goodbye.

He closed the laptop, and steamed a moment at the fact that a twat like Alfred had managed to finish a story before him. Then again, it was probably a horribly written piece of fiction, typical of an American writer.

Sitting back down at his desk, he reread what he had written before. Somehow, everything looked stupid and unworthy of being written. Angrily, he crumpled the paper and started again.

And here he was, back at his blank sheet of paper. Now that the history idea had been scrapped, he needed a new plan.

Maybe I can do something science fiction, he thought. He wasn't the biggest fan of the genre, but hell, if Alfred could do it then so could he.

And so he started to write again, this time about a space pirate captain traveling from planet to planet looking for a lost solar system. He managed to finish two pages when the phone rang.

Jumping a foot in the air, he stormed over to the phone and yelped when he saw the caller ID. "Damnit, Alfred!"

Angrily, he picked it up. "What do you want?"

"What is your story about?" came the annoying voice from the other line. "Come on, Artie, tell me!"

"Don't call me Artie," Arthur growled. "Now, listen to me very carefully – hang. Up. The. Phone!"

Instead of doing as he asked, Alfred merely continued to talk. "Come on, old man. Tell me what you're writing about! I bet it's something, like, Shakespeare."

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. "You think I could write like Shakespeare?"

"'Course, dude! I mean, your British and all, right?"

"Right." He rolled his eyes, and sat down. "Actually, the one I'm working on is a science fiction. About space pirates."

"That sounds so awesome!" Arthur could practically hear Alfred jumping up and down. "I totally love sci-fi!"

"Yes, I know," said Arthur dryly. "You with your alien obsession."

"Hey man, they exist."

"I'm sure."

"This coming from the guy who believes in fairies and unicorns."

Arthur flushed. "They exist, you git!"

Laughter came from the other line. "But, you know, I never saw you writing a sci-fi."

"And why not?"

"I don't know, man! You seem like the stuffy, history type."

Arthur bristled at that. "I'll have you know, I was writing a historical fiction earlier, but it wasn't..." he paused, trying to find the right word. "Up to par."

"What were you writing about, how we kicked your butt in the American Revolution?" Alfred teased.

"You bloody arse!" Arthur shot through the phone. "Who are you to say what I can and can't write?"

"Whoa, man, I was just saying-"

"And I am just saying that you should leave me well alone!" Arthur roared, and slammed the receiver down.

A ringing silence echoed across the room. Arthur sighed, and knocked his head on the table. He really didn't know why he flared up at Alfred so much, it just seemed whenever they talked he wanted to yell at him. And the Revolution was such a touchy subject with him - he didn't know why, it just was – but now he felt bad for blowing up at him.

"Whatever," he grumbled to himself, and pushed the thoughts out of his head. He had a story to finish. He began to write again, but this time the words didn't flow easily like they had before. Looking back, he reread from the top.

"This is crap!" He yelled and squished the paper. How could he have thought he could write a science fiction? It wasn't his genre anyway; it wasn't what he was good at. He tossed his rejected story in the garbage, and leaned back, feeling like he was about to cry.

I'm a good writer, he thought dejectedly, I know I am! So why is writing this so hard?

Again, the paper was blank.

Arthur was beginning to hate blank paper.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment he imagined that he was a sorcerer, going around to villages and performing magic tricks, spinning fables, maybe called to rescue the princess like in so many fantasy fables-

His eyes flew open. Fantasy.

He grabbed the pencil and started to scribble, writing faster than he'd ever written in his life. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Of course, this was his favourite kind of story, here he could put any number of fairies and magic and no one would bat an eye.

Almost an hour passed, Arthur managed to finish a good half of his story, taking only one break to go find something to eat. But now he was starting to falter, the horrid disease known as writers block was taking over his mind. He stared at the last sentence, trying to think of something to add. Nothing was coming to mind.

He wondered suddenly where Alfred was. This was his first attempt at a story the American hadn't tried to ruin. Arthur almost felt himself missing him.

A sharp noise crossed the room – someone was knocking on the door. No, not knocking. Banging repeatedly and telling his name through the wood. Arthur knew only one person in the world who knocked like that, and he practically flew off his chair to answer it.

The door swung open to reveal Alfred's grinning face. "Afta'noon, suh!" He said in his best imitation of a Southern drawl. Arthur unwillingly felt the corners of his mouth turn up. "I've come to check on you!"

"Check on me?" Arthur asked, walking away but leaving the door open. "Why on Earth would you do that?"

"Well, I don't know," Alfred said, coming in and closing the door behind him. "You seemed a little uptight on the phone."

Arthur blushed. "Yes, um," he fidgeted, "about that-"

But Alfred merely waved his hand. "No worries, bro. I figured you were just getting writer's block or something like that, so I brought you some comfort food."

"Comfort food?" Arthur wondered, but blanched when he pulled out a hamburger. "Alfred, you know I hate those things!"

"I know," he grinned. "More for me then!" And he popped it into his mouth.

Arthur could think of nothing more to say, so he pulled out his story and began to read it while the American munched on his burger. Indeed, he was quite satisfied with what he had done. I should be a novelist, he thought wryly.

But something odd caught his eye. As he read his words over again, he felt his stomach plummet and his heart freeze.

He'd made this princess in the story exactly like Alfred.

Everything, from her appearance to her speech patterns to her behaviour towards the sorcerer – good God, her love interest – was just like Alfred. Even her name had similarities!

Blushing furiously, he shoved the papers under the tablecloth, hoping against hope that Alfred wouldn't notice his distress. He barely managed to hide them when the blond looked up at him. "So, how's your story going?"

He could never hand that story in. Everyone, everyone would notice the similarities. Even the teacher. People would question, people would wonder, Alfred would...

"I'm stumped," he said.

"Really?" asked Alfred, swinging around in his chair. "Genius like you? Stumped on a story? What happened to your sci-fi?"

Arthur hung his head. "You were right. It really wasn't my genre."

Alfred looked at him, tilting his head slightly to the side. Arthur didn't look up, he still felt embarrassed and didn't want the other to see his face.

"Why don't you write a story about a guy who can't write a story."

Arthur looked up, incredulous. "What?"

"I mean it!" Alfred hopped out of his seat. "It would be so cool! And so easy! It would be like that one time I did a speech on how I didn't know what to give for a speech!"

"You did go to state finals for that one," Arthur said, smiling dryly. A story about someone with writer's block. It seemed like a good idea, really.

"Maybe he keeps being interrupted by his idiot friend," he said laughing. Alfred joined in.

"His idiot friend who gives him the genius idea of what to write!"

"Who also bugs the hell out of him."

"But who he still likes 'cause he's awesome!"

Arthur smiled softly. "Yes, yes he does."

Alfred stood up. "I guess I should probably leave you to write it, then."

A sudden shyness came over Arthur then. He bit his lip, "Well, you could stay... if you wanted, I mean."

"Really?" Alfred's entire face lit up. Arthur couldn't help it, his stomach flip-flopped. Damn. "Could I really?"

"J-just don't annoy me!" He snapped back, and Alfred laughed, and soon he couldn't help but laugh too. And, with the comforting presence of the American beside him, he began to write.

Matthew stared at the blank piece of paper before him.