OH MY I WROTE A ONE SHOT :3

Vlad: Holy hell.

Shh. Anyway, it can actually be made into a longer story, but I decided to see if people liked it first. If you like it and would like to see a sequel, you can review and please let me know! If enough people would like one, I will definitely write it!

I was thinking out the song "Not Gonna Write You A Love Song" by Sara Bareilles when I got struck with the inspiration for this. Hence the title.

lI don't own Hetalia. But I should. I really should.

Enjoy:)

"No way. No fucking way."

"Alfred, it's one song. It doesn't matter how good it is. They'll like it because you're singing it."

"I am not writing a love song!"

"Alfred, you have to. If you don't, they won't release the album."

"Dammit!"

I slam my fist down on the black table in front of me, something I've done so many times that it doesn't even hurt anymore. My eyes are burning and my head is pounding out of frustration-yeah, I have a few anger problems. So what? Who doesn't?

I can't believe they're forcing me into this. My fans like what I sing about. They like the lyrics. What's the point of a damn fucking love song?! I don't want to expand my fan base. I'm happy with what I've got. If they don't like it, they can go listen to that freaking Beaver kid.

"How can I write a love song?!" I yell at my manager, who had previously removed all harmful things that I could throw at him from the table. "I'm not in love, I've never been in love, and I never want to or will be!"

The blonde Brit shrugs. "Read a book. Watch a movie. Something. You just need to write one."

"Or what?" I question.

"Find a record deal somewhere else."

"Damn bastards!" I think the vessel in my eye is going to pop. These people are all full of crap. I can do what I want!

But yet... it was really hard to get this deal. Incredibly hard...

"Fine," I sigh after a few seconds' pause. "I'll write them a damn love song. It won't be good, though."

"Like I said, no matter how shitty it is, they'll like it because you're singing it," my manager mumbles.

"Excuse me, Kirkland?" I glare.

"Nothing, Alfred, nothing. And, please, as I have asked you to do many times before, call me Arthur, not-"

"Yeah, yeah, Kirkland. I'm going out. See if I can find any lovey-dovey couples out there," I interject, grabbing my leather coat and dashing out the door. "Maybe if I'm lucky I'll find a pair of drunk chicks making out in the park," I mumble to myself as I step out of my penthouse and into the elevator.

~/\~

I step out of my apartment building onto the city sidewalk, slipping black sunglasses on so no one recognizes me. Looking from side to side, I decide to turn left, because, screw it, I really don't want to do this, and my favorite music store is about two blocks down in this direction.

Yeah, I don't really listen to my own music. Isn't that a little self centered? And I, Alfred Jones, young millionaire, ovary-bursting, music god Alfred Jones, am certainly not self centered. I mean, I even put three dollars in that red thing those old dudes ring the bells for during Christmas!

I sigh as I walk, hands stuffed in my pockets. There's a lot of people out on the streets right now-it's lunch time-and I'm occasionally running into others, hitting shoulders, hips. And, of course, neither one of us apologize to the other. Typical of this place.

I do not enjoy people. Sure, I like to get up in front of them and perform, but, otherwise, I don't like them. I don't go to or host parties, and I rarely even attend any music award ceremonies. I have a smart phone, but I only really use it to contact my brother Matthew or Kirkland, and those conversations aren't usually started by me, except for a few times in Mattie's case. I just don't get along with many humans beings besides myself.

As for people watching, however, I do quite enjoy that. I like to observe people-what they wear, how stupid they are, what they talk like, even the way they walk. It's interesting. I get a lot of inspiration just by sitting in the park sometimes, whether it be a bunch of college kids playing with a frisbee or some dude playing a saxophone for money.

I take a sharp left into the music store and head straight for the classical section.

Okay, my style is alternative rock. But I really do love classical music. It's relaxing. Gustav Holst is my all-time favorite.

I sigh as I look through the vast collection of CDs, skipping past the all the Holsts, since I have almost all of the nearly 200 works he composed. I'm looking through some Modeste Mussorgsky stuff when, not paying attention to my surroundings, I knock into some small figure.

"Oh, sorry," I apologize, since I'm not out on the street. I bend down to pick up whatever I've knocked out of the person's hands.

Hey, wait a sec...

"You like Holst?" I say, looking over a CD of a recording of Gustav Holst's 'The Planets', turning it over in my hands.

"My favorite."

The accented voice makes me look up. Well, uh, down, really; the voice belongs to a very short girl, at least six inches shorter than me.

She has white blonde hair, with a small white bow on the right side, and is very pale. She's actually quite pretty, and I can't help but smile at her a little. "Favorite planet?" I ask. "Mine's-"

"Jupiter," she answers before I can finish. "The Bringer of Jollity."

"Me, too," my smile grows a little bit. I take off my sunglasses. "Good taste."

To my surprise, she doesn't react like a fangirl or the paparazzi. She simply carries on talking about Holst's composition while I stare in disbelief.

"The theme is the best part. It's one of the few songs that makes me happy. But I guess that's what it's supposed... excuse me? Are you paying attention?"

"You don't recognize me," I mumble.

"Nyet," she shakes her head and wrinkles her thin, blonde eyebrows in confusion. "Should I?"

"I'm Alfred Jones," I say, still shocked at her lack of recognition.

"And I'm Natalya Arlovskaya," she responds.

"Now do you know me?" I ask hopefully.

"Sure," she nods. "You're Alfred Jones."

"Yes!" I sigh in relief, chuckling a bit. I knew there was no way she didn't know who I was! "You've heard my music?"

"What music?" she asks, tilting her head cutely to one side, just as confused as before.

"Seriously?!" I exclaim, exasperated. "You've really never heard my music? I sing and write alternative rock. I have three albums out already. I have another coming out in a few months," I explain hastily, talking faster as the confusion on her face grows more prominent. "I was on 'Good Morning America'," I whimper.

"I only listen to and play classical," she says after a few seconds.

"Play?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

She nods. "Piano, violin, flute. I sing, too."

"I play piano, too," a small, crooked smile returns to my face. "And guitar. And drums. And I sing, too."

She smiles a bit. "How good are you at piano?"

"I majored in it," I beam, then grimace. "Before I dropped out my sophomore year to record my first album..."

"What a coincidence," she grins at me. She has very nice eyes-blue, but not blue. Almost gray. "I'm majoring in piano. I finished the first semester of my freshman year."

"Oh, wow," I say, then I let words come out of my mouth that I never intended to say nor expected to hear from myself. "I like you."

"What...?" her face goes blank.

"I mean," I say, chuckling nervously. "I like you. I-I mean.. dammit."

She giggles at me.

"What's so funny?"

"I have no classes today," she ignores me. "Could you show me around here? I came from Minsk for school, and I don't know my way around yet."

"Minsk...?" I ask. I'm wasn't too great in school, and that includes geography.

She smiles and nods. "Minsk, Belarus."

"Ohhh," I, too, nod, and make a mental note to look up this Belarus later. "Anyway," I say, beaming yet again and smoothing my honey blonde hair. "I would be happy to show you around," I say, reaching into the pocket of my jeans and pulling out a case. I open in and put my square, black rimmed glasses on.

I usually don't wear them; I only have astigmatism. But might as well.

"Wonderful," she tilts her head back and looks up at me.

"Certainly is," I respond, putting the CD down and holding my hand out to her. She takes it and I do not hesitate to start dragging her out of the small shop. "Natalya, right?"

"Call me Natty, if you want."

Maybe this love song won't be that hard to write after all.

So there you have it.

Again, review. And if you would like a sequel, please let me know!

Thank you~!