Sorry, My Boyfriend is Just Kind Of Old-Fashioned [Hetalia England x reader]

Chapter 7- The Girl with the Weird House

A/n: WHOA. Mega chapter. I'm warning you, I started to get a little carried away here haaah... So yeah have some character development, some movie references and finally a hint of romance

"Hey you! Aren't you the kid who moved into the old place on Kumquat?" An odd-looking face rimmed with black plastic glasses peers over you.

"Yeah, that would be me..."

"No need to harass her so, Maurice! She is new, after all."

"Ahrghh, you're too soft on the newbies, Charlie." At the sound of his name the boy seems to suddenly more alert--if he were a cat, you would have imagined his ears pricking up.

"Drop the cockiness, Maurs--it was only yesterday that you were new too, wasn't it? Besides, (Name) would definitely be cooler than you ever were and tried to be," he says winking. You roll your eyes and pretend to laugh, even though calling Charlie and Maurice even mildly funny would be an overstatement.

So. They say you meet the best friends of your high school career on the first day. Amused, you glance over at the two lovable idiots, one not even possibly more different than the other in appearance.

So, apparently, these were them.

"So, (Name)..." Charlie grins mischievously, his clear bright eyes looking very out of place paired with dark-coloured bangs. "Who's the stranger in your kitchen?"

"T-The stranger--??" You realize they must be talking about Arthur. You shake your head vigorously.

"No stranger!" you declare.

"Sure," says Charlie.

"Oh—you must mean him," you say like a terribly exaggerated fake realization. "He's just my brother."

"Hogwash!" Maurice exclaims. "If he were, he'd be about your age, and he would have come to school with you today!"

"And how do you know he's about my age?!"

Maurs smiles self-satisfactidely. "Charlie told me."

You mutter something to yourself about your new potential friend nearly qualifying as a creeper and leave it at that. And it's convenient because the bell rings loudly and the three of you are ushered off to class.

~time skip 5.5 hours of the mind-numbing boredom that is school~

"Hey (Name)!" A familiar voice calls out from behind you as you walk past undulating crowds of teenagers to cross the street.

"Wow, you walk too??"

Charlie. You nod curtly in agreement.

"Then we can walk together! We are neighbors, after all-- and besides, I've got to protect you from that sketchy creeper probably living inside your house!" he declares cheerily.

"I told, you, Arthur's not a creeper..." you growl.

"Oh, how adorable!" Charlie comments. "It has a name!"

At this you are slightly offended but manage to push it aside given Charlie's tone. You can't put your finger on it, but he reminded you a little of-- oh, there it is! The gay curly-haired guy from Perks of Being a Wallflower.

"We're here!" You hide a smile beneath your breath. Yep, definitely. There it is-- Patrick. He was his freaking alter ego, especially in sense of humor and having dark hair.

"You sure you don't want me to come in there with you-- with that stalker...?" he offers.

You laugh. "If anything, you're the one who's a stalker! Goodnight, Patrick-- I mean Charlie!"

Your front door clicks closed and the word remains clicked on his face.

"Patrick," Charlie repeats. "Who wouldda thunk it?"

~.~.~.~

"Arthu-ur, I'm ho-ome!" you call out happily. After your first full day at school away from him, it wasn't hard to admit you were eager to see him again-- b-because he was a British man from the 18th century, of course, nothing but!

"Arthur? You there...? Oh mercy me...!"

At the disaster that was the kitchen, your British had escaped you once again.

Arthur beams." 'Allo (Name)! I've made you cupcakes!".

"No, you've made World War 3, that's what you've made!" you retort, looking at the terrible terrible mess with eggshells and wrappers and cupcake batter spattered everywhere. Not to mention a smell that could burn the house down by burnt stench alone...

"Arthur! Turn that oven off, now, will you-- you're making carbonated rocks in cupcake wrappers!"

"Oh indeed, indeed, I must have let them sit a tad too much, I'll do so right away-- oh! And while, I'm at it, I do declare, your coal-free oven is.. revolutionary!"

"No pun intended," you mutter quickly.

"What?"

"Nothing. Now come on, help me get these little lumps so black they could be asteroids landed on earth out of the oven-- AH!" You wince as the one of the singeing cupcake-oids falls from your fingers. Stupid. You should have known you can't just grab it from the oven like that! This is why you never cooked, and I swear--

"A-Arthur?!?" You let out a little squeak of surprise as he presses the throbbing finger between his lips.

"Why'd you do that, (Name)?" he stammers indignantly. "I don't want anything bad to happen or anybody to hurt (Name)!" he declares.

"A-Ah... (Name) was just stupid, I guess." you say a bit sheepishly.

"Here, let's get you some cold water..."

~time skip a shower, mentally replaying feel of Arthur's lips on your finger and internally cringing/fangirling and/or both as well as a fish taco dinner. not necessarily in that order~

"Oh my gosh, Arthur!" you exclaim. "Guess what movie is on?!"

" What's a movie?"

"You-- It's-- never mind that now, but it's It's a Wonderful Life!" You eagerly go get your favourite snuggle blanket and quickly fix a bowl of microwave popcorn. Tucking your feet underneath you, you declare that it this was going to be Arthur's first movie, well-- he was in for a treat.

The credits roll in and Clarence talks about his dream of finally getting his wings, and all through this Arthur sits up on the edge of his seat as if this were Paranormal Activity instead of an old black-and white film.

"Dude, Arthur, relax, it's not that exciting," you say. "You're making me uptight just looking at you."

"But it's fascinating," he mutters. "It's like its own little world!"

Processing what he just said, you allow a smile. "I guess in a way it is." And then you think of the many, many, infinite little worlds originally crafted by film-- or lyrics-- or pen and paper. If you wrote this down, you would probably be in one too!

Why do people even write? you question. Is it to make things up to make the real world seem better, or to try and never forget certain real experiences in the first place? You decided right then and there that you would be the second type of writer. Actually, this moment... the buttery smell of microwave popcorn, Arthur looking like he's going to be scarred for life over the scene where the ballroom dancers fall into the pool, the altogether surprising coziness of what two days ago you thought was yet another cold empty place to move... you never wanted to forget it. Preserve it in writing, or something like that.

These thoughts are the last you have before you pass into the delicacy we call sleep. Both the heaviness and relief of the day pressing cool on your eyes; Arthur's head and shoulders eventually warm on your lap.