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

Chapter 8- Warm Feelings

Despite the bodice being navy blue and velvet, and the skirt satin-sheer, the most elegant part of your gown was by far his shy hand reaching deep across your waist.

"S-So I reckon you've been enjoying yourself tonight, (Name)?" the young man asks tentatively. He was most certainly Arthur Kirkland, but he had a different air to him than usual. Maybe it was his best pressed suit, maybe it was his hair swept back and not at all the friendly mop you knew it to be, maybe it was the ballroom glistening with the light of seven chandeliers and the clickety-clack of the fair-heeled dancers... but something told you Arthur was the one in his prime tonight, and you, the girl from the 21st century, the outsider.

But tonight-- his face posed in that amused grin-- tonight, you didn't mind one bit.

"Are you kidding?? Not only am I enjoying myself-- it's bloody brilliant!" You laugh heartily in his arms, somewhat mocking his accent-- and a bit too loud for the occasion and from a proper lady, but does it even matter? You are dancing with Arthur Kirkland-- the boy who fell through your poster of Gerard Way and still has the most adorable British accent to this day-- in the middle of a beautiful grand hall of the mansion of some noble family of the late eighteenth century.

He laughs back warmly and you remark that this must be the most amazing dream ever. But even if it was just a dream, you couldn't meet his gaze-- you couldn't meet the way he was just staring into your heart. He made you dizzy, and a bit lighthearted, so that when it was time to spin around when dancing you spun and swooned just a little bit closer to him. But you knew he had you fast in his arms, and he would never let you fall.

"You're so beautiful tonight, (Name)," he murmurs into his vest. And right then and there, something inside you wants to kiss him, just like that, and live together forever in this fantasy world where it was just you and him and the oil-lit lamps burning bright in the souls of the chandeliers and the satin gloves making his cheek ever-so-soft and maybe a horse-drawn carriage on a cobbled road or two or--

A blood-curdling scream splits the room in two, barely audible enough to hear the separate syllables of your full name.

"(NAME)--- PLEASE WAKE UP!!!" Charlie's voice. You open your eyes and stagger painfully as you realize your left arm is completely numb. It stares back at you mockingly, covered loosely in plastic-y grey skin, writhing with maggots just beneath the surface.

You scream. Because if that was a dream, this should be a nightmare, right? But no. The nightmare was as real as the wide-eyed boy who was just sleeping in your arms, shuddering, shivering-- not-of-this world.

"(Name)-- look at me calmly now! Come back to this world, we're losing you--"

"How do I do that??" You panic.

"JUST LOOK AT ME!" Charlie snaps. You stare into his deep eyes, blue and charged with fright but also anger, and slowly start feeling your hand come back to life and heal. Once you can wiggle all five fingers, you force yourself to look back.

"What," Maurs breathes behind Charlie, "the heck was that?"

~.~.~

Light from the bulb filters shamelessly down at the kitchen table. Four of the six seats are filled-- you, Charlie, Arthur, and Maurs. You are still in your pyjamas, and huddled in the blanket Arthur gave you. You wrap it tightly around your left arm.

"Chamomile tea, anybody?" Arthur asks meekly.

"Damn you and your tea!" Charlie thunders. "If it wasn't for you, none of this would have happened!"

"Charlie!" Maurs exclaims. The little one with glasses looks as if he is about to cry.

"I'm sorry!" Charlie stammers, pushing back his chair loudly as he embraces Arthur. "I'm sorry, mate--really, it's no more your fault than anybody's..." Arthur nearly drops the tea.

"Yes, it's all right now," Arthur notes, "but would you care to explain... what happened to (Name) there?" The tea in Arthur's cup sloshes in quite the ungentlemanly fashion.

"I can't explain it," Charlie replies, "but I've got an inkling it most certainly has to do with you." he concludes.

"Arthur?" Maurs asks.

"Yes, Arthur." Charlie replies, grimacing. "The boy from eighteen-twelve."

Maurs gasps loudly. "Earlier than that, my good sir," Arthur counters. "I was about to leave to help put down the American rebels."

"The American Revolution." Charlie whispers. "I can't believe this-- he really is from the past, why don't you..."

"I've got to go back," Arthur states coldly. "Whatever this was, it only happened because of me. I don't want to hurt (Name)."

"Actually, I don't think it's as much a problem of you as it's a problem of (Name) and you." The other boy's gaze hardens. "Tell me, (Name), what were you dreaming of back there with Arthur's chest in your lap?"

"I--" you stutter slightly. How in-detail of your fantasy should you go? "It was Victorian times."

"Ah. I see. Did you find it pleasing?"

"Very," you say curtly.

"Did you happen to find it so pleasing that you would be willing to say-- leave the real world-- for it?"

The words catch on your tongue, but the answer is obvious.

"That's what did it." Charlie concludes. "If he travelled forward near this place in time, what makes you think you can't travel backwards? And if that were so, then you would belong to Arthur's time, and your body here..."

"Stop!" you exclaim. "We get it!" You try not to think of the hideous sight of your hand, but the image is forever seared in your memory.

"So-- from now on, Arthur will be staying with me and Maurice, aye?" Charlie asks. "No hard feelings..."

Arthur gives my hand a squeeze and nods. "It'll be best, (Name). Maurs, are you okay with this?" A pang went through you when you realized Arthur seemed to be the only one to consider the youngster's opinion on the matter. When they were going to be living in him and Charlie's house.

"Sure!" Maurs grins, gawking at Arthur geekily. "And I want you to tell me all about the eighteen-hundreds, all right?" he demands.

"First are manners," Arthur comments teasingly.

So, after all of you gather up his things, and the clothes, and some toothbrushes, you give Arthur a hug on your front porch. A chill goes through you as you remember the feel of the fake Arthur-- or the authentic one, as you have it-- and how real Arthur really felt nothing like it. He was real, he was human, and he was warm-- nothing like the caricature made up in your mind that had existed in a faraway place. Actually, for this, you wanted him to hold on just a little bit longer-- to prove that he was real, and not a ghost beneath your arms. And under his chest, his heart beat fast, and yours faster.

"Goodnight Arthur!" you call from the front steps of your house, faking a smile in the dim streetlights of the young night.

Goodnight... But in truth, it wasn't a very good one. You slept up in the loft that night, even though the blankets were gone... forever trying to catch that glimpse of the ghost between your fingers.