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

Chapter 17- In Which Arthur Calls Death a Sod

Arthur woke up in Queensbury, England, 1775. He didn't even have to check the calendar to know—the familiar bad back he had after waking up in the rickety military cot was enough to tell him.

He was home.

It all came back to him. Tomorrow, they were sailing for America— to put down the rebels, and Arthur felt a pang in his chest.

Should he say something? That they were inevitably going to lose? God, who would believe him— that he'd seen and lived in the future? Please. A knock on the head and a sentence to the loony bin— the likes of Crazy Earl— that's what that would get him.

An excuse not to fight on grounds of lunacy.

No.

He may know fate, but he wasn't a deserter.

Arthur rolls out of bed in his briefs, cracks his back with a loud pop, and grabs the red uniform neatly folded on his chair before hurrying to the washroom. This was no reason to be late— encounters with Death and what-not— no, punctuality was a must, it's how good armies were run.

"Letter for you, Kirkland!" the cabin-master plops it next to Arthur's stuff. "Not like you to be late, better get out there before the admiral takes out his whip again," he comments.

Arthur takes one look at the letter and winces. Fuck, his fiancé— right— well that wouldn't be going anywhere, he'd have to call it off because (Name)—

Right, (Name) didn't exist yet. Right.

Fuck.

He has the fleeting thought of just happening to die in battle and having it all be over with. Honorably, of course.

◦◦◦

Halfway through today's military training— a harsh, full reenactment of the tactical battles these seventeen and eighteen-year-olds were to expect in the colonies, Arthur is palpably exhausted.

"Sargent Kirkland, sir, with those reflexes you'll be the first to be shot." his fellow soldiers tease, masking their own obvious fears of actually going to battle.

Yes, Arthur's distracted. He can't get the thought of (Name) out of his head and whether or not she was even real or he had a loopy nightmare of the 21st century and all this was based on his own fears of losing the war or risking his life on the battlefield in the first place.

He clutches his rifle more tightly. Time to wake up, Kirkland, stop dreaming. On the front lines, distraction would be an express ticket to death and that fucking scared him even without having even met the sod— let alone now.

As Arthur considers, depressed, that maybe (Name) and the events of the last six months were but a rash dream of escapism— of a scared child posing to be a man, scared to fight, a coward— a horrible pain fills his hands and he drops his bayonet in surprise. He clenches his fists and rubs at his knuckles.. trying to ease the searing pain.. as small incisions spread like carvings and form the shape of letters in fresh wounds.

W A I T F O R H E R

Ten letters, one on each knuckle. Arthur screams.

"Witchcraft!" The soldiers shout. "Get him away from us! He's cursed!"

Running as fast as he can through the woods, Arthur manages to lose them.

So that's what fate wanted from him. To be a bloody deserter. Fine.

Take away everything, why don't you?

The wounds begin to scab over— leaving neatly crusted scabs that threaten to break every time Arthur moves his hands.

At least, closure, Arthur reflects. At least he knew she was real.

Yes, Arthur thought he must have been cursed in some way. More than the weird message on his hands— something stranger.

Arthur moved to a new village— thankfully, rumors didn't spread as quickly in 1775 as they did with the 21st century's internet— but, inevitably, rotten luck or fate or whatever blasted thing that was out there that hated him always managed to catch up and have the upper hand.

You see, Arthur celebrated birthday after birthday, but didn't look a day over twenty-three.

The townspeople murmured and again, grew suspicious. People cried witchcraft at things they didn't understand. The eternal young man. A bang on his door from the town exorcist, accompanied by an army of zealous locals— so again, into the woods.

It began to be a real problem, dealing with people, Arthur realised. With an un-aging body, he couldn't appear normal or in one place for very long at all.

So, not having many other options, he decided to do what the message and the voice had said, and wait.