Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

extra - rockin' rebel

His eye twitches, brow hitching towards his hairline. Why, he wonders, bringing his palm to his forehead in a tremendous slap, why does he have to continuously ignore what I say, that bloody git?!

"Mr... Arthur...?" Valentina squirms, uncertain, her broken, inexperienced English causing her voice to warble oddly.

He slides the hand down his face, spreading his fingers to allow himself a glimpse at the ashen-haired girl's flustered appearance. This isn't her fault, he reminds himself, straightening as he raises a clenched fist, it's that bleeding idiot Alfred's!

"Alfred!" he shouts. "Why the bloody hell is Valentina wearing jeans and an American flag t-shirt?!"

It's not two seconds later that said blonde pops up behind the still-uneasy girl, slinging an arm around her neck in a quick motion that elicits a breathy gasp from her; Arthur's brow knits together so forcefully a certain American is tempted to comment something along the lines of "Whoa, dude, congrats on your brow-ly matrimony!" though he checks himself upon realizing how pissed the Brit appears to be. With that in mind, his face relaxes into his usual grin and he laughs, "No reason~! Just thought she could use a change of pace. It's lame to wear those stuffy clothes all the time. I mean, I heard that they're hand-me-downs from Belarus anyway...." An involuntary shiver passes down as his spine.

A scowl twitches at the corner of Arthur's mouth; his only reason for not simply disciplining Alfred is the presence of Valentina. She's seen quite the ugly side of him already when Alfred fell from the third-story window, and he's like that to be the only unsavory side of him that she bears witness to. As a proxy for his verbal abuse, he says instead, "That doesn't mean you have to dress her like a bleeding American! What, did you just forget to add the multiple grease stains to her shirt?"

Valentina stubbornly follows the conversation as insults are traded and accusations made, some of which revolving around the status of her future, though of course she only catches snippets of their exchanges and is therefore unnecessarily surprised when the Englishman snatches her from Alfred's grasp and directs her into an unused room.

Coincidence or not, it belongs to Miss Belarus, the very same room Toris has been gathering her daily clothes from since she's arrived at the quaint Russian home.

The subtly accented voice she's come to know over the weeks drifts to her from behind the door (he slammed it shut in a fit of rage when Alfred came barging after them): "Just... would you mind changing, please, Valentina? Only the shirt, actually, if you'd like? I just don't want this arse influencing you against your will..."

It takes a moment for her to sort through her jumble of partially-learned English to understand Arthur's words (if only vaguely), but she soon nods, smiling, despite his inability to see her, and she rummages through the dusty drawers in search of a suitable shirt while the two countries bicker needlessly just outside the door.

The door reopens quietly some minutes later, nearly bumping the Brit into a smirking Alfred before the spluttering blonde manages to catch himself, arms spread comically for balance. He chances a look over his shoulder, eyes widening as he sees that Valentina has heeded his request and changed from her red, white and blue tee into a flouncy violet blouse that brightens her curious eyes. He's woken from his stupor when an obnoxious voice whines, "Aww, c'mon! She looked hot like that!"

Alfred's face promptly meets the floor by way of Arthur's closed fist. 

"Um, Mr. Arthur?" Her voice comes out quiet, timid, and so unlike her usual demeanor that the Brit can't help but cock a concerned brow as his hand falls limply back to his side. She hasn't gotten a handle on the language quite yet, and as a result she constantly fears a slip of the tongue and a descent of an immensely awkward atmosphere. "I... want to learn... about your culture." She scrunches up her face, sounding out the words mentally before speaking, hoping her pronunciation is correct. "Both of yours..." she adds, peeking at where Alfred has yet to haul himself from the ground, mumbling to himself and rubbing half-heartedly at the fast-forming bump dominating his head.