[Hetalia] "Letters"
Written for the prompt Correspondence at the usxuk Summer Camp Challenge.
Title: "Letters"
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: America/England
Prompt: Table 37/5. [photo of bookshelf] @ 5_prompts, 12. Mail @ 50ficlets
Words: 1,140
Rating: G
Summary: Alfred writes a letter to Arthur.
A/N: Hetalia deals with the personification of nation-states. Some will be historical in nature and others will be examining them as just people.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
America collapsed on his sofa at the end of a long day, feeling completely spent. He loved everything he did, especially caring for his people, but some days he lamented the inherent loneliness of being a nation. He slumped onto the cushions. thinking about people come and gone, good times and bad, and decades of existence. He sighed as he leaned over and buried his face into the couch pillow and took a deep relaxing breath.
His mood at once soared and plummeted. The pillow smelled like England, and memories of them snuggled together watching a movie on a rainy day. The scent was faint now, the last time they were together was weeks ago. It had been a peaceful time. They had been pulled apart by obligation, obligations central to their very existence. He breathed in the scent of his lover, a lover that was personal to him, Alfred F. Jones, not just the United States of America.
“I miss you Arthur.” he whispered into the cushion. After a few minutes he got up and headed into his office. However, instead of flipping on his computer which was his usual activity he pulled out a piece of stationary and set his pen to the paper.
July 22, 2011
Dear Arthur,
Even though it was the age of technology, America often wrote England letters, because he knew the older man loved them. He remembered England telling him so once. Whenever it wasn’t urgent America would take out a dusty piece of parchment-style paper and write his words, staining them forever onto the page. Like that they could only be lost to the sands of time, not lost into the netherworld of the internet. Sometimes it would take him more than one draft, but today he just decided to write.
The summer here has been great, although the heat has been kind of intense. Even Mattie was complaining about it the other day, at least until I sprayed him in the face with a water gun. You should have seen him, it was hilarious! He got back at me though and we had an epic water balloon fight in my backyard. It was really fun.
I know this is the part of the letter when I would usually say something about my politics or economy, but today I don’t want to. I want to write about you and how much I want to see you.
I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I love the face you make when you are thinking. I know it bugs you that I make noise and interrupt you (you’ve told me that so many times!). I like the way your bushy eyebrows furrow and you narrow your eyes. You always look angry to everyone else, but I can’t help but smile when I see it. Did you know you’ve been making that face for centuries.
I really miss the face you make when you tell me you love me. You look softer, and I like that. I know you can be tough, but knowing that caring side is still in you. I hope I get to see it when I hold you in my arms again.
I have now, lost my train of thought, so I suppose I will end this here. I love you.
With love,
Alfred
He signed the letter and put it in the envelope, sealing it and putting the postage on it. He walked out to his mailbox and placed it there, knowing that it would get to England’s sometime in the next two weeks. He smiled in an eastern direction, imagining that England could feel it when he did that.
Two weeks later...
England sat down in his desk chair after a long day of work, sorting his mail by urgency of response. He paused when he saw one from the United States, on a stationary he recognized. He forgot all about his other mail and focused on that one envelope. Grabbing his letter opener and sliding out the letter. He smiled as he read it, blushing here and there. America could be so sentimental at times, even when he made a jab about the size of his eyebrows. He folded the letter back up and made his way to his bookshelf that was littered with classics from many of his authors. He had a few American authors in there as well, but they were hidden in the back along with the romance novels. He slid out one book in particular and opened it. It was a false book and was, in truth, a box. He carried it over to one of the more comfortable chairs and began pulling envelopes out of it. The box was filled with every personal letter America had ever written to him, ever since he was small.
Some of them were so old the paper was stained yellow and the ink had faded, but he kept them all the same. In the oldest ones the English was barely understandable since America had just learned to write and he had been away. He had grinned like an idiot when he had received the large chicken scratch letters that were describing the most amazing butterfly America had ever seen at that time. Most of his young letter were like that, gradually maturing to where he would write him about the goings on in his lands when he was still a colony.
Among the sweet and sentimental letters there were ones filled with hurt. Angry letters that America had written him in the years leading up to his revolution were scattered here and there, and there were quite a few angry ones from the War of 1812.
There was also a gap in time when America had stopped sending him letters altogether, followed by the dozens they wrote each other through World War I and World War II. America had always been trying to cheer him up and he could still smile as he read the silly messages and badly drawn cartoons America had sent him. He could remember reading them in the privacy of his tent so that the others would not know of their correspondence. The letters were there secret.
After reading a few of the other messages, he tucked in the newest addition and slid the box back onto the shelf, concealing it amongst the books. He went back to his desk and opened his email, typing a message back to America because he knew the other man loved a fast response.
I got your letter. I love you too. Hopefully we will be seeing each other soon. I look forward to seeing your smile. Now, stop playing computer games and get back to work!
Forever yours,
Arthur
America smiled when it arrived in his inbox, England knew him too well.
Title: "Letters"
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: America/England
Prompt: Table 37/5. [photo of bookshelf] @ 5_prompts, 12. Mail @ 50ficlets
Words: 1,140
Rating: G
Summary: Alfred writes a letter to Arthur.
A/N: Hetalia deals with the personification of nation-states. Some will be historical in nature and others will be examining them as just people.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
America collapsed on his sofa at the end of a long day, feeling completely spent. He loved everything he did, especially caring for his people, but some days he lamented the inherent loneliness of being a nation. He slumped onto the cushions. thinking about people come and gone, good times and bad, and decades of existence. He sighed as he leaned over and buried his face into the couch pillow and took a deep relaxing breath.
His mood at once soared and plummeted. The pillow smelled like England, and memories of them snuggled together watching a movie on a rainy day. The scent was faint now, the last time they were together was weeks ago. It had been a peaceful time. They had been pulled apart by obligation, obligations central to their very existence. He breathed in the scent of his lover, a lover that was personal to him, Alfred F. Jones, not just the United States of America.
“I miss you Arthur.” he whispered into the cushion. After a few minutes he got up and headed into his office. However, instead of flipping on his computer which was his usual activity he pulled out a piece of stationary and set his pen to the paper.
July 22, 2011
Dear Arthur,
Even though it was the age of technology, America often wrote England letters, because he knew the older man loved them. He remembered England telling him so once. Whenever it wasn’t urgent America would take out a dusty piece of parchment-style paper and write his words, staining them forever onto the page. Like that they could only be lost to the sands of time, not lost into the netherworld of the internet. Sometimes it would take him more than one draft, but today he just decided to write.
The summer here has been great, although the heat has been kind of intense. Even Mattie was complaining about it the other day, at least until I sprayed him in the face with a water gun. You should have seen him, it was hilarious! He got back at me though and we had an epic water balloon fight in my backyard. It was really fun.
I know this is the part of the letter when I would usually say something about my politics or economy, but today I don’t want to. I want to write about you and how much I want to see you.
I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I love the face you make when you are thinking. I know it bugs you that I make noise and interrupt you (you’ve told me that so many times!). I like the way your bushy eyebrows furrow and you narrow your eyes. You always look angry to everyone else, but I can’t help but smile when I see it. Did you know you’ve been making that face for centuries.
I really miss the face you make when you tell me you love me. You look softer, and I like that. I know you can be tough, but knowing that caring side is still in you. I hope I get to see it when I hold you in my arms again.
I have now, lost my train of thought, so I suppose I will end this here. I love you.
With love,
Alfred
He signed the letter and put it in the envelope, sealing it and putting the postage on it. He walked out to his mailbox and placed it there, knowing that it would get to England’s sometime in the next two weeks. He smiled in an eastern direction, imagining that England could feel it when he did that.
Two weeks later...
England sat down in his desk chair after a long day of work, sorting his mail by urgency of response. He paused when he saw one from the United States, on a stationary he recognized. He forgot all about his other mail and focused on that one envelope. Grabbing his letter opener and sliding out the letter. He smiled as he read it, blushing here and there. America could be so sentimental at times, even when he made a jab about the size of his eyebrows. He folded the letter back up and made his way to his bookshelf that was littered with classics from many of his authors. He had a few American authors in there as well, but they were hidden in the back along with the romance novels. He slid out one book in particular and opened it. It was a false book and was, in truth, a box. He carried it over to one of the more comfortable chairs and began pulling envelopes out of it. The box was filled with every personal letter America had ever written to him, ever since he was small.
Some of them were so old the paper was stained yellow and the ink had faded, but he kept them all the same. In the oldest ones the English was barely understandable since America had just learned to write and he had been away. He had grinned like an idiot when he had received the large chicken scratch letters that were describing the most amazing butterfly America had ever seen at that time. Most of his young letter were like that, gradually maturing to where he would write him about the goings on in his lands when he was still a colony.
Among the sweet and sentimental letters there were ones filled with hurt. Angry letters that America had written him in the years leading up to his revolution were scattered here and there, and there were quite a few angry ones from the War of 1812.
There was also a gap in time when America had stopped sending him letters altogether, followed by the dozens they wrote each other through World War I and World War II. America had always been trying to cheer him up and he could still smile as he read the silly messages and badly drawn cartoons America had sent him. He could remember reading them in the privacy of his tent so that the others would not know of their correspondence. The letters were there secret.
After reading a few of the other messages, he tucked in the newest addition and slid the box back onto the shelf, concealing it amongst the books. He went back to his desk and opened his email, typing a message back to America because he knew the other man loved a fast response.
I got your letter. I love you too. Hopefully we will be seeing each other soon. I look forward to seeing your smile. Now, stop playing computer games and get back to work!
Forever yours,
Arthur
America smiled when it arrived in his inbox, England knew him too well.