They'd grown up a lot; the letter was evidence enough of that.
It wasn't like Francis hadn't known, and it wasn't like he hadn't already accepted that for them and for one in the past as well.
He stared at the delicate unfolding of the letter's meaning and the gentle, similar to his looping, cursive led style.
It was funny: the similarities that you can find when you really shouldn't be looking for them.
The country of l'amour had often found himself stunned by his own feelings in regards to things like this; it just hurt in a way that naturally Francis didn't like to read the letter and wonder over all of the things that he'd done wrong.
It was definitely a split though not in the sense of a fight for revolution and eventual freedom, just a somehow even more personal one.
Arthur had no idea why he'd walked in on the frog, passed out, alcohol intertwined where it shouldn't be in his hands.
It had hurt to see him like that, after all of these years of balancing their old relationship, the occasions of which they weren't together, where they'd found other people, and even balancing forming relationships as a joint unit with other people.
He'd only really came to know how bizarre things had seemed to the rest of the world more recently and by then, they'd fallen for the 'children' that they'd once raised.
Arthur knew Francis enough by now, to realize that the man who may seem like he'd know enough to protect his heart, felt far too strongly for it to truly be protected as he stepped closer, gently tugged the now damp letter out of the Frenchman's palm, and tried to wiggle the alcohol away under the gentle protests of drunk sniffling.
He knew better than to complain or try to make France angry, and so he just pushed the alcohol bottle, nearly empty, away from them across the floor after prying it as gently as he could out of Francis's hand.
The British man leaned forward and felt the gentle fall on to him from the Frenchman as he cuddled him close, listening to the rise and fall of his chest, and hearing the pained tears of a broken heart.
A part of England already knew what was in the letter he'd delicately folded and placed in his pocket, but he ignored the worried voices in his head and the inevitable heartbreak that he knew would come for himself.
Right now, the most important one was Francis, the one who felt far too strongly for his own good.
He held him as if the pain of the past and the new pain didn't matter; Arthur held him as if all that mattered was that he was here with him, enduring the same kind of pain.
It was far later in terms of what humans considered time when he finally addressed the two, intertwined as they were.
The first statement was a nervous one of blame, of fear of the man that had found them with a blazing fire of green in his eyes; Arthur had always been known to be too strong for Matthew not to fear when he was this angry.
Alfred though was the first to actually admit that they were wrong, that he missed the loving tenderness of Francis that he'd written off as the way one treated a child, that he missed the attempts of Arthur to keep them all safe as if now wasn't different than then.
The American was the first to admit that he missed them, that something was missing from just him and Mattie, that all he wanted was to come home no matter what that meant now.
Arthur was the first to take him into his arms and hug him, terrified of the feelings that had grown since the lad's independence, but accepting of them nonetheless.
"You mustn't hurt Francis like that again." It was an angry statement, spoken with tears on the way as he tried to hide that perhaps he felt too much too.
It took months of watching words, calculating actions when nervous, and dealing with the guilt terribly to gain back the trust.
It felt like years.
Alfred threaded his fingers through Francis's hair and felt the soft brush of hair along skin, hair that was soft enough that he felt like drowning in it in the most pleasant way.
He breathed easily, steadily, and watched Matthew curl under the light stubble that always tickled far too much when he moved against it and found himself wondering why they gave this up.
It was enchanting to feel another heartbeat close and know that it was Francis's, and it didn't take long to see Arthur come back, with restaurant bought food or for him to treat them to breakfast in bed.
There was something enchanting about the tender way that he treated all of them especially when no one else was around and when the heartfelt actions drew their meaning from all of the years together.
He watched Arthur sit down and saw how Matthew sprung to him with kisses that were sweet and probably far too many along his chin and cheeks.
Alfred would have wondered if Matthew was still trying far too hard to be trusted, accepted, though he knew it was just a grateful action, one made of love.
He watched the Canadian burst into giggles when he was gently tickled along his sides and his hips and found his own self smiling at the two of them, relaxed at last when there was again four.