Dear Alfred,

I finally succumbed. I finally gave in to Francis' constant pestering.

I'm finally writing this letter to you.

I'm not going to send it, of course. I mean, what sort of idiocy would THAT be?! I've worked so hard for two-and-a-half years to keep my feelings a secret – do you honestly think I'd just throw all that away in a hastily-scribbled letter?

Okay, well, I'm lying about the hastily-scribbled part. I'm using my best cursive here (the type of cursive that you can actually read, because I know you and your problem with my copperplate), along with the parchment I bought from the Harry Potter Studios that time we went together, and my best ink and quill. This letter is a work of art that shall never see the light of day, but shall forever be locked away in my easily-accessible drawer.

Perhaps I should invest in a padlock.

Francis would call it a shame, locking this letter away. He'd tell me to send it to you, to slide it into your bag one day when you're not paying attention (which, let's be real, is a lot of the time). But... that's easy for him to say. Remember when he confessed to Matthew with one of those Valentine's Day roses school did, and Matthew accepted? Francis has never been rejected before, he doesn't know what it feels like. Nor do I, for that matter... you're the only one I've ever had feelings for.

But that's beside the point; the point being that Francis is so sure of himself, so sure of his charm and irresistibility. He knows he's conventionally attractive, and he knows that people have had crushes on him. Me, on the other hand? My hair's wiry and messy and the kind of blond that nobody writes about. It's not platinum blond, not golden, not dirty blond. It's just... my hair. And who on Earth would find THAT attractive? More importantly, why would YOU find that attractive, when you have golden hair that shines distractingly in the sunlight? And then there's my eyes. Sure, they're green, which is interesting I suppose, but they're not the brilliant green people fall in love with. My eyes wouldn't remind you of a forest on a summer's day or some such romantic shit; they'd probably remind you of murky waters or empty wine bottles.

Your eyes, on the other hand... God, your eyes. This probably sounds strange, but from the very first moment I met you your eyes have captivated me. Not in a romantic way (at first), but... there's just something about them that makes me feel I can get lost in them. They're so blue. And they sparkle. And shine. And shimmer. Like an ocean on a sunny day, or a night sky out in the countryside. They're two widely different blues, but... you have them both. And you also have these little flecks of green. I first noticed them a couple of years ago (when I'd just realised that I'd fallen for you) and... they made me absurdly happy? Like... there was a little part of my eyes within yours. Honestly though, the green in your eyes looks so good. The flecks are like little leaves drifting across a wide, shimmering ocean.

In case you hadn't already realised what the subject of this letter is about, I'll go ahead and state it.

I, Arthur Kirkland, am hopelessly in love with you, Alfred Foster Jones.

I don't even know how it HAPPENED. One minute we were meeting in English class in Year Seven, then we became good friends, then REALLY good friends, then I suddenly realised that the thoughts I'm having concerning you aren't entirely friend-like. I started craving your company more and more, wanting to sit opposite you in the lunch hall before anyone else could, looking for excuses to spend time as just the two of us. At the time I just thought that you'd become a really close friend, but then... I don't know when exactly it hit. All I know is that I started thinking about how fun it would be to go on a date with you, to hold you in my arms and stroke your soft blond hair as we lament over exams and watch 'Harry Potter' and discuss Shakespeare but in space.

I think other people noticed how much I thrived on your company – Francis noticed to the point that he figured out that I like you. When you were absent for one reason or another our friends would be quick to remark how I looked 'lost' without you. Personally, I don't think I looked lost, but I can't deny that I was quieter when you weren't around. Still am, apparently. And, well, I kind of FEEL a little... lonelier? It's as if there's something... missing, when you're not around. Of course, I never feel like this when you're not supposed to be there. My free periods without you, for example. I never miss you then. But lunchtime when you're not there? It's fun, but I definitely feel the difference. And it's not a nice difference. I like having you around; you make me want to try new things, you make me want to be daring, you make me want to put myself out there without worrying about the consequences. I suppose... I suppose you make me want to improve myself into someone who stands a chance with you.

Then there's the matter of, well... of me. Oh God, this feels so awkward to write, but you're, well, you're bisexual. Which means that you... like sex. And me? I don't.

I really don't want sex.

I like... the IDEA of sex. As in, bondage is cool. Handcuffs and blindfolds are fucking hot, let me tell you. Humiliation play? Magnificent masturbation material. And don't even get me started on the notion of slowly dragging a riding crop down someone's body. But that's the thing. I like all this, but in THEORY. I like the idea of it, the notion. Actually doing all this, though?

No thank you.

And, well... I worry that if, by some sort of miracle, you actually love me back, you'll... get bored of me. I wouldn't be able to sexually satisfy you. I'd probably try, but I wouldn't be able to. I know that you're not the type to cheat, and I'd never say there was even a possibility, but... look, I know full well that you wouldn't ever even think of falling out of love with me (or anyone, for that matter) just because I'm asexual, but I can't help but worry, you know? I don't like the thought of being dropped because I can't give you everything you want. Rejection, I... I don't like it. It was bad enough when my father left us all, claiming that he couldn't deal with such a large family because there were 'too many mouths to feed'. I get where he was coming from, but if he had kids he should've been prepared to look after them all their lives. But no, instead he leaves us, leaves me just a few months before my GCSEs, leaves me feeling like shit and wondering if he would've stayed if I, as the fourth and last child, hadn't been born. It was a situation out of my control, but it still left me with a bitter sense of inadequacy. And if you leave me just because I can't make love to you... it'd hurt like hell. You're not that type of person, I know you're not, but you can't fault a bloke for worrying, not when he's already had a sense of inadequacy planted in him.

...All this worrying over a non-existent relationship. Wow. I've sunk to a new low.

Also, as a point of interest, I just read this letter back to myself and now I'm blushing heavily because I just told you my kinks. Who even has the stupidity to write their kinks in a letter?

Moving on from kinks...

So... yeah. I'm not entirely sure of what else to write. I've already said that I'm hopelessly in love with you, haven't I? God, you don't make it easy to fall out of love with you, do you? You laugh in such an obnoxious, sincere way at my sarcastic quips and dry humour that makes my chest feel funny. Your laugh, it's... it's kind of cute. It starts off with this loud, sudden 'Ha!' and then you dissolve into raucous giggles, having to steady yourself on the nearest solid thing you can find, the corners of your eyes crinkling and your glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose. When you've got a bright idea it almost... takes over you. In a good way. You almost... shine. You talk about it as if its an idea you've been passionately advocating for since forever, as opposed to five minutes ago. And when you're talking about your latest achievement? God, you're adorable.

And then sometimes you wear tight tee-shirts that emphasise your rather impressive physique and my mouth goes dry and I momentarily forget how to function. On other occasions you wear baggy hoodies with floppy sleeves and I still momentarily forget how to function.

I think there's just something about you which makes me momentarily forget how to function.

Also, you're cute when you're sleepy. You sort of forget that I hate being touched (by anyone but you, but I'll never admit that anywhere but here) and just... flop all over me. Sometimes it's your head in my lap, sometimes it's your legs. Sometimes your head's on my shoulder, sometimes your arm's draped around them. I act disgruntled, but honestly... I like it. I like the fact that I'm the person you flop all over when tired. I like the fact that when something exciting happens, I'm the first person you tell. I like the fact that, well, you value me so much. It feels... nice.

Honestly, I know these unrequited feelings are going to kill me one day (not literally, don't worry). I can picture myself forcing smiles at your wedding to a beautiful stranger with bright eyes and soft hair, see myself drinking myself silly whilst you're on your honeymoon and making love to the person of your dreams, see myself letting envy consume me as I wallow in self-pity and wonder where I went wrong in not managing to gain your romantic affections.

But... that's my headache. I'll never let on that I love you. I'll only tell you if you tell me that you return my feelings. Because I know you. You'll feel bad about rejecting me. And the last thing I want to do is make you feel bad.

Just know, Alfred, that whoever you fall in love with, I'll support you through the ups and the downs of your relationship. You can cry on my shoulder if need be. I'll help plan your wedding, if you want me to. I'll only try and end it if your partner is abusive, or an arsehole, or treats you like shit, because you don't deserve that. You deserve someone who will love you as wholeheartedly as you'll love them.

...Marvellous, now I want to give this to you so that you see my nice supportive messages. But no, I won't. Because then you'd see everything else, and that would go against every single one of my morals. So, I just hope that you know all that already. You should, theoretically. I can't imagine you would keep me so close to you if you thought that I'd ever stop being supportive of you.

So, well, here ends my letter. My letter that I'm just going to stuff in my drawer and hope that none of my brothers ransack it. I suppose I feel a little bit more... at ease about all this.

I love you, Alfred. I hope you know that. Even if you just think it's platonic.

Love,

Arthur

P.S. Is it bad that I've imagined what our first date would be? I imagine that we'd go to a theme park and ride all the rollercoasters, then we'd go to McDonalds. Then we'd go back to your house and we'd hang out in your room and drink hot chocolate with marshmallows and rainbow sprinkles in our favourite mugs and play video games and board games and watch films on your bed until we end up falling asleep on each other.

P.P.S. God, I'd give anything for you to love me back.

P.P.P.S. Anything.

A/N- Wow, I haven''t uploaded something to here in FOREVER.
I mostly upload my stuff to Tumblr now (magic-magpie, if anyone's interested), but I think I'mma still post stuff here... when I remember. XD Also, there's one more chapter of this... once I actually write it. :P
Well, I hope you enjoyed it! :D