England
Arthur,
Hello there, jour de pluie! I can see your scowl already, and I haven't even sent this letter yet. It is a technique you seem to have perfected, being grumpy when I am around.
There is not much to say that you do not already know. While I wish I could express it more easily, more beautifully, there is not much more I can say, than I love you.
I know you do not feel the same, but perhaps it is better that way. After all, it brings me such joy to see how happy Alfred makes you, although it pains me all the same.
You know these things, of course, but I know things too. I know how you dislike face to face conversation, I know how you like the simple elegance of a letter. And I know I cannot hope for you to let me be as I wish, to be in your presence every second I may be, so I ask this instead;
Allow me your words. You actions and nuances, the things you speak and the messages you write.
Allow me to watch and wonder, what could have been. I will stay the watcher, unless your mind is changed. I can but hope, after all.
Allow me to see you be happy, and in turn, allow yourself to be happy. I know it's not the most forefront thing on your mind, but it is important to me, and of course, to Amérique. He loves you dearly, I know, and only wishes for you to love yourself the same.
So, if not for me, do it for him. Love yourself, be happy, and live a life full of the riches that love can give you.
And, if nothing else, simply remember.
Yours,
Francis