Dear Francis,
I am still not over you. Being over you would mean never thinking about you again, but I do. Every day. I think about your warm skin, blessed by the sun more often than my own. I think about your beautiful blond hair, and the way you used to let me run my fingers through it. It was so very soft.
I think about your eyes. I wonder, have they ever shown love, real love, for anyone? I thought they did, once, but I don't think they do anymore. Not for me, not for Alfred, not for Arthur, and not even for yourself.
I think about the sweet things you used to tell me, all the compliments and the promises. They were just a façade, weren't they? Things to make me fall so blindly in love with you that I'd never see or suspect you fooling around with Alfred and Arthur and everyone else. I suppose it's not in a nation's nature to be monogamous, but did you really have to hide it from me? If you loved me…really loved me like you said you did, you could have asked. You know very well that I would do almost anything to make you happy. I'm sure you've exploited that on many an occasion.
I have kept your language, instead of just reverting to Arthur's. True, it's less of your language now, and more of my own, but I am sure, were we speaking, that we would be able to understand each other with little trouble. I keep the language solely for you. I'm sure it would please you to read that.
I am going to burn this now. I feel a twinge of regret for doing so, but not enough to stop myself. I'm simply not as aggressive as Alfred. But you know that, don't you? It must be a relief to not have to constantly be a gentle and demure lover.
I really loved you, Francis, and I still do. I always have and always will.
Isn't that sad?
-Mattieu
AN: Poor Mattie. Next up is Francis' letter. Please review?