A/N: Hello! This is my first fanfiction, so if you bother to take the time to review please don't murder me with negativity. I'm going to go ahead and say that I do not own Hetalia or anything associated. And warn you that there will be character deaths. And, so you don't get confused:

Alistair: Scotland

William: Wales

Dylan: Ireland

Cailean: North Ireland

And now... On with the story. Enjoy!~

Dear Francis,

It's been a while since I've talked to you, and even longer since I've seen you, and oh god, I just called you by your first name, what the heck is wrong with me? Well there are many things wrong with me, but right now the only thing on my mind is you. Which is strange, because it's been ten years now. But enough of that

I probably don't have to remind you of the stupid, slimy frog face you are. But I will anyways.

Nowadays, I am constantly reminded of my younger self, and of better days. Do you remember the time that Gilbert managed to sneak some weed into the brownies for the Christmas party? Even I couldn't help laughing my ass off at Mrs. Crysan's face when she found out, and laughed even harder when Alfred covered for him.

I'm only remembering this incident because Cailean dug out a box of brownies from the back of my closet that Alfred sent me years ago. It took a full fifteen minutes for me to convince him not to eat the stale pastries. Bloody hell, my brothers are such idiots.

I can't actually remember how many times I've told you or them that I hate their guts, but I guess you were probably right for not believing me. Even though I never talked about it, you were a better friend than I would ever have liked to admit, and I kinda wish we'd stayed in touch.

But I guess, after the way we parted, there wasn't any way to hope for that.

You're probably laughing at me getting all sentimental over a letter. Well fuck you, frog face. I can be whoever I want.

And I think it made you mad that you could never change me.

-Arthur Kirkland.

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Dear Francis,

Today was crappy. And for once, I am willing to admit that British weather sucks. The gale outside was enough to knock over trees. To make things worse, Alistair burst in here today on the pretence that "some company" was going to be good for me. Does he not have a life? Of his own? Preferably somewhere far away so I wouldn't have to listen to his annoying drunken rants anymore? (I thank every god I've ever heard of that he didn't show up drunk.)

I really don't think the neighbours appreciated the singing though.

He brought me food to try and pacify me. The food was crap. I don't know why he thought hamburgers were a good idea. He claims he forgot. I think he was just deliberately trying to annoy me.

I barely thought of you for those ten years, but now that life has slowed down, my thoughts began to wander a bit more freely.

I'll have to assume that when you left London, you went back to Paris. I know you always wanted to. I don't think Antonio and Gilbert ever understood how much you missed it. I didn't either until I moved out of London. Now I understand all too acutely.

I would like to wish you luck with your love life, and hope that you've finally found someone, but I know if you're anything like me you've spent the long years alone. Trying to work past the memories.

I think if Gilbert was still alive, he would have laughed at the life we've found ourselves in. He would have found it so frickin hilarious that we let something so petty get to us. Then again, he was always someone to scoff at love.

Maybe it was his lack of ability to communicate that caused him to commit suicide.

I don't think we'll ever know.

It's another thing I wonder.

-Arthur Kirkland

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Dear Francis,

Antonio sent me a postcard from Spain. I have no idea why, I was never really friends with him. He seems happy enough, Feliciano has published another novel, and the two now share five houses, despite the fact that I'm sure they haven't seen each other in months. And Antonio got arrested again, for kissing someone who called him bastard. He never learns.

And he still blames you, why I have no idea. If there was anyone to blame it would have to be either Roderich, Elizaveta, or Matthew. I can't help but feel sorry for him. In some ways, he got off worse than us, with Ludwig going after him and what happened to Lovino…

I'm going to cry just by writing this.

Why did everything seem to happen to us?

-Arthur Kirkland