Day 22- July 22nd: Correspondence. How do they communicate with each other when they're not face to face? Email, Skype, letters, phone calls, etc. Anything about America and England corresponding with each other. It can take place during any era, of course.

England rarely checked his post. Whomever he needed to talk to was clever enough to know that e-mail was how he kept up with the world. Being a country, he didn't get bills, at least none that were billed directly to his public residence. However, now and then he would check out of nostalgia. So it was a pleasant surprise when he found a single letter addressed to him.

He looked at the return address, but found there was none. He frowned. It had to have been a mistake. But, the person had written England's human name in a delicate scrawl across the front. With a soft "huh", England went inside, and put on a kettle for tea.

Using a letter opener, and after checking to see there wasn't anything other than a letter in the envelope, he opened it up. He pulled out the letter, and his eyes widened. It was on beautiful, brown paper that resembled old scroll papers from when he was younger. The writing was all in cursive, almost as if written by an old quill pen.

My dearest Arthur,

I like to think you are my dearest as you have been for some time. While you may be much older and wiser than me, please do not think I am not good for you. Your smile and laugh warms my heart. It's as soft as a butterfly's wings, fluttering into my stomach. I hope to see it more, especially if I am the one to light up your day. Times are tough, but with you around, I feel as if none of that matters. Because only you matter.

By now England had taken a seat in his chair, a hand over his heart. The letter continued to go on about flowers and sunshine and England's green eyes like fields in the writer's dreams. Near the end, the sender finished his letter by saying:

I know I do not seem the type to say such things to you, and you will, of course, deny that this letter was ever received. You are romantic. I have seen it only once by accident. It was beautiful. I hope to see it again. We are close friends, but perhaps we can be closer now?

The letter ended with a simple heart drawn in the lower right corner. England reread the letter at least three more times before setting in on the table beside his cup of tea, now cold and untouched since he poured it. He sighed, realizing his face was red.

In his existence, England had gotten a few love letters, mainly from women that he had dated here and there. At a time there were letters from Portugal that he still secretly saved under his bed. He thought that it was a lost craze, something he'd never see again. It thrilled him to no end that he not only received such a letter, but that he had a secret admirer.

The letter had said they were long time friends, but that could be many of England's allies, assuming it was another country. But which one? It certainly couldn't be France. He would never be this brash. Or rather, England hoped that it wasn't. It could have been Japan, given how he liked to write long poems as was rather well versed in the English language when he wanted to be. Perhaps it was even Portugal, coming back with a crush from their long friendship.

England began wandering the house, his mind only on the letter. He was all smiles as he finished up his remaining paper work, looked over his schedule for the next day, and even as he hunkered down for the night. The letter sat on his night stand, and was the first thing he saw in the morning when he woke.

The next day was a meeting. England wondered if he would be getting another letter from his admirer. Sure enough, upon reaching his chair that morning there was. It was the same hand writing and same form of style.

Dearest Arthur,

If you would like to receive more letters, please leave a letter here for me as well. I await your response.

Again, a small heart in the bottom right.

England quickly pulled out a blank piece of paper and his finest pen. He stopped short, thinking of an appropriate reply other than, "Of course I would you want more letters". That didn't sound nearly as romantic.

To my mysterious romantic,

I am intrigued by your letters, and would be pleased to hear more from you. I hope that someday you reveal to me just who you are. If you wish for us to be more than friends, how am I to know just who you are? Nevertheless, if you want to remain a secret, I will honor this for the time being.

England left the letter on his desk and walked away, pretending he was going to the restroom. He could have turned around and hid around the corner to see who went into the meeting room first, but he liked the idea of this little game. It made everything seem so much more exciting, and Lord knows he needed it.

When he returned, his letter was gone and another had been put in its place. England smiled, slipping it into his inner pocket as the other countries began filing in. During a lull in the meeting he secretly read his letter. Again it was short and simple, but never lacking in enigmatic allure.

I am thrilled to know you are willing to continue our exchanges of letters. If you wish to reply, leave any letters to me in your post and I will get them.

After that, England kept a secret in his heart that he was developing quite a crush on his admirer. For months now they exchanged letters, some short, and others long and romantic. If any were to read half of what England said, they would probably develop diabetes. All the while, it was fun and passed the time, but England was really hoping that they could meet. His curiosity was getting the better of him. There were no clues as to who this country was. They wrote with British English, never used slang, and never let on to anything that involved their personality. Instead, it was more like in Shakespeare's time when a man would write to a woman about how beautiful she was, or the way she made the man happy. No drama, no nonsense, and never forward or crude.

England rather liked it. He was always so tired and worried for the younger generations every time they came around, especially the newest. They would be brought up in a world where asking someone out was through the internet, and a dance would mean dry humping your partner from behind. Where men could freely insult and abuse their girlfriend, or where love of the same gender was repulsed even in his own lands.

So while he wanted to meet his mysterious admirer, he also liked to keep it a secret, for fear that everything could change.

As it was, he had to go out of town. He left a letter in his post apologizing to his pen pal, and said he would be back soon enough. There was to be a meeting in America. As always, America greeted England with his usual gusto. England said his hellos and moved to his seat. He stopped short when he saw a letter was there, waiting for him.

He quickly moved to grab at it, glancing around in case anyone was nearby. After a moment to compose himself England opened the letter.

Today, we should meet. I would love to escort you on a date and say you everything I've written in my letters to you in person.

England's heart plummeted. He read the words repeatedly, thinking it might change into something else. Anything else. He wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't turn down the enigma, he could very well offend them and they would cease their letters. Then again, there was the chance that once this illusion of mystery was lifted, England might not have the same connection with the country as they had now.

He agonized over his decision during the meeting, never paying attention to anything America said. Not like it mattered, he could care less about anything half baked ideas America prattled on about. He leaned back in his chair, hands running through his hair, when he glanced over towards America's empty seat. He didn't know why he did. Either way, his eye caught something sticking out of America's suitcase that was perched on the side of the table.

It was a feather pen.

Again, England's heart plummeted. It couldn't be. Those beautiful, flowing words of love and eloquence just couldn't come from a burger chomping loud mouth like America. It was true that England had seen America's kinder and softer sides, knowing full well that America had it in him to be sweet. He just never thought it suited him to be a hopeless romantic like he was.

But then the romance came into question. Since when did America have feelings for England? He certainly never seemed to have had it before. He brushed England off, teased and taunted him, pushing him to his limits, and… constantly getting England's attention. He whined when there was no chocolate on Valentine's Day, or when England didn't make one appearance at his birthday. But was that enough to warrant the fact America had feelings for him?

By the end of the meeting, England had made his decision. He left no note, and instead approached America.

"May I speak with you?" England asked.

America smiled and agreed. He was led out of the room to down the hall and around the corner; away from anyone with prying ears and eyes.

"America… May I see your briefcase?" England asked.

America hesitated. His eyes looked to his case and then back to England. "Whu-why? There's nothing in there."

"I'm curious," England replied. "Humor me."

"I'd rather not."

"America, how will I ever reply to your letters?"

America paused. His eyes stared at England, searching to see if he was playing some trick. Then, he laughed. "What? What're you talking about? What letters?"

"The letters you've been sending me. 'My dearest Arthur'? That heart you always sign with?" England shook his head. "I should've guessed you'd play some kind of game with me."

"Game?"

"Yes, a game." England felt his eyes well up at the thought of it. "Here I was, honestly pouring myself out to you. I can't believe I was so stupid to have been sucked into something like this. You've done some low things in your life, America, but this is by far the lowest."

"Whoa, wait. England, it's not a game." America's face was red as he looked to the ceiling. "Okay, I admit it, I sent those letters. I…I had been wanting to tell you, but every time I practiced saying it, it just sounded stupid. So I tried writing it. I watched a few of my romantic comedies and then, Pride and Prejudice really stuck with me.

"I knew you liked those sappy things, so I tried my hand at it. I…I just wanted to make you happy. And I'll admit, talking like this is fun. It's…it's more than fun. It's nice."

By now, England was just as red in the face, so much so it went to his ears. He could not believe his ears. His young America might have done something like this, written sweet letters, but not the America that stood before him now. And yet, there he was. Fumbling over his words and nervously playing with his clothes like some love struck teenager.

For some reason, England felt his lips curve into a smile. He reached out and took America's hand in an attempt to soothe him. Both their hands were clammy. England recalled America's words, saying that butterflies went into his stomach. He briefly wondered if he was feeling that right now.

"As long as you…keep sending me those letters from time to time…" England leaned in and gave America a sweet kiss. "I suppose we could try this dating thing."

America's eyes sparkled, and he squeezed England's hand affectionately. "I'll never stop writing to you…my dearest Arthur."

Hoshiko2's cents: Well, this one was just gushing from me and has a bit of my "America can be a romantic too" headcanon in there. Also, this is me getting myself prepared for a "You've Got Mail" crossover I promised hakuku a few months back. I really need to get that thing done. Hope you enjoyed!