metamorphosis

Title: Lettres d'amour
Characters: England, Spain, France
Rating: G

For 30smiles' prompt "Now, my love..."

Words come easy for him – he's always been wonderful with words, written or otherwise, even if he can bear to pen them out but not so say them except under circumstances – and there's not a person in the world who can take that out of his mind. He can write letters and stories, tragedy and comedy, poems and novellas and guides –

but he can't write love letters, no matter how hard he tries.

It's simple enough to do, in a sense. Fancy words and sweet nothings, false truth and true faults. He's done little notes and sent them to girls, things he didn't mean, but when he did mean it, the words could never come out, much to his dismay. It was like talking to the person and trying to say something, but having nothing to say even though he wanted to say something.

Frustrating, to say the least.

So England writes. He just writes about anything, long loopy cursive scratching over the bleached paper, trying to figure out how to say what he wants. He forgets about it after a while, throwing the letter to the ground and groaning and leaving for rest and tea.

France smiles as soon as England leaves, though; he picks it up and finishes it with a 'Love, England' and mails it to its intended.

England's furious.

Spain's flustered and won't meet his gaze at the meetings.

Every so often, he'll pull it out and mutter through it, starting from the very first line:

“Now, my love...”

69;