#jm.main

Sebastian, 

It seems silly to write you a letter while I’m sitting next to you in bed, but you're asleep and I’m not, so here we are.

So here we are.

It sounds like the beginning of a book, doesn’t it? It also sounds like the ending of one. Maybe that’s exactly the sort of phrase we need to define whatever this is. The end of a book, the beginning of the sequel. For our sake, let’s hope the sequel is as good as the original. No, let’s be crazy, hm, and hope it’s better? No repeats. No botched deaths, no extra boring Sherlock, just time and mischief and cleverness as far as the eye can see. Let’s be kings, Sebastian, we could buy a castle and name it something convoluted and cheesy like Moriarty Manor. We could get a hairless cat and name it Beethoven von Vivaldi. We could do something no one expects; we could be in love.

You would smirk to know, Sebastian, that saying “we could be in love” makes the bile rise in the back of my throat while simultaneously making my mouth as dry as cotton. It’s the very definition of the word disgusting. I hate it, the word love. I hate the idea of love, I hate the assumption of love and yet I can think of no other bastarding word that suits the way I feel about you. Even right now, love feels too cheap. Love is February 14th, the single most repulsive and obnoxious holiday on the calendar. Love is Pretty In Pink at a drive in cinema. Love is cheap roses bought instead of a wild daisy picked. It’s too much money spent on perfect diamonds when all of the miracle resides in the pocks of their “imperfect” neighbors. Did you know, in every “imperfect” diamond, there's a piece of the ancient earth, trapped within the carbon? Normal people see imperfections, I see history. I see a hallowed glimpse of what once was. I see the planet. 

To see the planet is to see a galaxy.

To see a galaxy is to see the universe. 

Funny enough, I see the same things in you.

So here we are, imperfect diamonds. I recognize the cracks in you, you recognize the cracks in me and we coexist like binary stars. Is that love, Sebastian? Or is it science?

Or is it just.

Whatever it is, I’m in it with you, this mud that makes me want to strangle you when you’re sleeping. You look like an eagle -- you have that same reverence and dignity. I want to ruin it. I want to ruin you, paint you black and bury you in a basement. What makes you different is that I know I could never ruin you. You’d dig yourself out, the paint would wash off and there you’d be, good as new, your brow arched, giving me THAT look while you turn your attention back to your newspaper. 

“James, play your bloody piano,” you’d say and I would, because you’d know it was exactly what I needed to do. 

I hate you. 

You should balk at those words. You really should. However when I say I hate you, you know it’s with every fibre of my being and that it’s the highest compliment I know how to give.

So here we are.

Sebastian,

It’s that time of night where you’re asleep and I’m not. To be fair, that’s every night, it’s just that some nights I’m more introspective than others. When I am, I think of things to tell you -- things I can’t tell you, things I don’t want to tell you. All of them are things I say in these letters because saying them out loud seems wrong. It seems cheap, letting these words disappear between us like the ghosts of our breath in a cold, early morning fog like they were as simple as “good morning”. They’re not, at least not for me.

You talk in your sleep sometimes. You grumble, you sigh. And then I sigh and instantly hate you. I hate when you make me sigh. I hate when you make me moan. I hate when your hand roughly pushes my face to the bed and holds it there while I growl my pent up spite back at you. I hate that you growl in return against the back of my ear, but there’s no spite there, just seduction and chocolate and velvet and chills and an ache that grabs the core of me and turns me inside out and melts me. 

You make me raw, you make a wound that never heals and the fact that it exists makes me feel more human and that terrifies me.

Some people call their sores their hearts but I know the truth. They’re wooounds. My heart is a raw, red, bleeding wound and you hold it, furiously beating in your big hands. Your fingers make a cage around it while my own claw and scratch and plead with your titanium knuckles to let me heal it... to let me destroy it. Because when I feel, I feel exposed.

But your fingers have become my ribs and they say, “your wound belongs to me”. 

I’m raw and beating beside you, Sebastian and you’re asleep. What do I do with this when you’re asleep? I want to tell you that when I’m with you and I feel... I don’t feel exposed, I feel hidden. I feel... untouchable.

So wake up with the sun, for just a moment, and read this and know...

I don’t mind when I bleed with you.

On a gathering storm comes A tall handsome man In a dusty black coat with A red right hand