#lets...try and...become more confident...

Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.

So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.

then Edwin starts writing back.

Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.

Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.

Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.

Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).

the ocean scares him a little, if he’s being honest. the way the waves crash onto the sand and break against the rocks—the loud sound sometimes catches him off guard. it reminds him of that time he fell from the sky, diving the plane into the ocean with nothing but stillnes and darkness waiting for him at the bottom. it reminds him of those men he once read in history books—of young japanese pilots who plunged their planes into their targets and vanished into the ocean. kamikaze, he recalls the word. the almost-similarity seems haunting to him.

but still, he keeps coming back.

each night, he parks his motorbike and walks toward the shoreline. he takes off his shoes and socks, rolls up his pants, and lets the cold sea foam kiss his ankles.

he doesn’t step in too deep, but it's enough for him to introduce himself like a shy new kid standing at the front of the class. enough to befriend the ocean all over again and whisper: hey, beautiful.

Or I might as well have been

I didn't even know what my own face looked like

As the years went on

I added to it

Layers upon layers caked onto my face

A protective shell

But you were by my side when there were cracks in it

You loved me when the mask was still new and didn't cover much

You were with me for so long, through so much

I thought

That after the long and arduous process

Of hammering at this ceramic

To chip away the layers

And let my face feel the sun

You would rejoice as I did at seeing my face

But instead I have to wonder if you ever loved me in the first place