A letter and a box, left in Len's private apartment
OOC: Italics indicate Len’s actions and emotions. The standard lettering belongs to Eobard.
Len found the gift late afternoon, after spending most of the day with Lisa. At first he was suspicious; who would send him a package like this? He poked at it, then looked at the envelope on the package. He immediately recognized the writing as belonging to Eobard.
His speedster. So Len sat down on the floor, and opened the letter, and began to read.
((This is simultaneously a birthday gift and the response to the meme asking for a love letter from my muse to yours.))
Dec. 11, 2015
Leonard, my thief,
I must admit that love letters are not my strongest suit, so I apologize in advance for the awkwardness of my words. Neither of us excels in the area of sentimental expression, and yet I appreciate every attempt you make. Allow me to return the favor. I have conducted a study on the common features of a love letter, and will attempt to follow the rough outline I observed.
First, an admission of my own unworthiness. I find this step frivolous and perplexing, so I will just say, forgive me for our recent difficulties. You saved my life several times over, and that is a debt that cannot be repaid. I won’t try. Just know that you have me, all of me, for as long as you so desire my company.
Second, an enumeration of your virtues. I am eternally grateful to have met you in this time. If I tried to list my favorite parts of you, I would very quickly run out of paper. Furthermore, just thinking about you makes me want to be close to you. For the sake of this letter, however, I will try to narrow down the list.
Your wit, your intellect, your insight, all are valuable features of your conversation. I admire your patience, precision, and humor; equally as much as I admire the steadiness of your hands and the richness of your voice. You are beautiful, or handsome should you prefer that term. It’s difficult to choose the most striking features of your appearance. Sea-hued eyes or the blessed beauty mark on your temple? Your hands, again, yes, or your smiles? It is impossible to choose which of your smiles is the best.
Do you see how I ramble? This is the seventeenth draft.
Third, an explanation of how you make me feel. The hours we spend together are precious. You ease the burden of this primitive century. When I’m with you, I feel the closest to hope that I’ve been for too long. I never feel more alive than when I’m inside you, your voice and your mouth are never sweeter than when we move together. (I must apologize again. But I have noticed that there must be an element of suggestiveness to these things. Let me live with that little death.)
Fourth, a comparison of our love to some abstract concept, or an indication of the permanence of what we share. Watch me achieve two in one. Ours is a relationship that exists outside of time. I am so far from my proper station that the intersection of our lives is, by necessity, stolen, impossible, and made all the more valuable for how rare and unlikely it is. We are an anachronism, and as such time can place no restrictions on us.
Fifth, a profession of love. This will be simple: I love you. An addendum, in case that is too simple: You are worthy of being loved. Proof of the addendum, because I know you: I would not love someone who hasn’t earned it, and I would not give so much of myself to a man who wasn’t the best I could find. To clarify: You are the best I can find. One more colon, because I like five better than four: I am not ashamed of loving you.
Finally, a token of my affections. The date is December 11, making you 36 years old. The point of this is to wish you a Happy Birthday, and to do so in a meaningful way. Consider these both affectionate tokens and birthday presents. The contents of the package are as follows:
two sweaters, navy blue and teal. They lack seasonal patterns but I believe they will complement your eyes well enough.
one pair of hairsheep leather gloves, black.
one music box, of such design that should not technically exist for another eighty years. I’m writing about the oval glass object, which will glow a faint blue in the light. It captures whatever tunes it is exposed to and will replay them to whoever holds it, choosing a song based on detected mood.
one plush Flash toy intended for your dogs, to atone for my personal failings in interacting with them.
I conclude with a reminder that I love you, that I wish you well on this day (and every other day), and that I will see you soon.
Your speedster, your Eobard.
The note was long, and it was hand-written, which showed that Eobard had put a lot of thought into it. Len hesitated, then set it aside and opened the gifts first. He laughed at the dog toy. The sweaters made him smile, and the gloves drew an appreciative whistle from him. They were nice; supple and soft. Perfect for being used with the cold gun. He wasn’t sure what the other gift was exactly. He examined it for a few moments, then finally picked the letter up and read it, figuring the instructions would be in it.
Len smiled through the first few paragraph of it. Eobard wrote him a love letter! It was sweet, and honest, and just a tad funny. When he reached the paragraph where Eobard listed all the qualities he loved about Len, he got a little squirmy. His free hand idly toyed with the envelope, sometimes just gripping it lightly, other times plucking off little pieces and twisting the bits between his fingers as he read the love letter.
A letter. For him. He had one from Lisa. Now this one from Bard. It was amazing, and a little terrifying. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to be so lucky, but he wasn’t going to question it too much. He was just happy to accept this, and enjoy it while he could.
It was when he reached the paragraph where Eobard declared his love, Len had to stop, and read it again. And then again. He drew his knees to his chest and started back from the top of the letter, pausing again to read.
I am not ashamed of loving you.
Len felt a tightness in his throat, and he scrubbed at his eyes, which were stinging just a little. It was a simple sentence, but it meant more than anything else. That could have been the only line as far as Len was concerned.
For a long while, Len simply sat on the floor, tearing the envelope to tiny shreds as he read and re-read the letter over and over again. A few times he set it down, then immediately picked it back up to read it again.
Len carefully packed up the gifts in the box. Set them on the table. Tucked the letter into his pocket, taking care not to crinkle it too badly. And then he grabbed his keys and went to Bard’s. He could come directly in if he wanted to, but instead, he rang the bell, and waited.
