Work Text:
"Dearest-"
A mistake. This is a mistake.
Damien has written hundreds of letters to dozens of people, but words have never escaped him as they do now, nor have such words ever been cause for distress. "Dearest"— to use such familiar address in a letter to a friend, a new friend at that, could be a terrible error. Yet, as he writes the recipient's name and moves down the page smoothly, there's an unbidden hope swelling in Damien's chest that certainly doesn't feel wrong.
This isn't truly the Victorian era after all, and the old letter manuals he consults are to be taken with a grain of salt; a misaddressed letter is unlikely to ruin a relationship in this modern day and age. That he takes the time and effort to write letters at all is thoughtful enough, or so Mary assures him. Some recipients aren't so responsive.
There is the chance that Damien's new friend and neighbor may be of the latter party— of people who find letter writing antiquated and inefficient. There really is no other way to begin a written conversation than by sending a letter, come whatever judgement or rejection may. But their afternoon tea had been so enjoyable, and this guest had been so receptive and attentive. It is difficult, after all, to find others who appreciate the art of taxidermy in the Maple Bay area, and Damien understands it's not everyone's cup of tea. He's fine with this; it makes finding people who care all the more special.
He pushes his glasses up, re-adjusting the pen in his grip and dipping it into the glass inkwell at the front of his desk. The metal nib gives nicely against the creamy parchment as he resumes writing.
"I hope you'll find my continued correspondence endearing, rather than trying. One can only hope that my use of the slower, more traditional form of communication will showcase my sincere and earnest sentiment that I greatly enjoyed our time together. I write this hastily under the warm embrace of excitement, fearful that I may misstep and speak toward something unwelcome."
It's the niggling of doubt at the forefront of Damien's mind that necessitates this introduction. It's like insurance— insurance for what? For the off-chance that his new friend may find the suggestion of exchanging letters distasteful if Damien made too enthusiastic a plea? Well, yes. As much as one favors physical correspondence, one cannot expect others to respond in kind. There are acquaintances and neighbors Damien can only communicate with online, though he types in the same manner as he writes— at length and with honesty.
Unlike pixels on a screen, pen and ink carry weight: they are essential for this letter.
"For now I hope that you might forgive my boldness— I will simply say that your company has greatly occupied my thoughts."
Damien stops to let the ink dry. It's so he won't smudge the letters, of course— definitely not because he's nervous. Perhaps it is too forward to lay his hope out so plainly, but it is important to let his feelings be known. There should be no room for ambiguity: Damien's new friend has already bolstered him in more ways than one, first by expressing admiration of his home and then of his parenting.
"While the afternoon may have been derailed by forces unforeseen, your companionship helped a great deal; not only in the discipline of my child but in the morale of my spirit. And for that, I thank you."
Their association hasn't even passed a fortnight, and yet there is a comfort in it Damien can only describe as candid. It normally takes much longer for such a relationship to develop, and certainly not after being called to discipline Lucien for attempting to Cask of Amontillado a mutual friend's son. It was embarrassing to some extent, but the day ended favorably.
Worrying teeth at his lip, Damien pauses yet again. Upon reflection, deeming a movie and a picnic appropriate for a second meeting could be a mistake. Movies and picnics are generally considered… romantic.
Rationally, the prospect of a date is alarming. Dates are loaded with intention, and it's so easy for assumptions and misunderstandings to arise. It's been awhile since Damien has considered dating— raising a child, having a full time job, and making home improvements have occupied his time for so long. No, this is not a date— but the back of his mind protests that it is one in everything but name. To Damien's surprise, he's okay with that.
Nevertheless, a picnic is too romantic. It may be best to downplay it.
"That said, if you'll allow me, it would mean the world to me if I could enjoy more of your time. Perhaps a trip to the cinema followed by-"
But what to substitute for a picnic? It would be a meal, but surely "dinner" is even more intimate an act, in terms of courtship. It can be a walk. Yes, a walk. Hopefully, his cloak will hide the basket enough not to rouse suspicion or discomfort.
"- a moonlit stroll would be to your taste."
For a moment, Damien considers scrapping the letter entirely. It seems his words are leaping ahead of him today. Instead of making the outing sound casual, a moonlit stroll sounds even more charged than a simple picnic.
Perhaps his wording isn't as romantic as it may seem on first glance. That the moon will be out that night is nothing but fact. And they would stroll, if Damien's plans of introducing his new neighbor to the Maple Bay cemetery go smoothly. It's really quite a lovely place, though others may have misgivings due to it, well, being a cemetery. No, there's no need to discard the letter and write all over again. Lord knows he's already wasted three pieces of parchment prior to this draft.
Finish strong, Damien, he thinks as he re-wets his nib. This letter needs an adequate conclusion— one that conveys the alacrity with which its writer has written with and that prompts its reader to act.
"I eagerly await your response."
Perfect. All that's left to do is to— Damien sucks in a breath, moving his pen to the paper towels he's placed next to his letter just as a fat droplet of ink rolls off the tip and falls, just inches from his parchment. That was far too close for comfort— he forgets to wipe excess ink off on the rim of the inkwell at times, and one splatter would ruin his good penmanship. He readies the pen again.
"With great respect,
D. Bloodmarch."
His signature is the easiest part to write, and he does so with a flourish; a little bit of ink is pooling in the lines, so Damien takes his blotter and rocks it back and forth to soak it away.
It had been an ordeal to write this letter, but the deed is done. The black ink dries after several minutes, and the letter is carefully folded over itself to be wax sealed and stamped.
It is with much anticipation that Damien approaches the newly inhabited ranch style home across the cul-de-sac and drops the letter through its front mail slot. It is the right house, isn't it? Well, yes— Damien has checked and checked again, even asking Joseph (who had been mowing the lawn) to confirm it. It's almost ridiculous to get so flustered delivering a simple letter, but not unwarranted. After all, it's with impulsiveness that the letter made its way through that door at all. Damien could rewrite this letter a hundred times and remain doubtful of its reception.
It's with some surprise that, later that day, he discovers a single letter at the foot of his front door in the foyer— written on printer paper, but endearingly wax sealed with a little cat stamped into it.
No one seals their replies with wax the way Damien does. Lick-and-seal envelopes are fine, but there is special effort involved in sealing a letter with wax. Just looking at this detail brings a smile to his face.
The letter itself is charming, and Damien races to his desk to respond.
His heart may have dropped slightly at the choice of a scary movie, but he will readily endure the horrors of cinematic vampires and blood to bring this budding friendship to bloom.