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It was as if something, like a fire, sparked inside of Henry’s very soul. So he began writing. He picked up his white feathered quill, and dipped it into the void of blank ink, letting it drip down the tip a few times. Drip, drop, drip drop; just like the anxiety pooling within his heart. Henry exhaled shakily and began to write by the dim lit moonlight and the ever so slight glimmering of the flickering, ivory candle. And so, Henry began to write.
Dear Randall,
Quite unexpectedly, I have decided to write you. For through my stumbling mouth, these are words I could never convey. So here I am with the moon and stars as my accomplices, the only witnesses to what I am writing now, aside from myself.
The words flowed out of Henry effortlessly, as if it were a natural function, just like one might take a breath without thinking. Yet at the moment, it seemed easier to write than breathe to him, and he could feel his hands clammy, their grip slipping. Yet he continued to write, the ink flowing ingraining itself on the paper in loops and swirls that were embedded with his love.
I have come to surmise that through years of waiting, perhaps now is the right time to let my feelings come forward, the truth being revealed like snow melting on the first bud of spring. For my dearest Randall, the love, for you, flows passionately like two enemies entrapped in an everlasting battle of bloodlust. My heart beats out louder for you than any symphony could, and you invade my thoughts in my every waking moment. I feel now that perhaps the risk of telling you how I feel outweighs the negatives--For a world in which we cannot be together is truly Hell instead. So, I am pouring out my heart to you as if this ink were my very own blood, swearing a sacred oath to dedicate myself to you, as I always have for many years. My heart is in your hands, Randall.
Henry let out a shaky, exasperated sigh of anxiety and relief, thus he signed off the letter with his own name, and somehow, despite writing it the same as the rest of his letter, seeing his name felt bland. As if it were a blotch on the paper, tainting it. Henry felt an itch at his hips, and gently placed the quill away, and left the letter out in the open, for the ink was not dry yet. Licking the tips of his fingers, he extinguished the candle, letting himself feel the slight shock of pain from the heat jolt through him; it didn’t last for long, however.
Standing up, his mind was hazy with the many sleepless hours he had been awake, and he opened his window and made a dull mental note. Clean windows in the morning, he thought. Another methodical task in the seeming loop of days he had always stuck to living in. Yet somehow, each little task he did seemed to distract him from reality; they ripped him away from it, and let his mind wander onto fantasies of what life could be, but never would be. He romanticized these tasks in his lovestruck mind of his, yet if anything, they were detrimental. Day after day, Henry prioritized chores around the house and his work as mayor far above anything else (except Randall). His health was, well, not in tip top shape because of it. Yet in his mind, he had to work day and night, just so he could be enough to be allowed a life on this earth. And so, with a sigh, Henry plopped down on his bed. He planned to wait a bit before he gently folded the crisp papers into a wax sealed envelope, to go with one of many, many letters stashed away, as if they were trinkets hidden by an animal. Henry’s eyes closed, and here it was in the cold of the night, that he fell asleep.
--
A sprawled out mess on his previously neatly made bed, Henry jolted up, breathing heavily as if something terrible had occurred. His body exhausted, yet the gears in his mind already grinding, he scanned the room; something was amiss. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something; Henry’s door was swinging in the sunlight that was filtering in. Someone had just been in here. Henry practically fell out of his bed, urgently trying to get to his desk, and it was there that he saw it, or rather, an absence of it; his letter was missing.
Mentally cursing to himself, Henry ran about the room, searching every nook and cranny for that cursed letter, and it was nowhere to be seen. That damned letter; it was gone. And somebody had taken it. His whole body cowering in fear, Henry knew; Randall was the one who had taken it, right from under his nose. God, Henry was an idiot! If only he hadn’t slept--Then everything would be alright, and he wouldn’t be in this situation. Henry’s whole face was flushed, and he was panting from the stress and strain from frantically searching his room. Sometimes Henry swore he would murder that terrible man one day; that terrible, good for nothing, handsome, attractive, promiscuous man.
Storming out of his room, Henry went to go search for Randall, that bastard.
--
“Angela!” Randall called out from across the kitchen, a playful tone laced within his voice. “C’mere, c’mere, look at what I found on Henry’s desk--I haven’t read it yet, mind you. I was saving it for the two of us!”Randall chuckled mischievously. Whatever what was written on the paper clutched in his hands, it was clearly addressed to him. So, in his morning burst of energy, when he saw it laying in the wide open when he went to go wake up Henry, he thought of it to be his job to take the letter and read it before Henry delivered it.
Groaning, Angela turned around from her coffee, slamming it down on the counter, the coffee rippling in the cup, as if to attempt to communicate to Randall’s hyperactive mind that yes, she was pissed at his energetic behaviour this early.
“What is it, Randall? It’s like--Whatever o’clock in the bloody morning--!”she growled. But her expression changed when he say Randall eagerly waving a piece of paper in his hand, one with writing, at that. Angela reached to grab her pale pink mug, took a sip of her coffee, before continuing to speak. “What’s that? Like--A bill or something? Fan mail?” She pondered to herself if Randall was well-known enough to even get fan mail; the answer was yes, he was--But mostly from a certain secret admirer, with a terrible beard. As Randall bounced on his feet, he smiled slyly, a devious look crossing his face.
“Actually,” he smirked.“Yes, I suppose it is fan mail. Though I haven’t read it.”
“Wait, really? I was only kidding--Besides, how’d you get that? The mail’s not even been delivered yet.”
“I got it from a little bird. And that bird happened to be my hands, which happened to take this letter from Henry’s desk!”
Angela groaned, but when she heard it was from Henry, that’s when she felt an odd sense of--Protectiveness, maybe. She couldn’t quite pin down what the feeling was. But if there was anything Angela knew, it was that Henry was a hopeless, hopeless romantic who was desperately in love with Randall. And if that cursively written letter was what she thought it was, this was not going to go well. Randall was more impaired in literature than Henry was in the arts of a good sleep schedule. Angela felt the words rise in her throat to object, but before she could even utter a word, Randall cleared his throat loudly, before beginning to recite the letter in his best impression of Henry.
As Randall read the letter out loud, he stroked a fake beard and put on his best posh accent he could. Angela could feel herself groaning internally and externally at Randall’s pointless comments and drivel as he read, and at his, well, surprisingly accurate impression. But it wasn’t until about halfway through the letter that she felt her heart skip a beat for not herself, but Henry. Dear Lord, this wasn’t going to go well.
Randall, God bless the idiot, was so desperately in love with Henry, but didn’t even know it. And on top of it, he was so moronic as to not even realize the paper held in his calloused hands was a love letter. Somehow, in his mind, he thought he had figured out the whole thing. Randall was sure of it; this letter was a declaration of hate, and Henry secretly wanted him dead. To him, it was as if he had solved the puzzle of why Henry acted so strangely towards him. It all made sense; I mean, who wouldn’t hate the rich kid they were forced to work under for years? But to Randall--It was heartbreaking. And the poor, emotionally inexperienced fool, couldn’t process how to react to that.
“Angela,” Randall started, his voice cracking a bit, like the burning of a campfire.
“W--What in Hell does Henry mean that, ‘the love for you flows passionately like two enemies entrapped in an everlasting battle of bloodlust,’?!” He felt his whole body seethe with anger; Henry--wasn’t he his best friend? So why...Why would he write a letter like this?
Angela took a deep breath, folding her legs up atop the chair, holding her mug in her hand. “You--He’s...He’s saying that, well,” she felt her hands grow clammy in nervousness, and perhaps, second hand embarrassment, yet overall, well, she was just tired. “You know what? You can figure it out, you idiot.”
Randall felt his hands trembling, in what felt like a weird amalgamation of seething anger, fear, and something that he couldn’t identify. “He--He said I was his enemy!” Randall shouted. “He hates me..! Why--Why had he been hiding this?!”
--
Henry had to have come in at the worst time. He saw Randall, clearly upset, clenching what he assumed to be the letter he spent his dear time writing, and an Angela who was just...Well, not so eloquently put, just grumpy and cranky to even be awake. Yet, somehow, it hadn’t processed in Henry’s mind to modify his behaviour to accommodate the tense atmosphere seeping into every corner of the room. “You--!” Henry raised his voice, his face burning red, his hand pointing accusingly at Randall. “Give me back my damned letter..!”
Angela took this as her God given cue to leave. Wrapping her pearl robe more tightly around her, she grabbed her coffee mug, and exited the room without a word. Whatever was going to happen, it was not any shit she wanted to deal with.
--
Henry was shell-shocked as he was listening acutely to what Randall was practically sobbing about, seething with, what seemed to him and Henry, unbridled rage and red hot anger, yet it was not quite that. It was heartbreak; heartbreak for both of them. To hear the one they so dearly loved hated them, seemed like an eternal punishment, carried out only by the cruel mistress that is Fate herself. But they were both wrong; both lovestruck, foolish idiots were wrong. For in their fate it was written that the everlasting red thread would connect them; metaphorically or not. So as they stood there, mere feet apart, yet what felt like arduous miles, Henry spoke up, enunciating the words laced, poisoned practically, with an existential dread, bleeding out with anxiety.
“It’s a love letter,” he interjected through Randall’s tirade. It was as if pure courage had been injected into the very veins that pumped the blood to Henry’s wounded heart. And at this, Randall’s empty vitriol of himself and Henry stopped.
“What?”
Henry took a deep breath, feeling as if his lungs exhaled the very tension that was weaved into the room.
“It’s a love letter, Randall.”
It was at this, that Randall finally clearly saw it; he got the puzzle wrong. Cor Blimey, he got the puzzle wrong. He got everything wrong; he even interpreted his own very mind wrong. Randall’s legs gave out, as if the weight of this eternal paradox that had plagued his mind had finally been relieved, so he plopped to the floor, chuckling, laughing, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It finally made sense; all of it.
Henry Ledore was in love with Randall Ascot.
And Randall Ascot was in love with Henry Ledore.
The tears poured out of Randall’s tired face now; not from anger, not from heartbreak, but from relief. From love. And as Henry witnessed Randall dissolving into laughter, the tears pooling on his face like honey dribbling down, it felt like the courage, the valor, seeped out of him. Perhaps, it had not been bravery on Henry’s part; perhaps it had been pure recklessness and foolhardiness.
It was then that the anxiety, the dread and trepidation that had been like a storm inside of himself all along, began to rise back up, like a dreaded tempest plaguing the seas of Henry’s mind. Clutching onto the fabric of his shirt that lay between him and his heart, Henry’s voice croaked, pleading almost for an intangible concept that neither he nor Randall could grasp.
“W-Why are you crying? I--God, I should have stayed silent, I should have just shut up, I--” Henry whined, his voice halting at a stop; an invisible obstacle of his own anxieties, blocking his voice from even uttering a single more word. Each sound of Randall’s laughter invading his ears felt like a cut on his very own skin, yet somehow, it was infectious.
Beginning to laugh his own broken laugh, tears began to glisten down Henry’s trembling lips. With this, the laughter only erupted even more from Randall’s chest. “I’m--It’s because I’m an idiot, Henry!” Randall continued to split his sides, though the tears still fell, staining his shirt as if to leave a mark, saying that something, an epiphany, perhaps, had occurred within the densities of Randall’s mind.
“Oh, for fuck sake, Henry, I’m in love with you!” The uncontrollable giggling on Randall’s part seemed to begin to grow more gentle, less hysterical, though his lips still quivered.
Henry’s twisted laughter of self-pity faltered in that moment. He could only manage to have one word spill out from his mouth that had been dried by his qualms.
“Pardon?”
Randall giggled, uncouthly wiping his tears and snot on his sleeves. “Oh, sorry, I forgot you don’t speak commoner, which is rather ironic, I must add, considering that I once was richer than you. Henry,” Randall teased, extolling. “Henry Ledore, I, Randall Ascot, find myself in a state of disarray when thinking of you, for in my own mind, and in my heart, it would seem clear as day that I have fallen in love with you, just as you have with me.”
Henry blinked imperturbably. To him, the only thing clear as day was Randall’s insatiable, cheeky manner had resurfaced. Randall stood up in a way that seemed brazen, and placed his hands on Henry’s gaunt shoulders, gently shaking him. “Hellooo, Earth to Henry?” he chuckled warmly, and tucked Henry’s hair behind his ear.
“You’re so silly, Henry Ledore.”
And thus, Randall leaned in for a kiss.