Work Text:
Dear Joseph,
I hope you’re in good health. I’m safe, or as safe as I can be. I cannot say where we are newly stationed, only that our boots are no less muddy than they were a fortnight ago. On the way here I met a young woman, who called herself Elise and said she knew Booker from running correspondence to his paper office. She told me he was in good health, or at least not drinking himself to death, and I don’t know if she was tipsy herself when we met but she spoke of him with such fondness that I think she’s half in love with the man. She said, and I quote, that he is far, far too irresistible for a time of such résistance. I wish we were all together so you could tease him about it.
I pity the fool who falls half in love with you, Joseph. I know there is someone, or at least I like to think so because the thought amuses me, who has gone quietly mad about you. Someone who stands by your side in silent infatuation, because you are kind and enigmatic, and so very easy to grow fond of.
Yes, I pity the fool who falls in love with you. The fool who longs to keep a photograph of you in their wallet. The fool who wants to be in a photograph with you, so that in some small way they can always be next to you. The fool who writes you letters, and won’t give them to you but will imagine that if they did you might tuck one into the breast pocket of your uniform, so in some small way they might always be close to your heart.
I pity the fool who admires how you try to keep everyone fed and dry and in good spirits, even those you don’t particularly like. The fool who dreams of you as you stay up for nights on end, figuring out how to keep on living, not just surviving. I pity the fool who lends a secret ear as you sing under your breath, or as you tell stories and quote poetry, and who listens captivated when you recite the Qur’an. It’s a book whose words are meant to be spoken aloud, and you are a man made to speak them. You embody their meaning, you truly understand it all, and I pity the fool who prays that they might have been made just to listen to you.
I pity the fool who longs to be led by you. Joseph, you dance like you never had to learn. You dance like you invented every foot change, every rise and fall and dip and spin. I pity the fool who asks you to teach them to dance under the guise of impressing someone else, who makes mistakes on purpose so you might linger and correct them, who glances away so you might tell them to look back at you, who steps on your toes with their toes. I pity the fool who wants you to teach them to lead just as well, with the same kindness and patience and forgiveness. The fool who through some kind of osmosis wants to share your sense of justice, or your sense of humour, your self-assured nature and your steady hands.
I pity the fool who examines your drawings, a glimpse of how you see the world. The fool who longs to be drawn by you, to see how you see them, or simply to have your attentive gaze for a short time. The fool who craves your full attention so badly it hurts, so badly they imagine they will feel drunk with it when they get it. I pity the fool who sees how you take your time with things that are beautiful, who hopes you might take your time with them just the same.
I pity the fool who feels weak when you smile, or when you laugh, who forgets what to do with themselves as they watch you comb your beard in the reflective surface of a window. I pity the fool who wishes they were more like some of the men around them, abrasive and bitter, grown cold from watching the world unfold in every terrible way it can. The fool who wants to be like a man who has never loved anybody, who sees the world in black and white, give and take, desire and apathy. A man who doesn’t crave the clarity of being understood, who is seemingly incapable of being lovesick. I pity the fool to who's lovesickness you are both the cause and the cure.
I pity the fool who misses you when you are asleep, and the fool who can’t sleep for thinking about you. The fool who stays awake and imagines you lying with them, tracing the space next to them with their fingers like they can wish you into existing by their side. The fool who sleeps flat on their bedroll with their rucksack pressed against their back to mimic your body. The fool who reaches for you when they wake up and don’t yet remember where they are.
I pity the fool who wants to wake up next to you. Who wants to watch you get dressed in the morning, wants to watch your back disappear under your shirt, your fingers as you button up your trousers, the curve of your neck as you sit on the edge of the bed and put your socks on. I pity the fool who would like to get used to waking up next to you every day until the novelty wears off and bleeds into something old and familiar and safe.
I pity the fool who admires your hands, for everything they make and unmake, for the grace you have when you tie your shoelaces or snap your fingers or dismantle a rifle. The fool who touches themselves and imagines their hands are yours, and that maybe the places on their palms that are worn and callous match the places on your palms. The fool who in such an unsteady world craves solace and pleasure in your steady hands. They will come to understand what it means to be insatiable, hopelessly so.
I pity the fool who wants to kiss you, even when you are covered in mud and another man's war and ruin, even when you have not cleaned your teeth. I pity the fool who wants to kiss the inside of your elbow. I don’t know why but I can’t stop thinking about doing exactly that.
I pity the fool who is glad to have been able to stand in your sunlight for even a few short years. The fool who will sigh when you sigh as you talk of home, of your family and the food we will eat and how merry we will be when we’re reunited. The fool who wishes you would take them with you when this is over. I pity the fool who can only hope you will both still be here when this is over, who can only hope and doesn’t have the security of knowing. My love, I wish we had the security of knowing.
I pity the fool who imagines the space between you both, across a room or a field or a sea, and feels sick with longing. I pity the fool who wants to reach a point where they have been by your side for longer than you have been apart. I pity the fool for who time feels infinite whenever you are around. There is no such thing as enough time with you.
And I know I shouldn’t indulge in such self-pity, Yusuf, but I do. I cannot help it.
I miss you. I cannot help being a fool for you.
Maybe I imagine this mystery person, this admirer of yours, because I wish to be less alone in my foolishness. It’s less all-consuming to imagine someone else feeling what I feel, so for a moment I don’t have to bear it all myself. Maybe I’m just somewhat jealous that it’s not me who is by your side right now, standing in your sunlight.
I understand that recently your letters have been short for reasons you are not allowed to write about, and that's okay. I almost wish it was the same for me. The past few weeks we have had nothing but time and nothing to spend it on. Owen continues to be right, most of the time nothing happens. I’m sure that when something does eventually, inevitably happen and we must get back to work, that I will remember writing this and call myself a fool for wishing it so.
I’ve written the word “fool” so many times it no longer looks like a word. I’ve written this letter dozens of times over to get it right and I still don’t know how to end it.
I'm no good with endings, and neither are you. We're a pair, aren't we?
I want you to know that I love you, and that I think of you often, and that I know you love me, too. I want you to know that we are never really alone, Yusuf, even when we are lonely.
I hope this made you smile. I love you.
Yours foolishly,
Nicky