Work Text:
My dearest darling,
I’m struggling with this letter.
Which is deeply ironic—God knows that every word I’ve ever written has been for you. I have spent almost more hours scribbling down my love for you—in pretty poetry, in music, in scrawls on the notes we used to pass during class—than I have spent cherishing your presence, I have used almost more ink in un-answered questioning the justification of your suffering than you have spilled blood undergoing said pain. I have books flooding with your name, though rarely literally; never your Christian name, only occasionally the one you chose, most of the time, simply everything you are.
Because you are so much, my love. You are the sound of laughter and the taste of summer, the brightness of a clear blue sky; you are every color of flower, and twice as beautiful as all of them put together, you are an embrace, you are the fire of the candle I write at, the hearth keeping us warm, the flame inside of me—darling, you are the sun. The simple truth is that without you, my life would become winter and night, and I would wither, crumble, and die. A less simple truth is how sometimes it’s tough to live with you too. Sometimes, your warmth is unbearable, and sometimes, you are simply too bright to look directly at. You bring the summer, so who am I to blame all those who fall for your light? Who am I to blame, in our dreary England weather, the lovers of the sun? But I do. I do because in certain ways, they come closer to you than I can, perhaps than I ever will be able to. I pretend not to feel the shadows they cast, the cold your absence brings me.
In other ways, no one will ever be as close to you as I am. I know this. Even if you are one day to be married and fall in love, they would not know you as I do. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for that, or if I pity the rest of the world. Because I know they appreciate your beauty, and your charm, and, God knows, as do I—but there is so much more to you than that. Will they ever know the sight and sound of your laugh—your real, uncomposed, unabashed one? Will they ever get to see the petulant pout you do, when your wit and charm does not get you what you want? (I have known you since childhood, and though not entirely, I am more resistant against your knee-weakening smiles, though not by much.) Will they ever feel you take their hand and squeeze it, to soothe you when you’re stressed or nervous? Will they see your intelligence, your kindness, your generosity?
Do you see it?
There is one thing I do not wish upon them, and it is to see your pain. Not because I think it is something you should hide, although you do, and I cannot blame you for it—but because I am not certain they would treat your scars and soft spots with enough care. It breaks my heart, thinking of that. It breaks my heart more when I doubt I am capable of the gentleness and love that you deserve.
And by now I have filled a sheet of paper, back and front, yet not said a single thing I intended to say.
There is no denying that I am drawing it out. Even alone by candlelight, it is a terrifying thing to put out in the world, although I have—not just in poetry, that I hide beneath my bed, but in every smile I send your way, with every breath I take, I know it is the undeniable truth, as much a part of me as my very beating heart.
Monty, darling, I am in love with you.
I almost wrote ‘I think that’ but that would be a lie, because I am sure. I have had years to fall for you, years to realize my predicament, and years to question and every time confirm it. I have pondered the very nature of love, in all its curious shapes and forms, its existence, its meaning. I have twisted and turned this terrifying concept in my head and tried to make sense of it. And I suppose it does—make sense. You have always been the most important person in my life. No one puts me at ease or infuriates me or makes me laugh like you do. It is but a logical evolution, though not the most un-complicated one. They tell us that these things—like my attraction to you—are unnatural and a sin. This too I have considered. But you love other men too, don’t you, my darling?—not me, though, not me—and though you have been told otherwise, by hard words and harder blows, I know that you are good. So I don’t think there is anything wrong with either of us that way.
I have considered whether I love you like a friend, or a family member. This thing I feel for you compares to nothing I feel for any of those—though I must admit I have little basis for comparison—neither in meaning, longevity, or strength. So the only conclusion I can draw is that it must be love, whole and true.
I love you, my darling, I love you like the stars love the night sky, I love you like in the stories, I love you like a flower loves the sun.
It’s a relief to get those words out.
I wish I had the courage to tell you all this in person, but I have never been particularly brave. Not brave enough to cast others’ judgment of me aside, nor to walk up to your house and give your father the punch to the nose he so direly deserves, nor to face the chance of a potential rejection. (Perhaps, not even brave enough to hear my feelings are requited, and the uncertainty that would come with such a confirmation.) You are a bright burning star, darling, and I am scared of coming too close and scorching my wings, and losing my only chance at freedom.
I cannot stay any longer. I wish I could still explain but I have wasted too much time on sentimentality, and if I wait much longer, I know that I will lose my nerve. But know that I would not leave you if I felt as though I had any other option. Time has run out for me, my love, our eternity together has come to an end. Please do not hate me. I think it would kill me.
Monty—you are so much better than you think you are. So much braver and stronger and smarter, so much more valuable. You are worth ten lifetimes over. I know you’re afraid of the future, but I know you will make it. You are tough and brilliant and magnificent. And if you ever feel yourself burning out and choked away, and if you are ever willing to make the leap… if you so desire, I shall be waiting for you.
Forever yours,
Percy.