Work Text:
"I know writing a letter is cowardly of me, but God knows I'll never have the courage to say any of this to you in person.
I'm sure my teammates think me twisted for looking forward to matches now. At first, I really was scared… but now, I only find myself hoping it's you behind that curtain. Does that make me a masochist? Ha, maybe so. If I'm going to be beaten to death, though, I know I'd rather you be the one doing it.
…Now, that really does sound bad, doesn't it…"
It was a strange letter, but the gist of it wasn't unlike ones Antonio had received before, in his previous life.
He'd always had fans, some more brazen than others, who would write to him or even confront him after a performance. Sometimes he would take them back to his little hovel of an apartment. Others, if he was feeling too tired, would be thrilled just to receive a kiss on the hand.
In any other circumstance, a letter like this wouldn't have him reacting in any significant way.
"...I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I'm not the best at expressing myself. I just wanted you to know that there's someone here who" — there were multiple frantically scribbled out phrases here — "feels very strongly about you. The way you carry yourself, your mannerisms, the moments of idle chatter exchanged in your rare friendly matches… I hold them all very close to my heart. Your music too, of course.
Again, I'm a coward, so I daren't sign this with my name. Please don't press Victor for my identity, for I fear I might die of embarrassment.
Yours,
Anon."
When he had first read the letter, his eyebrows had twitched in annoyance at that one line—the one about his "music, too". Too? Was his music only an afterthought?! It confused him, to say the least. One would expect this person to wax lyrical about his talent, about how they'd been mesmerised by his violin… and yet they seemed to care more about such trivial, inconsequential things as his mannerisms.
And then, it hit him with all the force of that godforsaken tram in Eversleeping Town.
The lack of focus on his music, which had offended him so deeply at first… it was something so alien to him, so strange, that it made the hollow cavern of his chest feel unnaturally warm upon further inspection. They didn't just admire him for his talent, for his reputation—nor did they fear him for it. This person, this survivor, cared not about what he could do, but for who he was.
As instructed, he hadn't pressed the Postman for the sender's identity. After a few days, though, he did confront him in a match, a newly-penned return letter in hand.
"First of all, I must apologise for my handwriting," it said. "I used to use a scribe sometimes, but the manor affords me no such mercies.
Your letter infuriated me at first, I'll have you know. Leaving such a great musician's talent as an afterthought, really! For a moment, I was sure you were mocking me… but I see now that that was not your intention.
I am very curious as to what exactly you like about me, though. If you are a survivor, then what can you possibly see in me beyond a fearsome monster? Perhaps you are a masochist. (Not that I would mind if you were.)
Are you sure you won't tell me who you are? I have no intention of being cruel. My poor face may be permanently fixed in this smile, but your letter made it feel somewhat genuine for once.
Regards,
Antonio."
For a few days, he received no response. In the meantime, he found himself feeling more hesitant in matches—whether this person was excited to see him or not, it didn't feel right knowing he might be attacking someone who harboured such feelings for him.
In the end, he wound up going friendly more often than not. He would stand in the middle of the map, throw down an audience of peepers, and play until someone had the courage to approach him. Some would then forget about decoding entirely, enjoying the rare moment of friendly chatter with their aggressor, while others continued to toil away in the distance.
There was always one survivor, though, who stood out to him.
They would approach cautiously, but never get too close, as if they couldn't trust him—understandable, really—and when he spoke to them, their eyes would go wide as saucers, and they'd stammer out a short response before making some excuse and scarpering.
He knew it must be difficult for the survivors to trust him under the circumstances, so he never pressed the matter. The most he did was cheekily ruffle their hair once… at which they froze up completely like a possum playing dead. He'd laughed, but it was a little cute, if he was being honest.
Unfortunately, with his win rate now tanking, Antonio knew he had to do something about it lest he face the manor's wrath. After a long losing streak with no return letter or face-to-face confession in sight, he finally sucked it up and decided to play for real again.
Two ciphers complete. One survivor—the Prisoner, unfortunate as he was—had been chaired at five ciphers, his timer still counting ever closer to his doom.
Even if he wasn't friendly, Antonio still couldn't find it in himself to really give it his all. Instead of throwing down a peeper and leaving, he camped the chair, chatting away rather amicably with a seemingly unbothered Luca Balsa.
He'd been just about to talk about an opera singer he'd been acquainted with back in the day, much to Luca's awe, when his ears started to ring sharply.
Ah, he thought. Tinnitus.
A survivor was nearby, on the way to attempt a last-minute rescue.
He turned away from the chair, on guard… only to see a bright red silhouette waiting behind the nearest wall.
Well. That makes things a lot easier.
He'd been so engrossed in his conversation that he'd forgotten entirely that Wanted Order should be in effect… and without him even noticing, this survivor had presented themselves, ripe for the slaughter.
But then… what were they doing?
His first assumption had been that they were waiting for the right moment to rescue, but upon closer inspection, they seemed to be… holding something out? An item, most likely. Either way, Antonio now knew that there were likely two survivors there rather than one. A double rescue at such a critical point… they were either exceptionally brave or exceptionally foolish.
He drew back his bow, then unleashed a line of his his string music out towards the pair, perfectly intercepting them both. The highlighted survivor broke into a dash in the opposite direction, while the other bolted towards the chair in a last-ditch rescue attempt.
The Postman. Grantz deftly duked one of Antonio's swings, darted past him to the chair, and whipped the ropes off Balsa, freeing him. Balsa fled with a wave… but Grantz, rather than running, stayed put.
Antonio, who had been ready to raise his bow again, paused.
Could it be…?
The Postman smiled sheepishly as he took out a notepad, scribbling out a message before holding it out for Antonio... along with a slightly muddied cream envelope.
"Sorry it's a little dirty. I dropped it when you struck me before," Grantz had written.
If he had a heart—and he wasn't entirely sure if he still did or not—it would be pounding. Antonio resisted the urge to tear open the envelope, the match all but forgotten.
"Dear Antonio,
I've been trying to think of an eloquent response for the longest time, but as I think I said, I'm not the best with words. Suffice to say that your response made me ever so happy… thank you.
I found your handwriting perfectly legible, but I'm sorry you haven't been offered a scribe. It must be incredibly vexing. If I had the courage to come forward, I would gladly help you… though if you ask Victor, I'm sure he would help too. I owe him so much, so I really shouldn't be offering up his services without permission, but I doubt he would mind it.
As for 'why'... that's exactly the part I've been struggling with for so long. Though please don't get me wrong—it's not because I can't think of anything, but because what I love is all of you, together, all at once, so picking out little things and listing them might just run me right out of ink.
I wish I could say something ever so romantic and poetic, but I can't. All I know is that when I see your silhouette in a match, my heart races, and my palms get so sweaty I botch cipher calibrations and shock myself constantly… I heard that in French, to fall in love at first sight is a "coup de foudre", to be struck by lightning. Does a failed calibration count as lightning?
…See, I told you I'm awful at this.
I also have a terrible confession to make: I do not know the first thing about music.
Is that too offensive of me? If you think me uncultured, you're probably right. I realise that telling you this might make you want my head, but… while I find your music beautiful, I wouldn't know the first thing about whether it is objectively 'good', were it not for your name preceding you. It makes me feel such a strange sense of longing, as if I'm suffocating but my nails are clawing at the door to freedom… but does that make it 'good'? I don't know. Perhaps I should ask Luca, he plays the piano.
(I'm definitely rambling here. I'm sorry.)
With regards to your comment about your appearance, though: once, I definitely thought of all hunters as "fearsome monsters". It was natural, given the circumstances. But after a few games, I also came to realise they're as human as I am… they all have little things that make them unique.
I'm so fond of the way you hum while wandering the map, for instance. And—this is very specific, so I'm sorry if this seems strange—I always find myself studying your hands. They're lovely hands, you know? Though I don't know anything about music itself, I always get a little thrill when you play with them rather than your hair. It's such a rare sight, I find myself thinking 'oh! His hands, he's playing with his hands!!', like a… what did Lucky call it? An 'otaku'? I think it was that.
Of course, I'm aware that you are also seven feet tall with prehensile hair. If anything, though, that only appeals to me more… Lucky also had a phrase for that, but it's rather uncouth, so I won't repeat it here.
I think I'll stop here, lest I embarrass myself any further.
Thank you again for writing to me… I treasure your letter. I hope you don't end up wanting to track me down and bleed me out after reading this.
Yours,
Anon."
…Strangely, Antonio was not offended in the slightest.
In fact, he was practically glowing.
It was crude, yes, but such a candid response—even with regards to his music—made his hair curl with delight. For the first time in God knows how long, he felt giddy . When was the last time someone confessed their love to him (and it was love, they really had said love !) without citing his music as the driving force…?
Laughing in sheer disbelief and excitement, Antonio found himself raising his arms, the rush of endorphins metamorphosing into a quick, staccato tune on his violin.
And then, he heard it. The wail of a siren, as the cipher machine nearby flared to life, lighting the area in a sickly yellow.
Resolution to play properly be damned, Antonio couldn't find it in himself to care! He read through the letter again and again, looking for some clue as to the author's identity. They seemed a little awkward, quite shy… Honestly, there weren't many survivors he could imagine being the author.
Carl, perhaps? He might fit the bill, but then Antonio was certain he'd seen him tinkering away at the piano in White Sand. Kreiss? No, he would never be so polite… a confession from him would probably be half unbearable self-deprecation, half scathing insults. Certainly not.
He reeled off a list of potential candidates, coming up blank, until one more name crossed his mind… at the exact same moment he heard a nearby rustle of leaves.
He could see that Balsa, Grantz, and Mesmer had already left, leaving only…
Oh.
Oh.
All at once, it slotted together in his mind.
The silhouette offering something to Grantz… the awkwardness, their behaviour… it had to be. Surely, surely…!
The moment he stepped forward, he saw that same shadow flash away from him.
"Wait," he cried, "____, wait!"
They may have been fast, but he was faster. Desperate to get them to stop, he reached out, firmly grabbed their hand…
…but they did not stop.
Instead, they both heard a rough tearing sound, drawing them both to a halt.
The survivor stared downwards in horror, Antonio's hand still firmly grasping theirs… but decidedly not attached to Antonio himself.
Antonio swallowed, then laughed.
"... Apologies. I have a habit of coming apart at the seams sometimes."
They still said nothing, but made no effort to let go of his hand, their ruddy face downturned in embarrassment. Realising they weren't going to speak of their own accord anytime soon, Antonio sighed, taking a tentative step closer.
Thankfully, this time, they did not run.
"I take it it was you who wrote those letters, then."
They remained frozen, their grip on his disembodied hand tightening a fraction, as if it were some morbid sort of comfort blanket.
"...Please don't be afraid, caro. I take it you were watching me then?"
After a moment, they nodded almost imperceptibly, still not daring to look up.
"I see. Well, then… you claim not to know about music, but when I played just then, how did it sound to you?"
More near-deafening silence. And then, in the smallest, quivering voice:
"...Happy. It made me feel… happy."
"Yes," Antonio replied, taking another step forward. They were in reaching distance now, but he didn't dare risk startling them by coming any closer. "You felt as I did. Your letter made me feel… how do I say it? It made me feel… relief. After all this time, there is still someone who sees more in me than my reputation."
Anxiously biting their lip, they spoke up again, this time with just a smidge more confidence. "You weren't offended…?"
"Ha, not in the slightest!" he replied, raising his remaining hand to caress his violin. "One layperson understanding my work means more to me than a hundred toffs calling it good only because it's what they've been told."
While their head remained bowed, Antonio's grin twitched wider as he noticed a small smile pulling at their lips. "...I'm glad," they said. Then, all at once, they seemed to fully realise they were still holding onto Antonio's other hand—their eyes went wide as they hastily offered it back.
"Thank you," Antonio laughed, quickly reattaching it. "For a moment, I thought you were going to run off with it like Cinderella. I pictured myself going round the survivors' manor, looking for my arm so I could find you…"
To Antonio's delight, they burst into a fit of giggles at that. "I imagine the others would get quite a fright…"
"Quite," he smiled, daring to slowly reach out to them with a thick lock of his hair. To his relief, they didn't run away… instead, they squeezed their eyes shut but remained stock still as Antonio gently caressed their cheek with it. "But you don't mind me, do you? Seven feet tall, prehensile hair and all."
"Stop," they stammered, face flushing even redder than before. "Please don't remind me of the embarrassing things I wrote in those letters…!"
"You may think them embarrassing, but I adored them, tesorino. Every word. But speaking of, you'll have to tell me what that boy called yo—"
Antonio's eyebrows practically raised into his hairline as the survivor abruptly leaned in, pressing their soft lips to his cheek. He barely had time to react before they pulled back again with a squawk, bolted away from him, and jumped straight into the dungeon which had materialised nearby.
Oh well, Antonio thought, gently touching his cheek with a bashful chuckle, his own cheeks dusted pink.
It's a start.