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The once stable tip of his pen finds itself trembling across his paper - precious, for the manor has allotted him more than he’s seen in his lifetime. Writing is new to him, in comparison to his previous lifestyle. Nothing more than a postman. It helps him practice for the letters he now has the chance to write. He copies the elegant trace of a lover’s letters he had read long ago, the noble arches of a philosopher who had passed through town, and the timid grammar of the children's small envelopes, delivered only down the street. To this, Victor is nothing more than an impersonator, a mirror of every letter he had so selfishly read. He silently thanks those who have entrusted him - and he writes the following ‘e’ in the French curve he knows Vera adores.
This letter, to which he hopes no one's eyes ever graces, is still filled with everyone. Past and present letters allow his hand to glide through the words he finds impossible to say.
It starts with the name of his confidante - Aesop Carl. He supposes they are more than that, should the manor allow such a thing, but the words remain tight-lipped. In Victor’s case, it is impossible to be anything but. It does not stop his adoration from showing through; it comes easily, in the upturn of his eyes, or the tilt of his lips, the small way that his hands always find the edge of Aesop’s glove, or the way he soothes the man’s hair down near every morning they stay together. Victor has seen so much of Aesop - things he won’t be allowed to be shared, Victor’s own precious secret. It comes in the form of his maskless face, of his averted gaze instead of a dead eyed stare, and the fact Wick is no longer at his side. Instead, she’s found himself infatuated with the small bed in Aesop’s room, and the promise of a play date this afternoon.
No matter how calming he finds the memories of his lover, it does not make the words easier. Such thoughts are terribly distracting, rather than calming the quiver of his hand. He wishes Wick were here, curled in his lap and softly snoring. He wishes he wouldn’t have planned to write this letter today, of all days, when they had plans for the evening. His past self seems to know him well, two reminders set upon his calendar, foreboding but needing to be completed. This was a task. The hours were dwindling by, and he had little more than a sentence written upon his paper - the rest laid crumbled in the rubbish, dejected, similarly to how Victor was feeling.
He knows this shouldn’t be an issue. He knows Aesop will not mind. If he’s lucky, the man will offer him a simple blink, and move on about their night. Still, there is a chance: The way his face might upturn, his eyes resigning to the dull colour he saves for everyone other than Victor. Losing that spark, his velveteen love, would surely end him. Crumple what little hope he has left within the confines of the manor. Victor was enamoured with him. Each breath, every word. Their original letters still stay tucked gently into his desk, fully memorized. He hardly needs to see them to see Aesop’s traditional, yet tantalizing, writing. It is the possibility - the mere idea - that should he write this letter, should he send it, he may never see it again.
The letter has become longer in the minutes between his thinking,
“My dearest companion,
I often find solace between your hands, and yet, I cannot drive myself to seek them out. My voice, once more, fails me where I wish to speak - so desperately do I wish to come to you, to admit what ails me to your awaiting ear.
I find myself cowardly, Aesop. Stuck within my room, stuck within my head. I fear your cruel look, your judgment, for the withdrawal of those hands to which I crave so dangerously. My anxiety consumes me. Whispers upon my ears that I know are not you, nor me, nor the society I have found. For within this manor, is where such a revelation has finally been handed to me. Something I feel as if I’ve always known, yet, has been brought so suddenly to my eyes, I fear it. I fear what it means for myself, and for us. I fear the voices that say you shall leave me. They remind me of that man's voice - deep within my ear and impossible to ignore. He always reminds me of how good I am at keeping secrets, at keeping my mouth latched.
With these words, I am untethered. I am free. Yet, I find, not even here, may I relay what afflicts me. Aesop, dereworthy heart of mine, offer me the solace of your words as you once did.”
There’s a hesitance to send it once he completes it - to continue about his day, the letter tucked deep within his postal desk, never to be reviewed again. Fate, however, seems to be a tricky thing. The manor, even more so.
It comes in the form of a knock on the door, and a veiled manor servant requesting his letter. He sets it upon the golden tray, and with no emotional passing between either of them, he shuts the door. The time whittles away then, slow but surely, taking form into a figure he can’t yet see. Victor finds himself transfixed, ear pressed firmly against the door for what must be several minutes too long - his knees have begun to hurt, locked in place and standing for near a half hour. It is not until he hears the dainty step of the same manor servant, that he dares to step away. Still, he anxiously clings onto the door, throwing it open before she can even knock. Once more she portrays no emotion, and with a flat lip, she hands over a thinly penned letter.
Victor does not understand how he achieves it, those paper-thin lines. It’s as if he barely even graced the page at all, yet Victor understand what purpose he must put behind his lettering to achieve such.
“Victor,
What is it that ails you so? It has not been more than a quarter moon since we spoke, and yet you write with such grievance that I question what has occurred in those small hours?
I understand how the night hours trouble you, that sleep does not always offer you the kind of peace that it should. Has that horrid figure returned to stitch your mouth closed? Surely you must realize he is long gone - far from this place, from you, from us. Should he have ever appeared here either way, I would ensure he never touches a piece of you. It pains me to know you might fear me. Whether it be my rejection, or something worse, I do hope you know it is only a passing emotion. There is nothing you could do in this mortal plane that would ward me from your touch, my friend. I ache to see you, suddenly, and I can not imagine a world in which I could not.
Victor, shall you refuse to see me? I know not what ails you, but I shall listen intently, as I always do. Come the darkened hours, I shall smooth away any nary voice that dares to lead you astray.
My dear one, there is not a sentence you could write that would send me away.”
Victor hardly has time to realize that he’s running to his desk, a piece of paper and ink summoned to his hand, for his mind is spinning so fast. He can read it in the brushstroke: Aesop’s obvious stress, the way the lines italicize instead of standing tall. It’s been penned in a hurry.
“Please,
Do not assume I doubt your affections. It is me that I find myself doubting.
Who am I - what am I. Who could I have been, had I never accepted that man's offer. Would such frivolous ideas enter my head had I never come here? There have been things… mentioned to me. You know of Fiona, correct? Of how “she” is not quite a “she”, despite leaning into such a title? I am afraid my issue falls along the same path. I did not intend to speak in riddles… Yet this entire ordeal feels like nothing but such. As if a clue is missing, or perhaps, lays right under my nose.
This feeling. It is not something unprecedented - it is something I have debated it long before our initial meeting. I know we share affections, I know of what you address me as, and how you refer to me with others. All blissfully neutral.
I must ask you, Aesop, should you still love me if I was something other than what you perceive me as?”
The servant remained stationary outside his door, he realizes, once he springs it open. He feels rather guilty about leaving her waiting about, with Aesop’s door glaringly down the hall. It is not the only guilt that absorbs him, for when he glances towards that all too familiar door, he sees a speck of gray disappear behind it. Aesop is hiding from him - more than likely to be kind of Victor’s grievances, he knows, and still his stomach warbles. He doesn’t stay around to watch the woman knock upon his door, either.
A new letter is presented to him moments later, albeit there is a mild trace of irritation on the maids face this time; once more, he had not allowed her to knock in his rush.
“Do you understand the lengths I would go to guarantee your joy, Victor? I fear that I have not been attentive enough, for you to hesitate so heavily on this subject. Yet, I cannot blame you, my dear.
This change, you are admitting, is not one I shall judge you for. You will find no disgust among my features, nor judgment in my words. You mustn’t speak in riddles about such a topic, however. I do not wish to tread where my words are not wanted, or to fall upon old habits that should have been corrected. All this, I do to show you my devotion. Though we may not have a title, you will forever be my silent friend, Victor, and from the moment I laid my eyes upon you, I knew we shall never part.
Wick seems to miss you terribly, I as well - it seems neither of us can stand even a day apart. Would it trouble you to visit? I shall not push the matter… I know what has been written must be frightening for you, but there are secrets I must admit. Things I cannot show over paper.
I long for the look in your eye, for your gaze to be upon mine, ladybird.”
Victor debates it - to pen another letter at his table, or to exit the room and continue his aforementioned plans. He had agreed to visit Wick tonight. Still, he is filled with dread at this feeling. For Aesop to view him after what has been exchanged. Aesop knows now, understands exactly what he is implying.
His eyes trail upon the paper once more, curiosity sparking at the promise of a secret. Aesop knows how he adores them - and knows it will easily draw him from his room, despite his raging nerves. Heart palpitating in his chest, Victor eases out of the door. At the very least, he should not startle the poor maid on his way out; yet, to his surprise, she no longer waits beside the door, gold plate nowhere to be seen. How is it they always seem to know? Even if she had peered into the neatly folded paper, Victor might have stayed locked within his room.
Thinking of it no more, he awkwardly makes his way towards Aesop’s door. Wick must have heard him, in the way all dogs know their master’s footsteps, for she yips and yaps, and he can hear her poor claws rattling against the door. At a later time, Victor will have to apologize for the scratches.
Thankfully, Aesop does not open the door until Victor’s knuckles have rapped upon the wood - but he knows from the shadow gracing his shoes, Aesop had stood there as long as he did. They still walk around each other carefully, trying their best not to tread water, as if the ripples might scare away the other. As if they were no more than fish. Still, Victor understands Aesop’s gentle ways. Appreciates it. For the both of them, this was their first for near everything. The first time they had shared so many secrets to another, the first time they had seen another so fully. Aesop Carl was the only one who would ever understand - but he worried about the extent of such acceptance.
Should Victor whisper such words of admittance to his waiting ear, what should occur? All he knows is that it begins with a simple-
“Good evening,” He can feel the trepidation in Aesop’s voice, and watches the way his body stands too close to the door. Victor knows he wants to reach out, to touch, yet his hands fear it. Aesop hides it behind solid wood, begging for stability in something inanimate.
Victor cannot yet offer his hand, for he fears the man may hear his thundering heartbeat within the curve of his wrist, but he can fix his lapel, adjusting the pocket square as a wife might do when welcoming their husband home. If it bothers Aesop, he does not say. Eyes boring into his and hands now properly folded in front of him. There’s a tinge of sadness to have made him regress so far - to make him behave unnaturally. On the evening of their date, most of all, when he knows Aesop has abandoned his casual wear for his suit. He can sense it in his mood, in his disheveled appearance, the way his hair remains down, and his mask is abandoned. Victor had ruined their evening, he knows, and his eyes scathe upon the wooden floor, with disgust settling deep in his stomach.
When Victor turns into the room, Wick still jumping his ankles, Aesop follows.
They must both feel like scorned dogs, for now that Victor is sitting he can do little more than carry a remorseful emotion, and glance about anywhere but Aesop’s face. Aesop follows suit, placing himself awkwardly on the end of the bed - it, too, is wholly unmade. The blanket Victor adores, yellow and fluffy, stands protruding on Aesop’s grey sheets. In times like these, he wonders if the sight is good or not. Is Victor’s integration into his home a sign of love, or has he worked himself into a place he shouldn’t dare be?
Aesop speaks before the thought can trail further and branch onto something uglier.
“Wick was good company, you need not worry about her behaviour. She helped me with laundry this morning. I was quite surprised that she could pull baskets by herself.” At the call of her name, Wick changes targets, sniffing at Aesop’s shoes and looking at him with pleading eyes. She knows better than to jump on the tails of his pants, despite having scuffed up Victor’s own. He can’t help but wonder if they’re parenting Wick, in this way; if she views Aesop as her father now. “Can we talk…?”
There's a hollow kind of trepidation in his voice, as if he’s trying not to show it, but it bleeds through regardless. Victor’s mind has become fuzzy, in the way he feels like he’s floating. His fingers stall above his trusty notepad. How does one describe what he’s feeling? This sense of loss and discovery? The confusion? How does one accept the reaction? Victor feels flushed, silly, and somehow overdramatic on top of it all. All this for a simple change of address - but, oh, how complicated it all feels. Distressed as he might feel, he cannot constrain himself when Aesop bids him over. Childish, he thinks, with the need to be coddled. Even still, Aesop’s warm arm around his back and his chest pressed close to his ear, the anxiety quells. Momentarily, he knows, but Aesop’s steady heartbeat is more than enough. A sign that, despite both of their anxiety, Aesop trusts him. Whatever this might be, he is willing.
Victor’s handwriting feels smaller on the notepad.
“I spoke with Fiona a fortnight ago, along with a handful of others; Tracy, Demi, and Annie. We spoke of many insignificant things, but things of much worth as well.
Fiona spoke of her spirituality, and we stumbled upon the topic of gender.”
He stops there, eyes still narrowed in upon the six-letter word that's been haunting him. It had taken him far too long to write such a simple word, and now that he had, his heart thundered about his chest. Aesop's hand rubbed firmly over his back, and though he could not meet his eye, it allowed his pen to return to paper.
“It continued like that… each one expressing their different views and interpretations. Fiona and Tracy seemed to agree that they were rather neutral about the whole thing, they were fine with being referred to as “female”, but they also didn’t mind not being referred to as such. Fiona stated that she felt far from what she calls “binary”, that her God allows her to feel far more free. A third gender, to which I had never known existed.
It lead me to think about myself, Aesop. Of things I had long since buried in my busy life. I don’t mean to say this conversation awoke something in me, but it reminded me of a past feeling. One I had harboured for many years, yet felt too shy to explore.
Femininity.
She is an old friend of mine. One I entertained quite frequently in my youth. You know how I love to dress up Wick? It is something we’ve always done, but once I joined her. Silk ribbons and stupid costumes. They were a joy to me.
Annie invited me over a few days after that conversation - we’ve grown quite close, and it’s helpful we share similar sizes. The manor has supplied her with many beautiful outfits, and we spent a majority of the evening dressing up as a child might do. Accessorizing, giggling, applying makeup to one another. Such a childish thing brought me only joy, Aesop. A desire.
Should you hate me, if I–”
Aesop stops his hand before he can proceed with the sentence, lips downturned and eyes hardened. He looks far more upset than Victor thought he would, and he fidgets in his tightened hold. It must be explained that Aesop’s moods are far more difficult to interpret. It is not so obvious that he begins yelling, slamming doors, or even pointing guns as the mafia men once did. Aesop’s emotions are concealed, quiet, and something Victor has tirelessly worked to understand.
It is beyond confusing, then, that Aesop’s distress is so obvious.
“Never imply such a thing. I could never, never, hate you, Victor.” He brings Victor’s knuckles to his lips, doting upon them like they’re precious gems. “Will you allow me to speak?” It is a request he’s heard before, in the midst of Victor’s writing. It signals if he is done with his sentence, or if Aesop will be interrupting him. This time, Aesop has already ruined his sentence. Taken away his ability to write, something sacred, they both know, for Victor has no other means. It is not lightly that Aesop has stolen away his writing hand, and it is not lightly that he asks such a question. So, with a careful kind of consideration, Victor laces his hand into Aesop’s.
“Thank you… I know this was not an easy topic to bring to me. Victor, I adore you in all meanings of the word; you, not what I perceive you as, but everything you encapsulate. The way you love me. The way you treat Wick. Others. The way your hair shines come morning, and how warm you are. You… You must know, that this is all for you. Everything.” His hands roam about the yellow blanket, and his eyes gaze to where Wick has given up, and she’s settled into her bed. The letters spread about his desk, which has now been split in two, so Victor can work even if he spends the night. The loopy writing on their makeshift calendar, followed by thin penned cursive. A spare pair of house shoes laid right next to Aesop’s. A drawing of them, side by side, gifted to them by Memo. Victor had always had an affinity for the girl, who didn't mind that Victor only drew pictures with her instead of speaking. Each memory, each tiny object, and minute residence leads back to him - Victor. His sun. His everything. “I love you, Victor Grantz, I love you, I love you . I could hardly even think of regarding you in such a cold light, much less denying you such joy. If being more feminine is what you desire, then I shall fulfil it. I must ask, is there more to it? Things I should change, about how I address you… or how I address us?”
Victor must be red by the time Aesop’s eyes find him again, and this is a gaze he cannot share. Aesop Carl has never said such words, neither of them have admitted what exactly they are. There is no point, in this life or death game, and no point to express what they both already know. He feels flustered. Love. It’s a strong statement. Just one more thing that Victor knows, he does not say lightly. He burrows his head further into the man's shoulder, and kind as Aesop is, he does not force him to look up; they both know the pains of maintaining eye contact, how it is something earned, and not to be forced upon.
“I will admit, my thoughts have not strayed that far. Whether I am a “man” or a “woman”... I do not think such a decision comes easily. I cherish my femininity, and I will admit, the idea of being your woman, for you to call me darling and girlish things, it does make my heart flutter. But I do not think I could wholly give my masculinity away, either.
I think I must answer “both” and somehow “neither”. I know that must be awfully confusing, but it is for me as well. I suppose, for now, I am your partner. There’s room for us to work, and I don’t mind experimenting with names and affections. I trust you, Aesop, as much as I am nervous.”
It takes him a moment to read all the words, once Victor hands him the small notepad. Nodding his head, he brings his hand back to his lip, and then, in some daring kind of statement, he brushes his lips across Victor’s forehead. Victor lingers upon it, pressing his skin against his, and lets out a prominent sigh.
“I love you.”
They sit for a long moment, clinging to one another. Aesop’s hand has found his hair, as it always does, and it traces that all too familiar pattern about his scalp. Through all the stress, Victor feels as if he’s about to fall asleep. The sun is setting in their window, Wick is softly snoring, and Aesop is curled into his side and radiating heat. He feels loved, secured, and far too relaxed. That is, until a certain written memory crosses his mind. Tugging upon Aesop’s sleeve, he guides his eyes down to the notepad once more:
“You promised me a secret.”
At this, Aesop snorts a bit, and Victor’s grin follows suit. Still, behind the small curl of his grin, there’s tension. Apprehension hiding beneath the hook of his jaw. Aesop kisses him once more, on the corner of his lip, and Victor allows his nose to nuzzle into his cheek. Neither of them dares to part, warmth washing over one another, along with a joyous kind of euphoria. Aesop brings Victors, hands to the lapels of his shirt - a material boundary the neither of them have crossed, something foreign, something new. Suddenly, he shares a similar face to Aesop, filled with apprehension and a tense gaze. There’s more behind this reaction that what Victor can summarize. This… topic has always been off the table for the both of them. An unspoken agreement that neither cared to breach. He wonders, now, why it is that Aesop allows him to unbutton his high collar.
By the time his trembling hands have been guided to the end of his coat, the light has long since faded from the room. A shivering ray of light reflects across their skin, nothing more. The dim lighting must give them both confidence, for Victor takes his left sleeve, and Aesop his right, and in a joint effort, they remove the thin cotton.
It’s easy enough to recognize Aesop’s moonlit coloured skin. It follows his neck down, and over the slope of his shoulders. No blemishes, no freckles, nor moles, not even once is there the shine of a silvery scar. Victor almost feels jealous of it. It is towards his chest, that the white blooms purple. Thick thatches of yellowing bruises wrap around his chest and spine, a majority of it is hidden by thick strands of bandages. Aesop has turned away from him, whether in shame or not, Victor cannot tell. He stays silent on the fact, eyes intently watching as more of his spine reveals himself. Aesop’s hands begin working on the bandages, unwinding them, revealing more of the skin, and Victor dares not to do so much as breathe. The intimacy behind this action is not lost on him. A secret of the most guarded kind. Something no one shall know, ever, besides himself. Something he doubts even his hometown knew of. It is the same for Victor. Tirelessly hiding. Doing what one can to be perceived in a specific way. He knows it is not completely the same, but he feels empathy for what Aesop has done. To them both, this bruising is one of bliss. Within the confines of this room, they are only “Aesop” and “Victor”. They are nothing but lovers. Skin and bone. Souls intertwined, should Victor feel so poetic. It’s easy with such a sight.
Far easier, for Victor to trace kisses along his cleared back, to worship the scars he finds. Aesop sits shaking in his grasp, uncomfortable without the bandages that had kept him held in place for so long. Victor will not force his eyesight upon him, so with a gentle finger, he writes into his back;
“This is a secret that is similar to mine?”
“Similar, but not identical.”
“The pain?”
“You become used to it after a while. I can endure, so long as I don’t have to view-”
“I know. I know now.”
“I didn’t intend to… eclipse you. I hope you do not take this as that. I only wished to express what my words may fail to, or what they may say shallowly. I understand, Victor, far more than you could ever know.”
“Don’t worry.”
Silence settles upon them, as it always seems to do. Victor presses his cheek between his shoulder blades, and wraps his hands around his waist. Long fingers join his, rubbing between his knuckles. Aesop does not feel the need to cover himself, not yet, not when Victor is radiating the stress out from his back. His neck falls onto the shoulder, and they cuddle together for some moments; Victor’s hair is as soft as always, and Aesop near coos at the fluffy texture. Pressing a kiss to his neck and removing himself from the embrace they have shared, Victor tumbles across to the closet. A rather large shirt that Aesop recognizes as not his is presented from the depths, and he flashes the man a charming smile before hurrying back. They share a small giggle as Victor clothes him and then sheds his extra layers. Many things have been shed in the dimming light; layers upon layers, secrets and clothes.
Curled within Aesop’s chest, Victor finds what he might consider home. Peace. A happy ending he’s deserving of. Now, he is reassured that Aesop feels the same.