Work Text:
To Jon:
It’s from Martin, by the way, if you couldn’t tell by the name on the front of the card. Obviously, you could, but, I don’t know, maybe you didn’t read it. Maybe you’re the sort of person who doesn’t read Christmas cards. Well, hopefully not, I mean, I’m writing all this to wish you a merry Christmas in the first place. And a happy holidays, too, although I suppose Merry Christmas really does fall into that category, if you think about it, I just wanted to make it very clear that I was wishing you both and… not just one or the other I suppose. I’m not all that good at writing Christmas cards, especially not to my boss. I don’t even know if that’s appropriate, for me to do? Tim said he was writing one, didn’t he? But Tim was friends with you before and I wasn’t Well, anyways. It’s a nice thing to do, Martin, get ahold of yourself. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of Christmas spirit. Oh, god. Like I said, I don’t really know how to write these things. But I guess. Well. It doesn’t have to be complicated. No one gets hung up on this stuff. It’s a Christmas greeting. Two sentences. Something… generic. But I don’t want
Alright. Here. I hope you have a good Christmas, Jon, and for the record we really all appreciate what you do, around here. I know I assume You probably I’m not sure if you actually like compliments, but it’s Christmas, so. There you go. Sort of holiday where you have to deal with people being kind to you. On the flipside, it’s a really nice excuse to be kind to other people, if you need something like that. I guess it would probably be too much to ask, for a Christmas card back. I don’t know. It’s not like I would ask for it, just. Might be nice, once in a while. But of course you don’t have to do anything. And I don’t have to, either.
I could have done this better. I could have recorded something for you. You mightn’t appreciate being interrupted on the job by, oh, I don’t even know, statement of Martin K. Blackwood regarding… merry bloody Christmas, Jon. God, this is a mess. I didn’t have this much trouble with my other cards. Turns out it’s much easier to write for someone you’re not so worried about impressing.
I’m going to have to draft this again. I’ll try and keep it to just one more. I don’t want to waste paper.
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Dear Jon,
I’ve got to be up front about this. We’re worried about you.
Tim and Sasha are talking about staging an intervention, and I’m starting to think they might be right. I just know you wouldn’t particularly enjoy going through the motions of that, and well I’d rather not spring it on you. I’d rather not have to do it at all, but
I’m not sure. It’s probably the right thing to do. You’ve never been easy to… sway. I liked it a lot, at the beginning. I do now. I admired how you would hold your ground on the things you believed in, no matter what, because it was always reasonable. And it always paid off at the end, so it wasn’t… I just don’t think this will pay off, Jon. I don’t know. All the accusations and unwarranted searches and, God knows what else, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be worth whatever you’re searching for. What are you searching for? Do you really trust us that little? Do you trust me?
Silly question. You don’t owe us trust, I know that, I know. But, the benefit of the doubt — don’t you at least owe us that? We’re supposed to trust you. I doubt Tim does, not that you need telling, but I trust you. I just wish you’d.... come back to earth a little. I know you’re not cruel, Jon. You’re not heartless. Do you know that? Sometimes I feel like I’m just. I don't know. Shouting at a wall. I can’t make you do anything. I want you to have the kindness you deserve. That’s why I’m writing this… thing.
I was talking to Tim, earlier, and he told me—well, a lot of things, but most importantly, according to him, that being nice can’t fix everything. I hate that he thinks I don’t know that. I’m not daft. I do know that. I just. Well. I think that you should be good to people, if you can be. Would a good, tight hug and a conversation about your feelings make it all better? Of course it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t hurt you, though. It seems like no one really understands that anymore.
It’s late. I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m not sure if you can tell, from my degenerating handwriting. I hope I haven’t made any spelling errors. I should check before I put this on your desk. Although I’m not sure if I’m going to do that, anymore. I always start out, meaning to say all these things, and I never do pull through. I suppose we’ll both see what happens.
Kind of funny. I almost said good-night to you, like you’d somehow be aware? I wonder what you’re up to. I suppose, I’d be able to guess.
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Dear Jon,
How can I even reach you? You didn’t leave an address. Stupid, of course you didn’t, you’re not Decembering in Paris. You know, I don’t think you’ve ever stopped moving, for a moment in your life. Not one. I have no idea where you are, not even when I do.
I meant for that to sound a lot better than it did. I’m so rusty. It’s a bit embarrassing, really. Just don’t really have time to write recently, is all. I think I would’ve been a good poet, you know? If I had the chance to. That’s kind of out of the question, though, isn’t it? At least it is for the moment. I’d hate to see what the Institute’d do if I tried to self-publish. I wonder if that would make you laugh. I think so. I’d really like to make you laugh, Jon. There are quite a lot of things I’d like to do with you, come to think of it, stuff I’ve never even asked you about. That’s… I mean, it’s okay, I’m going to get to ask you about it, I think, but it would have been nice. I would have asked, sooner. If
There’s so much I don’t know about you. I’ve been thinking about that. I promise I’m working too, I’m not sitting on my arse, believe me, Jon, but I can hardly help that I always end up doing a great deal of thinking anyways. I think about how I don’t know your favourite movies, or what your best subject was at uni, or where you had your first kiss, or anything like that. I don’t know what you best like to eat on your kitchen floor in the middle of the night. Christ, this is making me sad. It’s really weird here without you. It can’t be all bad, can it? It mustn't be. I suppose there’s a lot of stuff about you that I do know, which is not something that everyone can say—not even everyone here. Like… hey, I know you wake up at six in the morning, if you even sleep at all. And that you like rum and raisin ice cream, which—honestly, Jon, I’m not sure I believe, so maybe not that one. But I know you can crochet, and you’re really embarrassed about it, but not embarrassed enough to refrain from chipping in when someone mistakes it for knitting. You tried to teach Georgie, but got impatient when she didn’t understand the double-stitch. You apologise when you squash a bug by mistake. I can’t be the only one that misses you.
I wish you’d brought me along with you. I know I would’ve tied you down though. Can you imagine? You and me, travelling the world together. What a nightmare.
I know I won’t send this one, which means I can say whatever I want. Right now, though, I feel like I should save it for when you can hear it. And Basira wants me to do another statement this afternoon, so I should probably get back to work now. I’m tired of statements. They make me feel sick. One more reason for you to get back, Jon, but it’s okay, I’ll deal with the waiting. I’ve got a lot of practice.
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Jon,
This is going to be a short one. Peter wants me to stay busy, so. Lots to do recently. You know, I don’t reckon he’d be pleased with me for writing to you. Even though it’ll just end up in a drawer somewhere, probably. I’m not
I mean, things have changed. Not that I need to say that for you to know it, it’s just. I’m not sure you understand how they’ve changed, Jon. You weren’t here. I don’t know what would have happened, if you had been.
It’s not all bad, though, really. Peter doesn’t hang around so much anymore—I guess he likes to leave me to my own devices, and, honestly, I’m not complaining. You’d hate him. Or, I mean, I think you would, but I don’t… I don’t know for certain, these days. When you were gone, when I was… well, it felt like you were dead. Now that I know you weren’t, it’s like there’s this… wall, I guess? And I can’t see over it. Not that I’m trying very hard. Actually, come to think of it, I think it’s my wall. Bad metaphor, I know. I can’t really think of anything better. I don’t write a lot, anymore.
At the beginning, before you’d woken up and I was still organising Mum’s funeral and everything, I kept thinking about how you’d feel if you somehow read everything I’d written about you. Nevermind how you’d get ahold of all that—I don’t even know where some of my old poems are. Half the things I didn’t record might as well be lost to time. But, I mean, in that hypothetical, I guess I used to wonder if it’d change what you thought of me? I don’t know where I was going with that. Can’t really be bothered to erase it though.
I’m getting carried away. I don’t know what the point of this was. I thought it would be nice to talk to you, sort of, even though it’s not really
It didn’t change much. I’m going to stop doing things like this. Not much point in it, is there? Nobody’s expecting me to reach out anymore.
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Dear Jon, here I am again. You must be asleep right now. You breathe differently when you are. And you keep rolling over halfway and then changing your mind. It’s strange. I didn’t think
When I said there was a lot I didn’t know, about you. Part of me didn’t think I’d ever really find it out. That wasn’t an excuse, or a justification. I genuinely believed we’d only ever be that close. I mean, what was I supposed to believe? You spent years brushing me aside, Jon. I don’t know what to do with you now that you see me. I don’t know what to do with myself.
It’s getting better, though. I am, I mean. If I keep making progress, I might figure it out. The other day, when you said I’m still me, I sort of actually believed it. I didn’t want to believe it. We all change, and we get on just fine. But maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to “get on.”
I wish I knew how to talk to you. Properly. It would be so much easier to let you do all the talking, but I know you don’t want that. You want me to try. Oh, Jon. You always were a hypocrite. But I will, for you. We have too much time on our hands to not at least try.
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Almost Christmas again. Christ. Can you believe it? How long has it been since it felt like Christmas? I should write you a real card, Jon, but I suppose now I don’t need to. I can just tell you everything I want to say. At least— more than I ever thought I could. If you’d told me, five years ago, that I’d be here, waking up next to you, I… I don’t know what I would have done. Laughed, probably. Or— maybe cried, come to think of it. Yeah, yeah. I liked you that much.
I feel as if, whenever I write these, I tend to dwell an awful lot on the past. I just go in these big, empty circles about what might have been, and what was, and what wasn’t. But I don’t ever talk about the future, do I? I guess it’s hard to speculate on something that doesn’t exist, but it’s not as if it’s impossible. Especially… now, like this, I mean. I can’t pretend I’m not a romantic. Alright, then, here’s something. The other day, I actually woke up before you—I was sure I was dreaming, you know, but, there I was. I know you watch me sleep—I’ve woken up to it enough times—so I didn’t feel like too much of a creep to just… sit there. For a while. You can’t stay still for more than about three minutes, did you know? Even when you’re practically dead to the world, you make noises and you roll back and forth, and you’re clingy, Jesus Christ, I never would have guessed. I should have guessed. I’m getting distracted, but what I mean by all this is that it made me think—more than I already have been, I mean—about… you, and us, and about this. It’s not like I haven’t always wanted it, Jon, I mean, you know as well as I do, I always have. But after a while I really did give up on imagining it’d go anywhere. Now I get to think about… gosh, I don’t know. Buying a flat with you. And having to pick out furniture, which I imagine you take very seriously, and kissing you in every room. I’d like someplace small, and near the city, but maybe not right there in the middle of it, if you know what I mean. I don’t need a lot. I like you, and I like this. I’ll go wherever you take me. Who knows where we’ll be next Christmas? We don’t have to get a proper tree—I know you’ve never been big on that stuff. Wouldn’t a small one be nice, though? We could put it in the window. I can hear what you’d say about that—excellent, now everyone will know we celebrate Christmas, thank goodness, I didn’t want to worry them. You’re such a killjoy, Jon, really. Oh, whatever. That’s a conversation we’ll have next year. We’ve been trying to take it a day at a time—I think it’s some sort of carryover from when we couldn’t really predict how long we’d be alive for. And, I mean, it’s still not the most predictable. But we can breathe now. When was the last time we could say that?
It’s… it’s good, isn’t it, to breathe. When you go for too long without something, you start to forget what it’s like. And… and maybe you don’t stop missing it, but you do get used to missing it. God, I hate that feeling.
I’ve been writing a lot again. Can you tell? It’s all starting to come back to me. I didn’t think it ever would—I’d sort of forgotten how to, if you can imagine that, Jon—but I shouldn’t be surprised, should I. I have the time for it, and I have you. That’s more than I could ever have asked for. I know… I know it can’t all be good. I can’t say I don’t worry, either. You know me, Jon, you know I do. But, and I honestly mean this, it is really, really good. I’m writing it because I’ve said it so many times, you must be sick of it by now. I just. I want to remind you. Things can be good, Jon.
It’s so late. I’ve kept myself up writing. Oh, look, ten minutes to midnight. I’m usually not up this late. Well—I didn’t use to be. When I was working for Peter… but, hey, I don’t really need to talk about that anymore, do I. Maybe someday. Right now… I’m here, with you, and you’re in the corner, reading something from Daisy’s bookshelf, I don’t remember what. Oh, god, is it Dickens? You’re such a prude. There’s no one else.
I should probably go to bed. Can’t be awake for Santa, can I? Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Kidding, for the record—Mum never did Santa with me, and I know you think it’s a silly story— oh, yes, let’s terrorise the children into doing the right thing by telling them there’s an old man watching them around the clock. You’re not wrong. I wouldn’t have much liked Santa, I reckon. Although I would have enjoyed writing him letters.
Alright, I’m getting away from myself. I always do. Goodnight, Jon, and Merry Christmas, or something, and I’ll see you in the morning, and whatever else you’re supposed to say at the end of letters, I never was all that good at them. Tomorrow we’ll wake up, and the next day, and the day after that too, I suppose. An endless supply of tomorrows. I never really thought about it that way.
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