Work Text:
(his handwriting is cursive, pretentious, and loopy, but readable. everything’s written out in full, there are no grammar or spelling mistakes, and the paper the letter is written on is pristine. it’s signed with an incredibly ostentatious signature.)
14th of june, 1953
dear curt,
you’ll never guess what’s happened. you know my somewhat neurotic obsession with never expressing any form of anything but friendliness in letters? well, i’ve gained some more trust from my director and now he’s finally decided that his best agent can send confidential letters without him sticking his nose into them. so, essentially, you can tell me all of the disgusting thoughts you have and he won’t be able to tell.
that was a joke. if your next letter is a slutty checklist stained with mysterious liquids, i’ll leave you. i mean it. (we both know i don’t.)
anyway. how’s my life been, then?
my sister has a boyfriend now. his name is george, he’s tall but not as tall as me, and he has green eyes. vicky loves green, so i think they’ll last. he’s a little bit more london than i am, and he uses rhyming slang sometimes. that means you probably would not like him. that’s alright, though, i can’t see a reason for you to meet him.
you know, it sounds so pathetic and infantile to say out loud — or, rather, write down — but i do miss you. i write these letters imaging you reading them, at the table of your lovely little (emphasis on the little, darling, please ask cynthia for a bigger housing budget next time) flat, over some whiskey or something. i imagine you constantly, actually. i don’t even think it’s because i love you, not that i don’t love you, i just like to picture what you’re doing while i’m doing something else. i suppose you do the exact same for me, because you’re absolutely arse over tits.
i’m aware you don’t know what that means. i’m aware you don’t know what a lot of what i say means, really.
i don’t have much to say other than victoria has a boyfriend, i miss you, and i know you don’t know what i mean a lot. i finally get to tell you i love you in writing. i finally get to tell you i wish you were here so we could laugh and get drunk and have sex, which feels so taboo to write down my hand is almost shaking.
no it’s not, actually. christ, sorry for being poetic in a letter, it won’t will most likely happen again.
yours truly,
owen
———
(the handwriting is stiff and large and hardly really legible. most names, or places, or anything else that should be capitalised aren’t, but some are, in a mismatched and unpredictable type of annoying way. a lot of words, like insufferable and obnoxious, are not spelled correctly. there are little dots on the paper owen has since figured out to be drops of whiskey.)
20th of june, 1953
hey owen,
you’re such a nerd sometimes, you know that? you’re literally insufferable. you’re like if red wine was a person, but that really obnoxious shitty expensive stuff. i love you too.
this isn’t gonna be a slutty checklist, don’t worry. not that i haven’t thought about it. i hope your sister’s boyfriend is nice to her. i miss you too. you’re right, i never know what you’re talking about, and i especially don’t know what ass over tits could mean. yes, i’m spelling it the right way, your bullshit country can suck my dick. specially one citizen of your bullshit country, you. i’m glad i can finally say that in a letter, it’s fun! stop being poetic, i’ve had enough of that from english class ten years ago.
my mom asked about you today, which is weird, because she hasn’t seen you in ages. we were on the phone and she asked why you hadn’t visited in so long. i told her you were just busy with work, and she asked if we worked together because she thought we did, and i told her sometimes. then she changed the subject, i can’t remember.
i think you left a book at my place. the guy’s got a weird name, but i have it here so i can copy it down, because no way am i remembering it. it was fredrick fredrich friedrich neitshe neitsche neitzsche ignore that, freidrich nietzsche. you need to tell me about him when you get this, because he’s got the most insane fucking crazy stupid european name ever, so now i’m curious.
that reminds me. i tried black coffee the other day, because i was curious, and fucking hell baby it’s so disgusting i don’t know what’s wrong with you. are you literally insane? is there something wrong with you? you’d tell me if there was something wrong with you right?
on that note, as your stupid redcoat ass would say, i should probably go because the phone’s ringing again and i think it’s my mom and she’s gonna go crazy if i don’t pick up, so bye.
i love you,
curt
———
27th of june, 1953
dear curt,
you do know you can write something in more than one sitting, don’t you? you could’ve picked up the phone and then got back to the letter? you’re an idiot.
also, i can’t believe you don’t know who nietzsche is. (i actually can believe it, it sounds extremely like you.) he was a writer and a bit of an idiot on occasion but some of the things he’s said have been quite good. god is dead, to live is to suffer, et cetera. bring that book next time i see you, darling, i’ve been wondering where it got off to.
tell your mother i’ll visit you soon, but she won’t see me because if i have to go to bloody guadalupe one more time to do anything other than relax, my brains will end up sprayed across my wall.
i was injured on my last mission (don’t even think about it, it was not my fault) and now my director is being a wanker and refusing to let me out into the field until i’ve completely healed over. i don’t like sitting around, but at least i have time to write letters now. not that i didn’t before, come to think of it, but i’m trying to be optimistic here, and we both know i’m not exactly an expert. you should tell me how you do it.
apparently my mother is coming to visit me after the injury (which, again, was not my fault) so i’m sure that’s going to be awful, i’ll tell you all about it. i’m sure you’d read gossip magazines if you were gayer.
i was reminded of you the other day. on the aforementioned mission i was injured on, one of the agents was american, and he had a flask and i asked for some and he was all “might be too strong for you” (which it obviously wasn’t) because it was some ridiculous texan whiskey, and you’re the only other person i know who drinks that stuff. to be fair, i thought of you the second i heard his fucking accent, but that’s irrelevant.
you know what we should do? we should take more photos. i barely have any photos of you, what am i supposed to do when someone asks what you look like? you need some too, you couldn’t describe me without giving us away, you’d start waxing lyrical about my hair or my eyes or something.
on that note, i love you.
yours truly,
owen
———
31st of june, 1953
hey owen,
you’re an asshole, you know that? i’m not stupid, we just think about stuff differently. stop acting like i’m an idiot just because i can’t name every country in africa and because i don’t know every stupid dead french or italian guy who talked about god being dead or whatever. god, you’re boring.
i have an idea. you’re so fucked, i know your address.
you saying that shit about guadil guadeloupe reminds me. when you heal up from that injury that is totally, definitely your fault and you can’t convince me otherwise, if we beg our directors for a week or so off, we could go somewhere. there’s gotta be somewhere on the planet we can go to that isn’t, like, communist or weird or something, right?
oh, also, i do read gossip magazines, so the joke’s on you, idiot.
i’ve been thinking about telling my mom about you. not literally, obviously, i’d give you a fake name like olivia or brittany (get it? since you’re british?) or whatever, but it would mean i get to talk to someone about you without them knowing it’s you. she would never put two and two together, trust me, it’d be all fun and secret and shit.
i don’t know why i phrased that like i’m asking for your permission, because i'm totally doing it anyway, even if you write back telling me categorically not to.
i do want more photos of you, you’re right. if i didn’t love you so much, i’d forget what you looked like between seeing you, and we can’t have that, can we? good thing i love you that much, i guess.
i’m glad we can talk more and i’m sorry you’re injured (although it’s 100%, definitely, undeniably your fault, and i’m not believing otherwise no matter what).
i love you,
curt
———
4th of july, 1953
dear curt,
did you send me fucking flowers?
jesus christ, i hate you so much. flowers? really? who are we, ronnie kray and teddy smith? could you make it any more obvious? you might as well send a note calling yourself my secret admirer or something, you’re ridiculous. thank you so much. how did you know which kind i like? when did i ever tell you that? i love you. fuck you.
now that that's out of the way:
god, you’re going to be a pain in the arse today, aren’t you? happy independence day, darling, you’re one of the hundred or so countries that has one, i hope you feel very special. fuck you, yankee cunt.
the injury wasn’t my fault, for the record, i was shot in the leg. are you happy now? that you know your wonderful boyfriend endured a life-threatening injury? (not that i would’ve or could’ve died from it, of course, i’m not that pathetic, but let me be petty.)
tell your mother whatever you want about me, but do not call me brittany or i swear to god, i’ll hunt her down and tell her myself, and i’ll lie to make you seem mentally fucking insane and she’ll disown you and hate you forever, the way that i do.
do you know when you’re next coming to london? on a mission, i mean, could you try and find out for me? maybe you could take a detour to come and see me — you’re not supposed to, but they’re hardly going to fire you, are they? they’d rather die, you’re apparently their best agent (which i don’t really believe, i’m sure you’re making it up) — and we could spend some time together, i don’t know. cynthia loves you, i’m sure she’ll let you.
oh, and don’t give me any shit about how she clearly doesn’t love you because she’s always an arse to you. i’m always an arse to you and i love you more than anything or anyone in this world, it’s very possible.
don’t forget to ask about london. i love you.
yours truly,
owen