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When Q was seventeen, his class was charged with writing letters to the men and women serving in the navy. Not particularly invested, though hardly disrespectful, Q penned a standard letter of small questions and brief encouragement. The teen had bigger things on his mind, such as university and the writer of the words of love etched over his seventh rib, wrapping around the bone to his spine, to be concerned about which uniformed server of Queen and Country was on the receiving end of his letter.
Soulmates were so casually in love it made others hurt. The words used to confess their love were written on each other’s bodies from the moment they were born, needless to say, most parents forced their children to be as social as possible, to find their soulmate, fall in love, and give meaning to the blossoming words.
At Q’s age, the teenage social life gave way to a realm of soulmate being united, the preoccupation with finding ones other half so huge in meaning it was no shock that Q didn’t care for his letter receiving companion.
Which was why it was such a surprise when a response came in the mail four weeks later. The cordial questions had been answered, in far less a half-assed fashion than they’d been asked, and in their place, casual questions about London and life at ‘home’ were scribed in an all-caps scrawl.
Q found himself replying out of sheer decency, and pinning the letter to his corkboard in his bedroom. That first letter came with him to university, where it was folded and put in a large envelope, along with a growing collection of replies, steadily becoming more and more personal as each letter came.
Some of the letters were written in a hurry, lines messy and blurring. Some had been flecked with water, dappling the pages in light. Others had been left in the sun and Q had to squint to make out the faded words. It was fifteen letters of friendship and care before Q found out the name of his navy correspondent.
The eighth letter from him was signed, Bond, James Bond, with a carefully printed: “Commander James Bond” underneath that. Q sighed, and signed his next letter with his own name, stupidly knowing that the affection brewing and attachment growing to this man who would hardly care if he stopped sending letters, was always going to end badly.
Three years after getting his first reply in the mail, Q was assuredly in love with the stranger on the seas. He awaited each letter with a thumping chest and bubbly blood. Steadily, the letters on both sides had been becoming more and more flirtatious, adoring, something not to be encouraged, according to Q’s parents, as soulmates were the only acceptable form of romantic love, and James was coming between Q and whoever it was Q’s words of love were carved into.
Q didn’t care, six months later, when James announced he was on leave. He all but burnt off the raised words, “I couldn’t hurt you, not if my hands were placed around your neck,” and left horrible marring and scarring on his chest, where the black-market acid had seeped into the skin but not removed the words as Q hurried to rinse it off out of regret and mindfulness.
Ribs stinging, three days later, Q found himself at the arrival gate of Heathrow, eagerly awaiting naval uniforms James promised he would be among. It was only as close to a hundred odd uniforms came through the gate did Q realise they had never traded photographs, all he knew about James was that he was blond and had blue eyes.
There were plenty of blond-haired blue eyed men in naval uniforms leaving the gate, clutching at lovers arms and clasping family in embraces. Q felt hope melt in his chest like an ice cube on a radiator. Sure enough, half an hour later, and two of three officers were still milling around, and Q was slumped on a bench, words stinging as the healing burns pulled and rubbed. His letters were held in a loose fist. Tears burned like ice behind his eyes, and a twitching mouth gave his shattering state of mind away to passers-by.
The seat next to him was approached. With blurry eyes, Q watched them, uniform striking a cut through his chest. It was his own fault, really. He should have known, James was a path not to go chasing down. He’d been lead up the garden path and was now caught in a thorn bush.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” A smooth voice asked, pleasant and gentle. Q did mind, but just as he answered those fucking letters, he did the polite thing.
“Go ahead,” he muttered, righting himself. The paper in his fist was gripped tightly, the bend and soften of the meaningful words satisfying Q.
“Are you okay?” This stranger was not content with invading Q’s destructive and broken space, but he had to pry, too.
“Clearly not. I just thought- there was- he said- never mind.” Q bit his lip, ribs stinging brightly. The stranger gave a saddened small smile.
“I was waiting for someone too. Am waiting,” he sighed. “Trust me to gallivant off after some bloke I’ve never met, instead of wait for fait to hand me my soulmate on a platter. At least, that’s what my mate kept telling me.”
So this stranger was like him? Waiting for an unknown who’d abandoned fate for adventure.
“No soulmate?”
“I’ve got words, but… the letters were so captivating I couldn’t help but let myself…” the man held his hand out, and dropped it with another melancholic smile. “You know, the first letter he sent me, it was so dull and normal in its writing, I was offended. So I wrote back, intending for it to be a form of payback for someone who didn’t want me to take interest. Turns out, we just baited each other into my stupid affection.”
“That sounds like me and James,” Q huffed, blinking wet eyes. The man next to him turned with such velocity it’s a wonder he didn’t slide off the bench seat. “I feel like such an idiot now, I should’ve listened to my parents… now I‘ve gone and ruined everything, haven’t I?” He shifted and touched a hand to his ribs. A shaky breath rattled next to his ear. Q looked to the stranger, who was staring at him with wide pale blue eyes.
“…Q?” The man asked, the name rolling off his tongue with the consistency of honey. A jolt resounded in Q’s chest as he scrambled to pull the man close and embrace him with sweet tears dripping down his face.
“James! James…” He mumbled, tucking his face into the blond’s neck. “I thought- I thought that maybe you didn’t mean what you said in the letters… I-“ James pulled the younger man closer, but pushed him away when he heard the gasp as their chest’s touched.
“Q,” the dark haired man’s face was in his hands, cradled gently. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No, I… it was stupid…”
“Tell me,” James whispered, pressing his forehead to Qs. He’d spent all that time poring over those letters that Q, the man in front of him, had sent. He’d fallen in love with his words, and his wit, and now he could hold the man in his arms, if not forever, for a while.
“I burned my words, I tried to get rid of them so I could be with you,” Q mumbled, averting his green eyes. James laughed, tears swimming in blue irises. Q looked confused.
“I was so worried I hurt you. I’m always worried that I will hurt you. I couldn’t hurt you, not if my hands were placed around your neck.”
Q went stiff but kept his head pressed to James’, breathing the man in.
“I will love you with your hands around my neck,” he whispered back, so low James barely heard it. But those words were there, and they itched on his skin as his eyes shone and he pulled Q in for a kiss on an airport bench, tears salty on both of their cheeks.
Warped and scarred words pressed closed to pristine, proud ones, and even though they never exchanged vows, Q and James had forever in their hands.