Chapter Text
Dear Emily,
The evening is lovely, the sky adorned with stars like bright jewels hung upon a canopy of blue. The night is so young and full of opportunity. There’s no shortage of things a young man like myself could do to entertain himself. I should be losing myself in its charm, maybe find some good company. Yet here I find myself cooped up in my apartment, hunched over my desk—looking much like a troll or better yet much like you— writing you a letter which you shall never read. For if I don’t expel these words onto these pages I fear I will go mad, I might possibly—to your likely displeasure—come bagging at your door demanding to see you.
As you have likely guessed, my dear, you are the reason for my unrest, because of course you are.
If I am to give an explanation for my current mood, I believe I should present some vital context. Though you are aware of the context considering you were present during the weekend’s events, I still feel the need to put it pen to paper. If only to help me sort my thoughts. And where else to start but on that fateful Friday afternoon spent in your company.
It was lunchtime and I had yet to see you that day, so I graciously took time out of my quite busy schedule to visit you, make sure you hadn’t died at your post.
I entered your office to find you predictably at our desk, mumbling over some papers. You did not even bother to lift your head. Surely I don’t mean that little to you that you deem me unworthy of a simple acknowledgment of my presence.
I cleared my throat.
Snapped out of your trance, you looked around frantically before settling your gaze upon me. Your hair was askew, and I am fairly sure you were wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You, of course, returned my smile with a glare so fierce that for a moment I believed I had committed some cardinal sin. You then promptly returned your gaze to your paper with a sigh. Really, Em, could it kill you to say good morning?
If I may be so bold, I believe myself to be the foremost expert on, well, you. Thought years of observation, I’ve become intimately familiar with your moods.
While anyone who has spent any amount of time in your company is surely aware of your prickly demeanour and pension for scowling, none of them has honed their observation to such a fine edge quite like myself as to be able to differentiate between your scowls, and I must say the look you gave me was completely unnecessary.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” you said.
“I could hear you grumbling from across the hall. I was half convinced you’d god mad. I’ve come to see what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.” I retorted.
I settled myself on your sofa and attempted to catch you up on all the new developments with my friend Elaine, but you refused to even listen, your eyes still fixed on that dammed piece of paper. I do hate it when you do that, em, pay me no mind.
If your claw-like grip on the poor sheet of paper was anything to go by, there was most certainly something bothering you, no doubt about it, but as I expected, you would likely rather stew in your troubles than share them with me.
I perched myself on the edge of your desk and leaned over at what on earth could be more important than your dearest friend.
To my surprise, it was not some academic venture but a letter. You flipped it over and frowned up at me.
“What was the letter?”I asked with nonchalance. “ Something scandalous?” You stiffened, barely a flicker of movement.
To hide it, you huffed and gave me one of your looks . I could not help but smile. You and your secrets.
“Must you always be so dramatic? It’s just a bloody wedding.” You shot back.
"My cousin's getting married, and im invited." The words hung in the air, a simple statement that felt anything but simple. I met your gaze, We both knew I could tell there was more to this than just ‘a bloody wedding.’ You scrunched your eyebrows before averting your gaze. You sat there a moment looking down at your hands. The silence stretched between us, before you finally looked up at me-your eyes flashing with a familiar indignation- and began to reprimand me for always sticking my nose in your business. I raised an eyebrow I had not said a word I reminded you a small, knowing smile creeping across my face.
Your cheeks reddened, a rare sight.
I really think you should blush more often. You’re painfully adorable when you do.
You groaned, covering your face with your hands.
“Hm?” I cocked my head.
“Will you give me advice if I tell you?” you muttered, your blush deepening.
I was stupefied. My fearsome Emily—who was always so capable without ever trying—wanted advice from me? I thought I was dreaming. For the first time in our friendship, the walls of that impenetrable fortress of a heart had slightly lowered. A grin spread across my face. I managed to gather my wits long enough to hide it before you saw, lest I face your wrath. My dear, you were asking me for help.
I immediately agreed. You grimaced.
Dear god where your troubles certainly something, I know you shared this with me in confidence, but the story reached Shakespearean levels of contrived ridiculousness. As an academic, I would put dishonour on the title itself if I did not at least document it:
You spent the recent week in London with your extended family. Your cousin—the one in question who was getting married—had brought home her fiancé to introduce him to the family. All lovely, of course, but it did leave you, the sole singleton. This would not stand. Cue a week of aunties launching matchmaking campaigns. They began recommending you various men, telling tall tales of their various qualities. You repeated time and time again your disinterest, but ‘they were as stubborn as a mule won’t take no for an answer.’ As you put it.
This culminated with Grannie Matilda, in a stroke of genius, tricking you into showing up at a restaurant under the guise of a “friendly luncheon,” where rather than finding her, you came face to face with her chosen suitor. I can only imagine how your theatrical escape from that encounter went. Rather than risk another encounter , that night you announced to your family that you did in fact have a paramour. A brilliant plan for all of two seconds, for they immediately started asking questions. The evening ended with your cousin insisting that you bring the elusive and completely fabricated Mr. James Brown to her wedding.
After finishing your tale of woe, you stared up at me with such a look of exasperation, as if this elaborate fabrication was the standard way to deal with a nosy family. I burst out laughing.
“To hell with you!” You sputtered out, you shot up from your seat red-faced.
“Emily—” I wheezed before doubling over once more. You fumed, turned your heels, and made your way back to your desk. Forgive me, laughing in your face may not have been the most gentlemanly response. But can you blame me? The situations you manage to get yourself into, Em, truly baffling.
“Serves me right to confide in you,” you spat.
you where back to mumbling to yourself. Clearly distraught, you were pacing being your desk. I, on the other hand was struggling in vain to control my composure.
“I can't believe you've managed to turn a simple family get-together into—”
“Wendell! ” you cried—cutting me off— a quiver in your voice, I stopped laughing. You continued, barely a whisper:
“What am I going to do?”