Chapter Text
The morning sun was already blazing when I opened my mailbox and found the envelope.
I recognized it immediately: same scrawled handwriting, same precise placement in the box (propped up against the side, right in the middle), same paper from By the Stairs. After receiving five of these letters since I had arrived in Sandrock, I was more than familiar.
The letters seemed to arrive about every three months, so this one was right on schedule.
I pulled out the letter and slit it open with the screwdriver I always keep on my toolbelt. My stomach did that pesky fluttering thing that it sometimes does when I read one of these. It's just a letter from a stranger. Who's been writing me sweet things for over a year. No biggie.
Dear Alondra,
When I saw that airship you made, I thought to myself, “Dang. Is there anything Alondra can’t do?” Then I thought about it for a bit, and realized… well, yeah, you can’t fly (without an airship) or read minds or sneeze with your eyes open, but the list of things you can do is really very long.
Anyway. Airships are hard to make. Especially safe ones, I would assume.
Um. I also wanted to tell you… Maybe we should hold hands sometimes? If you want to. We don’t have to. Maybe it’s too big of a commitment. Especially if it’s with someone like me who is hiding their identity.
Well. I got you this seashell.
Signed,
The secret guy who thinks you’re cool but also kind of likes you but if you don’t like him back that’s okay but maybe come say hey if you do like me?
What? Did I read that right? I read the letter a second time to make sure I wasn't making shit up, then pulled the small shell from the envelope. It was small and cute, with a gradient of a morning sky. I turned it over in my palm, enjoying the feeling of the smooth ridges on my fingers.
Maybe we should hold hands sometimes.
That was... different. The mysterious sender had never said anything that wasn't purely platonic before. Previously, they'd only sent observations, compliments about my work, and small gifts. Sweet but mostly friendly, if you took away the romantic nature of the sending. But this one was suggesting more.
I pressed the shell to my palm and felt that flutter again, stronger this time.
Someone wanted to hold my hand. Someone who noticed my proudest moments and thought what I did was "neat." Someone who'd been patiently writing me letters for over a year.
I had enjoyed the letters, even looked forward to them, but now this person wanted me to find them? But that would mean I actually had to figure out who was writing them… Shit.
Inside my workshop, I made coffee and tried very hard to focus on the blueprint spread across my workbench. The Moisture Farm needed an upgrade to its cooling system, which was very important for me to focus on before summer hit.
I lasted about three minutes before I pulled out the small, wooden box that I had made for keepsakes in my first year at builder school. I kept it on the shelf above my workbench so that I could easily grab it when I was feeling nostalgic or when I was down and needed to remember that someone, somewhere, was rooting for me.
I couldn't help but smile as I looked at the six letters. I grabbed the very first one, a little more wrinkled than all the rest. I still remembered how surprised and charmed I felt when I had retrieved the mail that day, back before everything that happened. Back before I found out that Logan wasn't really a bandit and helped him and Grace take down Duvos's infiltration plan, and when my biggest worries were whether I was a good enough builder and whether people liked me.
I had carried around the enclosed opal in my pocket for weeks, hoping that my new "pal" would reveal themselves, but after I almost lost it at the Blue Moon (thank Peach for Ernest's eagle eyes!), I had decided to tuck it away in the box too.
I put the first letter back and thought about the next letter, the one that had made me laugh until I cried, with its phonetic Geegler sounds, the part about Deputy Captain and his little hat, and even the awkward admission about lying. I really enjoyed the dry, self-deprecating, and weirdly endearing sense of humor shown in each letter.
After I got that letter, I had asked around, very casually, not suspicious at all, just a little "Do you know who might have been sending me letters?" here and there, much to the Sandrockers' confusion. But after hearing way too much about Cooper's theory that the moon men were sending me letters with subliminal messages to program me as a sleeper agent, I gave up (read: forgot about) my search.
The third, fourth, and fifth letters were all equally sweet and observant, all unsigned except for variations of "the secret guy who thinks you're cool."
And now this guy was asking if we could hold hands? Had he been sweet on me all along? I couldn't even begin to dream of having this level of patience for a crush. If the roles had been reversed, my first letter would have said something like, "Hey, I think you're hot. Wanna make out later?"
But no, this guy had been watching me and liking me enough to write these careful, awkward, sincere notes. And every time, I've read them and treasured them, but never took them very seriously. I'd moon about for a week and then totally forget about it until the next letter showed up. Though, to be fair to me, I had been pretty damn busy this year.
The letters had been this sweet, gentle constant in the background of my chaotic-ass life, like wildflowers popping up in the crevices between rocks: a little unexpected, but nice. However, if I were completely honest with myself, I also thought that these letters were a bit too… passive for my tastes. Like someone who wanted to be romantic but didn't actually feel it deeply enough to take a risk.
Romance is about passion, and passion requires risk! And despite my pledge to myself to avoid dickholes, I had to admit that maybe the dickholes' appeal was that they weren't afraid to go after what they wanted.
Real desire wasn't "hey, that's pretty neat" and observations about my construction skills. Real desire was intense. Consuming. The kind of thing that made me toss and turn at night and do stupid, impulsive things.
Right?
My thoughts drifted to Pen, the latest dickhole that I hadn't had the sense to fully avoid. Our situationship was… complicated, to say the least. More complicated still by his turning out to be a Duvos double agent. Light, I sure know how to pick 'em.
But despite his lies about, well, most things, he had been passionate. Mostly about himself and how many push-ups he could do, but I felt so alive when we sparred, and I always caught the little sparks of respect and attraction when he watched me fight. But then I wouldn't see him for weeks at a time. Hopefully, because he felt bad about being a lying ass-hat. I've always been a real sucker for intense attention followed by casual distance, though. That way I felt like I really earned it, ya know?
I spent my time with Pen feeling alive and anxious and never quite sure where I stood with him. When everything was revealed, and he was shipped off to prison, I was pleasantly surprised to feel more relief than heartbreak.
He was the only man that I had let myself have any amount of flirtation with in Sandrock, though, which I was proud(?) of.
Before that... well. Like I said, I have had a pattern of going after men who made my heart race and my stomach flip with anxiety. My therapist back in Highwind told me that I tried to prove my worthiness because I had a shitty, abusive father.
"So you're telling me I have daddy issues?" I had asked.
She chuckled. "Basically."
I could practically hear her telling me that love shouldn't feel desperate and urgent and slightly painful. I bet she would have been stoked to find out about these letters.
I picked up the newest one again, reading the clumsy request. Maybe we should hold hands sometimes, if you want to.
I closed my eyes, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to reach my "inner wisdom" or whatever, like my therapist had taught me. How did I feel when I thought about the letters?
I placed my hand on my stomach and named the feelings. Warm. Safe. Steady. Not the words that I had typically associated with romance, but maybe that's why I shouldn't ignore this letter. Someone had been quietly paying attention to me for over a year, thinking about me enough to write down his thoughts and feelings, even though writing was clearly hard for them.
This guy didn't need me to chase him or earn his respect. He was just… offering it.
Ew.
No, not ew, I reminded myself. Scary. That's the right word. I felt scared because what if this wasn't real? What if this warm feeling I got from reading these letters was just comfort? Or familiarity? What if I let myself believe this and it turned out to be nothing? That would suck ass! Hence, why it would be easier to simply ignore that the letters were anything more than a temporary amusement.
"ALONDRA!"
I jumped nearly out of my skin, scattering the letters across the floor. Nia stood in the doorway, practically vibrating with energy.
"Did I scare you? Sorry! I knocked, but you didn't answer, and the door was open, so I figured—" Nia stopped, eyes widening. "Are those the LETTERS?"
"I—what—how did you remember—"
"Logan saw you reading one last month, which reminded me of the whole letter mystery thing. Why didn't you tell me that you were still getting them??" Nia faux-glared at me, then bounced closer, craning her neck. "Oh wow, there are so many! Can I read them? Pretty please? Are they loooooove letters?"
"No!" I moved to gather them, feeling protective of my treasured letters.
"They LOOK romantic. That handwriting is adorably messy." Nia grabbed my wrist gently. "Have you figured out who it is yet?"
"I haven't really been investigating."
"WHAT? Why not?!"
"I've been busy—"
"Alondra, come ON." Nia's expression softened. "Okay, spill. What's the real reason you don't want to know?"
Because I'm scared, duh!
Out loud, I said, "What if they're not serious? What if I make a big deal out of it and embarrass everyone?"
"Or," Nia said gently, taking my hands, "what if they ARE serious and you're missing out on something wonderful because you're scared?"
"I'm not scared."
"Bitch, you're terrified. I can see it written all over your face! You act like I haven't been your best friend for eons," she said, rolling her eyes. "Look, I don't know who's writing these, but someone who's been sending you thoughtful letters for over a year? That's not casual. That's someone who really cares about you."
"I don't even know if..." I trailed off, not quite sure how to finish.
If it's real? If I want it? If I deserve it?
"Is that a new letter?" Nia said, nodding at the least-crumpled one still in my hand. "What does it say?"
I hesitated for a moment, then sighed and forked it over.
Nia read it and laughed gleefully. "Oh. Oh, this is SO SWEET. 'Maybe we should hold hands sometimes if you want to.' Alondra, this person is," out of the side of her mouth, "a little weird," she continued, "but PRECIOUS, and you need to figure out who they are immediately."
"Nia—"
"No excuses! Start paying attention! Notice who gets weird when you mention letters! ASK AROUND!" Nia strolled toward the door, then spun back to get one last word in. Classic Nia. "You deserve something good, you know. Something easy and sweet. Not everything has to be complicated and dramatic. And honestly, anyone left in Sandrock is better than," she wrinkled her nose, "Pen."
And with that, the whirlwind named Nia flounced out of my workshop.
I rolled my eyes at her theatrics and looked around at the scattered letters with a sigh.
Not everything has to be complicated.
But how do you know it's real if it isn't complicated?
What if I opened myself up to this warm, steady thing and discovered I didn't know how to want it?
I needed air.
Now that the oasis was full again, tourists flocked to Sandrock and the streets were busier than I had ever seen them. Nearly every day I saw merchants, kids playing, people chatting on their way to the Blue Moon for lunch. After my conversation with Nia, I just needed to go anywhere, so I walked without a destination in mind, trying to quiet my mind with familiar sights.
I turned a corner and nearly collided with someone.
"Oh! Sorry," I said automatically, stepping back.
"No problem." Unsuur adjusted his deputy hat and gave me that small, polite smile he always had. "You look like you've been in the sun a lot. Are you drinking enough water?"
I smiled despite my sour mood. "Yep, staying hydrated. Thanks, man."
"Good. Dehydration is serious business. Justice made me read a training manual about it. A guy's tongue turned gray." He paused, looking vaguely concerned. "Not that YOUR tongue looks gray. Though I can't see your tongue. That would be weird."
This time, I couldn't help but laugh. I always thought that Unsuur was the sleeper 'funniest person in Sandrock.' "Thanks for checking on me."
"That's my job. Keeping people safe." He did that little half-salute he always did, touching the brim of his hat. "You heading somewhere specific?"
"Just needed some air. Clearing my head."
"Oh. Well, the air is pretty much the same everywhere in Sandrock. Except underground, where there's less of it. But you're not going underground right now, so you should be fine."
Light, he was weird. Wonderfully so. We'd worked together enough over the past year and a half, saving the Moisture Farm from Geeglers, tracking down Logan, defending against Duvos, etc., that I considered him a good friend.
"Hey," he said, looking almost shy. "I was actually going to ask you something."
"Yeah?"
"I'm planning to check out some caves in the Eufaula in a few days. Justice mentioned there might be rare mineral formations out there: geodes, crystal caves, that kind of thing."
"Justice said 'rare mineral formations'?" I asked, probably with an extremely skeptical look on my face.
"Well, not exactly. He said, 'There are a lot of sparkly rocks and shit out there."
"Ah, that sounds more like him."
His expression brightened slightly as he continued. "Anyway, I was going to go alone, but it's probably safer with two people. Especially since they're not mapped yet. Do you wanna come?"
I blinked. "Cave exploring?"
"Yeah. We'd have to leave early to be back before dark. But I understand if you're too busy—"
"No, let's do it!" The words left my lips before my brain caught up. But actually, a day away from Sandrock sounded perfect right now. I could get away from all of the mystery letter fuckery. Not to mention monotony. After a solid year of continual danger and drama, these quiet, routine days had me feeling a little antsy. "When were you thinking?"
"Day after tomorrow? I'll meet you outside your workshop at dawn?"
"Ew, dawn? Really?"
He just stared at me expectantly.
"Fuuuuuuck," I whined. "Fine, dawn it is."
His whole face lit up, which for Unsuur meant that the corners of his eyes and lips shifted slightly, and there was a subtle twinkle in his eyes. "Cool. Great. That's... yeah. Great."
There was an awkward pause.
"I should get back on patrol," he said finally. "Make sure everyone's staying safe."
"And hydrated."
"Yes, and hydrated."
"Important work."
"The most important." He tipped his hat again, and I noticed, not for the first time, but maybe for the first time with actual interest, that he had really nice hands. Large hands with long, lithe fingers. The kind that would probably be really good at—
NOPE. Not going there. Caves. Rocks. Geology. Those are the thoughts we're having. Thankfully, he interrupted my inner flailing.
"See you day after tomorrow, then."
"See ya!" I waved cheerfully, desperately hoping that my not-thoughts hadn't been projected across my face. I stopped to watch him for a moment as he continued down the street in the same unhurried, steady pace that he always had. I was always rushing around, trying to fit as many commissions into a day as possible. What was it like to walk around like you had all the time in the world?
I decided to do my best Unsuur impression and continued my walk at a leisurely pace, thinking more about the rock-obsessed man. He was sweet, helpful, and completely literal in a way that I found to be refreshing. But he wasn't the type to write secret admirer letters full of observations about construction projects and requests to hold hands, right?
He was too straightforward. Too direct. Like me, but with more patience and less social awareness. If Unsuur liked someone, he'd probably just walk up to them and say, "I like you. Do you want to eat yellow soup together?" in that same matter-of-fact tone he used for everything. He would be the type of person to carefully choose pretty opals and shells, though… Nah, that would be so out-of-character.
Still, I found myself smiling as I walked home, thinking about the way he'd fumbled through our brief conversation. A cave expedition sounded pretty fun, actually. I hadn't been out in the desert in forever! And it would be nice to get to know Unsuur a bit better. He was particularly cute when he was talking about rocks. Wait, cute?
That evening, after I finished my commission work and fed my animals, I sat on my porch with iced tea and watched the sunset paint Martle's Oasis in shades of vermilion and fuchsia. I had all six letters with me because apparently I just couldn't leave them alone today. I read through them slowly, really taking time to try to hear the voice behind them.
If everyone in the world were more like you, well... at the very least, we'd have a lot of stages.
That wasn't just a throwaway line. That was someone imagining a world full of me and thinking it would be better. Woof.
You make it look easy, but I bet it's not.
Someone who saw how much effort I put into my work and who understood that hard work can look like magic to the unobservant.
It's traveled a really long way to get here, just like you.
This guy thought about my journey and where I'd come from. Maybe he also knew what it meant to start over in a new place?
Maybe we should hold hands sometimes?
God, what kind of person asks permission to hold hands? It's so... careful and respectful. So completely unlike every guy I've ever been into who just took what they wanted and made me feel grateful for it. Which meant that this person was either genuinely sweet or genuinely scared or both. Or—and here was the terrifying thought I kept circling back to—this person actually cared about what I wanted.
Ew.
No, not ew. Girl, stop calling healthy things ew. Your therapist would be so disappointed. Okay, she wouldn't, but she would give me that look that meant that I was going off the rails again.
Okay, so, this was someone who wanted to be close to me but was scared of assuming or pushing. He was willing to wait for me to be ready. Dammit, these weren't the letters of someone who wasn't serious! I couldn't lie to myself about that anymore.
I should want to know who wrote these letters so I could respond, right? But also, what would I even do with that knowledge once I had it? Then I might actually have to ask myself the hard questions, like 'Can I let myself want this? Can I trust something that doesn't feel like it might burn me at any moment?' Bah. I could hear my old therapist again: "Love doesn't have to hurt to be real."
The sunset deepened to an eggplant color, then darkness. The stars began appearing, brilliant and infinite. I loved how many stars there were out here compared to back home.
I gathered the letters carefully and put them back in the box, willing myself to leave them there for a good long time. Tomorrow I would need to prepare for my trip, not dwell on the letter mystery. And then, I'd get to have a fun camping trip with my good buddy Unsuur, looking at pretty stones and probably learning a ton about geology and definitely NOT thinking about feelings.
Later, after I put my keepsake box back on its shelf, I laid awake in my bed, still thinking about the Lightdamn letters despite my best intentions.
"Maybe I should respond," I whispered to Nemo, who merely grunted and kicked me in his sleep.
But not yet. I shouldn't respond until I figure out what I actually want. Which was… for sleep to claim me already, Peach fuck damn!
I reminded myself that getting frustrated wouldn't help me get to sleep faster so I did my stupid breathing exercises that my stupid old therapist recommended. My last semi-conscious thought was of someone's lithe hands turning a rock over and over, a voice saying 'pretty neat' in a particular deadpan way that made me want to laugh, warm brown eyes, and—
I was asleep before I could finish the thought.