Work Text:
💙
The envelope arrived during breakfast.
Deuce almost didn’t notice it at first.
The dining hall buzzed with its usual morning noise: students talked over one another, silverware clinking against porcelain, Ace loudly complaining about boiled eggs like they’d personally insulted him. Somewhere nearby, Cater was trying to take a picture before Trey confiscated his phone for using it at the table again.
And in the middle of all of it sat Deuce Spade, half-awake and trying very hard to remember whether he’d finished the history assignment due that afternoon.
“Oi, Deuce.” Ace nudged something across the table with two fingers. “One of Yuu’s ghost buddies found this on the floor.”
Deuce blinked down at it. It was an envelope with cream-colored paper, his name written carefully across the front with near handwriting. The second he recognized the writing, Deuce’s entire posture straightened.
Ace narrowed his eyes at that. “. . . Why do you look like that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Like what?” Deuce stammered.
Ace raised a brow, “Like somebody just proposed to you.”
“I do not look like that!” Deuce flushed, taking hold of the envelope.
“Who’s it from??” Ace pushed.
“No one!”
“That’s definitely not suspicious,” Ace said as Deuce shoved the envelope into his blazer pocket so quickly he nearly knocked over his tea.
Across the table, Yuuken looked up from their breakfast with visible amusement. “Oh,” they said casually, “so that’s why he checks the mailbox every morning.”
Deuce choked. “I don’t check it every morning!” he vehemently denied.
“You absolutely do,” Ace interrupted. “You spring to it after class.”
“That’s because—because—”
Ace gasped dramatically. “No way.” He leaned across the table, “Deuce.”
“No,” Deuce immediately replied.
“You have a secret admirer!”
“I DON’T.” Deuce flushed.
Cater materialized beside them instantly, as if he sensed drama in the air itself. “What’s this about a secret admirer?” He gushed, leaning aggressively into Deuce’s space.
Deuce shook his head violently. “It’s not a secret admirer!” His eyes panned sporadically between the people cornering him, trying—and failing miserably—to prove them wrong.
“Then open the letter,” Ace said, wiggling his brows.
Deuce stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. “I’m eating somewhere else,” he announced, his face so red it rivaled Riddle’s hair.
“You haven’t touched your food,” Try pointed out.
“I lost my appetite!” Ace cackled as Deuce practically fled the dining hall, one hand clamped protectively over his pocket.
“HE’S BLUSHING!” Ace shouted after him.
“I AM NOT!”
Deuce exited the dining hall and didn’t stop walking until he was alone.
He sat beneath a tree in the courtyard, hidden from the main paths, carefully turning the envelope over in his hands.
Then he smiled, the action natural and soft—completely different than the loud, embarrassed expressions he wore around everyone else.
He opened it carefully, making sure not to tear the paper.
Deuce,
Your mother says you nearly set your sleeve on fire in alchemy last week. . .again.
I’m starting to think Night Raven is less a school and more a highly organized hazard. . . She laughed while telling me, btw. She wasn’t angry, though she did make me promise to remind you to stop leaning over open flames when you get excited.
Clock Town’s been busy lately. The bakery near the square finally reopened after renovations, and your mother dragged me there before work yesterday morning. I bought one of the strawberry pastries. It was terrible. Awful, even. I definitely didn’t go back for another after lunch.
Work at the shop’s been quieter this week. We reorganized the storage room yesterday, and we found one of your middle school jackets buried in a box. The black one. Your mother said you used to insist it made you look cool.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was raising the least intimidating delinquent in the Queendom of Roses, though I suppose I should thank that version of you a little; otherwise, we probably never would’ve met.
. . . It’s strange; the town feels quieter without you in it.
I miss walking home with you after work. I miss hearing your blastcycle from three streets away because you somehow make everything louder than necessary.
And before you deny it in your next letter, yes, your engine is obnoxiously loud.
Please take care of yourself. Eat properly and try not to fight anyone.
Write back soon,
Y/n.
By the end of the letter, Deuce’s face hurt from smiling. His thumb brushed carefully over the signature, then he groaned quietly and buried his face in one hand. “. . . I miss him,” he grumbled.
“You miss who?”
Deuce nearly launched himself six feet into the air. Ace stood directly behind the bench, looking amusedly at his friend as Deuce yelped. “What are you doing here?!”
“You’re acting very suspiciously,” he teased.
“That’s not a reason to stalk someone!” Ace leaned sideways, trying to peek at the paper, and Deuce immediately folded the letter shut.
“Oh, there’s definitely a person,” Ace smirked.
“There is not!” Deuce glared.
“You just said ‘I miss him!’” Ace gave the worst impression of his friend, and Deuce couldn’t repress the intense grimace.
“I did not.” He grumbled.
“You literally did.”
“. . . You’re hallucinating.”
Ace stared at him. “Deuce,” he deadpanned.
“What?”
“You’re smiling like an idiot.” Deuce promptly covered his face with the letter. “Go away,” he mumbled from behind it.
Ace grinned, “Oh, this is golden.”
“I said go away!” Deuce flushed.
💙
That night, long after Ace stopped trying to interrogate him, Deuce sat at his desk beneath the dim dorm lights, tongue poking out in concentration as he wrote his response.
He rewrote the first sentence four times, and eventually, he started over entirely.
Y/n,
First of all, I almost caught my sleeve on fire because Ace distracted me on purpose. Second, I was not ‘excited.’ I was making a point.
There’s a difference.
Also, tell my mom I said thanks for worrying about me, and tell her I’m doing fine.
. . . And maybe refrain from mentioning alchemy to her again, I can already hear the lecture.
Things at NRC have been normal lately. Ace is still annoying, Grim stole someone’s lunch yesterday, Riddle caught two students painting roses the wrong shade again, and now everyone’s been tense all morning.
I think Trey and Yuu are the only sane people in this school.
Classes have been rough, but I’m trying hard, I really am.
I know I still mess up sometimes, but whenever things get difficult, I remember what you and Mom said before I left. I think about it a lot.
. . . And for the record, my blastcycle is not loud. You’re exaggerating.
A little.
. . . Maybe.
Anyway—
I miss you too, more than I thought I would. Every time something funny happens, I keep thinking I should tell you about this later.
It’s weird not seeing you every day, even though it’s been a few months since I’ve enrolled. Sometimes when I get letters from home, I can almost pretend I’m back there for a little while.
I like hearing about your days, even the boring parts. So keep writing to me, okay?
And don’t work too hard either.
Miss you,
Deuce.
P.S. If you tell anyone about the middle school jacket, I’ll never forgive you.
💙
Deuce,
Your mother read the part where you said your blastcycle wasn’t loud and laughed so hard she had to sit down.
So, unfortunately for you, I no longer believe any denial you make with confidence.
Also, I regret to inform you that your middle school jacket information is now permanently stored in my memory forever.
I plan to weaponize it lovingly.
Work was busy today. A customer tried to flirt with your mother while checking out, and she smiled politely while I nearly dropped an entire crate because I realized in that moment exactly where you inherited your ability to accidentally attract attention.
She says hello, btw.
She also told me to remind you to wear a scarf when it gets colder.
You’re very loved here, you know. The neighbors still ask about you, even Mrs. Amy said she misses seeing you run errands for Mother Dearest. Though she also said you nearly knocked over an entire grocery cart because you were trying to show off.
I’m sensing a pattern, it’s funny.
Sometimes I still catch myself looking toward the shop door around closing time, expecting you to walk in, and every time I remember you’re not here, the town feels a little smaller than before.
But your letters help, so write me another one soon.
Tell me about your classes or your dorm or about the things that make you laugh, I want to hear all of it.
And Deuce? I’m proud of you. I hope you know that.
Talk to you soon,
Y/n.
P.S. Your mom says if you’re skipping breakfast again, she’ll somehow find out.
💙
Morning in Clock Town always arrived early. Shopkeepers rolled open painted shutters, bells echoed down narrow streets, and the scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery near the square, mixing with the crisp sweetness of early roses climbing along brick walls.
And inside Spade’s Repair Shop, chaos had already begun.
“Careful!”
“I am being careful—”
“You’re holding the entire box sideways!”
“I know what I’m doing!”
The box immediately split open, and metal parts clattered across the floor.
There was silence before Deuce’s mother laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the counter.
“Oh, Sweetheart,” she said between breaths, “that’s exactly what Deuce used to do.”
Y/n stared at the disaster around his feet. “. . . You say that like it’s reassuring,” he sighed.
“It is reassuring.”
Another screw rolled away across the floorboards. Y/n grumbled dramatically and crouched to pick it up while Ms. Spade continued laughing under her breath.
Working with Dylla Spade had become strangely easy over the past several months. At first he’d been nervous, but Deuce’s mother had such a warm presence that it instantly calmed him. She’d welcomed him into the shop so naturally that eventually she became akin to another mother for Y/n.
Likewise, along the way, the shop had begun feeling like a second home. Even now, as he gathered scattered bolts from the floor, she leaned over the counter with a knowing smile. “You know,” she said casually, "he writes differently when he’s talking to you.”
Y/n froze mid-reach. “. . . What?”
She pretended to reorganize receipts. “My son,” she clarified. “He writes differently.”
“How would you know that??” Y/n asked, perplexed. Most of the time, Ms. Spade didn’t read the letters made for Y/n, and when she did, it was purely accidental (yet amusing all the same).
“Because I’m his mother.” She laughed again, “When Deuce writes to me, his letters are sweet, but
rushed. Half the words look like he’s trying to outrun the paper.” She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “But whenever he writes to you, he slows down.”
Heat crept into Y/n’s face. “You can tell that?”
“Of course I can!”
“That’s terrifying.” A blush started to bloom across his face.
“It’s adorable," Ms. Spade cooed in response. Y/n buried his face in his hands, and her smile softened.
Outside, the bell above the shop door jingled as a customer entered, mercifully interrupting the conversation. But as he stood to help them, Ms. Spade spoke again, gentler this time. “He really loves you, you know.”
Y/n stopped, and for a moment, the bustle of the shop seemed quieter. Then he smiled faintly without turning around. “. . . I know.”
The rest of the day went smoothly, and by the evening, Y/n and Ms. Spade closed up the shop together. Y/n balanced the day’s ledger against one arm while Deuce’s mother counted the register.
“You’ve got a letter,” she said suddenly, and Y/n’s head snapped up. She pointed toward the counter, where a familiar cream-colored envelope rested beside the lamp.
Just like every other time, his chest tightened the moment he saw the handwriting, and he tried not to look too eager as he reached for it.
“Oh dear,” Ms. Spade sighed dramatically, “That expression again.”
Y/n ignored her with dignity, mainly because he was already opening the envelope.
Y/n,
I’m writing this during study hall because if I stay in the dorm any longer, Ace is going to kill me. Or I’m going to kill Ace. Either way, one of us isn’t surviving the week.
He found out I’ve been getting letters. Not from whom, but now he keeps trying to “catch me acting romantic,” which apparently includes staring at me every time I smile at literally anything.
Yesterday, he asked if I was thinking about my mysterious lover, and I almost threw a textbook at him. Yuu isn’t helping either; they just sit there looking amused all the time like they know something. . . I think they probably do. Please pray for me.
Anyway, classes have been exhausting lately, but good exhausting, I guess. Professor Trein actually completed one of my assignments yesterday, and I thought I was hallucinating. Ace said the old man was probably possessed. Riddle heard him and assigned us extra work for it. So if I disappear mysteriously, assume Riddle finally executed me.
Oh, and you were right about one thing. The blastcycle might be a little louder than I remember. . . Just a little. Don’t get smug about it!
. . . I miss you. I know I keep saying it, but I do.
Sometimes the dorm gets really loud at night, and I end up rereading your letters before bed because it feels quieter afterward. Kinda like home.
That probably sounds dumb, but it’s true.
I'm trying hard here. Not just with school, but with everything. I want you to be proud of me when I come back.
No, selfishly, I want to be someone you can look at and think, “That's my boyfriend.”
Though hopefully less embarrassing than how that sentence sounded written down. . .
Actually, forget I wrote that.
No, seriously, burn this letter.
Please,
Deuce.
P.S. Ace is trying to look over my shoulder right now. If he somehow ends up dead, tell everyone I fought bravely.
P.P.S. Don't actually burn the letter
P.P.P.S. I hate that you're probably smiling right now.
By the time he finished reading, Y/n was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.
The paper crackled softly between his fingers as he reread the last few lines.
That’s my boyfriend.
Heat climbed slowly into his face.
“Oh no,” Ms. Spade said from behind the counter. “That expression means he said something unbearably sweet again.”
“He did not.”
“You're blushing.” She wiggled a finger toward him, smiling cheekily.
Y/n didn't deny it, instead rolling his eyes as he folded the letter with exaggerated care, trying very hard to regain some amount of dignity while Ms. Spade continued organizing the counter with the satisfied air of someone watching a romance drama unfold in real time.
“You know,” Ms. Slade mused, “he used to hate writing.”
Y/n glanced up, “Hm?”
“As a kid, getting him to write thank-you cards was like preparing for battle.” She laughed quietly while stacking invoices into neat piles. “He'd sit there for an hour trying to think of the ‘perfect’ sentence.”
“That sounds like him,” Y/n said fondly.
“He still does it, doesn't he?” Y/n recalled the slightly uneven lines in Deuce’s handwriting; the scratched-out words and sentences that clearly started one way before being rewritten entirely. The way every page somehow sounded exactly like him—a little awkward, but earnest all the same.
“. . . Yeah,” Y/n admitted softly, “he overthinks everything.”
“He cares very deeply,” Ms. Spade corrected gently.
Silence settled between them before Ms. Spade spoke up again, “You know what I think?”
Y/n looked at her, and she continued, “I think he's happier now than he used to be.” The teasing tone had faded as she rested an elbow against the counter, gaze distant for a moment. “Before he met you,” she said, quieter now, “he always carried everything by himself. Every mistake or failure felt enormous to him.” She smiled faintly, “Even when he was trying to act tough, he was still just a sweet boy worrying too much about disappointing people.”
Y/n diligently listened, and Ms. Spade’s eyes softened. “But after he met you, he started smiling more.” Her expression turned cheeky, “He talks about you constantly, you know.”
“He does not.” Y/n rolled his eyes.
“He absolutely does,” she countered. “He tries to be subtle about it.” She laughed, “But mothers notice things.”
Y/n could picture it too easily: Deuce trying to sound casual while bringing him up in conversation, probably stumbling over his words halfway through; probably blushing profusely; probably getting defensive if anyone pointed it out.
The thought made warmth spread through him all over again.
Ms. Spade stretched and glanced toward the clock. “Oh, dear. We should probably finish closing before we both end up sleeping here.” Y/n nodded absently, still holding the letter carefully.
“You can take your time, Sweetheart.”
Y/n blinked, “Hm?”
She gestured to the paper, “With writing back.” She smiled knowingly as she gathered the last stack of paperwork. “Because judging by your face, you’re already composing the response in your head.”
Embarrassingly enough, she was completely right.
💙
The letter arrived on a Thursday afternoon, which immediately made Ace suspicious.
“Why are you running?” He asked.
“I’m not running,” Deuce replied.
“You almost knocked over three first-years.” Deuce ignored him and kept marching quickly across the courtyard, one hand clenched around the envelope tucked safely inside his blazer.
Behind him, Ace and Yuuken exchanged identical looks. “Oh, he’s absolutely got a boyfriend,” Ace whispered, and Yuu nodded solemnly, “Or he’s involved in espionage.”
“I still think boyfriend.”
Yuuken shrugged, “Probably both.”
“I HEARD THAT!” Deuce spun around while walking backward. “You’re both insane!” he chastised.
Ace pointed at him dramatically, “Then explain the secret letters!”
“They’re private!”
“That’s not a denial.” Ace crossed his arms, popping his hip in triumph.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Deuce glared.
Yuu tilted their head thoughtfully. “You smile at them quite a bit,” they remarked.
“I do not,” Deuce immediately denied.
“You do,” Yuuken said, “. . . A lot.”
Ace gasped. “He admits it!”
“I didn’t admit anything!” By this point, several students walking past had started glancing over, and Deuce’s face burned instantly. “Can you two lower your voices??”
Ace leaned closer with narrowed eyes. “. . . Wait.”
Deuce stiffened.
“Oh no,” Yuuken murmured, recognizing that expression.
Ace’s grin widened slowly, “You just got a new one, didn’t you?”
“. . . Maybe.”
“AHA!”
“Keep your voice down!” Deuce flushed, and Ace clutched his chest dramatically, “Oh, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Deuce’s face only got redder. “You’re being weird.”
“Says the man carrying handwritten love letters like they’re national treasures,” Ace said accusingly, pointing a finger at him. Deuce instinctively shoved the envelope deeper in his pocket.
Yuuken laughed quietly, “He’s protecting it.”
“I’m protecting my privacy!” Deuce deflected. Yuu merely hummed in response.
“I hate both of you,” the flushed boy grumbled.
“And yet,” Ace sighed wistfully, “you refuse to tell us your tragic romance backstory.”
“There is no tragic romance backstory!”
Ace wiggled his eyebrows, “So there is romance?”
Deuce froze, and Ace’s eyes widened. Yuuken covered their mouth to stop themself from laughing.
“Oh my Seven,” Ace whispered, “There really is somebody.”
Deuce looked genuinely panicked now. “Okay, listen—”
“You have a secret boyfriend!”
“Keep your voice down!”
Ace grabbed Yuu’s shoulders violently. “HE HAS A SECRET BOYFRIEND!”
“I CAN SEE THAT, ACE,” Yuuken shouted in retaliation.
Several nearby students turned fully this time. Deuce looked seconds away from spontaneous combustion.
“You’re both dead to me,” he declared before he turned and fled before either of them could say another word.
Ace watched him disappear around the corner, then he slowly turned toward Yuuken. “. . . Ten Thaumarks says the letters smell like perfume.”
Yuu snorted, “Absolutely not.”
“Twenty says Deuce keeps them under his pillow.”
Yuu shrugged, “That one I can actually believe.”
💙
Deuce didn’t open the letter until later that evening. Heartslabyul had finally gone quiet, and most students had retired to their rooms.
The halls carried only distant echoes now: soft footsteps, muffled laughter, and conversations somewhere far away.
Deuce sat at his desk with the lamp lit low beside him. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he opened the envelope.
Deuce,
First of all, your mother says you looked exhausted in the picture Cater posted last week.
Congratulations, you’re now being monitored remotely by two people instead of one.
Second, before you deny it, yes, the dark circles under your eyes were visible. Yes, you need more sleep. And yes, I am judging you lovingly.
Clock Town’s been quieter lately. The rain started earlier this week, so most people hurry home before evening now. Your mother and I spent half of yesterday dragging flower pots inside before the storm rolled in.
Well, she dragged them. I carried them.
The bakery started selling cinnamon rolls again, and your mother bought extra because she said they were your favorite, and she looked sad for a second because you weren’t here to steal half the tray before dinner. So naturally, I stole one in your honor. I think I’ll send one over with my next letter.
I miss you in strange ways lately. I miss hearing you complain outside the shop when it’s cold. I miss watching you pretend not to worry about people while very obviously worrying about people. I miss how loud you are when you get excited about something.
And before you get embarrassed reading this: yes, I know you’re blushing. You always do when people say sincere things to you.
Honestly, it’s a little unfair—you spend so much time trying to become ‘better’ that I don’t think you realize how loved you truly are.
Your mother loves you. Your friends love you.
And I. . .
Well.
I love you too.
I know we say it less in letters than we probably should, maybe because writing it down makes the distance feel more real somehow.
But I do, even from all the way across the sea.
So sleep properly, eat breakfast, and try not to explode in alchemy.
Come home safe,
Y/n.
P.S. Your mother says if Ace keeps stealing snacks, she’ll start mailing him vegetables instead. . . Yikes.
Deuce stared at the page, rereading that same line over and over again.
I love you too.
I love you too.
Something warm and aching spread slowly through his chest. He leaned back in his chair and covered part of his face with one hand, smiling helplessly into his palm. “. . . Idiot,” he mumbled fondly to absolutely nobody.
A knock sounded against the door, and Deuce nearly launched out of his skin. “What?!”
The door creaked open, and Ace peeked inside. “There you are.” He paused. “. . . Why do you look like you’re about to cry?”
“I’m not!”
Ace raised a brow, “You are.”
“I’m fine.” Deuce refused to meet his eyes.
Ace narrowed his eyes, then he spotted the letter, then Deuce’s expression. . .then the unmistakably soft look in his eyes.
For once, Ace stopped joking. “Oh,” he said quietly.
Deuce blinked, and Yuuken appeared beside Ace a second later, clearly having followed him there.
“What’s going on—” he stopped too, and the silence shifted.
Deuce looked between them awkwardly. “. . . You’re both staring.”
Ace rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, it’s just. . .” He shrugged once. “You look really happy.”
That caught Deuce off guard. The embarrassment was still there, of course, but now it felt smaller somehow.
Yuu leaned lightly against the doorway. “So,” they said, “there really is someone.”
Deuce looked down at the letter again—at the handwriting he’d started recognizing instantly; at the careful folds in the paper; at the ink smudges; at the words that somehow always made the distance easier to bear.
Then he laughed quietly through his nose. “. . . Yeah.”
Ace’s eyes widened. “WAIT, YOU’RE ACTUALLY ADMITTING IT?”
Deuce glared at him, “Don’t make me regret this!”
“No, no, no—hold on.” Ace pointed accusingly. “You have an actual boyfriend??”
“. . . Yes.”
“For how long?!”
Deuce hesitated. “. . . A while.”
“A WHILE?!”
Yuuken looked delighted, but Ace kept spiraling. “You kept this secret for months?!”
“I didn’t know how to bring it up!” Deuce explained.
Ace looked personally betrayed. “You let me think you were secretly involved in organized crime!”
“That’s your own fault!”
“You’re in LOVE?!”
Deuce was as red as a tart now. “Can you stop yelling that part?!”
Ace collapsed dramatically against the doorframe. “I can’t believe Deuce Spade is better at romance than me.”
“That’s a low bar,” Yuuken said immediately, and Ace glared at them without any real malice. “Wow. Betrayal.”
Deuce groaned into his hands. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”
“But wait,” Ace said, suddenly excited again. “What’s he like??”
Deuce opened his mouth, paused, and then his entire expression softened again without him noticing.
Yuuken saw it first and smiled while Ace stared in horror. “Oh, he’s gone,” Ace remarked.
“I am not.”
“You looked at that letter like it personally hung the moon.” Yuu raised a brow.
“I hate you both,” Deuce grumbled, attempting to glare at his closest friends, but the action failed spectacularly.
Somewhere far away across the sea, completely unaware of the chaos he’d caused, the boy who wrote those letters probably sat beneath the warm lights of a little repair shop, already waiting for the next reply.
💙
Y/n,
Ace found out your name.
This is your fault somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I’m assigning blame early.
Before you panic: I didn’t tell him on purpose. He saw me smiling at one of your letters during lunch and said—and I quote—“There’s no way someone that in love hasn’t accidentally written the guy’s name somewhere.”
Which is ridiculous, because I’m careful. Very careful, actually.
Unfortunately, he was right. Apparently, I left one of your envelopes sitting out on my desk while everyone was studying.
So now Ace keeps walking past me, saying things like: “Oooh, what would Y/n think about this?” or “Should we invite your boyfriend to Heartslabyul?”
I’m considering murder.
Yuu’s worse somehow because they just sit there looking amused all the time like an elder watching a drama unfold.
Anyway. . .today was exhausting. We had flying practice this morning, and Ace crashed directly into a tree because he got distracted trying to bother me midair, then he blamed me for it.
Coach Vargas assigned us both extra laps. . .again.
You’d think I’d be used to NRC by now, but every single day here still feels a little insane. Though sometimes I wish you could see it.
Not the dangerous parts like the overblots or Grim trying to eat things he definitely shouldn’t.
I mean the smaller stuff, like the gardens after it rains, or the way the dorm lights look late at night when everybody’s awake studying.
I wish you could sit beside me during all of it. I think you’d like it here.
Well, maybe not all of it. You’d definitely tell Ace to shut up within an hour.
Actually, you’d probably get along terribly.
. . . Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it’s safer if you stay in Clock Town.
Mom sent another package yesterday. I haven’t opened the tea yet because the second I smelled it, it reminded me of home so much I had to put it away again.
Forget I said that.
No, actually, don’t forget it. I want you to know things like that. I want you to know all the embarrassing parts too, because when I come back, I don’t want there to be anything you don’t know about me.
. . . I miss you a lot, too.
You know something weird? I think I’ve memorized your handwriting. I can tell what mood you’re in by how hard you press the pen.
That’s probably insane. . .don’t make fun of me for it.
Write back soon, okay? And sleep properly, you always stay up too late when it rains.
I love you,
Deuce.
P.S. Mom apparently wants “couple pictures” the next time I visit home. Please save me.
💙
Deuce,
First of all, I’d like it officially documented somewhere that you absolutely deserve Ace bullying you for leaving evidence out in the open.
You are many things, Deuce Spade. Subtle is not one of them.
Second, your mother laughed for a full five minutes after I told her Ace discovered by name. She said it was inevitable and that you’ve never hidden a feeling successfully in your life.
So unfortunately, you’re outnumbered.
Clock Town’s colder now too. The mornings have that sharp kind of chill that makes everyone walk faster, hands shoved into coat pockets while shopkeepers complain about Winter coming early.
Your mother forced a scarf onto me yesterday because apparently I “look cold easily.”
I think she just likes taking care of people. Which explains a lot about you, actually.
The flower shop near the fountain started hanging lanterns outside for the season, and when we walked back from work tonight, the entire street was glowing gold from the rain.
It reminded me of you a little. I stood there longer than I meant to, imagining what it would feel like to walk through it with you.
. . . You know what I miss most? Your hands, and not even in a dramatic way. I just miss reaching for them automatically.
You always hold on like you’re afraid someone might pull me away from you if you let go for too long.
The first time you did it, I remembered thinking how you loved with your entire heart. And you do, even when you’re embarrassed or trying to act tougher than you are. You love so honestly it almost hurts to witness sometimes.
I hope you know I treasure that about you. And for the record: I would absolutely survive Heartslabyul.
Riddle would fear me within a week.
Ace would probably annoy me, yes, but I think I’d eventually start finding him funny against my will.
Yuu already sounds like they know entirely too much, but they seem the most sane (yes, even more than you).
And you’d spend the entire time blushing every time someone called me your boyfriend, which means I absolutely plan on making eye contact while doing it.
You walked directly into that one.
I love you too. Enough that the distance feels temporary instead of impossible. Enough that even ordinary days feel important because I know I’ll get to tell you about them later. Enough that sometimes I catch myself smiling in empty rooms just because I remembered something you said.
I’ll be waiting,
Y/n.
P.S. Your mother has already started planning those couple pictures. You’re doomed.
💙
Y/n,
I read your letter three times.
Four, technically. Ace stole it halfway through this read because apparently privacy is illegal in this dorm.
He only got two sentences in before I tackled him to the floor, so if my handwriting looks worse than usual, it’s because my shoulder still hurts from defending my honor.
Also, you saying Riddle would fear you is the funniest thing I’ve ever read. I showed that line to Yuu, and they started laughing so hard they almost spilled tea everywhere.
Now they really want to meet you. Ace does too, but mostly because he says anyone capable of dating me long distance must have supernatural patience.
That one hurt a little.
. . . I liked what you said about my hands. I didn’t realize I did that—hold on too tight, I mean. But I think maybe you’re right. I spent so long losing people or disappointing them that sometimes loving someone still feels a little terrifying. Like, if I’m not careful enough, the whole thing could disappear.
But you've never made me feel difficult to love. Not once. Even when I mess things up or get angry too fast. You stay, and I don’t think I can explain what that means to me properly. Maybe I’ll tell you when I come home instead, because I think if I tried writing all of it down, this letter would never end.
It’s strange. Before NRC, I thought growing up meant becoming someone completely different. But lately I think maybe it just means becoming someone honest.
Honestly? I love you so much it scares me sometimes. Not in a bad way.
You’re part of my life now in everything. Every funny story becomes something I want to tell you; every bad day feels easier because eventually I’ll see your handwriting waiting for me; every future I imagine somehow has you standing in it already.
I don’t think I say things beautifully like you do; I’m not good with words. But I mean every single one when I tell you this: When I come home, the first thing I’m doing is finding you.
I’m finding you first, and then I’m kissing you until all this distance finally feels real enough to hate properly.
. . . That sounded cooler in my head. Don’t laugh.
I love you. More than I know what to do with sometimes,
Deuce.
P.S. Mom sent another scarf. Apparently, we’re both incapable of dressing ourselves correctly.
💙
The first snowfall came quietly to Clock Town. By morning, the rooftops were dusted white, thin trails of smoke curling from chimneys while shopkeepers swept paths through the snow outside their storefronts.
Inside Spade’s Repair Shop, warmth wrapped around everything. The heater hummed softly in the corner, a kettle steamed on the counter, and an old radio played low music beneath the sounds of tools clinking together.
And in the middle of it all sat Y/n on a stool wearing one of Deuce’s old hoodies. Technically, it had been “accidentally” left behind months ago.
Technically, Ms. Spade had also handed it to him the second the weather got colder with a suspiciously innocent smile.
“You’re shivering,” she’d said, and now here he was, wrapped in soft dark fabric that still faintly smelled like laundry soap and engine oil.
“Sweetheart,” Y/n looked up, and Ms. Spade stood nearby holding two mugs. “You’ve been staring at the letter for ten minutes.” She handed him the mug: hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
Apparently, she’d decided months ago that feeding him regularly was now part of her responsibilities.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Of course.” She brushed snow from her coat before settling beside Y/n behind the counter.
For a while, they simply sat together comfortably. Y/n reread portions of Decue’s last letter while snow drifted softly outside the windows.
“You know,” Ms. Spade said casually, “he used to sleep in that hoodie constantly.”
Y/n looked down. “. . . Really?”
“Mhm.” She smiled fondly. “Especially after bad days.” Something about that settled heavily and warmly in Y/n’s chest, and he could picture it too easily—a younger Deuce curled up somewhere after a difficult day, arms crossed stubbornly, and hood pulled over his head while pretending he wasn’t upset about something.
The image made his heart ache with affection.
“He always wanted to seem tougher than he actually was,” she continued softly, “But when he loved something. . .” She laughed, “Oh, he loved it completely.”
Y/n smiled into his drink. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I noticed.”
Ms. Spade looked at him. “You take very good care of him.”
Y/n blinked. “I try to.”
“And he tries just as hard with you.” That nearly undid him more than it should have.
He’d never really had this before—not the relationship with Deuce, though that too. Truly, he meant this. The quiet domesticity, the warmth, the feeling of belonging somewhere without needing permission first.
Some nights after closing the shop, Ms. Spade would insist he stay for dinner because “walking home in this weather is ridiculous.”
Sometimes she fixed his scarf before he left, or scolded him for skipping meals, or rested a hand briefly against his hair when he looked tired in a way that made his chest hurt unexpectedly.
Little, mother-shaped things. Each one settled carefully into the empty spaces inside him.
“You’re thinking hard again,” she said gently.
Y/n startled. “. . . Sorry.”
“Oh, Sweetheart.” Before he could react, she reached over and adjusted the hood of Deuce’s hoodie around his shoulders properly. The motion was so familiar, so instinctive, Y/n suddenly had to look away before his expression betrayed him entirely.
“You really are alike,” she murmured fondly.
Y/n laughed weakly. “That feels concerning.”
“You both carry loneliness the same way.”
The room quieted, and Y/n stared down into his cup. “. . . He makes it easier,” he admitted after a moment.
Ms. Spade’s expression softened. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I think you do that for him, too.”
💙
Y/n,
IT SNOWED HERE.
I know that’s not important, but you should know that Ace immediately tried to throw snow at people and slipped directly into a hedge.
I thought you’d appreciate that.
Also, Cater found out I have a boyfriend now, which means my life is effectively over. He keeps calling you “mystery boyfriend-san” and asking when he gets to meet you.
I made the mistake of telling him “eventually.”Now everyone’s acting like I announced a royal engagement. Even Trey smiled at me weirdly when I got your last letter.
I think everyone in this dorm has decided I’m some kind of romance novel protagonist now.
Please save me.
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about home a lot lately. Probably because Winter always reminds me of it. Mom making tea in the mornings, the shop heater barely working, the way the streets look after it snows.
You. Mostly you. I keep imagining what it’s going to feel like seeing you again after all this time.
Honestly, I don’t think I’m going to handle it normally.
Ace says I’m definitely going to try, which is ridiculous.
. . . I’m probably going to cry a little. Don’t tell anyone.
I miss touching you. I miss holding your hand, pulling you close, falling asleep beside you without having to count weeks between seeing you again.
Sometimes the distance gets frustrating enough that I start walking faster for no reason, like somehow it’ll get me home sooner.
That sounds insane written down, but it’s true.
I want to come back already. I want to sit beside you at the shop again, and hear your voice without paper between us, and kiss you without having to imagine it afterward.
And maybe this sounds stupid, but thank you for waiting for me. For writing back every single time, for making this feel real even from so far away.
You make things easier, and I love you for that.
I love you for a lot of things,
Deuce.
P.S. Mom mailed me another scarf. I officially own too many scarves now.
💙
Deuce,
Your mother says you’ve been pacing again. Apparently she can tell through the letters somehow. . . I’ve stopped questioning it. At this point, I think most mothers simply possess abilities beyond mortal understanding.
Clock Town’s covered in snow now. The entire square looked silver this morning when we opened the shop, and your mother nearly slipped on ice because she was trying to carry too many things at once.
The shop’s warm today, but the heater’s making that weird rattling noise again.
Somehow, all of it keeps making me think about you.
I think you exist in this town permanently in the little things, like habits and routines. Even people ask about you constantly, btw. Mrs. Beatrice from the flower stall told me that you’d better visit or soon she’ll drag you back herself.
You’re beloved here. I hope you know that.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately, too, about what it’ll feel like when you finally come home. At first, I imagined something dramatic, like running into your arms or some cheesy movie-worthy reunion words. But honestly, I think what I want most is something quieter. I want to walk beside you home after work. I want to hear you ramble about your classes while you help close the shop. I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up the next morning knowing I don’t have to count down days anymore.
I want ordinary things with you so badly it aches sometimes. And maybe that sounds silly, but I think loving someone long distance teaches you how precious ordinary things really are.
I miss your laugh, and your voice, and the way you always lean closer without realizing it when you’re listening carefully.
I even miss arguing with you, though you’re still wrong about your blastcycle not being obnoxiously loud.
. . . I think I’m a little scared too, if I’m honest. Not about seeing you again, that part I want more than anything.
I’m scared because sometimes I miss you so much it physically hurts, and I don’t know what I’m going to do once you’re finally standing in front of me again.
I think I might just stare at you for an hour, which you’ll either make fun of me for or blush profusely.
The distance feels heavier lately, and I think maybe both of us are getting tired of pretending we’re handling it gracefully.
I love you more than letters can really hold properly,
Y/n.
By the end of the letter, Deuce was covering part of his face again.
Snow drifted softly through the gardens around him. The paper trembled in his hands—not because he was cold, but because every single word felt like home.
I want ordinary things with you so badly it aches sometimes.
Something tightened painfully in his chest, because yes, that was exactly it. Not grand gestures, not dramatic confessions.
He wanted mornings, shared meals, warmth beside him at night, the sound of the shop bell ringing while you looked up and smiled because he’d come home.
Simple things. Things that suddenly felt enormous because they belonged to the future—a future he wanted desperately.
“. . . You’re crying.” Deuce startled violently, and Ace stood several feet away holding two cups of tea.
Deuce sniffled. “I am not.”
“You totally are.”
“I’m literally not!”
Ace walked closer slowly this time, quieter than usual. Not teasing, but observant. “. . . You really love him, huh?”
Deuce looked back down at the letter; at the familiar handwriting, the careful words, the life waiting for him across the sea.
He laughed softly through his nose. “. . . Yeah.”
Ace handed him one of the cups. “You know,” he said after a moment, “for someone who acts tough all the time, you’re actually ridiculously sentimental.”
Deuce accepted the tea with a weak glare. “Shut up,” he said without ill will.
“No, seriously. This is, like, aggressively romantic.”
“I hate talking to you.”
Ace smirked, “You’re smiling again.”
“. . . Can you go away?”
Ace grinned. “Nope.”
Somehow, for the first time in a long while, the waiting didn’t feel quite as lonely.
💙
The bell above the shop door rang at exactly 5:12 in the evening. Soft and familiar, Y/n barely looked up at first.
He sat cross-legged on the floor near the counter, surrounded by inventory sheets while Ms. Spade reorganized shelves nearby, the warm golden glow of the shop lights spilling across the room.
Outside, snow drifted lazily through Clock Town. Inside smelled like machine oil, tea, and cinnamon pastries.
Home.
“Sweetheart,” Ms. Spade said absently while adjusting a display, “could you hand me the—”
The bell rang again, this time louder, and Y/n looked up automatically.
He stopped breathing.
Deuce stood in the doorway, snow clung to the shoulders of his coat. His scar hung crookedly around his neck like he’d put it on too fast. One hand still rested on the shop door while cold evening air curled in behind him.
For one suspended second, nobody moved. Y/n’s brain couldn’t seem to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.
Because this was impossible. Because Deuce was supposed to arrive tomorrow morning; because he’d reread the last letter enough times to memorize the schedule. Because—
“. . . Surprise?” Deuce said weakly, and that broke everything.
Y/n was on his feet so fast that the inventory papers scattered everywhere. “Deuce?!” His voice cracked around the name, and said boy's expression fell apart after hearing it.
Relief, longing, disbelief—all of it hit his face at once so openly that Y/n’s chest physically hurt looking at him.
“Hi,” Deuce said again, softer this time. And then the idiot smiled, small and nervous, like he still wasn’t completely sure this was real either.
Y/n crossed the room before he could think. Deuce barely had time to open his arms before he collided into him hard enough to stumble backward a step.
And there he was, warm, solid, real. Deuce made the softest sound the second Y/n wrapped around him fully, arms locking tight around his waist while Deuce buried his face against his shoulder like he’d been starving for this exact touch.
“You’re here,” Y/n breathed.
“I had the chance to leave early,” Deuce mumbled against him. “I wanted. . . I couldn’t wait anymore.” The honesty in his voice nearly undid him on the spot.
Y/n pulled back just enough to look at him, and Deuce looked at him like he’d walked out of a dream: eyes bright, cheeks pink from the cold, mouth parted slightly like he had too many feelings and no idea what to do with them.
“You cut your hair,” Deuce whispered suddenly.
Y/n blinked. “That’s what you noticed first?”
“I noticed everything first.”
Y/n laughed shakily, and something in Deuce’s expression softened even further at the sound, like hearing him laugh again after months physically relieved something inside him.
Y/n reached up carefully and touched his face. Deuce leaned into the gesture like he’d missed that too much to pretend otherwise.
“I missed you,” Y/n whispered.
Deuce laughed softly through what sounded dangerously close to tears. “I know.”
“No,” Y/n murmured, thumb brushing beneath his eye gently, “I really missed you.”
Something wrecked crossed Deuce’s face, and then he kissed him like he physically couldn’t hold back another second.
Y/n barely caught the surprised breath he made before Deuce’s hands found him completely—one gripping tightly at the back of his coat while the other cupped his jaw with trembling fingers.
Deuce kissed exactly the way he loved: earnestly, completely, like he was giving away every emotion he had at once.
There was nothing careful about it. Nothing distant. He kissed him like he’d spent every lonely night at NRC imagining this exact moment and still hadn’t managed to capture how good it would actually feel.
Y/n melted into him, his cold hands tangled into Deuce’s coat as their foreheads bumped awkwardly because both of them were smiling too hard halfway through.
Deuce laughed breathlessly against his mouth for one brief second before kissing him again, even softer this time; slower now, savoring it.
Yearning wrapped around every touch—every tiny movement. The way Deuce kept pulling him impossibly closer between kisses like proximity itself still didn’t feel sufficient after so long apart; the way his thumb shook slightly when it rested against Y/n’s cheek; the way he kept making quiet little relieved sounds without realizing it.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing unevenly, Deuce rested their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “. . . I thought about doing that every day,” he admitted.
The confession hit Y/n directly in the chest. “Yeah?”
Deuce nodded once, then, quieter, “Sometimes it was the only thing getting me through classes.”
Y/n laughed helplessly, eyes burning a little. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” Another kiss, shorter this time—tender. Deuce smiled against his mouth.
“Well,” Ms. Spade sighed dramatically, “I’m glad to know the emotional suffering has finally ended.”
Both of them jolted apart.
“MOM?!”
She stood nearby holding a box of inventory she very clearly had not been organizing for several minutes now, smiling so warmly it hurt. “Oh, don’t look so embarrassed,” she teased. “You’ve both been miserable for months.”
“We were not miserably,” Deuce argued weakly while still holding onto Y/n’s waist.
Y/n looked down to hide his smile, and Deuce’s mother raised one eyebrow. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “you mailed each other handwritten declarations of love twice a week.”
“. . . Okay, maybe a little miserable.”
She smiled triumphantly. “That’s what I thought.” Then she stepped closer and pulled Deuce into a hug so suddenly he made a startled noise.
“Oh, my baby’s home,” she cooed.
“Moooom,” Deuce groaned, though his voice softened around the edges in that automatic way it always did with her.
Y/n watched them quietly and suddenly understood something.
This. This warmth—this love—this was where Deuce came from, and no wonder he loved so openly.
Ms. Spade eventually pulled back only to cup her son’s face between her hands. “You’re too skinny,” she declared.
“I literally just got here.”
“And you still look too skinny.”
“I ate on the way!” He cried.
“School snacks don't count.”
Y/n laughed hard enough that he had to look away, and Deuce pointed at him in betrayal. “You’re supposed to defend me.”
“You’re losing this battle,” Y/n informed him kindly.
“Traitor.” Still, Deuce was smiling, bright and full. The kind of smile that only appeared when he was completely happy.
And when he reached for Y/n’s hand again a moment later, holding it tightly like second nature, neither of them let go.
💙