color me in gold (lips like petals on my throat)

interludio.

The first time Eddy sees his letters opened knowing he hasn't touched them in weeks, he thinks the situation must all be one horrible prank of the universe, with him as the laughingstock.

The cogs in his brain turn and turn and turn. A lightbulb flickers on.

And then he thinks: oh fucking shit on a stick.

Here's the truth of the matter, on his end: Eddy doesn't catch on until after the fifth letter is read. Or at least: he thinks it's the fifth letter. The days have all blurred together, since the first time he had noticed the way the papers are unevenly stacked—he's never really been the tidy, squeaky-clean sort of type, but he has always been so very neat when it comes to his letters, hiding them under the bed aside. No, he's always been so careful with them, and so this upheaval that seems entirely out of place means that, at the very least, someone's been opening his letters. Someone's been reading his letters.

Following that line of logic, there's only one other person decidedly not him who's also staying at the apartment.

Which means, hear this out: Brett's been reading his letters.

So, really—

Fucking shit on a stick.

*

There is great danger in leaving things unsaid, moreso when they mean to speak of love. The longer the words are allowed to fester in the pit of one's throat, the harder it becomes to keep them under lock and key.

And so: writing gives an out. The ability to divulge our thoughts to the ether, to a listener who will always be available to us, who will not offer empty platitudes or overbearing counsel. We can speak of anything with no expectations of any judgement to be waged. And if we sometimes pretend we're speaking to another soul with a particular face and a particular name, well, that's our own business entirely.

From the get go, it had been inevitable. Love letters, it turns out, have ultimately become his saving grace.

*

He doesn't remember the very first letter he's ever written about Brett Yang, but he does know he hasn't stopped writing since then. He's produced a dozen more letters, a hundred more drafts, but he's only ever kept a few of them over the years, untouched and safe from the depths of the trash bin. Out of fondness, he'd say if asked, but really, it's a little bit more complicated than that.

One after the other, the letters stitch together a rough timeline of Eddy's life. His love has become the touchstone, the fixed point upon which his entire world revolves around. With just this, he can map out the years since the day he first met his best friend. With just this, he can unravel a decade and a half's worth of longing.

From the beginning, it had been undeniable. Did you know I couldn't keep my eyes off of you, from the start? From then on, the seeds of his love had only grown further, tiny weeds to a thriving garden. God knows I've spent a thousand prayers hoping you'd turn my way, and he has. He really has. God himself could tell you.

His longing spills over into the unholy hours. I've thought of you at night when I'm all alone. And oh, but he grows more selfish, more carnal: This is how I have learned to love you. Where are your hands when you think of me?

And despite the ever-forward march of time, he doesn't grow weary. His heart doesn't ever wave the white flag; it has never even considered it an option. But god help me, I'll never tire of chasing after you.