Sebastian,
It seems silly to write you a letter while I'm sitting next to you in bed, but you're asleep and I'm not, so here we are.
So here we are.
It sounds like the beginning of a book, doesn't it? It also sounds like the ending of one. Maybe that's exactly the sort of phrase we need to define whatever this is. The end of a book, the beginning of the sequel. For our sake, let's hope the sequel is as good as the original. No, let's be crazy, hm, and hope it's better? No repeats. No botched deaths, no extra boring Sherlock, just time and mischief and cleverness as far as the eye can see. Let's be kings, Sebastian, we could buy a castle and name it something convoluted and cheesy like Moriarty Manor. We could get a hairless cat and name it Beethoven von Vivaldi. We could do something no one expects; we could be in love.
You would smirk to know, Sebastian, that saying "we could be in love" makes the bile rise in the back of my throat while simultaneously making my mouth as dry as cotton. It's the very definition of the word disgusting. I hate it, the word love. I hate the idea of love, I hate the assumption of love and yet I can think of no other bastarding word that suits the way I feel about you. Even right now, love feels too cheap. Love is February 14th, the single most repulsive and obnoxious holiday on the calendar. Love is Pretty In Pink at a drive in cinema. Love is cheap roses bought instead of a wild daisy picked. It's too much money spent on perfect diamonds when all of the miracle resides in the pocks of their "imperfect" neighbors. Did you know, in every "imperfect" diamond, there's a piece of the ancient earth, trapped within the carbon? Normal people see imperfections, I see history. I see a hallowed glimpse of what once was. I see the planet.
To see the planet is to see a galaxy.
To see a galaxy is to see the universe.
Funny enough, I see the same things in you.
So here we are, imperfect diamonds. I recognize the cracks in you, you recognize the cracks in me and we coexist like binary stars. Is that love, Sebastian? Or is it science?
Or is it just.
Whatever it is, I'm in it with you, this mud that makes me want to strangle you when you're sleeping. You look like an eagle – you have that same reverence and dignity. I want to ruin it. I want to ruin you, paint you black and bury you in a basement. What makes you different is that I know I could never ruin you. You'd dig yourself out, the paint would wash off and there you'd be, good as new, your brow arched, giving me THAT look while you turn your attention back to your newspaper.
"James, play your bloody piano," you'd say and I would, because you'd know it was exactly what I needed to do.
I hate you.
You should balk at those words. You really should. However when I say I hate you, you know it's with every fibre of my being and that it's the highest compliment I know how to give.
So here we are.
Yours,
James
