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Knock.
The sound cuts through the eerie silence of the hall, making him flinch despite how soft and well-intentioned it is, far too sudden for his liking. His fingers—usually stable and dexterous—quiver, causing the fountain pen to slip from his handle and drop over the wooden desk. Aesop watches idly as the instrument rolls down the surface, compromising the whites of his makeshift diary.
If he’s honest, he doesn’t quite care for the stains as long as his calligraphy is still legible by the dull light of his nightstand candle. It’s nothing but a secondary worry next to the expectant man behind his door.
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t invite anyone inside his quarters. If this was the woman, he’d quietly slide a blank note beneath the door for her to write whatever inquiry she had. If this was that other man, he would ignore him and his incessant knocking entirely. Since it’s him, however, Aesop is more than ready to make an exception.
Because it’s him. It can’t be anyone else but him. Aesop knows, deep inside his chest, that it must be him. It’s the weight of his steps and the shy, yet firm quality of his movements that let him know it’s him; dearest companion in tow, eager at the prospect of stretching its legs via hard work along the dusty halls of the manor.
The correspondence between Victor and him has been swift, smoothing their relationship into what could be called mutual understanding, the pieces slowly but surely falling into place. He doesn’t mind the wait; the plan must follow through. He’s a very patient man if anything.
Stretching his back, Aesop stands up on quivering knees and walks slowly, carefully building pace until the knob is within reach for his gloved hands. He swallows the sigh threatening to spill from his lips before twisting the handle.
Victor’s eyes are bright, twinkling above the darkness that encases them both; nods him a small salute and stays, looking out for Aesop’s lead. Perfect.
His friend isn’t a tall man, and the way he hunches makes him look even less so. Yet, his presence inside his room is on the bridge of staggering. Aesop would invite him to take a seat, but their rooms are sparsely decorated with the bare minimum. He looks past his shoulder, sparing a glance at his ruined desk. Considering his written words that successfully pulled the Postman in, he may be in urgent need of some clean paper.
In a show of acute perceptiveness, the man presents him with a notepad; pen hanging from the coil binding. Inside, the first message is already embodied in his beautiful, round handwriting:
Good afternoon!
It’s getting darker lately, isn’t it? I’ve been meaning to look for you, but time sure runs when you’re on duty! I wouldn’t want to bother you when the sun comes down…
Is it okay if we spend some time together?
Silver gaze takes in the soft features. It’s a game of sorts, trying to figure the shape of Victor’s smile as his face turns to properly acknowledge him. His chest burns, it might be the anticipation.
Sitting by the edge of his modest bedding, Aesop’s scribbling fills the room.
Good afternoon.
You’re hardly a bother. Feel welcome to visit whenever you like.
I don’t mind spending time with you.
Victor’s smile doesn’t falter when landing next to him and it stays while taking apart the message too. The moment those curious pupils stop scanning over his handwriting, he chuckles a sweet sound that rings in Aesop’s ears.
Thank you! That means a lot to me!
I’m afraid I may come off as selfish today, though…
I know you don’t hate lengthy letters, but this one could be a lot.
Regarding the severity of the particular subject, Aesop can’t help but wonder if perhaps his friend has an inkling about what his interest for him entails. That wouldn’t do. Not for the meantime.
It’s him the one that stalls now, shuffling the words inside his head before daring to write again.
You can trust me.
Reassurance is a tool. He wants Victor to be comfortable around him, enough to confide in secrets and bare his throat. The moment that happens, it’ll be Aesop’s chance to turn around his head and make him see. He knows it’s the right choice when Victor exhales with apparent relief.
The dog—Wick, as he recalls from prior interactions—wags its tail and, at Victor’s call, moves forward to present him with a letter very much like the ones they’re used to exchange. Addressed and folded, wax stamp hiding the contents away. There’s not a thing that’s different and it both relaxes and intrigues him.
Victor turns the notepad his way:
It’s a confession, He registers, head pounding, that I would like you to read.
Aesop stops himself to reflect on the message, outlining the words one by one. What’s the point of making such a claim? Wouldn’t it be better left off as part of one of their silent conversations?
He blinks, picking up the note lest Victor starts worrying about his lack of an answer.
It would mean a lot to me if I could see your face too. If not, I’ll understand.
Impulsively, he brings his hand up to thumb the edge of his mask.
It triggers a reaction immediately, Victor’s eyes glinting like the jewels some of his richest clients used to wrap themselves with, following the tip of his finger now barely sliding beneath the fabric, as if his gaze alone could will it to go further.
For once, Aesop’s not completely sure of the next step to take. Showing his face has never brought him anything but unwanted attention. It’s a difficult bargain. A one-off chance that leaves the odds to Victor, despite the so-called confession that lies within this letter. It makes his insides churn, anxiously twisting due to the unknown
Yet Victor looks so hopeful. It would be easier to make him trust Aesop if only he bent to this request of his and he’s done so many sacrifices already…
In the end, there’s no better muse than the alluring smile of his silent friend.
It’s a pretense of trust. Giving in, pulling down his mask for that glittering hazel to see and, for the first time, he thinks he might’ve miscalculated severely. This is far more invasive than previously considered. Under the dim candlelight, Victor’s eyes twinkle, ferociously alive. Aesop wouldn’t like anything more than to sew them shut.
It might be presumptuous of me to write this. I’ve pondered, time and time again, whether I should hand this over or keep it as I’ve done with so many other secrets.
Aesop’s lips purse ever so slightly, a small gesture that may go unnoticed by the untrained eye but not to Victor. Never Victor.
But then I realized you and I share a “bond”. The nature of this bond, however, I can’t bring myself to name. The odds that we’re alike in this very sense have kept me awake at night, lulled by the moonlight as I write for you.
His fingers pull at the paper, tightening over the delicate tissue as his heart pounds against his ribs. Yes. This bond, as Victor so graciously puts it, may be the key. He would accept his fate when the time comes. He would lay himself inside the coffin, and let Aesop fulfill his purpose. All for a few words. Such a small price for something so precious.
The corners of his lips curl up to the delight of that ravenous stare.
I’d like to know you better if that’s okay with you. Whatever comes out of this game, I’d like to stay by your side for as long as you allow me to. Thanks for letting me see all of you! I can’t help but think that, were I to peek beneath that mask of yours, then I’d know for sure if we’re indeed one for the other.
One for the other. Aesop likes the rhythm of it. The gentle cadence of the words, mulling inside his head. Exhilarating, more than enough to keep his mind focused on the possibilities at hand rather than the stalking glance that follows his every move.
Did Victor know it would come to this?
He has no answer. Not one he can write, much less speak, as it would ruin what they have. Ruin this shaky entente they’ve reached.
Aesop moves first. Or perhaps it was Victor, he’s not sure, not when the lukewarm feel of skin under the fabric of his gloves distracts him from his surroundings and anything that’s not the blonde currently wrapping around his body; lips against his own in a most ardent embrace that never crossed his mind before but now—now it feels like a shame not to indulge if only a little.
And when Aesop’s hands fall, gripping a thin waist, breaking their kiss to catch a single breath before looking up at the striking gold of Victor’s eyes…
Oh, how he’d honor their memory.