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He was willing to listen, if Devon had reasons—he was damn sure he didn’t know everything, as if that wasn’t obvious—but he wanted them to beableto talk about it.
He might’ve ruined that conversation.
But they’d always been good at talking. Words, letters, messages.
He looked at his borrowed desk, at the bed. Where he’d been working, these past few days. Tidy notes, spreadsheets, his laptop. Because Devon had invited him in, given him this space, been brave enough to open up home and heart on the chance of even more joy.
Notes. Paper. A pen he’d borrowed, one of Devon’s.
The rain pattered encouragement.
Burne found the pen. Wrote, paused, rewrote. Until he was happy with it. Short, but holding his heart. Words he needed to say.
He opened the door, letter in one hand. If Devon didn’t want to see him, maybe he could slide it under the bedroom door—maybe he should knock, just once, not asking to come in, but only to check in, to say,I’m here and I want to be here…
The bedroom door was open. Devon’s office door was open.
And even as Burne processed that, Devon himself appeared in the doorway: tall, beautiful and awkward, sleeves shoved up. He looked a little pale under the tan, but vastly better, infinitely better, up and around.
He had a folded sheet of paper in one hand. His eyes went right to Burne. His lips parted, a tiny wordless sound.
“Hey.” Burne came across the space of the living room, passing long glass and water-streamers. Devon came forward too, so they met in the middle, framed by long sweeping windows and dreamy light. Burne held up his own offering, held out his other hand. “So…guess we kind of had the same idea?”
“We’ve always been good at that.” Devon’s mouth quirked, sweet and crooked as wind-bent wildflowers. “Here, go on.”
“I’m sorry,” Burne said, trading letter for letter. Devon’s paper was nicer. Devon’s hand brushed his, and lingered, not pulling away. “I wrote it, too. But I want you to know I mean it. I’m sorry, and I’m here and I want to listen and I’ll do better. If you still want me here.”
“Oh,” Devon said, eyes wide, silver-grey and brighter than the rain, “of course I want you here, I’m sorry as well, I said so.” His fingers curled around Burne’s. “Should we…do some reading? Some listening?”
“Yep.” He laced their fingers together; Devon smiled. Burne tugged them over to the sofa, where they found a way to fit together: not quite tangled into each other, but with legs touching, interwoven.
“I had to write fast,” Devon said, looking up, “so apologies if it’s not as neat as usual—”
“Same here.” Burne nudged him with a knee; and Devon smiled more and unfolded Burne’s field-scientist scribble, while Burne looked at rapid rippling navy-blue ink.
Burne, Devon had written,I have so much to say I’m not sure where to start. I’ll start with the most important part. I love you.
He’d written it again, on the next line.I love you. Even before this week, I think I knew I loved you. Every day, since we first met, I’d wake up—I still wake up—wanting to talk to you. Thinking of ways to make you smile. Thinking that you’d like a new environmentally conscious design, or a choice of color, or a book, or a unicorn. I’ve never felt as alive as I have since I met you. Since you first wrote back to me, and asked questions, and made me want to talk to you, to keep talking, to share everything.
I want to do all that, because you do it so well—it’s who you are. You care about sea grass and salinity and strangers and family, all at once. You invite the world in, you make connections, and you make it as easy as breathing, and I don’t say that lightly. You’re the answer when I ask whether I can call you, you say yes when I want to talk to you, and you give me space when I ask for that.
I love you, Burne Cameron.
Burne at this point had to stop. To swipe a hand across his eyes. Devon’s words, for him; Devon seeing him like this, even in the midst of a breakable brittle collision of an argument. Devon loving him.
Devon hadn’t looked up, absorbed in reading. Burne went back to his own.
I said I’ve never felt this alive. I mean that—and I want that. So I’m saying I’m sorry, because you were right, and I overreacted. I could explain, I could tell you about my family or an ex or two—but that’s not the point. You’re not them. You’re you. And you care about me like no one ever has. I know you want to listen, even if we’re having a disagreement. It’s different, it’s better, with you.
I’ll wear the monitor more—it’s charging right now, sorry about that too, I’ll get it after, I promise—and I’ll tell you if I don’t feel well. I promise that, as well. (I’mmostly okay—I did need to lie down for a few minutes, some deep breathing, and so on. This is me telling you that.) I was trying not to think about it—to be perfect for you, to not be worried or make you worry, to be in love, to just be.
But we need me to be here for that. And I plan on being here for a very long time—with you, I hope. So I’ll be more careful, and I’ll listen to you, too, if you want to talk. Please talk to me, if you’re worried—I know it’s you telling me you care.
I hope this works—yes, I’ll write that out. Because I do. Hope, I mean. I wrote to you the first time because I wanted you to receive your family’s card, because I didn’t want you to be lonely, because I was fascinated by someone who’d love his work enough to live on an island in the middle of the ocean, and whose family adores him enough to send handmade cards, and I wanted to know you.
I think I might have loved you even then.
So I hope this works, because letters between us seem to, don’t they? Giving ourselves to each other, in ink and paper. The first flower you ever sent me was a preserved buttercup. Here’s one for you.
