Your history of silence won't do you any good Dorian lay on the old sofa cushions, watching the snow swirl violently outside and thinking, as he almost always was, of Jehan. He had spent a lot of time going over what Jehan had said to him in MARS, examining it obsessively from every angle. Jehan wanted what was between them to be real... He didn't want to hide things. He had also accused Dorian of being a liar, an acusation which stung deeply and which he had not wanted to give Dorian a chance to defend himself against. He had said he seemed ashamed... Jehan, at least, had seemed willing to admit that he might have got that bit wrong as he had swept the whole thing under the carpet. And it was, apparently, about what Dorian wanted. He wanted Jehan. And he wanted safety. He was not sure whether he could have either, or both. Jehan had talked about things between them being real... But he might have just meant friendship, affection... He had said that Dorian could make whatever mistakes he wanted, so did that mean that Jehan regarded trying to kiss him as a mistake? Probably. But a mistake that was forgiven, though that scarcely encouraged him to try it again. It seemed he had had more of a problem with Dorian hiding things from Vlad. But Dorian found that more confusing than reassuring. MARS was theirs, it was private. They shared things with each other that they didn't share with anyone else - that was what made them special to each other. People did change depending on who else was around, it was human nature...
He knew the solution was just to talk to Jehan. Dorian was faurly sure he would not object to the idea of keeping their personal space as somewhere just for them. But he was scared of dragging up the subject Jehan didn't want to talk about, or of finding there was something they disagreed about. It had been so easy to tell himself that each day would be the day, and then when he got MARS, and found himself warm and safe in Jehan's arms, it was so easy to decide it could wait. And, as they moved past the midpoint of term, his resolve weakened further. He knew how time moved, how once they passed that tipping point, the days would slide by so fast and he would be heading home sooner than he could bear. The spectre of Matthieu loomed larger and larger in his thoughts as the days sped by. Jehan was his strength and his comfort. Jehan was the reason he had been able to stand up to Matthieu at all. He couldn't face the thought of heading home with things between him and Jehan any less than usual, any less than perfect. He needed the promise of letters, he needed to know that someone cared about him and valued him.
He pulled a blanket, embued with warming charms, tighter around himself, but it wasn't that kind of warmth that felt lacking. He was lonely. And the usual solution to that was to write to Jehan but his friend lacked the context to understand what Dorian was doing, alone and miserable in the attic of his house, instead of downstairs with his family. Was that his own fault, for never telling Jehan? He supposed it might be but he was so sick of taking the blame. The upshot of his realisation over the summer was that he was not going to hold himself responsible for the misery that Matthieu had inflicted upon him. And so, perhaps it was time to tell Jehan. But where to start, how to say it? His secondary doubts still plagued him - it might make Jehan worry, and that was selfish and unfair. Jehan might not believe him - after all, he had never mentioned this until now. Which brought him onto the worry that Jehan was going to be mad at him for not telling. And finally, what was the point, what could Jehan really do about it? Which brought him back to the beginning, to the idea that this was just selfish... But all of these doubts he could push down with logic. If the roles were reversed, he would want Jehan to tell him. He would always believe Jehan, and had no real reason to doubt that Jehan would believe him. If Jehan was mad about him not telling... Well, he was bound to find out eventually somehow. That problem, if it existed, was only going to get bigger. And finally, it was ridiculous to say that Jehan could do nothing. Jehan had already given him the courage to stand up to Matthieu, and he could keep doing that. He could hold Dorian's hand whilst he took on everything in the world that frightened him.
The decision to say something was, therefore, made. Now he just had to work out what. He wasn't really sure it was something he should put in a letter, and certainly spilling a lifetime of hurt onto the page in front of him was just going to result in a wild, uncontrolled ramble. He wanted to just open things up enough thst it was harder to back out, once he got back to the safety and comfort of Sonora.
After many false starts, crossings out, and hurling screwed up balls of parchment against the wall, he had a finished letter.
Cher Jehan,
There is stormy snow here. I watch it against the window. I want to find it pretty but it is difficult. Bad weather means a bad mood from Matthieu. Apparently, no one feel as strong as he does about Quidditch to want to play with this weather. Therefore, he stays at home. He is miserable about this, and wants to make everyone else have misery too but especially me.
I write you from somewhere you did not saw when you visited. I forgot it, I suppose, since Mattheiu went to school, and it is more a winter place, or a raining day place. It is a place Emilie and I had, perhaps you can teach me a good word for it... It is a place we have that is a secret, and we make it very cosy. There are cushion on the floor from an old settee that was not using any more. The walls are decorated with original artworks by us both. I remember being quite stern with Emilie that she did not respect the lines of the color in pages, or be realistic in her drawings. Now I recognise that there is probably some expressionist and passionate school of art that would welcome her well-felt style. My own are very precise, and entirely realistic... Me riding away on a unicorn, me with wings and flying away, me in a world that I invent (it is called 兔子国/Tùzǐguó. I spend a lot of time there when I am smaller). There is a definite theme to this phase of my life and artwork. I would spend time here like I do now - see the snow or rain against the window, and wait for the storms to go away again.
I wish you were here. It could be very snug with you. I think we made an agreement last year, no? That if I wish, you will appear. I am wishing so hard that you are with me. You always make me feel better. If you cannot send yourself, send a letter soon.
衷心祝福, bien amicalement, Dorian.
The last paragraph was fairly standard, the angst of holiday separation prompting kind words and a sense of longing. The rest of the letter was strange though. His brother usually received only cursory mentions - 'Matthieu annoys me,' 'Matthieu is the same as ever,' or was mentioned only by his absence, 'I don't see much of Matthieu.' The sheer presence of Matthieu in the letter was odd in itself, before one even started to unravel the remarks themselves. For the first time, instead of the carefully rehearsed and dismissive remarks Dorian usually gave, the ones that said he and Matthieu were merely different, there was a hint of what those differences really meant.