They sat in a little pile, just off to the side but close enough to prompt curiosity. A few tumbled downwards as if to shout 'Read me! Read me!'. Of course none of the letters would ever meet their final destination. Arthur Kirkland was a proud man and he didn't even allow himself the luxury of fantasizing about romance let alone sending his flimsy emotions to someone. At least, that was him any other day. But today was St. Valentine's Day. With young teenage couples lovingly hand in hand outside his window, Arthur once again felt the familiar itch for a pen and paper. The process was always the same. A simple 'how are you' was followed by a quick question about the weather. The ink would bleed through the page from a stilled pen, with Arthur wondering exactly what he should say next. After the realization that the paper was essentially ruined, he'd curse under his breath while searching for a replacement. It would lay blank for an hour or so. Around this time Arthur would fiddle around on his desk, ignoring the torrent of words in his head and emotions in his heart. Near ten o'clock at night would be when he finally, finally wrote everything. But this would only be after at least three strong alcoholic drinks.

Alfred,

I'm sure you never want to hear this from me. I'm not even sure you remember much of me. I'm desperate, you have to understand. I'm just so starved, and not the way you would think. I'm starved of your touch, your sight, oh god, I just want to be around you. You don't even have to reciprocate my feelings, please detest me all you'd like. But of course this isn't fair to you. Forcing all that I want to give to you when you in turn want none of it. How could I even compare? You already hold the hearts of so many, what's mine to theirs? You, the golden boy, the cherished one, the one that's loved by many... And I? I am loved by nobody. You are the treasured sun while I alone am the abhorred rain. If your love shines too, then my love to you is meaningless.

I suppose all this is to ask, how would you feel? If I told you I loved you. It's just something that I want to do. I happen to think of it more and more each passing year. Almost obsessively to the point where I won't eat, won't sleep, won't live beyond the parameters of writing letters of which you'll never read and I shall never send. I recognize this isn't romance, but it's too hindering to be silly puppy love. I see so much more of you than others do.

I recognize your flaws, but that only reminds me that no matter how high of a pedestal I place you on, you're human. It'll be the only thing we share and I hold that singular fact close to me. I don't want to steal all of your attention, breathing the same air and sharing the same space is good enough for me. Your looks would be enough for any man or woman to swoon, but I never focused much on it. Despite your strength you always treated everything and everyone with the most delicate care. I suppose I was drawn to that. But I refuse to take a part of your life when I am not wanted nor needed. Just know that the reason I shy away --how should I say this?-- isn't from hate.

How could I ever tell you that whenever your hand brushes mine, I'm in such a stupor that I can barely remember where I am? Praise from you hurts my head, and that one day you took my hand in yours, I had felt so numb I was almost convinced it was the onset of a heart attack. Yet you always look fine. So I have no other explanation of you being blind to my emotions than having none of your own. I admit this once, only once every year and it shall always be in this format. It's always been enough for me. Maybe it's enough even for clueless you.

-A. K.

The rush of adrenaline from the alcohol had turned into a bitter dullness, something he welcomed with an open heart. If anything were to take the place of Alfred, it would have to be his first lover: alcohol. Arthur nonchalantly threw the now envelope encased letter onto the pile. Though he failed to notice it, the mountain of letters gave way a smidge. The newest addition slid onto the desk alongside some taxes and a few birthday cards which he planned to mail out the next day. So after waking from a night of drinks and sleeping on the hard floor, Arthur hadn't the hindsight to check exactly what he was mailing. In that moment he was too busy making sure he could make it to the mailbox without stumbling like a drunkard. Well, a worse off drunkard. 

Needless to say, when Alfred showed up at his doorstep a few weeks later in the middle of a rainstorm, he could not have been more surprised.

The day had started as normal. Perusing the newspaper for any decent news, making a cup of tea then forgetting to drink it until it had the taste of liquified sandpaper, and re-reading novels he had on hand. When a crash of lightning outside sounded, it frightened him just enough to swap Stephen King for Charlotte Bronte. The rain thudded against Arthur's windows, each droplet sounding desperate to get in. In fact, they almost sounded human. It took him another few minutes to register the sound as actual knocking.

Yanking the door open, he was welcomed to the unfamiliar sight of Alfred Jones. Soaked, shaking, and disheveled while Arthur was still trying to process that the figure in the doorway was actually there.

Alfred waited in the silence that followed, fidgeting a little with a small keychain while he waited. Until he was sick of being in the cold. "Please tell me you're going to invite me in. I get that you're the rain and everything, but I can only stand your...'wetness' for so long."

"You want to? Oh. Oh, of course," Arthur stepped aside, his brain slowly whirring back into motion. As the thoroughly dampened house guest sloshed inside, he added "I'm so sorry about that, that was rude of me. I just thought you would have called. Usually that's what people do when they want to invite themselves over."

What a great start. Insults. That's definitely how you're supposed talk to the one person you revere most in the world. Next he should make a quip on how his furniture or hardfloor was being ruined. What was he thinking? This was no time for hidden feelings, he had a guest and one in desperate need of a towel.

On Arthur's way to a closet, he was struck with a question. "Alfred," he called from the hallway "What was that you said? About me being the rain?"

"That depends. The innuendo part, or the part where I quoted your letter?" An abrupt stop. The sound of a bundle of towels dropping to the floor served as an answer. Slowly, he walked back to Alfred, disbelief and fear close at hand, towels forgotten.

"What letter?"

A ruined letter was removed from a back pocket. Despite the damage and smudged ink, there was no mistaking the tracers of lettering. It was definitely the letter, the infamous one written on Valentine's.

"I know it's pretty water damaged, but I swear I tried to keep it in the best condition. But after reading something like that, well, how could I not come straight here?"

Arthur bowed his head in submission. "I understand. I apologize for that moment of weakness, I suppose it slipped in with some mail I planned on sending out."

A look of confusion sprawled over Alfred's face. "What? No, no it's fine. But can you hear me out?" He was not heard.

"I understand already, I overstepped your boundaries. I'm sure you're very upset by this and probably want a restraining order. Honestly, I knew this day would---"

"Criminy, just let me talk for a second!"

Silence. It lasted long enough for Arthur to remember the towels, giving them to a grateful Alfred.

"Ok, listen, and actually listen this time," he said between drying off. "I read your letter, and I was confused." He paused to clean the glasses in his pocket, dissatisfied with the smudges but content enough to put them on. "I stayed up all night, all night and every day since I got it. And I want to know why."

What a curious question. One he had no answer. "Why?" Arthur had barely kept up with the conversation, still trying to comprehend what this confrontation was about.

"Why you didn't tell me sooner. I wanted to get to know you, but you always seemed so isolated. The closer I tried to be, the more distant you were. So I kept looking. Would it be worth it, sticking with you? I just wanted a reason. Look, I've got a hundred million reasons to walk away, but baby, I just need one good one to stay".

This was, well, he knew what it was. But even so, "Are you sure you even want me?"

"My heart's not made for someone else." It was simple, but full of conviction and the unfaltering gaze Alfred held didn't convince him otherwise.

Chuckling at the overly romanticised statement, Arthur said "You flatter me. One would think me a hopeless teenage girl with all these sickly sweet little things you're feeding me." Alfred held his hand, and Arthur found himself wishing that they stay like that. It didn't have to be forever, but just enough so it could feel like a forever.

They were close now, oh so close. It wasn't surprising that they kissed, though neither would remember who started it. What they would remember however would be a sensation of comfort and enough warmth to drive the storm far away from their minds. Alfred would remember the scent of English Breakfast Tea and roses. Arthur would remember a hint of detergent with an overwhelming smell of old leather and oranges. Needless to say, this year's St. Valentine's Day had actually been the most successful by far (even if it had ended days earlier).

And what happened next is something best left to the imagination.