DRAFT OF A LETTER TO KANONE HILBERT
[A torn first draft deposited in a wastebasket, written in the middle of the night in restive English cursive. It's been copied out without the mistakes and delivered in a alter form by post to a private cell in the heart of Osaka]
[Scrunched at the top, as an afterthought introduction, the original introduction crossed out afterwards:]
I'd impulse to write you.
Pure impulse.
Kanon,
I've taken once again to practicing my reels, For Mum.
I won't pretend you don't remember my tradition to play at her graveside once a year on the anniversary of her death.
At all other times I still leave her violin where it lies.
No doubt she turns in her grave the moment I touch the instrument. I've no intent to prolong such torment.
Each year, I re-learn everything I knew more rapidly than the year before: a time-consuming and deeply boring ritual.
Perhaps I have taken some of your gravid darkness to myself
I feel a weight I carry in upholding that peculiar lie only you and I know of: the lie of Hizumi. The existence of the devil.
Perhaps it is that trouble with Little Narumi driving me to declare boredom.
Or that peculiarly colorful queer fellow*.
Formerly I would never allow such a person under my skin, yet... I truly thought he asked me for death, and, in exceeding honesty, the thought has driven me with perfect revulsion for the past two nights, sleepless and quite without appetite. The request was even more repulsive to me than his vulgarities about my piano. You should remember.
Should I visit you only to drift into sleep over the biscuits, I only hope you might not interpret it as rooted in lacking conversation on your end.
Whatever the emotional issue of gravity, the heavy humidity of the air has aggravated the condition of my lungs.** I feel unwell, though I hardly intend to burden you with petty concerns over my health or emotional state. Your concern for such has always been so natural, I fear it's spoilt me to the point I anticipate it and prattle senselessly on the subject.
In any event I certainly blame this deep-set exhaustion as that which makes me write to confide in you so...fruitlessly.
I realize only now that you are the only person still living to have heard me play the violin. Or sing.
The knowledge weighs deeply, though it ought not to.
There is that matter: Mum took it as a matter of pride that any man with a touch of Irish blood, no matter how small, know how to sing his home tongue.
Unlike mum, I don't hold my home to be there I'm born, or what runs in my veins.
You alone out of anyone know my home tongue is the piano, and will not misconstrue my affection for the instrument.
You alone understand once a year the significance where I betray this home tongue for her, and play for that remnant of my blood.
You know that every year, at the celebration of Saint Patrick, I take up the violin in anticipation of the fifth of April.
No doubt your intuition brought you to check on me and run to my ill-conceived defense. Do not misunderstand. I'm grateful to you for it, and appreciate it.
Last year was the first you were not at my side for the culmination of this ritualistic elegy.
I vowed in private that it would be the only year this occurred--I've no trouble in admitting this now. Even in saying nothing, you would know. We've significance to one another, as ever, across countries, battlefields, and english gardens alike. These bonds will not break over a matter of a number of steel bars over a window.
I am...disappointed for breaking this vow to you.
Truly, I thought you would be with me.
Perhaps you shall, even now, though the matter would cause you some discomfort but for the freedom it might offer: a collared freedom at best.
You are very much a different man these days--you hide it well, Kanon, but I know you far better than any other, and recall the days we feigned fraternal twinship.
I must content myself with not losing that which matters to me, but...[Scratched out portion] ...on some level it is... [Scratched out so violently the paper's torn] ...wearying. to have you so close and be made to wait.
I would at least like to visit with you before I return to England for the fifth.
A proper visit.
Though you clearly watch over me even from the depths of your cage, and I am...grateful for your company, I still prefer seeing you face-to-face.
Though we're deeply cursed as ever, I still hold the hope you will be by my side again.
I would have you remember your value, KanonBrother.***
Never discount it.
Love, [The word is scratched out so thoroughly it's almost impossible to make out, then rewritten again only to be crossed out less vehemently, leaving the closing plain]
With Love,
--Eyes
[Added hastily afterwards at an angle]
Post Scriptum:
I've retrieved your personal items from your hotel and will bring them the day of my visit, excepting the effects of your portable arsenal.
The reason for this omission should be fairly obvious.
I've likewise taken the liberty of mending a rip in the forepaw of one of your stuffed cats.
It should be quite sturdy, and resilient to the future attentions of your young feline roommate.
(((
* Referring to Malik. Eyes calls homosexuals "queer" in a weird mixture of tactful bluntness. He refrains from using Malik's name because he really doesn't like him, but he's still wary about letting Kanone know he doesn't like Malik more openly since it's dangerous.
** Referring to the fact he's asthmatic. A drop in barometric pressure like that which occurs during rainy or muggy weather makes it more difficult for Eyes to breathe. He dislikes others knowing of his condition.
*** Kanone is Eyes' half-brother by blood. They have the same father--Hizumi's older brother, Yaiba--and they grew up together in England. Eyes has somewhat jumbled feelings for Kanone, regardless. Unsurprisingly, he keeps those as much to himself as possible.
The two are still extremely close, though they only recently began to openly refer to one another as brothers, even amongst themselves.
The fifth of April, as discussed before, is being chosen as the date of Eyes' mothers death. This should be inferrable from the letter, too, but I just thought I'd mention it to clarify. ^^ )))
[Scrunched at the top, as an afterthought introduction, the original introduction crossed out afterwards:]
I'd impulse to write you.
Pure impulse.
Kanon,
I've taken once again to practicing my reels, For Mum.
I won't pretend you don't remember my tradition to play at her graveside once a year on the anniversary of her death.
At all other times I still leave her violin where it lies.
No doubt she turns in her grave the moment I touch the instrument. I've no intent to prolong such torment.
Each year, I re-learn everything I knew more rapidly than the year before: a time-consuming and deeply boring ritual.
Perhaps I have taken some of your gravid darkness to myself
I feel a weight I carry in upholding that peculiar lie only you and I know of: the lie of Hizumi. The existence of the devil.
Perhaps it is that trouble with Little Narumi driving me to declare boredom.
Or that peculiarly colorful queer fellow*.
Formerly I would never allow such a person under my skin, yet... I truly thought he asked me for death, and, in exceeding honesty, the thought has driven me with perfect revulsion for the past two nights, sleepless and quite without appetite. The request was even more repulsive to me than his vulgarities about my piano. You should remember.
Should I visit you only to drift into sleep over the biscuits, I only hope you might not interpret it as rooted in lacking conversation on your end.
Whatever the emotional issue of gravity, the heavy humidity of the air has aggravated the condition of my lungs.** I feel unwell, though I hardly intend to burden you with petty concerns over my health or emotional state. Your concern for such has always been so natural, I fear it's spoilt me to the point I anticipate it and prattle senselessly on the subject.
In any event I certainly blame this deep-set exhaustion as that which makes me write to confide in you so...fruitlessly.
I realize only now that you are the only person still living to have heard me play the violin. Or sing.
The knowledge weighs deeply, though it ought not to.
There is that matter: Mum took it as a matter of pride that any man with a touch of Irish blood, no matter how small, know how to sing his home tongue.
Unlike mum, I don't hold my home to be there I'm born, or what runs in my veins.
You alone out of anyone know my home tongue is the piano, and will not misconstrue my affection for the instrument.
You alone understand once a year the significance where I betray this home tongue for her, and play for that remnant of my blood.
You know that every year, at the celebration of Saint Patrick, I take up the violin in anticipation of the fifth of April.
No doubt your intuition brought you to check on me and run to my ill-conceived defense. Do not misunderstand. I'm grateful to you for it, and appreciate it.
Last year was the first you were not at my side for the culmination of this ritualistic elegy.
I vowed in private that it would be the only year this occurred--I've no trouble in admitting this now. Even in saying nothing, you would know. We've significance to one another, as ever, across countries, battlefields, and english gardens alike. These bonds will not break over a matter of a number of steel bars over a window.
I am...disappointed for breaking this vow to you.
Truly, I thought you would be with me.
Perhaps you shall, even now, though the matter would cause you some discomfort but for the freedom it might offer: a collared freedom at best.
You are very much a different man these days--you hide it well, Kanon, but I know you far better than any other, and recall the days we feigned fraternal twinship.
I must content myself with not losing that which matters to me, but...[Scratched out portion] ...on some level it is... [Scratched out so violently the paper's torn] ...wearying. to have you so close and be made to wait.
I would at least like to visit with you before I return to England for the fifth.
A proper visit.
Though you clearly watch over me even from the depths of your cage, and I am...grateful for your company, I still prefer seeing you face-to-face.
Though we're deeply cursed as ever, I still hold the hope you will be by my side again.
I would have you remember your value, KanonBrother.***
Never discount it.
Love, [The word is scratched out so thoroughly it's almost impossible to make out, then rewritten again only to be crossed out less vehemently, leaving the closing plain]
With Love,
--Eyes
[Added hastily afterwards at an angle]
Post Scriptum:
I've retrieved your personal items from your hotel and will bring them the day of my visit, excepting the effects of your portable arsenal.
The reason for this omission should be fairly obvious.
I've likewise taken the liberty of mending a rip in the forepaw of one of your stuffed cats.
It should be quite sturdy, and resilient to the future attentions of your young feline roommate.
(((
* Referring to Malik. Eyes calls homosexuals "queer" in a weird mixture of tactful bluntness. He refrains from using Malik's name because he really doesn't like him, but he's still wary about letting Kanone know he doesn't like Malik more openly since it's dangerous.
** Referring to the fact he's asthmatic. A drop in barometric pressure like that which occurs during rainy or muggy weather makes it more difficult for Eyes to breathe. He dislikes others knowing of his condition.
*** Kanone is Eyes' half-brother by blood. They have the same father--Hizumi's older brother, Yaiba--and they grew up together in England. Eyes has somewhat jumbled feelings for Kanone, regardless. Unsurprisingly, he keeps those as much to himself as possible.
The two are still extremely close, though they only recently began to openly refer to one another as brothers, even amongst themselves.
The fifth of April, as discussed before, is being chosen as the date of Eyes' mothers death. This should be inferrable from the letter, too, but I just thought I'd mention it to clarify. ^^ )))