I'm new to this, so I want to begin with an apology for not doing this right?
So... I know it seems ridiculous to not use the computer for this sort of thing, but old-fashioned letters are a lot more romantic. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. You get a feel for the personality behind the pen by looking at their penmanship. And although, I guess you could make a comparison to what font a typist would choose, but how often do they change fonts to reflect mood? You never see a letter written in Rage Italic to indicate a rushed displeasure, or an erratic mood indicated by Wingdings. It simply doesn't happen, which is why I prefer to hand write my letters. It's more revealing. Intimate. Which really, is the point o-
Castor paused in his writing, feeling a heavy breath over his shoulder. It permeated every inch of his collar with an insufferable humidity. The warmth blanketed him, allowing the irony of a cold sweat to touch his brow at the revelation of being watched.
Eyes wide, he whirled around, struggling to keep his composure. Rapid hands clawed at the exposed papers, leading to an onslaught of panic. Pencils, scraps, and stationary mixed in an ugly tornado as they scattered the room. Nervous eyes peered upwards at the figure who'd caused the ruckus, but a quick glance turned fear to anger.
"Pol? What are you doing home? What the fuck?"
Standing before him was his brother, covered in blood and dust. It wasn't unusual to see Pollux in such a state, but it was unusual for him to be home earlier than was scheduled. Either the news was very good, or it was very bad. From the burgeoning grin on the man's face, he assumed the former.
Pollux leaned close, letting the overpowering aroma of earth penetrate his brother's nose. The taller man let out a hoarse laugh as Castor recoiled in disgust.
Frown staining his pale face, the younger brother sat on the edge of his seat, trying to suss the reason for Pollux's return. "No seriously, what are you doing home?"
The other shook his head, avoiding the question. Instead, he was drawn to the papers clutched in anxious hands. Castor was doing everything he could to obscure the writing on them, even if it meant destroying his work. Pollux pointed at the smudged mess before gesturing to himself, and back at the desk. His eyes glimmered with a mischievous backing, a common look between two brothers.
Despite the lack of speech, the younger brother knew every judgmental word coming from his sibling. Years of silence between them had developed into a deeper understanding, communicated in sly glances and minute hand motions. It bordered on telepathic, and at this moment, Castor hated every detail they'd shared in the last few decades.
"Don't you breathe at me that way!"
Pollux raised an eyebrow, head tilting gently to the right.
"No, it's just-" Castor sighed, voice heavy with emotion. The stationary in his hand was beginning to bleed from his damp grip. Although he couldn't meet Pollux's inquisitive eyes, he could at least offer an excuse. "I'll see you later, okay? I swear to the Gods I'll pay attention to whatever, I just... I really need to do this. Alone. This letter thing... Please, Pol."
The taller of the two shrugged, displeasure etched into the lines of his face. Rather than question his pleading brother, he acknowledged it wasn't his place. If he had to pry, he could do it later.
Winking in agreement, Pollux turned and left, door closing behind him with an impeding finality.
As his brother's footsteps echoed down the hall, Castor groaned. The relief he thought he'd feel when all was said and done was replaced with an even tighter anxiety over his heart. An accompanying sour taste crept up on him, dancing at the back of his throat with a vigor. It tasted like thirty years of failure and loneliness.
It was so easy for others - even his twin. Even with just a few minutes between them, the two couldn't look more different. Pollux was tall, dark, and handsome. Though quiet, he was intimidating and admirable. Castor was none of these things. He was short, baby-faced, and struggled to make a good impression on anyone he met. His bitter attitude was endless, and the resentment of the outside world carried on his shoulders.
His hands hovered over the mess of papers, still in disarray. Running on instinct - the only way to channel his feelings - he grabbed the pen, letting it do the talking that he wasn't ready for.
A few days into the job and Alessandro still was content with the choice he made of working at Krov’s castle. Sure, the chores were a drag at times and not everyone was a delight, like himself (cough), but it was good despite all that. He was pushing a cart through the silent halls, consisting of food that Zeus had prepared back in the kitchen. It smelled delicious, whatever it was. It took him only a few wrong turns before he arrived at the door. The annoyingly obedient knock sounded on the door and the awkward waiting period had begun. “Roomservices.” He spoke through the door.
Maxhasn't seen as much of Castor as he would like of late. They've bothbeen busy getting things in place for the march on Adamant now thatthey've finally got a plan in place. The mage has been in and out ofSkyhold as often as Max himself, but they've both been recalled restand resupply before they set out for the fortress. Of course, becausethere is always the chance that one or both of them could fail toreturn, rest has not exactly been the focus of their time in bed. Notthat Max is going to complain of course.
Nowhowever, they're both content to curl up with one another, tradinglazy, sated kisses between bouts of conversation. It's comfortableand relaxed, and Max will let it go on for as long as he can beforesleep becomes a must.
