Chapter Text
Will
Hannibal,
Well, it’s officially been five hours since I’ve seen you.
The flight attendant (kind of like a waitress, for a plane) just asked the guy next to me if he’d like a beverage. Judging by his breath, the answer is only yes if she has a few of those little glass bottles of well-whiskey, since I’m pretty sure he bathed in it this morning.
HA—I was right. I kind of wish she’d offer me one. Too bad I can’t do magic for another three months…
Do you ever really try to avoid talking about something, only to have it pop up accidentally, over and over again because it’s all you can think about? Is there a word for that? I feel like there must be. I’m sure you know.
Planes are fascinating. Did they talk about them in Muggle Studies? 300,000 lbs, just soaring through the air at breakneck speed. Carrying me home. Away from y
Do you get a lot of fireflies, in France? Probably not in the city, I guess, but I can’t even picture summer without fireflies. My grandmother calls them “lightning bugs.” I think she’d like you. Although I’m sure she’d pinch her face, tut, and tell me you’re too thin, as though it’s my fault. I’d like to see that. I’d like to show you the house, too. My dad is so proud, you should have seen all the work we put into it last summer. It was the only thing stopping me from going insane while you and I were
Anyways, I hope your trip is a little less tedious than mine has been so far. I doubt your aunt has made you take muggle travel, at least, so you’re probably already home as I’m writing this. What posters and pictures are hanging on your walls? What’s your favorite place to sit with a book? Where have you worn the floorboards down from pacing? (Or is it only me that does that?)
I guess I may as well say it. Not to sound like Victoria Evans novel (hey, I had a LOT of free time on my hands last summer, okay) but it was really hard to say goodbye at the station. I think we held it together, just the briefest of lips brushing, a murmured “see you soon” that I have tucked away in this cluttered brain of mine, but the whole time my stomach was churning, my limbs rebelling at the thought of letting you go. If I seemed distant, withdrawn, it’s only because if I let myself start to really think about the long, empty days without you—
There it goes again; pesky little thought. I’m starting to realize why they call it “love-sick,” I feel genuinely pathetic. Or, I guess I could be getting a contact-hangover from the man next to me, who just pocketed one of the little bottled whiskeys. Let’s go with that.
Signing off, in favor of an Ursula Le Guin. No hard feelings, you’re still my favorite, but I think maybe if I lose myself in another world, for a bit, I’ll have a better chance of shaking the melancholia that is tempting me to break international magic statutes and attempt apparition right now, witnesses and all. (Not that my seatmate would notice, he’s pretty close to passing out like a House Elf after a few butterbeers.)
76 days…
Will