#I've got 384902890 ideas what to write for you but this one demanded to be written

[kiruuuuu]

Bandit/Jäger oneshot in which Bandit writes a letter. (Rating T, hurt/comfort?, ~2.2k words) - written for @nutbrain​ because you’re entirely too nice and I will not stand for this in my house (that said, ily 💞💞). This turned out a bit more bleak than intended, so I’d like to apologise, but after you said you also like this ship, it basically wrote itself. (The next one will be pure fluff, promise!!)

.

Dear

Hey

Dude

Marius,

when you read this, I’ll be gone already.

I know it’s fucking cliché and I don’t really wanna drop it all into your lap like this, but you know I’m fucking bad with words. With everything really. Like this, I’m at least forced to put my thoughts together so I’ve got something to write down instead of just hearing all the wrong things come out of my mouth as if it wasn’t in my power to make it stop, like smoke after sucking on a cigarette. I can’t talk to you face to face, so I’m writing you a fucking letter because I guess that’s the kinda thing people used to do. My handwriting is probably bad but at least not as atrocious as your chicken scrawl. I’ll try to make it legible. I do want you to read this.

At some point, I heard someone say that ‘I’ is the word we say the most each day which makes sense to me as I’m the only person who has to put up with me 24/7, but I don’t want to resort to talking about myself for the entirety of this letter, so I’ll start with something you did. The reason why you’re holding this stupid piece of paper in your hands right now. The reason why I won’t be around anymore when you read this.

You probably don’t even remember. It was a week ago, maybe two, and I was having a bad time which usually means I find behaviour justifiable which makes sure everyone else has a bad time too (yes, I’m aware I do that even if it might not seem that way), and you must’ve noticed. We talked about the modifications on Morowa’s shield a few days before that, you knew I wouldn’t have destroyed the prototype if I’d been in my right mind. And still, you came over and struck up a conversation. As if nothing had happened. As if I wasn’t glaring at you.

Do you remember? I can never tell which parts fly right over your head and which ones burrow deep enough so you’ll never forget them. You remember the most random shit, like the things I said to you the day we met which I immediately forgot as soon as they’d left my mouth – though I have to admit it’s not too surprising the cocky asshole remained as a memory for you but the lanky dude who laughed at half the things I said didn’t for me. I can’t recall ever seeing you in the GSG9 which is probably for the best.

You don’t care. You never care whenever I throw a tantrum, you just shrug, the show must go on, and then you’re asking me about those fucking jumper cables or god knows what even if I’m in the middle of strangling someone. I’m not special to you. You brag at the worst moments and I’ve snapped at you for it countless times and felt bad for but the next time, you do it anyway and when I yell, you laugh like I’m telling a joke instead of being stressed or tired of it all or pissed. We fucking fought. We had an actual fist fight which you keep bringing up to others as if it was a funny anecdote to share with your family and not a point in my life where I genuinely wanted to hurt you.

And I think this is the moment where I have to spill the beans. I like

I have

I’m in

Look. I can’t bring myself to write it down because it’s pathetic. The whole fucking thing is and I am and you kinda are too which makes it so much worse. You have a goofy laugh and always embarrass yourself when you’re drunk, you eat at the most inappropriate moments and piss off so many people without realising, you’ve been calling Craig by the wrong name ever since he joined us. His first name is Craig, you idiot, not Jenson. You probably didn’t even think twice about all of us calling him something different because that would require a certain awareness which you just don’t possess.

Yes, I’m calling you blind. I’m not gonna list all the obvious signals but the fact that I kissed you after you ran into crossfire like a fucking lunatic could’ve tipped you off. I’m not bitter. I’m just saying. Or when I dragged you into the chopper in Syria and didn’t let go of your hand. Or all those fucking other times I would’ve bashed anyone else’s head in for less but you’re

Okay, I am bloody bitter. This is one way to tell someone you’re not interested, I suppose, but it’s among the worst ones.

Why I feel like this, I don’t even know. You’re a dumbass and the longer I watch you do something other than being brilliant at your work, the more I can feel my IQ dropping, but there’s something about the way you perceive the world and your own purpose in it

I’m making excuses. You always seemed surprised at how easily I stomach injustice towards me, insults, people screaming in my face, and there’s a simple trick: if you call yourself every name in the world, other people doing it doesn’t faze you anymore. I’ve heard it all and worse, much more personal and detailed in most cases, and if I stumble over one I’ve not heard before, I add it to my repertoire. I’m sorry to put it this crassly, but I often struggle to come up with justifications for my own existence. I crunch the numbers on whether the world wouldn’t be better off without me.

So when you come along and tell me a bunch of things I haven’t heard before, NICE things, it catches my attention, as you can imagine. I remember you being all excited when I put the pieces of clothing I stole from all over the base in Elias’ wardrobe, we watched the aftermath together and you called me brilliant and hilarious and witty. And these I wasn’t familiar with. So I mulled them over, and though I ultimately dismissed them, you sparked a need. What if I was brilliant? What if I was witty? I suddenly needed to prove to both of us that there was something which warranted your words. I wanted to earn them.

Not being able to recall our meeting before Rainbow turned out to be a blessing. Had I known from the start we met before, I probably would’ve tried to one-up myself, be extra unlikeable. But like this? You kept exaggerating all the dumb shit I did, calling it impressive and resourceful, and boasted as if it all had been your idea which annoyed me until I realised I kinda liked being part of this team, if I can even call it that. You were my hype man and for most of the time, I loved it. I was trying to become the person you pretended I was and even though it was frustrating as all hell when I didn’t manage it, I liked myself whenever I did. Genuinely liked myself.

.

Okay, I re-read everything I’ve written so far and it’s going nowhere. You’re probably asking yourself ‘what the fuck does he want from me’ if you’ve even come this far, and besides I ended up talking only about me despite wanting not to. I promise you this has a purpose even if it’s an entirely selfish one, namely just having the peace of mind of you finally knowing. I’d rather leave and never come back than say it to your face, so I’m writing it instead and since it’s you, I guess I have to spell it out regardless of how fucking obvious I’ve been.

I like you. I want to fuck you and kiss you and all that other shit, not necessarily in that order, and I know you want to do none of these things with me because the one time I worked up the courage to touch you outside of drunken groping and I really have never been drunk enough to fall asleep on someone’s shoulder four times in a row all you did was wipe your mouth and ask me what the fuck I was doing and I was so ashamed that I never did it again.

But it’s okay. You don’t have to feel the same way. I realised that last week (or maybe the week before) – you don’t care, and why would you? I’m not particularly likeable. I don’t treat you well and I know you’d argue with me on this but you can’t argue against a letter, so suck it. You claim I give you special treatment when all I try is to keep you at arm’s length. Because I know you’d say no. And that’s alright, only it’s not, it’s not at all alright because I blame myself for your lack of interest and the whole thing is really unhealthy to be honest even if I’m not unfamiliar with it.

It’s changed, though. I keep saying you don’t care and I know you’d contradict me on this too because it’s not really true. You do, in your own way. You laugh when I’m upset because you’re right, I get upset over the stupidest things which don’t really deserve my time at all, so you assume I’m being sarcastic instead of furious and it helps in changing my perspective. You don’t care when I’m in a bad mood and act like everything’s fine because usually, it’s a dumb fucking reason why I’m in a bad mood, so you’re right again, everything is actually fine and I just need someone to show me it’s not as big of a deal as I think it is.

When my dad died, you just sat next to me. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t laugh, you just offered your ear because you somehow must’ve realised it was serious that time. I didn’t take your offer. With this letter, you’re now the only person here I’ve voluntarily told that this is what happened, my dad died and you gave me an opportunity to open up. I didn’t take it. And I still regret not doing so.

You care a whole fucking lot. More than we both were aware, probably, and that’s part of the problem. Part of the reason why I have to leave.

Because the only other person I know who does all of this, who cares the same way you do, is my brother. I haven’t seen him in almost ten years. I never realised how much his mocking helped me stay level-headed and I don’t care that we’ve not seen each other for this long, I don’t care about all the guilt I still

Well, that’s where I am now. I’ll be gone for two weeks, trying to fix the unfixable because I owe him this much. And I owe you. You made me understand that he was always there for me, even if I wasn’t aware, always cared about me just like you do

Give me these two weeks. I’ll get over you it all. Don’t contact me, don’t call, don’t do anything, just keep being my friend you when I’m back, that’s all I ask. I won’t kiss bother you again, I promise, I just need this time to fix some of the mistakes I’ve made in my life and I want to thank you

I’m sorry

Fuck I understand now why people don’t write letters anymore. I guess what I’m trying to say is: I’ll be fine and nothing has to change. We can still go drinking and there are all those stupid films we gotta watch, and you wanted to give me a crash course in quantum physics anyway. We can do all this. I’d like to. But give me some space for now.

Take care, alright? Remember not to ask Monika about that bomb. I’ll see you soon.

Dom

.

P.S.: I bet for a second there you thought I was gonna off myself. You’re not getting rid of me anytime soon, bitch.

~*~

A soft rustling of paper, a sheet being set down on the fluffy cushions of a worn sofa. Fingertips fidget, rub over denim in directionless distress; distracted, disoriented. Thoughts almost tangibly fizz in the air around a brown shock of hair, the skin on the usually smooth forehead furrowed. Memories are being recalled, experiences sorted into boxes different from their previous abode, relived and subsequently reassessed.

A decision is made.

Legs unfold, a body rises with urgency, hurries towards its goal and grasps it firmly, navigates the screen with purpose and freezes with a digit hovering over grass green. A last minute contemplation and a determined nod.

It’s the correct thing to do, the action demanded by an insistently beating heart, the press of skin on glass jubilantly met by an increase in force and speed.

Breathing shallowly, he listens to the dial tone and wonders idly what to say once it disappears. It matters not. He’ll find the words.