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The clickety-clack of the typewriter distracted the hell out of them. Writing by hand wasn’t an option - their hand tremors had increased lately. On their left hand, they inspected the neat handwriting that decorated the tiny portion of self that Miss Finger had poured onto a now wrinkled letter. Hange had read it at least seven times after slashing the envelope open. Their assistant had shaken in absolute terror at their sudden outburst, but when he saw the gleam in his boss’ eyes, he couldn’t help but smile the shock away. They always got like that as soon as they read their name on the trademark envelope paper that Miss Finger sent with her brief letters - much shakier hands, sweaty temples, wavering smiles, and uneven breaths. The typical.
The typewriter would have to do. Holding on to the single sheet of paper, the frenetic pen pal typed what was the most unveiling part to them: the greeting. How could Hange address someone so dear to you, someone you feel in your skin and bones and dream of every night, yet sound less of a lunatic than they usually did? The writer never cared about the others’ opinions; that’s what had taken them as far as to get to know her in the first place. However, it didn’t mean they kept themselves an abstract idea to the part of the world they were interested in. As much as they enforced staying true to oneself, part of them would be pleading for any part of that intriguing woman to return their fascination for what they had. The extent of their relationship, they never knew, but they couldn’t say there was nothing. Letters, their words, feelings, and inspiration, remained. It was far from nothing.
The event of writing each other letters happened every two months because of the distance between them. Miss Pieck Finger was a fellow writer from a well-known community of writers North of their island, and they had met at an event where they got to socialize their poems. Illustrious Mother of Marley, her people called her after the literature award ceremony that took place after her fifth book was published. In Hange’s eyes, it was well deserved; they had read them all, and her works were magical. Miss Pieck had a way with words they often wondered about, and that they never managed to keep to themselves in each letter they sent back. Compliments came just so easy when they thought about her.
Hange’s letters were always the lengthiest in comparison to the bits of writing they managed to get from the other author. The Marleyan was a reserved person who took her chances at opening her heart through her writing mostly. Drawing more words than necessary from her was never effortless, and when it felt like it, it purely happened because she was in her element. Whenever her missives were heavier on the literary side of life, she would convey her words in two pages. However, they had already discussed matters of their passion so much that one time she decided to change the topic. As of the last three letters, Pieck and Hange started communicating on a more regular basis and addressed each other by their first names. Hange had already declared how badly they took being called a Paradis “authoress” when all they felt was anything but feminine - anything but a flower, the pale color at the start of dusk, a passive being, a patient to the severe fate of being born what they’re not.
One can be the opposite of that and still remain a woman. That, however, is not all I am. Neither should you be it. I am so much more than a biological title we’ve all been given at birth. Be all you please, dearest Hange, as long as you don’t leave yourself behind, Miss Finger had written in response to their self-deprecating viewpoint. It was all the wisdom it took for Hange to look forward to any future interactions as well as to challenge themselves.
My dear Hange, read the woman’s greeting that reflected itself on chocolate eyes around twitchy fingers. After their discussion, Pieck had apparently taken the initiative to change her traditional “Miss Zöe” for something more them. It was gratifying, and as they recalled her last words, they typed in a greeting that would suit her as well. “Miss Finger” was distant, mechanical, not theirs to keep for long. It felt like encapsulating her in a family name she no longer sought to be recognized by and in the over simplicity of gendered titles. It sounded like nothing Hange felt she deserved to be called by. Their fingers danced over the keys gracefully, as if forgetting the insistence of earthquake magnitudes forced upon them, and typed a beloved Dear Pieck, before pushing the lever to their side.
“Moblit!” Hange yelled across the room to call their assistant. Running towards them, wide-eyed and frightened, he found the writer with their head between both hands. Quickly assessing the situation, his clear eyes inspected the corpse in front of him. Hange’s hair had just been untied, a mess of greasy, tangled hair visible upon them. They never untied their high ponytail - time and time again, it had proven to be the most disastrous thing.
“Boss, I’m here. Could I be of help?”
“I need moral support, my dear Moblit,” they sighed, not moving their head in the slightest. “You know how I don’t shower often.”
“Yes, boss. Nevertheless, I’m afraid I don’t understand your point.”
The clue always was that he never truly understood them; that was why they came to be associate partners in such a short time. Hange appreciated the effort of being told they weren’t understood; it was better than being misunderstood their whole life.
“Showering’s like a balm of the soul in times of need,” they mused, “but God knows people like us can’t afford it to be a balm but almost sage that we take from abused trees after everyone else has already had their share.”
“I see,” he hummed in response, translating the words in his head. Usually, Hange would go on comparing average situations to mental states they felt trapped in. Even though he never got the gist of the writer’s messages on the first try, he was good at interpreting their words to direct them to a clearer vision of the world. “So is this about Miss Finger’s letter? Does it have anything to do with your writing by any chance?”
“Yes, it is. Yes, it does.”
The pause that followed was long enough for their assistant to take a seat beside them. From the corner of his eye, he found the few letters occupying the greeting and smiled in relief. That was a new record, Hange starting their response off less than a day after the other author’s reply. One of his hands traveled to their upper back and rubbed circles gently. If there was something he knew they always needed, it was physical contact to bring them back to their senses. Slowly, as if watching a blooming flower for the whole of spring, their hair came down and revealed the profile of a beaten writer.
“Pieck’s letters never fail to amaze me. How can I even answer? Will my words be enough for her? No matter how I phrase things in my head, they’ll vanish as soon as my hands touch the keys.”
“Boss, you’ve already written her pages and pages and… tons of pages,” the assistant whispered near them, stifling a giggle. When Hange’s head was already high enough, he offered them the elastic band they used for a hairband. “She always writes back, doesn’t she?”
“She does.”
“What’s troubling you then? You are one of the thirteen golden authors in this land’s history. If it is about the work you do with your own words, belie-”
“No,” Zöe interrupted him and sat up straight, accepting the band and grabbing it with their lips as they collected their hair back up. As if defeated by the magnets of fate constricting their bond unpredictably, they opened their mouth to speak again, “It’s not about the format. It’s not the nouns I use or the adjectives I omit. It’s what I’m trying to convey. What is it that I am pushing myself to express in a way that feels naturally proper?”
“That, only you know,” said Moblit with a reassuring smile, though he knew exactly what they meant by questioning their manner of expression so deeply. Of course, he would never say it. Hange was more than capable enough of conducting some basic introspection.
“I know, and that kills me. I am the flower, the passive being I so terribly despise and, worst of all, have been condemned to something else that escapes my control. But I love her, and I mean to say it every time, but what are we if not well-acquainted strangers?”
The writer was known for throwing tantrums in their creative process, yet they remained calm in the face of the issues life brought about. Nevertheless, as the assistant saw Hange’s left hand curl around Miss Pieck’s letter, he had to shake them off their helplessness for the first time. All other times, he had stepped aside and watched over tea and cookies. Quietly, he landed his index finger on the slightly faded ink of the greeting, attracting his boss’ attention immediately. The look that appeared in the other’s eyes was enough to sigh in relief and recover his smile. He’d never been good at words, his education didn’t allow it, and the only way he could manage was by interpreting what the writer usually meant. He dreamed of the day he could use ideas of his own in what could be his penmanship. Hange had promised he eventually would write like they or Miss Pieck did.
Watching Moblit’s fingertip intently, Hange brushed off the fear that had taken over their body. It was an idea of theirs to support the assistant’s education enough for him to be his own person instead of a mere appendix of someone else’s life. Watching the two letters he managed to decode after a year of training, the writer allowed themself to smile for the pure joy of having him of all people point out something so obvious.
“My dear Hange,” they yelled, and their face seemed brighter than the lanterns he lit up at night to lull his boss to sleep. Taking his finger and shaking it lightly, Hange watched him proudly as if they had already forgotten the origin of their desolation.
“My. Would you call anyone yours?”
Although there was an endless world of possibilities for him to face, the writer stared in disbelief. If there was something poor people like them learned first about life, it was about possession. The surprise that washed over them only made them smile wider. What could have possibly signaled that something good would come out of staying in such a miserable state for what seemed like forever?
“No,” Hange asserted, their hands on the typewriter keys once more. Grinning almost painfully, they turned their head in the assistant’s direction. “No. Moblit. I’m so proud of you.”
“Whatever you say. There’s a letter you need to write, boss. Do change the greeting if you don’t mind.”
The light smack of the back of their hand against his skull was proof enough that they’d gone back to being their usual self. Giggling uncontrollably, Moblit shook them from the shoulder and left the room with loud goodbyes. Still surrounded by the four walls of their room, Hange could see it all more clearly. They stared at the clouds outside, rolling out the sheet of paper they had already ruined. Picking a new one from their desk drawer, their slim fingers rolled it in and straightened it well enough for it not to be a messy letter like the last time they’d written her. Exhaling deeply, they began with:
My dear Pieck,