He receives the letter two weeks after he's returned home. There's no return address on it, but he knows.

Inside the envelope is a small, neatly folded paper. Written in carefully structured calligraphy are three words that he either wants to smile at or scream at.

Fuck you, Shelton.

It's written on cigarette paper, of course he notices. He knows what the other man wants him to do with the note. Roll it up with some tobacco, let the words drift into his lungs. Paint them black, coil, curl, consume him.

He wants Snafu to feel the words. Snafu doesn't have to smoke 'em to feel 'em. He instead sticks the note to his fridge with a sickly grin and does his best to ignore it.

He doesn't stop to wonder how Sledge got his address.


Another one comes a week after that. Same fashion, too, cigarette paper and cold, calculated handwriting. Three words.

I hate you.

He places the note next to the other one and thinks, no you don't.


Three more arrive over the next six weeks. Still no return address, and Snafu's glad because then he'd actually be tempted to write back.

They never deviate far from fuck you and I hate you. They're never longer than a sentence or two.

Snafu pins them all up in order. A chain of words from a broken heart. He sees every time he goes to drink down some more of his sorrows in cans of too-cold, too-crisp beer.

A broken heart to match his own.

Fuck you, Shelton.

I hate you.

You left me on the train.

Fuck you.

No goodbye or anything. Why?


One day, there's a knock. A rapid succession of a fist against the rickety old door to his rickety old mobile home.

Once the door opens, there's a fist. Making connection almost too close to his nose. Pain blooming across his skin, the taste of blood in his lips.

Then there's Sledge. Breathing calmly as he flexes his fingers, a mere wince giving him away.

What more can Snafu say than, come on in?


He looks tired. Worn down and beat up, the deep kind of settling tired that rattles your bones and sleep can't shake it. Snafu reckons he looks the same.

He's cold. Indifferent. Dead inside.

Snafu gives him a beer, then another. It's the only comfort he knows.

It lessens the pain 'til the buzz wears off then you're left with your hands in your pockets and broken promises hanging between you.

Snafu wishes it could be different. He knows it can't be.


Sledge wanders off into the kitchen and it's no surprise he sees the notes in such plain view. Spread across Snafu's refrigerator door, a necklace of hurt.

Snafu follows him in and their eyes meet. They don't say anything.

But that's okay.

Their eyes say it all.

Their mouths, coming together, say it all. Fists being thrown are the words left unsaid. Clothes torn, blood shed, mouths coming together in harsh whispers. It's everything they could never say and all the things they wish they could.


Later, Sledge peels one of the notes from the fridge. He fishes around for his Zippo in his pocket.

They watch the note as it burns.

Fuck you, Shelton melts away.

A knowing look, a kiss, repeat.