"No." Edward stands up and just looks at Oswald steadily, although he lowers his head at the imaginary sticker being pressed to his chest, fists clenching. Damn it. But that's his own issue and not something he's about to project onto Oswald right now, so instead he gives a slight shake of his head and focuses on Oswald again, pushing away any unwelcome thoughts. This situation needs his full attention.
"I'm not much of a sweeper and I've never been good at romance." Well. "I can be good, but it'd be an act. I've always just been myself with you." There's no need to try for that normalcy that he has never actually achieved. "But it's not really an ultimatum. If you want to leave it at this, fair enough. I'll continue working for you. If you want me gone, you have the means. I just wanted to find a way to actually make myself understood."
Since his other attempts like that clearly failed for various reasons. "Although if you tell me to keep my mouth shut in that manner ever again, we'll have a problem. I've gone through too many years of being told to shut up to have to listen to it from you as well."
He gives a roll of his eyes, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose a moment.
"And I wouldn't have had to ask that of you had you not made it your priority to mock me first thing this morning." His eyebrows shoot up. "So you kind of brought it on yourself. You realize that, right?"
But he doesn't wait for Ed's acknowledgement, pressing on instead.
"Putting it simply, I'm having a hard time believing your... 'deeper feelings' are what you they say they are. And, I'm sorry, but it'll take more than a piece of paper to lay my doubts to rest." A beat. His gaze falls to Ed's tie pin, hazing over. Lingering there. The angles and edges of his face soften a little with more than tiredness. "I need to know that I'm not wasting my time looking for something that isn't truly there."
He wants to believe it, is desperate to believe it with every needy fibre of his being, but it doesn't feel like a sure, safe thing to pour so much of his energy into.
"...then what do you want from me?" What was he supposed to do? Asking questions wasn't what Oswald wanted, being kissed wasn't what he wanted, Edward explaining what he felt also didn't cover it and, honestly, he's starting to wonder why this falls entirely onto him. As if loving Oswald was just another service to perform as his employee and be criticised if he didn't do so satisfactory. So far, a lot of complaints and not much reason to assume that Oswald even felt what he'd claimed to feel.
Why did Oswald love him? The question that he wasn't supposed to ask and that he still didn't know the answer to. The love certainly hadn't been shining through a lot since the moment he flipped on him over that 'why?'.
Oswald blinks at the question, frowning distantly.
"...I don't know." He says, and it's a moment before he tilts his chin up and meets Ed's eyes, his own a sharp, clear blue.
Mother had been right about many things - that he was fiercely clever and determined and destined for greatness, just like all the kings and powerful men in the pages of his favourite storybooks. But her promise that he'd find someone, someday, who would look at him and see what she always had, all his worth and his shining potential, never seemed any more real than those fairy tales; it never could when he'd come home from school with a black eye or a tear in his newest sweater or bloodied gauze packed up his nose.
Too little has changed.
"I guess I'm not very good at this either, as you were very quick to point out the other night." He shrugs and throws up his hands hopelessly, letting them slap his sides. "...So, what now?"
Edward's eyes are as dark as his thoughts and maybe as heavy as his heart today, but he meets Oswald's anyway, trying to figure out what to say next. Where to take this. Oswald seems lost and he knows that he is. There isn't really a clear answer and he has played himself into a corner. If a letter filled with truths, a kiss and him just being himself was the wrong way to go, what was the right way?
For a brief second he smiles, since there is a twisted part of him that wants to just look Oswald up and down, smirk and ask: 'Wanna fuck?'
But obviously he knows better than to do that, that would hardly count as romantic either. Still, the thought alone brings some much needed levity to the situation and he ends up chuckling, nervously running a hand through his hair, not even caring that he'll end up messing it up. "All I can give you, Oswald, is myself."
He steps forward, putting a hand on Oswald's shoulder and holding his gaze once more, bending down a little to do so. "You have me. You have had me before your confession. You still have me after mine. Now tell me if you want to keep me. Because I'm yours."
Something happens, changes, when Ed talks and Oswald sets aside his hurts and his pettiness just long enough to listen. By the end of it, while the last word hangs in the air between them, he's quiet still, dazed, like he's watching someone else's life unfold, hearing someone else's thundering heart filling the room. The hand on his shoulder is all that keeps him rooted in a strange reality where he's being given everything he ever wanted, given what he had never won through manipulation or bribery or intimidation, and it doesn't make sense, none of it does.
But here they are, standing together on the trembling edge of something new, a whole world of possibilities opening up before them. Too good to be true, even for someone nearly too desperate to refuse.
They're all they have; and after a day fraught with missteps and misunderstandings he's wrung out, too tired to stay angry. Too tired to question whether Ed chose him or just settled for him because he had no one else.
"Yes... you're mine," Oswald says slowly, testing the words, how they sound.
A shaky breath of a laugh punches out of him - relief or amazement or gratitude, a shimmer to his eyes - and he can already feel himself giving in, see himself reaching and curling an arm around Ed, then the other, carefully pulling himself close. His hands settle over Ed's back, soft and unsure, holding on with a child's grip.
Finally. Oswald's defences crumble and perhaps now Edward can allow himself to be anything other than certain, pushing down his own insecurities. Probably not, his desire to do just that is easily outweighed by fear of another chain reaction by now. He's not good enough at gauging and predicting emotions to risk something like that. So instead he focuses on faking deep conviction, his own arms sliding around Oswald in turn.
Perhaps this time then it's the right move? Either way, he risks it, leaning forward to meet Oswald's lips for another kiss, this time a slower one, giving him the time to decide whether he wants to kiss back or not.
He's no more ready for it than he was the first time, painfully unfamiliar with a gentler world of touch. But he's trying, his jaw loosening into the kiss, the press of his mouth a careful, sexless thing. Soft, like he's seeking permission.
Ed's first to pull away - and Oswald lets him, his eyes closed, basking in the afterglow he can feel to the tingling tips of his fingers. But the dream doesn't end when he opens them. And that Ed's still there, waiting, makes something twist up in his chest and he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry.
He swallows instead, his eyes wide and full of wonder.
"...yes." He answers under his breath. Mesmerized. Then again, soft but surer: "Yes."
That is really all he needs to hear, isn't it? At least for now, for the moment. He might not fully comprehend the why, but he has finally determined just what Oswald is looking for and what he is offering. Everything and anything. He can do that, gladly. He can give and he can take and he kisses him again, as he struggles to express his feelings otherwise.
Edward may not me vastly more experienced than Oswald, but he has some experience and a lot fewer inhibitions, especially when the mood hits. So it shouldn't be that much of a surprise that he pushed Oswald back the few steps he needs to pin him against the wall, moving one of his hands to press down on his chest. He pulls away again, his forehead against Oswald's as he rests his fingers just above his heart, feeling it beat. "If you break me, I’ll not stop working. If you can touch me, my work is done."
He flinches when his back hits the wall, eyes flying open, flickering with animal-fear. The crush of claustrophobic panic lasts only a moment - but a moment long enough for his hands to shoot up defensively and for one to press into Ed's shoulder, giving himself room just to breathe - sucking in soft, shuddering breaths against Ed's skin - until his mind catches up to the rest of him and he comes to his senses with a twinge of embarrassment.
Ed slowly swims back into focus, a non-threat. He blinks, swallowing, pulse jittery in his throat. The heat of Ed's palms leeches through his shirt.
"Your heart..." He pants out, lifting his own hand away to curl his fingers around Ed's wrist, keeping him there. He strokes him with his thumb, thoughtful. "After last night's disaster of a dinner, I was convinced your intentions were only to ridicule me." His lashes flutter low. "...I see now that I couldn't have been any further from the truth."
"An understandable assumption." In retrospect, anyway. He should have known at the time, but it was a matter of both their insecurities clashing with each other and neither being able to see past that. Something that he rather expects may happen again, given how very broken in different ways they happen to be. "I am not used to being loved. I'm not even used to being liked. I've accepted that."
Overall he has also decided that he doesn't mind. There were people though, people who mattered. Mainly Oswald. Namely Oswald. It all makes sense, really. Because illogical or not, he does believe in fate and this really seems like the inevitable path to be on, as entwined as their fates are. His fingers run through Oswald's hair as he looks at the man, deciding against another forceful show of passion. Slow. He can do that. But his hand stays on Oswald's chest.
sorry for oz being kind of stuck processing shit LOL he'll get better I hope
Oswald's hair is still crunchy-stiff with sprays and gels, and touching it is an offense he'd have easily swatted Ed's hand away for on any other night. But tonight he takes it, lets his eyes fall shut and relishes in the shivery thrill that runs up and down the nape of his neck and spreads, tingling, through his scalp. His face goes slack, absorbed.
That someone is touching him because they want to, because they want him to share in something crazy and wonderful, and because they want him with a pure, guileless need, is something he can barely wrap his head around. Something he might not ever be able to. The only thing more scary than finally having this thing called love in his grasp is the thought of it slipping through his fingers so soon.
"Hold me," he says, squeezing Ed's wrist, not sure if he's asking or pleading. Not caring what it sounds like, either, because he's tired, so tired. Because he'd rather let go and be weak than waste away, bit by bit, dying alone. Fading from memories and becoming just a footnote in Gotham's history.
A smile appears on his lips at that request, charmed by that unmasked need. There is something invigorating about being this desperately wanted. He thinks for a moment only before dropping to his knees in front of Oswald. Given their height difference, that makes it easy to keep his arms around his waist, turning his head to rest it against his stomach. Clearly not a position he intends to stay in for long, but it allows him to gather his thoughts and judge his own emotions in response.
Finally he leans back, hands on the floor behind him as he looks up at Oswald and tilts his head to the side, indicating the bed. "Let's lie down. If you want me to hold you, I will."
Oswald blinks at him. "What are you doing?" He asks, when Ed kneels, unasked, like a loyal subject before his king. Though his body has a few ideas - and in Ed's arms he feels a twist of heat in his guts, a hunger just beginning to wake after years of being pushed aside or, at best, dealt with quickly and carelessly until he could direct his focus towards what really mattered. He isn't disappointed when Ed ends up sitting back; only distracted, until Ed motions to the bed and the possibilities have colour flooding his cheeks.
The act of dredging up what goodness was left in him and offering it like a shiny pebble in a handful of dirt had completely consumed him; he hadn't even thought about what the rest of the night could or should look like, never mind the intricacies of life after 'I love you'.
But he asked for this, struggled for this. And after days of holding a burning secret inside his chest while it ate a hole through him, killing him slowly, he refuses to run away, to run back to the safety and the loneliness of his comfort zones. It's too late, anyway, to go on as if it never happened; love changes everything, for better or for worse, and neither of their steel-trap minds could ever let this go.
"Yes -- let's!" Oswald puts on a flaky smile, waving Ed over. "I think we've both done enough standing around, don't you?"
He hobbles to the bed and just sits on its edge, carefully stretching out his leg. Regardless of where things went or didn't from here, he could at least appreciate the chance to get of his feet.
Edward follows Oswald to the bed, letting the man sit down first. He knows it's not always easy to find the best position for his leg, after all. So he ends up sitting down on the other side and, in a perhaps daring move, he takes off his suit jacket, folding it neatly before putting it aside. Not exactly a striptease, but he rather suspects that would be more than Oswald can currently handle anyway.
He leans back, trying for casual, his arm behind them both, but edging close enough to Oswald that their shoulders brush against each other. He could be far more forward, he's certainly of the mind to be far more forward, but he is taking things slow for now. It seems like the best choice, given how prickly Oswald has proven to be where all this is concerned.
He has questions, but he doubts that will improve on the mood, so instead he just turns his head to look at Oswald, finally placing his hand from behind them on Oswald's thigh instead. "I've always admired your eyes. They look blue so often, but they are really green, aren't they? Fascinating. And my favourite colour."
no worries, sorry for the typo in the last thing. *too
He absently worries his lip while watching Ed, less intimidated by the strip-down if only because he himself is in his shirt and vest, his cravat still crisply knotted. There's no effort made on his part to shed anything else and he's a little grateful when Ed spares him the trouble of deciding what to do next, giving him something else to think about when he edges closer and his hand settles over his leg.
A muscle flexes, restless, under Ed's fingers. Oswald looks down a moment before his gaze flits back to Ed's face and he sits up a little straighter.
"Are they?" He shrugs and huffs a laugh, as if he didn't spend time looking himself over in the mirror every morning, often boldening his look with a touch of eyeliner. "I guess I never really noticed. ...Weird, huh."
Sitting there with his hands in his lap and all but squirming, he wants - almost desperately - for Ed to chuckle along with him and ease some of the pressure. Ed's attention is so focused, so all-consuming, something he didn't expect to make him feel uneasy (or uneasier) in his own skin.
But there's a first time for everything, it seems.
"And speaking of eyes... may I~?" Oswald reaches for Ed's glasses anyway, after a beat, sliding them off with an uptick of a smile.
"Much better." He turns them in his hands consideringly. "...You know, you should really look into getting contacts."
Having his glasses critisised is hardly anything new. After all, four-eyes is just one of the many names he's been called. A sting to his confidence anyway and heat rises to his cheeks as he tries to focus on the now blurry shape of Oswald. He can see without glasses, but obviously not as good. "I'll consider it."
He bites down on a remark asking Oswald for any more comments to improve his appearance. Instead he just moves the hand off Oswald's thigh to push some hair out of his face, since his usual gesture of adjusting his glasses isn't possible right now.
"Until I can get contacts, you will make a very fetching blur."
He lets his hand fall on his tie, loosening the knot. He pulls the tie free and drapes it over his suit jacket, one more step toward casual and still removed from stripping down. Until he decides to just keep going, unbuttoning his shirt with quick and efficient movements and then taking it off, discarding it far more thoughtlessly then the jacket and the tie and simply throwing it aside. So here he is, half-naked and without glasses, looking at Oswald with his eyebrows raised.
"Do you have any other improvements in mind?" So he couldn't bite down on it for long, but at least he's turned down the sharpness in his tone. Unfortunately for him, that leaves the question sounding far more soft and vulnerable than intended.
Oswald scoffs softly and takes the compliment with a flap of his hand, assuming that his own remark about the glasses has made Ed feel just as shy rather than vaguely insulted. But that theory begins to fall apart when Ed picks up where he left off and casually undresses as if they've done this before. It's a sort of spectacle Oswald can't look away from, never having seen more of Ed than his bare throat or a sockless foot until now - and when Ed's question firmly thrusts him back into the spotlight his words dry up in the back of his mouth and he suddenly feels too big for the room, his head spinning with the queasy-giddy thrill of someone half his age.
He's all but forgotten the glasses and sets them aside on the night table, the same hands that have pulled triggers and opened throats settling over Ed's body with impossible tenderness, half-expecting them to pass right through. Ed is as warm and real as he's ever been, skin and flesh and bone under his fingertips, and Oswald can't help the little twitch of a smile it puts on his lips.
But then comes a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" He licks his lips. "I, I don't profess to know how far you are willing to take matters, but... the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable." For this to be something Ed would regret. "I just... want you to know that you are under no obligation to do anything more."
"I don't feel obligated." Slightly awkward and rather more insecure than he wants to - especially since he can't read Oswald's expression properly while not wearing glasses - but not obligated. There's goosebumps initially following Oswald's touches, but he doesn't pull away from them. It sets him on edge, but not in a bad way, especially now that he pushes down on the flicker of insecurity that came up before. So Oswald prefers him without glasses, big deal. Clearly the man approves of the rest of him.
"I want you." Is it too forward to phrase it like that? They've gone rather too far down this rabbit hole to play coy now. "I want you wanting me."
After all, at least that means someone can appreciate his workout routine. He isn't sure about touching Oswald, because he's by now noticed that it's better to be slow about these things, so instead he leans back on his hands and looks at him, his eyes slowly adjusting to being without glasses so suddenly and focusing just a little better.
"What I don't know is what that entails." What does it mean to be wanted by Oswald Cobblepot? Other than having to deal with an explosive temper and all matters of fierce emotion.
Neither does he, actually -- beyond having someone to himself to taste and to take. Someone who would be there when he woke up in the morning, because he was enough. He gently clears his throat and shifts position to sit at a bit of an angle, slightly turned away, sucking in a quiet breath as he finally sets to work opening his vest. It takes longer than it should, his sweat-damp, tingly fingers fumbling with the buttons. But he's determined to finish on his own, at his own pace, and gets to his tie next, sliding it loose and stretching to drape it over his waistcoat he's hung on the back of a chair. He's about halfway down his tux shirt when something occurs to him and he pushes to his feet, wincing as he limps to the light switch across the room. A slow twist of the knob and the lighting in the room dims to a fainter, fuzzier glow.
"Atmosphere, my dear Ed, is everything," he says on his way back, trying to play it casual. But he's already hunching his shoulders as if trying to make himself disappear, a little glad for Ed's fuzzy vision when he neatly arranges his shirt and singlet over the chair. Then he bends, sitting again at that angle, jaw tight as he rolls up his pant leg and peels away one of his compression socks. He pauses and then leaves the other on his injured leg, working off his knee brace instead.
There's not much to see one way or another, when he straightens up. Without the elegance of an expensive, well-tailored suit and layers of formalwear underneath he's smaller and unimposing, less meat on him than on Ed. He doesn't know what to do with the attention any more than he knows how to handle silences in these moments and just throws up his hands with a helpless, too-cheery grin as if to say, 'well, here I am'. He begins to wonder whether he should've just kept his undershirt on - but it's a little late for that.
"...You can start by holding me, yes?" Oswald feels a little silly offering the reminder, hugging himself loosely, his hands curled around his elbows. He grabs for a corner of the blanket after a moment, meaning to pull it over them whenever they decide to lie back.
It's not exactly subtle, the way Oswald is trying to hide himself away, even while exposing himself. Edward can understand it, perhaps better than most could, having had more than his share of bullies in his life. He isn't sure what to say that wouldn't make it worse, so instead he just smiles a soft smile and then he simply lies down, silent still as he wraps his arms around Oswald from behind, shifting along so he can spoon him comfortably, adjusting for the difference in height. He hides his face against the back of Oswald's neck, finally placing a gentle kiss between Oswald's shoulder blades.
He would ask who hurt him, what hurt him, but he knows his friend well enough to know the answer, no, answers to those questions and he wants to help him heal instead of poking the wound.
He doesn't smile back. But the unguarded look from before comes over him, a thankfulness for Ed's quiet understanding. And as Ed's body slots into his he feels himself give in, softening into Ed's chest, his living warmth, like he's coming home after a long, tiring journey. Ed is home - and it hurts a strange sort of hurt because he's happy, he realizes, even as he can feel his eyes burning. He's finally happy.
He closes them and settles, flinching faintly at the gentleness of Ed's kiss, at the way his lips edge close to where he had been shot. There isn't much to show for it now, a pinkish-white blotch of a scar so small and inconspicuous for a wound that had nearly taken his life. But the memories tied to it are forever, the good with the bad. A reminder, always, of the strange twist of fate that had brought them together.
"Thank you," Oswald says past the thickness in his throat, tasting salt on his lips. He dries his eyes on his wrist before moving to clasp one of Ed's hands tightly. And as he presses it closer to him, he puts away the thought of Ed having touched and held someone else before him, refusing to let the past take away from their moment, their time. Sniffing, he thinks to bring the hand to his lips and press kisses to every one of Ed's knuckles, then the hollow of his wrist, letting his affection speak for him.
Edward closed his eyes as he let Oswald move his hand, holding still for him as he kissed it. It was all about the simple gestures here and he could appreciate that, a shiver running down his spine even so. He was breathing against Oswald's neck and even though the thought was tempting, he didn't move his free hand to touch him anymore than the gentle brushing against his stomach that he inevitably ended up doing with every breath Oswald took. He had noticed enough about how Oswald tensed up to have decided that he didn't want to touch him in any way Oswald didn't initiate, at least not for now. Not tonight.
"We could sleep like this." It doesn't seem like a bad idea.
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"I'm not much of a sweeper and I've never been good at romance." Well. "I can be good, but it'd be an act. I've always just been myself with you." There's no need to try for that normalcy that he has never actually achieved. "But it's not really an ultimatum. If you want to leave it at this, fair enough. I'll continue working for you. If you want me gone, you have the means. I just wanted to find a way to actually make myself understood."
Since his other attempts like that clearly failed for various reasons. "Although if you tell me to keep my mouth shut in that manner ever again, we'll have a problem. I've gone through too many years of being told to shut up to have to listen to it from you as well."
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"And I wouldn't have had to ask that of you had you not made it your priority to mock me first thing this morning." His eyebrows shoot up. "So you kind of brought it on yourself. You realize that, right?"
But he doesn't wait for Ed's acknowledgement, pressing on instead.
"Putting it simply, I'm having a hard time believing your... 'deeper feelings' are what you they say they are. And, I'm sorry, but it'll take more than a piece of paper to lay my doubts to rest." A beat. His gaze falls to Ed's tie pin, hazing over. Lingering there. The angles and edges of his face soften a little with more than tiredness. "I need to know that I'm not wasting my time looking for something that isn't truly there."
He wants to believe it, is desperate to believe it with every needy fibre of his being, but it doesn't feel like a sure, safe thing to pour so much of his energy into.
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Why did Oswald love him? The question that he wasn't supposed to ask and that he still didn't know the answer to. The love certainly hadn't been shining through a lot since the moment he flipped on him over that 'why?'.
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"...I don't know." He says, and it's a moment before he tilts his chin up and meets Ed's eyes, his own a sharp, clear blue.
Mother had been right about many things - that he was fiercely clever and determined and destined for greatness, just like all the kings and powerful men in the pages of his favourite storybooks. But her promise that he'd find someone, someday, who would look at him and see what she always had, all his worth and his shining potential, never seemed any more real than those fairy tales; it never could when he'd come home from school with a black eye or a tear in his newest sweater or bloodied gauze packed up his nose.
Too little has changed.
"I guess I'm not very good at this either, as you were very quick to point out the other night." He shrugs and throws up his hands hopelessly, letting them slap his sides. "...So, what now?"
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For a brief second he smiles, since there is a twisted part of him that wants to just look Oswald up and down, smirk and ask: 'Wanna fuck?'
But obviously he knows better than to do that, that would hardly count as romantic either. Still, the thought alone brings some much needed levity to the situation and he ends up chuckling, nervously running a hand through his hair, not even caring that he'll end up messing it up. "All I can give you, Oswald, is myself."
He steps forward, putting a hand on Oswald's shoulder and holding his gaze once more, bending down a little to do so. "You have me. You have had me before your confession. You still have me after mine. Now tell me if you want to keep me. Because I'm yours."
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But here they are, standing together on the trembling edge of something new, a whole world of possibilities opening up before them. Too good to be true, even for someone nearly too desperate to refuse.
They're all they have; and after a day fraught with missteps and misunderstandings he's wrung out, too tired to stay angry. Too tired to question whether Ed chose him or just settled for him because he had no one else.
"Yes... you're mine," Oswald says slowly, testing the words, how they sound.
A shaky breath of a laugh punches out of him - relief or amazement or gratitude, a shimmer to his eyes - and he can already feel himself giving in, see himself reaching and curling an arm around Ed, then the other, carefully pulling himself close. His hands settle over Ed's back, soft and unsure, holding on with a child's grip.
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Perhaps this time then it's the right move? Either way, he risks it, leaning forward to meet Oswald's lips for another kiss, this time a slower one, giving him the time to decide whether he wants to kiss back or not.
"Are you mine?"
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Ed's first to pull away - and Oswald lets him, his eyes closed, basking in the afterglow he can feel to the tingling tips of his fingers. But the dream doesn't end when he opens them. And that Ed's still there, waiting, makes something twist up in his chest and he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry.
He swallows instead, his eyes wide and full of wonder.
"...yes." He answers under his breath. Mesmerized. Then again, soft but surer: "Yes."
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Edward may not me vastly more experienced than Oswald, but he has some experience and a lot fewer inhibitions, especially when the mood hits. So it shouldn't be that much of a surprise that he pushed Oswald back the few steps he needs to pin him against the wall, moving one of his hands to press down on his chest. He pulls away again, his forehead against Oswald's as he rests his fingers just above his heart, feeling it beat. "If you break me, I’ll not stop working. If you can touch me, my work is done."
Of course, a riddle to break the silence.
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Ed slowly swims back into focus, a non-threat. He blinks, swallowing, pulse jittery in his throat. The heat of Ed's palms leeches through his shirt.
"Your heart..." He pants out, lifting his own hand away to curl his fingers around Ed's wrist, keeping him there. He strokes him with his thumb, thoughtful. "After last night's disaster of a dinner, I was convinced your intentions were only to ridicule me." His lashes flutter low. "...I see now that I couldn't have been any further from the truth."
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Overall he has also decided that he doesn't mind. There were people though, people who mattered. Mainly Oswald. Namely Oswald. It all makes sense, really. Because illogical or not, he does believe in fate and this really seems like the inevitable path to be on, as entwined as their fates are. His fingers run through Oswald's hair as he looks at the man, deciding against another forceful show of passion. Slow. He can do that. But his hand stays on Oswald's chest.
sorry for oz being kind of stuck processing shit LOL he'll get better I hope
That someone is touching him because they want to, because they want him to share in something crazy and wonderful, and because they want him with a pure, guileless need, is something he can barely wrap his head around. Something he might not ever be able to. The only thing more scary than finally having this thing called love in his grasp is the thought of it slipping through his fingers so soon.
"Hold me," he says, squeezing Ed's wrist, not sure if he's asking or pleading. Not caring what it sounds like, either, because he's tired, so tired. Because he'd rather let go and be weak than waste away, bit by bit, dying alone. Fading from memories and becoming just a footnote in Gotham's history.
he's adorable
Finally he leans back, hands on the floor behind him as he looks up at Oswald and tilts his head to the side, indicating the bed. "Let's lie down. If you want me to hold you, I will."
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The act of dredging up what goodness was left in him and offering it like a shiny pebble in a handful of dirt had completely consumed him; he hadn't even thought about what the rest of the night could or should look like, never mind the intricacies of life after 'I love you'.
But he asked for this, struggled for this. And after days of holding a burning secret inside his chest while it ate a hole through him, killing him slowly, he refuses to run away, to run back to the safety and the loneliness of his comfort zones. It's too late, anyway, to go on as if it never happened; love changes everything, for better or for worse, and neither of their steel-trap minds could ever let this go.
"Yes -- let's!" Oswald puts on a flaky smile, waving Ed over. "I think we've both done enough standing around, don't you?"
He hobbles to the bed and just sits on its edge, carefully stretching out his leg. Regardless of where things went or didn't from here, he could at least appreciate the chance to get of his feet.
I apologise for the lateness!
He leans back, trying for casual, his arm behind them both, but edging close enough to Oswald that their shoulders brush against each other. He could be far more forward, he's certainly of the mind to be far more forward, but he is taking things slow for now. It seems like the best choice, given how prickly Oswald has proven to be where all this is concerned.
He has questions, but he doubts that will improve on the mood, so instead he just turns his head to look at Oswald, finally placing his hand from behind them on Oswald's thigh instead. "I've always admired your eyes. They look blue so often, but they are really green, aren't they? Fascinating. And my favourite colour."
no worries, sorry for the typo in the last thing. *too
A muscle flexes, restless, under Ed's fingers. Oswald looks down a moment before his gaze flits back to Ed's face and he sits up a little straighter.
"Are they?" He shrugs and huffs a laugh, as if he didn't spend time looking himself over in the mirror every morning, often boldening his look with a touch of eyeliner. "I guess I never really noticed. ...Weird, huh."
Sitting there with his hands in his lap and all but squirming, he wants - almost desperately - for Ed to chuckle along with him and ease some of the pressure. Ed's attention is so focused, so all-consuming, something he didn't expect to make him feel uneasy (or uneasier) in his own skin.
But there's a first time for everything, it seems.
"And speaking of eyes... may I~?" Oswald reaches for Ed's glasses anyway, after a beat, sliding them off with an uptick of a smile.
"Much better." He turns them in his hands consideringly. "...You know, you should really look into getting contacts."
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He bites down on a remark asking Oswald for any more comments to improve his appearance. Instead he just moves the hand off Oswald's thigh to push some hair out of his face, since his usual gesture of adjusting his glasses isn't possible right now.
"Until I can get contacts, you will make a very fetching blur."
He lets his hand fall on his tie, loosening the knot. He pulls the tie free and drapes it over his suit jacket, one more step toward casual and still removed from stripping down. Until he decides to just keep going, unbuttoning his shirt with quick and efficient movements and then taking it off, discarding it far more thoughtlessly then the jacket and the tie and simply throwing it aside. So here he is, half-naked and without glasses, looking at Oswald with his eyebrows raised.
"Do you have any other improvements in mind?" So he couldn't bite down on it for long, but at least he's turned down the sharpness in his tone. Unfortunately for him, that leaves the question sounding far more soft and vulnerable than intended.
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He's all but forgotten the glasses and sets them aside on the night table, the same hands that have pulled triggers and opened throats settling over Ed's body with impossible tenderness, half-expecting them to pass right through. Ed is as warm and real as he's ever been, skin and flesh and bone under his fingertips, and Oswald can't help the little twitch of a smile it puts on his lips.
But then comes a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" He licks his lips. "I, I don't profess to know how far you are willing to take matters, but... the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable." For this to be something Ed would regret. "I just... want you to know that you are under no obligation to do anything more."
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"I want you." Is it too forward to phrase it like that? They've gone rather too far down this rabbit hole to play coy now. "I want you wanting me."
After all, at least that means someone can appreciate his workout routine. He isn't sure about touching Oswald, because he's by now noticed that it's better to be slow about these things, so instead he leans back on his hands and looks at him, his eyes slowly adjusting to being without glasses so suddenly and focusing just a little better.
"What I don't know is what that entails." What does it mean to be wanted by Oswald Cobblepot? Other than having to deal with an explosive temper and all matters of fierce emotion.
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"Atmosphere, my dear Ed, is everything," he says on his way back, trying to play it casual. But he's already hunching his shoulders as if trying to make himself disappear, a little glad for Ed's fuzzy vision when he neatly arranges his shirt and singlet over the chair. Then he bends, sitting again at that angle, jaw tight as he rolls up his pant leg and peels away one of his compression socks. He pauses and then leaves the other on his injured leg, working off his knee brace instead.
There's not much to see one way or another, when he straightens up. Without the elegance of an expensive, well-tailored suit and layers of formalwear underneath he's smaller and unimposing, less meat on him than on Ed. He doesn't know what to do with the attention any more than he knows how to handle silences in these moments and just throws up his hands with a helpless, too-cheery grin as if to say, 'well, here I am'. He begins to wonder whether he should've just kept his undershirt on - but it's a little late for that.
"...You can start by holding me, yes?" Oswald feels a little silly offering the reminder, hugging himself loosely, his hands curled around his elbows. He grabs for a corner of the blanket after a moment, meaning to pull it over them whenever they decide to lie back.
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He would ask who hurt him, what hurt him, but he knows his friend well enough to know the answer, no, answers to those questions and he wants to help him heal instead of poking the wound.
"You are right. Atmosphere is everything."
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He closes them and settles, flinching faintly at the gentleness of Ed's kiss, at the way his lips edge close to where he had been shot. There isn't much to show for it now, a pinkish-white blotch of a scar so small and inconspicuous for a wound that had nearly taken his life. But the memories tied to it are forever, the good with the bad. A reminder, always, of the strange twist of fate that had brought them together.
"Thank you," Oswald says past the thickness in his throat, tasting salt on his lips. He dries his eyes on his wrist before moving to clasp one of Ed's hands tightly. And as he presses it closer to him, he puts away the thought of Ed having touched and held someone else before him, refusing to let the past take away from their moment, their time. Sniffing, he thinks to bring the hand to his lips and press kisses to every one of Ed's knuckles, then the hollow of his wrist, letting his affection speak for him.
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"We could sleep like this." It doesn't seem like a bad idea.