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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"We could sleep like this." It doesn't seem like a bad idea.