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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"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.