[His shoulders jump under Alfred’s hands. But he surrenders, exhausted. Lets his aching, useless body be gathered up and carried someplace else, somewhere where the light doesn’t anger the hot, sharp throbbing in his skull any more than he has. He’s still in Alfred’s arms when the two of them settle into bed – a bed that doesn’t have the lingering church-smell that turns his stomach. While drying the blood from his skin, Alfred asks him a question.
Shaking and shaking, Oswald blinks up at him like he’s speaking an alien language.
Maybe it’s that he doesn’t remember the last time someone asked. Maybe it's because if anyone would have, it’d have been Ed. Or that he can sense a hint of something almost real behind the words, behind the look knotting Alfred’s face, and doesn't know what to do with it. The truth lies somewhere in between all these things when he tries to answer. Tries, and chokes before he can get a single word out because, no, nothing is okay, nothing will ever be okay. Not when everything from the last two weeks he spent barely moving, barely living, has finally caught with him, burying him alive. The what ifs and if onlys and what could have beens. The reminders, too, of the lesson learned that day by the river, and on every return to the pier afterwards: that love can't be summoned or willed but that it comes and goes as it pleases. That it never comes at all, sometimes. And worse, maybe, that it can long outlive the person it was meant for.
Worthless to one, but priceless to two.
A squeak of a noise escapes him. And when his face crumples, all he can do is shake his head before he folds in on himself, breaking down.]
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Date: 2024-10-07 04:06 am (UTC)Shaking and shaking, Oswald blinks up at him like he’s speaking an alien language.
Maybe it’s that he doesn’t remember the last time someone asked. Maybe it's because if anyone would have, it’d have been Ed. Or that he can sense a hint of something almost real behind the words, behind the look knotting Alfred’s face, and doesn't know what to do with it. The truth lies somewhere in between all these things when he tries to answer. Tries, and chokes before he can get a single word out because, no, nothing is okay, nothing will ever be okay. Not when everything from the last two weeks he spent barely moving, barely living, has finally caught with him, burying him alive. The what ifs and if onlys and what could have beens. The reminders, too, of the lesson learned that day by the river, and on every return to the pier afterwards: that love can't be summoned or willed but that it comes and goes as it pleases. That it never comes at all, sometimes. And worse, maybe, that it can long outlive the person it was meant for.
Worthless to one, but priceless to two.
A squeak of a noise escapes him. And when his face crumples, all he can do is shake his head before he folds in on himself, breaking down.]