Chapter Text
Oswald takes his seat in the royal box at the theatre, aware of all the eyes that greedily take the opportunity to watch him while he’s not looking. He won’t give them the gratification of looking back. It’s beneath him.
He absently opens the programme that was given to him by his assistant and flicks through it. Achilles and Patroclus. He hopes this performance will be marginally less dull than all the other opening nights he has had to go to. It really is a waste of his time, when he has so many other more important things he could be doing. But as mayor, it’s his duty to be seen at events of this type. He loathes it.
Oswald glances down at the row beside him, and ensures that his face shows nothing. All the other seats in the box are empty because Oswald will never sit with anyone, unless absolutely necessary. He prefers to be alone.
The lights dim and the curtains open, and many of the attendees lean forward or sit up straighter, the electric buzz of anticipation in the air filling them with excitement. Oswald does not move an inch and stares absently through the darkness at the programme still in his lap.
Against his own better judgement, he ends up becoming absorbed in the story, even though he has read Homer’s Iliad and knows how the love story between Achilles and Patroclus ends. He is held rapt when Patroclus tearfully begs Achilles to go to war and stop the needless slaughter of the Greeks; the actor portraying Patroclus is simply superb. Subconsciously he finds himself leaning forward in his seat as the play draws to its conclusion, Achilles holding the lifeless Patroclus in his arms, wailing in his grief. Oswald is horrified to feel a tear slip down his cheek and he hurriedly wipes it away with his pocket square, glancing around himself to see if anyone noticed. Thankfully, everyone else is as engrossed in the play as he is.
It’s a struggle to contain his emotions through the final sequence of Achilles’ suicidal rampage, and his happiness when someone is finally able to kill him. When the play finally comes to an end, he hurriedly puts his pocket square back in his jacket.
The audience is almost immediately on its feet for a standing ovation. Oswald has never gotten up to applaud, for any show he has ever been to see. He doesn’t care if it’s perceived as rude. To him it’s a personal choice, and thus far no production or actor has been good enough to get him on his feet.
He stands up and applauds. He can see photographer’s flashes going off as it’s noticed that he’s joining the ovation, and he knows this image will grace every single one of the morning newspapers, rather than a still from the play or a photograph of the cast. It’s the strongest endorsement the play will get in Gotham city, more powerful than the positive review of any critic. As he stands there, people turn to look at him, disbelieving and incredulous. Even the cast, doing their joint bow on stage, look up at him. Perhaps they expect a smile. Perhaps they think Oswald Cobblepot’s heart has finally been thawed.
He turns and leaves.
He’s being bored senseless by some high ranking academic in the bar when his assistant, Tarquin, comes to him and speaks quietly in his ear.
“It’s time for you to meet the cast, sir.”
Oswald nods, puts down his champagne on a nearby table and follows his assistant.
They are waiting in a line for him in the foyer. Photographers are loitering close by, looking bored as ever. Oswald never gives them anything interesting to photograph—always stoic and predictable.
He always hates this part of the evening. He feels they’re expecting him to spout meaningless words, thanking them for opening their wonderful show in Gotham, telling them what a fantastic performance they gave. Oswald never says anything. He simply shakes each of their hands as each actor is introduced to him and nods in acknowledgement. The whole parade is ridiculous. He’d much rather be at home by the fire drinking whiskey.
He moves as fast along the line as he can without being rude. All the faces are meaningless blurs he’ll probably never see again.
“…This is Edward Nygma, he played the role of—”
“Patroclus.”
Everyone goes quiet, watching with fascination. Oswald never speaks to actors. He stares up at the man, who smiles back down at him, eyes bright with the exhilaration of performance. There are still traces of kohl around them, and Oswald catalogues every physical aspect of Edward’s face. He is wearing glasses now, which suit him very much. His eyebrows are thick and expressive and somehow add to his general warmth. He even has a chin dimple, which of course is completely ridiculous. Some people were just born to be admired.
He dimly realises he’s still holding Edward’s hand and lets go slowly, making look as though it was intentional.
“Did you like the play?” Edward daringly asks. The actors never speak to him either, having always been instructed beforehand not to do so. Tarquin looks at Edward with uncontained fury in his eyes. And of course, there’s fear there too. Oswald isn’t known for being sympathetic when his staff make mistakes. There are no second chances.
“I did.” Oswald responds. “You were magnificent.”
Edward’s smile turns into a big toothy grin, and it looks like he’s about to say more, but his assistant ushers him along the line. Oswald doesn’t tear his eyes away from Edward until he physically has to. As he makes his way through the rest of the line, he has to restrain himself from looking back at Edward. When he finally reaches the end, his assistant says the car is ready outside for them to leave. Oswald starts following him to the exit, but can’t resist glancing over his shoulder one more time.
He is strangely gratified to see, that even though everyone else has dispersed into smaller groups to mingle, Edward is still watching him.
If he were a younger man, still hopeful of his own future happiness, he would smile.
But he is not. He turns away, and goes through the doors. He doesn’t feel anything.
Oswald asks Tarquin about Edward Nygma and his career. Tarquin is more aware of pop culture than Oswald, who has no time for such trivial things. He learns that he has made appearances in a few films in supporting roles, but his career is only really just starting to gain momentum. He asks Tarquin to acquire all the films for him.
He watches them, and the roles really are quite minor, but he finds himself fixated on Edward nonetheless, his grace and beauty. If Oswald were not such a public figure, he would go to see the play again, but he can’t do so without being noticed. He cannot conjure up an excuse to see him again, and he probably shouldn’t anyway. Oswald is not stupid enough to fall for a handsome face. The whole thing is below his notice.
Four days after the play, Oswald receives two tickets for the next Saturday night performance. There’s no note or explanation of any kind, but it’s obvious who sent them. There was only one memorable interaction that night. He wonders at the fact Edward sent two tickets. It’s popular knowledge that Oswald keeps no company, not even friends.
There is only one person he would ever have taken. He wishes his mother were still alive. She would have been delighted with the spectacle of it all, getting to be on the arm of her powerful and successful son. He shuts his eyes against the pain that always accompanies thoughts of her. It has been nearly fifteen years, but his grief still follows him around like a shadow.
He puts the tickets back in their envelope and drops them into one of the desk drawers. That’s that.
It’s Saturday and he’s just finishing up for the day at City Hall. He had intended to work late, running into the time the play is happening, so he wouldn’t have to think about it, but there is simply no more he can do tonight. He looks at his watch, and the play is going to begin in five minutes. Most of the staff have already left, not that there were that many to begin with, being Saturday. He can see the grand building of the theatre in question from his office, and as he stands there at the window staring at it, he feels an odd rush of something in his chest. If he wasn’t a wiser man, he’d say it was excitement. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, he clucks his tongue and absently kicks the toe of his shoe against the wall, waiting for the strange feeling to pass.
In a moment of spontaneity that is absolutely not him, he grabs the tickets from the drawer and calls shouts to Tarquin in his neighbouring office. He comes running.
“I’m going to the theatre, I’ll need a car immediately.”
Tarquin looks for a second like he thinks Oswald has lost his wits. He probably has.
“Of course sir.”
He hurries inside, aware that he is late. He finds the nearest usher and shows them one of his tickets.
“I’m afraid the performance has already started sir, I can’t let you inside.”
He fixes her with as much malice as he can manage as he hisses, “I am the mayor. If you want to keep your job you will let me in.”
The girl looks suitably terrified and says in a small voice, “this way, sir.”
She turns on a small torch once they get in the auditorium, and leads him along the darkness of the rows on the ground floor—Oswald belatedly realises that they’re not box tickets, of course they’re not. He is going to be sitting where the ordinary people sit. He is regretting this last-minute decision more and more by the second.
“Here we are sir. Please enjoy the performance.” She whispers, gesturing to his seat, before hurrying off.
He takes the seat on the end of the row, rather than the one next to someone else. The woman on the other side of the empty seat stares at him.
“Good evening,” Oswald whispers, meeting her gaze with a stiff but polite nod. She simply gapes at him. She probably didn’t think she would end up sitting one seat away from the Mayor of Gotham tonight.
When Oswald looks up, he realises he’s much closer to the stage now. He wonders if that’s what Edward intended. The performance is so much more powerful and immediate from this viewpoint. How will he contain his emotions at the end? Especially sitting here among the common people. He should leave now, but he can’t persuade his legs to move.
Seeing the death scenes from this angle is infinitely worse, as he had imagined, and it’s a struggle to keep the floodgates closed. Their love is so profound, and Oswald finds himself wondering how it feels to experience love like that. He promptly shuts that dangerous line of thought down.
He does of course shed a few tears, unable to stop them. The woman next to him hands him a tissue from the packet she’s holding in her hand. Her kindness somehow makes him cry even more, and he takes the tissue gratefully. He manages to stop and completely dry his face by the time they get to the curtain call. He stands up with everyone else again for the ovation.
Edward’s eyes find his, and he grins widely down at him. Oswald can’t smile—he’s long since forgotten how. He simply nods and turns to leave, while the audience is distracted by the deafening applause.
It’s a relief when he’s surrounded by the comforting darkness and silence of the car.
The same thing happens again the week after. He receives another two tickets to the play, the following Saturday night. He doesn’t even try to pretend that he won’t go this time. The show only has another two weeks to run, and he won’t waste the chance to see it. This time he won’t be late.
The roar of the crowd, the grand applause, these are the things Edward lives for. He finds the Mayor’s eyes quickly in the stall seats, still rather amazed that the man would condescend to sit there. He’s also surprised the Mayor keeps accepting his invitations to see the play. He’d gotten the impression the first time he’d seen him that he’d much rather be anywhere else, despite his kind words to him. Only him. He said nothing to anyone else. Edward thinks about that fact too much.
He turns to leave quickly, as he did the last time. Busy man, Edward supposes.
When the cast finally leaves the stage, he makes his way to his dressing room, still buzzing.
As soon as he opens the door, he sees it. The enormous bouquet of lilies sitting on his dresser, an envelope leaning against the bottom of the vase. His heart is fluttering wildly as he opens it.
Mr. Nygma,
Thank you for the tickets to see your splendid play.
I wish you every success in your future endeavours. I am sure you will be sensational, and I am pleased to have seen you perform at this juncture in what I’m sure will be a remarkable career.
Yours truly,
O. C. Cobblepot
It’s a cold letter, on official office of mayor stationary no less. Edward can read between the lines—it’s a goodbye, even though they never really began. The Mayor won’t accept any more tickets, he won’t attend the show again. He’s a cold man, famous for never smiling. When he wants people out of his life, they go. Edward wonders if he did something to disturb him, to provoke this gesture of finality.
He touches the petals of the flowers sadly. He’d been so excited when he’d seen them. As a stage actor he is of course accustomed to accepting flowers, but he’s never gotten them for more personal reasons. He had really hoped this bouquet would be the first.
But his eyes had lingered on him, hadn’t they? And he’d returned, not once, but twice, to see his play. Mayor Cobblepot never does anything he doesn’t want to do.
Edward is from Gotham, and he knows all about the Mayor, but had never seen him up close until opening night. His palpable presence was quite extraordinary, almost as though he was a member of royalty. The reverence with which people treat him is quite significant, although that might be attributed to his fearsome reputation. He is an impressive man, so elegant, with his powerful eyebrows, his striking eyes, and the dignified wisps of grey in his hair. Edward hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him, and their encounter, since.
Edward doesn’t attend the after party that night. He takes the flowers home with him and puts them in a place of prominence on his coffee table. But he ends up moving them when he discovers the bouquet is so large it blocks the TV. They go on his kitchen dining table instead, where he stares at it from the living room, filled with a strange melancholy.
The Mayor clearly intends their acquaintance to stop, with his letter. Edward imagines he probably does this to anyone who tries to get close to him. He’d known that the Mayor wouldn’t bring anyone with him to the theatre, Edward only sent two tickets because he thought sending one would be insulting and hurtful. He supposes it was either way, if he had no one to give the second ticket to.
The Mayor probably expects him to give up. He probably should give up. He only met the man once, and he didn’t even smile. The problem is, Edward wants to be the one to make him smile. He must be lonely too, all that power and success and no one to share it with? He’s so closed off, so set in his ways, and Edward’s friends would tell him to leave well enough alone, that it’s not worth it. But something in Edward’s gut tells him the opposite.
He’s not wanting for attention, men and women often show an interest in him, and Edward craves human interaction. There aren’t many nights he spends alone. That is, until he met the Mayor. He can no longer even entertain the thought of anyone else.
Edward resolves not to give up. He knows it will difficult, what with the Mayor already being a hard man to access, and his determination to remain alone and untouchable. But Edward always did like a challenge.
Edward finds his next opportunity in the closing night party. He manages to get the Mayor invited, and surely he won’t reject an invitation from the whole production?
He changes after the final performance hurriedly, putting on the suit he has put by especially for tonight. He wants to look his absolute best. He checks his face one last time in the mirror and heads to the bar where the party is taking place, the adrenaline of the performance still running through his veins.
Oswald takes a glass of champagne and surveys the room. More of the actors are filtering in, making it more lively. This party definitely needs that, what with most of the attendees being stuffy old suits. Oswald knows he’s not exactly the life and soul of the party, but he does like to be entertained. Tarquin’s lurking nearby is incredibly irritating, but he does serve as a useful out if whoever he’s talking to gets too boring.
He’s more surprised than anyone that he is there. He sent the flowers to end communication between himself and Edward. He does realise that saying nothing at all would also have worked, and communicated his ‘disinterest’ more effectively. But something about the situation, and the man in question, made him not want to be cold for once. He spent quite some time deliberating on what to send, before finally settling on lilies. He thought Edward worthy of his mother’s favourite.
At that moment, he notices the principal of Gotham University making a beeline for him. He is mentally readying his excuse about Tarquin needing to urgently talk to him, when someone else in a crisp white suit gets to him first. When Oswald looks up at him, he is momentarily flustered—Oswald had managed to forget just how handsome Edward was. He gently places his hands on Oswald’s arms and guides him away from the approaching man.
Oswald looks down at Edward’s hands and opens his mouth, shocked, at being touched. No one ever touches him. He is too repulsive, too abhorrent to be touched.
Sensing his misstep, Edward says, “sorry.” He does look a little sheepish at taking such a liberty, though it’s clear he doesn’t fully understand Oswald’s discomfort.
“It’s all right.” Oswald says, perfunctorily. It’s not.
“I’m really glad you could come tonight.” Edward says. “I wanted to thank you for the beautiful flowers. It was a nice surprise when I got back to my dressing room.”
“You’re welcome.” Oswald has mastered the art of only saying what he needs to. He sees Edward’s expression flicker, as he realises this probably isn’t worth his time. Oswald’s icy exterior is impenetrable.
“I wanted to ask you if you would let me take you out to dinner? Perhaps some time next week if you have any free evenings?”
“No, thank you.” Oswald finishes his champagne and catches Tarquin’s eye. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “do you need rescuing?” But Oswald minutely shakes his head, though the flight instinct is strong.
Edward looks between the two of them in confusion, before renewing his efforts. “Is that a no you have no free evenings, or no you don’t want to come to dinner?”
“Both,” Oswald says easily. A waiter with a tray of champagne passes them and Edward grabs two, handing one to Oswald, who nods in thanks.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Edward continues, taking a sip of the champagne. Oswald watches his Adam’s apple bob. “I’m leaving next weekend to shoot a new project in California. We don’t even have to see each other again.”
Oswald says nothing as he considers, savouring the sweet taste of the champagne, and the distant warm buzz it gives him. He has always liked the comforting numbing blanket of alcohol.
“How old are you, Mr. Nygma?” The question fills Edward’s face with eagerness.
“Ed, please. I’m twenty-eight.” Edward just seems to be glad that Oswald is still talking to him.
“Just as I thought. Surely you don’t want to be seen with an old man like me.”
“You’re not old. You can’t be more than forty.”
Oswald smirks inwardly.
“Forty-two.”
“That’s not old at all!” Edward insists. “And anyway, age doesn’t matter. It never even crossed my mind.”
Oswald wants to believe him, except he feels like an old man. He has grey flecks in his hair, and his stupid leg makes him look old and decrepit. He also certainly has the detached, grumpy manner of one of the elderly. He is not, and has never been a man that people desire. Even with all his power and wealth, he is not an attractive prospect. He has seen it written that he would be the most eligible bachelor in Gotham if he wasn’t so hideous.
“Just one dinner.” Edward says, eyes pleading. “And if you choose, I will never contact you again after.”
Oswald wonders why it is that Edward is so determined. He would usually assume he was after money, but after this run of shows, and given his rising popularity, he will have plenty of his own. There is no logical explanation for Edward’s wanting to have dinner with him, other than simply wanting to spend time with him.
“One dinner. I choose where and when.”
Edward’s eyes light up. Oswald can tell he thought he was fighting a losing battle.
“Of course, anything you like.” Edward says excitedly.
His happiness is making something tug in his chest, and he nods at Tarquin in a mild state of panic. The man is at his side in an instant.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Nygma—”
“Ed—”
“My office will be in touch.” And with that he leaves, feeling Edward’s eyes on him all the way out of the room.
Oswald’s stomach is in knots, and he’s unsure how he is going to eat anything at this dinner. Especially when he sees Edward waiting for him. He is wearing a navy blue and white suit and looks stunning as ever. He has entered the restaurant through the back entrance, and reserved a table right at the back, far away from prying eyes and cameras. Edward’s eyes are on the front entrance, clearly expecting him to arrive like a normal person. It’s almost endearing, the way he perks up every time the door opens.
“Good evening, Mr. Nygma.” Oswald says, and has the satisfaction of seeing Edward almost fall out of his seat at Oswald’s sudden appearance behind him. “Sorry to startle you.”
“Ed. And don’t worry about it.” He actually gets up and pulls out Oswald’s chair for him, before the waiter can do it. Chagrined, he hands them menus and says he’ll be back in a few moments to take their drink orders.
“You look wonderful,” Edward says over the top of his menu, his eyes raking appreciatively over Oswald’s suit. Normally he wears grey and pin stripes with occasional dashes of colour, but tonight he has been bold and chosen a purple suit with light blue details. He has even applied a little makeup, though not enough for anyone to really notice. No one ever does. He’s glad his own menu hides his blush.
They decide to share a bottle of wine, and Edward asks him what dishes he recommends as he has never been to this particular restaurant before. Oswald is gratified when he orders everything he recommends.
“So,” Oswald begins, having planned several questions to ask in his head prior to the evening. “How did you get into acting?”
Edward looks delighted at his interest. “Well, it was always either acting, or forensic science. And I thought acting would be more fun so…”
“Those are two very different career paths.”
“I did try for a job at the GCPD, when my auditions weren’t going so well. But I was offered an acting job before I heard back from the GCPD, and I decided to take it. It turned out that the GCPD had rejected my application anyway.”
“You wouldn’t want to work for them anyway,” Oswald says, wrinkling his nose with disgust. “The entire police force are no better than apes.”
Edward chuckles. “Good to know.”
Things are so easy between them that Oswald feels his nerves dissipating and his hunger returning. He is relieved that he will be able to eat this meal without struggling.
“What’s it like being mayor?”
Lonely.
“It used to be interesting. Challenging. Now it just seems like an endless parade of opening nights and ceremonies, meetings with people so dull I don’t know how they live with themselves, and paperwork.”
Oswald is surprised that he gave such an honest answer. Edward looks sympathetic.
“Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
“No—I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it. What else is there? I have the most powerful position in the city. Where do you go from there?”
“But if it’s no longer fulfilling for you, perhaps you need to take a break, and try something else?”
“This is my life.” Oswald says in a tone that leaves no room for disagreement. “The people may not like me, but they like the fact that I get the job done. That’s why I keep getting re-elected, because I make things happen.”
Edward nods, and doesn’t pursue the topic, clearly knowing when to back down. They both eye the cutlery on the table in silence. It’s awkward, for the first time that evening. Oswald clears his throat.
“So, what’s your new project in California?”
Edward immediately perks up. “It’s about the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. It follows his final campaign in California leading up to the shooting at the Ambassador Hotel.”
“And you play…” Though he supposes it’s obvious.
“Bobby.” He grins.
“That’s impressive.”
“It’s a little intimidating. I always admired him. He wore his heart on his sleeve and made himself accessible to everyone. He was a man of the people.”
Unlike me. Edward seems to realise the unintended implication and an apologetic expression starts to form. Oswald cuts in before he can start trying to backtrack.
“I always admired JFK more. He didn’t waste time on sentiment and got the job done. He had no weaknesses.”
Edward frowns. “What about his constant philandering?”
“Less than ideal, I grant you that. Emotional attachment of any kind only gets in the way of the job.”
The first course is placed in front of them, but neither of them pay any attention to the waiter. Edward looks disturbed by Oswald’s words.
“You really believe that.”
“Yes, I do,” Oswald says with conviction.
They eat the first course in silence. When the plates are taken away, Edward rests his hands on the table.
He fidgets, looking as though he is uncertain whether to say something. Eventually he takes a deep breath and says it.
“Are you happy?”
Oswald debates giving a sarcastic response, such as “ecstatic”, or lying outright and saying yes. But he suspects Edward would see right through it. For a moment he takes down all the barriers he keeps around himself when he’s outside the mansion, and he allows the great depths of his sadness to show. There is so much of it, it’s like being at the bottom of a well he can’t climb out of.
“No.”
Edward seems a little overwhelmed by what he sees, but then he looks sad too, although hopeful, as he holds out a hand across the table. Oswald feels impossibly more wretched for bringing Edward down with him. This is one of the many reasons he keeps to himself.
“I want to make you happy.” He doesn’t retract his hand, even though Oswald makes no move to hold it. “Or even just be there for you. If you would let me. You don’t have to be alone.”
Oswald says nothing, just stares down at the table as he mentally puts the walls back up. In the corner of his eye he sees Edward slowly put his hand back in his lap.
They eat the main course mostly in silence too, with Edward making the occasional comment about how good it is, and thanking Oswald for the recommendation. Oswald only nods in acknowledgement. He doesn’t know what else to say.
When the second course plates are cleared, Oswald looks across the table at Edward. He didn’t really make any eye contact with him over the entirety of the second course. Edward probably wishes he’d never pushed so hard for this dinner.
When Edward meets his eyes and smiles at him, it makes Oswald’s heart hurt. He’s just so tired of being sad. He wants to reach out and take what Edward is offering, but he’s so young, so full of life and joy, and Oswald would just leech all of that right out of him. He would end up cold and hollow, just like him. Oswald won’t do that to him. Edward deserves someone more like him, someone who shares his joy and youthful exuberance. Not an old man so lost in the darkness, he’ll never find his way out.
The waiter brings them dessert menus.
“I don’t think I could eat anything more,” Oswald says, putting his menu down.
“We could maybe share one?”
“If you would like,” Oswald says easily.
“I would like.” Edward smiles again.
He orders a slice of sour cherry strawberry meringue galette. It’s the only thing Edward chose on his own, and it was admittedly a good choice, small and rich enough to complement the rest of the meal. It feels intimate, sharing a small dessert together like this. Edward sneaks smiles at Oswald as they each lean forward to carve off pieces.
“This entire meal was delicious,” Edward murmurs contentedly as they finish the last of the it. “I’ll have to bring my friends here. Thank you again for showing me.”
Oswald nods, looking down at the table. He doesn’t mention that this is a Michelin star restaurant and that most people usually have a three month wait to get a table here. Being mayor does come with some advantages.
“I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you.”
Oswald looks up and analyses his expression. He seems genuine.
“Thank you for letting me get to know you a little better.”
Why does he keep thanking Oswald? Can’t he see how damaged he is, how bad for Edward he would be?
Unless, of course, he sees past all that. And he doesn’t mind. It seems like an impossible concept—to believe it would be dangerous.
Oswald knows the ball is in his court now. He’d said, if Oswald so chose, Edward would never contact him again. The thought of never seeing Edward again bothers him more than he would like to admit. Over the course of their short acquaintance, he’s been a beacon of light amidst all the gloom that encloses him daily, strangling him, choking him. Oswald feels almost as though if he could keep bathing in Edward’s light, he could somehow be better. More like him. Able to feel happiness. But could he do that without destroying Edward?
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And how long will you be gone?”
“Two months.”
All the air feels as though it’s been sucked out of his lungs. And he knows in that moment what his decision is. He closes his eyes.
“Will you write to me?” He opens his eyes and all his breath rushes out in a whoosh.
Edward is smiling widely across the table at him, and Oswald knows he can see this for what it is. Letters aren’t much, and are if anything a bit old fashioned, but it’s Oswald wanting to keep Edward in his life. He is willing to try to let him in. Oswald lays his hand on the table, palm up. His breaths are shallow and uneven. He is terrified, his chest tight with panic, but he wants to give Edward a gesture. It probably doesn’t look like much to Edward, but it’s a huge step for Oswald.
He expects that Edward will grab his hand and hold it, but what he actually does feels impossibly more intimate, because it shows he understands, has learned from his mistake, and is prepared to meet him halfway. He reaches out his hand and grazes the very tips of his fingers with Oswald’s. He stares, enchanted, at their hands, as if he could feel sparks at the tiny points where they are connected.
“I would love to.” For the first time since before he lost his mother, he almost feels like he could smile.