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The night was dark and cold and deep, as accurate of a physical representation of Gotham’s very soul as Edward felt they’d ever see. Monsters lay hidden in the shadows, the moon never shone without charge, and the stars could never be seen in the sky, no matter how hard you tried.
It was an inherently cold city, but the manor was warm and homely and welcoming. And the company — Edward could not stress, through blinding smile or laugh alike, how he cherished this present company. That may have been some reckless slip of his mind (“cherished” — how dangerous), but as he laughed and smiled and drank again from the goblet Oswald kept refilling, he dismissed this criticism in favor of further dampening his mental fortitude. So very rarely did his heart get a turn at the wheel — when he would surrender full control, he couldn’t say, but for now, he was willing to let it press the gas, at least.
“You’re almost obnoxiously happy today, Edward,” Oswald observed, smooth and suave as was custom for his public personality (in private, he could slip into jittery and disjointed as Edward expected of the basic human mind — as if Oswald was basic. Cherished indeed). “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” he admitted, willing his heart to ease up a little lest they wreck. “It’s good to be here. Out of Arkham. And with my fellow sane folk,” he added for levity, toasting his glass before taking a generous gulp.
Oswald scoffed at that, like it was a crime to even imply such a thing as sanity in his regard. Edward could have been convinced he was genuinely upset if it weren’t for the little upturn at the corners of his lips, lost too quickly behind the rim of his own wine glass. It was curious behavior (or perhaps only so to Ed’s murky senses), and try as he might to rationally dismiss it, his poor damned heart insisted that he look into it. That it was somewhat of a secret for the great Mr. Penguin that someone such as Ed could make him laugh or smile. That he was hiding it, not from the general public or his fellow gangsters, but from Ed himself. As if in fear of judgement.
Or denial.
Before his roaring blood could paint his face, Edward drowned that train of thought in a dark tide of wine. That was a reckless speed his cardiovascular frenemy was driving at, and he could have none of it if he intended to come out of this night with nothing worse than a hangover.
Oswald seemed to be holding himself together pretty well, all things considered. He’d drunk at least one glass extra than Ed already, but, then again, he did do this far more regularly than anyone gave him credit for. Before their acquaintanceship, Ed had generally refrained from indulging in alcohol — he could be caught with the occasional hard soda or cider, but he thought the virgin ones were fine as they were (and, mind, cheaper).
He’d been one of the unlucky to have a more negative introduction to the effects of alcohol, and while that hadn’t put him off of it for life, it had dampened any interest quite a bit. Only when he had Mr. Penguin in his bed, bleary and pale, had he ever invested in anything beyond a nice bottle of wine, helpless to the gangster’s preachings on “etiquette”, “hospitality”, and “basic, general class”. That was the first time he’d taken a shot, tasted Whiskey, and the first time he’d woken up dizzy and disoriented and ready to sleep for a week.
Since then, he’d dabbled more frequently at the playful behest of his insatiable guest, buying and tasting different brands, years, and levels of sweetness. Personally, he leaned more to the sweeter side, but wasn’t averse to the Merlot Oswald insisted he keep stocked.
Now that he was playing the guest of the house and was at the mercy of Oswald’s harder tastes, he’d fully expected a glassful of Merlot or even a Cabernet Sauvignon, though he dreaded it.
What he’d received was pleasantly, dangerously surprising. It was sweet, which was almost as jarring as the Whiskey when he’d been expecting the merciless bite of a French vineyard. After a full-body shiver and rambling assurances that it was good, more than good, he’d learned that it was a Port, which Ed had told Oswald all those months ago was his favorite out of the bunch they’d tasted.
“I don’t mind sweet,” Oswald had said when Ed had inquired about his satisfaction with their drink. “It felt appropriate tonight.”
Ed feared he’d go mad trying to figure out what that meant. But, now that his mind was taking a more metaphorical backseat to the reckless motor skills of his heart, he almost fancied he had an answer. And oh, how its implications shook him to his core.
The fireplace was lit just behind Ed, suffusing its suffocating warmth through the room and setting Ed’s skin on fire. The alcohol, the damned mindless ramblings of his internal hopeless romantic, and the dangerously happy expression Oswald wore did nothing to help this problem. Distantly, he feared he’d be burned alive from the inside out, but that was irrational, and he blamed such lunacy on his heart.
Oswald kept smiling at him, ethereal in the warm glow. They were quick, fleeting things that left Ed’s heart feeling bruised and his head feeling lighter than the alcohol would allow. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t saying anything else, never prefacing them with a warning or the like. Just smiling and glancing and turning back to his wine like he wanted Ed to die right there.
It was that look, in that light, with that smile (and that wine in Ed’s veins) that could make Ed believe in a God.
He had never considered himself a religious man, despite past lessons and tedious, dreadful upbringings. The stories he was told, regulations he was ordered to live by were all so restrictive, close-minded, and upsetting that he opted for agnosticism (at least) over life-long torture. He’d chosen to disregard the harsh lectures printed bold in black and red and strayed further to science, finding a refuge in theories that could be supported with evidence he could touch. If all else failed, he could fall back onto the cushion of rationality and knowledge and know that he wouldn’t lose himself in the mist of the maddening unknowable. It was safer, as far as he was concerned, to not believe.
Only now, he was doubting himself after years of making such a decision. Only now, that he’d carelessly thrown that carefully woven safety net to the wind for one night of living unpredictably and knowing how it felt to lead with your gut did he wonder, maybe there is a God. Doubtful it would be the one told on scritta paper and bound in leather, but maybe one more forgiving. One that loved as far its eyes could see, and then some. One that oversaw and cared, one that recognized flaws and gave its children (if they even were that) a chance to explain.
Some, perhaps, would be punished. I killed this man because he meant nothing to me. Others, Ed hoped (nearly prayed), would be accepted and welcomed and blessed. I love this man because he means everything to me, and it would be a disservice to myself to limit where my heart may roam.
That was a God Ed could see himself believing in. That was a God he could see himself on his knees before, in the bench of his bay window, praying, “Please, let him love me.”
Perhaps that was beyond its power. Perhaps it was too selfish of a prayer. Nonetheless, he would do it, and do it again; face-up to the moon with the stars in his eyes, his tears the price to see her pale face, and say, “Perhaps you’re closer to Him than I. Perhaps you’re His messenger mounted in the sky. And if this is true, await my aching plea. I care not of the cost, pray, ‘Let him love me.’”
Maybe it was foolish altogether to hope for such a thing — pray, nevertheless — but with Oswald smiling at him and filling his glass like he was content to do so forever, Ed could see how one might lose themselves to this unknown just for the promise that you had someone who would listen when you cried your heart out and starved for a touch, an embrace, a kiss.
God, how I’ve lost myself, Ed scorned, taking a hasty sip from his glass.
“I think I prefer obnoxiously happy over this,” Oswald said, gesturing to Ed’s stern complexion and rousing him from his thoughts. “You’re thinking. Desperately. I can hear your poor brain grinding itself to a pulp.” He sat back with calculated care, eyeing Ed over his glass, blissfully unaware of how helpless he made him feel. “Care to share?”
“No,” Ed answered before he could think (because, God, where even was his brain at this point?), and hastened to soften the impact. “I just…I mean, it’s n-not really…it’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Oswald echoed, arching a skeptical brow. “If it’s nothing then there should be no hesitation to share it.”
“It’s silly.”
“Laughter would be better than how scared shitless you look right now. Besides,” Oswald sighed, leaning forward to uncork the second bottle of Port he’d brought in when they’d realized they were content to drink until the sun came up, “this is supposed to burn a hole in your filter.”
“It’s…trying its hardest,” he admitted with a shaky laugh, considering the alcohol in his hand before throwing his last shreds of caution to the wind and downing the first third breathlessly.
“Is it Arkham?” Oswald guessed, observing Ed’s movements like he’d find the answer printed on his skin somewhere. “Believe me, my friend, I know how terribly it can haunt the mind—”
“No, it…it’s not Arkham,” Ed said with a shake of his head. “However, I greatly appreciate your concern. I haven’t really been bothered by it since you brought me here. Everything is so…beautiful and warm and…” He coughed out a laugh, gnawing on his bottom lip and tasting how the Port had stained them. “I have to admit, having you close by again is…the best kind of comfort I could have asked for.”
Oswald’s expression lit up at that, his frown easing into a sort of awed stare. “Really?”
“Of course, Oswald. I’ve…Well, I’ve never known friendship like yours.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but then again, it never was. And it seemed to please Oswald enough, who turned away to hide his smile and the rising color in his cheeks.
That smile could be a dangerous thing — Ed had learned that months ago. He’d denied Oswald some requests he’d made, as stern as he could be in the face of a known killer, but when he flashed that soft, teasing smile, Edward would serve him the world on a silver platter and not bat an eye.
It was that smile that propelled him forward, racing down his lane with little mind for the consequences.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked bluntly, scarcely breathing and daring to smack himself in the face when Oswald choked on the sip of wine he’d taken. He looked up to meet Ed’s eyes — curious and slightly concerned — and Ed fought his urge to duck away from the burning questions held within that fiery green.
“I…Why?” Oswald settled on asking once he’d sucked the wine from his lips and wiped it off his chin.
“I don’t. Didn’t, maybe,” Ed corrected with a shrug. “It seemed to cause more harm than good to follow the scripture of men I’ve never met. Men who thought very differently than I. Men who stressed I had to be a certain way if I wanted happiness and security.
“They liked to bring up religion a lot in Arkham. I guess it was a way of offering a security blanket to those who needed it. I never did, so I never listened, and I was ridiculed for it once or twice. It was all terribly…reminiscent,” he decided, narrowing his eyes in wonder at his choice of words. “Though not as upsetting as I would have expected if I’d had the foresight to know what was to come. I guess it’s because I…I don’t kn—I…I’ve been slipping. Stepping away from the concrete walls of science and psychology to wonder…what if there is something?”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” Oswald asked, looking Ed over curiously.
“Not exactly,” Ed confessed, shifting in his seat and nursing his wine before continuing. “That would be easy to dust off. What’s bothering me is the source of my…‘slip’, I suppose. It doesn’t take a lot to make the logical man fall. Likewise, it doesn’t take a lot to plant a seed of doubt in my mind. The real chore is convincing me to look into it. I don’t like not knowing things, and if I know this little thing is going to become a big problem for me, I’ll do my best to avoid it. I like puzzles, but I’d drive myself insane if I fell into a loop of questioning divinity.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?” Oswald said with a slight grin, waving his hand in the general direction of Ed’s head. “Questioning divinity? Are you trying to warn me of your certificate’s invalidity?”
“I’m trying,” Ed interrupted with a laugh, “to say…The moon hasn’t been visible for the past few weeks.”
The abrupt change of subject noticeably baffled Oswald, but Ed held up a finger before he could start interrupting.
“I always thought that was part of Gotham’s…deceiving charm. Even the moon won’t show her face without the right price.” Oswald smirked at that, and Ed lowered his hand, content in knowing that he had the other man’s attention. “Since you got me out of Arkham, however, I’ve seen her every night. Sometimes through clouds, but I doubt that’s her fault. It’s like…Heaven’s light shining down. It’s beautiful. And rare.”
“Maybe the clouds are thicker over at Arkham,” Oswald posited half-heartedly, turning to his wine.
“Thicker…smog, maybe,” Edward allowed with a curl of his lip, “but that’s not the issue. In this equation, the constant is me, and the variables are my location, and you.” That got Oswald’s attention once more. “And while I had many months to think about it in Arkham, I’ve concluded that the only variable that affects the lovely Luna,” he said, gesturing in a sweeping motion to the window, “is you.”
“What are you saying, Ed? That I, somehow, control the sky? I have connections, but I don’t think I have rainbow connections—”
“No, a rainbow is asking far too much,” Ed joked, but denied himself a smile in order to maintain the truthful determination he had swelling inside of him. “What you have is the ability to make me abandon all rationality in favor of the fanciful. In favor of divinity.”
Having brought his tirade full circle, Ed waited for the realization to dawn on Oswald’s face.
“I’m…your slip?” he asked at last, seeming simultaneously amused and unsure of himself.
“For…want of a better term, yes.”
“And what does that mean for me in the long run? Do you have a tendency to purge these ‘slips’ from existence?”
“I have a tendency to ignore them,” Ed reiterated with a smile, hoping to abate Oswald’s mortal fears. “But I can’t, nor do I want, to do that to you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“I should hope so, considering it would take a very strong emotion for me to throw away logic so carelessly as I am right now.”
That seemed to be the final key to arresting Oswald’s curiosity; he turned to Ed and quirked an eyebrow.
“Really?” he asked, almost suspicious. “And what such emotion might that be?”
“An…illogical one,” Ed offered breathlessly, gulping strenuously around the knot of fear in his throat.
“Should I throw away logic as well?” Oswald asked, shifting in his seat and gnawing on his lip, the perfect picture of a person willing to flee the room at a moment’s notice.
Ed, for as long as he’d let this heart-stopping, mind-boggling moment cultivate, was blindly determined to make sure that didn’t happen, and that all of his dreams, whether mutual or not, came to some fruition. “I was hoping you would,” was what he settled on, passively opening a gate for further action but careful to not seem exceedingly desperate (or perhaps all his attempts at nonchalance failed — it really wouldn’t be that surprising).
With a great heaving sigh, Oswald moved to set his drink on the table, stiff-jointed and straight-backed like he had to make some kind of impression. Like this was a show, something he would do for the citizens and reporters, something that weighed heavily on his reputation.
When he drew back, as stiff as before, he fixed Ed with a peripheral gaze that would make any man question being born. There was question to be found in there, plain and stark, a worried, frightened thing wondering, “Are you sure?”
Oswald shifted on the couch again, an inch or two closer (or three or four or five or more — a yard or two, closer than Ed could comprehend; he wasn’t entirely sure), and damn all and everything to Hell if Ed wasn’t terrified. It was like sizing up something horribly fanciful, some biblical monstrosity, something you never could have believed to happen in your world of stone cold sensibility. Some demon of hulking muscles and sulfur and flames, and Ed might have run had he not grounded himself in the sensation of Oswald’s hand on his shoulder.
Despite being mayor, Oswald was well notorious for his reputation as a criminal. While some citizens and naive reporters elected to believe that he had moved past that dark time in his life, others (the more bright and aware ones, but that was besides the point) liked to push the propaganda that Oswald Cobblepot, mayor or not, was diabolical.
Ed chose to believe the brighter side. Fancying himself naive; knowing that Oswald was not a monster — demon or the like. He was a man; when lost to two hours of drinking and bathing in firelight, he was vulnerable. He was human.
Ed had always suspected that much, when housing and feeding and doctoring said criminal. He had wondered, and dared to speculate that this man — who had previously been painted as something horrific — may be far less than the public, perhaps, expected of him.
The real Oswald — the one who had lain in his bed, weak and tired, and trusted him with his life; the one who had stayed with him, on his couch, by his side, eating his food and laughing at his shows; the one who called him “friend”, who put his campaign at risk to break Ed out of Arkham, who delighted in Ed’s happiness, who bent over backwards to accommodate Ed’s every need — was wonderful, powerful, and truly human. The real Oswald trembled as he moved his hands to Ed’s face, gentle and awed, stroking twice over Ed’s cheekbone.
The world was swaying in a way that was none too pleasant anymore, a nauseating cocktail in combination with the way his heart threatened to leap out his mouth. He could throw up, he bet, but the real Oswald was staring at him with half-lidded, wondrous eyes; if for no other reason than to see this through, Ed choked it down.
Oswald still hesitated, vibrating with tension, roving over Ed’s face for any hint of displeasure or unrest. Ed wondered faintly if he seemed too out of it, asking for something in a dissociated state that he couldn’t possibly want.
To appease that notion, he drove down his walls, laid his eyes bare for Oswald’s judgement, and mouthed, “Please.”
“Of course,” Oswald mouthed back, mouthed against him, brushing their lips with every word he uttered. Of course, as you wish, always, forever, and Heaven’s light was blinding Ed.
Oswald drew back in too short of a time, stiff and unbreathing, with something that felt like, “Sorry,” uttered against Ed’s lips. For a moment, Ed wondered if he had done something wrong, that he had asked too much, that he’d finally ruined whatever it was they had, but then Oswald kissed him again. Kissed him harder, dragging him half-into his lap like it was normal, bringing their lips together with a ferocity that bruised his lips and made his teeth ache.
It was an abrupt acceleration of pace that left Ed’s head reeling, spinning of its own volition, his heart rabbitting so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his stomach, in his legs, and everywhere adjacent.
Oswald kissed like he knew how: deep, devouring, and almost invasive swipes of his tongue, silver-tipped and lethal, combatted by gentle and almost teasing brushes of his lips.
The touching, however, was where the novelty set in, and his inexperience shone through. Hesitant strokes, succeeded by too-strong palms, in places too sensitive or not sensitive enough.
It didn’t take long for him to learn though, which was something Ed might have marvelled at had there not been one of those hands at the perfect pressure in the perfect place.
For all his mind was lost to the ministrations against his body, he could have sworn, even out of the corner of his eye, that there was a stray beam of moonlight spilling across the floor to glint against the ebony leather of his shoe. Some potential message could be found in that, he supposed; some culmination of tearful dreams, poetry thrown to the sky in hopes of divine intervention, but he didn’t bother with deciphering it. All there was, all he thought in the brief moment he took to glance at his foot, was that it looked like a starry night sky, here, in a realm of tangibility.
If there ever was, or stands still, a God, Edward could find solace in the Heaven at his fingertips.