a solo ! this is set before, during, and after the ending scene in 3x7 . under a read-more because its so very long .
to say every nerve ending in his body wasn’t still vibrating from the events of the evening would be a lie - hands shake as they white-knuckle grip his cane, teeth threaten to chatter lest oswald keep his jaw tight. though this wasn’t the first time he’d stared down the barrel of a gun, it never seemed to get much easier - a hypocrisy, almost laughable, as he has been the wielder of the weapon more times than he can count. he can still feel his heart beating at it’s bone cage: trying to force itself through ribs, up into his throat. he can still feel the dread of bringing the wine glass to his lips, knowing that whatever the contents, it would surely do him harm.
there was relief in getting home, knowing that despite his shakiness, he was safe. safe, and in the company of the only person he truly cared to share space with. god, the retelling of his evening can barely be contained as he marched through hallways, leaning just a bit harder on his walking stick for support. stress, as well as stormy weather, made his mangled ankle ache. ed would understand, surely - he, too, had recently danced with death, avoiding it narrowly. it was fate, was it not? the pairs insistence to survive? fate that they are both still standing, and together? he starts speaking before he sees him, knowing he’ll be there. they need each other, and whether or not edward is aware of it, he loves him just as well. platonic, perhaps, but he does, surely.
“ well, ed - you would not believe the ni— ” oh. lips to lips, hands to form. it’s her. she, who had stolen him with a glance, she, who he’d thought he’d rid of. as awful a thing, the blatant show & tell of dear edward’s faults, oswald doesn’t regret it. he was certain it would work, to stave her off, make her scarce. but there is little time to think of the pettiness of one’s jealousy — and could it not be almost heroic? an attempt to save a life, to get what one wants? none of that was his intent, but oswald will force himself, just briefly, to believe that narrative.
oswald, good evening. this is isabella.
“ we . . . have met! ” the chuckle that leaves him is forced, and almost painful. there is an all-consuming emptiness coming from the pit of his stomach: a twisting, churning feeling that makes breathing feel impossible, and a heartbeat unheard of. “ would you . . . excuse me- i . . am . . very tired. ” his voice shrinks the further the sentence goes. the smile on his lips is physically painful, those dimples like knife-points pressed into his cheeks. he turns, faster than necessary, and goes to take his exit.
there isn’t even a goodbye or goodnight from edward as he leaves, the sound of hands on fabric and lips to lips the only parting noise as oswald makes his way towards his bedroom. his throat feels tight and yet empty, like something large and hollow has been planted in his esophagus, making it hard to breathe and even harder to swallow. the lack of any acknowledgment hurts more, he feels, than that bullet would have entering his skull - edward was meant to be his friend, the one there for him. he was meant to listen! anything for you, he’d said— where is anything now?! rage intertwines it’s fingers with despair, oswald’s eyes burn with the blinking back of tears.
the privacy of his bedroom gives little solace but a chance to breathe. his throat loosens and a shuddering breath escapes, hitched by gasping sob that leaves his lungs burning. throwing his cane to the floor, fingers grasp at the tie around his neck, angrily and desperately tugging at the delicate fabric until it gives way & is thrown to a far corner of the room. he can’t fight the tears any longer, anger pulling them from his eyes as he rips at the buttons of his suit. he wants it off, wants to just be — he wants to shed his skin and vanish. this feeling, it’s so foreign. jealousy is not a stranger to oswald: he was jealous of mooney and her power, jealous of all who had what he didn’t. money, friendship, influence. he had all that, now, and love . . . oh, but the love of the people doesn’t come close to what he needs. a personal love, someone to dote on. he’d assumed he’d shed that need with the death of his mother, with edward, in his apartment. love is weakness, right? the notion had freed him, once, had turned a flightless bird into one that soared. but having it once more made him chase it, and god, he has never felt weaker. it’s a kink in his armour, a crack in his varnish. it hurts, impossibly so.
that pain makes him angry, and as he continues to throw his clothing about his room, he lets his throat release a sound like the final growl of a dying hound, it tapers into a mere squeak, is preceded by a sharp gasp of an inhale. his good leg kicks at the mahogany of his bedframe . . . that, too, makes him cry out in pained rage. this was all absolute . . . absolute bullshit! the humiliation in front of the founders, the blatant ignoring of his power, and furthermore, his feelings. this is embarrassing, which is equally infuriating. hands grasp at his hair — he’d like to tug this feeling right out of his mind - the love, the jealousy, the anger, the embarrassment. blurry eyes focus on the half-full glass of water on his nightstand, he looks at it as though he’s trying to set it on fire with gaze alone. that is the next victim of his rage, and as he quickly makes his way over to the glass, not an instant is spared before he plucks it from mahogany and throws it at the opposing wall. it shatters with a sound louder than he’d hoped for, and the realization that his tantrum outburst very well may be heard is enough to make him halt.
this little blip can be solved. if there is anything oswald is certain of, it’s that he gets what he wants. he refuses to let this be a weakness to him - after all, those grasping at straws eventually grab ahold of something. it’s salvageable, fixable . . . it is, it just is. and the people, they love him still, surely. though he’d wilted briefly under the sound of a gunshot, he’d stayed unwilling to comply until the barrel was at his head. he still has strength, and power, and influence. surely he does, surely. sitting on the edge of his mattress at last, a deep breath is taken in through his nose. eyes squeeze shut & his jaw clenches, teeth grinding. hands ball into fists as he counts himself into calm . . . something he hadn’t done since early childhood, under his mother’s wing. shifting onto his bed, he lies in fetal position above the covers. the storm has passed, but his chest still feels empty. he closes his eyes, but doesn’t sleep.
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