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Of course, they’re fighting again.
It seems Edward’s collecting hallucinations like they’re stamps or beer bottle caps, and they’re never cooperative. The visions nag and pester him until his mind is cloudier than the Gotham sky.
It’s been less than a week since Edward shot Oswald, and for a dead man, Penguin sure talks a lot. Dripping with water from the harbor and with lips that are grey and lifeless, he spouts some tired diatribe that Edward’s already heard twenty times that morning.
“Just admit that you are lost without me, or you will destroy everything!” Oswald pleads.
But nothing he says is going to change Edward’s mind. Killing him was the right decision. The only real way to set himself free.
Edward puts on his coat. “I have to go,” he mumbles. Staying here another minute would drive him past the point of no return. And of course, Oswald knows that. Oswald knows everything that passes through Edward’s head.
Suddenly, the room shifts in movement and in color. Things seem to spin as the manor takes on a red tone, and he stares up at the doorway where Oz had been standing just a few seconds ago. That’s where the red light is coming from. Great. Now, even his surroundings couldn’t be trusted.
And then he sees Oswald stepping into view, his back turned.
Despite all of this, Edward still considers leaving for a split second, but he can’t bring himself to. Not when his hallucinations have reached a level like this. “What are you doing?” he asks instead.
Then, Oswald turns around to face him and opens his mouth. Edward watches in horror as Oswald sings, yes, sings, to him. It’s not really a sad song, either. Edward could do sad. He could listen to Oswald’s voice breaking as he warbled out a tune, desperate to be forgiven. He could do angry. God, how cathartic it would be to see Penguin’s eyes full of rage as he screamed curses at him.
But this… Edward can’t really find the words to explain how much he hates it. It’s sexual and intimate, and Edward recognizes the song immediately. It’s Amy Winehouse’s, ‘Wake Up Alone.’ There’s melancholy to the lyrics, but that is not how Oswald sings it. He sings it with a breathy voice and only the slightest hint of sadness. And Oswald looks at him with an expression he’s never seen come from the man when he was alive. There’s a neediness in his eyes, and his skin has an otherworldly glow, and those lips look softer than—
What is he thinking? Edward takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, desperately hoping that if he focuses all of his willpower, he can make the hallucination disappear. It’s never worked before, but maybe if he tries harder…
But he can’t look away. Not when there’s sex in Oswald’s voice. Like he’s begging Edward to join him on the stage and—
Edward exhales hard, and Oswald seems to smile at that, like he knows what it’s doing to him.
Well, of course, he knows. This is Edward’s imagination going haywire. It’s his own intelligence working against him. But it doesn’t matter, because it looks so real. He’s seeing Oswald giving him bedroom eyes, and Edward’s getting hot under his collar.
He slaps himself in a last-ditch effort to wake up from this nightmare, but the music continues to play. When he looks at Oz, he’s almost laughing as he softly throws his head back with what could only be described as an O-face. Like lust and pleasure have completely overtaken him, and once the chorus has played out, Edward finally manages to speak.
“Enough!” he shouts, slamming his hands down on the table.
Oswald appears by his side, almost touching him. He’s still in the pristine suit from before, looking anything but dead. This isn’t Oz. Really, it’s not. Penguin’s body is bloated and waterlogged, floating somewhere in the harbor right now. After seeing so many at the GCPD, it’s effortlessly easy for him to picture it.
But despite knowing this, the man before him is beautiful.
“I know what you’re thinking right now, Ed,” Oswald teases. “I know everything you were thinking during that performance of mine.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he snaps.
Oswald laughs low. “You do. Why are you so scared of it?” A hand reaches out and lands on Edward’s chest.
He sucks in a breath. Oswald is so close to him. It feels too real. There are so many things he wants to do right now. His head is spinning wildly. Punch him. Slap him. Pull his hair. Kiss him. Bend him over backwards. Apologize for killing him.
He almost feels his voice break when he replies. “I need space. Please.”
“You can do anything to me, Edward,” Oswald urges on. “I’d let you. You should know that by now.”
Edward closes his eyes and clenches his hands into fists. He breathes in and out, but the room does not stop spinning around him.
“You need this,” Oswald whines. “You need closure. You’ve thought about what this would be like. Now’s your chance. Consequence-free. Then you can finally move on.”
Edward’s eyes snap open, and his hands wrap loosely around Oswald’s neck. Those eyes stare back up at Edward expectantly.
“I don’t need this,” Edward growls back, adding a bit of pressure with his hands. “And I don’t need you.”
Oswald’s out of Edward’s grasp in an instant, and for a few seconds, Edward feels relief. Then, two arms wrap around his shoulders, and dread floods him once again.
“You’re wrong. You want to fuck him, so fuck him.”
It’s jarring to hear those words come out of Oswald’s mouth. Not just the use of the word fuck, a word he’s never heard cross the man’s lips before, but the use of the third-person tense. Him. Not me. Edward realizes it’s jarring because there’s only one man that the ‘him’ could be referring to, and it’s coming from that man’s mouth.
“Sorry,” Oswald laughs again. “You want to fuck me. You’re right. I should be consistent. It’ll be more immersive that way.”
It’s his own mind manifesting his darkest secret. A secret he would have never admitted to himself if his own subconscious wasn’t forcing it out into the open.
“Oswald…” he warns, but he knew it was futile. What could he do to get him to stop?
“There’s one thing you could do,” Oswald replies. “And once you get over your initial discomfort, I think you’ll find it to be a wonderfully intoxicating experience.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You haven’t heard what I was going to say.”
“We’re the same person, as you keep reminding me. I know what you’re thinking.”
“Ah, you know what you’re thinking. You’re the one having these thoughts. You’re just externalizing them using me,” Oswald corrects him.
“They’re intrusive thoughts, then. You are my friend. You were my friend. That’s all. A friend.”
“We both know that if it weren’t for her, we would have gotten together. ‘I’d do anything for you, Oswald,’” he mimicks. “You were so obviously into me first. What are you so afraid of? Well, I guess I already know the answer.”
Edward closes his eyes. “Can you blame me? I was angry, and I thought I was making the right choice. I mean, I did make the right choice.”
Oswald reaches a hand up to touch Edward’s cheek. “You’re still so unsure. It’s okay to admit that you miss me. That you wish you could have had a taste of the forbidden fruit before you killed me. You still can.”
Edward pushes his hand away. “I don’t want to.”
Then, Oswald is on the floor, kneeling in front of him, his eyes looking up expectantly. “Then why are you imagining this? Why torture yourself with something you don’t want?” His hand reached up to Edward’s cock, and he brushed against the fabric.
“I don’t know,” he hisses, taking a few pointless steps back. Oswald only reappears, still looking at him with those eyes.
“Edward,” he whispers. “I’ll go away if that’s really what you want.” And Edward breathes a sigh of relief, until Oswald continues. “Just give me what I want first.”
He’s seeing red when he dives onto Oswald. He expects to feel flesh, but Oswald is gone by the time he hits the ground. His fists slam into the hardwood floor, and he feels two hands on his back.
“Get your hands off me!” he yells, twisting around.
Their eyes meet again, and Edward shuts them. He cannot keep looking into the icy blues of his dead best friend trying to fuck him, even if it’s all just in his head. He will go insane. He is going insane. There’s palpable lust in the air, which is bothering him because what does this mean? Does a part of him really feel this way? Even after everything?
“I love you, Ed,” Oswald whispers.
“Don’t say that,” he whispers back, his eyes still closed. “Please. I don’t want to hear it.”
“You keep saying that, but it’s not true. You want to be loved, Edward.”
Edward’s eyes open. “I wanted Isabe—”
“Don’t say her name!” The words come out quickly, biting. There’s anger on Oswald’s face. “I’m telling you I love you, and you always make it about her.”
“That’s because this whole thing is about her!”
Oswald sucks in a shaky breath. “It was supposed to be me.”
“What?”
“If that woman never came into your life, things would have been different,” he spat, his voice breaking on the last word. “You’d put the pieces together, hadn’t you? I’d been acting differently since I won the election, and some small part of you must have seen the way I looked at you. Then, when I asked you to dinner because I had something to tell you, you got scared and never showed up! She was just an excuse to not face reality, Ed!”
“Shut up!”
Oswald crawls closer to him. “You know it’s true.”
“It’s not—”
Oswald presses his hand against Edward’s mouth, and to Edward’s surprise, it feels like how he’d imagine the real thing.
“Ed,” Oswald breathes out. “Just one night to say goodbye, and then we’ll be done forever.” He takes his hand away. “Why torture yourself any longer by resisting something you want so badly? No one will ever know.”
“It’s wrong. I killed you. You’re dead. I can’t do this. Not after I—”
“Are you kidding me? Don’t act like you care about morality now. You had no qualms about shooting me and throwing me into the harbor, and somehow this is crossing the line? Get over yourself, Nygma.”
Edward looks at him. Stares at him. He gets lost in those eyes. It feels so real to be sitting on the floor, looking at him. He does not believe that this could all be in his head. He reaches his hand out, and Oswald takes it into his own.
“I miss you,” Edward says, before he can think, but gratefully, Oswald isn’t fazed.
“Oh, I know. Why else would I be here? I’m trying to help you.” His voice is soft, but there’s something pained beneath the surface. He squeezes Edward’s hand. “Just let me.”
For a moment, Edward really does consider the offer. It’s hard not to when Oswald is speaking so sweetly, looking into his eyes with that same gentleness he’d come to enjoy. Seeing Oswald, even if it isn’t really him, brings a strange sense of comfort that somehow does little to actually make him feel better. Because he knows better. The real Penguin is dead, and this is—
Oswald interrupts him with a kiss.
Edward falls backwards, landing on his head. Oswald is straddling him, still pressing his lips against Edward’s. It’s desperate. Frantic. It’s not the kind of kiss that Edward expects Oswald to give. In his mind, Oswald is timid, almost afraid of stepping too far. He’d never make the first move.
“Well, you needed a push,” Oswald growls against Edward’s mouth.
A moan escapes Edward’s lips, and he finds himself closing the gap between them.
He smells like juniper wood and cloves, like something sweet with a kick to it. He smelled like that when he was alive, too. Cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg. Earthy and hot. Leather, smoke, whiskey, gunpowder. Dark, heavy scents that Edward sometimes found himself getting lost in when they’d hug. Smelling it again makes his heart break a little, knowing that there is a strong possibility that one day, he’ll forget the scent, and then even a hallucination couldn’t bring it back.
Oswald senses the change in mood and starts with Edward’s tie. He loosens it slightly, then pulls Edward in with the tail.
“Stop thinking,” Oswald orders gently, in that tone he always reserved for Edward. “Don’t ruin this.”
“But I messed up. I did a bad thing,” Edward replies. “I killed you.”
“You did. Now make it up to me.”
Edward feels himself let go. The tension in his shoulders melts away, and he finds Oswald’s lips with his own. He does want this. He’s wanted it since he first laid eyes on the man. He’d thrown himself into politics, risked his own neck, and continued to prove his loyalty to Oswald. Then he threw it away with a bullet.
‘But it’s okay now,’ he thought. ‘I can make it better. I can kiss him, and he’s alive. I feel him in my arms, and he’s breathing, and his touch responds to my touch, and his smell is pouring through my nose like smoke, and I’m suffocating on it, and if it kills me, I deserve to die this way. By his smell, and touch, and taste. By his hand. I need this. I killed him. I kill everything. I need him. I need him. I need him.’
Edward’s delirious. Kissing Oswald with his mouth wide open, occasionally biting the man’s lip. His cock’s straining against his pants.
It doesn’t feel romantic. It hardly even feels sexual. It’s more like a desperate frenzy. Like he’d been starving for days, and there’s a feast in front of him. Like he was the one in the harbor, and he’s finally come up for air.
It has to be the drugs. This isn’t him. Not calm, collected Edward. Not the cold logician he’s trying to become. These are the actions of an animal. Hands. Running up Oswald’s thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise.
“I need you,” he gasps against Oswald’s neck. “God, I need you.”
His hands find the buttons on Oswald’s shirt, and he undoes them, one by one. Down, and down, and lower, and lower, until he’s at the bottom and Oswald’s perfect chest is exposed to him.
The world around him is blurry, and yet, Oswald is in perfect clarity.
Edward touches his own face, and his fingers come away wet.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” he says, through shuddering breaths. He wipes away the tears, and Oswald smiles at him patiently.
“Because you finally realized what I mean to you.”
“Yes,” he says, moving closer to Oswald. His voice is breaking almost imperceptibly, but he still hears it. “I think… I think I do.”
Edward leaves a trail of kisses on Oswald’s skin. It took him too long to realize it. Too long, too little, too late. There’s salt on Oswald’s skin. God bless Edward’s vivid imagination. What would he do without it? Oswald is warm. His hands find Edward’s hair, and his fingers comb through it reassuringly.
Edward doesn’t deserve this. He really doesn’t deserve to be alive. But he takes what he’s given with a bittersweet joy because he can still touch and taste the man in front of him who’s supposed to be dead.
He unbuttons Oswald’s pants. His hand slides into his briefs and finds Oswald’s cock. When his fingers brush over it, he finds his own cock responds to the touch.
So this is what it is. A man, masturbating to the memory of a friend.
Edward strokes faster and watches Oswald’s face soften into bliss.
“Edward,” he gasps.
He’s an angel. Glowing, ethereal, and too ephemeral. As though one wrong move would make him vanish into the air. Those eyes staring back at him. Dead eyes, somehow full of life. Still looking at him the way they used to. With awe and adoration. He’d kill to have the real thing back in his arms now, but then again, killing got him into this mess.
Oswald reaches toward Edward’s face, gently resting his fingers on the man’s lips. He digs in slightly when Edward speeds his hand up. Those eyes never leave him.
When Oswald comes, Edward does too, because of course he does. It’s not real, but does it matter?
Dazed, he stares up at the ceiling. “I’m going to hell.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it. Killing a man and then doing this… Not the actions of a saint.”
Edward turns to stare at Oswald. “Is this goodbye, then?”
“Only if you want it to be.” Oswald keeps his eyes on him, smiling softly because he already knows the answer.
“Maybe just…” He takes a breath in. “Stay a little while longer.”
Oswald lays down beside Edward, placing his hand on the man’s chest. “That can be arranged.”