cw; brief allusion to self-harm
They should both be asleep, really. It's late, and they've got work as early as they always do, but as always the few hours between the end of one shift and the beginning of the next seem too precious to waste with sleep.
They're both sat on Oscar's narrow bed, shoulders brushing, Morris' folded knee resting on Oscar's thigh. Oscar's about halfway through the book he stole from Jacobs' bag last week, and Morris has his sketchbook in his lap, hunched over it in fierce concentration. Sometimes, the relentless scratching of his pencil against paper would stand to make Oscar's skin crawl, but there's something oddly comforting about it right now — something familiar. A reassurance that, even each time Morris leans forward and the warm contact between their arms disappears, he's still there. Safe, for once.
So, Oscar notices immediately when the scratching stops, though it helps that it's punctuated by Morris letting out a soft curse. Oscar glances over, and Morris has his pencil lead-side-up, staring fiercely at it like he can fix it with his will.
It's blunt, Oscar realises. Worn down to a flat stump by Morris' working, and in the drawing on the paper in Morris' lap he can see the sharp lines grow steadily duller throughout the piece, harsh thin black softening to a dull broad grey.
"Need to sharpen it," Morris says, scraping at the apex of the lead with a blunt thumbnail like that'll do anything. "…Which I could do, y'know. 'f I still had my knife."
Oscar fights not to roll his eyes, and equally fights not to glance at the fresh bandages on Morris' wrist, bared by the rolled sleeves of his undershirt. The knife — an old folding work knife — had been once again confiscated by Oscar when he'd found him, a week or so ago now, and it sits once again in the locked top drawer of his bedside table now.
"Give it here," Oscar says, palm out.
Morris hands him the pencil, and Oscar places his book face-down onto the bed between them as he leans over. He unlocks the drawer with a click, with the key he keeps firmly on him, and from it withdraws the knife. Freshly cleaned, wrapped in a linen handkerchief in half an attempt to hide it. Soften its presence.
"Could do it myself," Morris mutters. Oscar ignores him. He flicks open the short blade of the knife and whittles at the tip of the pencil with easy experience, turning it between his fingers as he goes, shavings tumbling to the surface of the bedside table, over the cover of his dusty Bible. When the lead has once again been cut to a sharp point, he hands it back.
"Thanks, Os," Morris says quietly.
Oscar folds the blade and wraps the knife back up. The drawer locks again with a click, though this time the sound feels softer against the background of Morris drawing again, the breath of his pencil against paper.
Oscar leans back beside him, and goes back to his book.
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