gosh i want all of these but could you do 48 for zoscar?
Hope you wanted something sad! (<3)
48. “My bed still smells like you.”
He doesn’t like the sound of his footsteps echoing around the cellar as he descends into it, the way the heels of the style of shoes he probably should have long abandoned click and reverberate, announcing his arrival before he’s even visible from the cell.
He walks closer to the bars to find Zolf already pulling off his clothing and sighs, swallowing down a hundred words and trying to keep his face neutral. He’s supposed to be good at this. At sending people off on their own to risk their lives while he sits and records everything for a future that he doesn’t know if he’ll get to see.
Zolf turns front to back, holding out arms that he knows the embrace of, parting thighs that he knows the strength of.
There are no veins.
It washes over him like a bucket of cold water. Relief should feel better than this, he thinks. But it disappears almost as quickly as it arrived, because there’s another day of quarantine ahead. There always will be… until there isn’t.
“Clear.”
Zolf coughs, pulling on his trousers and leaving his shirt hanging open. “Wilde…”
“My bed still smells like you.”
He doesn’t know where the words come from. Some hidden place inside him, where his fear lives, where his pain haunts. He purses his lips, closing his eyes and feeling the waves of pain coming off of Zolf’s body, despite the adamantine between them.
“Mine doesn’t.”
“I think that might be better,” Oscar replies, opening his eyes and finding Zolf’s hands clutching the bars tight.
“Oscar.”
He skitters back, heels once again making a ridiculous noise. He winds his hand in the neck of his robe, clutching it tightly beneath his chin.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Barnes will be down with breakfast soon.”
Zolf doesn’t reply, just sighs and leans his head against the bars as Oscar turns and heads back up the stairs, letting the door close behind him. He walks down the hall to his office, slides the door shut behind him and grimaces, fiercely kicking off his shoes and letting them skitter under one of the sideboards.
He hates those fucking shoes.
Oscar walks barefoot to the desk, takes a seat and, for a quiet moment of weakness, cradles his head in his hands.
Tomorrow. He can make it to tomorrow.
