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It had been an exhausting day.
The clans of Gotham were still waging war outside, seeking to recover any provisions that would allow them to be the last survivors of No Man’s Land.
Oswald Cobblepot was no exception, but he had recently had the decency to leave Jim Gordon and his police station in peace after discussing a truce with him.
But winter was near and the commissar was certain that if he pulled out nose outside, the cold would end up murdered his body weakened by the shortage of food much faster than Freeze would draw his weapon.
This effectively had prevented him from carrying the crucial information he held to the Penguin himself.
At this time of year, they had finally decided to opt for the exchange of documents remotely.
Thus Oswald had spent his day going through police files which interested him only too little, lamenting the absence of Penn to do so in his place.
Sighing loudly, the gangster directed his clear gaze to the last document to be examined. If his dog Edward was not sleeping somewhere in the huge building that served as his headquarters, he would probably have given him to shred. At least it would have done him less work.
Wearing his black mittens, he grabbed the little post-it on the back of the document.
« These are psychiatric data and personal effects left in Arkham after your last stay. Since you don’t belong in an asylum, I thought that I’d could return your belongings. - Lee Thompkins. » he read aloud.
Although he did not had much interaction with the nurse, Oswald could not bring himself to have a good impression of her. From what he knew, she had tried to kill Jim, manipulated Edward Nygma and now she found time to remind him of one of the worst times of his life. Arkham.
Frowning, the gangster opened the folder. Looking over various graphs and analyses, he was ready to put everything aside when his bare fingers have grazed a paper still folded.
Oswald’s features softened when he lifted the little Penguin in origami. The one Edward had left to him when he was in Arkham, without even suspecting that Riddler had scribbled his escape plan inside.
His attention was, however, rested on another leaf, whose writing strangely resembled... his. He opened his eyes of stupor to the content of it. Of a delightful calligraphy in purple ink, he himself had written a kind of poem addressed to Edward.
Oswald always had struggled with his emotions, so it was not a secret to anyone that the Penguin could enter a black rage from one second to the next even on his best days.
His mother had then shows him how to express his emotions differently than by screaming and crying. Writing what he felt, for example, has sometimes helped.
The Penguin remembered very well how he felt in Arkham. Wounded, horribly wounded and bruised by the rejection of his best friend. When he didn't fight Jerome’s persistent harassment, Oswald spent most of his time crying silently in his cell. Until the Riddler left him his message.
The same evening, deciding that he was tired of being depressed, Oswald had managed to obtain a paper and a pen. He didn't want to write in English, fearing that someone might read what he had written. Using the Hungarian language would have been convenient but he was the only one to speak it, making him the suspect number one if someone fell on the paper. He finally had opted for french, having had time to study it in more depth in the books of his father’s library when he was staying at the Van Dahl manor. So he wrote what he felt.
Raising his eyes from his office, he suddenly felt nostalgic. The sun was already starting to set, its rays reflecting warm colors on the marble floor. There was no one else, complete silence as the criminal rose and limped towards the big living room. Although he hasn't touched a piano since he met Ed, Oswald knew how to play.
Slowly, he sat down on the bench and placed his poem in front of him. His fingers grazed the cold keys as he closed his eyes to focus on only one thing: Edward Nygma. His stoic face, his pronounced cheekbones, his straight gait, his voice that Oswald considered as a sweet melody to his ears. His features were so clear in his mind that he felt more than ever the need to express what he felt, again.
Oswald moved his fingers to hit a few chords, then flowing notes. Nervous, he has begun a song so sweet that it was barely perceptible.
« Ne sois pas désolé pour moi, ça me rend encore plus lamentable. »
( Don't feel sorry for me, it makes me even more miserable. )
« Avec tes jolies lèvres écarlates, je t'en prie, tues-moi. Pars et ça ira... »
( With your pretty scarlet lips, please kill me. Go away and I’ll be fine... )
When they came to the docks for the first time, Oswald almost had the hope that his friend would give up his revenge. But Ed had rejected his hand as he had done with his love. The words uttered had been far more painful to him than the bullet which had pierced him immediately afterwards. He simply could not forget the hurt and angry expression that Ed had displayed before pushing him into the jetty.
« Regarde-moi une toute dernière fois. Souris comme si tout allait bien pour toi. »
( Look at me one last time. Smile like everything’s okay with you. )
« Car quand tu me manqueras, ce souvenir reviendra et dans ma mémoire je pourrai dessiner ton visage... »
( Because when I'll miss you, that recollection will come back and in my memory I will be able to draw your face... )
Why did all of this start in the first place ? Should he feel guilty for breaking their relationship ? Was it even his fault ? Assuming he was the first to betray his friend’s trust, Oswald thought Ed was probably right to be angry. But he neglected it for what ? A woman he had only known for two weeks, and the pain in his heart every time he told Ed how happy he was for him was like a dagger slipping painfully into his bowels. Did Edward has felt the same way when the person he claimed to love has died at his hand ?
« Mon égoïsme qui te gardait captif fut une obsession t'emprisonnant. »
( My selfishness that kept you captive was an obsession that imprisoned you. )
« Est-ce ma faute si tu souffrais le martyre ? Tu t'assois silencieusement. »
( Is it my fault that you suffered martyrdom? You sit silently. )
Oswald swallowed. He hadn't often felt guilt, but he had plenty of time to reflect on his actions in Arkham. Ed had suffered a first time from the death of his girlfriend, then a second while discovering that his best friend was the cause. Even though nothing could excuse what Ed had done to him afterwards, Oswald felt sick. He wanted to protect the one he loved, but did the entire opposite.
« Pourquoi suis-je borné ? Pourquoi ne puis-je t'oublier ? »
( Why am I stubborn ? Why can’t I forget you ? )
« Tu t'es déjà retourné... »
( You’ve already turned around... )
Oswald inspired deeply. He tried to forget the tragic events for a moment. What Ed meant to him. He had wanted everything from the tallest man, absolutely everything. And this everything was now nothing but a ghostly shadow returning to taunt him, reminding him that he had nothing of what he desired the most
« Tes yeux, ton nez, tes lèvres, tes caresses qui me touchaient du bout de tes doigts... Je peux encore les sentir sur moi. »
( Your eyes, nose, lips, your caresses that touched me with your fingertips... I can still feel them on me. )
« Mais comme une flamme consumée, brûlée et détruite, notre amour me fait si mal... Dès à présent, je te nommerai « Souvenir pris dans la glace » »
( But like a burning flame, consumed and destroyed, our love hurts me so much ... From now on, I will name you "Memory caught in the ice" )
The little bird had always been good at singing and his voice deliciously punctuated the melancholy acutes. As his fine fingers resumed the melody, he gained confidence and went on stronger :
« Je t'aimais, je t'aime, je t'aimerai. Je n'en ai pas assez souffert. »
( I loved you, I love you, I will love you. I haven't suffered enough because of it. )
« Peut-être que je pourrai te rencontrer par hasard et me sentir sombrer... »
( Maybe I could meet you by chance and feel like I’m sinking... )
He wasn’t a masochist, but sometimes Oswald couldn’t help but think about Ed. His emotions then overwhelmed him, drowned in this sea of anger. Anger for being humiliated, betrayed and destroyed. Of anger for having kept this flame of tenderness that immolated it as their fight continued.
« Chaque jour, je suis si agité. Tout ce qui te concerne devient brouillé. »
( Every day, I get so restless. Everything about you gets messy.)
« Tu souris, émerveillé, regardant nos clichés du passé mais ignorant que nos adieux approchaient... »
( You smile, amazed, looking at our shots of the past but unaware that our goodbyes were approaching... )
Ed’s hugs, his touch. His reassuring smiles, his breath on his skin. He wanted this fireplace to be his shroud. If Oswald had to die, it must have been from these poisoned lips. From he's smell so intoxicating that it could kill him. With his voice so deep in the hollow of his ear that he would have no choice but to submit. Then he could die happy.
« Mon égoïsme qui te gardait captif fut une obsession t'emprisonnant. »
( My selfishness that kept you captive was an obsession that imprisoned you. )
« Est-ce ma faute si tu souffrais le martyre ? Tu t'assois silencieusement. »
( Is it my fault that you suffered martyrdom? You sit silently. )
« Pourquoi suis-je borné ? Pourquoi ne puis-je t'oublier ? »
( Why am I stubborn ? Why can’t I forget you ? )
« Tu t'es déjà retourné. »
( You’ve already turned around. )
His body struggled against the warmth of good memories and the icy reminder of their present situation. His eyes always closed, he felt both empty and full. Because nothing existed around him. Nothing but Ed’s face, the way the fire that melted in his dark eyes was replaced by the stillness of the ice.
« Tes yeux, ton nez, tes lèvres, tes caresses qui me touchaient du bout de tes doigts... Je peux encore les sentir sur moi. »
( Your eyes, nose, lips, your caresses that touched me with your fingertips... I can still feel them on me. )
« Mais comme une flamme consumée, brûlée et détruite, notre amour me fait si mal... Dès à présent, je te nommerai « Souvenir pris dans la glace » »
( But like a burning flame, consumed and destroyed, our love hurts me so much ... From now on, I will name you "Memory caught in the ice" )
Oswald opened his eyes for a moment, thinking of the present. He had humiliated Ed by exposing him in the Iceberg Lounge, just as Ed had taken away everything he had so hard built before killing him coldly.
But despite his numerous attempts at murder, Oswald had only responded by watching over his enemy in the shadows. Whether it was the Riddler or Edward, or the two of them how could he knew... He had saved them near the harbor. Then he had paid Hugo Strange to revive Edward. In fact, he knew full well that if he had to, Oswald would give his life to protect him. Prove to him that he was capable of sacrifices because he loved the green bean. He had loved him as no one had ever loved him in return, he could at least be sure of that.
« Ton nez qui détenait le plus doux des souffles, tes yeux noirs qui ne voyaient que moi. »
( Your nose which was holding the sweetest breath, your black eyes that saw only me. )
« « Mon amour, mon amour... » murmuraient tes lèvres douces contre mon cou... »
( « My love, my love... » whispered your soft lips against my neck... )
His throat was dry, his hands slightly trembling. His vision was getting blurry, but he couldn’t stop now. Oswald had to put the past behind him. Because Ed didn’t love him. He would never love him and none sacrifice would change that. His emotions overwhelmed him once again. He wanted to die, to feel his heart implode once and for all. Could a broken heart even stop beating ? He felt his pulse in his ears, punctuating each of his notes on the piano. Ed. Ed. Ed.
« Tes yeux, ton nez, tes lèvres, tes caresses qui me touchaient du bout de tes doigts... Je peux encore les sentir sur moi. »
( Your eyes, nose, lips, your caresses that touched me with your fingertips... I can still feel them on me. )
« Mais comme une flamme consumée, brûlée et détruite, notre amour me fait si mal... Dès à présent, je te nommerai « Souvenir pris dans la glace » »
( But like a burning flame, consumed and destroyed, our love hurts me so much ... From now on, I will name you "Memory caught in the ice" )
His voice broke, dying like the melody he played until then. His heart was still beating this loudly. But Oswald felt better. Maybe he could finally care about others things than an nonexistent love.
Behind him, slow applause resounded.