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“No. Absolutely not.”
Strolling beside him, Oscar draws out a sigh, barely concealing the delighted smile tugging at his lips, stretching the ghost of a wiry scar. “Zolf, I’m disappointed. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Zolf puffs out a laugh. He’s tempted to give Oscar’s side a playful push, but their interlaced hands makes him think he’d probably tumble into the sand right after Oscar. Not that anyone would see it, the beach is as deserted as it usually is this early in the morning. Turns out even the vibrant city of Brighton has its dead hours.
“Had enough adventure for a lifetime. And I don’t see how getting a dog qualifies as an ‘adventure’,” Zolf retorts.
Oscar makes a tutting sound. “Not any dog, Zolf. And please, spare me, hearing you say that makes it seem as if we saved the world decades ago. Need I remind you it’s only been six years?”
Six years, he says, the same way people say yesterday. And yet the years have left their traces on both of them, though on Oscar perhaps more gracefully than on him. The tips of Oscar’s hair now fall delicately on his shoulders, loosely gathered by a tied satin ribbon. They’re lighter than Zolf has ever seen them, perhaps both a testament to Brighton’s endless summers and something else that can only be explained from within.
On more morning than one, he’d caught Oscar in their little bathroom, elbow leaning against the sink and using the wooden-framed mirror to pluck out a few rebel grey hairs. Once, Zolf had teased him fondly by assuring him they’d be back within a few weeks, a clear mistake on his part, as he was immediately met by a barrage of affronted denials. Since then, Zolf contented himself with secret smiles whenever the sunlight caught on a silver strand of hair, or when his wandering fingers brushed across a mismatched streak of grey as he lied in bed, patiently waiting for Oscar to rise.
Six years had left their traces, and Zolf treasured each of them.
Happy to veer the conversation towards safer waters devoid of any dogs, he latches onto Oscar’s last question. “And need I remind you that we only saved Europe, not the world?” he echoes in his best Oscar voice, stringing his words both lyrically and confidently. He likes to think that six continuous years of Wilde have made him pretty good at it. “Or should we invite Cel over again and have them lecture us on Eurocentrism again? Because I’d be happy to. I don’t know how, but somehow- probably some alchemy thing- somehow they made academic discourse sound like the most interesting thing I’ve heard in months.”
Oscar lets out a gasp. “Now I see why you no longer carry your glaive, your words are sharp enough by themselves.” His eyes lift up to the heavily-clouded sky in false desperation, drawing an amused grin from Zolf. “Of all the things to say to a poet... Does my own voice no longer satisfy you, Zolf?”
“I guess you reading me your seventy-eighth draft of ‘Verses on the Brighton moon’ was the finishing blow for me,” Zolf replies, tone deliberately nonchalant, but before he can even shut his mouth, Oscar’s mischievous side-glance alerts him that he’s played directly into his hands.
“And yet, I recall you telling me it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard. Or, in your own words, ‘pretty enough to make a grown-man cry’.”
“That was once. And to be fair, version seven of it was really good.” So much so that he’d spared the page from the blazing fireplace where Oscar’s discarded drafts often landed and carefully tucked it away in his bedside table.
At his side, Oscar gives a thoughtful hum. “Funny how memory works. Two people can undergo exactly the same experiences, and yet recollect them as if they’d emerged from two completely different timelines.”
“What are you getting at?” Zolf questions, suspicion clearly coating his voice.
“Well, I seem to recall you once confiding in me that when- in a long, long time, of course- when the moment came for you to peacefully join the heavenly realms, well, you wanted my voice to be the one thing to carry you to sleep.”
Zolf stops dead in his tracks with Oscar’s hand still held between his, forcing his companion to come to an abrupt stop as well.
In a somewhat futile attempt, Zolf tries to contain the laughter bubbling in his chest. “When did I ever say that?”
Oscar’s brows furrow in confusion, a beautiful facsimile of innocence. “You don’t remember?”
“I don’t.”
“Surely you must, it was barely a few weeks ago, when we were having brunch at L’Étoile,” Oscar explains. His long, warm fingers nestled between Zolf’s give his knuckles a gentle squeeze. “I remember, because it was right after you mentioned how much you wanted to raise a dog.”
The shifting gears inside Zolf’s head finally click. There it is. For a moment, he’s tempted to clap his hands at Oscar’s sheer audacity.
He shakes his head disbelievingly. “You, you absolute- are you seriously trying to brainwash me into getting a dog?”
Oscar stares back at him impassively, shameless as always. “Not any dog, Zolf. Brutor.”
Exactly. Brutor. Of all the names Zolf thought he would never hear again, Brutor never even figured on the list, his existence a distant and forgotten blot in the depths of his mind. He’d never asked about him, assuming that the poor dog had gone back to living a normal life in Paris. As it turned out though, the pompous hound had inherited the Macguffingham name and estate, debts included. For a while, the general state of England and the legal mires concerning dog ownership of property had made it seem like ‘Sir’ Brutor could have gotten away with living as society’s first canine to behold both title and legacy.
That had changed when the world had started to get back to normal. Unsurprisingly, rebuilding London to its former glory was no easy feat, and worse, it was expensive. The new ruling council needed money, as much of it as it could find, and the deep pockets of old British aristocracy were deemed the perfect place to start. Needless to say, London’s high society had been forced to cough up a few million gold pieces for the better good, and Brutor had been no exception, or so Hamid had let them know.
Zolf wasn’t sure how or why Hamid had kept tabs on him, but it was clear he was concerned about Brutor’s newly-destitute state and worried that his own London flat couldn’t possibly fulfil his needs. Or maybe he simply wanted to be rid of him. That was a possibility too. In any case, his appeals were not going to work on him.
Zolf purses his lips in a grimace. “You do realise that having been Bertie’s doesn’t help his case, right?”
“Like it or not, Sir Bertrand was your companion for more than a while. He watched your back while you watched his. I’m sure you must owe him a few favours,” he states easily. Meanwhile, his free hand comes to cover their linked ones and he starts to slowly lead Zolf towards the low rock wall tracing a lazy border between the tiny sand dunes and the empty sea-side road.
An absurd memory of Brutor strapped in Bertie’s papoose, outfitted in a dog-sized sailor costume, rushes to the surface of Zolf’s mind, making him scoff under his breath. “He’s dead,” he says matter-of-factly. “And the way I see it, he's the one that owes me a favour for not throwing him off Earhart’s ship back when we were flying to Prague. Gods, I swear- to this day- I’ve never been that close to committing cold-blooded murder in my life.” As the words leave him, he can almost feel a tinge of the hollow rage that had swirled behind his ribs, the hopelessness he carried from Paris a dark and poisonous fuel.
His thoughts temporarily elsewhere, he almost crashes into Oscar who’s stopped and turned back towards him, but manages to catch himself just a few inches away from impact.
He looks up to find a much different expression resting on Oscar’s face, miles away from the playful grins having just graced his features. “Of course, Zolf. I-I know.” His eyes flicker away for an instant before he continues, “I simply meant to tease but-”
“It’s okay,” Zolf interrupts softly. His eyes slide downwards and he nudges at Oscar’s heel with his foot. The sight of Oscar’s velvet, sapphire-blue moccasins are enough to return a small smile to his lips. “I guess some things are not as buried in the past as I like to think they are.” He looks up to meet Oscar’s gaze again and tilts his chin towards the stone-walled rampart. “A little help?”
Oscar gives a small nod, and in one fluid movement, places his free hand on Zolf’s wait to lift him up and sets him down gently on top of the slightly uneven surface of rock.
Having shifted a bit to make himself comfortable, Zolf looks expectantly at Oscar, for once on the same eye-level, and waits for him to join his side. To his surprise, the other instead steps closer to settle himself in the gap between Zolf’s legs.
Zolf raises an eyebrow at him, which is countered by a flirty wink.
Unhurriedly, Oscar leans closer until his palms come to brace themselves on top of the wall, one on each side of Zolf’s hips while his gaze slowly alternates between Zolf’s eyes and lips.
Without any warning, Zolf’s hand flies up to fist the soft fabric of Oscar’s coat and drags him closer to himself until their lips finally meet in a sudden outpouring of warmth. At once, Zolf feels Oscar physically sink into the kiss, his arms shifting to enclose his waist and pull his body even closer. His hand releases its hold of Oscar’s coat to climb up the length of his neck, grazing at the soft skin it encounters on its path to Oscar’s jawbone. Pleasure buzzes within him as he feels Oscar shiver slightly under his touch. It feels familiar and new at the same time. Zolf knows every curve of his jaw, his cheek, the shell of his ears, the faint scratch of stubble, the soft lines at his eyes, yet his fingers brush reverently over them as if discovering it all for the first time again.
Eventually, the background drone of waves and seagulls fades in again as Oscar gradually leans away, giving them a chance to catch their breaths. Strands of Oscar’s hair now frame his features and flutter lightly in the wind, having escaped from the loose strip of ribbon during their embrace. He looks dishevelled and perfect- Zolf can already feel himself yearning for another kiss.
After tucking a few distracting locks of hair behind his ears, Oscar lays his palm on one of Zolf’s knees and says, “You’re right. Not Brutor.”
Zolf chuckles softly. “Glad we came to an agreement.”
“But,” Oscar follows quickly, “perhaps a non-Brutor dog?” His eyes rest unwaveringly on Zolf, as if carefully gauging his reaction.
Zolf is silent for a beat, momentarily at a loss for words, before he speaks up again and asks hesitantly, “You want a dog?”
“Why not? Or maybe a cat, or a bird. Whatever you’d prefer, really.” He stops then frowns a little, appearing to reconsider his words. “Well perhaps not a bird, I wouldn’t want something that has to be in a cage.”
“But- why?” Zolf asks, somewhat dumbly.
Oscar’s features break into an excited smile. “I’m glad you asked. One, it is a universally accepted fact that pets are adorable,” he starts, raising his free hand to keep count on his fingers. “Two, just look around. Isn’t this the perfect place for a little puppy to run around? And three-” He pauses, and glances down briefly at his thumb currently kneading circles on a spot just above Zolf’s knee. “And three,” he continues, his voice quieter now, “I want to share something new with you.”
Zolf’s breath hitches slightly, caught unaware by Oscar’s third reason. He reaches out his hand to place it on top of Oscar’s, stilling the nervous thumb on his leg by pressing down his own hand reassuringly.
“Yeah, I’d- I guess a dog doesn’t sound too bad when you put it like that.”
Oscar looks up, a mixture of joy and surprise etched on his face, his eagerness so palpable that Zolf can’t help but reflect his bright smile. Maybe this afternoon they can start visiting nearby shelters, see how this whole dog adoption thing would work.
“It doesn’t, does it?” Oscar says, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “Though I suppose it means someone else will have to take in Brutor.”
Zolf’s shoulders give a half-hearted shrug. “Maybe Azu can take him. She didn’t know Bertie,” he ventures, feeling absurdly pleased when Oscar erupts in delighted laughter.
“Ah yes, I can almost picture it,” he exclaims. “The High Priestess of Aphrodite, and at her side, her loyal, faithful mutt.”
Zolf snorts. “Maybe you can even write a poem about them.”
“That depends,” Oscar answers slowly, eyes narrowed playfully. “I’ll need to consult my grumbling editor first.”
Zolf rolls his eyes. “I think he’ll give you a pass this time,” he replies, before pulling Oscar into another kiss.