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Wilde never says “I love you.”
It’s not exactly a rule; he never decided that it would be too dangerous or compromising or embarrassing. He sometimes thinks it was decided for him in the way his voice is whisked away the minutes inhales, steeling himself to confess his weakness. Sometimes he stops there, yielding to the tightening of his chest. Once or twice he has made it through the first word, a single sound. And that feels like a wound inside, the puncture wound that will make him unravel from the inside out until nothing remains but the vulnerable husk of him on the floor.
So he stops there, and grins. He makes a pithy remark and holds himself together until he can leave and sew himself back together in private.
He feels like a fool. A blubbling mess with a voice that does not do what he wishes it to, a voice like a knife that will tear him to shreds if it is not handled how it was intended to be, and a voice that is not fit for its purpose.
Or he is not fit for it’s purposes.
It is a powerful voice, raised up with such glory that pieces of the world itself bent to his will. It should be able to fix this broken world, if only it belonged to someone better than him.
Wilde hadn’t always been convinced that it was him doing the magic. There was a bit of him that was convinced that, even with those anti magic shackles clamped around his wrists, his voice would still retain its power. He’d tried to cast a spell the first moment that he’d been alone. Nothing happened. He held himself together for a few more days. And then he’d sobbed until no more tears came. Nothing good of him remained.
When he came back to himself, he was in a bed and his eyes stung so much they would barely focus and his newly bare scalp was scratched and his hand shook as he reached for a glass of water and he burned with shame.
So he decided to get his magic back.
And nothing worked. He was stuck powerless, with witty masks and a voice that will not allow him any moment of weakness.
Zolf had no such issue. He had confessed his love multiple times, and stumbled over apologies afterwards.
“I love you.” he’d say, the phrase caught up at the end laughter from one of Wilde’s jokes. Then his eyes would go wide and he’d look away and he’d try to remove the phrase with “I mean… Well. Sorry. I should… Oh gods. I’m sorry, Oscar. I should just… go.”
Wilde wondered if Zolf knew how much it hurt to hear the words he could not say back.
“I - “ Wilde would begin, and freeze for a moment that Zolf would not notice. Then he give up the battle and smirk. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Zolf. Happens to everyone eventually. I’m used to it.”