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They set up an apartment together, in London. It's not even really discussed, just, Oscar asks Zolf to come with him to look at flats and they talk about how they need two bedrooms and a study and it feels utterly natural to discuss what Zolf will need in a kitchen to make it workable. It's simple and easy, ridiculously so, considering how empty so much real estate is, and they move in together so that they can both focus on rebuilding the fragments of the world that is left.
It's so easy. Living with Oscar. It should be absolutely terrible, but it's not, of course, because they've been living together for years now, and the fact that now they don't have the end of the world hanging over their heads like an axe... well they can even start to enjoy each other's company without guilt.
Oscar reads aloud, most nights, while Zolf deals with his prosthetics, and Zolf starts to understand why he was so loved in the world, as he makes scathing comments about authors he knew and some that he didn't, as he waxes lyrical about a poem or expands upon an idea. It’s totally alien to the Zolf he used to be, the mercenary, the priest, the pirate, because who really gives a fuck about all of that shit, but Oscar does, and Oscar makes it seem important, and while on some levels it isn’t, on those base, practical levels where Zolf was born and where Zolf lived most of his life it really isn’t.
But Campbell taught him that there was value in art, and Oscar, at his core, is an artist.
Zolf is mostly quiet, those nights, unless Oscar decides to read a Campbell, and then it can be riotous, because Oscar doesn't do Jessica's VOICE right and Oscar thinks Nigel is actually redeemable and those nights end in shouting matches that are never cutting and always end in laughter and it's more perfect than anything Zolf has ever had in his life.
And then the world starts to heal.
He knew, of course he knew, that Oscar would have to go back out there and be the man he used to be, or at least an approximation of it, but it’s something different to come home from a day at the clinic to see Oscar putting on a suit and carefully applying eyeliner, preparing to go out and be Oscar Wilde, to shake hands and drink drinks and be seen, the miracle who helped stop the erasing of the line, the man who happily took the centre stage (along with Hamid, of course) to answer the questions that the world needed answered (with the appropriate spin).
“You’re out tonight, then?”
“Essex is holding an ‘information night’, I told you last week?”
Zolf has a vague memory of Oscar receiving a sealed letter at the door and him saying something along the lines of “you don’t mind?” and Zolf should remember what he said in response, he’s sure he said he didn’t but what if in the end he actually did?
“Oh, yeah. That.”
Oscar stops, stick of eyeliner in one hand, and turns. “I asked you if you wanted to come,” he says, and his voice is very, very gentle. “You told me to shove a…”
“Yeah, yeah I remember now.”
Oscar is still looking at him. “I don’t have to go,” he says, finally. “If you’d rather I didn’t I can send a…”
Zolf feels panic rise in his chest. “Gods. No. That’s not what I…”
Oscar sets the stick of eyeliner aside and steps forward, taking one of Zolf’s hands.
They don’t touch often. There are brushes of their hands when they do dishes, there’s the odd squeeze of a shoulder when they see each other. But touching isn’t something Zolf does, really. Never has been.
Except that.
Maybe.
“Zolf there’s something wrong,” Oscar says, and his fingers are soft in Zolf’s hand and why was it, that they didn’t touch very often again? What was it that stopped them?
“Yeah,” he says.
Oscar raises his eyebrows, then leads Zolf to his bed. Sits down, still holding Zolf’s hand. “You know by now you can tell me anything,” Oscar says.
Not this.
“Really?”
Oscar’s fingers squeeze his, and it feels so utterly right.
“Zolf maybe it’s time I told you something.”
Zolf swallows. “Uh. Sure?”
Oscar gives little huff of amusement. “Enthusiastic as always,” he murmurs, and his fingers are now dancing across Zolf’s, small darting movements that should be infuriating but instead feel like the only thing that is grounding Zolf to reality.
“What do you want to tell me?” Zolf asks.
But he doesn’t have to ask, not really.
And Oscar doesn’t have to tell him.
At least, not with words.
They go to the party, although there are some comments about the suit that Oscar managed to scrape together at short notice for Zolf (they weren’t really talking about the suit, and Zolf knew that) it didn’t stop them from dancing.
It doesn’t stop them from holding hands as they take drinks and Oscar deflects enquiries and society watches them.
Zolf’s heartbeat doesn’t settle, even when they’re back in the flat and Oscar throws himself into one of their armchairs, laughing like a loon, so loose and relaxed and utterly Oscar that Zolf, for all the adrenalin, can’t help but be happy in turn.
“You’re awful,” Zolf says, and Oscar grins at him.
“Is that really what you think?”
“No.”
Oscar’s lip quirks and he holds out a hand. “Zolf, we don’t have to say anything, but can I at least…” he hesitates, licks his lips, and Zolf doesn’t know where the confidence comes from, but he strides forward and takes Oscar’s hand and presses his lips to those delicate writers’ knuckles.
“I love you, Oscar Wilde,” Zolf says, before he can double think it, and Oscar sighs into those words and floats forwards.
“I love you too.”