Chapter Text
Zolf woke with a start, the kind of sudden jolt that occurs after a dream about falling. He didn’t remember the dream, but there was a static buzzing throughout his body, pumping around the adrenaline that told him he’d just been in danger. For a moment he grasped at it, trying to remember what his brain had been processing just moments earlier. Nothing. The lull of distant waves and the warmth of the duvet were enough to chase away any lingering anxiety.
He rolled over, coming face to face with a sleepy Oscar.
“Goodmorning.”
“Morning.”
Oscar slipped his hand out from beneath the blankets and laid it between the two of them. Zolf smiled, untangling his own hand to gently pat Oscar’s. At the familiar gesture a warm smile crinkled Oscar’s eyes.
“Think I had another weird nightmare. Don’t really remember much, though.”
“That’s been happening a lot lately.” Oscar propped himself up on an elbow, looking every bit the extravagant poet he pretended to be in his silken nightshirt. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I-” The words stuck in Zolf’s throat. He would like to talk about it, the nagging static at the back of his mind that had kept him slightly on edge for, what was it? Months now? But every time he tried to string together a sentence the words churned to mush in his brain. “Nah, s’nothing. I’ll be alright.”
“As long as you’re sure.” A momentary look of worry creased Oscar’s perfect features, but he let it pass. “Alright. I’ll go make us some breakfast.”
Zolf flopped back onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Since when do you cook?”
Oscar rolled from the bed, picking up a scarlet robe to drape around his shoulders.
“Since you taught me, of course,” Oscar chuckled, throwing Zolf a wink as he headed out of the bedroom.
Zolf had been trying to teach Oscar how to cook for himself - ever since Japan, actually - but he hadn’t thought any of it had stuck. Originally he’d just hung around so that he had someone trustworthy to share his plans with, or so Zolf thought, at least, and recently he’d seemed much more interested in eating Zolf’s cooking than learning how to replicate it. Still, there was rarely a moment Zolf was in the kitchen that Oscar wasn’t, clearly he’d picked up some skills.
A soft, melodic tune floated through the crack in their bedroom door as Oscar began humming to himself. It was very distinct from the notes he’d sing when casting a spell; this was soft, meandering, without deliberacey or purpose. Zolf hadn’t heard Oscar sing once during his time in anti-magic cuffs, and afterwards it was only ever to cast a spell. Now, though, he sang all the time. Getting dressed in the morning. Watching Zolf cook. Even while he was writing.
Zolf’s life had never had never really been absent of music. His father had always sung to him and Feryn, some songs he was certain now were Harlequin propaganda. There were songs in the mines, and plenty of songs out at sea, both as a sailor and as a pirate. Hamid was known to hum operatic melodies, and God knew if Carter heard a song and liked it you’d hear nothing else for weeks. But that was all background music. This was different; a soundtrack to their lives sung by the man he loved.
They say you’re in trouble when your songbird stops singing. Zolf knew he didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
From the bedside table Zolf grabbed a length of chain looped through a small ring. He hung it about his neck, like he did every morning, and tucked it beneath his shirt. It was simple, smooth silver, cool against his chest. Oscar's ring was ostentatious, engraved, and, of course, worn where a wedding band should be for everyone to see. Zolf thought he got a bit of a kick out of letting people know they were being flirted with by a married man. He didn't mind though, as whenever anyone tried to take the conversation further than merely a battle of wits Oscar would gasp, offended, and exclaim something akin to 'how dare you?! I'm married!' then storm off with a flourish.
Zolf didn't care much for games like that himself, however. His ring would stay right next to his heart, where it belonged, because who he loved was his own business.
Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, Zolf reached down to grab his new prosthetics. They were almost a decade old now, but he still thought of them as new. Made with magically charged adamantine instead of simulacrum tech, they were a welcome break from any unwanted memories. However the skin-tight fit and light weight was so far removed from anything Zolf had ever used before he still found himself overcompensating sometimes.
With this in mind, Zolf lowered himself carefully to the floor and shuffled into the kitchen. Oscar was standing by the stove, chestnut hair glowing gold with the melody he hummed. Occasionally he would stop to eat a piece of chopped fruit from the bowl beside him, but the tune would continue on its own.
Zolf hopped up onto a bench beside the counter; softly nudged Oscar’s arm. The melody faded away.
“Hey.”
“Crepes alright?” With a flick of his wrist and a sly smile Oscar perfectly flipped the crepe.
“Bit fancy, but I s’pose,” Zolf responded. He reached out to take the pan from Oscar, who laughed and pulled away.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Don’t you trust me?” He gazed down at Zolf, wide-eyed and innocent.
“Of course, just… Like when I get to do it,” Zolf muttered. He was getting better at letting people do things for him, especially Oscar, but it was difficult. What if one day he asked him to do something and it was just too much? What if one day Oscar wasn’t there anymore, and he’d got used to having someone to rely on? What if-
Zolf inhaled sharply and pressed a hand to his temple.
“Zolf? Are you alright?” Oscar flipped the final crepe onto a plate, then reached out to put his hand on top of Zolf’s.
“Fine, I’m fine.” The pain faded almost immediately, so fast he almost believed he’d imagined it. “Bit of a headache coming on, I think.”
Oscar brushed his hair from his forehead, clearly trying to hold back his look of concern. “Alright. Better eat something while you’re still feeling up to it, then.”
“Careful, you’re starting to sound just like me.”
Zolf grabbed the bowl of fruit and sat down at the table. Oscar placed the crepes down, then grabbed a sugar shaker from the cupboard.
“Would that be a bad thing?”
He began to scoop fruit into the centre of his crepe, then apply a generous helping of powdered sugar.
“I don’t know. I distinctly remember several occasions on which you called me a nag, however.”
Oscar gasped dramatically. “I would never! Or, at least, I must have had a very good reason.”
He neatly folded his crepe into a little parcel and bit into it, immediately spilling sugar and fruit onto his plate. Zolf didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring. It was so warm and domestic, Oscar laughing and wiping sugar from his cheek, not even bothering with his illusory spells, blushing when he noticed Zolf’s gaze. This wasn’t anything unusual, they spent near enough every morning like this, but it still made Zolf’s entire chest ache with this something . Sometimes he found himself wishing he could hold a moment still forever, but he knew how dangerous that could be.
“Stop staring, or I’ll have to go put my illusions on,” Oscar said with feigned shyness. He never wore glamour illusions around the house anymore, which, though he’d never admit it, Zolf rather liked. Oscar was comfy here, and the slightly-frazzled-academic look he was happy to wear was part of that.
“Sorry. Y’look nice, is all.”
“Oh.” This time the shyness was genuine. “Thank you.”
Zolf dropped his gaze and started to roll up his own crepe. Oscar must have done a good job, he thought, because if he hadn’t he’d have been the first one to complain. But when Zolf bit into the crepe a strange feeling washed over him. It was… nice, he couldn’t pinpoint anything wrong with it. It was sweet and warm and everything crepes should be. But at the same time it felt almost too light, almost empty in his mouth.
He finished it quickly and without complaint, but made a mental note to watch Oscar the next time he cooked.
“I think I’m going to go spend some time on The Ranger today. Catch up with some old Cambells,” Zolf said, beginning to clear their plates away. The soft buzz of static had settled uncomfortably into the base of his skull, and he imaged if it hung around for much longer he’d start to get quite irritable. Plus, he had the distinct memory of Oscar telling him he needed to… needed to… needed to what?
“I want to get some writing done today, anyway,” Oscar said. He rose from the table with a stretch, and Zolf tried not to stare at the soft strip of skin around his waist. Difficult, considering Oscar’s waist was basically eye level. “Might I join you later, or would you just like to be alone today?”
“Some alone time would be nice, Wilde, honestly. But I know how long it takes you to ‘just get a bit of writing’ done. If I’m still out there you’re more than welcome.”
“Hey!” Oscar protested. “One poem in a month is not slow!”
“Whatever you say.” Zolf rolled his eyes with a fond smile. “But yeah, uh, just come out whenever you’re done.”
“Well, if I can tear myself away from my lengthy, languorous writing process I suppose I shall.”
He caught Zolf’s hand on the way past and gave it a brief squeeze. Zolf squeezed back.