Work Text:
Grief, in Zolf’s experience, gripped at the lungs. According to writers - including his beloved Campbell - it was the heart. A startling blow to the symbol of one’s love and affection.
That was just a metaphor; powerful and utterly ignorant. Pain in the heart was usually either fleeting or a sure sign of a quick death. Weight in the lungs, on the other hand? Slow, heavy, and utterly crushing. Grief gripped the lungs like a python gripped its prey.
It so vividly conjured in Zolf’s mind the feeling of being trapped underground, inhaling Earth with each trepid breath until your lungs were so heavy with the stuff you had no hope of ever reaching the surface.
So it was unsurprising that he awoke drenched in cold sweat and gasping for breath.
Panic set in in an instant, as Zolf’s frantic breaths didn’t seem to be filling his lungs with chilled winter air. It was pitch black, too, though Zolf always slept with the curtains open, by the light of the moon. This wasn’t right. His lungs were oversaturated with thick, heavy grief, and he had no way to force it out.
Desperate now, Zolf pushed his arms out at the softness beneath him, flipping himself over and- Oh. He’d had his face in the pillow again.
Clear now of the cotton case he’d been inhaling, Zolf focused on the circlet sat on his bedside table and gulped down slow breaths of air. The tightness of his chest released, but on his third inhale something caught in the back of his throat; something small that sat atop his voice box and pricked his eyes with tears.
As his head cleared and he became more aware of his surroundings Zolf noticed a weight at the base of his mattress. He didn’t panic; it was Wilde, of course. He recognised the way he laid a hand next to Zolf’s thigh, the way he leant slightly forward on his toes, so as not to put too much pressure on the bed.
With a groan - one of fatigue, and embarrassment at the fact that Wilde had just seen him lose a battle with his pillow - Zolf pushed himself into something resembling a sitting position. “Oscar?” He couldn’t control the shaking of his voice. “S’ a bit early for breakfast.”
Wilde was, indeed, perched at the edge of the bed. He didn’t look ready for breakfast though (which, like all occasions for Wilde, required the most ostentatious of attire). His hair was halfway to falling out of a bun, and with his lips parted in worry Zolf could see the slight crookedness to his front teeth that indicated he hadn’t used prestidigitation. He was wearing one of Zolf’s sweaters, which fit quite well about the shoulders, but stopped a couple of inches short of his trouser line.
Whilst Wilde’s sleep-addled brain was turning its cogs, Zolf grabbed two handfuls of the sweater and pulled himself close to Wilde, resting his head against his chest. He couldn’t hear his heartbeat over his own rattling breaths, but he could feel it. The slow and steady thump, thump, thump of someone still half asleep.
Zolf tried to speak again, but all he could manage was a heavy exhale, almost a sob, into Wilde’s chest. Arms moved, sedately, as if through treacle, to embrace him.
“It’s alright,” Wilde murmured, deeper than usual, almost gruff. “I’m here.”
Zolf tried to croak out a, “Thanks,” in response, but all that came out were more dry sobs. He lifted his head a centimeter, then surprised Wilde by shoving a hand up his jumper. It settled on his scar, right above his heart. With a hum, Wilde assured that he understood.
“Just making sure,” Zolf managed to whisper.
Wilde nodded.
All things considered, Wilde had got off lightly with the scar. It was thin, pale, and barely raised. The lighting scar on his back, however, sustained mere hours later, was a much uglier thing. It spanned his entire back, curling in places around to his sides, and up his neck. Of course, one whisper of prestidigitation and it was gone, one cravat and it was forgotten. But Zolf would always know. And so would Wilde.
Time passed. Or didn’t. Zolf was in no state to tell. Eventually, though, he realised he could breathe without feeling the need to sob his lungs out.
He dropped his hand to Wilde’s waist, four fingers feeling the hacked pattern his scar cut on his back, while his thumb rested on Wilde’s tummy, feeling it rise and fall gently with each breath.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologise for, darling.” At some point during the indeterminate amount of time Wilde had undone his bun, shaking his hair out about his shoulders, and woken up a little.
“You’ve got to stop doing that.” For the first time he looked up at Wilde, gaze stern and serious.
“Wha-”
“Dying.”
“That was only twice,” Wilde said lightly, attempting a smile that barely reached his cheeks.
“For you.”
There was no response to that.
“Sorry,” Zolf said again. “Sure you didn’t come in here just to watch me have a breakdown. You want something?”
“Oh, well-” Wilde chewed his words, not something that was usual for him. “You were yelling my name, so I, um, thought I’d better come.”
“Oh.” The urge to cry hit Zolf again like a wave. “Oscar, that must’ve been-” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Terrifying didn’t even cover it.
“It’s alright.” From his small smirk Zolf could tell Wilde was about to attempt some levity. “Nice to know I’m missed.”
He was crying now, tears slowly sliding down his cheeks, and Wilde looked horrified. Not at seeing Zolf cry - that he’d seen a lot - but thinking that his attempt at a joke had been so poorly received.
Fistfuls of Wilde’s jumper were once again bunched into Zolf’s hands as he pulled him close. “I bloody love you, you know?” Zolf growled, insistent, not intimidating. “We’re not just playing silly buggers here, waiting for the next thing to come along. You’re important to me.”
“I know.” The tone was a touch defensive, but it softened. “I know . I love you too.”
“Good.”
Zolf knew what happened now. Wilde - already yawning - would wipe the tears off his face, whisper some kind words, then go back to his own bed and sleep. Then Zolf would lie awake for hours, terrified of closing his eyes to images of the man he loved impaled through the heart.
“Um, would you mind terribly-” Wilde dropped his forehead against Zolf’s and his voice to a whisper, “if I stayed here tonight? I seem to have made my room a touch too cold while making up for the resurrection heat and, well, your bed looks wonderfully cozy.”
Zolf was already scooting backwards, lifting the duvet to allow Wilde to crawl under. They’d shared beds before. Not usually by choice; comfortable accommodation was difficult to come by whilst travelling, and what were they meant to do? Make someone share with Carter?
It had been awkward at first, with neither used to sharing a bed, but Wilde had been too ill to keep himself warm back then, and even Zolf wasn’t too proud to say no to a little excess warmth during a night in the Alps. By the time they reached Japan Zolf often found himself seeking out Wilde if he knew it was going to be a bad night. Wilde claimed any time he fell asleep in Zolf’s bed was a total accident, but Zolf knew better.
Now Wilde had a healthy layer of softness, abundant spells, and piles of blankets that could all keep him suitably warm. He didn’t need Zolf. But much like in the Alps, Zolf wasn’t too proud to turn him down.
He buried beneath the covers, facing Wilde, who was already breathing heavily. Zolf slid his hand under the cover until he found Wilde’s, then clasped it. Wilde smiled.
“Y’know-” Wilde’s voice was sleepy and honey-thick, “Sometimes I dream that I wake up here and you’re just gone. Everything that happened was too much, and you just had to leave and process it for a bit. And then I’m all alone again.
“I know it’s not real. I know you wouldn’t do that, it’s really selfish of me, I know . But… I don’t want to be alone.”
Zolf squeezed Wilde’s hand tighter, hoping with all his might that that small gesture could convey ‘I love you’, ‘I’m here for you’, ‘I’m not going anywhere’, and ‘I’d never leave you’ all at once.
“M’ not leaving,” Zolf said firmly. Then he knocked Wilde's thigh with his stump, forcing him to look up. “You’ve stolen all my favourite sweaters, I can’t leave.”
A musical chuckle filled the room, and with it a dash of golden light shimmered through Wilde’s hair.
“You don’t even know how to make your favourite pasta sauce, how could I leave?”
Wilde squeezed his hand back, blinking sleepily.
“I know I’ve been flighty in the past-”
“I don’t think that of you, Zolf. You’re the most steadfast person I know.”
“But it’s not selfish, is my point. I don’t actually think you’re gonna die every couple days, still scary when I think about it.”
“I am a hard person to live without.” Wilde was getting too tired for this conversation - they both were. They’d talk tomorrow.
“We should get some sleep now,” Zolf instructed.
“Please let me have a lie-in, I’m so tired.”
“No way,” Zolf teased. “You’ve woken me up at seven every day since we moved in together.”
“I don’t like being awake without you. G’night.” And with the single sweetest sentence Zolf had ever heard spoken, Wilde snuggled down into the pillow and relaxed.
Zolf watched through bleary eyes as he fell asleep. Just in case. Eventually the rise and fall of his chest became steady, and when a few strands of hair fell over his face Wilde didn’t even stir.
Zolf brushed them back for him, re-settling his hand on top of Wilde’s wrist. Just in case.
With Wilde’s heartbeat cradled in his hand, Zolf fell into a quick, deep, and dreamless sleep.