Work Text:
It’s been almost a year since they successfully averted the end of the world.
Sometimes he thinks that he might be able to breathe easy again, that he might be able to fill his lungs with air without feeling the presence of iron bands around his chest.
And sometimes he worries that he might open his mouth and just forget how to inhale at all, how to speak, how to si—.
Oh, it’s silly.
But he aches, all the same.
#
Zolf smiles at him in such a way sometimes that he fears it must be obvious what he’s thinking. That he feels like there are butterflies caught in his throat, beating their wings to create a melody that he can’t bring himself to put voice to.
Zolf hums a soft little sound and kisses the side of his throat, then wanders off to the kitchen, apparently content. Oscar watches him go with a faint, lingering sense of adoration that warms him like the cosiest blanket, settles in his chest and calms the anxious fretting of his heart, if only for a little while.
He thinks, sometimes, of the life he had before all this. Of how every note that passed his lips was easy, thoughtless. How performance was his calling and his power, his fulfilment and his strength. How it didn’t matter if the audience was a single person or a crowd of thousands, the thrill would keep him going for days…
Oscar sags back into his chair.
Long ago he learnt to cast without song, to use witticisms and oration to bring forth his ideas. He is so comfortable with that technique that he senses it becoming his norm now, in this world lacking in fear and battle. And that would be fine, he thinks, were he not half convinced it would mean he never sings again.
Every instance of song that he can recall in recent memory was to keep his friends, his heart, his future alive, at all costs. In those circumstances, he didn’t even have to think. But he can’t remember the last time he sang for the sheer joy of it, for the bliss of putting voice to lyrics that have been cleverly written, that speak meaning and truth and creativity.
He doesn’t want to lose the ability to sing for pleasure. For love.
For Zolf.
He opens his mouth, takes a deep breath... but nothing comes out.
#
They receive a flyer in their letterbox one morning, hand-drawn very carefully in that way that only a child can truly accomplish when they’re putting their mind to it. He clutches it up with a sense of giddy thrill, reading it over to find out that the village children are putting on a performance of The Pirates of Penzance in a couple of weeks’ time.
He wanders through to the kitchen and settles opposite Zolf at the table, sliding the flyer over and picking up his tea. The smile that crosses his husband’s face makes him grin in turn - Zolf is uncommonly fond of the local children, and they adore him in turn, getting him to tell them tales of his life that are so good that even Oscar finds himself transfixed.
“You want to help them rehearse?” Zolf asks, turning that smile on him.
“I…” He trails off, his smile fading. “I hadn’t even…”
“Oh, come off it Oscar, I’m surprised you’re not already on your way down trying to nosy in.” Zolf scoffs, but it’s paired with a look that’s equal parts fond and encouraging.
Zolf thinks this would be good for him.
And perhaps it would.
Oscar shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and sipping his tea. He pretends to be deep in thought, but Zolf keeps looking at him in that way that says he knows it’s a performance. He can’t get away with anything anymore.
Which, really, is probably for the best.
“You must know all the songs.” Zolf continues, buttering a slice of bread. “Bet you do.”
“Of course I do.” Oscar grumbles, his ego unable to take the suggestion that he might not. “I’ve had the patter song perfected for years.”
“Course.” Zolf grins. “So why not go. If they’re not practising today then you’ll find out when they are and it won’t do you any harm to get some fresh air.”
“Because…” He pauses.
Because what? Because he might find the joy that he’s missing? Because he might bring a little happiness to people whose opinions he genuinely cares for?
Or because he’ll find out, once and for all, that he can truly no longer sing?
“Oscar.” Zolf says, reaching over and sliding a hand overtop his, warm, comforting, familiar. “Go. For me?”
Oscar smiles down at their hands, threading their fingers. “I could never deny you, my love.”
Zolf’s expression gives away that he was betting on that being the truth, but he doesn’t say anything to that effect, and for that, Oscar is more grateful than he can rightly express.
He finishes his tea, fetches his coat, and starts down to the village without even soliciting himself a goodbye kiss, entirely too distracted by the prospect of what lies ahead.
#
The children are rehearsing when he gets to the bottom of the hill. There’s a makeshift stage and a troupe of children ranging from the small and enthusiastic to older, taller ones with gangly limbs and gappy smiles. He can’t help himself from smiling at the way they laugh and cavort around, music playing from a likely magical source that they are only partially listening to.
It’s close to lunch now, so he expects they are more than a little distracted by rumbling bellies and the food he can see parents laying out on tables nearby. Even so, the sight of their unabashed fun makes him smile as he moves further into the village. He’s seen a hundred performances in his time, but it has been rare for any of them to inspire such unrepentant joy in him. He’s drawn to the delight for performing like a moth to a flame, and forces himself to loiter out of view as they wrap up their morning’s rehearsal.
He stands there for a while, cursing both the fact that he didn’t eat more at breakfast and that he’s missing out on one of Zolf’s lunches as his stomach gives a fierce rumble. He slides a hand over it and glances down in annoyance, as if that will somehow make his innards shut up.
“You’re a terrible spy.”
Oscar looks down and to his left at the sound of the voice and finds Agnes smirking up at him. She grins wider at whatever that statement did to his expression and nudges his arm with her shoulder.
“I’ll have you know nothing could be further from the truth.” He protests. “In this case, I am not trying to go unnoticed.”
“But you’re also not joining in.” Agnes points out. “Why’s that?”
Oscar smiles softly as the children reach the end of their song and their small scattered crowd gives a polite round of applause. He joins in, because it feels terrible to have enjoyed their performance so much and not show it. He’s too familiar with what little shows of appreciation can do for an artist’s motivation.
“They don’t appear to need my help.”
Agnes’ laughter is teasing, a little snort that he’s come to realise will precede a carefully phrased takedown. “When has that ever stopped you?”
Oscar pouts, twisting his lips to fight the fact that he wants to smile, so wide. They’ve only been here a few months and Agnes already knows him better than she has any right to. It’s like she can see right through him. (Which, fine, maybe she can, he’s not bothered to ask if she has any powers.)
“You see the woman over there in the brown skirt and lovely yellow blouse?” She continues, and he follows her gaze to the woman in question. “That’s Claire. She’s the one in charge of this circus, the one whose idea it was. She and her husband are new to the village - not as new as you and your beau, of course - but she was apparently on the stage in London, so I’ve heard.”
“Oh?” Oscar murmurs, interest piqued.
“I have no idea of any details.” She waves a dismissive hand. “If you want to know, maybe you should ask her yourself?”
Oscar narrows his eyes at her, at the sparkle in her clever eyes. “I see what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing, Mr Wilde?” She grins. “Go and talk to Claire. Claire Redwood, her name is. See how you can poke your nose in.”
He wants to protest, to grumble and tell her that he doesn’t need to do that. But gods, he wants to.
“Fine. I’ll go talk to her.”
“Good.” He hears, as he starts to walk away. “Just don’t take over.”
The last thing he hears as he turns the corner into the main square is Agnes’ uproarious laughter as he flips her off behind his back.
He’s not nervous, though he is perhaps a little apprehensive. He approaches Claire with all of the confidence that he always used to manage to muster before he retired, and smiles when she blinks at him in quiet surprise. He reaches out a hand that she hurries to take it in both of hers.
“Mr Wilde!” She beams. “What a pleasure to see you.”
“Likewise.” He nods, giving a small bow and feeling some of his old spirit shuffle back into place when she barely suppresses a pleased squeak and grips his hand tighter. “I’m curious about this performance that you’re putting on, and Agnes mentioned it was you I should speak to.”
“Yes, yes indeed.” She smiles, letting his hand go and folding her arms over her chest. “This was my doing, gods help me. The children are fantastic but it has rather been… more than I was expecting.”
“From what I’ve seen they’re having a wonderful time and that is ninety percent of the battle, isn’t it? If the players are having fun, then the audience will too.”
Claire’s smile turns relieved and bright. “That’s what I’ve been saying to them!”
He allows her to guide him over to the food table and loads up a small plate for himself to pick at, something to do with his hands and a reason to not stare too earnestly at Claire as he tries to ingratiate himself.
“Agnes also mentioned you used to perform?” He ventures when they’re settled down in the ‘front row’ of the audience.
Her blush is very lovely. It makes him smile. “Nothing very impressive, Mr Wilde. Much as I might have longed to, I was very far from ever getting to appear in one of your productions.”
He gives a wide shrug. “Some people would claim that was a blessing.”
“Oh, nonsense. I’ve never seen any piece of work as sharp as yours, Mr Wilde.”
“I think after all this flattery the least you can do is call me Oscar.” He grins, and there’s that blush again. Her husband is a lucky man.
“Very well, Oscar.” She chuckles. “I don’t suppose I could twist your arm to help out with the final rehearsals? I’ve thought about coming to see you to ask before, but I didn’t want to interrupt you and your husband in your well-earned retirement.”
“Please, he’s just glad to see me out the house.” Oscar laughs. “Having said that, I’m not entirely sure how much help I might be.”
“Oh, come now.” She scoffs, clearly not buying anything that he’s trying to sell. He must get better at obscuring his emotions from people, he really must. “We’re about to run through the second half, and by the time that's done the children will have to go home for dinner - perhaps we can talk further after that?”
He can’t even make himself hesitate. He smiles, nods and folds his hands in his lap.
“Fine. Fine, you’ve convinced me.”
#
He returns home after speaking with Claire for long enough that she invites him for dinner, an invitation that he has to decline, if only because he expects Zolf might be starting to worry.
(He sends a message on the wind as he walks back up the hill, which he reckons is solely responsible for the fact that Zolf isn’t an anxious mess when he walks through the door.)
Zolf listens intently when Oscar regales him with stories, of Agnes and Claire and the children, of how they still have a little work to do but nothing terribly much. Zolf looks at him with such fondness that he almost flushes, picking at his dinner and struggling not to let his grin split his face.
The next morning his mood continues to tick upwards when he somehow wakes up at the same time as Zolf. Oscar grins and reaches out to catch Zolf’s wrist as he clambers from the bed and tugs him back despite his protests, swallowing them up with grinning lips. When he finally dresses to go down to the village he wears a larger scarf than the season calls for, and Zolf’s impish grin sticks with him the entire way.
While he hopes against hope that this mood will linger…
… He supposes it is only right that it takes more than one good day to solve the complex web of his anxieties.
The children finish up their staging of When the Foeman Bares His Steel and he sits back to give a hearty round of applause, his mind racing with thoughts. The children form up at the edge of the stage and look to him for comment, and it’s only then that he realises Claire is doing the precise same thing beside him.
“Well, it’s just incredible.” He says, thrilling at the smiles that spread over each and every face in front of him. “All of you are amazing.”
They start to bounce around, giggling at each other, flush with pride at a job very well done. It’s only him leaning in with a conspiratorial look on his face that makes them pause, all but a couple of them leaning in just as far to hear his wisdom.
“But would you like to know how to make it even better?”
He gets them all to line back up as they would be at the start of the song, brings Claire in and starts to describe what he’s thinking - a little less severity from the main child singing would bring this performance to life, he knows. It’s a comedic piece, and little trills and quips and nudges to the audience would only make it better, the main child silly to the straight men of the corps.
Claire nods along, but he can tell she’s not quite getting what he’s trying to put forward.
“Would you show us, Oscar?” She asks, eventually, gesturing to the stage. “I think you’ve got some wonderful ideas but I’m not sure I’m following.”
He smiles, because of course he does. Keep your audience happy, don’t let them see the worry.
The few steps up to the stage feel like hundreds, and when he looks down at Claire, merely a few feet taller than her from up on the stage, he battles a fierce rush of vertigo and has to take a deep breath to steady himself.
He forces a winning smile across his face before she can even start to consider that something might be wrong.
“You know what.” He grins, winking at her and then turning to William, the lead child in this scene. “William, you sang so beautifully earlier, how about you do that again and copy my movements as best you can? You don’t have to get it perfect the first time, let’s just try some things out and see how they go, hm?”
Oscar starts the musical accompaniment up - Claire’s husband had a little conjuration magic, but is more than happy to leave the rehearsal control up to Oscar - and loses himself in a few minutes of absolute unrestrained fun, echoing some of the performances he’s previously seen and suggesting some of his own tweaks.
The children adore it, laughing and falling over themselves to copy him, prancing and jumping even if they won’t be part of the scene. He feels freer than he has in months, catching sight of Claire laughing to herself as she watches, a few of the curtains in windows that circle the performance area twitching.
Let them watch. He’s good at this, and he’s good with the children, and they’re all having such a wonderful time that it’s only when he finally falls onto his arse to catch his breath that he realises he’s been humming along to the music for the past fifteen minutes.
The awareness settles in his gut like a warm drink, radiating out to his limbs, his head, making him feel a little lightheaded, a little giddy, a little thrilled.
He performed in public, and nothing went wrong.
Oscar feels like he’s floating all the way up the hill, twirling through the front door and sliding his coat off, hanging it with the scarf Zolf knitted him onto the hooks by the door.
“How did it go?”
Zolf appears in the doorway of the kitchen, flour across his forehead, sleeves rolled up and wearing his favourite apron. Oscar knows if he took Zolf’s hands and brought them to his nose, they would smell like dough and domesticity. It makes emotion prickle behind his eyes as he smiles, genuinely.
“It was good.”
Zolf tips his head to the side, gesturing at the room behind him. “Come tell me about it?”
Oscar follows him, takes a seat at the table and watches Zolf go wipe off his hands, then come and settle across from him. He scoots a little closer, reaching out to touch Oscar without thought.
“The children are wonderful. Claire gave me free rein to make suggestions.”
Zolf laughs softly. “Your dream.”
Oscar feels himself flush. Zolf knows him so well at this point that there’s never any reason to obfuscate or outright lie - Zolf knows how much he wanted (needed) this and Oscar is bursting with anxious energy at the thought of telling him how well it went.
“Yes, well. I didn’t sing but uh…” He pauses, looking down at Zolf’s hand on his knee, so big, so grounding. “I think I might be able to. One day, not too far from now.”
Zolf smiles at him, gentle in that way that only his husband can manage. Leans in and slides arms around him slowly enough for him to back out of it if he wishes. He doesn’t. He doesn’t think he ever could.
Zolf doesn’t say anything when Oscar’s tears make his shirt a little wet at the collar, just holds him tight and rocks him a little and hums quiet affirmations that make this emotion melt out of him far easier than any has for longer than he cares to think about.
“I’m proud of you, love.”
Oscar groans, wiping his face on Zolf’s shirt. “Don’t. You’ll ruin me.”
He half expects Zolf to argue, to insist, but Zolf knows better than that. Instead, he feels warm hands cup his face and lift his head up, strong thumbs swiping over his cheeks to clear the moisture there. Zolf leans in and kisses him so gently it makes him ache and he sighs into it, covering Zolf’s hands with his own.
“Dinner?” Zolf asks, when he breaks away, lips pink and shining in the sunset colours that sit outside their windows.
“Please. I forgot how much energy I use to perform.”
He hums when Zolf leans in to kiss his forehead, and lets a little tune escape him as he lays the table for dinner, setting out a bottle of wine to warm his extremities from being outside all day (even he struggles, perhaps he’s getting old…). He keeps it up even as Zolf slides in close and puts down some side dishes in the middle of the table, a warm hand settling at the base of his spine.
Zolf grins up at him, and he can’t help but follow suit.
#
He’s early to rehearsal the next day. He slept so well, curled into Zolf’s embrace, that he practically bounded out of bed, assisting Zolf with breakfast and then setting off in the cold morning air ready to help them get the final touches put together before the weekend’s performance.
He wanders past a few of the houses and sees brilliant, domestic life going on inside them, his heart warming at the reminder that his actions were partially responsible for this sort of freedom being possible. He stops to talk to Agnes for longer than he really means to, which from the twinkle in her eye he suspects is her intention. By the time he tears himself away, there’s a small gaggle of kids approaching the stage and he hurries to follow after.
“Mummy, mummy look! It’s Oscar Wilde, from London!” He hears from one of the houses nearby, looks across to give a wave to a young mother desperately trying to get shoes onto her little one’s feet. “Oscar says I’m a star.”
He doesn’t get to hear the woman’s response, but there’s no doubt he’s far less important to her than the hassle of the morning routine, so it would likely have only crushed his fledgling ego. He continues on his way, buoyed by the delight of his morning so far.
He sits and watches as Claire directs the children through an entire run of the play. They’re approaching the interval, which means it’s almost time for biscuits, and today Zolf is due to be bringing a little delivery down to surprise the children.
He’s in the middle of daydreaming about what precisely Zolf might see fit to bake when someone sits heavily down in the chair beside him.
Looking across, he finds their thirteen year old Major General slumped and looking surly in his ill-fitting uniform.
“Charlie, what’s wrong?” He asks, looking up at the stage and then back down again. “Aren’t you supposed to be performing?”
Charlie mutters something that Oscar doesn’t make out. Before he can ask for clarification, Charlie huffs out a breath and repeats himself. “I can’t do it.”
“Can’t do what?”
“The song. It’s too much. I keep forgetting my lines.”
Oscar smiles as warmly as he’s able, turning a little in his seat. “Charlie you’ve been doing marvellously when I’ve seen you practice. Why the worry now?”
Charlie gives a big shrug, weary and evasive. Luckily, Oscar has been both a teenage boy, and a nervous young performer. He can see through the bluster.
“It's entirely possible that you'll make a mistake.” He says, and Charlie frowns sharply at him. “But if you don't - if you succeed. Think of the applause. The praise! Everyone will remember your performance. They'll talk about it for the rest of the year, if not longer.”
Charlie perks up at this, looking at him cautiously. “Yeah?”
“I swear to you. Everything's right there in your head, you just have to open your mouth and let it out.”
He manages to stifle his reaction as his words strike home, not just with Charlie, but with himself. How ridiculous, that he can find the right things to say, the right reassurance for someone else, but not himself, for so long.
“How about this - would you like me to join you today? We can sing together.”
“You know it?” Charlie asks, managing to make it sound both hopeful and derisive all at once. What incredible skill.
“Of course.” Oscar grins. “Every word. Just like you.”
Charlie doesn’t look completely unconvinced, so he gets to his feet, pushing on his thighs and then shaking out his hair. If he adds a little flourish of magic to the motion to make sparkles melt into the air from the ends of his hair then that’s between him and the unimpressed look Charlie shoots in his direction.
“Shall we?”
He doesn’t look back, trusting that Charlie will follow after him and smiling quietly to himself when he feels a smaller body shove past him to get to the steps first. Claire gives him a curious glance as he crests the top of the stairs, so he winks, and feels the satisfaction of her flustered blush right down to his toes.
This is good. This is so very good.
He conjures the introduction to the song, gestures expansively at Charlie to take his place in the middle of the stage. He puts on his very best air of Major General and watches as Charlie does the same, braver now that he’s not up here all alone.
The temptation is to join in the moment Charlie starts to sing, but this isn’t about him. It’s about giving a novice the courage to perform, as much as the clever words might be fluttering at the back of his throat.
He stands behind and to the right of their young Major General and smiles, hamming it up a bit for their audience and filling in the part of the chorus where appropriate. When Charlie does a little twirl and glances across at Oscar, he makes sure his smile is as bright and encouraging as possible.
He keeps a careful eye, playing his supporting role with as much charm and elegance as he can muster. And when Charlie stumbles, Oscar is right there to sweep in and stand at his side.
“I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox!”
Charlie nods at him, picking up from the very next line. But the dam has broken now, and he doesn't want Charlie to falter again, so he stays there, a Major General in waiting, and harmonises as best he can with the uneven timbre of a teenage boy.
It is a pure delight to act like this, to perform alongside a boy that has so much talent and such a will to do this right. He smirks and charms and plays his part and by the final line he has never seen Charlie more confident in his role.
The final flourish of the song sails away on the air and Oscar stands there, breathing heavily, throat sore but so satisfied with the past few minutes that he feels like he might just float straight out of his body.
Applause ripples out, starting with Claire and spreading further by the moment, until he notices they've got a much larger audience than he realised before. He grins and squeezes Charlie's shoulder, jolting slightly when a sharp whistle shoots right through the more gentle sounds of appreciation.
Oscar looks up, straight into the eyes of Zolf where he’s applauding from the back of the seating area. There’s a tin of baked goods abandoned on the floor at his feet and Oscar wishes he’d been aware of the moment Zolf chose to dump the treats in favour of showing his approval. Oscar blushes, watching Zolf stick his fingers in his mouth and whistle again, unconcerned by how everyone around them is taking this. That's not Zolf Smith's way.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Oscar says to Charlie, walking to the edge of the stage and hopping down. To himself, slightly giddy he mutters, “I have to go speak to my husband.”
He walks as fast as he can without looking like he’s rushing, dropping down into a crouch beside Zolf and leaning into his chest when Zolf opens his arms. He grins, turning his face into Zolf’s throat and inhaling the scent of baked goods from his skin.
He smells like love.
He smells like home.
“How was I?” He asks, feeling Zolf’s arms squeeze him a little tighter.
“You were you, love.” Zolf hums, kissing the soft skin behind his ear. “You were you.”
#
The rest of the day passes in a blur, his heart full, his emotions half a second away from tipping him into weepiness at any moment. Zolf’s baking goes down a treat with the kids, and most of their parents too, sneaking out of their houses to partake of the biscuits at break time. Oscar hums along to every song that the children rehearse for the second act and by the time they chivvy them all home again, he feels as though he might be whole for the first time in months.
Once they’ve ambled back up the hill, hand in hand and full of love, he helps Zolf prepare dinner, then carries a couple of whiskeys through to the living room when Zolf goes ahead to light a fire.
It is disgustingly domestic and he revels in every blissful moment of it.
“Here.” Zolf murmurs, tugging a warm knitted blanket out of their storage chest, carrying it over to settle across both of their laps. “All that time outside isn’t good for you.”
He doesn’t correct Zolf, nor state that he’s really a perfectly comfortable temperature. Because that would mean Zolf’s thigh not tucked right up against his, Zolf’s weight leaning into his side. And Oscar cannot help but be greedy for that, always.
“So, how did I sound?”
“Perfect.” Zolf says, without a moment’s hesitation. “But you knew that.”
“Oh darling, I really didn’t.” Oscar rests his forehead on top of Zolf’s head with a smile. “If I had, do you think I would have waited this long?”
Zolf’s hand finds his under the blanket, and he tugs until Zolf leans into his chest, feeling a little laughing huff melt warm through his shirt. His arm comes around Zolf’s shoulders, a thoughtless action that his body will never forget how to do.
“And how was my naval persona?” He grins, feeling the vibration of Zolf’s immediate laughter through his torso. ”Uncanny I bet? Wasn’t I?”
“No comment.” Zolf snickers and he can’t help but join in, can’t help but give into the ridiculousness. “You’ll kick me out of bed.”
“I would never. Who would keep me warm?”
A silence settles over them, familiar like the blanket across their laps, warm like Zolf pressed to his chest. The whiskey settles a weighty heat in his belly along with their meal and Oscar knows that nothing, absolutely nothing could feel better than this moment.
“You looked good up there. Comfortable.” Zolf mutters eventually, squeezing his hand tight. “Like it’s where you’re meant to be.”
“I don’t know about that.” Oscar says softly. It doesn’t hurt to admit, not like he once feared it might. “Not all the time, anyway. But it was nice, while it lasted.”
“And d’you think you might sing more? Again?” Zolf asks, his voice tremulous with what must be hope. “If it’s what you want?”
Oscar reaches down and lifts his chin so they can look at one another, unable to fight a wide smile. “Do you have any requests?”
“Something soft.” Zolf says eventually, a quiet admission that fills Oscar’s entire chest. “Y’know. If you’ve got something in mind.”
Oscar thinks over the beauty of the operetta, of all the lovely songs that he carries with him, and knows instantly which to choose. He guides Zolf’s head back to his chest and holds him close.
“You’ll have to forgive me for pitching this a little lower, darling. I am no soprano.”
He lets his voice shape the song of Mabel and Frederic’s love at first sight, the gentle charm of it reminding him of how he fell for Zolf years ago. He may not be a soprano but he does a fine job of the melody, he thinks. It’s surely the fact that he’s singing for Zolf that inspires him, and the knowledge that he has brought music back to their home with nothing but the power of his voice.
And if when he reaches the end of the song, Zolf’s eyes are wet with tears, then that’s okay. Because his are too.