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“Happy birthday!”
That’s the first thing Oswald hears when he drags one foot after the other into the kitchen of his and his mother’s apartment. His eyes are barely open, still adjusting to the sun peeking through the windows, and his hair is tousled and mussed, sticking out in various directions, while his pyjamas hang loosely off his shoulders.
“Happy birthday!”, his mother repeats, and only then the boy even realizes what that means.
His eyes shot open immediately. “That was today!?”
“It was.”, she answers him, smiling, and moves away to reveal a home-made cake on the table. It’s nothing huge, but its pink frosting is spread evenly around the sides, and the candles stand straight, and it’s the thought that counts anyway, and Oswald rushes forward to hug her without hesitation.
“I thought to show you later, but it’s past breakfast time already, my little Cobblepot.”
“Thank you”, he mumbles into her direction. He knows groceries are expensive and he knows their landlord has increased rent and he knows his textbooks are violently overpriced. And yet here his mother is. With a stupid, stupid, perfect cake and a smile on her face to make sure life doesn’t have to be as exhausting as it is by default.
They stand there for a few more moments, revelling in the specks of light coming through the windows, despite closed (though holey) curtains and dirty glass.
“Have some friends over to celebrate”, Gertrud assures later, while they sit at the table and Oswald is decimating a piece of the most delicious strawberry cake he’s ever eaten. To be fair, he’s never eaten it made by anyone but his mother. Either way, he nods thankfully, mouth stuffed with pink frosting and fluffy dough and amazing taste.
-
In the end he calls only his closest friends. He’s quite the sociable fellow, yes, but he despises an astonishing number of people at his cursed high school and, on top of that, largely doesn’t expect the bunch of them to respect his mother. And, frankly, he feels no need to scrub blood from his floorboards in his home after one of their mishaps. The godforsaken landlord would have a full on crisis as well, and Oswald is very aware that his mother can’t take their rent being hiked up any higher.
So, the phone rings in only two households (Butch’s parents are happy to have him out of the house for a while and Edward is surprised, but excited to come nonetheless), while the third guest is invited by Oswald (now actually dressed with fixed hair) after violently knocking on his door.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!”, he yells through the door, knowing full well the walls are paper thin and that Victor has probably been up since 4 AM and is disassembling his Dad’s guns to put them back together before the man can come home and explode with anger.
There is shuffling to be heard behind the door, and after a few seconds it opens, Victor standing there in an all-black outfit, behind him (predictably) a table full of metallic gun parts. Who would have thought.
“Morning”, Victor greets, ignoring that the sun is pretty much at its zenith at this point and the fog usually present early on in the day has long stopped drifting through the dirty streets of Gotham.
“It’s my birthday and you will come.”, Oswald announces nonchalantly, “Butch and Eddie will be there, too.”
There’s a moment of silence that Victor’s face happily uses to contort into a wide grin.
“Eddie?”, he repeats, wiggling the muscles where his eyebrows would be, “Sure you want Butch and me to spoil your date?”
“Shut the fuck up.”, the shorter one hisses out between gritted teeth, but his cheeks turn a warm tone of red and there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth while he crosses his arms, “I’m not dating Edward.”
“But if that’s the case eventually you’ll tell me, yes? I’ll be the first to know?”, his bald friend teases further and Oswald can only glare for so long before he has to nod defeatedly.
"I guess, you freak."
The two spend the next 10 minutes poking and prodding around the components of the gun on the table with varying amounts of enthusiasm. It’s obvious it’s more Victor’s field of expertise (“My dad threatened to shoot me with this thing far too often, so I might as well figure out how it works exactly” is all he says about where this interest comes from), while Oswald can appreciate the danger and death the gadget reeks of, but is far less excited about what use each little part has.
Soon enough they hear an engine rev, a vehicle speed over the damaged asphalt, though, and a quick look out of the window provides the information that it’s in fact Butch and his trusty motorcycle that would quite literally fall apart if it weren’t for hours over hours spend in the garage of his father.
Victor and Oswald rush down the stairs of their apartment complex (not after locking the door to the Zsasz home, of course), stumbling over steps and pushing themselves into the railings. It’s stupid and it’s loud and they know there’s no way their grumpy old neighbour won’t complain to their parents, but it’s the atmosphere of the moment that counts, the laughter. By that extent, the falling into rough edges and knowing you’ll be bruised by the end of the race down the stairs, too.
They nearly fall out of the door, right on time to see Butch lock his motorcycle to a street light.
“Watch out.”, Victor gets out grinning widely, panting for air, “They’ll steal your bike with the fucking lamp stuck to it.”
Butch turns around with a grimace on his face. “Don’t jinx it. My parents are gonna fucking kill me if that happens. I don’t have the money to replace it either.” He shakes his head at the thought, then his gaze falls on his black haired friend. “Happy birthday, Oz.”
“But you can afford all the spare parts?”, the latter jokes, “Thanks, though, dude.”
“You trying to talk like a straight person is so funny.” Victor says, quieter than the usual conversation volume, though there’s still a silly grin on his face. Oswald hits him, albeit gently, and he’s smiling as well.
They stay a little longer, wait for Edward to arrive on his equally broken down bicycle. It squeaks, the red paint is falling off in flakes when you look at it wrong, and there’s an impressive dent in its frame. “Someone drove over it one time. With this huge pickup truck. Dunno if it was on purpose, but oh well.”, he had explained once.
The second he’s off of the bike Oswald sprints towards him and crushes him in a hug. The black haired boy doesn’t even know why he feels so incredibly touch-starved today, but that barely matters, with his nerdy friend's arms encasing him and the soft fabric of his shirt right in his face.
"Happy birthday, Ozzie.", Ed greets delicately and the latter squeezes him a little tighter in response.
"Still able to breathe, Nygma?" Butch laughs and it's part banter, part genuine concern for his health, because the lanky teen is gasping for air between chuckles and is patting his friend's back to get himself released pretty strongly at this point.
“Am... just.. fine...”, he gets out with the other's arms wrapped around his torso, while the two teens standing separately grin at the display in front of them.
They don't know Edward quite as well as Oswald does, and even he hasn't had the pleasure of knowing the tall boy for incredible amounts of time. They met each other through a science project they had to do together, funnily enough. Oswald had scoffed and bitched and rolled his eyes, but after a while he'd gotten quite accustomed to wildly unsettling biology facts (Did you know that if you get scurvy your healed, formerly broken bones will break apart and other wounds will re-open? Probably. Creepy nonetheless.) and the occasional riddle.
Ed was easy company, no one you had to impress. He was excited and enthusiastic. And then he'd started playing tricks on teachers and students alike and Oswald was smitten.
The trip wire that made their geography teacher fly through half the classroom and resulted in an amazingly modern coffee splatter artwork on their vomit-yellow wallpaper?
The infinite amounts of question mark confetti that would haunt not only their current principal, but also the next 10 generations of them in their office?
The time he'd somehow glued a device to a bully's locker, making him answer several excruciatingly hard riddles before he could get to his textbooks?
He'd only gotten caught once so far and it's fairly obvious he's determined to keep that number on the down low ever since.
Victor and Butch on the other hand have much more traditionally unlawful things on their resumes. Be it smoking in the bathrooms or beating up some asshole for 40 bucks. Never returning books to the library (Zsasz swears on his life it's just because he's forgetful) or stealing chewing gum and earrings from the local shops.
The latter is one of the more popular items affected by theft in their friend group. Butch swipes them for his occasional girlfriends, Oswald for himself, and Victor for both reasons at once.
Either way, Edward wiggles around, trapped in Oswald's arms, before deciding to pick him up and spin him around with a wide grin on his face.
His muscles try their absolute best to comply, fingernails are digging into his back, scrambling for purchase, and he's all dizzy from the rotation. He loves it though. He loves anything that lets him hold Oswald, to be fair. He's not quite figured out why that is yet, but it matters so little he can't bring himself to care.
After the birthday boy is set down again the day can really, truly begin.
Painting the town, climbing through abandoned buildings, always searching for the next big thing. Sometimes it's graffiti that sparks interest, sometimes a piece of bulky trash - something they all lift one after the other, surely destroying their backs, but eager for competition regardless.
They talk about teachers and homework and how little everyone gives a shit about either of these things. Though, well, Ed has straight A's and the others easily get average grades, albeit for Gotham's public school standards.
They goof around with an unattended basketball (though whatever game they're trying to play is more of a mashup between volley-, hand- and football) and try to gain the trust of a handful of street cats. Those who hiss and scratch, where you know you'll surely end up with about thirty diseases if you let yourself get cut.
It's stupid and risky and Oswald knows his mother would be disappointed. Well... Perhaps 'worried' is a more fitting word.
They walk and walk until their legs give out, until they have to sit down between piles of garbage on dirty asphalt.
“Gross.”, Victor comments, but he’s the first one on the ground.
After their small break they decide to buy milkshakes, mainly because the owner of the downright tiny corner store is friends with Gertrud and gives Oswald a generous birthday discount, though Zsasz’s obsession with the drink is a part of it too. No one would be surprised if he spent at least a third of his ‘downgraded hitman’ salary from beating people up for money in exactly this shop, having drunk every flavour of the beverage at least four times already.
When the sun is beginning to move a little too far west they stroll back through the narrow alleys and gigantic streets of Gotham, and eventually they end back at the Kapelput apartment, stuffing strawberry cake down their throats while a delighted Gertrud occasionally gazes over to them from the living room.
Every single one of them compliments her baking, of course they do, and her smile is wide and genuine at their words.
“What good friends you have, Oswald”, she praises, almost tearing up, and her son is so glad she doesn’t know what their extracurricular activities look like. Just enjoys the happiness while it lasts, is very aware that several people in this room don’t have the privilege of having a mother like Gertrud.
It’s obvious, incredibly visible, in the way they sheepishly smile at the tiny, tiny, kind things she does, how eager they are to be the “good kid” instead of whatever their environment has shaped them to be.
Though, to be fair, Oswald loves his mother very much and yet he still turned out to be quite the malicious character. It just kind of happens, he figures.
They play uno and monopoly and accuse each other of cheating, but ultimately do nothing about it. Edward is the bank and there’s no way he’s not borrowing one or the other fake dollar bills, sliding them towards his own stash of monopoly money.
Victor is very busy putting the blame of the ever shrinking amount of bank notes on Butch, while the beefier teen shoots back with completely factual and logical evidence that it’s actually Ed. Zsasz pointedly ignores that, though, just to rile Gilzean up. He doesn’t have the reputation of being fucking annoying for nothing! Oswald barely pays attention to them, mostly, is occupied with staring at the glimmer in Ed’s eyes, the way the corners of his mouth quirk up when Victor acts particularly stupid, the way his brown hair falls into his eyes when he shakes his head at the absurdity of the conversation. Too occupied to notice the cheating, but it’s not like he would’ve done anything if he found out.
It’s Edward, after all. And Edward can do anything he wants, because he’s Edward and because Oswald says so and because no one’s there to stop him.
And so they sit there until the sun sets behind the giant apartment complexes and towering buildings and when Butch and Ed point out that they eventually have to drive their motorcycle or ride their bike home - respectively - the friendgroup decides a sleepover is the most sensible option. Victor has pretty easy access to his own mattress after all, and while Gilzean and him move it down a floor, the brown haired teen gets to borrow some old clothes to use as pyjamas from his bald friend.
Edward, on the other hand, is staying in Oswald's apartment for the time being. He’s put away the board game already and now he’s awkwardly shuffling with his feet and intently staring at the baby pictures standing on a dresser.
"Stop that.", his host says, grumpily, "It's embarrassing."
"No, it's not.", Ed mumbles, though he averts his eyes for them to fall back onto the real-life teenager version of the images, currently digging through his closet for acceptable sleep clothing for his friend, "It's cute."
Oswald makes a noise that is halfway between a scoff and a laugh and throws an oversized t-shirt of his into Ed's direction.
The boy tries to evade it but that attempt is futile and the shirt lands directly on his face, obscuring his vision and making him still again. He sighs.
That tickles out an actual laugh out of Oswald. "You look so stupid, I love it."
The taller sends a glare his way, but it's hardly intimidating while he stands there with fogged up glasses slipping off his nose and some fabric hurled onto his head, essentially functioning as a very odd wig.
"My mom said I'd grow into that shirt, but as you can see that never happened. It's barely worn, I'm sure you can sleep in it.", Oswald begins to explain, "Though I think you have to ask Victor for sweatpants. You're, like, significantly taller than me. I'm still pissed about that by the way."
Edward smiles, stupidly, lightly, with a sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve heard drinking milk helps?”
Oswald wants to grimly inform his friend that, yes, his mother thought just as much, and yes, he’s got enough dairy products in his body to make him a giant three times over, but Ed interjects as if on automatic.
"Though, of course, that belief likely comes from the fact that milk provides quite a lot of nutrients that can lower the risk of stunted growth by… I believe… 1.9%? Correct me if I'm wrong. Either way! Milk was the cheapest way you could access stuff like protein, calcium, potassium, zinc, and vitamin A decades ago. Now, at least here, other foods that include these nutrients are more accessible again - and too much milk is not particularly healthy for the human body either - so it's not the superfood some may portray it as. Also-"
He stops himself. Let's his gaze drop from the grin on Oswald's face down to the floor.
"I did it again, didn't I? I talk too much." He scratches the back of his head sheepishly and his shorter friend almost confesses his love for him right then and there, though opts for a thinly veiled alternative instead. To redirect the emotion somewhere other than his rapidly beating heart and the blush coating his cheeks.
"You're fucking seducing me with your useless facts, did you know that Edward Nygma?"
There’s a moment of silence, one where Oswald’s silly grin doesn’t dwindle in the slightest, and Ed has to fix his glasses and choke on his words.
"I? Uh. I'm- I'm what?", the teen stutters, his brain short circuiting trying to figure out if he understands the words correctly. "Seducing you?"
"Yeah!", Oz replies, trying to be nonchalant. As if it was a joke, a lighthearted jab at Ed and not an entirely truthful confession of his affection. "I love the way.. your brain works. Y'know? Impressive how much info is stored up there."
Edward’s jaw has dropped and he stands there, stupidly, mouth wide open, unsure of what to make of that compliment. Good then that he doesn’t even have to react.
"Ay you two lovebirds!" is the only warning they get before a mattress gets practically thrown into the room, knocking Ed down and burying him underneath the foam and springs and fabric that a mattress is usually made of.
The breath gets knocked out of his lungs, and a quiet oof leaves his lips while Oswalds eyes widen before he glares at Butch and Victor.
"Oops.", the bald teen says, but the glimmer in his eyes tells an entirely different story, "We squashed your boyfriend."
The shortest one has to take a second to calm down, to breathe slowly and pointedly. "Butch, get him out from under there.", he orders, "Victor get him a pair of your sweatpants, I don't think mine will fit. And, once and for all, he's not mY FUCKING BOYFRIEND."
Zsasz’s grin is exceptionally wide even when he starts leaving to fulfill his task, Gilzean shrugs and lifts up the mattress easily and Oswald drops into the couch behind him with a sigh.
"You guys are so exhausting.", he mumbles angrily, but when Nygma is less than gently placed right next to him his cheeks can't help but turn the lightest shades of pink.
“Not you.”, he adds, “Just the other two dumbasses.”
Edward has to fix his glasses a second time (being knocked down doesn't exactly ensure their protection), still a little out of it from Oswald’s choice of words earlier and, well, hitting his head on the floor too.
Moments pass before they start to prepare the sleeping arrangements, shift and push the mattress into a more open spot. They almost decide on randomly assigning who can rest where, when the returning Victor calls off the whole thing.
“Alright, one sec, let's be logical here!,” he says, throwing some sweatpants in Nygma’s general direction, and Gilzean rolls his eyes already, “Oz has his entire bed here so he might as well sleep in there, right? It’s big enough for two people and we all know.. Yeah.. I nominate Ed for that spot, if you get my gist!”
Oswald opens his mouth, stutters out a very offended objection, but Zsasz shushes him.
“Anyhow, Butch, you can decide on the couch or my mattress now. I’m fine with either.”
Oswald furrows his brows and gestures with his hands widely. “Hang on, hang on. I don’t think we discussed that first decision enough, I’m-”
Victor shushes him again, then turns to Ed. “You’re okay with this, right?”
So now it’s Ed’s turn to stutter, to stare at his short friend with widened eyes, as if he could get him out of answering this question. “I- I, yeah- I guess I’m okay with that”
"Magnificent!" Victor beams, and Butch, with furrowed eyebrows, guesses he will just take the couch. Which promptly leads to Zsasz complaining that his friend believes his mattress is dirty and that that’s Just Not True. According to himself.
When the night has taken over the skies of Gotham completely, they all eventually settle down. Change into their (borrowed) pyjamas and start chatting again. Ed and Oswald sit on the shorter’s bed at a distance that has their heart leaping up in their chests already, though there’s still several inches of space between them. Oswald is leaning back with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed, holds up his body weight with his pale arms, and Edward has clasped his arms around his legs and is resting his head on his knees.
Butch has his face pressed into pillows of the couch already, laying on his stomach, while Victor sneaks up on him to push him off.
They fight, playfully, though it would seem like it’s to the death for anyone who doesn’t know them, and Oswald scoots closer to Ed to whisper a silly remark in his ear. Something stupid, something barely important enough to remember after just a second, when the much more significant feeling is that of the proximity of Oz’s whole entire being.
They’ve hugged, they’ve bickered, they’ve been far from distant, but Ed’s friend is close, so close, his lips nearing his ear and it’s impossible to focus like this, where Ed can’t even jerk away without looking utterly stupid.
But as soon as the sensation comes, it's gone again. Oswald’s leaning back and Ed panics because What if this was important? but the shorter one of them seems content with whatever’s just happened, so eventually the glasses-wearing teenager turns to watch his friends try to gently beat each other up, too.
A few minutes later it’s all back to normal again, though both the fighters still gasp for air a little. Conversation shifts, and they begin talking about crushes out of all things. Scary shit, really.
Butch apparantly has his eye on another one of Victor and Oz’s neighbours. Everyone calls her Fish. Though it’s not her real name, she’s hardly bothered by it. They all agree that she’s incredibly pretty and pat Gilzean’s back to assure him that it will be totally smart to ask her out. As if she’s not one of the most intimidating people on the block.
“I could, like, ask her if she wants to take a ride with me on my motorcycle..”, Butch suggests, as if to himself, and Victor laughs in response, violently and for way too long.
“She’s either gonna pity you or claw your eyes out, man. Your motorcycle? That thing falls apart if she takes one wrong look at it!”
That’s all it takes to have them throw old socks at themselves again, slandering each other with the most curiously ridiculous insults and kicking the other from their spot on the couch or mattress.
And, of course, the two teens on Oswald’s bed use the opportunity to simultaneously roll their eyes, yes, just before scooching just the tiniest amount closer, and Ed finally lets his legs dangle over the edge of the bed as well. Their knees are touching now, just barely, and Oz would be lying if he said his hands weren’t feeling uncomfortably clammy at this point. He’s chewing on his bottom lip nervously and is not quite sure if he’s even allowed in Edward’s space.
But the taller one makes no effort to move away, so Oswald guesses he’s fine. For now.
“What’re your crushes then?”, Butch asks now, apparently having made up with Victor in the matter of minutes.
“Uhhh.....” Zsasz stares at the ceiling as if there’s any indication of possible love interests up there. It’d be funny if they’d taped someone on it, now that he thinks about it. Though he isn’t quite sure which tape would even withstand that amount of weight. Well. Anyway. “Alvarez, I think.”, he continues, “You know the guy from math class? He’s hot.”
Butch and Oswald furrow their brows, trying to recall the face they connect to the name, while Ed nods immediately. “Oh, the guy that wants to become a cop?”
Victor shrugs. “Yep. It’s a shame. Everyone following in Jim’s footsteps.”
The coin drops for the two other teens after that clarification as well and they mumble short sentences to indicate as much. “Ohh, that dude.” and “Ahh, I remember now.”
Before silence can overtake them, all eyes (just four, to be fair) turn on Ed and Oz. ‘What about you?’ they say, silently, and both boys grimace.
Edward wants to begin, state that he's never even really liked anyone. That, yes, he’s felt butterflies in his stomach and his cheeks had heated up and his heart had been racing in his chest before, but, funny story, that that feeling only ever came to be with this one girl, Kristen, that had long moved away, and, well, Oswald, too. Really hilarious. As if the shorter boy had drugged him with the way Ed reacted in his presence. Just comical.
Before he can get a sound out of his open mouth, though, Oswald sighs loudly.
“I might as well do this now, huh?”
Victor nods reassuringly with widened eyes and a big grin on his face. “Yes. You should.”
“Fuck..” Oswald shakes his head, before turning to gaze right in Edward’s eyes. They’re so pretty and deep and there’s no way he’ll get out what he wants to say if he keeps staring into them. His heart is beating so fast he barely feels it anymore. “Alright here goes. Fuck...............I like you, Ed.”
And something clicks in Edward’s brain.
The affection between them, the butterflies. All the things he chalked up to pure coincidence or being the proud owner of a quite confusing brain before. His desire to hold Oswald. The sparks that flew every time they touched.
His eyes flutter, blink, not exactly sure on what to do.
He feels ice cold, and feverishly hot in such quick succession that he can hardly register it.
And how obvious it was, too!
He likes Oswald. He likes a boy. Oh, and how much he likes him. It’s as if the colour returns to the painted wallpaper and woolen blankets, no matter how dark it is. There’s a feeling bubbling up his throat and if he’s not careful he’ll choke on it. It’s a mix of the most absurd masses of fear and truly indescribable amounts of thrill and his body almost can’t take even just experiencing this emotion.
‘And that boy likes you back.’, his brain reminds him. It’s an exhilarating feeling and only now he comprehends he’s long forgotten to breathe.
When Edward snaps out of the realisation of a lifetime all eyes are on him. He gazes back into Ozzie’s face, contorted with panic and worry and, yet, he’s still so beautiful.
“Oh dear.” Ed gets out first and foremost, before his face splits into a wide grin. “I like you too?”
He winces at how much he posed it as a question and hastily shakes his head. “No, no, I like you too. I do. I’m sure of it.”
Before anyone can say anyone a high pitched squeal emits from an excited Victor, waving his hands wildly in the air. He almost bumps his head into a shelf when he jumps up and rushes over to Butch to take him by the shirt and wildly shake him around. “THEY FUCKING LIKE EACH OTHER!! I FUCKING KNEW IT. YOU OWE ME 10 FUCKING BUCKS NOW, YOU FUCKING CUNT. THEY’RE SO FUCKING CUTE.”
While Victor and Butch are busy with their profanities and screaming and wiggling, Ed and Oswald turn to each other, shy smiles easily discernable on their features.
“You mean it?”, the shorter one mumbles.
Edward nods furiously, as if he would give the world to show his friend just how much he means it. “I do.”
Oswald’s tense shoulders visibly relax and there’s a spark in his eyes that lets Ed’s heart jump high, so high that he wouldn’t be surprised if it could say hello to the moon now, out there in the vastness of space.
“Boyfriends then?” is the next question that comes and Ed grins madly.
“Of course.”, he replies and Oswald inches closer one last time. Now the sides of their legs are pressing fully against each other, barely room for a piece of paper left, and, almost too fast to notice, a gentle peck is planted on Ed’s reddening cheeks.
The atmosphere stays giddy and exciting almost the entire time they stay awake, and when the two teens fall asleep in the same bed, under the same covers, they’re intertwined in a heartwarming hug, Oswald laying his head on Edward’s chest, hands resting on each other's hips.
“They’re so fucking cute!!”, Victor whisper-shouts in the direction of Butch when he knows their host and his boyfriend are off to dreamland.
“You thinkin’ the same thing I’m thinkin’?”, Butch grumbles back and it’s obvious he has his face smashed into his pillow, because the words come out pretty unintelligible. Good that Zsasz knows exactly what the boy means and grins, though no one can see that anyway.
“Oh, why, of course.”
Armed with (thankfully not waterproof) sharpies and the unbridled chaos of two sleep deprived teenagers the two get to work.
Badly drawn mustaches, a makeshift eyebrow piercing, the words "Victor was here LOL" and much, much more adorn the other’s faces by the end of their little drawing session.
Victor and Butch stand back, smiling stupidly, though the latter’s eyes are already falling shut again. Zsasz is used to minimal amounts of sleep and so he puts the pens away after guiding his friend through the darkness back to the couch. His mind justifies it with not wanting to wake the two boyfriends with a falling Gilzean so early in the new day, but deep, deep down he knows it’s because, albeit reluctantly, Butch would do the same kind of thing for him.
Victor’s been bad at resting, in all its forms, for a long time at this point, but when he gently lays down on his familiar mattress, with the scent of Oswald’s home all around him, Butch’s already shallow breathing and Edward’s body shifting on the bed he drifts off into sleep far sooner than usual, and his expression is relaxed and content.
When Edward and Oswald wake up the next day, impossibly close, legs intermingling, Victor and Butch are in the kitchen already, enjoying toast and jam and Gertrud’s company. One gaze in each other’s faces provides the two sleepyheads with all the information that they need, though, to ruin this perfect morning. Black, red, blue, green scribbles all over each other's heads. Oswald furrows his brows until he sees the ‘Victor was here’ on Ed’s cheek.
"Sorry, Eddie, I gotta do something real quick.."
He jumps out of bed, and in a matter of seconds the two perpetrators are being chased through the cluttered apartment, shrieking for help and laughing and hiding behind furniture to escape the wrath of the black haired teenager, which Gertrud is convinced is just an act.
The shine of the sun over Gotham’s otherwise so murky skies illuminates the pursuit prettily while Edward lets himself take his time to yawn, then shuffles into the nearby bathroom to start scrubbing off the sharpie.
“ED! C’MON! HELP ME!”, his boyfriend yells through the thin walls and a smile sneaks onto the taller one’s face.
Yes. He will. Only after he’s done with this, though.
He whistles a short, peppy melody while the soap dispenser dispenses soap onto his hand and he washes and washes, until there’s only a few streaks of green (apparently the most persistent colour for some reason) visible, all the while the situation in the kitchen turns around. Now it’s Oswald shrieking, likely getting chased by a bald-headed freak and the beefiest 17 year old Edward has ever met.
“EDDIE PLEASE-”, echoes through the apartment.
Ed’s smile morphs into a grin.
“Alright, fine. Back up’s comiiiing!”
In the end, all four of them end up in a messy mingle of bodies on the floor, wiggling around to try and stand up, but being dragged down by anyone else scrambling for purchase.
Gertrud is gone for just a minute, before she comes right back with her old, but trusty camera, and snaps a few shots of her son and his friends, fighting, laughing, enjoying themselves.
In a few days from now, after a new financial boost from beating-people-up money, Victor will treat them all and they'll make copies of the best picture, four of them in total, and each one of them will keep their own. Always close by them of course, on a desk, taped to the wall, in a journal, on a pinwall.
It'll be a chaotic picture, from a chaotic two days, but every single one of them will hold onto the memory fondly.
They'll smile, even when they find it in their attic 50 years from now.
Not that they think of that now, in their pile on the floor, laughing, and laughing and never wanting to stop.