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For a very, very long time, there was only God. To a little boy with a less than fortunate life and very little work off of, it was only natural to gravitate towards something he could believe in. In his dark moments, he found immense comfort in prayer, in this larger than life idea that there is something out there with nothing but love for him.
Oscar is six years old when he falls in love for the first time, with the abstract idea of benevolence, forgiveness and protection; with God. He clasps his hands together tight, the closest he will ever get to being held. The rosary between his palms leaves bead-shaped imprints on his skin, red and stinging and beautiful. He is taught that this is love, that it is dedication to the point of self destruction, that there is nothing above God, and if this love is anything but unconditional then it is not love. He is taught to clutch the beads tighter until they embed into his skin and become him, he is taught that if he is not holding tight, he is not truly loving. Every second spent not worshiping, thanking, adoring, is failure. A drifting mind must beg for forgiveness, a forgotten prayer or incorrect words may as well be halfway to sin. So Oscar never forgets. He is a good, honest young man and it doesn't matter that his palms are bloody from jagged beads and rough ground, because he is not failing. He is doing this right. And God loves him.
—
There is very little holding Oscar together. In the time between finding Alexander in the bell tower and the police leaving the orphanage, he has had more than enough time to boil in anger. First at himself, for not finding the boy sooner, then the police, for believing this was the fault of anyone but Father McKenna, then the man himself, for everything he had done to this poor boy. Finally, though he would never admit it, he was angry at God. Enraged, even; that he would just let this happen, let this supposed man of devotion do this and get away with it. For the first time since he was very small, Oscar does not pray. He pretends, and he clutches the beads just as tightly as he always does, this time with shaking hands and a mind so clouded with anger he couldn't pray even if he wanted to.
The walk from his bed to Father McKenna’s quarters may be the easiest walk of his life. His hand is heavy with wood and steel, materials meant to build that he is using to destroy. He opens the door, stands over the bed, and as easy as breathing; he swings. He does not hesitate, not for a moment, even as blood coats his hands, his face, his clothes. There is nothing in him that doubts even for a second that this man deserves every blow. He is soaked in red when the hammer is torn from his hands, when he is torn from caving in McKenna’s skull. He stares at the disfigured mass of flesh and bone that used to be a face. There is no pleasure in what he's done, no satisfaction. But there's also no shame, either. His only regret is that the bastard is still breathing as he's hauled off to the hospital.
There is nothing keeping Oscar here. Frankly, there's about a thousand things pushing him away. He doesn't fight them. He leaves, moves on from this perpetual nightmare he's gotten himself into. It refuses to move on from him, though. He is given a glass of liquid that makes his head swirl and his throat sting, a glass that starts something he cannot stop, a never ending chain of sins that build and build until he is nothing but his mistakes. He greets the sun with tears, apologizing and begging for forgiveness, for love from a being that seems to bring him nothing but fear these days. He promises to be better, to be pure and good. The promise is as empty as his glass.
—
Oscar can't seem to escape tragedy. He'd almost believe he was cursed, but he knows better. It's his own fault, anyway. He cares too much, he always has. It's impossible for him to leave someone in trouble, no matter how awful it turns out for him in the end. He might call that part of him a curse itself.
He is too far into this whole ordeal. There is blood on his hands for the second time in his life, and God cannot save him. He tells himself he’s doing the right thing, that this was the only way to save the man, that he's just helping. It doesn't make much difference. The blood is still blood. It still stains his skin. He does most of the work, save for the actual death bit. Marie was barely able to lift the damn knife, let alone dispose of her husband that was twice her size to begin with.
She's not crazy. Oscar has seen the thing living in her husband. The sight of his lifeless body still makes him sick, gaunt and pale and seeping blood into the mattress he's tied to. He knew the man. Marie and her husband regularly appeared in his church; he made conversation with them more frequently than most other churchgoers. Perhaps that's why Marie came to him with this. He wishes she hadn't.
There are many, many empty bottles surrounding Oscar in the weeks following. Some shared with Marie, most downed in silence at the kitchen counter. He drowns one sin with another, never truly shaking the immense guilt he's carried since he was a teenager. Ironically, in his drunken haze he feels closer to God than he does any other moment in the day. When his clothes reek of liquor and he's about one sip from collapsing and never waking up, he finds the love he's steadily been losing for years. For however long he remains conscious, he feels so small again, so hopeful and bright. He shakes the memories of blood and bodies and whiskey and fear, just for a moment, to be nothing but a boy in love, a boy who cares too much for his own good and wants so desperately to be cared for in the same way. Now he is a man who still cares more than he should, to his own detriment. There is no one to hold him, to clutch him tightly and tell him that it's alright, that he is more than his sins and he can forgive himself the way he's forgiven so many. There is no one to care. There are only bottles and beads and blood to hold his hands.
—
Never before has Oscar been so genuinely infatuated with someone the way he is with Arthur Lester. Their start was rocky, with threats of police reports and frighteningly good investigative work. He felt as though he'd been flung headfirst into this man's life, becoming another part of his seemingly infinite web of tragedy. Oscar almost feels silly for thinking his own life was surrounded by death. If he was cursed, Arthur was a punching bag for the entire universe. In just a few days of knowing the man, it seems he's been hit with more things than Oscar has experienced in a lifetime. He can't help but be enamored by this, the way he navigates situations that would cause any other person alive to unravel, his ability to live through virtually everything. He has never seen a man with more scars on his neck and face alone.
There's a point when he hugs Oscar, very briefly, yet it takes everything in him to keep his composure after the contact is broken. He can barely hide the way he trembles, how he instinctively reaches out after they separate. It's pathetic, quite honestly. How he's completely unraveled by such a small bit of contact. He shouldn't have this much of a reaction, he's embraced plenty of people before. None have left him this shaken, desperate for another small touch. The feeling comes again, after he's reached a low he's all too familiar with, and there is a hand between him and a glass that knows the shape of his fingers by heart.
Arthur's hand is over his and there's a feeling so overwhelming he can't find the words to describe it. Divine intervention, he might call it. And he knows in an instant that this is fate, that he will hang on to every word this man says like it is gold, he is meant to be here holding this hand. So many years of drifting have led up to this, the surface coming into view after he's been drowning for so long. He finds God in a man, a prayer in a glance and the sweetest scripture in promises exchanged. He knows, as certain as the air he breathes, that there is very little he would not do for Arthur. He reads the book that's almost certainly cursed, follows the man into a house ripped straight from a horror novel, and he doesn't regret a moment of it.
Even as there is a thing burrowing into him, as he ties a tourniquet around his arm so tight he swears it cuts him, as the writhing creature scrapes his nerves and hurts more than anything he's ever felt, he does not falter. He's scared out of his mind, yes, but he does not doubt even for a second that this is where he needed to be. Perhaps this is the punishment for all he's done wrong in his life. For each swing of the hammer, each limb tied to a bed frame, each garment soaked in blood. There is, for the third time in his life, blood on his hands. It's only fitting that this time, it's his own.
The axe swings. And swings, and swings. He can hear nothing but the ringing in his ears, the severing of a nerve shooting white hot pain through his entire body. He convulses and fights to stay still as his bones crack, his muscles split, his blood splatters. All at once it's over, and there are arms around him, a shaking voice rambling apologies. Everything hurts, all in different ways. From searing to aching, every inch of his being screams. He hears distant writhing and scuttling, then nothing at all.
—
He's not sure if waking up is a miracle or a curse. His eyes open and he feels fragile, moments away from shattering. He's not even certain he's still alive. But Arthur is over him in an instant, cradling his body with ease and familiarity, as though he's done this exact motion before. He whispers a thousand apologies, all with shuddering breaths and shaking hands. Arthur gently brushes Oscar's hair back with his hand, leaving a smear of blood on his forehead.
With that streak of red on his skin, Oscar believes more strongly than ever before in God's plan for him. He stares up at Arthur, illuminated by a small lamp in the room, creating a halo of yellow light around the man, and he is certain that this blood is meant to be spilled. A thousand times over he would spill this same blood, let the axe fall over him in an echo of everything that led him here, to this room, in the arms of this man. If his arm is what it costs to be looking at these eyes, touching this skin, breathing this air; he would've given the thing up long ago.
His remaining intact arm trembles as it reaches up for Arthur's face, resting against his cheek and staining his skin with red. He finds it difficult to think clearly, to think of anything other than this man in front of him who can't seem to stop saving him. His eyes trace Arthur's face, from his shining eyes to his slightly parted lips, and lord forgive him; for he has sinned long before this moment, before bugs and axes and blood. His hand drags Arthur towards him, ever so gently, and there is no resistance. He feels his heartbeat pound in his skull as breath mixes and eyes close. There's a moment of stillness, one final question of want, and neither Oscar nor Arthur dares to breathe. The question is answered, unlike so many he's asked before, left open in the air, uncertain. He does not have to plead for this one to be fulfilled.
It's wrong. And Oscar has never wanted to be wrong more desperately than he does now. If this is what makes him unforgivable, maybe he was never good to begin with. All thoughts of god and purity and sin melt away in an instant, because Arthur is kissing him, and returning the gesture may just be the most right thing he's ever done. In this moment there is no room in his soul for God, not when his lips move against Arthur’s in silent prayer, when these hands on his body are salvation and these gasps for air are forgiveness. His skin burns and he knows he is far from holy, his body and soul have long since found faith in someone else. There is no higher form of blasphemy, to love a man like he is God, to feel his touch and know there could never be something greater, more fulfilling.
This is the man he bleeds for, over and over again without a second thought. He'd let his heart be ripped from his chest a thousand times over if it meant he could have this, devotion in its purest form, unwavering and absolute.
He can imagine nothing he'd want more.