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It is 5:00 AM.
Slowly, gently, phthalo blue gives way to a sunny kind of cadmium. Dawn filters through the window, bathing the room in a soft, ethereal light.
Beyond the sunkissed glass, quiet, four note coos ring, the sounds of mourning doves, mixing with the wind, forming a soothing din.
The warmth of day lays kisses upon his eyelids. Within the mound of cotton, his groggy mind anchors itself. It sharpens. And he breathes, softly, realizing that, once again, he is alive.
But, this new acuity, comes a realization;
There is a warm weight in his bed.
It simply lays there. Motionless.
Inches away from him.
Instinct, the mother it is, tightly grips his body; Cold sweat prickles on his skin. Adrenaline runs through him, and Oscar, alarmed, jolts forwards, nearly letting out a yelp, until-
Right.
Last night.
Oscar's mind spins, as it sinks in;
This is not a dream, not a fuzzy aspiration, no.
The soft breathing now audible besides him all but confirms it.
Arthur Lester, private investigator, is asleep. Soundly.
In his bed.
...
It is 5:02 AM.
There he sits;
The sun frames him, fraying his edges, bright and fuzzy, an angel in the sunlight. He lay so softly on the sheets, so innocent; Oscar's scarred lamb.
No. Not his.
That would never be allowed; COULD never be allowed. It was simply not in the cards, or books, as it were.
So, instead, Oscar simply glances upon him, a kind of soft mourning in his eyes.
Even this was an act of sacrilege.
Even still, as he turns to one side, his eyes draw close, travel, lingering upon the parts of Arthur that emerge from the blankets.
His head, neck, a sliver of collarbone…
Exactly one foot, and one arm.
He can see the bone under the skin, a rich, sunwarmed olive, stretched across his body, dotted with occasional little brown stars, forming constellations. So too does the sun light up his hair, turning the sandy blonde a kind of tarnished gold.
If Oscar didn't know better, he might've thought he was an angel sent from God.
...
It is 5:06 AM.
The shame builds, and consumes.
Oscar forces himself, ugly and ragged, out of bed.
Still, he holds himself carefully, moves subtly, as to not wake the man besides him.
Pain tightens in his chest.
...
It is 5:50 AM.
His thoughts wander.
His mind bites. Clawing, it claims;
Get him the new plate. Or else he will find out you love him.
Ever so gently, Oscar scoops him the biggest, best portions of the food he's cooked;
Three sausages, a spoon of baked beans, and a fried egg, delicately oversalted.
...
It is 5:53 AM.
Oscar carefully sets the plate on the bedside table.
And Arthur bolts upright.
"Mrm? What?",
Don't sound overly affectionate. That's sinful. Tempting him. Tempting yourself.
Don't sound overly affectionate. Don't-
"Good morning", Oscar smiles.
"I made breakfast",
Dammit all.
"Oh!" , interrupts Arthur, his eyes shooting open.
Jarring, but endearing; like he's looking at something far beyond the walls.
There is a pause, a faint expression.
"Thank you so much."
Then, he goes still.
It's like a lead weight has been tied to his soul, gulping, and breathing in deep.
"I-",
He winces.
Like it's physically painful to muster the words.
Oscar watches close, lowers himself onto the bed.
"I've.. There is much I've left out, Oscar.
About me", he breathes.
"I...
There is a fragment of an entity in my head.
In being bound to this body- to my body- he got my eyes- an arm and a leg, too.
He's- he is my friend.
And, although it may be hard to trust that, considering the experiences we've both already had-
I... I trust him.
Sometimes, he is even more human than I am.
I would understand if you didn't trust me, after all of this.
I am so sorry, Oscar."
And the world stops spinning.
It hurts.
But, maybe it shouldn't.
This was Arthur's sin to confess, afterall.
And, now, he did so willingly.
It was Oscar's fault for investing himself in him.
As he breathes out, he feels the first surge of anger gradually diffuse, giving way to a cold, shameful kind of reluctance.
This may be over. Oscar bites his lip, and his tongue, hard enough to taste the sin leak out into his mouth.
"Aye... I have something to confess, as well."
The admittance surprises him. It's heavy in his throat; the ugly thing.
Once he confirms it, it will become real.
And Arthur, none the wiser, simply gives him an inquisitive look.
Oscar takes a heaving breath.
Then, he speaks.
"I think m' in love with you."
Then comes a choked breath.
The man stills.
Yet, sin just keeps churning behind Oscar's chapped lips.
"I- Ah-",
Arthur stammers.
His gold tinted eyes glance through nothing.
But, it's only natural - He's blind, isn't he?
"I, ah- I need-", he swallows audibly. His lips purse. His gaunt face forms a puzzled expression.
He looks so... So afraid. Just as he should be.
They are sinners, aftera-
-Arthur's lips are on his.
He shouldn't use the Lord's name like this, no, not here, but God, this is divinity, and, God, how it is his hedonistic waking dream. His smoke screen angel seeps through his skin, through his skull, and settles deep in his brain, melting him, filling him with too-good-to-be trues. He wants more, and yet, he's never been so sated, and he breathes in deep. He pushes back, kissing a little harder, feeling the warmth of his lips, because he's been told that's what one does, and-
Arthur pulls away.
"I'm- I'm sorry-",
"It's- you don't- you don't need to apologize. I... I did this. I'll take ya home. I've tainted you. I've dammed us both-",
"No. No-", his hands briefly raise.
"You didn't- I've just been thinking- Particularly last night- Well-With all I've seen, with all we've both seen- God, Oscar, I think two men in love might be small, in the grand scheme of things."
And, he will think about this. He'll meditate for hours. He'll pray, and write, and scrawl into his own self forgiveness.
...But, that is a resolution for another day. Perhaps, years from now.
For now, the love within is all consuming.
And that is all that matters.
And, as they both sit content, marinating in their own silence, one of Arthur's hands shoves a sausage abruptly into his mouth.
It is 6:00 AM now.
Maybe, things really will be alright.