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Edward Nygma was spending his Friday night at a club.
For most other people in Gotham, or any city, that would be quite normal, and it certainly was normal for Harvey Bullock, who had dragged Edward here in the first place. Jim Gordon was also in attendance, but Harvey didn’t exactly have to drag him. If Edward’s memory was correct, Harvey had uttered the words “you need to get out more” to him whilst he was in the process of examining a dead body, which Jim had scolded him for. Edward assumed this was all because Harvey wanted someone sober to drive him home to avoid the recently upped cab fares.
Across the club and on the stage, a comedian wraps up a set, heading off stage as a man who was clearly a bodyguard of Fish’s walks onto the stage to announce the next act. Edward is hardly paying attention though, his eyes down on the pitiful cup of water in front of him. He wasn’t ashamed, per se, but he did feel terribly out of place.
Then, Harvey grasps his shoulder and he jumps, tense. “How’s it going over here, Ed?” A dopey looking smile accompanies his words, signaling that he was already decently drunk.
“Fine… I can tell you’re having a good time, Detective.”
“Drop the formalities!”
He presses his lips into a thin line, “Harvey.”
Harvey laughs at that, and it’s surprisingly not the sort of pitiful chuckle that Edward usually elicits from him. Then, Jim is pulling Edward from Harvey’s grasp, far more composed, “Sorry… I know this isn’t really your type of venue.” He seems actually apologetic, one hand remaining on Edward’s arm as he speaks.
“Definitely not.” He shrinks in on himself, not used to the attention. In an attempt to find solace anywhere in the club besides Jim Gordon, he turns his attention to the stage.
Then he sees her.
The performer was a drag queen of sorts, the gaudy makeup on her face was accompanied by a wig with soft curls that cascaded around her shoulders. The dress she was in shined under the spotlight on the stage as she sang softly. Drag as a subculture was a mystery to Edward before his last time visiting the club, where he had then seen the same queen perform and immediately went back to his apartment and did as much research as possible to be able to speak with her better… if there was a next time. Which, by the looks of it, there would be.
Jim quickly notices his attention has been diverted and turns, biting his lip as he thinks, “I recognize him.” He almost turns to Harvey for assistance, but the man has made his way over to Fish Mooney, arm wrapped casually around her shoulder in her booth. Any other man in the world would be dead already, but somehow Harvey Bullock was different.
“Her, actually,” Edward corrects. Jim tilts his head. “Drag queens don’t typically use ‘he,’ since they’re putting on a character for their shows.” Then, the rest of Jim’s sentence suddenly clicks. “You do?”
Jim chuckles, “You’re pretty eager for someone who hasn’t had anything to drink.”
“I—”
“It’s fine, Ed. Still just a little weird to see you somewhere like this.”
“You brought me here. Twice now.”
“Still weird.” He claps a hand on Edward’s back, leaving it there for a moment before he begins to think on who exactly was on stage. Jim shakes his head, “Either way, her nose is really familiar.” He squints, like that would help him at all.
Edward just hums, taking a sip of water. She’s singing a song he doesn’t recognize, some sort of ballad accompanied by one of Mooney’s beefy henchmen on piano. It’s an odd dichotomy, sure, but an interesting one at that. He continues to watch, finger trailing along the sharp edge of the counter in an attempt to remind himself he’s still sitting next to Jim Gordon and not somehow taking the piano player’s spot on stage.
Jim snaps his fingers, hitting his hand against the counter, “The umbrella boy!”
Edward’s brows furrow as he turns from the stage to face Jim, “What?”
“That’s Fish’s umbrella boy… must have gotten a big promotion—” A pause, meant to indicate he surely means something else; a crime, death, etc. “—to be performing. Harv’s told me Fish is quite particular with her acts.”
“Do you know his name?”
Jim tries to hide a smile at that, “You are eager.”
“I’d simply… like to get to know him better.”
“Right.” Then, he does offer up a proper smile, though one that could be chalked up as a mix of pity and actual encouragement. “Well, if you’ve talked to her before, I don’t see any harm in doing it again.”
“Thank you, Jim.”
“And, uh… I didn’t know you—“ Jim trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand.
“Not openly.”
“Right.” He nods. “Me either.”
Edward was surprised, having utterly no idea that Jim Gordon, of all people, liked men, “Seriously?” The question wasn’t pointed, he seemed genuinely intrigued about this apparently well hidden fact.
“Don’t…” He sighs, staring down at the drink in his hand. “I’m just not super open about it, especially not at work.”
“I understand.” Edward mocks a salute with two fingers, eliciting a chuckle from Jim. There’s a brief pause as they both turn back to the stage, where the music has turned more upbeat. Amidst the piano, Ed asks, “Do you have any words of wisdom?”
“To quote Detective Harvey Bullock, ‘go get her, tiger.’” He clasps a hand on Ed’s shoulder, squeezing it.
Edward smiles, always thankful for Jim’s mostly-positive attitude towards him. At work, it was hard to find solace in anyone, considering the snide comments thrown his way from just about anyone he had ever spoken to. But, Jim was different, apparently in more ways than one.
A handful of songs later, the performance is done and Ed manages to slip away from Jim and Harvey as they’re discussing some nonsense about Barbara or ‘high-class broads’ or something that Ed could care less about. He darts around a few people mingling near the sides of the club until he reaches the front.
Then, she’s in front of him, no longer this being poised on stage in eternal performance. She’s in front of him with brightly colored makeup and a tight fitting dress that he’d typically be terrified to approach.
She looks up from where she’s sifting through sheet music to the side of the stage, “Do you need something?”
Edward blinks dumbly, feeling frozen in place. Her voice had an annoyed lilt to it, like she’s expecting the worst out of this interaction before it even began. “We’ve met before.” When she raises an eyebrow, he offers, “Harvey Bullock hosted a party here last month for Jim Gordon. I was in attendance, and we spoke then.”
A look of recognition passes over her face, “Nygma.”
“Edward.”
She offers him a polite smile, leaning against the piano, “Was I performing then too?”
“Yes.”
She hums, lips pressing into a thin line as she glances over to Fish, “So, are you just looking to chat?”
“What I want the poor have, the rich need, and if you eat it, you’ll die.”
She just stares blankly, and Edward can practically see his words being processed. “Is this… are you asking me a riddle?”
“Do you like riddles?”
Since she’s technically still getting paid to stand here, and should probably be at least somewhat professional with the customers, she starts, “Look, I-“
“Nothing. The answer is nothing.”
Then, she smiles, a strange and forced action, “Well, Edward, if you don’t want anything, why’d you ditch your GCPD buddies to talk to me?”
“They’re… not really my buddies.”
“Hm.” She opens the piano bench, placing the binder of sheet music inside. “Are you a cop?”
Edward shakes his head, “Forensic examiner.” Another eyebrow raised on her behalf. He elaborates, “I work at crime scenes to investigate the evidence and victims… if there are any.”
“In Gotham, there usually are.” A small smile appears on her face, any presence of the oddly sensual demeanor from on the stage is now gone. “I’m Oswald, before you start calling me Penguin.”
“That’s your stage name, isn’t it?”
A curt nod, “Fish insists it’s what I use since it’s what most people call me anyways. I didn’t have any other brilliant ideas, so it stuck.”
“Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?” He pauses briefly. “Isn’t that neat?”
Then, Oswald laughs. A real, actual laugh, not some pitied smile or chuckle. “Would you like to come backstage with me?”
Edward shoots a glance back to Jim and Harvey, who are now both sitting at Fish Mooney’s table. They’ll clearly be occupied for a while. So, he nods, attempting not to seem too desperate, “Yes.”
Then, Oswald takes Edward’s hand in one of his gloved ones. “When we first met, I didn’t think you seemed like the type to come to places like this.”
“I’m not.”
He turns, stalling his steps forward, “Then what are you doing here this time?”
Deadpan, Edward replies, “Drunken coworkers.”
Oswald laughs again, “I understand.”
A few more steps and they’re in the dressing room. Oswald locks the door behind them, glancing at Edward as he does so. It wasn’t meant to be an implication, but he was well aware it came across as such. Perhaps that wasn’t a terrible thing. He stands in front of the mirror, slowly removing his wig as Edward simply watches with intrigue. Now, spiky black hair replaces the waves of caramel that hung down to his shoulders.
Edward blinks, processing, “You’re…” The words get tangled in his mouth, well aware of his cheeks being flushed.
“What?” Oswald defensively turns away, somehow already expecting the worst.
Finally, he manages to say, “You’re beautiful.”
“Seriously?” Oswald’s voice was hesitant, laced with disbelief.
“I don’t have a reason to lie.”
Oswald flushes, placing his wig onto one of the empty stands on the counter, “I appreciate it.” He turns to face Edward. “Truly.”
“You don’t need to thank me for telling you something you should already be well aware of.” He had utterly no idea why or how he was doing this. Oswald had seemingly taken his mind and gripped onto the parts that allowed him to be well… any ounce of smooth.
Oswald rolls his eyes, stepping away from the counter, “Now that’s just cheesy.”
“I’ve been known to say a lot worse than that.”
Now, he smiles, looking up at Edward, “If my memory serves me correctly, when we first met, you did say something along the lines of ‘okie-dokie’ with complete sincerity.”
In mock defense, he holds his hands up, “I can appreciate a phrase that both rhymes and has a consistent rhythm.”
Then, before Oswald can truly process what he’s doing, he kisses Edward, who makes a surprised noise before kissing back with the same amount of vigor.
Edward Nygma has never kissed a man before, and truthfully, he’s never kissed anyone like this before. Most of his adult life had been spent poking at corpses at crime scenes and sneaking into the Medical Examiner’s room to do more experimentation than his job title ever let him. He had been content with that for a long time… Mostly.
Sure, he was jeered at. He heard the rude comments under breaths or furrowed brows thrown his way when he arrived at crime scenes a little too chipper for a guy who spent so much time around dead bodies. But, the work was good, and he enjoyed it. That didn’t take away from the fact that maybe he was lonely. He craved something, or someone, more. Someone who could tell him what to do, to take him out of his own head for once. It’d be insane to think Oswald could give that to him. They barely knew each other, hell, Edward wasn’t even sure what his last name was, but, right now, he was kissing him, and maybe that was good enough.
He pulls away, mouth open as he attempts to catch his breath. Oswald looks up at him, beginning to flounder as he stumbles back, “I am so sorry… I don’t—”
Edward grabs his arm, his other hand cradling Oswald’s chin, “Can you do that again?”
Oswald blinks, mouth agape for a moment before he processes Edward’s words. He smiles, leaning up to kiss the man again. Edward’s glasses bump awkwardly against his nose, but he elects to ignore that, as Edward was a surprisingly good kisser for looking like someone who rarely had company aside from the dead bodies he apparently worked with. Oswald pushes against him, leaning his weight onto him as the silk of his dress presses against the cheap material of Edward’s too-big suit jacket. If they were to ever be seen together in public, he’d have to do something about that.
What an insane thing to think about a man he’d just met.
As the kiss deepens, Edward’s glasses continue to jab into his skin, but both of them were seemingly too occupied to do anything about it. Oswald’s hands grip Edward’s waist, digging his nails into the aforementioned cheap suit jacket. It was scratchy to the touch, but Edward’s lips against his was almost enough to distract him from it. Almost.
Oswald pulls away from him, tugging at his jacket, which Edward ever-so-politely places folded on one of the chairs in the room. Cute, but the bigger issue was his glasses.
“Here.” Oswald leans up, taking off his glasses and setting them on the counter. He glances back to Edward, who clearly needed a moment to get to his now blurry world.
On his other side, there’s a chaise lounge, one Oswald had insisted that Fish pick up for him as a signing bonus. It’s a deep purple, not quite velvet, but the main attribute was that it was probably long enough to fit Edward’s lanky limbs.
Oswald tentatively guides him over, exhibiting about as much hesitance as he’d allow without painting a weak looking picture of himself. As he sits, Edward still remains standing, scrutinizing the situation before he kneels in front of Oswald, his head level with the man’s chest. The connotations of that action go straight to Oswald’s head, and his mind reels; even if that isn’t what either of them are looking to do… at least, not right now.
Even on his knees, Edward’s height advantage is clear, and he pushes himself upwards to kiss Oswald. His hands cup Oswald’s jaw, clumsily fumbling for a moment because of the lack of his glasses. As he presses his chest into Oswald’s, his mind reels, thinking about the novelty of all of this and how distant he feels from anything he left behind outside that door. Namely, Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock, who he desperately wished would just assume he bailed on them instead of sneaking backstage with the drag queen he had been ogling.
Eventually, when kneeling became too uncomfortable, he finds his way onto the sofa, long limbs awkwardly placed between Oswald’s, careful to avoid the leg that caused his limp. Throughout it all, Oswald’s hands are steady on Edward’s waist, pressing the two of them closely together. It was exhilarating for Ed to be this close to someone; being this intimate with anyone was uncharted territory he always assumed he would never get to explore.
As he continues to kiss him, Oswald’s hands begin to work on tugging the button-up out from where it’s tucked into Edward’s pants. He fumbles with the buttons, but before he can get very far, Edward pulls back, eyes down on Oswald’s hands, “I’ve never done anything like this before.” His hands are on either side of Oswald’s head, staring down at him like a deer caught in the headlights. It looked like he was half expecting Oswald to retort back with “I can tell,” but, much to Ed’s relief, he doesn’t.
Oswald’s out of breath, his mouth hanging slightly agape as he breathes, “Are you drunk?”
Edward’s eyes widen, and he chuckles nervously, “I don’t drink publically. I find it… dulls the senses too much for me to get any enjoyment out of it.” An ashamed part of him shoved down the fact that he detested the taste of just about anything but wine, and even then, he was quite particular. He dips his head down embarrassedly, hair swooping down and covering his forehead. Then, he picks his head up again, making brief eye contact, “Is that answer better or worse?”
“Better.” Oswald tugs him down to kiss him again, eliciting a shocked noise out of Edward as their bodies pressed together again. His hands move upwards to explore the skin found beneath Ed’s shirt, uncannily cold hands pressing into warm flesh.
At this point, Edward’s stamina was waning from not being used to this level of… well, any sort of, physical affection. Luckily (or unluckily) for him, Oswald suddenly tugs away, lips still damp as he stares upwards in shock, “Fish is going to kill me.” He awkwardly pushes Edward off of him, standing as quickly as his leg will allow him. “You have to…”
Oswald turns to Edward, seeing the other man’s stunned expression, red lipstick smeared across his lips. At that, Oswald’s expression softens with what can only be described as fondness. He glances at the door, where the lock is still firmly in place.
Following Oswald’s look, Edward turns to the mirror and stops short, his chest burning with an indescribable feeling. He shakes his head, pushing back the hair that had fallen out of place, “I can go.”
“God, no-“ Oswald pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing briefly, back and forth. “I have to pack up my things by midnight. The late crowd prefers… different entertainment.” His hesitance with his words isn’t outwardly judgmental, if anything, there’s a bit of jealousy in his tone.
With that deadline, Edward checks his watch, it’s a quarter past eleven. He looks back at Oswald, “You can only miss me when you’re away… where am I?”
Oswald turns from where he’s gathering his makeup into a case and blinks a few times, attempting to wrap his head around the question. “Is that seriously another riddle?”
“If you give up, I can-“
Oswald cuts him off, “I don’t have time for riddles.” When he notices Edward’s frown, he almost says something worse, but it’s hard not to feel at least a tiny bit sympathetic for a man that he was just making out with. So, he adds, “I’ll think on it.” He continues to sort his belongings, grabbing his makeup wipes and getting to work.
Edward watches with perceptive intrigue, his glasses back on, and smudged lipstick somehow looking even more endearing.
Oswald chews on his lip, trying not to think too hard about the words fond and endearing floating around his mind. He finishes taking off his own makeup, he looks over to the other man and the lipstick smeared across his mouth.
“Here.” Oswald sits, patting the cushioned sofa next to him. Obediently, Edward sits. As he uses the edge of his makeup wipe to wipe away the last of the smeared makeup on Edward’s face, he realizes Ed’s lips are simply stained redder than their usual color. Oswald smiles at that.
Edward scrutinizes his expression, “Can I ask you a strange question?”
A curt nod as he pulls the makeup wipe away, tossing it into a trashcan under the counter. “As long as it’s not another riddle.”
“Could… Would you be willing to do my makeup?”
Oswald stops short, eyes not meeting Edward’s own. Admittedly, Ed was exactly his type; taller, horribly intelligent, sharp cheekbones, and the list goes on, but that’s not what he was expecting out of any of this. All he was hoping for when he saw Edward was that he’d be able to get him to buy him a drink or something. But, here he was, planning to take his things and go to this man’s apartment to makeout with him more. It all went against his better judgement, and everything Fish had told him about men who seem too smart for their own good.
Finally, he nods in response to Edward, kissing him briefly. “I need to change first.” He swats Edward away, not particularly caring if he looked or not. But, being the oddly gentlemanly man he was, Edward turned away. He awkwardly picked at the frayed hem of his second-hand shirt before realizing he should probably tuck it back in. As he unbuttons the top button of his pants, he glances over to Oswald, his face flushing when he sees his bare chest.
“Ed,” The nickname slips out so effortlessly that he almost doesn’t notice he used it. “We were just kissing, I don’t mind.”
“It still feels intrusive.”
That makes Oswald laugh. He’s done a lot worse with people who have looked and been a lot worse. Working with Fish post-promotion was great, but dwelling in Gotham’s underbelly… well, you meet a lot of interesting people. Without Edward’s eyes on him, he gets dressed, almost hoping the other man would do something. But, as expected, he doesn’t.
“You should leave the room before I do.” He clasps a hand over Edward’s, the other holding his makeup case. “It will look worse for us both if we depart together.” Edward nods, chewing on his lip anxiously. “Wait for me by the bar, alright?”
“Alright.”
He turns to leave, but Oswald catches his arm, pressing a kiss to his cheek like this was some routine they had gone through before. A lonely part of Edward hoped it could be. So, he slips out from backstage, with no one paying any attention to him. As his eyes scan the tables, his eyes once again land on Jim Gordon.
Crap.
Edward briskly walks over to the bar, hunching in on himself. He knew Jim was perceptive enough to spot him immediately, so when he felt a hand on his arm, he jumped, fumbling to fix his glasses. Lucky for him, it was Oswald. Instinctually, Edward turned to glance at Jim again, whose head was currently tiredly resting in his hand as he listened to Harvey ranting about something.
Oswald followed his gaze, “I suppose you should probably tell them you’re leaving.”
Half-heartedly, Edward repeats, “Probably.”
So, Oswald stays at the bar as Edward reluctantly makes his way across the club, his hands wringing together anxiously. The worst that could happen is that he’d have to go drop the pair off and come back to pick-up Oswald… or, awkwardly try to explain what had happened between him and Oswald to explain why exactly he was in the car.
Before he can get too lost in thought, Jim looks up at him, seemingly relieved to have some reason to cut Harvey off, “Hey, Ed.”
“Are you two planning on staying much later?”
The two exchanged looks, a silent method of communication where Harvey was clearly attempting to egg Jim on to have a couple more drinks. At that, Jim rubs the back of his neck, staring down into the half finished glass of whiskey in front of him, “Barbara will have my head if I do.”
“Ahh, screw that! We’re having fun, aren’t we, Jim?” Harvey grins, an infectious motion that clearly loosens Jim up. Well, as much as one can loosen up Jim Gordon.
He sighs, shaking his head with the smile, “I’ll get a cab home, you’re fine to go, Ed.”
“Roger dodger.” He mocks a salute and slinks back over to the bar, making sure neither of them were paying him any mind. Oswald’s expression doesn’t change upon Edward’s arrival, he simply starts walking to the door, assuming Edward will follow. And, of course, he does.
“Do you have a car?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Oswald smiles a bit at that, pitifully amused, “Well, ouvres la marche.” He motions for Edward to continue walking, presumably to his car.
As the two of them begin down the sidewalk, he asks, “Are you fluent?”
A scoff, like that was a ridiculous proposition, “Hardly.” He waves his hand around, dismissive. “I know a few phrases here or there from school. I am fluent in Hungarian though, thanks to my mother.” His pride in that fact is evident, though it seems it can be more attributed to his mother herself than his own ability to speak a second language.
“Why use the French phrase then?” They’ve arrived at Edward’s car, and he opens the passenger side for Oswald, who offers a nod and flushed smile as a thank you.
“French is regarded as the language of love, is it not?”
Edward chuckles as he starts the engine, glancing at Oswald, “Oh, and you called me cheesy?”
“Different circumstances, kedvesem.” Oswald leans over the center console, pressing a kiss to Edward’s, frankly shocked, mouth.
He mumbles, “Oh,” under his breath as he pulls onto the road to make his way back to his apartment. His face is flushed, suddenly thankful for Gotham’s terrible city planning infrastructure keeping the roads dark; besides from the dim lights pouring down from neon signs or towering apartment buildings.
He’s in over his head. He knows that. Oswald certainly has to know that. But, it was exhilarating nonetheless.
The radio plays the classic rock station Detective Bullock had tuned it to before Ed reaches a stoplight and quickly switches it to the new wave channel he often opted to. He’s not sure about Oswald’s tastes, but it’s a safe enough bridge between moderately mainstream and bordering on pretentious. When Oswald begins softly humming along to a song, Edward is simply relieved he didn’t resort to heckling like a certain fedora wearing detective.
Edward breaks the silence between them, “Do you listen to a lot of 80’s music?”
Oswald shrugs, “Some. My tastes are usually older, but Fish tends to opt for this sort of thing at the club.”
Edward nods, pulling into the parking space in front of his apartment building. He’s oddly almost sad that the ride was over that quickly. As the two of them walk towards the building, Edward blurts out, “I live on the top floor, so we can take the elevator.”
Blinking, Oswald attempts to process his words. Then, his expression relaxes and he smiles, “Thank you.”
Edward guides him through the lobby and over to the elevator, thankful it’s not broken like it ever so frequently is. He usually went for the stairs to avoid it entirely, but with this specific company, he planned ahead. So, the two of them board, soft music filtering in through the crackly static of the probably ancient overhead speakers.
He leans down, speaking softly, “This building was built in the 20’s as a mill on the river, but they later renovated the entire thing to be office buildings. And now, apartments.” He always took advantage of being able to spout a fun fact, and on cue, the elevator creaks as it begins to ascend.
Oswald hums as a response to Edward’s words, turning to face him before kissing him. He presses the taller man’s back against the walls of the moving elevator, and Edward gasps, his hands fumbling to grip Oswald’s sides to keep them both steady. Brief seconds elapse before a beep signals they’ve reached their destination and they break apart, Edward significantly more stunned. He leads Oswald down the hall, passing by the handful of rooms that occupy the top floor, originally storage rooms that were built up to create larger suites that overlooked the city.
Edward unlocks the door, quickly stepping inside to survey the space in case he left anything disastrously messy. He wasn’t exactly expecting to come home with company.
At his side, Oswald says, “Wow.” He spins, taking in the space. “You have a piano!” He grins, setting down his makeup kit next to the door before moving to approach the piano.
“I do.” Edward follows him, leaning over his shoulder to thumb through some sheet music resting on the stand, looking for something Oswald would like. As he does this, Oswald sits on the bench, and Edward soon joins him, their legs now pressed closely together. “Here, you… uh, it’s the third section of Dreams of Love. Liszt was Hungarian.”
Oswald feels like he could burst into tears at any moment. This level of care, of attention, was nothing like anything he had ever received before. He simply watches Edward as he begins to play, a soft melody that requires precise movements, occasionally making him lean back so Edward could lean over to hit certain notes. It was enthralling, watching the man’s long fingers quickly move between notes, especially considering how the song quickly progressed from simple to a quick succession of notes, ascending and descending.
He finishes with several long-held notes, and Oswald claps, grinning, “That was beautiful.”
Edward doesn’t look at him, shaking his head, “I’m out of practice.”
“Nonsense. It was still perfect… to me, at least. Though, I’m not aware of all the intricacies of the piece.”
He looks at Oswald, hope suddenly flooding back into his expression, “Thank you. Really.”
“Of course.”
Edward pauses, staring at him for a moment before asking, “Can I kiss you?”
Oswald can’t help but smirk at that request, his eyebrows furrowing as a smile spreads across his face, “Please.”
So, Edward leans over and kisses him.
It’s slower than before, prolonged and drawn out in the sanctuary of Edward’s apartment. There was no chance of doors being unlocked or people coming in; it was simply the two of them existing together, and both of them were reveling in that fact. Oswald’s elbow moves awkwardly, hitting a few keys in the process, and he pulls apart, laughing.
Edward’s mind goes blank as he looks at him. Slowly, he manages to say, “You’re beautiful,” for the second time that night.
“You don’t need to say that.” He shakes his head, face flushed.
“What is always present but never seen, whispered yet never heard, and sought after yet often feared?”
For a moment, Oswald stares at him blankly before it registers that Edward is asking him yet another riddle. He chews on his lip, considering, before saying, “I don’t think that I’m particularly great at riddles.”
A disappointed frown briefly crosses Edward’s face before it reverts back to its usual resting expression, “The answer is the truth.” And despite himself, Oswald smiles at that, internally scolding himself for being so quickly won over by Edward’s awkward charm.
“I’m starting to think you’re quite the riddle yourself, Edward.”
“Thank you.” Oswald gives him a look, one that clearly showed that he wasn’t sure if he really meant that as a compliment. “Would we… could you—” Edward’s eyes go to his bed before they flick back over to the man next to him. “I can grab your makeup case.”
That wasn’t where he thought that was going. In all honesty, Oswald had sort of forgotten about his promise to do Edward’s makeup, lost in the charm of his piano playing and wordplays. But, he rises to his feet, making his way over and sitting on the edge of Edward’s bed as he watches him go and fetch the case. Edward sets the case down in the middle, gesturing for Oswald to sit against the headboard.
This was both easier and more comfortable than the stools lining the counter, or the small, somewhat embarrassing table in the corner of the kitchen. But, with comfort came an unexpected level of intimacy… Oswald’s leg is splayed out, the other tucked halfway underneath him, while Edward sits less than an arms length away, legs criss-crossed.
As he rummages through the kit, Oswald looks up, “And you’re sure about wanting to do this?” Edward simply nods, pushing his glasses onto his head. An oddly endearing motion to Oswald, and one that he can’t help but smile at. “I’m not going to do anything complex, since you’ll need to take it off to sleep soon.”
Another nod from Edward, his eyes intent on watching Oswald’s movements. Oswald bites his lip, considering what his first move should be; his skin is so much paler than Ed’s, it would make no sense to do any kind of concealer. So, he moves straight to eyeshadow, allowing Edward to pick a color (a gaudy green that Oswald himself would never use on himself), and then begins.
Edward is quiet, his eyes closed and body still as Oswald works. It’s odd to see him like this, almost so disconnected from his seemingly usual demeanor, but perhaps that was the point of all of this. It certainly made Oswald’s job a lot easier with no questions being asked of him, the man in front of him seemingly lost in the expanse of his own mind.
“Open.” Edward obeys, opening his eyes and staring at Oswald expectantly. “You do know what colors look good on you.”
He smiles, “Green has always been my favorite color.”
“It certainly works for you.” He motions for Ed to close his eyes again, picking up another brush. This was nowhere near the level of work he’d put in for his own makeup, but for his dignity’s sake, he wanted it to look somewhat presentable.
Oswald finishes up most of the makeup with relative ease, until it comes to picking out a lipstick. He hums in discontent, fishing through a bag of lip colors he had available. Then, an idea clicks in his mind; he’d apply the lipstick on himself and then, well… Edward would have to figure out the rest, if he knew what was good for him.
Eventually, one of Edward’s eyes peek open, stealing a glance at Oswald, “What are you doing?”
“That may be the longest you’ve gone without talking since we’ve met.”
Edward rolls his eyes, noticing Oswald’s newfound lip color, “Aren’t I supposed to be the one getting his makeup done?”
“Mhm.” Oswald shuts the makeup case, placing it on the floor next to the bed. “I’m almost done.” He tugs Ed forward by the collar, kissing him.
A surprised noise escapes Edward’s lips into Oswald’s mouth, only fueling the passion behind the kiss. He presses the shorter man against the headboard, long legs pressing against Oswald’s sides. Edward lets out another, somewhat strangled, noise, tightly gripping the headboard as Oswald moves his hips against his.
Through heavy breaths, Oswald asks, “Have you ever done this before?” His eyes are glossy, looking up at Edward through long lashes, some residual eyeliner still present on his eyelids.
“No,” is all Edward can pant out. He is once again totally and completely out of his depth. Before he has any time to process that, Oswald’s lips are back on his own, and he can feel the lipstick smearing between them. He isn’t sure how he’ll feel when he gets the chance to look in the mirror, but even considering it makes something bloom in his stomach that makes him lean harder into the kiss.
Oswald pulls back, looking him over for a moment before unbuttoning Edward’s collar, lips and teeth meeting the soft flesh of Edward’s neck. He moans, white knuckling the headboard as Oswald continues, clearly happy with himself.
“Please…” Edward manages out as Oswald’s teeth sink into a particularly sensitive part of his chest. It’s all so exhilarating and strange and possibly everything Edward had been missing in his life. He gasps, hands moving to find Oswald’s waist to press the two of them closer together. A hum of approval comes from Oswald, barely heard amidst the heavy breaths coming from Edward as he leans down, taking a moment of rest.
“Your turn.” Oswald reaches for the nightstand where he had set the tube of lipstick, opening it and applying it to Edward’s lips. That same feeling returns to his gut, and he surges forward, kissing Oswald messily. His hands fumble with shirt buttons, moving down to the other man’s neck far sooner, which by the pleased noises Oswald was making, was a good idea. Edward bites down, the tender flesh of Oswald’s neck filling his senses with an utter urge for more of this. More of the kissing, more of the makeup, and more of Oswald.
After a few more minutes back and forth, Edward moves to Oswald’s side, dazedly staring up at his oh-so-familiar ceiling. Oswald’s arm lazily wraps around his, bridging the two of them once more, as if they couldn’t go mere minutes without feeling the other.
Oswald speaks first, unsurprisingly far more composed than Edward, “You haven’t even seen your makeup.” He tilts his head. “Let me clean off the lipstick.” He leans over the side of the bed, opening the top of his makeup case and fishing out the pack of makeup wipes. Carefully, he wipes Edward’s face, keeping some of the color that was still on the other man’s lips. As he moves his hand to his own, Edward stops him, taking the wipe and repeating the same process on Oswald.
After that, Edward slides off the bed, offering a hand to Oswald to pull him to his feet. The pair walk to the bathroom, Edward’s hands tightly balled into fists, anxiety running through his body. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was so anxious about this… it wasn’t any sense of embarrassment, it was something buried far deeper. He approaches the mirror and tilts his head as he stares at his reflection, so similar to him yet not at all the same.
Oswald had accentuated his cheekbones, making them sharper than they already were, as well as contouring his nose. His lips had a dark shade on them, still slightly smudged. But his eyes were what really caught his attention, a gradient of greens went from the base of his eyebrow down his eyelid. He had to admit, Oswald was clearly talented, and perhaps if he didn’t live in Gotham, he’d be some kind of makeup artist instead of performing in a seedy nightclub.
Edward was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost forgot Oswald was standing right next to him until he spoke, “You’re very—” There's a moment of hesitation as Oswald deliberates over his next word, as there were two options. He opts for, “—handsome.” Edward makes a face, still staring at himself in the mirror. With that clear response, Oswald corrects himself, “Pretty. You’re pretty.” At that, any facade Edward had left seemingly melts, turning to face Oswald once again. He smiles, wider than Oswald had seen before, like he was drunk off of that compliment alone. Oswald hums approvingly, taking a step closer, “You really enjoy it when I say that.”
His smile falters, face flushing at Oswald’s sudden closeness, “I do.”
Oswald’s nose scrunches up, once again considering his next words carefully. He was well aware that Edward was inexperienced, and he was equally aware they barely knew each other, but everything about this situation was making him desperately want more. Slowly, he says, “I can say it more, if you earn it.” He almost cringes at his own words, his tone all wrong, but apparently that flies over Edward’s head, who is back to kissing him in seconds. It’s rushed and forceful and so incredibly not anything he would expect out of Edward.
“Say it.” Edward mumbles, taking the gap between kisses to press Oswald against the wall of the bathroom. His mouth presses to Oswald’s neck, teeth sinking down as Oswald’s breaths puff against his head.
Oswald’s eyes shut tightly, taking in the pain blossoming on his neck, “You’re so pretty, you’re so pretty.” He pants, hands grabbing at any part of Edward he could to stay balanced. As Edward’s lips move down to his chest, he lets out a whine, quickly moving his hand to clasp over his mouth, breaths now shallow.
After a moment, Edward pulls away, their bodies still pressed close together. His voice is low, almost a murmur, “We don’t have to stand— laying down is probably more comfortable for you, right?”
Eyes widening, Oswald nearly bursts out laughing at the man’s ability to go from a hundred to zero in a matter of seconds, “Your bed is far more comfortable… and that way, if we want to—” He cuts himself off, smirking up at Edward in a way that he is well aware will get him exactly what he wants.
Somehow still anxious (and awkward) as ever, Edward manages, “Affirmative,” before nodding eagerly, practically dragging Oswald out of the bathroom.