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Jack sees him first in a dream.
There is a field of white roses. It streches endlessly, there is an unseen wind, but none of the petals fall. The sky is the color of parchment.
And there, tall among the unmoving sea of white, is Oswald.
Jack doesn't breathe. Not because he forgot, but because the sight of Oswald makes the air feel sacred.
He's dressed in black as usual, but his coat is undone. No blood on it. There’s also no sword. No noise. The click of Jack's boots through the field bothers the silence and the way Oswald’s eyes meet him with something unreadable is not unlike mourning.
They do not speak.
Jack wants to. He wants to say everything he carried in silence: that he's sorry, that he remembers, that it has all gone wrong and always had. But Oswald only tilts his head, the way he did when trying to listen for a sound just beyond hearing.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Oswald says, finally. His voice is steady. There is no malice.
Jack offers a smile, soft around the edges. “Neither should you.”
That earns him the ghost of a breath, quickly swallowed.
“I thought,” Jack continues, “if I could see you again, I’d ask you if you hate me.”
Oswald doesn’t answer. He lowers his eyes to the roses, who's heads do not bow to him, like Jack. “You already know the answer.”
“But you won’t say it.”
“No,” Oswald agrees sadly. “I won’t.”
They sit beneath the twisted branch of an ancient tree. It curls upward, reaching for the pale stars of this dream-world.
Jack plucks a rose from the field, surprised to find it warm in his hands. "Do you remember the first time you smiled at me?"
Oswald does not look at him. "I don’t recall smiling much at all."
"You did. You smiled when I tried to play the violin with gloves on. Said I looked like a court jester."
"That doesn't sound like something I would say," Oswald mutters, betraying nothing.
Jack leans back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes. “I didn’t realize it then, but… I think I loved you even before you looked at me like I was real.”
A long silence. The wind teases the hem of Oswald’s coat.
“You confuse love with reverence,” Oswald replies, softly. “You always have.”
Jack doesn’t deny it. Instead, he opens his eyes and looks at Oswald.
“Perhaps. But you never let me love you properly. Not then, not now.”
Oswald finally meets his gaze. There is pain there but also something else, a weariness that Jack recognizes like his own reflection.
“I wasn’t made to be loved,” Oswald says, as though it were a simple truth. “I was made to end things. And you -”
“I was made to begin them, I know,” Jack finishes, a wry smile breaking through. “How tragic.”
“How inevitable,” Oswald corrects.
The dream begins to unravel.
The field dims, the roses begin to decay around the edges, their petals curling inward like clenched fists.
Jack watches the change with a tired sadness, fingers brushing over the rose he still holds.
Oswald watches him. Not the sky. Not the dying flowers. Just Jack.
“You’ll forget this,” he says. “You always do.”
“No,” Jack says, voice hollow. “That’s the worst part. I never do.”
Oswald turns away. Jack stands, his movements slower now as though the weight of what he's about to do is already stealing the force from his legs. He steps closer, into Oswald’s shadow.
“Let me have this, just once,” Jack whispers. “Don’t make me leave without -”
But Oswald is already reaching for him. A hand, cold as memory, settles against Jack’s cheek. The touch is careful. It's the reverence Jack yearns for.
“You always ask for things I shouldn’t give you,” Oswald murmurs sadly.
Jack leans into it. “Then give me this and call it a mistake.”
Their lips meet like silence breaking.
It isn’t the kind of kiss that changes everything. It isn’t wild or desperate. It is slow and restrained, more grief than passion. A kiss not meant for the living, but for what could have been.
When they part, Jack’s hands are trembling.
“I love you,” Jack says. He hopes that the words will anchor him. “I killed you but loved you then. I love you now.”
Oswald brushes his thumb beneath Jack’s eye. Is he crying? “I know.”
And then -
The dream ends.
Jack wakes to the pale light of early morning filtering through green curtains. The sheets are cool. His chest aches in the deep, unspeakable way of men who remember too much.
He sits up slowly, fingers tangled in his own hair. The silence of the room feels cruel. It seems like the air still remembers the name he whispered in sleep.
Oswald.
Jack says it once, aloud, just to hear how it sounds again. It feels like a confession.
There is no one to hear it.
The rose is gone. The field, the kiss, the warmth of a hand on his cheek, are all gone.
But the ache remains. It always does.
He gets out of bed, each movement slow, reverent. He is afraid to break whatever remains of the dream that clings to his skin.
On the desk by the window, there is a single white petal.
Not imagined. Not dreamed.
Real.
Jack lifts it carefully, cradling it in his palm.
For a moment, just a moment, he smiles.