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Zolf shut the door, and Oscar slumped in his chair. His cuffs felt heavy on his ankles as he heard them clink together. They were almost as heavy as the weight of the conversation.
At least Zolf wasn’t lying. He knew Zolf well enough to know that he was as confused about the source of his magic as he was.
But the word hope… Gods, why did he have to say that, of all things?
Hope. Such a small word, and yet in times like these, such a big thing, wasn’t it? It felt far too poetic to say, but it was true. Hope was the single most important thing to cling onto, and yet Oscar knew that he felt none. He hadn’t felt any in a long time, so long that he couldn’t even fathom thinking about when he last did. Certainly long before he met Zolf, and quite possibly before he’d begun working for the Meritocrats. Perhaps when he’d just graduated university? Filled with so much optimism and ideas of grandeur as a future world-renowned writer as he was, perhaps hope was able to find a place in his mind back then
But not anymore. No, his hope was as dead as his… Well, it didn’t really matter what they were to him, did it?
He stood up and silently walked to the basement. Part of him told him it was a bad idea. Bosie was in quarantine, and he was already playing a dangerous game by not having Barnes, Carter, and Zolf quarantine. But he shoved that down. Right now, though he was loath to admit it, he wasn’t doing well.
He just needed familiarity. Despite their history, Bosie was someone he could trust.
He opened the trapdoor, grateful that it wasn't so loud that it would alert anyone else. This was a moment for him and his…
For him and Bosie.
He closed the trapdoor and heard the soft thud of it fully shutting. “It's just me, Bosie,” he called out quietly.
The other man was sitting against the wall, but his face was slightly obscured by the darkness. “Oscar.” There was a smile in his voice, and it lifted his spirits just a bit. It felt a bit cliche, but these sorts of things were cliche for a reason, he supposed.
Oscar went over to the cell, sitting in front of the bars. The metal of his cuffs hit the stone and he wished so badly that the universe wouldn’t remind him of his lack of magic every two godsdamned minutes. “I’m so tired, Bosie,” he lamented, wishing that his chest wasn’t feeling so heavy. He was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders since before the world went to hell, and grief had been added only a few months later. And now this new weight that he couldn’t describe was piled atop it, and he knew he was close to his breaking point. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t break. He had to keep going, he had to keep working until they fixed everything. “I’m just tired.” He knew the words he wanted to say, but he didn’t have the energy to say them, and that was almost worse than being at a loss for words.
Bosie sighed quietly. “I do wish I could give you more comfort, you know.” He had turned to look in Oscar’s direction. Of course, Oscar had forgotten to light any lanterns, but he didn’t really mind the darkness. At least no one could see him in his fractured state in the dark. “But there’s not much I can do in the cell.” He gave a small, humourless laugh.
Oscar couldn’t help but smile a bit. He was right. Even though Bosie was nearly through with his quarantine, part of him felt like he couldn’t wait until he was cleared. No one else was really there for him. Sure, Barnes and Carter were part of the team, but they were really there for the mission, and Oscar didn’t have much of a friendship with either of them. And Zolf, well… There was certainly a part of him that hated Zolf at the current moment. He was perhaps the last person he wanted to talk to about his struggles.
He sighed. “Bosie, if I-” He cut himself off, then lowered his voice as he continued speaking. “If I open the cell, just for a bit…”
“Are you that desperate?” He asked teasingly. Oh, how Oscar wished he could have seen Bosie’s facial expression.
Oscar huffed a small laugh. “I would never call myself a desperate man, you know.” He moved closer to the bars. “But I wouldn’t mind a moment, you know.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
And that was good enough for Oscar. Even though the part of him that was clinging to Curie’s protocols was screaming at him not to do it, he couldn’t resist. He stood up, took the key, then opened the cell door. He reached a hand out to Bosie, who took it and used it to help him stand. Oscar relished in the warm touch of his lover, grateful to finally feel some semblance of comfort after nearly a week.
And then…
It was so fast, and Oscar felt the warmth of the blood blossoming from his cheek before he felt any true pain.
It was funny, really, that his first thought wasn't to scream. It wasn't even to put his hand to his cheek in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, though he did that in time.
No, his first thought was to call himself an idiot for opening the cell door.
Then he screamed. He wasn't proud of it, but what else was he to do? He couldn't do anything.
He fell to the floor, holding his hand to his cheek. He felt the blood leaking out of the wound. He didn't need to see it to know that it was so much blood.
He heard the cellar door, loud footsteps rushing down the stairs, the cellar door bursting open. He heard the sound of flesh giving way to a blade followed by a body falling to the ground.
He felt a hand on his, the one that was covering his wound. He tried so desperately to crawl away, to use what little strength he had to protect his team. If he was infected, he could so easily pass it on to all of them if they didn't just let him die. Unfortunately, he didn't get very far. He was just too weak and disoriented to do anything but stumble after a few steps. “Wilde, come on, I've gotta see how bad it is-”
Zolf.
Wilde shook his head as best he could, still trying to cover the wound. “You can't…” Even though he'd only said two words, it hurt, and he felt more blood on his hand. “Might be infected.”
“Sod that, Wilde, I have to get you fixed up,” Zolf said with a huff, grabbing Wilde's arms with a force that almost scared him. He gave up trying to get away from him anymore as Zolf gently took his now blood-soaked hand and moved it out of the way.
He heard Zolf suck in a small breath, and he didn't want to know how bad the wound really was. Part of him wished that he was already unconscious or maybe even dead. At least that way he wouldn't have to deal with the reactions of everyone else.
Oh gods, everyone else. Carter and Barnes had probably heard the commotion and were confused about what was happening.
“Carter! Get the med kit, now! An’ a rag an’ some alcohol!” Even though Zolf was shouting, he sounded like he was underwater. What a cruel irony, Oscar couldn't help but think. Even with the pain and the blood loss, he was unable to stop being poetic.
“You'll be alright, Wilde.” He was surprised that he could still understand Zolf, but he was still in far too much pain to put any real thought into it. He was probably groaning in pain, but moving his face made it feel like his cheek was getting sliced open again. It was out of the question to do anything with any conscious effort.
Zolf muttered something under his breath, but it probably wasn't meant for Oscar. Either that or he was finally succumbing to his body’s desire to give up and just fall asleep.
He felt himself fading in and out, but he got glimpses of Zolf and Carter. They were talking. And Zolf was sounding the most like the man he’d met all those months ago: steady, focused, and sure of himself. Even if he was drifting off, he could tell that much, and it caused him to feel a bit of relief, despite his situation.
It didn't mean he could ignore his pain, though.
He wished he could have taken in what Zolf was saying, but it was like his ears were filled with cotton. He wanted to speak, but moving his face took far too much. Every time he blinked, there was the stinging, agonizing pain that reminded him of what was there, what would probably always be there.
“Wilde, this is gonna probably hurt like hell, but I need you to try to stay still. I have to clean it before I do the stitches.” Wilde did his best to muster a nod. Zolf needed to at least know that he was trying to listen.
He felt the gentle press of fabric against his cheek, but it stung. If Zolf hadn't given him the warning, he'd have fully recoiled, which probably would have made the pain worse. But fortunately for him, he didn’t have the strength in him to move, much less escape from Zolf’s hold.
He began fading in and out more, he heard Zolf say something about stitches and more pain before he felt that pain. He felt the thread being pulled through his wound, and it felt weird. Sure, it hurt, of course it did, but more than anything it was a fascinating feeling. He’d never had an injury bad enough to need stitches. He heard the gentle hum of music, and realized soon before it stopped that it was Zolf. He’d never heard him sing, and he rarely hummed anything. Oscar was the musical one of the group, of course. Zolf tended to work in silence, he had learned, allowing the storm in his mind to keep him company rather than anything outside of himself.
“‘M done, Wilde. Let's get you in the cell, and I'll take care of ‘im.” He felt Zolf nearly shove him into where he presumed the cell would be. He didn’t want to think about Bosie, but of course Zolf had to mention him. Of course he had to be taken care of- well, it wasn’t even him, was it? It hadn’t been him for he didn’t even know how long. He tried to wash away the thoughts. But they stayed. Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they? He heard Zolf mutter something under his breath, but he couldn’t understand what it was. Clearly, whatever had let him stay awake during the whole ordeal was fading extremely quickly.
He didn’t know when he let himself fall asleep. The pain had subsided for the most part and he was left with the feeling of discomfort. But he’d felt that before. He just tried his best to get the memories away. Maybe if he got rid of them fast enough, they would stay away forever.
He just hoped that images of his day wouldn’t haunt him as he slept. And the idea of feeling any hope left a sour taste in his mouth as the last of his lucidity left him and he drifted off.