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London was windy and unpleasant.
That was the base line of what Oliver understood, and what he felt. At least right now. He was retreating into his coat, walking slightly ahead of the man behind him. Charles was slightly more accepting of the blustery conditions, so he didn’t mind taking more time.
“I don’t understand how you can be in just a sweater and be fine,” Oliver mumbled, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his heavy coat. Charles grunted as a response, ever the man of silence. Well, never quite silence. Quiet may have been a better word for it.
London, the city of.. well, Oliver didn’t know much about London. Neither did Charles, now that he thought about it. They knew one thing, it was the city of Cinda Canning’s death. Mabel had suggested they split up, trusting that the two elders could handle themselves. ‘What if we both slip, inconveniently, at the same time?’ Oliver asked, only half-joking. Mabel just patted him on the back and told him he’d be fine.
The duo crossed over a bridge, one that creaked and groaned eerily under their feet. London always looked better in theatre. Or, in Charles’s case, the cover of a magazine.
“Come on, say something. Is your jaw frozen shut?” The director turned to awkwardly shuffle backward, his face now turned toward Charles, who sighed accordingly.
“I’m just thinking,” he said. Oliver stopped, and Charles skirted and stumbled to avoid knocking him over. He may have been seventy-five, but compared to Charles, Oliver was incredibly small.
“About what?” Oliver asked, his scarf falling from his neck a bit to further reveal his mouth. Charles clenched his teeth.
“I’m tired of people dying,” he stated somewhat blankly, hands idly finding his pockets. “Lives are ending, Oliver.”
“You think I don’t know that?” The younger man’s eyes narrowed, defensive and walled for not much of a reason. “What is it, six people now?”
“Nine,” Charles corrected, “nine people directly related to us. Who knows how many more people are gonna die?”
“All we can do is solve them,” Oliver said. He quickly turned to continue walking, as if he just wanted to stop talking.
“What if one of us is next?” Charles said louder, firmly planted in where he stood. That certainly got Oliver to stop. He turned around. “I don’t want to solve your murder.”
“Don’t say that,” the smaller man mumbled, continuing his slow walk. “Don’t put that thought into my head.”
“Oliver,” Charles stuttered a bit, “I can’t let you die. If I lose you, I- I’ve got nothing.”
“You’d have Mabel.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He tried to stop the words, but they tumbled out before he could shut them down. “You don’t understand. I love you. Like a woman.”
The air was still. Charles was still. Oliver was still. The water under the bride was still. The director thumbed the ring around his finger, gold and cold. A constant reminder of Loretta.
“Don’t say that,” he repeated, his fists clenched tight. “Please, god, don’t say that. You can’t. You don’t.”
“Oliver,” Charles said once again. Oliver was making headway through the winds, not stopping for a moment. “Oliver! Wait!”
Damnit.
“Oliver!”