E.N
The sight of Oswald brings goosebumps to his body. Oswald dresses in the same long over coat as the last time they met on the pier, the last time they met eye to eye. But today, Oswald is not as confident. His body is rigid and his eyes glisten.
In his own body, he feels the same. The wave of betrayal crashes into the rocky mountain side of his mind, but the tides of trust and friendship refuse to recede.
'Hello old friend.' The other man says. His voice does not waiver, but this is an old trick. He knows all of this mans tricks. He does not reply, but instead reaches to the gun clipped to his belt. He will not fail.
Oswald scoffs at the motion. His head nods as he states 'yes, I suppose that would make sense.'
'Don't make it harder than it has to be.'
'You've tried to kill me before and failed, Ed, so why should this be any different-'
'Stop talking!' He strides forward with his arm stretched outward and places the tip of the gun just before the surface of Oswald's forehead. He will not fail.
Oswald does not flinch nor blink. Instead, he leans toward the gun with a mellow sigh. Not a sigh of defeat nor anguish, but a sigh of pity. Pity for his old friend. But he is not to be pitied! Oswald should pity himself! He should be scared! Worried! Confused! Why hasn't he asked any questions yet? Why hasn't he begged for his life? He has a gun to his head!
Unanswered questions. No time to ask. He needs to do his job now. He will not fail. He cannot fail. He refuses to fail.
Pity feels weird on his tongue.
O.C
The sheen from the green suit makes him smile. The suit is well looked after. Of course it is. He understands value. He probably has a specific routine he practices everyday when he wakes up to put it on and every evening when he takes it off.
The suit is his skin. The suit embodies the persona he has created to show that he is more than his friend created him to be. The suit that he sheds every evening signifies the friendship they shared. The friendship he clearly still values.
He had planned to see Jeremiah Valeska. This is the house they had chosen to meet in, but clearly he does not currently occupy it. This house is homeless, and Edward is an intruder. An intruder with malicious intent, and perhaps permission to do so. Yet another blindfold, another knife, another razor blade. And so he smiles.
Ed looks dishevelled. Although he wears his hat and glasses, they do not mask the restlessness. He is a man of many talents, but creating a facade is not one. The gun in his right hand is not cocked. His left hand taps against his outer thigh at a fast pace. He is a machine with cogs that refuse to spin.
He used to live for this man. Perhaps he still does. Perhaps he still could. But at this time, he lives for himself. Ed's hand falters momentarily, and he notices the shorter mans smirk. Edwards face curls and twists into an inflamed expression. He moves closer, bending his elbow and sliding the gun to the side of his opponents head. Their faces rest inches from each other.
He will not be scared of Edward. He will not let's this man take his heart again. Not with a gun to his head. Not with a razor blade sliding down his throat. Not with a smile.
