[Oswald lingers only briefly at the top of the stairs, unable to make out what Ed is murmuring to the mirror and sensing their conversation is over. They'd have the rest of the evening to make up for lost time, and he's eager to lounge by the fireplace, to talk long into the night until his tea goes cold and sleep pulls him under. But first comes the bath he has wanted for eight long months; the luxury of having a fresh, silky bar of soap to himself and of soaking until the pads of his fingers and toes prune up.
He closes the door behind him, turning from the mirror while sloughing off his clothes.
The water isn't scaldingly hot, as he has come to expect, but comfortable. Warm enough for the bruises mottling his skin - a scattering of black and scarlet and muddy yellow ones he can't all placee - to burn when he dips his foot in and eases the rest of him in after, hissing. He shivers, sighing as he settles. And then he waits, listening, staring dully at the islands of his pale, knobby knees. It's strange, how quiet it is. As if the whole mansion is holding its breath too. No whistling or hollering or laughter. No roar of blood in his ears. He's forgotten what it's like, the sound of silence. He's forgotten the calm and the comfort in it and moves his leg just to hear the squeal of porcelain, the water sloshing around the tub. He wonders if Ed can hear it too.
His skin feels too raw for the green, crunchy-dry loofah lying in reach, but he lathers it up anyway and scrubs himself all over, roughest where the touch and the gazes of strangers still stick to him. Whiteish scum rings the tub when he finally drains the bath and steps out on the mat, trembling under a towel. He tugs on pajamas and throws his silk robe over his shoulders, unable to dredge up the energy or the will to give the tub more than a brisk rinse before making his way downstairs.] ...Ed?
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2019-12-06 05:00 am (UTC)He closes the door behind him, turning from the mirror while sloughing off his clothes.
The water isn't scaldingly hot, as he has come to expect, but comfortable. Warm enough for the bruises mottling his skin - a scattering of black and scarlet and muddy yellow ones he can't all placee - to burn when he dips his foot in and eases the rest of him in after, hissing. He shivers, sighing as he settles. And then he waits, listening, staring dully at the islands of his pale, knobby knees. It's strange, how quiet it is. As if the whole mansion is holding its breath too. No whistling or hollering or laughter. No roar of blood in his ears. He's forgotten what it's like, the sound of silence. He's forgotten the calm and the comfort in it and moves his leg just to hear the squeal of porcelain, the water sloshing around the tub. He wonders if Ed can hear it too.
His skin feels too raw for the green, crunchy-dry loofah lying in reach, but he lathers it up anyway and scrubs himself all over, roughest where the touch and the gazes of strangers still stick to him. Whiteish scum rings the tub when he finally drains the bath and steps out on the mat, trembling under a towel. He tugs on pajamas and throws his silk robe over his shoulders, unable to dredge up the energy or the will to give the tub more than a brisk rinse before making his way downstairs.] ...Ed?
[He calls out, loosely knotting his robe.]