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Edward lies on what's legally allowed to be called a bed, eyeing into the dark that cloaks his vision to see the dirty ceiling above him. He's only been here for nine days, already tired of the clothes he's forced to wear, the screams down the hallways, the food that might as well have been conjured up from one of Gotham's dumpsters, the dirt that's with him every step he takes. These stone walls won't hold him, he's sure of that. He nearly escaped Arkham before the first time around. One wrong move, a misplaced item or blind eye or whatever it happens to be, Edward will spot it, and he'll take his chance.
It's been almost four months, with nothing to show for it other than failed attempts. The place has been renovated since the time of Hugo Strange, but in no way was it an improvement. It was still the same dingy, drab place from before, just with better security. He'll keep trying, he has to! He has someone waiting for him...
The worst part of this place is the lack of stimulation. He needs to keep busy. The other inmates provide some stimulation, but it's not enough, not for someone like him. The only real luxury he gets in here (if he can even call it that) is writing down his thoughts. He'd been allowed a journal, the pages soon littered with riddles and passing thoughts. These sorts of things had to be recorded, for reasons he doesn't exactly know, other than for his own self therapy.
He writes about everything and anything, nothing and something. Day one hundred and nineteen. Each minute is recorded, each second... His mind is already breaking down. He's going crazy. He's alone...
He misses him.
Oswald...
Arkham feels colder because of it. The words Edward writes down brings forth some warmth, a blanket for his mind, intricately stitched together with memories. They aren't allowed to send letters to each other, not that Edward thought he'd care, seeing as he figured he'd be out by now, but the feeling of solitude is eating away at him. He feels starved of his interactions with Oswald. It wasn't this difficult before the incident with Mr. Penn and his dummy, before Edward had truly accepted Oswald's friendship. The two hit it off like old times, surviving whatever No Man's Land had to throw at them.
One incident cost Oswald his eye, forever needing the aid of a monocle.
Because of him. Because he froze.
Stupid, stupid...
Edward knew he had fallen for him again. Scratch that... he'd been falling for a long time, but he never allowed himself to hit the ground, his anger and pain preventing such a thing.
Enemies cannot become lovers.
After their pact, they continued to build on their relationship further, everything fitting into place like nothing had ever changed. Edward was content, so much so that he wanted to finally tell Oswald how he felt, holding back on times he nearly said something, waiting for the right moment...
Then Jim had arrested them.
Edward would laugh at the irony of it being Jim, if it wasn't so fucking tragic.
Not only had they been arrested, but separated, Jim mouthing off that he didn't trust the two together, but Edward mostly believes Jim's reasoning was because he couldn't stand the two a slither of happiness. The man was Gotham's knight, built on lies and bullshit and stepping over people to get there, his own darkness shoved down behind his badge and title as Commissioner. Gotham has an idiot protecting them, and the people will clap for him like children observing a magic trick. It's oddly fitting, really.
Edward writes how he misses Oswald, what quirks he misses about the man, the sound of his voice, the gait in his walk. Even the monocle is missed, because it's a part of Oswald, and forever a reminder what it means; sacrifice.
Edward is valued.
Old voices, sitting by the fire while ginger tea and honey wafts through the air, Edward wrapped in black and gold, his lean neck sporting his own sacrifice.
We could've had it all...
Mentions of Isabella make it to the page, but she isn't the main focus. Pen to paper, he writes the words that immediately scold him as he reads back on ever believing that Isabella was a dream come true. Even for a city like Gotham, that doesn't just happen. He's reminded of Oswald's betrayal of getting rid of her hurting more than her death ever did, resulting in drugs when Edward got his revenge. Was it really revenge if he didn't enjoy it?
How lost he was without Oswald, the image of him conjured up in Edward's mind on his doses, dripping wet while seaweed clung to his suit. What a cocky bastard he was too, even as a hallucination. Edward knew him so well... The serenade certainly took him by surprise though. He thinks about that performance on particularly lonely nights, the lyrics in his mind and close up shots of Oswald's fetching features behind his eyes, his hand... occupied.
He couldn't deny the rush of adrenaline he'd felt when Oswald was his enemy. A game of cat and mouse, forever switching, unpredictable. There was some respect there, though he never liked to admit it back then, suppressed deep down somewhere, along with any lingering feelings he had for Oswald. He looks back on those times at a different angle now, reminiscing on Oswald's wit, ego and dare he say, charisma. Oswald was an equal, not an underling. Pride swells inside him at Oswald's accomplishments, how the man always cheated death like someone was looking over him, the ability to read people so well, the power that radiates off of him...
Edward writes about how fate later steered him towards the Narrows, leading the undead version on Butch through the crowds until Edward was faced with The Doc; Lee. How much she'd changed, and how much of Oswald that Edward could see in her. The leadership, the aesthetic... Edward could work with this, project his feelings for Oswald onto her. It would be okay...
Then he's bleeding out on the concrete floor with a knife in his gut.
And again, Oswald had been his saviour.
He wishes, hopes, wonders... if Oswald will escape his own prison and be his saviour once more.
He reflects on their own near knifing moment, almost laughing at the parallel that whole day shared with him and Lee. The city was crumbling around them and Edward had wanted to run, let it die into oblivion and be forgotten like it deserved.
Gotham meant nothing to him.
But Lee had insisted on staying, their relationship coming to a close. He readied his knife for that, the intention of ending it first. That outcome certainly could've gone a lot better.
Over a year later, the city is still crumbling, himself and Oswald deciding to run away together. It sounds romantic when he thinks about how that's worded...
Oswald... ever so stubborn though. Nine months of gruelling work, headaches, late nights, looking over blueprints, collecting materials, and the trial and error of seeing what works and what doesn't. Edward had built a whole fucking submarine, and Oswald turned his back on it like it was nothing. So goddamn selfish! But what did he really expect from Oswald? At least, that's how Edward wants to see him in that moment. Oswald never said anything about Edward not leaving, had hinted at it in fact. Therefore, Oswald's actions were selfless... weren't they?
But what would've been the point of leaving without Oswald?
So he runs. Runs back to the city and people he hates to fight, purely for Oswald's sake. He even conjured up a God awful lie about needing two people to pilot the submarine. Yeah, that didn't stick for long. Oswald's a smart man, deciding to bring the subject up, to which Edward confessed it was to fight alongside him. As friends.
It's always friends.
He should've fucking said something!
Talk of respect and self-worth are spit in the face of mirrors and each other, Oswald acknowledging that they'd be stronger together. Edward, of course, tries to play it cool with a nonchalant “perhaps”.
Idiot.
It was the reason Oswald pulled a knife on him in the first place, and Edward, noticing this, had pulled his own. Why was talking so difficult?
Despite this, despite that Oswald literally had a knife against his back, Edward couldn't do it. And just like that, the cycle of a mutual stabbing between close ones is broken. He nearly describes themselves as “lovers” in his head, but that's not what they were.
But perhaps they could've been.
He rapidly blinks at the pages in front of him, striving off what he can feel is coming...
A single splash hits one of the pages below him, and throws the journal across the room.