Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wilde pulls back and surveys Zolf’s face, hands still on his shoulders. “Hm,” he says. “That really did nothing for you, did it?”

Zolf grimaces, and shrugs in what he hopes is an encouraging way. “Er... not really?”

“Oh well.” Wilde chuckles, and lets Zolf’s shoulders go. “We tried, I suppose.”

He reaches for his notebook again, balanced on the arm of their couch, and sits back, crossing his legs and retrieving the pen from behind his ear. Zolf blinks. “What?”

“Hm?”

“That doesn’t... upset you?”

Wilde looks up, caught off guard. “Why should it?”

Zolf stares at him. The end of his pen is already in his mouth, a bad habit he never kicked. “I dunno, I just- I kinda assumed it would.”

Wilde smirks. “It’s your loss you can’t tell how good I am at it.” Zolf shoves him and he laughs, shielding himself with his journal. “Apologies, gods- Zolf, if you don’t like kissing it’s no great loss to me, I don’t care!”

“I thought you did!” Zolf says in indignant disbelief.

“I mean,” Wilde gestures vaguely with the pen. “I enjoy it. But we don’t have to if you don’t want to! We shouldn’t, if you don’t want to. I am so painfully ambivalent about the whole thing, I really have no stake in it.”

Zolf just continues to stare at him, and it’s ridiculous how close he is right now to actual, genuine anger. He’d been working himself up for days now, trying to convince himself he knew even a little bit what he was doing...

Wilde is watching him with an amused smile on his face, pen dangerously close to his lips again. “You look like you want to say something,” he says mildly, grinning.

“I- what?”

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that.”

Zolf looks at him helplessly. “I thought that was important to you,” he says plaintively, “I wanted to- I dunno, I, I thought- I said I’d, I’d do it if you wanted it, ‘cause, I thought, you, er-“

“Zolf.” Wilde puts the notebook down and turns himself sideways on the couch to face him.

“Wilde.” 

“I don’t need that from you.” He looks almost concerned. “I would never ask for something you can’t give.”

“I could give it,” Zolf grumbles, mildly offended.

“I’m sure you can,” Wilde says fondly, “but like I said, it’s no great loss to me if you don’t want to.” He chuckles. “Look, we tried it, it didn’t work. That’s great, we successfully did an experiment! If neither of us are particularly enthused about doing it again then we shouldn’t, easy as that.”

Just the fact that Wilde says that means it’s definitely not; it’s how he deals with complex, overwhelming problems. If you can reduce it to a pithy aphorism, maybe you can convince yourself you’ll be able to handle it without letting it swallow you whole. It’s too late for Zolf, of course, but Wilde can’t possibly know that; he’s far too worked up to let it go, and the mouth of the question opens ever wider. “Isn’t that- I mean, isn’t that what we’re- what we’re supposed to do? You’re my… I dunno.” He grimaces, remembering the hours he’s spent awake trying and failing to understand what Wilde is to him. “...Partner?”

“Roommate? Companion, perhaps,” Wilde suggests with infuriating lightness. “I believe Cel once used the charming American phrase ‘boytoy’, though I’m still not quite sure how I feel about that one.” 

Zolf groans, and wrings the words forcibly into some sort of passable cohesion. “Look, Wilde, I said I’d kiss you if you asked me ‘cause- I’d- I assumed you’d want to, right, and I was open to it. Right? It’s not like how I feel about- it’s not like, er...”

“Sex?” Wilde offers.

“Yeah, yeah, I- it’s not like that.”

“Alright then. I shall keep that in mind.” Wilde gives him a shrug and a warm smile, and kicks his legs up to rest over Zolf’s lap. He’s wearing bright green socks today; they probably match his outfit, if you know more about fashion than Zolf does. “If I ever do want a kiss, Zolf,” -he gives a little salute and reaches over to pick his notebook back up, words ringing with the finality he uses when he wants a conversation to be over- “I will make sure to let you know.”

Zolf picks Wilde’s legs up and drops them off the edge of the couch, and Wilde yelps and does a frantic little wriggling grab at the arm to stop himself from falling off. “No, hang on, you do not get to end this conversation like that, you bastard.”

“Why not?”

“I thought you liked that kind of stuff.” Wilde scrabbles ungracefully back onto the couch and carefully repositions himself so that his legs are out of the danger zone. “You’ve always- you used to be, I dunno, you were quite flirty.”

“It’s fun,” Wilde says, as if that explains everything.

“You fucked Bertie,” Zolf reminds him, and Wilde gives him a long-suffering grimace.

“Yes I did,” he says with a blithe but intense distaste. “It was a career move.”

“A career move?”

“I got that article, remember? The one he kept threatening to kill me over? I expect you were too busy threatening to kill me yourself to pay much attention.”

“So you didn’t- but... I think I remember that first meeting differently than you do.”

“Everybody has their levers, Zolf.” Wilde says. “Some people are quite difficult to unlock, but if you can find out which ones to pull then you can get just about anything out of just about anyone. My cover was as a journalist, but my job was to get information from people for the Meritocrats. Bertie’s lever-“ Wilde snorts. “Bertie’s lever was not exactly difficult to find.”

“So you didn’t...”

“Feel anything for him? Not unless you count a vague and persistent disgust.”

“So you didn’t... it wasn’t-“

“I wasn’t doing it because I was desperate for a lay, no,” Wilde says shortly. He gives him a slightly upset look. “Really, Zolf, I am constantly shocked by your opinions of me. Sir Bertrand Macguffingham?”

“I dunno,” Zolf protests, “all I knew about you then was that you were a bit of a prick.” 

Wilde considers this. “I suppose that’s fair,” he says, relaxing a little. “No, Bertie was definitely not pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Mind you, and I won’t give any details, but...” He leans in conspiratorially, and stage-whispers: “It wasn’t even that pleasurable.”

A hint of smile traitorously sets up camp at the corner of Zolf’s mouth. “Far more than need to know, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Wilde smirks. He hesitantly re-extends his legs over Zolf’s lap, and this time Zolf lets him. “I’m fine with sex,” says Wilde airly, settling himself again, “but it’s not like it’s something I need. And I hope I’ve made it clear it’s not something I will ever ask for from you,” he says pointedly. “You’ve said you’re uncomfortable with it. I may be ‘a bit of a prick’, but I do at least have some moral standards.” Wilde clicks his pen with a smile and returns to his notebook.

Zolf sits on the couch, Wilde’s knees in his lap, and processes this new information. 

“So if we- sorry,” he says after a minute or so of silence and pen scratching, “I feel like I’ve missed somethin’.” Wilde tilts his head to one side to show he’s listening, pen still scribbling away. “If we don’t- if we don’t have- sex, right,” says Zolf, “and we don’t even kiss, then, what-“ he waves a hand agitatedly at Wilde’s general being. “What’s this, what- what is this?”

Wilde shrugs, eyes still on his journal. “You tell me.”

“No, no-“ Zolf is seriously considering properly shoving him off the couch. He reaches over and plucks the pen out of his hand, bringing Wilde’s eyes back up to his. “No. You tell me, Wilde,” he demands, “What is this to you?”

Wilde looks at him for a moment, warm and thoughtful, and Zolf can practically see the gears whirring in the back of his mind. “Other than just nice?” he says, the corner of his lip quirking up with a small smile. “I could break out the thesaurus, if you’d like. I’m still a fan of ‘companion’, it seems fitting to me.”

“We sleep in the same bed,” Zolf points out. “You live in my flat. I made you a birthday cake.”

“You live in my flat. And it was delicious.” 

“You call me ‘love’.”

“Forgive me if I’ve lived in England long enough to learn the language.”

“And ‘darling’.”

“A common affectionate diminutive!”

“You cuddle.”

“You’ve noticed?”

“I followed you all the way around the gods damned globe!” Zolf bursts out. “We fought literal monsters together for almost two years! I pulled your bleedin’ corpse off a bit of planking and we had a lovely chat in the astral plane about your worth as a sentient being!”

“So we trauma-bonded, good for us! Baring our souls to one another-“ Wilde makes an ungainly grab for the pen, and Zolf holds it out of his reach.

“It’s like a bloody Campbell novel.” Zolf gives Wilde a helpless look. “And you don’t- you don’t even care if I kiss you?”

“Not everyone has to be Azu and Kiko,” Wilde says peevishly. “We can just- I don’t know, Zolf, does it have to have a name?”

“You’re the poet, Wilde, you tell me.”

Wilde makes a face at nothing in particular. He’s avoiding Zolf’s eyes, and there’s something approaching a blush on his cheeks that Zolf is certain he wouldn’t have picked up on if it wasn’t so stark against the white hair. He looks uncomfortable. “Can’t we just...” he makes a vague noise of uncertainty. “I trust you with my life, Zolf. I have quite literally done so multiple times. Isn’t that enough?”

“That- what? Of course it’s enough, Wilde, I just...” It’s times like these that Zolf is incredibly jealous of Wilde’s ability to talk his way out of a situation. “Listen, Wilde, if that’s enough for you- bloody hell, it’s more’n enough for me, I just thought you might wanna be, I dunno, romantic, or, somethin’.”

“It’s- again, I am so painfully ambivalent about the whole business.” Wilde’s making his patented Someone’s Forcing Me To Talk About Feelings grimace. “Romance is nice,” he says imperiously, all uppity and defensive like he always gets when pressed like this, “but I don’t need it. Personally I am fine just the way we are.”

“I am too!”

“Then why are we having this conversation? Can I have that back, please?”

“Fine.” Zolf hands him his pen. Wilde places it behind his ear again. “I just wanted to, y’know, make sure.”

Wilde sighs, resting his head back on the arm of the couch and looking up to the ceiling. “I do appreciate that you ask,” he admits.

Zolf places his hand on Wilde’s knee in a way he hopes is reassuring. “If you like havin’ that stuff I- I can do that, for you. If you’d like.”

Wilde snorts. “Zolf Smith being romantic,” he murmurs, still staring up at the ceiling. “I suppose stranger things have happened.” Zolf bristles and starts to say something, but then Wilde’s hand finds his and he stops. “It’s a joke, love,” Wilde says, and Zolf’s stomach does an involuntary and unsettling drop. “I’m sure you’re extraordinary at romantic gestures. You’ve certainly done enough research.”

Wilde must feel him stiffen, because he props himself up on his elbows so he can properly meet his eyes. 

“Sorry, force of habit,” he says with a grin; Zolf can see the nervousness in it, but only because he knows the man so well. “You have to admit, it’s… better than ‘boytoy’.”

Zolf suddenly wants to shove him off the couch again, but he looks so uncharacteristically awkward that the urge fades almost instantly. It’s almost sweet, which is not usually a word he would apply to Wilde. “I... I feel like I should be giving you somethin’,” Zolf admits gruffly. “You- you, you put up with a lot, spendin’ this much time with me. Only fair you should get somethin’ in return.”

Wilde looks surprised- and a little bit sad. “I get you, Zolf,” he says. “I don’t need anything else.”

“Are you sure?” Zolf asks weakly.

“Of course.” Wilde squeezes his hand. “You said it yourself, Zolf. It’s more than enough for me. I wouldn’t be here if not for you.”

“So you keep me around ‘cause you owe me a life debt for dragging your sorry arse back from the dead,” Zolf grumbles. “Great.”

Wilde sits up and scoots closer. “Zolf,” he says, stricken, “it’s not just that.”

“Then what, all the other times I saved your stupid life?”

“Yes.”  Wilde swings himself around so that he’s sitting properly again, and lifts Zolf’s arm over his shoulder before Zolf can protest, ending up tucked into Zolf’s side. Their height difference is less pronounced when sitting, and Wilde can easily rest his head in the crook between Zolf’s shoulder and neck.

Zolf lets him, bewildered. “I’m not still savin’ your life, you idiot. Unless you’re plannin’ on goin’ out and doin’ somethin’ massively stupid and I keep ruinin’ your plans by accident.”

Wilde places a hand on Zolf’s cheek and turns his head to face him; for an utterly baffling second Zolf thinks he might be going in for a kiss again, but he doesn’t, just gets in very close and holds him there. He’s got a small, sad smile on, and for a moment they just look at each other. “Would you believe me if I told you that you are, still saving my life?” Wilde says.

Zolf blinks at him, stunned.

Wilde sighs good-naturedly. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I expected.” He brings his hand down and tucks himself back into Zolf’s side. “There are many ways to define love,” he says haughtily to the empty living room, nuzzling his head into Zolf’s neck and getting dangerously close to getting his hair in Zolf’s mouth. “It doesn’t always mean romance.”

Zolf follows his gaze and stares at nothing, brushing Wilde’s curls away so he can breathe. He has the familiar but still persistently awful feeling he’s put his foot in it somehow. “You sayin’ you love me?” he says, trying to make a joke and overshooting wildly into complete and honest bewilderment.

Wilde shifts slightly, adjusting himself. “Like I said, you can define it in many ways,” he says softly. “How many times must I tell you it feels good to be needed? Especially by someone like you. I certainly admire you. Gods know I respect you, deeply. You’re a wonderfully steady and trustworthy person, and you’re remarkably wise. You’re kind, you’re genuinely good and well-intentioned, and as much as you’re bloody-minded and frustrating at times I do find myself loving those parts of you as well. And I respect the reasons that you are that way, of course. I desire your safety and your happiness above all else. I take great pleasure in being the source of your happiness.”

He gets like this sometimes, introspective and truthful in a private way, but no matter how many times he does it it always takes Zolf by surprise. It sounds like a litany, almost, and a little bit like he’s defending a graduate thesis; it’s so easy, so prepared, and Zolf’s heart flips at the thought that as he laid awake flipping through his mental dictionary with increasing anxiety, Wilde might have been doing something very similar, right next to him.

Then Wilde laughs. “For that matter,” he says, “I take great pleasure in being the source of your annoyance. The truest mark of love, I believe, is enjoying it when the other person is doing their best to get on your nerves.” He chances a brief glance to Zolf, and a grin appears on his face when he sees Zolf’s expression. “Like right now, Zolf, you’re annoyed because I’m successfully being much more romantic than you are, aren’t you? I know that face,” he says triumphantly, “I’ve outdone you.”

Zolf gapes at him. Equally overwhelming amounts of affection, embarrassment, and frustration fight each other to express themselves first, but the sheer force of his what the fuck wins over. “Bloody hell, Wilde,” he manages, “I dunno what you want me to say to that.”

Wilde’s grin becomes positively shit-eating. “All affection is mutual aggravation.”

“Write that out nice, we can sew it on a bloody throw pillow. You a writer or somethin’?”

“Now what on earth would make you think that?” Wilde says with mock disgust, beaming. “It’s a depraved profession, I should have no part in it.”

“Depraved’s one word for it.” 

Wilde sighs, resting his hand on Zolf’s knee and closing his eyes. “Alright, I’ve bared my soul to you once more,” he says wearily. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way. Is it dinner time yet?”

It is, but Zolf would be damned if he’s going to let Wilde wriggle out of this one again. He has to do something. Gods damned daft competitive arsehole. “Wilde.”

“Yes, my love,” Wilde says languidly, opening his eyes halfway with a sunny smile.

Wilde’s right, he has done research. It’s why this conversation had come up. He had been rereading When Passions Collide for the umpteenth time, and had idly wondered if Campbell had ever planned to write a story in which one of his characters had to bring the other back from the dead, and then he had panicked and his mind went into overdrive and he’d felt weird about it for three days even though it had all been in the privacy of his own head.

Zolf makes direct eye contact with Wilde, and, very quickly to push through how awkward this is going to be if it doesn’t work, brings Wilde’s hand up to his lips and gently kisses the back of it.  Classic move.

Wilde’s eyebrows fly up to the ceiling.

“Mr. Smith,” he says, obviously impressed and suddenly incandescent with delight, “whatever will the neighbors say? On an ungloved hand, no less!”

“Did you miss the part where we sleep in the same bed?” Zolf says, gearing up to be some form of upset, but the urge once again dissipates as he watches Wilde’s grinning face, despite the flirtatious reaction, start to go a red to rival Barnes at his worst- well, at Cel’s worst, really. Intriguing.

So he does it again.

Wilde goes bright pink.

“That got you?” Zolf asks, delighted.

“I-“

“I can’t believe that got you!”

“Can’t hide anything from you, can I?” Wilde groans helplessly, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning away, but very much not removing his hand from Zolf’s. “I wasn’t expecting it!”

“Who can’t be romantic now?” Zolf says triumphantly, feeling oddly and wonderfully giddy.

“Remember when I said I loved you even when you were being bloody-minded and frustrating?” Zolf does it again, this time pressing a gentle kiss to Wilde’s palm, and Wilde kicks his legs in protest, laughing. “Cease and desist, you terrible man.”

“Do you actually want me to?” Wilde presses his free hand to his face and shakes his head. “Thought so. Bloody hell, I’m gonna make an effort now, fuckin’ look at you!” Zolf smiles wide, incredibly amused and more than a little bit proud of himself. “This is hilarious.”

Wilde leans back in and collides with Zolf’s shoulder, still covering his face with one hand. “I fear I’ve created a monster,” he says, trying his best to sound weary but through an audible if muffled grin. “Are you pleased with yourself?”

“Very.” He leans up to press a kiss to Wilde’s forehead, just against his hairline, and Wilde makes a little whining protest and hides his face in Zolf’s chest.

“I love you,” he says into Zolf’s sweater, like he’s claiming the words as his own.

“Love you too, you idiot,” says Zolf, ignoring the way his heart starts pumping with adrenaline as he says it.

“I don’t care what we call it,” says Wilde, and Zolf can hear the words reverberating in his own chest. “As long as we have it. You’re important to me.”

Zolf runs a hand through Wilde’s hair. Curly hair at the end of a long day shouldn’t be easy to run your hands through, but Wilde does something complicated you magical to it in the morning that keeps it soft and detangled. “‘Companion’ is... nice,” Zolf says softly. “I dunno, I’d like a word for it. It’s nice to understand things, y’know?”

“What else would you prefer?” Wilde shifts to meet Zolf’s gaze, eyes twinkling. “Your beau? Your valentine? Your inamorato? We can always return to boytoy, it does have a certain ring.”

“You’re about to be sleeping on the couch, is what you are.”

“You would never.”

Zolf laughs, the sound bubbling out of him, and holds Wilde close. His... person. His friend. “Don’t push your luck,” he says happily.