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Whatever else can be said about being the first one to fall asleep at the reunion of his closest friends, it does mean that Oscar wakes early. Early enough that he thinks he might be able to get breakfast started before Zolf can shoo him out of the kitchen to do all the work himself.
With that plan in mind, he rises carefully; his partner has always been a light sleeper. The fact that simply withdrawing from bed doesn’t wake him speaks volumes about how well Zolf has been sleeping lately. He smiles fondly at the thought before leaving the room.
The upper floor of the tavern houses five bedrooms. Two private, with a small sitting area set apart from the rooms that are for rent on a normal night. Hamid and Azu had opted to share one of the latter rooms, leaving the other room in their private quarters to Cel.
So Oscar isn’t terribly surprised to see them sitting on one of the sofas when he exits the bedroom.
By the looks of it, they’ve been up for a while. By the looks of it, they might not have actually gone to bed. They’re absently fiddling with the figurine from Einstein, while they gaze out the small window. Oscar knows that view, knows that they can see the coast clearly.
“Good morning,” he says gently.
Cel says, “Oh!” and stands very suddenly, like they’ve been caught intruding somewhere they don’t belong. The sadness gripping Oscar’s heart tightens. “Oh, um, good morning, Oscar! You’re up early!” Their smile is painfully bright.
“I could say the same,” he points out, not unkindly.
The smile falters, but Oscar considers that a good sign. “Yeah,” they say. Their eyes drift back to the window for a second, then back to him. “... yeah.”
Oscar is good with words, he’s never bothered to be humble about it, but he finds here, he is at a loss. He had spent the day before Cel’s arrival trying to think of how to tell them how sorry he was for James’ loss, that they had a home with him and Zolf for as long as they needed it - for longer than that, even - but nothing felt right then. Nothing feels right now.
Maybe it’s not about words.
“Well I was about to head down to start breakfast,” he says conversationally, stepping away from the door. “But you did just remind me of something I forgot to do last night.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
Oscar steps around the sofa table between them, and pulls Cel into a hug.
Cel freezes, says, “ Oh ,” in a very small voice, and begins to cry.
He doesn’t say anything, just holds them, their face pressed against his shoulder, their thin frame shaking. After a few minutes, he gently guides them both back down onto the sofa where he can continue the extended embrace more comfortably.
When they had cried the night before, laughing and babbling about Einstein’s figures like they weren’t aware of their own tears, it had distantly occurred to Oscar that it might have been the first time he’d actually seen Cel cry. Looking back, they’d always kept themself publicly composed and he wonders how much they’ve actually allowed themself to mourn James.
Even now, Cel tries to apologize at some point, and while he wants to tell them that he wants nothing more than for them to feel like they can break in front of him, that they can trust him with every messy emotion, now isn’t the time for that. So he shushes them gently, shifting so he can briefly press his lips to their forehead. He feels them nod, their arms tightening around him.
After a bit, he can feel their breathing start to settle, and he chances speaking again. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it out for the funeral,” he says, absently rubbing their back.
They shake their head. “It’s- it’s okay. It wasn’t like- like there was any warning for some- something like this. You couldn’t cancel a show last second-”
“I could have.”
They pull back to look at him. Their eyes are red, their cheeks pale, but there’s a gratifying little smile. “You know he wouldn’t have wanted you to,” they say.
That he believes. “I dedicated the premier to him - though I don’t know how much he’d have liked that . The show’s something he would have called ‘melodramatic nonsense’,” he says fondly.
Cel laughs. “Hey, James liked that nonsense as much as the both of you. He just said that to get a rise out of Mr. Smith.”
“And it worked.” Oscar lets his laughter taper out into a sigh. “I’ll miss that. I’ll miss him.”
“Yeah… yeah.”
He shifts, brushing a thumb against their cheek, catching a tear. “Listen, if you ever want to talk about him - well, you know me, I’ll never say no to a story.”
Their smile is as warm as the fire the night before and Oscar basks in it the same way. “I- thank you, Oscar. I- not yet, I think but- I will.”
“We have time,” he reminds them, skirting around the earlier subject of them staying. He won’t push that, not yet. “Now, we don’t have much time to get breakfast on the table before Zolf wakes and tries to take over.”
“And that's a bad thing?”
“It’s the principle of the thing, my dear.” He stands, helping them to their feet. “If he had it his way, he would be cooking every meal and making me feel quite useless in front of our friends.”
“Mmhm,” they say, adopting his serious tone. He notices a playful twinkle in their eye for the first time since they arrived. “We can’t have that.”
“Absolutely not. And unlike our Mr. Smith, I actually will accept help in the kitchen - if you’re interested.”
Cel glances out the window again, but they nod. “Yeah, I- I think I’d like that.”
Oscar squeezes their hand, and together they start the day.