It's the small things, really, like Ed's cold and clammy feet under the sunlit covers in the morning.
Ed rubs his feet to Oswald's leg. Oswald doesn't think much of it at first, with all the noises of his dreams still murmuring in his head. It's only later he realizes that Ed is massaging the cracked pain of the night away, softly and methodically.
It's the small things, like Oswald taking off Ed's hat, whispering "hello, handsome" before he would kiss him goodbye, hot and open-mouthed.
Things like the warm and opaque water in the bathtub, colored by blood, rust, and lavender-oil. Oswald is sitting in Ed's lap, both his legs obscenely spread as he sucks on a cigarette. Ed busies himself with counting his scars. His cracked nails follow their lines as if he was reading Oswald's past in Braille.
It's the burning cigarette above Ed's trembling skin as they lounge on the couch half-naked.
"Mark me," Ed demands, and guides Oswald's hand to his neck.
It's the smell of burning flesh.
It's the bruise which Ed's kiss leave as he nibbles on Oswald's neck, fucking him against the wall with short and desperate thrusts.
Small things do matter, like the blood on Ed's surgical gloves as he grabs Oswald's half-hardened cock and twists. His touch is sticky.
And then green flames burn the city.