When the infamous con man known as the Wizard of Kansas City turns himself in to the police, he somehow still has the gall to make requests.
"Just take me straight to jail, alright?” Oswald says, most reasonably, as a pair of officers slap cuffs on his wrists. "I’ll come quietly, so no need to make a fuss or inform anyone about it. Especially not my fiance, Edgar. As far as he knows, you never found me, I was killed in the arrest, whatever. He does not need to know where I am. And whatever you do, do not let him pay my bail. ”
Not only is Edgar the first person notified of Oswald’s arrest, the police share exactly where he’s being held, and how long Edgar has to bail him out. So, much to the displeasure of the Royal Jasmine ’s entire legal team, Edgar drops all charges against the conman who robbed his casino of 50 million dollars and arrives to pick Oswald up within an hour.
“Just a small marital dispute,” Edgar explains kindly as he leads Oswald out of the precinct. The pair of cops that arrested him share a pair of questioning looks, then shrug in unison, as if it’s none of their business. After all, marital disputes tend to look a bit different when you’re a casino-owning multi-millionaire and your fiance is the most notorious swindler this side of the Rockies. And if that weren’t convincing enough, the considerable check that Edgar wrote to make everything go away certainly is.
Oswald makes sure to glare at the police chief as he’s led out of the precinct like a stray cat from the pound. He had one request, dammit.
It isn’t until they’re safely seated inside Edgar’s personal car- a modest Porsche compared to his usual chauffeured Maserati- that Oswald allows himself to pout. It’s not a marital dispute if you’re not married , which was the whole point of this heist. No matter how filthy rich Edgar may be, 50 million USD is not a loss to be just shrugged off. Even with Oswald’s admission of guilt, it’ll take the police department a good while to track down all the different fences, off-shore accounts, and real estate investments that Oswald had split his funds between. The Royal Jasmine will not be seeing that money again for at least a year, if they manage to retrieve the full sum at all. Edgar should be furious right now, eager for Oswald to rot behind bars and never see his face again, but instead he’s just… stubborn. Disgustingly hospitable and maddeningly stubborn.
“Is the temperature alright?” Edgar asks, glancing over from behind the wheel as he checks his seatbelt and mirrors like the dutiful driver he is. Oswald himself, pointedly keeps the seatbelt off . “I noticed it was rather chilly in the precinct, but this car gets stuffy without the air conditioning on. If you get cold, I have a blanket in the back seat, so please just ask.”
Oswald has no right to be angry when he’s not the one short 50 million plus bail and in hot water with the casino’s investors, but he’s livid anyways, so he refuses to answer Edgar’s question. Instead, he watches as Edgar’s gaze slides down from Oswald’s face to his lap, halting and deliberate as if he means to say something, before apparently reconsidering and clamping his mouth shut. Oswald follows his trail of vision, only to realize exactly what Edgar was looking at. Right there, exposed in plain sight, is the fourth finger of Oswald’s right hand. Or rather, the platinum engagement ring still snugly fit around that finger.
Oswald bites down a curse. Well, there’s no point in hiding it now that Edgar’s seen it. Damn his carelessness. He had meant to dispose of it as soon as he’d run off with Edgar’s money; bury it in the desert, throw it in a wishing well, leave it as a tip at a late-night diner, anything to get it out of his possession. Hell, knowing the gifter’s expensive tastes, it would have even fetched a pretty penny at a pawn shop, as if Oswald needed more money after this heist. But between a fever dream trip off to the Land of Oz and deciding to turn himself in, Oswald hadn’t had the time to get rid of it. Or that’s what he told himself, anyways. He had never liked the look of the ring anyways, but it had fit so well that at some point, Oswald had forgotten that he was wearing it at all. Edgar must have had it custom fitted without Oswald noticing. Thoughtful, detail-oriented, quality obsessed bastard .
Not a word passes between them as Edgar starts up the car, and pulls out of the precinct parking lot. By the time they're on the freeway, the only sounds that fill the cabin are the hum of the motor and the oldies radio channel. For someone whose job description practically oozes class and luxuriance, Edgar's tastes in music are exceedingly… base isn't quite the word for it, but Oswald's always thought his playlist would better fit a retirement home filled with old men in Hawaiian shirts than luxury sports car. But it’s also just like him, to listen to this sappy, sentimental crap.
Hold me now, it's hard for me to say I'm sorry , some probably-dead has-been croons through the crackly transmission. Oswald immediately feels like reaching over and smashing the console. It's radio broadcast, there's no way that Edgar is petty enough to have planned this on purpose. After all that we've been through, I will make it up to you. Goddammit, no, it's definitely on purpose.
As if sensing Oswald's displeasure, Edgar chooses this moment to reach over and turn down the radio volume. His eyes remain fixed on the road, as dutiful a driver as ever, but his expression tightens just the slightest bit. The average casino patron or staff member would never be able to tell the difference from Edgar’s usual accommodating-as-all-hell customer-service smile, but Oswald sees, and he’s knows. Edgar isn’t pissed- no, it’s a thousand times worse than that. He’s hurt .
“If it was money you wanted, I would have given it to you,” Edgar says, so quietly. And suddenly, Oswald feels like he’d much rather be battling wizards in the Emerald City, locked up in jail, dashed to pieces upon the freeway asphalt- literally anywhere in the world but here.
“Shut the fuck up,” Oswald hisses, and if he were the regretting sort rather than a heartless master swindler, then he would regret the way that Edgar near-imperceptibly flinches at the venom in his words. This isn’t how he wanted things to be. None of this is how it was supposed to be.
If Oswald had had his way, he’d be driving off into the sunset with in his own luxury sports car, 50 million dollars richer and one engagement ring poorer. That was how he’d planned it all out at first, but now the mere thought makes acid burn in the back of his throat. There had been another option, one that had seemed far more pleasant than driving off into the sunset, if only for a brief moment. An option that included keeping the ring, keeping the man, settling down and- Well, no point in going down that train of thought. That option no longer exists.
Couldn’t stand to be kept away, just for the day, from your body , the singer on the radio wails.
It’s been over a month since Oswald had stolen the money and run away, over a month since he’d last seen Edgar. Of course, he’d been trying not to think about Edgar the whole time, which had proven near impossible, considering that Edgar was the whole reason why Oswald had fled in the first place. But thinking about Edgar is very different from being trapped in the same physical space as him for the first time in weeks, and even Oswald has to admit that he isn’t entirely unaffected. Despite the inglorious manner of his jailbreak, Oswald’s ego isn’t the only part of him that’s sore. Sitting right next to Edgar without being able to touch is like a physical ache. Whatever reasons Oswald may have had for running, Edgar’s looks had not been one of them. Even from the very foolhardy beginning of it all, Edgar had always been Oswald’s type, and has always looked most handsome while driving.
Oswald glances at the road up ahead of them. Straight freeway as far as the eye can see, hardly a car in sight against the darkening horizon. As close to perfect conditions as one can get for terrible libido-driven life decisions involving ex-fiances. It’s not as if Oswald can fall further from grace than he has already. After all, what’s Edgar gonna do? Turn the car around and dump him back in the precinct? That might actually be the more desirable result. Out of the corner of his eye, Oswald watches the waning sunlight highlight the most striking features of Edgar’s profile: the ridge of his cheekbones, the professional slick of his hair, the distinguished wrinkles beneath his incisive green gaze.
Fuck it . Fuck him.
Oswald grits his teeth and exhales sharply through his nose. And he shifts his right hand from his own lap, over to Edgar’s left knee.
It’s a relief that Edgar doesn’t instinctively flinch away from Oswald’s touch, but he does slide Oswald a cautious glance. That gaze is still far too heavy for Oswald to handle right now. He deliberately doesn’t make eye contact, schooling his expression into stony neutrality as he stares ahead at the empty road, as if his hand isn’t slowly meandering its way up Edgar’s leg. Edgar’s right eyebrow arches upwards towards his hairline, forming an unspoken question.
“Keep on driving,” Oswald orders. Even if he realistically has about as much control over this situation as a rock sinking in the ocean, he’s nothing if not a damn good bluff. “Like I said, I don’t want to talk to you.” As if to emphasize the point of action over speech, he curls his fingers against Edgar’s Italian wool slacks, rubs his thumb in gentle circles along the man’s inner thigh.
Without acknowledging or shooting down Oswald’s words, Edgar smoothly twists the steering wheel, guiding the Porsche from the middle to right side lane. Immediately, Oswald’s mind is abuzz trying to account for and read meaning into this action. There’s not a single car coming up behind or in front of them, so it’s likely not because Edgar wants to be a courteous driver. They zoom right past an exit so quickly that Oswald barely has time to read the sign. So they’re not exiting the freeway there, or anytime soon, judging by the speed they’re going at. Could Edgar have just changed lanes on a whim? Or could it be because not being in the middle lane makes it that much more easier to pull up on the side of the freeway and fuck Oswald raw in the backseat? Only one way to find out. It takes only a moment to undo Edgar’s seatbelt, and it slides back into its retractor with a click and a soft hiss, like a large black snake. Despite their dalliance, Oswald had never been much of a patron at Edgar’s establishment. But when Oswald does gamble, he sets out to win.
Oswald’s hand slides up to rest boldly on Edgar’s crotch, cupping him through his pants, and it’s nothing short of delightful to find the beginnings of an erection already stirring. Edgar tends to take his time getting excited, preferring to linger on kisses and foreplay, or lying back and making Oswald really work for his arousal. It’s absolutely infuriating, especially to Oswald who’d rather just jam it in and get to the main event already. He’s definitely given Edgar more than his fair share of grief about being an old man who takes too long to get it up. Nonetheless, this knowledge makes it all the more delicious to see how quickly Edgar’s cock awakens now, hardening to a bulge beneath his slacks as Oswald’s fingers curl and tease. All this, after only some light petting? Oswald smirks. Edgar must have been pent up without him.
“Trying to kill me in a car crash now?” Edgar comments dryly. There’s an unexpected edge to his words that completely shatters the genteel customer-service voice he’s so used to hearing from Edgar. But just when Oswald is expecting to get shut down, there comes a series of sharp clicks from the dashboard. Edgar’s turned on the cruise control, and what’s more, he widens his legs slightly, as if to goad Oswald on. “If so, you’ll have to try harder than that.” A challenge, issued directly from Edgar’s lips to Oswald’s suddenly throbbing cock.
Oswald can scarcely believe his ears, thrill coursing through him. Who knew that all it took was a bit of below-the-belt groping in a moving car to drive Edgar to dirty talk ? If Oswald had known, then he’d have done this ages ago. The hardness in Edgar’s voice is a dizzying contrast to the Edgar that Oswald had known before: the man who would whisper sweet nothings into Oswald’s ear in the back seat of limousines. The man who said his name with a warmth that could melt a man from head to toe whenever they passed each other on the casino floor.At last, Edgar is showing some justifiable anger. About damn time he stopped pretending that he wasn’t mad at all. The thought doesn’t tug at Oswald’s heartstrings as much as it stokes his arousal. Edgar’s angry voice is low .
“Harder?” Oswald teases, practically grinding the heel of his palm against Edgar’s bulge. “Seems to me that you’re trying plenty hard already.” He presses down, and relishes the sharp hiss of breath that escapes from between Edgar’s teeth. “Besides, who said anything about killing you? I’m just showing my gratitude to the man who saved me from jail.”
Edgar’s hands are still at ten-and-two and his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, but it’s all for show. The man is barely driving at this point. Oswald has no clue what it is about the situation- the driving, the empty freeway, the not being engaged anymore - that has Edgar so worked up, but Oswald has never seen him so distracted by anything before. And this is not for lack of trying; Oswald likes to think he makes a rather pleasant distraction when he puts in the effort.
“No need to act all happy to see me,” Edgar replies stonily. “I know that you told the police to hide you from me.”
Well, if you can trust anyone to be a snitch, figures that it’d be the cops themselves. “Hmm, not a lie,” Oswald hums, toying with the straining seam of Edgar’s pants. “But I am very happy to see a certain part of you.” And it looks like he’s very happy to see me as well.”
For all of Edgar’s grousing, he makes no move to stop Oswald from undoing his belt and slacks to slip a hand inside. Edgar’s wearing those terrible paisley boxers, the ones that Oswald despises and has threatened to burn more than once. Oswald wonders if the choice was just to spite him, but that would imply that Edgar was expecting to have sex with Oswald right after bailing him out of jail. Which, admittedly, is exactly what’s happening right now, but it’s impossible that Edgar could have seen this coming. Quick, messy freeway road head? That’s all Oswald. Edgar’s always been much more hotel suites with balconies, rose petals on the sheets, missionary by candlelight- all that vanilla ass, fairytale bullshit that Oswald hates. The unwanted memory and the sickening paisley is almost enough to make Oswald go soft, but luckily for Edgar, he’s got something going for him underneath those boxers.
Edgar’s cock is hot and heavy in Oswald’s hand, foreskin already pulled back to show the glans dripping with precum. It’s every bit as substantial as he remembers, from the veiny underside to its intimidating upwards curve. Edgar growls—honest to god growls— when Oswald tightens his hold on it, and that makes his own dick twitch as if he were the one being touched instead. At the sight of its old friend, the pit of Oswald’s stomach involuntarily twinges, as if with the phantom pain of that gorgeous cock drilling into him. Some of the best of missionary sex of his life, that cock.
Which is funny, really, because Edgar’s dick isn’t even the biggest that Oswald’s had. Or the thickest. Or the most curved. And he’s definitely not even the best at using it, compared to that masked opera singer that one time. But without disclosing the entirety of Oswald’s sexual history, there’s something distinctly right about the way that Edgar’s cock feels in Oswald’s hand, how Edgar’s bated breath still comes in level inhales and exhales that teeter just on the cusp of slipping control, the intensity of Edgar’s gaze on him when it should be directed at the road… Oswald really does love it. Edgar’s dick, that is.
There’s a million things that Oswald wants to do to Edgar’s dick, but there’s no way that he can do half of those things dry, and Oswald certainly doesn’t have any lube on him. Even if he had been carrying any, it would’ve been confiscated off of him when he was arrested, and there was no way he was handing free lube to those pigs at the precinct. The good stuff costs money , and Oswald needs the good stuff if he plans on being able to walk for the next week after being reamed as hard by Edgar as he wants to be. If only Edgar had lube in this car. Oswald had already hidden some in the Maserati, if Edgar or his driver haven’t found and tossed it already. But the likelihood of Edgar having anticipated car sex and prepared lubricant in his private car is, once again, impossible.
Oswald wraps his hand around Edgar’s dick and gives it a few quick strokes. Even without lube, it’s easy to tug the foreskin up and down in long, languid strokes. Oswald’s done this many times, in the back seats of limousines, under blackjack tables, or even cornered in the bathrooms of fancy restaurants. He knows where to press, how hard to grip, and even those little flicks of the wrist that Edgar can’t resist. And the whole time, the thin platinum band of the engagement ring glimmers with every movement of Oswald’s hand up and down Edgar’s cock, as if taunting the both of them of what could have been.
Except Edgar doesn’t react. He is a pillar of salt, or perhaps fossilized spite. Oswald stares with no small amount of personal offense as Edgar turns his eyes back to the road, as if nothing in the world were happening at all. Surely Oswald hadn’t hallucinated the early intensity of Edgar’s gaze. Arousal, outrage—he’d be prepared to weather either option, but for Edgar to straight up ignore him? Pretend he doesn’t exist? It had been exactly what Oswald had wanted earlier, but now he’s just offended.
Maybe Edgar does it because he knows it’ll drive Oswald crazy. And of course it drives Oswald crazy because god, what’s the point of giving someone a handjob on the road if they won’t even acknowledge it? It’s not as if there’s other cars around to give Oswald a bit of voyeuristic thrill. Even the goddamn oldies radio station- which is still going on in the background- has joined in on taunting him, the sounds of Oswald’s futile handjob syncing with the beats of what’s love got to do, got to do with it. Love has nothing to do with it at all, Oswald thinks, and for how sexy car sex is, this isn’t sexy at all. It’s downright humiliating.
Well, if Edgar is going to ignore him, then Oswald might as well give him something to ignore. The Porsche convertible is a small one without much space between seats. But that also means there isn’t a center divider between the driver and passenger seat. So it’s a simple matter for Oswald to lean over, switch off the fucking radio at last thank god , and get his lips around Edgar’s dick in the middle of the wide open freeway. Road head isn’t a new concept, not for Oswald and certainly not for the world. And Oswald is nothing if not every bit as spiteful as Edgar. Try and ignore this, bastard.
Edgar makes a noise, deep in his throat that sounds more like a cough than a moan, but paired with the telltale widening of his legs, that’s nothing short of a victory. Without the distraction of background music, the thrum of the car motor is not enough to drown out Edgar’s soft sounds, or the wet slurping noises of Oswald’s mouth around his cock. Oswald can barely bob his head, let alone look up at Edgar’s face, without hitting his head on the bottom of the steering wheel, but he can imagine the man’s expression all too readily. That alone has him redoubling his efforts, curling his tongue against the shaft as he moves, alternating between sucking on the head and toying with the slit. He could do much more- Oswald has no shortage of experience taking all of Edgar into his throat, after all- but not here, not now. As much as he loves the precarious thrill of freeway fellatio, he’d prefer to avoid a bruised throat or worse from an unnoticed pothole. So instead, he pictures Edgar’s brow furrowed with determination, teeth bared in a snarl as he grips white-knuckled onto the steering wheel.
Most of all, Oswald pictures his eyes. Edgar is not the most expressive man, even behind his customer service mask. Oswald’s learned that his eyes speak volumes. Right now, Edgar’s eyes would be searingly cold, caught between loathing and desire. Nothing like those soft, shining gazes that Edgar used to give him in bed, in the middle of crowds, from across the room, like he was looking at a treasure, something to be cherished, something that Oswald never was and never deserved to be and never could become--
Oswald wishes his mind would shut the fuck up and just let him choke on Edgar’s cock in peace, god.
As if reading Oswald’s thoughts- oh god, fuck no- Edgar chooses this moment to place a hand on Oswald’s head, fingers threading through his hair to brush against his scalp. There’s a moment’s pause, and Oswald can almost hear Edgar’s internal contemplation and longing, before his hand just inoffensively slides off the back of Oswald’s head, and returns to its starting position at the top. It takes a few times before Oswald recognizes the movement. Edgar’s stroking his hair. Just like he used to after sex, or when he thought Oswald was asleep. Oswald’s stomach churns violently. But at the same time, he relaxes into the motion. It hasn’t been that long since they’ve done this, but it feels like forever.
That’s when Edgar’s fingers tighten into a vise grip on Oswald’s hair, pulling hard enough to make his eyes water. “Don’t you dare vomit in here,” Edgar hisses in warning, and that’s all the preparation Oswald gets before Edgar shoves his head down, spearing Oswald’s throat with the length of his cock. Oswald's too much of an expert to throw up from that, but it's a damn near thing, and the fact itself is kinda hot.
Oswald doesn’t know how the car is still going straight, if it’s still going straight, with the way that Edgar is pounding into him. He relaxes his jaw and throat the best he can, but that only mitigates the damage. His voice is gonna be shot by the end of this. Edgar's hold is still tight on his hair, still painful, and while it's still just as hot, the fear of being left with a bald spot isn't hot at all. Oswald tries to draw up off of Edgar's cock mid-stroke to tell him he can loosen his hold a bit, but barely gets half a word in before Edgar forces him right back down, practically slapping his dick against Oswald's face. Fuck. Oswald moans.
"Stop talking," Edgar orders, in a way that makes Oswald's head spin with how powerful of a man he's fucking, with his rich casino and expensive cars and big fucking dick. Far be it from Oswald to deny this powerful man what he wants when it aligns so well with his own interests. So he gets his mouth right back on that cock and takes it as deep as he can go. It's not so bad if in the morning after, his voice sounds like he just got throatfucked , so long as it's true.
Edgar's hand is firm on the back of Oswald's head, directing his bobbing motions, and Oswald shudders at the way that the head of Edgar's cock scrapes against the roof of his mouth with every aching downstroke. Before, Edgar had always been so gentle it was like he feared Oswald might break. Right now, it's as if breaking Oswald is the goal.
Personally, Oswald thinks he might want to be broken. It's the easier option of the two, the one that comes more naturally to him. To use and be used, jumping from one bed to the next, one heist to another. The constant adrenaline rush of living on his toes and plying trust as easily as breathing. All of this is the path that Oswald has cheated, bribed, swindled, and stolen his way onto. He has no intention of giving it up anytime soon, not when he's done so well for himself.
Then why did you accept his proposal in the first place?
Oswald makes a choked noise and physically recoils at the thought, but Edgar’s hips chase his movement, fucking up into his mouth with no chance for escape. “I told you to stop talking,” Edgar says, pressing Oswald’s head down further and further without mercy, “but you just won’t listen . It’s disappointing.” His cock pushes deeper into Oswald’s throat, and for a moment, Oswald sees stars, desperately huffing from the nose with his face shoved against Edgar’s thighs. This time, he really might vomit. He might black out from lack of oxygen. That’s just as well, really. Anything to get away from that incessant, nagging line of thought that his brain keeps returning to.
As if sensing Oswald’s weakness, Edgar chooses this moment to speak once more. His voice is more ragged than before, punctuated with small breaths each time Oswald goes down on him. But audible beneath the arousal and the anger is that undercurrent of quiet pain again, and just the sound of it rearranges Oswald’s guts worse than anything.
“I meant what I said when I asked you to marry me,” Edgar grunts, his fingers tightening in Oswald’s hair. “I wanted to spend my life with you. I wanted a home with you. To wake up and fall asleep and grow old next to you.” He’s rambling now, saying such sweet, cloying, impossible things. And yet his hips snap upwards with every downwards push of Oswald’s head, fucking his throat like it’s nothing but a hole and slowly, slowly suffocating him with his cock. The contrast is almost as dizzying as Oswald’s desperate need for more air.
“I would have given you anything, everything, if you’d just stayed with me,” Edgar pleads, bitterness creeping into his voice. Oswald's barely listening at this point, too distracted by getting his throat pounded. It probably doesn’t even matter. This monologue is solely for Edgar’s benefit, for him to finally vent the pieces of his broken heart.
Without warning, Edgar suddenly yanks Oswald up by the hair with one hand and wrenches the steering wheel to the side, slamming on the brakes. Oswald barely has time to take a sorely-needed breath before his head hits the steering wheel. The car skids off the side of the road with a bump, screeching to a halt on the barren desert bluff that lines the freeway. As soon as they’re no longer in danger of crashing, both Edgar's hands are fisted in Oswald's hair, jamming his face down onto his crotch and holding it there. Oswald goes from gasping for breath to crammed full in mere moments, and the force of it punches whatever little air is left out of his lungs.
Oswald chokes on his own saliva and Edgar's length, his vision blurring, heart pounding in his ears, chest aching with the need to breathe. But his cock-smothered sounds of protest are drowned out by Edgar's shaky exhales with every buck of his hips. Oswald’s lungs feel as though they’re about to burst, and a jolt of vivid panic springs up within his chest. This isn’t the first time he’s tried breathplay, but this is starting to become more painful than thrilling. For a brief, terrifying moment, Edgar's earlier sarcasm comes to mind. Am I going to suffocate here? Is he trying to kill me? This, just like everything else about the entire scenario, is so laughably impossible. Edgar wouldn't murder someone, not like this. But...
I'd deserve it.
That's when Edgar's entire body stiffens as he doubles over, his cock twitching in Oswald's throat, and Oswald hears a raw, honest whisper that he wishes he wasn't meant to hear.
"I loved you."
Finally, finally , Edgar’s grip loosens and slides limply down the side of Oswald’s face. Oswald doesn’t take the time to register the way Edgar’s fingertips linger at his jaw. He immediately springs up and off to cough, gasp, gulp for air. His dick is still hard as diamonds in his pants, but god, his chest aches something terrible. And yet, if Edgar had decided to keep going, to bend him over in the back seat and take him raw, then Oswald would have still wanted it. Some escape plan you've got here , Oswald thinks bitterly to himself as he settles back into his own seat, head flopping bonelessly onto the headrest to look at the wide, empty expanse before them. The desert sky is dark, punctuated only by the few pinpricks of stars that managed to escape from any nearby cities' light pollution. Oswald waits until his heart is pounding at a less breakneck pace. He does not look at Edgar. Even without looking at one another, their harried breaths eventually sync into an even, matching pace.
And as with all beautiful, peaceful things, Oswald eventually has to go and ruin it.
"Who knew you had it in you, you spineless old man," he says, voice raspy. "If we’d been having sex like this, then I never would’ve left you.”
Edgar's mask of placid politeness slips flawlessly back into place as well. "If you hadn’t left me, we wouldn’t be having sex like this.”
All is silent between the two of them aside from the low thrum of the still-running car engine, and the faraway cries of wild animals in the desert.
Finally, Edgar sits up straight in his seat, and slips his saliva-slick cock back into his pants. He goes through the full check his seatbelt and mirrors in a routine so familiar that it’s almost soothing, before returning his hands to the sterring wheel and stepping on the gas. This time, Oswald actually takes a proper look at the road ahead of them and its distant winding into nothing. It occurs to him that he has no clue where they've been heading all this time. This is not the road home.
"So, where are you taking me?" he asks, as Edgar bumpily steers them back into the freeway.
"A hotel in the next city. I've booked you a room for the night. Consider it a farewell gift. I'll drop you off there. We never have to see each other again," Edgar replies, with a note of finality in his voice.
Oswald shifts in his seat, feeling out the cricks in his neck and the soreness of his throat, but tries not to dwell on it too hard. There'll be plenty of time for aches and pains and not-regrets tomorrow. He locks in his own seatbelt as well with a click, and turns on the radio again, if only to fill the silence. The same insufferable oldies channels crackles back to life, having moved onto another song by now. Accompanied by upbeat drums and cloying backup ‘oo’s, a man’s falsetto sings but if you leave me a hundred times, a hundred times I’ll take you back , which Oswald pointedly tries to ignore.
In a sudden show of hospitality, Edgar switches the stereo from radio to CD player. Whatever disk last left in the car begins to spin, and it doesn’t even take a full bar of melody for Oswald to recognize the opening track of his favorite jazz album. Funny, he’d thought that he’d taken the disk along with him when he’d left. Oswald wonders how hard it’d be to convince Edgar to fuck him when they get to the hotel room. And then maybe stay the night.
The car fills with music once again as it speeds down the freeway, and Oswald leans against the headrest of his seat with a faint smile. If Edgar notices, then he doesn’t show it.