The first time Jack realizes he might be in over his head is when he sees Oswald playing the piano.
It shouldn't effect him so much, but it does – it's some simple tune, but openly sad all the same. Every pluck of his fingers – long, elegant, white, beautiful – over those keys makes Jack think of snow, of the day he met her, except not at all. He thinks instead now of the day he first came to the Baskerville manor, of the day he saw Oswald and tossed water over his head because he was seen so very clearly for the first time –
Not even Lacie could do that.
So he sits on one end of the piano bench, watching. Oswald gives him a somewhat perturbed look at first, but then seems to ignore him, even as Jack slowly leans to the side, cheek pressed to one lean shoulder, breathing in the other man's scent and wondering, wondering how Oswald can see him so very well when no one else can.
He smells like moss and lemonbalm and some kind of heartwood, rich and indulgent. Jack wants to indulge. So he does, enjoying the way Oswald's fingers stutter on the keys as he tips his head to the side, kissing the expanse of a pale neck, tugging on the lobe of an ear with his teeth.
The best part is when Oswald doesn't pull away and instead shudders and tries to keep playing – not the part where Jack realizes he could use this man to get closer and closer to Lacie.
He is definitely in over his head.
And he sort of likes it.