One of these things is not like the other, and one of these things is Jack Vessalius.

He drinks in every drop of fading amber daylight and spins it into every flaxen thread of hair, every soft curve in his face and each long, fair eyelash ghosting over his cheeks. All aglow, in green and gold, and quite contentedly curled upon the dark sheets of Oswald's bed, no less.

He almost wonders why he's even taken aback at this point, Jack being the ever unpredictable creature he was; and yet it's not until the steady puff of a sigh flutters past Jack's lips that Oswald, too, remembers to breathe.

And for once, he's not quite certain what to do with himself (or what to do with Jack, for that matter), stood tall, dark and still in the doorway of a room set to match.

The blonde seems more than at home, considering how wonderfully out of place he looks against everything simple and stern in Oswald's quarters with his face half buried against the same pillow on which the Baskerville would rest his head each night.

It's beyond him why Jack is even there, and further beyond him still as to why that was seemingly alright.

And even further beyond that too is that quiet longing to sit and watch the man's face as he sleeps, pick apart each fine line, each flicker of his eyelids, wait for each soft, steady breath-as if waiting to snare some part of this picturesque vision between his patient hands.

An odd notion, and Oswald dimly chides himself for it as he clicks the door shut behind him with the idle thought of just how peculiar the Vessalius was, in more ways than he can currently even count.

He was compelling in the strangest of ways, and there was certainly no denying it when he sank softly down to the space beside the somnolent being curled upon his bed and reached to graze the slope of a cheek with the tips of his fingers.

Oswald's lavender gaze softens just as the stern look on his young face does in turn when he's rewarded with a twitch and the faintest mumble come crossing Jack's parted lips; and it's all he needs to keep him perched there, still as stone, watching each gentle rise and fall of the man's chest.


It's hours gone past sunset when Oswald wakes from a sleep he barely remembers succumbing to in the first place; he knows at once, from the tell-tale gust of breath against the back of his neck, the added weight of an arm listlessly draped across his waist and easy warmth seeping into his back, that he was wrapped up in that flighty creature with it's gold feathers and bottle-green eyes that had made it's nest upon his sheets.

Oswald supposes that, for tonight at least, he wouldn't have it any other way.