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The food was already separated out into different sections on the cafeteria tray. However, the mashed potatoes had splattered out and contaminated the beans, turning liquidated and brown and blatantly inedible. The blob of gunky potato mush soaked up the sauce, resulting in a thick consistency that was not entirely unlike that of slightly coagulated blood. Fascinating.
Having become mixed in with the wrong food, and therefore the wrong flavour and the wrong texture, it no longer registered as a viable option for lunch in Ed’s mind. It did, though, present an opportunity for a fun mental exercise. It was one that he had played around with from time to time with the food at Arkham, but rarely did the meals there hold the correct consistency for the experiment he had in mind.
Ed spooned the glob of mush out from its soupy section in the food tray and let it slop onto the table with a splat, angling his wrist to allow for the specific pattern he had in mind. Its colour stood out starkly against the dull metal. Different images overlaid onto the splatter—cases from his time as a forensic technician, acts of violence at his own hands and at the hands of others, Oswald’s handiwork and that of his fellow Arkham inmates, imagined scenarios based on well-calculated predictions and the rate at which blood dries or thickens and the factors at play when such changes occur—and he hunched himself down to look from almost below the table’s surface to see how it varied in its layers, where it raised up and where it pooled, and what this would mean had the potato actually been blood from a body and what situations this information could possibly apply to and how to consider the gaps in accuracy due to its differences from the real deal and when he might be able to see the real deal at such an angle and how and—
“Ed? … Ed?”
“Mm.”
Oswald was calling him—careful not to touch, as touch came as an unpleasant sensation when he was focused as he was in that moment—but it was becoming increasingly difficult to pull himself from his studies, as crude as they admittedly were. The distant pull between the knowing that someone he cared about—the only one he cared about—was calling for his attention, and the one-way track his mind had clicked itself onto—it tugged and strained this way and that until he managed to twitch himself out and up a fraction, wetting his lips as if to prepare them for use.
“Yes, Oswald?” It came out in the usual laser-focused monotone that barely registered as a question, as comprehensive prosody was not exactly his priority at the moment. Oswald didn’t always need the performance, anyway.
“I thought you said you were going to eat something this time.”
“Don’t need to. Not hungry.”
“Your growling stomach says otherwise.”
“Oh.” Ed glanced down at the offending organ, as though a quick glare could shut it up. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, I noticed. Eat something.”
Ed grumbled wordlessly. His spoon was now out of action, having become coated with the bean-and-potato hybrid. The rest of the food was… unappealing. Not that Ed had seen appealing food in the past however-many years—as evidenced by the fact that his body had become even bonier and scrawnier than ever before. Oswald, on the other hand, had grown more rotund over the years, a handsome plushness rounding out his features.
Ed loved it, though he had yet to find a way to fully articulate the thought. As indecipherable as his own feelings were, there was no mistaking the thrill he’d felt when he’d first seen Oswald’s new physique in person. Oswald’s feelings on the matter of their bodies and their changes were, as of yet, unknown to Ed, and so he avoided the topic when possible for fear of discovering that Oswald found Ed’s new look to be too unattractive to be reconciled with. Perhaps, if that were the case, it would be more possible for him to push through the disgust and discomfort of eating what was in front of him—if only he had a functional spoon.
As though reading Edward’s dilemma plainly through his skull—a skill Oswald possessed like no other—Oswald plucked a new spoon from another inmate, clean and unused. The inmate bristled before seeing who it was he’d turned to threaten, instead wilting and accepting his fate of eating with his bare hands from the tray. Across the table sat another man who, Ed was now noticing, had been glaring at Oswald and Ed for quite some time. Ed’s messy experiment had reached farther than initially expected, having partially landed across the burly man’s own meal and even the sleeves of his thick grey uniform.
Oswald returned the man’s look upon noticing the direction of Ed’s gaze, staring down his nose at him. Oswald’s men shifted and tensed throughout the room, readying themselves, some half-raising from their seats. No conflict arose, the tension in the air diffusing when the man angrily shovelled the mess into his mouth without complaint, huffing but otherwise not kicking up any more fuss.
Slowly, as though it were about to spring to life and bite him, Edward picked up the clean spoon and tentatively dragged it along the section of mashed potato that was still untouched. He inspected the scoop closely to ensure that there were no traces of beans before taking a very small mouthful. He managed to swallow it, but the awareness that the mass of potato was still in some way connected to the beans made it difficult to return for a second bite. Oswald noticed his discomfort, placing his hand on the back of Ed's own.
“How about the bread?”
Ed eyed it suspiciously.
“Just one bite. For me.”
Well, that was all that was needed, apparently. Ed found the courage to pinch the corner of a dry, bland slice of bread just plain enough to eat. It was crunchy and fell apart in his mouth like a crumbling brick. The taste was indescribable, in that there was none. It was, thankfully, still food, and so upon swallowing Ed was rewarded with Oswald’s approval, topped off with a smile. Riding off the wave of this newfound high, Ed managed a further four bites, almost finishing the slice by the end of mealtime. This was a new record for him, in the context of this past month, and so he allowed himself the pride that came with his achievement.
Although it was clear to Ed that Oswald was happy with his eating, there were still a few too many crinkles around his forehead and eyes, and perhaps it was becoming increasingly obvious to Oswald that in most contexts five bites of bread did not an accomplishment make. Ed’s particularities had been easier to navigate when there had been more control, Ed found—when he had the medical apparatus available to extract whatever unapproved substances found themselves in his meals, and when he had the agency to plan, cook, and prepare everything himself. It was one of the driving forces in his pursuit of becoming an excellent cook—seeing everything laid out in front of him, making the decisions himself and knowing with certainty that there would be a uniform texture, an expected taste, and nothing touching anything it wasn’t supposed to touch.
Despite his obvious worry, Oswald's brow forced itself to raise and he gave a half smile, feigning satisfaction—but his gaze lingered on the hollowing planes of Ed's face and the jut of collarbone beneath his Blackgate uniform.
A few days passed before Ed found himself standing half-stunned at the entrance of their cell. There was a new addition to the room, sitting prim and proper and wrapped in green bows on Ed’s cot. It was shockingly pretty against its dour surroundings.
“You got me cranberry muffins?”
Oswald beamed. “A whole basket, just for you.”
“They’re my favourite.”
“I remember.”
Of course he did.
It was only when the crumbs of the first few muffins had been wiped away and the delicious aftertaste was dancing on his tongue that Ed remembered the appropriate response. Pushing up his glasses with the back of his hand to keep them clean, he made sure to make eye contact when he smiled and said, “Thank you.”
Oswald, sitting by his side on the bed, practically glowed in response. It was a wonder, to Ed, that something so simple could warrant such a joyous face, and it made him hope for more and more ways to coax that smile and brightness about the eyes to come up to the surface.
That thought was quickly erased as a thumb came up to swipe at the corner of his mouth, filling his head with static at the sensation of a gentle finger pad ever-so-slightly moving the skin beneath it.
“You had a crumb,” Oswald said, startled, as though the act had occurred without his consultation. “Sorry, I—”
“Thank you,” Ed repeated, his own hand coming up to paw at the place he’d been touched. The space by his lip buzzed under his fingers, a giddy energy churning in his gut. Then, as if waking himself from a dream, he said, “Do you want some?”
“Hm?” Oswald tensed, eyes wide.
“Cranberry muffins.”
“Oh. Oh!” He chuckled, head dipping down. “I better not. I could do with losing a few.”
“I disagree.”
Oswald stared, then, as though Ed had said something incomprehensible. “You do?”
“Yes. Do you want a cranberry muffin? Or two? Or however many you want?”
Brows raised, Oswald’s eyes flickered between Edward and the muffins, seeming as though he thought this to be some kind of test, before finally reaching for a muffin of his own.