Oscar stumbles across Edward in the training room up on the third floor. He quietly peeks inside through the door, left ajar. There is nobody else inside.

An angry flush dusts Edward’s cheeks and crystal beads of sweat are visible upon his skin, even at this distance. Edward pants, furrowed brows creasing further. Curiously, Oscar strains forward for a better look.

In Edward’s hand is a sword-like object, thin and wobbly. There are training dummies lined up against the wall on one side of the room and mats piled up on the other.

“Who’s there?” Edward shouts.

Startled, Oscar backs away, tripping over himself and falling onto the floor.

“Oh, it’s just you, Oscar,” Edward sighs in relief. He runs over just as Oscar gets up, thoroughly embarrassed by his clumsy fall. “What are you doing up here?”

Exploring where I’m not supposed to be. “I was looking for William,” Oscar lies. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing to the thing in Edward’s hands.

“Oh, this? It’s a foil. Kind of like a sword but not really.” He flicks it and it wobbles back and forth. “See? It’s not really a blade and it’s not that sharp. I’m just practicing fencing.”

Oscar vaguely recollects reading about the sport in one of the library books he’d gotten his hands on years ago.

“Do you want to try?” Edward asks.

Oscar’s eyes widen and he quickly peers around, making sure there’s nobody else that’ll see them here. Once he’s satisfied, he turns back to Edward, grinning. “Yeah.”

Edward hands him the foil. It’s lighter than Oscar expects.

“So, there’s a basic position called en garde,” Edward starts. “It’s important for balance and movement. Stand with your heels together.”

Oscar does that.

“Perpendicular,” Edward corrects him, “because you want the foot closest to your opponent to be facing directly at them. That one’s your front foot. Now stand shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees. More. No, less. Don’t let your knees go beyond your toes.”

“This feels weird,” Oscar mutters. “When do we get to use the foil?” He swishes it around and Edward leaps out of the way.

“Hey, Oscar,” Edward snaps, “be patient.”

“Yes, young master.”

“Shut up. Now, hold your foil like this,” Edward demonstrates. “There’s about a fist’s distance between my elbow and body, and the guard—that’s this—is slightly above the elbow.” He taps the ring around the hilt of the handpiece. “Your other hand should be held back, to help you balance.”

“Now can we get on with it?” Oscar whines, swishing the foil blade around.

“Yes, but you have to move your feet in that position only.”

“Eh? That’s weird.”

“I’m not the one who invented fencing.”

Oscar relaxes. “You know, you’ve had a frown on your face this whole time, Edward. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Edward replies curtly.

Oscar raises his brows. “Huh. Okay. Whatever you say, young master.” He gets a playful punch to his arm.

They grin at each other, mischievous eyes twinkling.

“What if,” Edward begins, “you found out somebody really important to you might die?”

Oscar raises his brows. “Where did this come from?”

“I’m serious, Oscar. What would you do if you couldn’t exactly tell them you’re worried about that?”

Oscar thinks for a moment. “I’d go behind their backs and investigate. They’re not dead yet, but if I’m so sure of something bad happening to them, I’d secretly try to stop it from happening in the first place.”

Edward nods. “That’s what I thought I’d do too. But I feel like I’m still missing something. And I’m a bit of a failure myself,” he laughs hoarsely.

“How so?”

“I mean, I’m very bad at fencing. At other sports. At other martial arts. I can’t dance either.”

“Really?” Oscar hides a laugh.

“Wow, that’s not very nice, Oscar.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Oscar clears his throat. “Well, I mean, there’s something you must be better at.”

“I like to think I’m pretty good on the piano,” Edward shrugs. “But that’s not much use in my case. I know it takes practice and time to get good at anything, really, but I don’t think I have that luxury.”

Oscar remembers the elegant melody that floated out of the window that day, weeks ago, when he accepted his contract with Adelle. A soft melody that rose like a torrent into a thunderstorm and fell into the golden fields of wheat underneath drifting sunlight. The music that was both spring and winter at the same time, that made him tremble inside and unravelled a muted sadness and melancholy in his soul. “You are.”

“But you’ve never heard me play?”

Oops. “I-I mean, I’m sure you’re really good. A genius, even.”

Edward gazes at him with curious grey eyes. “Really? I’ll have to play for you sometime, then.” He grins almost smugly. “Just to see if I really am a genius like you say.”

“So, you have to find something like a talent, is that it?”

“The word father used was ‘specialty’. But for more…physical stuff I think.” Edward’s eyes darken. “And so far, it seems like I’m a mess at everything.”

“Let’s make a list. Of everything you’ve tried.” Oscar tugs Edward outside the room and down the stairs.

“Is it okay? Don’t you have a lot of work to do?”

Oscar puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell William.”

“Oh, you’re going to be in big trouble, young man.”

Oscar just laughs as they run down the stairs and towards Edward’s study. This is not because I want to know how hard it will be for me to kill him.

By the time they’re finished making a list of everything and anything that Edward’s ever tried—and had been deemed as ‘not your specialty’ by his father—the sun wanes in the afternoon sky.

“Well,” Oscar remarks, “that’s a lot.”

“I told you,” Edward sighs.

Oscar laughs and Edward glares at him, shutting him up. “Well, I mean, piano also requires some semblance of physical coordination, right? Like your hands and feet.”

“That’s different.”

“Sure, but also not really.”

“It’s okay. Thanks for trying to help me figure things out, Oscar. You should get back to your work now. William will get suspicious if I keep defending you.”

“Then just say it was your idea again.” For some reason, Oscar finds himself really wanting to prove to Edward that he’s got more than just piano that he can be proud of. Looking down at the scrawling list before them again, Oscar scratches his head as he thinks.

“It’s fine, honestly. So far, Father’s kept me on fencing the longest. I can just—”

“Archery,” Oscar blurts. “Archery. Projectiles and aiming. Stuff like that. You haven’t tried any of that yet.”

“What? But that’s a little—”

“You have to have a target board somewhere here, right? And a bow and arrows. Given that you guys have literally everything,” Oscar presses, eagerly looking at Edward.

“Uh, yeah. We do.”

Edward brings Oscar into his father’s empty study. “I can’t reach the top shelf, but there’s a target board up there. See that thing sitting on top of the bookshelf?”

Oscar’s already pushing the chair over.

“Hey, Oscar!” Edward whisper-shouts. “You can’t just take Father’s chair!”

“Why not? He won’t find out.”

“Oh my god,” Edward gapes. “Sacrilegious.”

“Do you want to get it, or should I?”

“I’ll get it,” Edward says, rubbing his temples. “Forgive me for stepping on your chair, Father.”

He comes down after a few moments, the board under one arm. “Let’s go.”

They run back to the training room upstairs. Oscar steadies the target board, rings of yellow, red, blue, black, and white leaning against the wall.

“You know how to do this, right?” Oscar asks, just to be sure.

“In theory. I tried it once when the Otani family came to visit us. That’s when I got my bow. I read up on it a bit after.”

“Otani family?”

“Old friends of the Blackwood family. Father had business with them.”

Oscar backs away and watches Edward straighten his posture, feet shoulder width apart.

“I think it went something like this,” Edward continues. “But I can’t really remember what the book said.” He glances back at Oscar, uncertainty scrawled over his face.

“Forget about books. Just do whatever feels natural,” Oscar encourages.

Edward shifts his stance, angling his feet slightly. He angles the bow slightly and pulls back. And then he releases.

Thwack!

The arrow lands in the smaller inner circle, slightly off to the left.

“Hey, not bad!” Oscar cheers.

“Huh,” Edward sniffs. “That was probably a happy accident.”

“Then try it again.”

Edward loads another arrow, pulling it back. He releases.

Thwack!

Once again, the arrow lands in the center, but this time slightly off to the right.

“Maybe you should show your father this,” Oscar remarks. “That ought to show him you’ve got a specialty.”

“No,” Edward says, voice shaking. “That was luck.”

But the next time, the outcome is the same. And the next. And the next.

“That’s not possible,” Edward objects, lowering the bow. Strangely, his agitation only grows. “Nothing is that easy. Nothing! I’m not supposed to be good at this kind of thing! That’s how it’s supposed to be. I mean, if I was supposed to be good at archery, why am I only finding out now?”

Oscar gently places a hand on his trembling arm. “Think for a moment. Was piano difficult for you to learn? Has anything like this happened before?”

Edward frowns. “When I was four, I once imitated my father’s playing on the piano after hearing it once. He got me an instructor the very next day.” He bites his lip. “…I guess that shouldn’t be possible either. That a kid who knows nothing about the instrument would be able to play it correctly.”

“And yet it is possible.” Oscar gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “That must be what your father means by specialty. True, out-of-this-world talent. And you have that.”

Edward relaxes his tense shoulders. “I suppose you’re right, Oscar.” He brushes back his bangs. “It’s just frustrating that I discovered this so late. I bet it could’ve saved both my father and me a lot of pain if we tried this earlier instead of switching to something new all the time.”

Suddenly, Oscar turns away from Edward. There’s a sharp stinging in his chest, an ugly feeling he can’t fully bury. He doesn’t know what it is.

“Hey, Oscar, thank you so—”

Edward’s hand comes to rest on Oscar’s shoulder and he snarls, slapping it away.

“Oscar?” Edward asks, confused.

Oscar swallows, surprised at himself. He turns back to Edward quickly, stammering, “S-sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine.” Edward laughs softly. “You know, you’re super weird. I usually trust my intuition when I meet somebody. At first, I didn’t know if I’d like you or not.”

“But?” Oscar leaves the question hanging in the air. Huh, I thought he’s the type to easily let his guard down. Thought we were already friends.

“But sometimes I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me, and sometimes I can’t tell what you’re thinking at all. And then you go and do something like this, going out of your way to try and help me when you don’t have to, which makes me think yeah, I really do like you.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Some small part of Oscar worries and suspects that Edward is hinting to his true motives here. But he shakes it off. Impossible.

“Oh!” Edward cries, dropping the bow in his hands. “We forgot to move the chair back in father’s study!”

Oscar’s eyes widen. “Shite.”

Edward looks scandalized. “Oscar, you have a dirty mouth.”

“Priorities, Edward.”

They dash down the stairs, racing to cover their tracks.

I was wrong, Oscar realizes. About Edward. He’s really just as spoiled as they come. Annoying. He just hides it better. He admitted as much himself, the hypocrite.

In his time here at Blackwood Manor, he had forgotten that there are two types of people. The ones who ask others to be friends and the ones who get asked to be friends.

Edward is the former. Oscar knows now the true purpose of Edward treating him, a nobody, like a friend: self-indulgence, because nobody will indulge Edward. A defense mechanism to coddle Edward’s fragile mind and spoil himself into thinking he’s on equal standing with everyone. What’s worse is that the difference is easy to see: no matter how much Edward turns a blind eye to his own ‘specialness’ and treats Oscar as if he’s the ‘special’ one, all it takes is a little effort—a little subconscious reminder—for Edward to rise far, far above him, out of his reach. Soaring above and away from everyone who bled for years to get to where they are.

If I were him, Oscar ponders, gazing at the radiant smile on Edward’s face, I’d never pretend to be weak. There’s no point anyways. In the end, he’ll just realize what he already had to begin with.

Edward is fundamentally different from him.

And Oscar doesn’t know how to feel about that.

After all, he has no talent, no specialty, no uniqueness that stands to be out of this world. Only hard work, sacrifice, and blood on his hands will keep him from drowning.

So, he doesn’t mind indulging Edward. If Edward wants him to be his friend, he’ll do it, if only out of pity.

He’ll indulge himself too, in this beautiful dream for just a moment. But he won’t lose himself inside it. The twisting and stabbing of his heart right now is proof of that resolve. It’s not wrong for him to feel this way.

Nobody wants a tragic fate if they can help it. Hidden in the shadows of the stage, unseen and unheard. Relegated to be supporting characters—at best, obstacles—for the main cast. Nobody looks at people like them—like him. So, he has to make them.

I would know, Oscar laughs. Because he does. He always has. He just forgot.

He won’t forget again.

“Why’re you laughing?” Edward asks.

“Just thinking that it’s nice to have a friend like you,” Oscar smiles. They stop near the master study.

“You’re awfully nice right now,” Edward mutters with quirked lips. He peers carefully into his father’s study. “It scares me.”

Oscar watches with calculating eyes as Edward cranes his neck. People like us can never really be friends.