01-25-2026, 06:18 PM
Ozy’s laughter was an easy, musical sound that carried just far enough to be overheard, then died precisely when he wished it to. It drew a few glances.
“You’re not wrong,” he said, voice light, conversational. “When you’re neck-deep in decadence, it stops being something you taste and becomes something you drown in.” His eyes flicked, amused, to the woman, then away again. She was already irrelevant. “Maybe we all need to slum it in Oslo once in a while.”
He offered the tease with a glint of mischief, as if the thought genuinely entertained him. It didn’t. Oslo was a punchline. The joke was for Elend; to disarm, to signal familiarity, to suggest shared cynicism about the world’s excesses. Ozy didn’t slum anything.
“But really,” he continued, leaning forward, holding eye contact clearly enough to create a pocket of intimacy amid the roar of the club, “this is where you belong.”
The words were chosen carefully. Belong was a dangerous term. It implied gravity and inevitability.
He reached across the table and placed his fingers lightly on the back of Elend’s palm. Ozy felt it immediately: The warmth of skin, the tension beneath it. Not resistance. Not withdrawal. Interesting. He didn’t press. Pressing would have turned the moment into a contest. Instead, he let his fingers rest as if they had always been there, as if removing them would be the unnatural act. A trick he’d learned long ago: make the other man decide whether to break contact. Power lived in who moved first. So he withdrew after a few moments, wondering if Elend would follow.
“This place,” Ozy went on, eyes lifting to take in the club, the lights, the bodies, the obedient rise and fall of sound echoing inside their skull, “it sharpens people. Or it reveals that they were dull all along.” His gaze returned to Elend, pale and assessing. “You never struck me as dull.”
Ozy leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, expression settling into relaxed confidence. Inside, his thoughts moved faster. “The problem with Manifesto is that it doesn’t give clarity. It gives mirrors.”
He gestured vaguely toward the dance floor. “So tell me,” Ozy said, tone idle, but interest suddenly piqued, “what did you hope you’d see when you looked into mine?”
“You’re not wrong,” he said, voice light, conversational. “When you’re neck-deep in decadence, it stops being something you taste and becomes something you drown in.” His eyes flicked, amused, to the woman, then away again. She was already irrelevant. “Maybe we all need to slum it in Oslo once in a while.”
He offered the tease with a glint of mischief, as if the thought genuinely entertained him. It didn’t. Oslo was a punchline. The joke was for Elend; to disarm, to signal familiarity, to suggest shared cynicism about the world’s excesses. Ozy didn’t slum anything.
“But really,” he continued, leaning forward, holding eye contact clearly enough to create a pocket of intimacy amid the roar of the club, “this is where you belong.”
The words were chosen carefully. Belong was a dangerous term. It implied gravity and inevitability.
He reached across the table and placed his fingers lightly on the back of Elend’s palm. Ozy felt it immediately: The warmth of skin, the tension beneath it. Not resistance. Not withdrawal. Interesting. He didn’t press. Pressing would have turned the moment into a contest. Instead, he let his fingers rest as if they had always been there, as if removing them would be the unnatural act. A trick he’d learned long ago: make the other man decide whether to break contact. Power lived in who moved first. So he withdrew after a few moments, wondering if Elend would follow.
“This place,” Ozy went on, eyes lifting to take in the club, the lights, the bodies, the obedient rise and fall of sound echoing inside their skull, “it sharpens people. Or it reveals that they were dull all along.” His gaze returned to Elend, pale and assessing. “You never struck me as dull.”
Ozy leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, expression settling into relaxed confidence. Inside, his thoughts moved faster. “The problem with Manifesto is that it doesn’t give clarity. It gives mirrors.”
He gestured vaguely toward the dance floor. “So tell me,” Ozy said, tone idle, but interest suddenly piqued, “what did you hope you’d see when you looked into mine?”