Work Text:
It had been a few weeks since the portals closed in Vacuo. The situation with the Atlas refugees has thankfully reached a tense compromise, with most of them wanting to scatter to various other areas, such as Mistral and Argus. The Vacuans were all too happy to send them off, and the few that remained were shuffled to various shelters in the city.
And hey - it only took several weeks of screaming matches and meetings to get it done, despite the world-ending threat at their doorstep.
All of this way to say Oscar was managing.
They all were, really. Ren and Nora just lost another teammate and a group of friends, and Emerald was processing her betrayal to both Mercury and Cinder, as well as what it meant to have Salem out for her head. But, despite it all, they kept going.
There was always work to be done.
That was Oscar’s logic in attending all these meetings, going out on various missions, and searching for any clue as to Salem’s next move.
It didn’t matter that his chest never properly healed from Salem’s magic. It didn’t matter that touch made him want to cringe. It didn’t matter that he could barely scrape together two hours of sleep on a good day and stayed awake from a combination of caffeine and sheer will. It didn’t matter that his and Oz’s souls were becoming closer by the moment, that he could feel the friction between them as they rubbed and grinded against each other, resulting in “merge episodes” as they tried to desperately tear themselves apart.
It didn’t matter. None of it did. Trivial concerns to be dismissed in a wave of work.
Unfortunately, one of those tasks was getting a new combat outfit. Oscar’s old one was beyond tattered and stained. Though even if it was in pristine condition, Atlas gear wasn’t built for the dry, sandy heat of Vacuo. In fact, it seemed like all of the tears in his clothing were the only thing preventing him from collapsing from a heat stroke.
Small mercies.
He gripped the Long Memory tightly as he walked through the streets, searching for a quality clothing store.
It felt almost selfish to shop at a time like this, though once Oz had pointed out the aforementioned risk of overheating, Oscar caved. He had contemplated bringing along one of his friends, but ultimately decided against it. All of them had shopped for new outfits within the first week of arriving; he didn’t need to waste their time. And, a bit selfishly, Oscar didn’t want them there. Less risk of them overhearing his mangled breathing, or worse, watching him incapacitated from the strain of tearing his soul away.
Oz said it would be wise to inform them of those merge episodes. Oscar couldn’t disagree more.
Finally spotting a huntsman clothing shop, he ducked inside and eyed the store interior. The walls, like most Vacuan stores, were stone, and plain clothes were lined against them and on racks near the aisles. A checkout stand and tailoring desk were located near the front, while the back of the store housed the changing rooms. It wasn’t busy - aside from the owner, only three other people were there.
With a slight nudge from Oz, he shuffles around, grabbing various clothes to try on and attempting to make vaguely cohesive outfits - a task made easier with the help of an old wizard with centuries of fashion advice and color-matching expertise.
Those pants don’t match that top, Oz replies to Oscar’s silent contemplation. The green top is a warm green, but those pants in your hand are a cool brown. Try matching the top with the light brown pants on the rack.
Oscar blinks at the comment, but follows the advice given to him. Putting the shirt next to the light brown pants reveals that Oz was correct. It does look better, not that Oscar voices the thought to him, though the tickle of amusement in the back of his mind tells him that Oz picked up on it anyway.
Finally, having gathered enough clothes, Oscar goes to the back of the store to secure a changing room. The woman running the area kindly directs him into one of the stalls, and Oscar enters, sorts the various fabrics onto the hooks, and places the Long Memory onto the bench.
He pauses, decidedly not looking in the mirror, as he turns around and carefully begins to undress. His eyes are still closed when he randomly grabs a top to pull over his chest, determined not to touch or even look at the lingering scar.
(Once, in morbid curiosity, Oscar had dug his fingers into his chest, magic dancing under his fingertips, trying to figure out just what She had left there, for it to constantly feel like he was being burned from the inside out. All he had been rewarded with was the utterly agonizing sensation of pain radiating from his core and the friction between his and Oz’s souls.
He never tried to find it again.)
It took longer than he liked, but with Oz’s help, they settled on an outfit both of them were satisfied with.
Like most desert outfits, the outfit covered the arms and legs and was made of light, breathable silk fabric. The top was a green tunic, resembling a kurta, with small, almost floral patterns embroidered below the collar and at the bottom edges. It ended right above the knees, with slits on the side. It was cinched at the waist with a cumberband, similar to his last outfit, but red in color, matching his new (also red) boots, which lacked the insulation his previous ones had. The pants were beige and loose, tucked into the boots. He had an orange cloth tied around his neck, over the bandages on his neck, to use for sandstorms, as well as brown goggles resting atop his head. There were orange gloves as well, though only the thumb, index, and middle fingers were covered, the others bare to allow for breathability.
Overall, it looked… nice. Different. Desert-y.
Oz seemed to agree. You look rather put together, if I do say so myself.
A bit narcissistic, to compliment an outfit you mainly put together, no? Oscar joked.
Nonsense; it’s not narcissism, it’s self-appreciation. There’s a rather big difference, I’ll have you know.
Oscar snorted, changing back into his old clothes and folding up the outfit to pay. He also decided against tailor it to be tighter - the extra room would be helpful if he grew.
It was along the way back that Oz made a comment that had Oscar pausing. Have you ever considered adding an emblem to your outfit?
…No, not really. It isn’t something I really thought about. That, and uh, I don’t really know what I would do for it.
Ozpin hummed. I’m not certain, that would be something for you to decide. But, I think it would be a good way for you to feel more like, well, you.
Something of my own?
Precisely.
Oscar mulled it over, considering. I’ll think about it.
══════════════════
The excitement of new threads lasted all of an hour before it was shattered. Oscar had put away the outfit to be washed and had stepped into the dorm halls, Oz hoping to track down Theodore for any news, when Nora barrelled around the corner. Locking eyes with them, she grabbed their hand and dragged them outside.
“An Atlas ship was spotted flying here, and Qrow is here with Robyn and-”
Whatever else Nora said faded into the background as Oz resigned himself to being dragged and the two felt a build up of dread. Qrow was here.
After Oz’s secrets getting revealed and getting punched into a tree in the snow, Oscar had done his best to avoid interacting with Qrow, and it seemed like Qrow had done much the same. It was necessarily ignoring the other, but neither sought to interact with the other. That, and Oscar was a little bitter about having his identity as a person dismissed and never receiving an apology for it.
Now that Oz was back though, Oscar wasn’t really sure how Qrow would react. Especially once he was told about… his nieces…
As the build up of dread-guilt-sorrow continued, Oscar gently nudged his way back to the front, continuing Oz’s stride without stutter. Words didn’t need to be exchanged - it was for the best that Qrow didn’t know about Oz’s return, not yet.
Nora released her grasp on his arm once they had reached the courtyard. Just as described, an Atlas ship was landed there. Surrounding it were Marrow, Elm, and Harriet, with Robyn and Qrow further away talking to Theodore. All of them looked exhausted.
While Nora and Oscar stood nervously, waiting for them to finish their conversation, Ren had come, standing behind them, all of them silent in anticipation. Emerald was nowhere to be found, and Oscar had a feeling she was actively avoiding the commotion. Oscar wished he could.
Finally, Qrow and Robyn disengaged, and when he caught sight of them, Qrow swiftly made his way over.
“You guys are here, you made it!” he rasps in shock, before his eyes land on Oscar in shock. “I thought you died, kid!”
Oscar blinked. Why would Qrow have thought he had died?
You were marked as deceased after Ironwood shot you off of Atlas.
Oh right. That.
Oscar squirmed under his gaze before reply, “Yea, he uh, kinda mistaked me for dead?” He shrugged, not willing to elaborate as Qrow’s eyes narrowed on he, before deciding there were more important things to discuss. Oscar was just glad to have Qrow’s concern off of him. It felt weird after not having it for well over two months in Atlas and before that in Argus.
That, and it made it easier to try and think about how they were going to break the news to Qrow.
The Gods must really hate Oscar, because as he was silently pleaing for more time, Qrow looked around before asking, “Where’s Ruby and Yang? Actually, where’s team RWBY and Jaune?”
Oscar saw Nora tense up besides him and Ren clutch his fist behind. He exchange a brief, sorrowful glance with Nora before realizing that it would be best for him to tell Qrow. They were already grieving.
He took a cautious step forward, controlling his breathing and pushing down the tears that threatened to fall. “They… didn’t make it.” Oscar glanced up as Qrow’s expression morphed into broken, then something bordering hysterics, as he looked down and continued. “Cinder attacked while we were using the portals, and they were left to defend them. Winter said that they all fell down, and we don’t… know what that means for them.”
He didn’t want to insinuate they were alive, it would be wrong to give hope to Qrow only for them to truly be dead. But at the same time, Oscar was desperately clinging to the idea they were alive. No one saw them die - there wasn’t a corpse, a halting of a heart beat, the cessation of breathing.
(It wasn’t the sensation of shock spreading through veins as organs shut down, one by one, skin blistering and boiling, melting, the feeling of being burnt alive.)
Oz’s memories suggested the existence of another world, one where the Gods were from, and the realm where the Maiden Vaults, and by extension, the portals, had pulled from. For both of their sakes, the desperately hoped that team RWBY and Jaune were simply… in another realm. One that Oz’s memories suggested was dangerous, but survivable.
But that wasn’t something Oscar could give Qrow right now, that desperate hope. So, with the guilt of two people, he stood, head bowed, as he listened to Qrow’s broken chuckle.
“Tai’s gonna kill me.”
The comment transitioned to small, broken cries and hiccups. A small sigh came from behind Qrow, and Oscar chanced a glance up to see Robyn, hugging and comforting him, tucking his head into her shoulder. She made brief eye contact with him, and made a small shoo-ing motion with her hand.
Oscar gladly took the excuse to leave.
══════════════════
Things didn’t stop once Qrow arrived. In fact, it seemed like more was going on than ever. A week after Qrow’s arrival, Maria and Piedro followed suit, and two weeks following that, Professors Port and Oobleck had arrived with a swath of people from Vale, carrying news of increased attacks.
She’s getting desperate for the Crown.
All these arrivals seemed to cause hope to swell in Vacuo, as huntresses and huntsmen flocked to the kingdom in the hope of a final stand. Even Raven and Tai had come to help, two people Oz hadn’t expected to see for very different reasons.
During this time, when Oscar and Oz weren’t stuck in meetings about the Summer Maiden or helping out on missions, they camped in the dark corners of the library. The two of them skimmed every shelf for any idea as to where their missing friends might have gone, powered by the need to drown out the cloud of sorrow that clung and to find answers.
And if it doubled as a way to hide when their souls blended and tore at each other? Well, no one needed to know.
It was near evening when Oscar felt it.
A minor headache, at first. Those weren’t uncommon with the lack of sleep and constant stress. But then it continued and worsened until he truly felt it. The slow grind of his soul against Oz, the shoving of his memories into corners they shouldn’t exist, the burning anguish of centuries of pain in a single moment.
Heartbreak. Drowning. Loneliness. Bleeding out. Betrayal. Organ failure-
Followed by the more grounded pain of a migraine so immense it spanned his body, as he and Oz desperately clawed their souls away from the other, leaving his body collapsed on the floor, paralyzed, save for small twitches.
There were no outside sensations to be understood, both of them trapped inside, fighting like rapid animals against a force neither of them could supersede. It was utterly dehumanizing, the way they internally snarled and clawed out, the feeling of being an immortal both above and below the people around them.
Oscar didn’t know how long it took - seconds, minutes, or even hours - before the two of them tore away from the other in a jagged rip. An uneven tear, always taking more and more of the other, until the colors of their souls matched.
The exhaustion was palpable from Oz as well, neither daring to talk. They rested, both taking stock of themselves, the pieces both new and removed.
Their body must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he was aware of was pushing back the thick layer of drowsiness that accompanied waking up, and feeling his head in someone’s lap and fingers carding through his hair.
With a small groan, he opens his eyes, blinking, and looks up. Ren’s eyes meet his in the dark, concern on his face evident. He searches the younger’s face, seeing who’s home, before speaking.
“Are… you alright, Oscar? I found you passed out on the floor.”
Oscar follows Ren’s eyes as they glance towards the skewed chair in front of them. Right, he and Oz had been reading, hadn’t they? He really hoped he didn’t have a concussion.
He blinked again, slowly moving his gaze back towards Ren. “I’m… fine.” He forces a well-practiced, plastic smile. “I must have been more tired than I thought.”
Ren is hardly satisfied with the answer, though that’s to be expected. The excuse is hollow, even to his ears, but what else is he supposed to come up with?
Oz gives a gentle poke. You could always tell him the truth.
He doesn’t need to worry about me, about this. He already is dealing with a lot, why would I give him more? Oscar mentally rolls his eyes. Besides, it isn’t like he can actually do anything about it.
No, but he could be an ear to listen to, someone to help alleviate your burdens.
No thanks.
During the mental conversation, Ren simply stares silently at him. He wonders what Ren must feel emanating from him. If his emotions were given color, he imagines they would be an ugly, muddled brown.
Finally, after a minute of silence, Oscar moves to get up from Ren’s lap, careful not to move too quickly, before standing up. Ren follows, clasping a hand around Oscar’s shoulder.
“You can always talk to me, or the rest of us.” He pauses. “You know that, right?”
Oscar gives a tired smile. “Of course.”
══════════════════
Unfortunately for Oz’s sanity, Oscar does not follow up on the clear offer Ren gave, nor does he even consider it. It isn’t even that big a deal, anyways. He and the wizard were always going to become one. That there have been some complications in delaying it, are irrelevant - the end result is the same.
Instead, Oscar continues as he always has, taking up missions, attending meetings, and huddling himself in the library (more careful to find better hiding spots and to position himself better when he’s about to get ejected from his body). He doesn’t see his friends as much anymore, but it’s not avoidance. Everyone’s just busy, like they always are. There’s work to be done.
Right now, Oscar had a moment of free time, and rather than spend it hunched over books again, he decided to rope Oz into helping him with something he had suggest a few weeks back.
Does an emblem have some deep meaning when Huntsmen make them, or is it just what they think is cool and all?
That depends, Oz hums. Though, I think you’ll find most have some interpersonal meaning attached to them. It might help you to write down or doodle things that are important to you, regardless of their tangibility.
Write down things that are important, huh?
He ponders. What is important to him?
He draws a small picture of a farm with sheep and his aunt, followed by a forest, then silhouettes of his friends (all of them, though it hurts to draw the ones missing). As a final note, he draws the four relics, the globe, and then, with a smirk, a small doodle of Salem, stabbed and dead. The drawings turned out better than expected, and Oscar refuses to ponder what that means for him.
Oz huffs a laugh at the last drawing. Very artistically inspired, I must say. I can feel your every intention in one fell swoop.
I should hang it in a museum.
Oh? I thought it was narcissism to compliment something you put together, no?
Oscar merely snorts, not bothering to dignify Oz with a response, before refocusing back to the goal at hand.
Plants, he likes plants, if he can, he’d like to incorporate them in. Oz’s symbol of the gear as well - it would feel wrong to completely abandon it. He ponders a bit more, before sketching some designs.
The first is Oz’s gear with a plant inside, but he scraps it, too reminiscent of those recycling ads he’d see on the street. The second idea he favors a bit more, a flower blooming into a gear, but he scraps it too. It looks almost tacky, and he’s never been a big one on flowers.
With some refinement from Oz, Oscar finds a design he doesn’t immediately dislike. A thick vine in a circle, with leaves positioned and shaped to represent the teeth of the gear. It’s all around a softer and simpler design than the grand ones he had tried to make.
I think it looks rather nice, and very fitting, might I add. What do you think of it?
It looks nice. I just don’t think I’m completely sold on it yet. It feels like it’s… missing something?
Hm. Perhaps you should sit on the design a bit more then? Maybe after stewing a bit, you’ll find that missing piece.
Yea, that’s probably a good idea.
══════════════════
Vacuo builds a grave for their missing friends at the outskirts of the academy. It is a large and elegant thing, and people flock there to lay flowers to those who warned them of the impending threat.
Oscar doesn’t visit it.
They aren’t dead.
══════════════════
It’s a quite, Sunday morning. Oz is sitting on the balcony, coffee mug in hand, loaded with an excess of sweetener, while Oscar sits in the back, content to avoid tasting the sugary monstrosity the wizard crafted.
Their eyes are closed, enjoying the cool breeze in the shade, when they hear footsteps getting closer. Paranoid, Oz cocks an ear to discern who without looking, while Oscar leans forward, curious. The footsteps are measured, with the slight click of heals meeting stone.
Turning around, both of their eyes widen upon seeing Qrow approaching them. While they blink, they quickly trade places, the motion fluid and seamless, though Oscar tries not to cringe at the sugary film covering his tongue.
He doesn’t move or say anything, waiting for Qrow to come near them, and opts to watch. The older man looks tired, but better than the first week after arriving. For the first time since Atlas, Oscar sees a determined focus to them as they lock eyes. It’s a bit terrifying, to be on the receiving side of that look, but he’d gladly take it over the numb haze that’s been clouding the man’s gaze until recently.
When Qrow nears, he looms over Oscar, looking into his eyes, searching. Oscar knows what he’s searching for, and fortunately, Oz is tucked away, watching but not interacting. He isn’t sure how much that matters though, given the older man has definitely been told by now of Oz’s return.
When Qrow is done with his inspection, he sits next to Oscar on the bench with a groan. It is silent, until Qrow breaks it, running his fingers through his hair. “I heard about what happen with Salem. I’m sorry. And,” he huffs, “I never apologized to you, back in Argus. I’m… sorry, about that too.”
Oscar blinks in shock. Getting an apology was not on his bingo card for this month, though he’ll gladly take it. He feels a little vindictive, but decides to hold back snarking against a grieving man giving a genuine apology.
“Oh, uh… thanks.”
Qrow snorts at the clumsy words, before sighing. “How are you holding up, kid? With all of…,” he waves his hand around, “this.”
Oscar shrugs, the lie coming easy. “I’m fine. I mean, things are grim, but things are going well. How are you holding up, especially after…”
Qrow eyes him. He doesn’t like the answer, nor does he like the question. Oscar is too tired to muster much care about it. “I’m managing, kid, but don’t say things are ‘fine’. You look like you haven’t slept properly in weeks, and I doubt the wizard’s horror trove of memories is helping.” He side-eyes the comment about Oz, but is grateful when Qrow brushes past it. “Not to mention, I may have lost my nieces, but you lost a lot of friends too, kid.”
He looks away at that. The disappearance of team RWBY and Jaune was awful. Especially the disappearance of both Ruby and Jaune, their leaders and the glue that kept them all together. Without them, it seemed like doubt and hopelessness had crept in, and there was no one to fill the gaps and bring everyone together. Ren and Nora were dealing with finding themselves, Emerald was still adjusting to being with the “good guys,” and Oscar could admit he hadn’t been the best at seeing any of them.
But what right did he have to complain? As Oscar, he didn’t know them for very long, only a year, compared to Ren and Nora’s two, and he wasn’t nearly as close with either of them as their actual teammates. And as Oz, he knew them just as long, but from a distance.
After a sigh, he voiced as much. “I didn’t know them as long as you did, or even Ren and Nora. I’ll… be fine.” He gave a sad smile, “Besides, I feel like I’ve seen a lot of loss, what’s… one more, right?”
Oh, Oscar… I wish those memories didn’t weigh you down.
It is what it is. All we need to focus on is how to stop Salem next.
Qrow seemed to dislike that response as much as Oz, if not more, judging by the gobsmack look on his face. “Oscar. Oscar, Oscar, kiddo, I need you to understand you can mourn them too. They were your friends too. And it’ll be fine? I don’t know how you’re functioning after an encounter with Salem, of all people, much less also losing your friends in the same swoop. I know I wouldn’t be.”
He blinked incredulously. “What… choice do I have? There are things that need to be done, it’s Oz and I’s job. I, we, can’t turn away from that.”
Qrow patted his shoulder as Oscar tried not to flinch. “Maybe you have some important duty or whatever, but no one’s gonna fault you for taking a break, kid. Gods know we all need them, immortal wizard or not.”
With those words, he stood up with a grunt and began walking away, not looking at Oscar’s wide-eye stare. “Oh and, you have no missions today or tomorrow morning. Heard about you passing out in the library. Do us all a favor and sleep, yea?”
Did he seriously just take me off my missions? He’s not my dad!
Amusement practically radiated off of Oz. Well, you do need rest.
Oscar hunched his shoulders in some conglomerate of embarrassment and shame, and resigned himself to a very boring day. It is filled with sleep, lazing around, and contemplation with an old wizard. And at the end of it all, he pulls out the picture of his emblem and adds a small rose to the vine.