Since rising in rank, Oswald has eaten in a lot of high end restaurants, many boasting rich and decadent menus along with equally impressive selections of drinks. It was a perk of organised crime that slotted into the things he dreamed of and never had access to growing up, something he wanted so badly to let his mother experience too.

But outside of his need to put on a front for his position now, Oswald can appreciate a good home cooked meal. And what Ed has provided is, indisputably, a good home cooked meal. In fact, if he casts his mind back it has been quite some time since he's been in a position like this--at a personal, home table in a kitchen instead of one that stretches across the full length of a room that he can virtually see his own reflection in from the polished wood. It's been a long time since he's been a space where the scent of the food being prepared lingers in the close air. And it's been a long time since he's sat down to eat in clothes that aren't tailored and buttoned to such precise personal measurements.

It's all so... nice. Which is a pathetic kind of word to ascribe to a quiet moment in a sex city across the table from the man who shot Oswald after he killed his girlfriend, but it is exactly that. It's also very bitter-sweet, the kind of moment that Oswald can imagine waking from at any moment and then cursing himself furiously for his mind having concocted such a humiliating desire.

"I was about to reopen the club."

Of all the things he could break the silence with as he slows into a steadier pace of eating, Oswald's really not sure why that's what comes out of his mouth first, why he wants Ed to know. There are so many other, grander achievements he could fluff up about, but it's this one that comes out. The more humble and arguably most personally complicated.