[Perhaps ironically, the brand of too close they get to is one Oswald can deal with. It's direct intimation, a kind that he's seen before and used shades of himself in very particular circumstances. On the tail end of the tongue-to-skin contact though, he's a little less secure on the inside, his breathing coming out in purposefully slow, hard huffs through his nose as he forces himself to be rigid in his position--it's a game of chicken.
Or it was, right up until the rules suddenly change.
Oswald's eyes widen as a noise catches in his throat, that itchy, scratchy feeling at the back of his head earlier suddenly clicking into place as he makes a few wordless wobbles with his jaw, groping for thoughts and words.]
What?!
[He says is with such a lack of oxygen that it mostly comes out as a harsh whisper that almost loses the 't' entirely.
And then there are hands on his wrists making him whip his head from side to side in a renewed wave of panic though this time mainly from feeling utterly spun around. But the switchblade he'd borrowed from Ed upon his arrival remains tucked away somewhere far beneath his pillow.]
... Victor Zsasz?! But you-- You don't-- You're-- [He's still not even sure what he's trying to express really, the disbelief is intense but somehow he also can believe it and that means that if he wants to, like really wants to, this Victor Zsasz truly could render Oswald a bloodied pile only vaguely resembling a person in a matter of moments.
He swallows, making a slow attempt to slide his hands back into view rather than directly struggle against the grasp or risk reaching further back.]
I... am not going to do anything foolish, let me assure you of that.
🤩
Or it was, right up until the rules suddenly change.
Oswald's eyes widen as a noise catches in his throat, that itchy, scratchy feeling at the back of his head earlier suddenly clicking into place as he makes a few wordless wobbles with his jaw, groping for thoughts and words.]
What?!
[He says is with such a lack of oxygen that it mostly comes out as a harsh whisper that almost loses the 't' entirely.
And then there are hands on his wrists making him whip his head from side to side in a renewed wave of panic though this time mainly from feeling utterly spun around. But the switchblade he'd borrowed from Ed upon his arrival remains tucked away somewhere far beneath his pillow.]
... Victor Zsasz?! But you-- You don't-- You're-- [He's still not even sure what he's trying to express really, the disbelief is intense but somehow he also can believe it and that means that if he wants to, like really wants to, this Victor Zsasz truly could render Oswald a bloodied pile only vaguely resembling a person in a matter of moments.
He swallows, making a slow attempt to slide his hands back into view rather than directly struggle against the grasp or risk reaching further back.]
I... am not going to do anything foolish, let me assure you of that.