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Ed had it all wrong. That much Oswald had surely proven beyond any doubt. It was never that he was incapable of love. Too much heart had always been Oswald's problem. He didn't feel in shades of grey. Only the truest, most vibrant hues could capture the range of his emotions. He was never sad. He was deeply, sorrowfully blue. Never jealous, only poisonous, envious green. It was hardly his fault that for him hatred and love bled the same color. His passion had always been flaming red.
Edward was supposed to know him. It wasn't as though Oswald hid his true nature from him. He had been an open book from the very beginning and he'd been certain Ed read carefully every line. How else was it possible?
Edward somehow anticipated his every need and want before Oswald even knew it himself. He saw the yellow-bellied fear behind his insistance that they rig the election results. Fear, not of loss, but born of a longing to be chosen, be accepted. Loved. Ed, who showed him he was. Edward understood too and related to the bruising purple left in him after time spent in Arkham. How they each received wounds deeper than the flesh there. By the glow of his hearth, they shared orange comfort, conversing and reminiscing long into the night. It was as intimate and warm as any moment Oswald shared with his late mother.
Was he truly alone in it all?
Sure, it got messy at times. Shy and pink at others. But Oswald never doubted it was mutual. Peas in a pod and opposites attract and all that. They had been good together. Thriving together. And isn't the best significant other also a best friend? They had it all together.
Could Edward really not see that? Was his vision so black and white? Blue for boys and pink for girls. Oswald killed her. An eye for an eye and a death for a death. For a man of riddles, it shouldn't be so cleancut and straightforward. But Oswald must be black and white and read all over. Edward saw through him and knew nothing at all.
Oswald refused to believe that. He believed in Ed, in their connection, their understanding and acceptance and everything they shared with one another. He believed in it until nearly the end. It was only as passion bled through his fingers and rage turned blue in Edward's eyes that the confusion set in. Then all Oswald knew was the brown, murky waters his body submerged in. And that falling feels an awful lot like sinking. He must have mistaken the two.