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Oswald could stare into Jim's eyes forever.
They were just so blue.
Oswald's own eyes were blue, maybe a little green, but they were dead grey in comparison. Cloudy, threatening to rain any second. That tinge of green likely from chemical compounds plaguing the river, picked up as it evaporated. Oswald was a true Gothamite.
Jim's, however, were a glimpse into skies far, far from Gotham. Clear, summer skies of fairy tales. Oswald had lost his faith in a higher power long ago, yet it couldn't be anything other than fate that set Jim in his path so Oswald could have a glimpse outside the city he was bound to. It was more than his wretched self deserved, not that that would stop him from stealing glances like Monet's in the art gallery. It was a pity the low lights of the Iceberg Lounge caused Jim's pupils to nearly eclipse his irises.
Jim hardly looked back, obscuring his view with a fan of lashes, but that's okay. Jim couldn't tell he was drowning that way.
Jim couldn't help staring at Oswald's lips.
It was the cowards way out, dodging the piercing silver of his eyes, framed by the perfect spikes of his eyelashes. So perfect, Jim wondered if he individually arranged them in the mirror with teasers like the intricate shapes in his hair. Jim feared looking too long would hypnotise him. If he avoided his eyes, he could concentrate on navigating his maze of deception. So Jim stopped looking at Oswald's eyes, and listened by watching the words form on his lips.
But that's how Jim fell into his trap.
Each twitch of those lips were memorised and categorised with a whole section dedicated to his smirks. First, he caught onto the subtle displeased twists. Seeing them was a sign Jim was winning whatever argument it was, and the sight brought some smug satisfaction. Then, there was the upward twitch Oswald smoothed out by pressing his lips tight together, and Jim didn't care he was losing. He just wanted to gently pry them open. It was when Oswald spoke that he truly struggled to keep the upward tilt in the corner under control. Sometimes though, he was too pleased by his own cunning to hide a smirk, and a hint of sharp, polished teeth were shown.
Those lips became the highlight of his dreams. His whole catalogue of observations misappropriated in the creation of an impressionist painting of how soft they would feel on his skin... or the scrape of a healing split... the pleased curve they'd make against his neck... the marks his teeth would leave...
At least Oswald had the self control Jim lacked to look him in the eyes. Hopefully he couldn't see the redness creeping up Jim's neck in his peripheral.