I don't love you.
Oswald would gasp and only then would he register pain. Looking down, he'd see red blooming across his chest. He clutched at his wound. Life seeped through his fingers. Then looking back up, he'd see the smoking gun in Ed's hand. That same cruel hand that only seconds before pulled him so close. Now he was pushed away. He'd wake up choking on nothing but the memory of it, eyes stinging with unshed tears.
Horrible as these were, they were not the worst nightmares he faced that night. One thing terrified Oswald more than being betrayed, but he never knew it until it was too late. He would always be so sure in the moment. Unable to forgive. Unable to trust. Because he knew without doubt who his enemies were. In these dreams, he was the one holding the gun. In these, he did not wake gasping. Not even once the deed was done and a body lay dead at his feet.
Only then Oswald realized the true form of his fear. With blood on his hands and pain in his heart, he was made to know it. The shape was a desolate, gaping void that he would never be able to fill. It was too late. He was utterly alone. Unlovable. He always would be and it was by his own doing. In his resulting anguish, he was left wretchedly begging.
Don't leave me! Please don't go!
(с)
Господи, как же жалко Пингвина, ну ебаный же ж в рот.