Innocence.

I don't mean the physical innocence, either. I'm not certain I was ever physically innocent.

What I mean is the innocence of life. Of looking at everything with bright eyes and complete trust. As a young man, I thought nothing could harm me or those I loved. Life was mine, and I intended to enjoy it with all I was. I ran from experience to experience without thought of price or consequence.

That is the innocence I lost.

Suddenly, I was afraid. I weighed every action, every glance, every word I spoke. I scoffed at society's narrow point of view while trying desperately to be a respectable member of it at the same time. Frustration took root in my heart, and I don't think I remembered how to be happy any longer.

The loss of the innocence, of the freedom not to worry, stole my happiness as surely as society stole my naiveté. It's all rather morose, and so I busy myself with work and sheltering others from losing that which I lost so long ago.

It's the least I can do, after all.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 185

Robbie had found himself constantly distracted.

It was frustrating, since he had quite a lot of work to do with the gallery. Freddie was almost never home, which Robbie didn't mind since the young man was... well... young. He remembered his own youth, when all that mattered was the fun he could have. Robbie didn't begrudge Freddie his freedom.

Besides, the artificial interest Freddie would summon up for Robbie grated on Robbie's nerves.

Every time Robbie turned a corner, he wondered if he would happen upon that foggy, eerily quiet version of Tite Street from a past he'd never been able to escape. Tonight was no different.

As he left the gallery, with so little work completed, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the railings of the stairs that led away from the building. He inhaled deeply and looked about at the still, quiet early Autumn night. Already winter's chill could be felt, and Robbie smiled to himself before beginning the walk home.

He was lost in his thoughts, which often returned to Oscar as of late, as he walked and smoked. It wasn't until there was absolute silence around him that he woke from his reverie and saw he was on the quiet, deserted Tite Street he'd visited by happenstance once before. He draws once more on his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it under his shoe and heads towards Oscar's townhouse, grinning boyishly and hoping the poet found his way here as well.

Exceptionally wise? Who can claim that title, I ask you.

When I was a boy, I found Oscar and his cohorts amazingly wise, terribly witty, and I followed them about as any starry-eyed child would. As I grow older, I cannot say I believe any of them had been particularly wise. This might be why I never go to any of them for advice.

Wisdom. A tricky trait. Everyone I ever thought to be wise has proven to me how false that façade was. It's been a horrid disappointment to me. I continue to wonder who they had seen as wise, and if those men had been as equally unwise in retrospect.

Now, as my years advance, the younger men come to me. They ask me my advice. They look at me as I remember myself looking at others. I am careful with my words, quiet and unassuming. I do not want to be wise. I do not feel wise.

I wonder, had any of the men I'd gone to -- Oscar, O.B., Edmund -- thought themselves particularly wise? They gave them impression they thought so, but I begin to wonder.

If I had to choose someone, anyone, I believed was wise... I suppose it would have to be Eliza Ross. My mother was quiet, protective, and made no decision without forethought and understanding of all consequences.

That, in my opinion, is wisdom, and only one person can I claim to have known possessed it.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 245

The question is worded in a way that seems absolute.

Where do I see myself in twenty years?

I prefer, where do I hope to see myself in twenty years?

I hope to be an old man, living in a cottage without fear of persecution by a man I once called friend. I'd like to not look over my shoulder or quarrel with my lover over who was lurking in the shadows when we came home. In twenty years, I would hope the world had change sufficiently enough that I could live quietly, respectably, surrounded by art and words and flowers.

Hope is a brilliant thing. It keeps everything alive, doesn't it? A small word. A simple word. Yet it harbours so much in it. I hope to find enjoyment in twenty years after spending the last thirty odd ones working for something I can't quantify. I've kept myself busy, and so I begin to wonder what an idle life might be.

But that isn't the question you asked me, is it?

No, you asked where do I see myself twenty years from now.

The sad truth is, I see myself dead. An idle life I may crave, but it isn't one I shall ever indulge in. I will drive myself right into the ground, I think, striving for that unquantifiable thing.

That is where I see myself in twenty years.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 231

I would suppose relief. I have no need for revenge, and vindication -- to me -- is merely a passive form of revenge. Relief, though, is an amazing emotion to feel. I've felt it too rarely in my life.

I was relieved when I fled to France. I would not stand in the dock with Oscar, but I still feel some guilt over that. It was guilty relief. Why should we not stand beside him? Yet, the relief to know I would suffer no prison time or humiliation before the public can't be denied.

Relief when Oscar died.

How can I have felt such relief? It was another guilty relief, I would have to admit. I missed him. Missed him terribly. But his harsh words and unhappiness had become my daily strife, and when that ended, there was sad, empty relief. The day-to-day burden of loving Oscar was over the moment he passed, and there was a physical easing in that knowledge.

Relief never comes without guilt.

Revenge is bitter, and even at the moments when I hated Bosie with blinding surety, I never sought revenge.

No.

That's a lie.

I think, in the end, my publication of De Profundis was my revenge. A way to make him pay for squandering something so precious, something I had desperately wanted: Oscar's love. But I felt no vindication or relief in the publication of Oscar's deepest hurt.

Now that I think about it, none of them are an exquisite sensation. All are bogged down in guilt, jealousy, spite, and hatred. I am not a man to often relish any of those things, and so revenge, relief, and vindication are not things I actively seek.

Not anymore.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 284

They'd woken early.

Dressed.

Had breakfast (which Robbie had apologized for again and again because it had been cold and quick).

Packed.

Robbie had even, in a rush, taken Miniver to a local tailor and had chosen a few suits (one was perhaps a bit too big, and the other the sleeves too long, but Robbie thought the poet looked lovely).

Now, seated on the train, Robbie smiles sweetly at Miniver as the scenery of England in winter passes them by.

"Are you excited?" he asks quietly.

His rooms are basic.

Desk, bed, chairs, wardrobe, and a bookshelf.

He drops his books and papers onto the desk and goes around lighting the lamps before he huffs and flops down into a chair.

So refined.

Robbie looks at Miniver. "I can sleep on the floor," he says, nodding to the bed.

It would fit two snugly, and Robbie was not making assumptions.

Do I have any secrets?

I'm not sure I do. My life has been lived with the hopes of never having secrecy shadow it. Secrecy tends to mean one is ashamed of something, and nothing in my life shames me. I can't even claim the love of my life as a secret, since the world has known for some time now. Even when it was new, it was known, I think, by those closest to me.

While I may not have always been forthright in my life, I've never hidden anything. Hiding things could lead to blackmail and extortion. I've seen those I loved used in such a manner for the secrets they hid. I vowed, at a very young age, to never allow myself to be manoeuvred into such a situation. When O.B. took me to the Isle of Wight when I was a young man suffering from my own demons, I learned that the boys men like O.B. tended to gravitate toward were boys who would use affection to their advantage.

I would never be such a boy.

I would never be such a man.

And so, secrets are not kept. No skeletons in my closet to be dragged out before the magistrate and all of God's green earth. I will never stand in the dock, before the assembled masses, and be humiliated by those I once gave my affections to.

No, you can't blackmail someone who has nothing to hide.

Do I have a secret to tell you?

Yes, I suppose I do. The secret is... I have no secrets.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 259

Start over from scratch?

If I could start over again, what changes might I make?

I could say I would never have taken Oscar to bed. It's been a thought that's haunted me for years. If I hadn't done that would his fate have been the same? Ava has said no, it might have been even worse. He might have found someone without the morals and ethics I have... he might have lost everything a lot sooner.

I could say I would never have written for the Gadfly, and that would have saved me from being dropped into the fountain the following term. Saved me a year of mental instability. It might have done a lot.

I could say I would have chosen my liaisons better, not kept time with rent boys or flighty men who never wanted more than a night's time in my company.

I could say I would have stepped in between Bosie and Oscar when I knew what was happening. Once I knew Bosie for what he was, I should have been more vehement about it. I think I could have changed a lot if I had tried harder.

If I could change many moments in my life, and those moments would have changed the lives mine touched, would I?

No.

I don't believe so.

For all the pain, all the heartache, and all my loss, I don't think I would change any of it. Not for the pitiful hope that it would all turn out for the better, because if I know Life as I do, it would be so much worse.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 267

Scars are more than just a physical wound long healed.

I have very few scars you can see, and the important ones weren't inflicted in a brawl or a childhood accident. I can tell you about the most important scar I have, but I can't show it to you. Even if I could, I don't think it would be impressive. It would be small, but deep; depth you can't really tell from a surface glance.

April 5th, 1895 was when I received that scar.

Some would say it was because Oscar was arrested, but that isn't the whole picture of what the scar is. It was on that day that it was made clear to me that I was nothing more than a criminal. No matter how much money or social standing or moral façade I had, in the dark of night, I was a felon.

The world told me, in no uncertain terms, that what I am was unacceptable.

That it would not be tolerated.

I knew then that no matter what I did in my life, what I accomplished, I would never be anything but queer. One of Oscar Wilde's boys who should have been jailed right along beside him.

Maybe I should have.

And that's where the scar comes from. That maybe. Should I have stood in the dock with him, because surely I was just as guilty as Oscar... Bosie, too... Reggie... O.B.... all of us. All guilty without a single word from a jury.

It's guilt I now carry with me.

An invisible scar.

It wasn't there before April 5th.

But it's been there ever since.

Muse: Robbie Ross
Fandom: Real Person
Word Count: 271