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Fri, Dec. 31st, 2004, 05:48 pm
glossing: 11/01: (toward) London


Planes have always struck Oz as terribly strange. Big metal cans lifting into the sky, taking you places in hours it would otherwise take days, lifetimes, to reach. Most species stick to one locale, adapt and thrive there before, probably, going extinct; not human beings. They keep coming up with more and stranger ways to get away from home. Across the sea, into the sky.

Still, he's always been thrilled by that deep shudder as the plane speeds up and lifts haltingly into the *air*.

Even today, somewhere above...Ontario or Quebec, with Giles in the aisle seat next to him, he's thrilled by it. Thrilled and not a little freaked out. Not just by flying which is *weird*, but everything around it. Soldiers in airports, so many security checks he felt like a criminal in five minutes flat, and the *hush* in the plane when a dark-skinned guy's garment bag fell on his head and he swore. Not in Arabic - in French, Oz is pretty sure, but the eyes widened and the breaths got held, and all of this is like being in Sunnydale. Paranoia and fear of the dark.

Never mind that it's high noon on a clear day: It was pretty like that two months ago, too. They're all thinking that, locked up here in the tin can, cruising, and anything could happen. Every tool is a weapon if you hold it right, Ani sings, and every plane is a bomb if you point it right.

Oz should feel guilty for not being paranoid. Freaked, yes, but thrilled, because they're heading home. They're together, every minute means another ten miles from Sunnydale and toward London, and he's thrilled.

"My turn?" he asks Giles, who nods and squeezes his hand under the crummy pseudo-fleece blanket. "Okay. Ask away."

Giles stumped him on Shostakovich last round, and he's a lovable fool if he thinks Oz isn't going to retaliate with someone *he's* never heard of.

Fri, Dec. 31st, 2004 11:23 pm (UTC)
kindkit

This is the first time Giles has ever been afraid to fly. Every midair bump seems to knock the breath out of him, and he looks up and down the aisles with a little too much attention.

He didn't feel this way when they flew to Sunnydale, and he ought to feel even securer now, with the attacks a few weeks farther in the past. But what he's afraid of, he realizes after the poor chap with bag hides his red face in a book, is not terrorism. It's irony.

He's lived for years on a hellmouth, and now he's leaving. With Oz. If there's ever a moment for engine failure or exploding semtex to end his life, it's now.

Giles shifts in the narrow seat, turning towards Oz and away from the other passengers as much as he can. Nothing is going to happen. He knows it, but he also knows he won't stop worrying until they touch down at Heathrow, a little more than six hours from now. "Right," he says to Oz, whose mouth is quirked up in a way that makes Giles think this round could go on forever before he guesses right. "Are you . . . a Russian czar who toured Europe in disguise?" Playing this game is especially tricky with Oz, because he knows so many odd and unexpected things. But that might stump him.

Fri, Dec. 31st, 2004 11:37 pm (UTC)
glossing

Giles draws the question out as his glasses slip slightly down his nose and he has to squint. He's fiercely competitive, which Oz supposes he should have already known - ticklefights and various trivia games in the mountains and on the road and that *long*, distressing argument they once had about the Boston Tea Party - but there's something about seeing Giles' competitiveness up close that makes Oz want to smile.

And beat him.

"Ummm," he says, closing his eyes and pretending to concentrate. "Nope, sorry. Not Peter the Great." He opens his eyes and frowns apologetically. "Not even close, actually."

Fri, Dec. 31st, 2004 11:56 pm (UTC)
kindkit

"I should've known that was too easy." Oz's attempts at keeping a straight face don't quite hide a certain gleeful relish. It's one of the first, best signs of leaving Sunnydale--Oz is letting himself have expressions again, even if they're subtle ones that only Giles can read. Oz is always understated, but when he's uncomfortable he turns into a plank of wood. "I'd hoped they covered Peter the Great on one of the days you skipped school." Of course, it's entirely possible that they did, and Oz read about him anyway.

"How about this: are you a theologian who wrote that it's the cause and not that suffering that creates martyrs?" Last round, Oz asked him about a voiceover actor on The Simpsons; this seems only fair in return.

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 12:15 am (UTC)
glossing

Now he's frowning for real; Oz read about Peter the Great when he was on his Russia-kick, the summer after eighth grade, but he never really had a theology-kick. Unless Tibet counts, but there are relatively few Buddhist martyrs.

Which Giles, of all people, knows. "Bastard," Oz says lightly, shifting in his seat and recrossing his legs so he can hold Giles' hand in both of his. "Fine. Ask me a yes or no question."

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 12:39 am (UTC)
kindkit

Since they're alone in the row (there's a silver lining to this new fear of terrorism), Giles kisses Oz's cheek. "I'm an utter, utter bastard. Flee while you can." Instead of fleeing, Oz half-smiles and brushes his leg against Giles'. "And that's cheating, by the way."

The air is getting that close mugginess that always happens on long flights; Giles, feeling sweaty, shrugs the blanket off his shoulder. He doesn't really care if people see him holding hands with Oz, and anyway it's not as if sharing a blanket isn't a giveaway. "Are you fictional? Oh, and the theologian was St. Augustine. I had to read entirely too much of him when I was writing my dissertation. In Latin, no less. I can't be blamed if he sticks in my mind."

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 12:48 am (UTC)
glossing

"Isn't he the one who liked his boyfriend too much?"

Giles gets that blank look, the one where his lids tilt a little and his mouth thins out. The one he tries to *hide* feeling blank with. Oz swings his leg again and waits for the renewed accusations of cheating.

But Giles is really thinking it over, pursed lips and unfocused eyes and all, so he doesn't accuse, just unconsciously nudges Oz back as he smiles to himself.

Oz rubs his chin meditatively. "Who can say if I'm fictional? Maybe you're fictional. Maybe we're all the dream of some autistic in a basement apartment in South Boston." Giles opens his mouth to speak. "No, I'm not fictional. Tell me more about St. Augustine."

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 01:11 am (UTC)
kindkit

They're 30,000 feet in the air over Canada, stuck in seats that are only comfortable for people Oz's size, breathing stale air that smells faintly of plastic, but Oz's play-philosophy makes Giles think of Diedre's bedsit in Earl's Court. They all used to gather there to lounge on Diedre's Indian bedspread and braided rugs, to get high and offer opinions and create grandiose schemes for making the world interesting again. That was before they started buggering around with magic, and Giles can still remember it fondly.

"Augustine's a bit dire. Loved his boyfriend too much, didn't much care for heretics at all. A lot of Christianity's confusion about sex is his fault." Giles lowers his voice and leans in towards Oz, closer than he strictly needs to. "Augustine wrote that uncontrollable erections are a consequence of the fall. In paradise, Adam's penis was like a hand--he could raise and lower it at will."

While Oz is thinking that through, Giles asks, "Are you the author of the epitaph for the Spartan dead at Thermopylae?"

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 01:21 am (UTC)
glossing

Willow used to worry that Giles was making fun of her, because he'd mention names or make references that she'd never heard of. Oz never quite understood that logic; if Giles wanted to make someone feel bad, he was pretty good at doing it directly. Those glares at Angel and swipes at Wesley, after all, did far more than name-dropping ever could.

The fact remains, however, that Oz has no idea who Giles is talking about right now. He'd much prefer to hear more about Adam's Sting-level control of his hardon.

"Why would he want to lower it?" he asks, and Giles' mouth stretches into a wide, kind smile. "Could he keep from coming, too? Probably. Anyway, um." He closes his eyes and lets himself remember reshelving Giles' books after they painted the flat. Small maroon book, just a little larger than his palm, with fountain-pen ink in the margins. "I'm not Simonides. Wow."

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 02:04 am (UTC)
kindkit

Sometimes, Giles decides, losing is even more enjoyable than winning. "Yes, Simonides. You really are terrifying. I think it's unfair that you know about Greek literature and South American pop music."

Slipping his hand back under the blanket, Giles says, "Perhaps I ought to cheat." He strokes the inside of Oz's thigh and whispers, "I don't think Adam could stop himself from coming. Sex was supposed to be about being fruitful and multiplying. Not about drawing out the pleasure until you're both breathless and trembling and so, so desperate. Not about spending hours licking-" He hears the creak of the drinks trolley just in time, and when the air hostess arrives, his hands are back where they belong and there's a magazine open across his lap.

"Well," he says, taking a long swallow that almost empties the tiny cup of Evian, as the trolley rumbles onward. "Are you the artist who supposedly invented pointillisme?" Talking about sex seems much more fun than this silly game. But they're stuck on this damned plane for hours yet, and Giles isn't such an exhibitionist that he wants to try anything in an airplane lavatory.

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 03:28 am (UTC)
glossing

Shivering, tendrils of warmth snaking up his thigh and spinning around in the bottom of his gut from the pressure of Giles' hand and slinking down his chest from the whisper of Giles' voice, Oz shakes his head firmly. "I'm not, um. Sunday in the Park with George guy." He hums the first few bars of "Color and Light", trying to remember George's last name.

It's a broken sort of humming, though, and Giles is patting his knee. Fondly, almost fraternally, but that touch, plus the stale air of the plane and the heat under the blanket are just making him wigglier and shorter of breath.

"Seurat," Oz says and slides to his feet. "I'm not, though. Nice try, with the cheating." He slides past Giles, pausing to kiss his wrinkled-up forehead. "Do I forfeit if you manage to drive me to the washroom?"

The skinny lady in the garish pumpkin-and-witch patterned top from four rows up is heading for the washroom. Oz lets Giles think over the forfeiture and hurries to grab the place before she can push past him. The washroom's even smaller than the one he remembers from their flight over, shivering like it's more exposed to the wind than the rest of the plane. That fits, though, the shudders and rattles and strange groaning of the blue water sloshing in the metal bowl. Oz leans against the door, one foot up on the toilet, opening his zipper and reaching inside. Eyes closed, *flying*, and it's Giles' hands on him, one in his pants, the other on his mouth, fingers over his teeth, pulling his jaw open, and the wind is Giles' voice, and he stops teasing himself - fingers crooked around head, stroking balls, knuckles up the underside vein - and wraps and pulls, head thrown back and knocking the door, hips pushing against his fist. Flying, pulling, and he comes faster than he thought would, with Giles' voice in his mouth and the shudders of wind chasing down his spine.

Shaky-legged, antiseptic stink on his hands and heat overbrimming his skin, Oz shuffles his way back to his seat. His cheeks are burning and he *so* lost this round.

Worth it, though.

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 04:18 am (UTC)
kindkit

While Oz is in the lavatory, Giles catches himself staring at the closed door and blushes when he accidentally meets the eye of the woman waiting irritably outside. At first he thought Oz was joking, but several minutes have gone by. Giles opens the copy of The New Yorker that he bought in the airport and looks determinedly at the page. What he sees is Oz, like a superimposition, a film on a screen. Oz leaning against the sink with his head thrown back, his mouth open, hands tugging his balls and jerking his cock in rough fast strokes . . .

Not until Oz clears his throat does Giles realize that he's back. He has the glowing, disordered look he gets after sex, as though his internal illumination has been turned up high. He's pink, loose around the mouth and sleepy around the eyes, and Giles swallows with a dry throat. "You didn't." Oz lifts an eyebrow and runs a finger along Giles' lower lip. Through the reek of harsh soap, Giles imagines he can smell secret things, musky skin and semen. "You did," he says, and the words sound throaty and entirely too sexual.

Giles is hard, his cock bent painfully under his y-fronts. His fingers clench on Oz's shoulder, and in a heated flash he pictures himself pushing Oz's head down, getting a quick, indiscreet blow job under the blanket. "When we get home-" He'll probably be too exhausted to want anything, but the thought lets him breathe again, lets him wait.

Oz smiles, slowly and full of promises, and then audibly catches his breath when Giles bends and licks his ear. "Do you know how long it's been since we had sex?" Giles whispers. "About twelve hours. And I . . . you are the world's best aphrodisiac, truly." It's as though Oz brought desire, brought youth, that day he turned up at Giles' door. Since then, Giles is continually surprised by his own body, by its capacity and its hunger.

He squeezes an arm between Oz and seat and pulls him closer. "Tell me what you did. What you thought about." Giles can think of the next frustrating hours as an elaborate, slow sex game. A better game than guessing.

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 04:34 am (UTC)
glossing

"Twelve hours?" Oz asks. It feels like a hell of a lot more, but when he tries to count backward, then adjust for time differences and distance travelled, he comes up with half an hour, and that can't be right. Giles' hand loosens on his shoulder, drifting up the back of Oz's neck, nails in the short hairs there, and the shivers return. A little slower, but just as warm.

Giles is waiting, head tipped toward Oz, and for all anyone knows, they could be working on a crossword puzzle together. Or trying to figure out the cartoon in the upper-left corner of the page, where a dog with bifocals is addressing a toddler in a playpen. His breath stirs in Oz's ear, though, and his legs are splayed open a little more widely than Giles usually sits.

"Stuff," Oz says, flushing all over again. Stupid fucking words: He can *see*, he just can't speak. "Thought about stuff." Clicking his tongue against his teeth, Giles squeezes Oz's neck and shakes him lightly. When Oz turns and meets his eye, though, Giles just *peers* at him, intent and wide. "You, back in the apartment. Your first one, I mean. On, on -- the landing, in the stairs? Your hand up under my shirt, the mask rattling against the wall. First summer."

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 05:29 am (UTC)
kindkit

Giles remembers. His whole body remembers in a flooding, drowning instant. Oz's mouth tasted of the mango sorbet he'd been eating, his skin was sunburn-hot, and he lay splayed out on the steps as Giles explored him. "I remember. Everything. The smell of your clothes. The creak of the bannister because you were pushing at it while I sucked you. You had a line of bruises up your back afterwards from the edges of the stairs."

In Giles' memory, that summer (the only summer, not the first, although he's not going to bring that up now) is the essence of all summers, heat and desire and joy, Oz wading in soaked jeans or naked and trembling under Giles' body. He scarcely remembers any unhappiness, except for the ends of their two trips away, the sharp bereavement that came with seeing the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign. "I could almost be nostalgic for that summer," he says. Everything, then, was the first time. Everything was the bliss of discovery. And Oz was younger then, more easily happy, not yet touched by lycanthropy or guilt.

Oz looks thoughtful, and his lovely flush is paling back to normal. Giles kisses between his brows, and wonders when, exactly, that gesture came to mean don't worry. "But now is better." Now is permanence and trust, growing security, knowledge of each other that's deep instead of merely new.

The brush of Oz's hand on his arm makes Giles shiver, makes his slightly waning erection stiffen again. Dropping his voice back to a whisper, he says, "Or it will be when we're home and you're licking my cock and I'm tugging your hair and begging you for more."

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 06:10 am (UTC)
glossing

Oz's backbone twists and knocks him against Giles before he knows what's happening; his hand claws at Giles' knee, clenching hard, before he can take a breath.

It's not just the words themselves - the image, though, that's fucking *glorious*, the red sweaty sheen to Giles' face, his hands in Oz's hair pulling too hard, so sharply that tears spring up in Oz's eyes, and the ache in his jaw and the *taste*, pure Giles and boiling-hot - but the breathiness behind the words, like Giles has to fight to get them out.

Tightening his hold on Giles' knee, the possible stares of other passengers skimming over him, Oz nods and swallows. "Like that," he whispers back, eyes locked on the safety folder tucked into the back of the seat in front of Giles. Perfect blue waves and inflatable rafts bobbing on top of them, like a crash is just an extra stop. Concentrate on that, he thinks, and get the words out. "Like that a lot. Knees flattened out on the floor, you like ten feet tall over me. Pulling my hair but I'm still just licking like it's ice cream. Waiting for you to start cursing."

Giles and filthy words: It's something like alchemy, all these guttural old words in *Giles'* voice. Oz holds his breath, fingertips going numb on Giles' leg.

Sat, Jan. 1st, 2005 11:52 pm (UTC)
kindkit

Oz has a beautiful mouth, soft and generous and somehow expressive. Giles loves to watch him eating, hungrily or slowly, nibbling and tasting. There's something about Oz's mouth that yearns after pleasure, that hints at the sensualist under his stillness.

And inside . . . inside it's more than hints. Inside, Oz's mouth is slippery and hot, welcoming to Giles' kisses, eager and yielding to his cock. Inside there's a cushiony sliding tongue, a swirling flexible experimental tongue, a tormenting delicate knowing tongue. So fluid, and then the delicious shock of the hard places, the ridged roof of Oz's mouth, his sharp gentle teeth.

Giles closes his eyes, dry from staring, and takes a slow breath that doesn't help at all. "Jesus, Oz." He hears a soft laugh, and wants to kiss Oz impossibly hard and deep, kiss that laughter at the source. "You wouldn't have to wait long."

Lifting Oz's clutching fingers off his knee, Giles tries to find a way to sit comfortably. His cock feels bruised from the pressure, the confinement and need. "Much as I'd like to continue this conversation, I think perhaps we'd better not." Already he's losing his scruples against lavatory sex. But in this nervous atmosphere, embarrassment would be the least of it. People would probably think they were arming a bomb in there.

Giles takes another sip of water, thinks about spilling the rest onto his lap, and smiles ruefully at Oz. "Who were you, anyway? In the game." It's bound to be someone he's never heard of, and there'll be explanations. So long as he doesn't look at Oz's mouth while he talks, that should take his mind off his aching erection.

Sun, Jan. 2nd, 2005 12:26 am (UTC)
glossing

Interlacing their fingers, Oz squeezes Giles' hand. "Sorry," he whispers first, disturbed by the dark flush high on Giles' cheeks and the choked, clipped quality to his voice. "Um, I was Calderón. Guy who wrote Life is a Dream?"

He'd already done Hank Azaria and Jackie Robinson, and went with Calderón hoping that Giles would guess it. Oz tries to recall the soliloquy he likes so much from Act II, the one he memorized when he had to return the book to Jorge after having had it for four months, but the words, in both Spanish and English, aren't coming.

He's too aware of...*everything*. His skin, stretched taut and overheated, and the narrowness of the seats, and the impossible proximity of Giles, and Giles' discomfort.

"Hungry," Oz finally says. "Want some curry or something. Something homey."

Sun, Jan. 2nd, 2005 12:55 am (UTC)
kindkit

Giles bends down, carefully, and digs in the plastic shopping bag under his seat, the one's that's heavy with too many magazines and dubious paperbacks. "Will you settle for the leftover half of my cinnamon bun?" Oz takes it, licking his fingers as he peels away the sticky paper. They should have bought some sandwiches--Oz is always hungry, and dull, meager airline meals will barely take the edge off--but most of the airport snack shops were still closed at seven this morning. "I expect they'll be bringing lunch soon." There's some clattering in the galley that sounds hopeful.

"I think I'm hungry for anything that we cook ourselves." Giles shakes his head when Oz holds out a bit of the pastry. "I want to watch you slicing peppers into perfect strips or adding those tiny little pinches of salt to the pan. I want us to wash our own crockery and make our own bed." Bed brings up thoughts he's trying to suppress, so he adds, "I want to be in a room with bookshelves again. And our souvenirs and pictures." The most important part of home is Oz himself, but the rest matters too. It's their snail's shell, an extension of themselves and their protection from the world.

Sun, Jan. 2nd, 2005 01:31 am (UTC)
glossing

Oz hasn't cooked since they left London. He's made sandwiches for Dawn, helped Tara assemble casseroles, concocted some pasta for Xander, but he hasn't settled into a kitchen with Giles within reach and ingredients spread out everywhere. He hasn't squinted at a pile of produce or stripped fat off a steak, hasn't been able to nudge Giles with his hip or shimmy past him to the sink. He's made food, but he hasn't *cooked*.

"Want to cook --" He breaks off, overtaken by a seemingly-endless yawn, then grins when Giles rubs his neck. "Want to cook, definitely. And see books not written by Leon Uris or published by Time-Life --" Mrs. Summers was a nice lady, but her taste in casual reading left a lot to be desired. "And...yeah."

Slumping a little in his seat, crossing his legs and tilting against Giles' shoulder, Oz rubs his face on Giles' arm and squints up.

"Should make beef stew when we get back," he adds. Neither of them has mentioned what it will be like when they return; the most they mentioned about home was that it wasn't Sunnydale. Superstitious, maybe, not wanting to hex yet another place; it was probably a good idea to be cautious. "And sleep, too."

Sun, Jan. 2nd, 2005 02:06 am (UTC)
kindkit

"Lots of sleep." There were hardly any nights in Sunnydale when Giles slept well, and these last few days he's been sore-eyed and nauseated, every muscle tense and painful. He squeezes Oz's shoulder gently in his hand, fingers gripping and flexing like starfish legs. "We'll laze about like great idle lumps, and do nothing but sleep and cook and read." Oz lifts his head, and Giles amends, "And one or two other things. You know. Some scrabble, a bit of television." Oz burrows more firmly into Giles' neck, and Giles feels a slow, sleepy laugh roll through Oz like the earth-rumble of a passing truck.

The little blue rectangle of blanket has slipped half into the aisle; Giles tucks it around Oz, keeping it off himself as he's already too warm. "Rest. You must be knackered, all that driving after two hours' sleep." For himself, Giles knows there's no point in trying. Even exhausted, he sleeps like an insomniac, oversensitive to any difficulty. And there are difficulties in plenty--the dim and electric irritation of balked desire, the noise and cramped space, his returning nervousness, and even the pain of fatigue itself.

For now, he'll wait, read, guard Oz's rest. He can sleep when they're home.

Sun, Jan. 2nd, 2005 03:21 am (UTC)
glossing

His sleep is sharp. One minute he's awake, the next he simply *isn't*. This is the kind of sleep that only comes to Oz during travel: Unspeakably deep and blank, yet he can wake at every knock of turbulence or stop of train or bus.

There isn't anything to wake him here, though, and he doesn't dream so much as *see* things. The metal rectangle of the washroom's mirror - the shadows under Giles' jaw and the glint of light on his spectacles - the back of the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign in the pearly predawn light - images, but not dreams. Not quite memories, either.

Oz snaps awake when Giles gently shakes his shoulder and presses his lips against his forehead. He inhales, eyes still closed, and smells ozone, old plane air, and Giles - salt and cologne and worry.

"Whoa," Oz says thickly and rolls his tongue against sour, sticky teeth. He wants to burrow into Giles' arms and never open his eyes. "Time is it?"

Sun, Jan. 2nd, 2005 11:28 pm (UTC)
kindkit

"I'm not sure," Giles says, experimentally stretching his numb right arm, where Oz has lain for hours. His watch is still set to California time, and he's at the stage of tiredness that makes the thought of any unnecessary effort, even simple addition, painful and distressing. "The middle of the night, anyway. We'll be landing soon."

Oz yawns again, knuckling his eyes, and mutters thanks when Giles helps straighten his shirt and rearrange his hair. "Did you sleep well? It seemed very sound." Oz didn't wake during turbulence that knocked Giles out of the light doze he'd managed, or even for meal service or the couple of times Giles got up to use the lavatory. He slept, far stiller than his ordinary sleep, peaceable and childlike and enviable. The sleep of a pure conscience, Giles thought once a few hours ago, when he couldn't stop himself fretting yet again about how Buffy will cope, whether she'll forgive him, whether she'll be too angry to ask for his help if she needs it. Whether Willow is treading the same path as Ethan, and what can possibly be done if she is.

He hands the immigration and customs forms to Oz, who's twisting each shoulder in turn and running his tongue over his teeth with a frown. "I filled out most of them for you, but you need to sign and put your passport number on."

The plane is descending; Giles has to yawn to clear his ears. When it touches down, the longest goodbye of his life, the goodbye that's dragged on for months, will finally be over. It ought to feel momentous, but he just wants to get quickly through the bureaucratic necessities, find a taxi, and go home.

Mon, Jan. 3rd, 2005 12:15 am (UTC)
glossing

While he's fully awake, moving and grabbing his rucksack from the compartment and taking care not to let the crowd come between him and Giles, Oz still feels thick with sleep. Like dreams are clinging to him, stickier than cobwebs, though he didn't dream, not that he can remember, but the jostle of bodies, even the shock of air-conditioning as they enter the building, nothing quite wakes him up.

Maybe he should say something, about going home, or homecoming, something with *home* in it, because Giles looks as dazed as Oz feels. They're both walking gingerly on shockingly hard floors, like sea creatures come to earth, testing new, unformed legs and longing for the current. The crowd stretches out into a series of clumps and the light, sharp as an aquarium, burns Oz's eyes as they approach the passport control lines.

Squinting, his passport bending in his hand, Oz tries to make out where he needs to go. More security, more sense of vague guilt gathering at the back of his mind: He hates these line-ups. It's the only thing Oz hates about travel.

"I think I go --" he says, catching Giles' hand and gesturing to the left. "Since I'm, you know. A foreigner."

Mon, Jan. 3rd, 2005 12:57 am (UTC)
kindkit

Giles slides his hand up to Oz's elbow and squeezes. "Ordinarily, yes. But, well, the Watchers have an arrangement with the government. Come on, it'll all be very easy."

Normally Giles just waits in the queue. He's never taken advantage of the stamp and special barcode inside his passport; it seems rude. It's the something he suspects Quentin Travers does whenever he travels, and that's reason enough to hold back. But this isn't simply for his own convenience, tired though he is and reluctant to wait. There's a real chance that Oz, with no job and no return ticket to America, might be denied entry. It's surprising he got into the country in the first place.

Holding Oz's arm in a way that he hopes is reassuring for Oz but ambiguous to observers, he goes straight to the head of the queue. Before the irritated official can send him back, he hands her his open passport and says, "Official business. And he's with me. He'll need a six-month entry stamp."

Frowning (official business or not, she clearly doesn't like queue-jumpers), the woman holds the stamped page up to the light, tilts it back and forth to check the color-changing inks, scrutinizes Giles' photo and his face, scans the barcode with an electronic wand, and finally says, grudgingly, "Of course, sir." She stamps his passport and Oz's, taking her time about it, and then they're through.

Giles feels mutedly, sleepily gleeful. "Active Watchers have certain privileges," he says to Oz, who looks confused, or possibly just exhausted, as they approach the customs check. "I could bring anything, or anyone, into the country. We're not supposed to do so for personal reasons, of course, but it happens all the time. There was a chap, years ago, who brought back a fortune in Persian antiquities. The Council chucked him out eventually, but it didn't stop him buying a country house." They're waved through customs without questions or inspection.

On the way to the baggage claim, Giles takes Oz's hand again. "We'll have to see about getting you residency. Right of abode, it's called." That goes beyond Giles' privileges, and the Council might not help with it. Ridiculous. If they could marry there'd be none of this nonsense.

Oz blinks, seems about to answer, and yawns. "It's nothing we have to worry about right now," Giles says, and gazes blearily at the moving belt of the baggage track, willing their cases to appear. Bags, taxi, home, sleep. No worries for a good long while.

Mon, Jan. 3rd, 2005 01:57 am (UTC)
glossing

Oz is still working out the utter 007-heights of coolness that gets you a special barcode in your passport as they pause before the rotating baggage and scan for their own bags. Special passports are like robot servants and souped-up MGs, things out of bad, flashy, *wonderful* movies.

"Right of a boat?" he asks and wonders, briefly, why he would need a boat to be a Briton. Something about the Navy, he thinks, before Giles squeezes his hand, ducking his head and smiling. Luckily, it looks like Giles thinks he made the joke on purpose. "Cool. Want a dinghy, then. Or a dugout canoe -- hey, there's your --"

Giles' worn leather suitcase, big enough to smuggle a crate of books in, wobbles past and Oz squirms between the woman in the Halloween shirt and the very sad-looking old man to grab it. His shoulder aches, pulled funny, as he sets it down between them.

He has a stamp in his passport. He can *stay*. Realizing that fact is like catching a shiver: at first he's not aware of it, but then, gradually, he is. They're in the back of the big black taxi by then, his passport safely in his front pocket and he's leaning against the door, facing Giles, watching the highway lights paint silver and red over the surface of his specs.

"Any other perks?" Oz asks, but an ambulance, screeching its strange British mating call, hoots past just then, and Oz doesn't need to know. Just get home, lugging the big case up the flight of stairs as quietly as he can, and lean against the door, smiling at Giles as he trudges up the last three stairs.

"Welcome home," Oz says, arms going around Giles' neck and kissing him. "For, like, real."

Mon, Jan. 3rd, 2005 02:39 am (UTC)
kindkit

Giles could happily just sink down here at the top of the stairs, wrap his arms around Oz, and sleep with his head pillowed on the suitcase. "Nearly home," he says. Dealing with his keys feels like some kind of cruel endurance sport, especially since the stairway light is burnt out and it takes him multiple attempts, and some cursing, to fit the right key to the lock.

The flat smells stale, and he wonders if air sours like milk left out. But it smells like home, too, as though some essence of their breath and bodies lingers in the upholstery and paint and the grain of the wood. Even the dust is their dust, smelling different from the dust in the shop or Buffy's house.

Oz drops the suitcase by the bed with a groan and leans wordlessly against Giles' chest. "That's better," Giles says, and Oz makes a vague, sighing sound and works his arms under Giles' coat. They can sleep properly, lying in their own bed, and they can touch without inhibitions for the first time in too many hours. They're home.

The answerphone is blinking, and all their clothes will wrinkle if they're not unpacked tonight, but Giles is too tired, bone and soul tired, to care. Only the desire to kiss Oz some more gives him the energy to brush his teeth.

Two bottles of water from the fridge, clean pyjamas from the dresser, soft sheets and a duvet that Giles knows no stranger has bled or spit or come on. Good comfortable things, and Oz sprawled on top of him and a slow kiss that tastes of mint, and this feeling of coming home is almost worth the misery of travel.

Mon, Jan. 3rd, 2005 03:19 am (UTC)
glossing

It's all too good to keep track of - the soft, curled edge of his pillowcase, the warm weight of Giles against him, the lingering buzz of kissing that melted into sleep - and Oz slides into dreams. Flying, and sailing in a birch-bark canoe down the river of Main Street past the Espresso Pump, paddling slowly through soupy clouds and crystalline, tinkling wind, the canoe becoming Giles' chest, broad and warm, rising and falling with breathing waves.

Cushioned on Giles, his mind travels on, around corners and into swamps, past the Statue of Liberty and through Xander's living room, toward the rising sun and past stony banks paced by wolves and animate skeletons. The wind is a tangle of hair, Buffy's blonde, blushing into Willow's red, tickling his face, and on the other side of the sun, black hair tipped with claws. Cold and sour back there and Oz jerks awake, gasping.

Back in their room, Giles splayed on his side, arm over Oz's neck and face buried in the crook of Oz's arm. Morning, maybe afternoon - Oz knuckles his eyes with his free hand and tries to figure out the time, but all he knows is that the room is full of light and the flat smells like home.

Stale, antique-store home, but still home. He has to piss, but when he slides off the bed, Giles grunts in his sleep and smacks his lips. Oz smoothes back Giles' hair, pulls up the quilt, and then hurries to the bathroom.

Half an hour later, all the windows open, and everything still smells...strange. Just slightly off, milk that expired yesterday, and Oz is down the first flight of stairs, checking his wallet for Giles' debit card, before he's formed a plan.

Date bread, blueberry muffins. Something warm and baked to clear out the smell of abandonment. The flat will appreciate it and so will Giles.

Tue, Jan. 4th, 2005 01:45 am (UTC)
kindkit

Bright. They must have slept very . . . Giles rolls over, arm already bent to curve around Oz, but Oz isn't there.

Oz isn't . . .

Oh.

There's a rich, butter-and-cooked-sugar smell in the air, a smell that adds warmth to the sunlight. Oz has only gone as far as the kitchen. He's baking, which is the opposite of leaving.

In fact, he looks cozily settled in at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the Guardian, with the Independent and a copy of Time Out at his elbow. He looks more completely, comfortably at home than he ever has here before, as though it took traveling and coming back to let the truth of it appear.

"Morning," Giles says, hugging him from behind and kissing the top of his head. Oz folds his arms over Giles', his fingers stroking the velvet sleeve of Giles' dressing gown, and tilts his head back and smiles.

Sat, Jan. 8th, 2005 02:59 am (UTC)
glossing

"Morning," Oz replies. Giles is unshaven, the folds of his pajama top still smelling like sleep, and his glasses have slid all the way down to the tip of his nose. Times like this, mornings and late nights, Oz gets a sense of what Giles must have looked like as a kid. Rumpled, soft-faced, his eyes crinkling up in a smile as he bends over and kisses Oz again. Closed-mouthed, because he's just up, and he chuckles slightly when Oz runs his hands up under the sleeves of the robe and squeezes his elbows to hold him in place.

"Muffins and bread should be coming out soon," Oz says, twisting around as he stands up. He can never stop touching Giles' robe; it's soft, and made of a thousand rich colors, and somehow simultaneously perfectly *Giles* and perfectly *not*. "Want some tea? They need to cool, so if you want a shower -"

Giles nods, kissing him again.

"Had to run back for milk," Oz says, plugging in the kettle and checking the oven, "I would've left a note, but you were *out*. Smells better in here, right?"

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 08:03 pm (UTC)
kindkit

"It smells wonderful," Giles says. It reminds him of their happier moments in Sunnydale, and, more distantly, of childhood Sundays. His mother baked currant scones and sometimes a cake for after dinner, all in the early hours before the morning service. He'd wake up to the smell, usually late, and eat a scone while running to church in his choir robes. "Thank you." Oz's childhood must have been very different, and yet he seems to imagine home the same way Giles does. Perhaps a happy childhood and an unhappy one create the same longings.

Giles hurries through his shower, wanting tea and a muffin that hasn't cooled as much as Oz says they're supposed to. Wanting, mostly, to see Oz again at the table, chin in his palm as he reads and one foot hooked around the leg of his chair. It's the way he always sits, the way he will always sit for each of however many thousand mornings add up to forever. The future echoes out from today, almost visibly close and yet extending far past sight and knowledge, and Giles wants to get started.

All their shaving things are still packed, so Giles doesn't bother. A little scruffiness seems to match the day's mood and the blueberry-jam smell of the muffins that Oz is turning out onto a rack. Giles leans against the counter and kisses Oz while he's still trying to take off the oven mitts. "You," he says. "Thank you." Another kiss, deeper, Oz's mouth tasting richly of coffee and his arm solid and heavy around Giles' neck. "Next time, though . . . do leave me a note, all right? Just in case." He tightens his arms around Oz's waist and hopes it doesn't sound like a refusal to trust.

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 08:25 pm (UTC)
glossing

Oz bumps Giles with his hip and tosses the mitts over his shoulder. Giles' hair is sticking up, his cheeks still bristly, and he looks *relaxed*. Even asking for a note.

"You'll totally get a note," Oz says, tapping the tops of the muffins, his mouth watering. "Think I'm still a little out of it, that's all. Like, I thought 'muffins' and just...took off."

Laughing, Giles kisses him again, all toothpaste and hot soapy water/clean skin, before pulling back and filling the teapot. And now that weekend-morning quiet is settling around them, soft and warm as Giles' velvet robe, the kind of quiet that, in the midst of, Oz can never imagine ending. Endless, comfortable quiet, glances and sharing sections of the paper, and should it be this easy to slip back into comfort?

Oz counts backward and realizes it's been scarcely a day since they took off from LA. The drive to the city and all the plane-boarding stuff is smeared like rubber cement in his memory, he was so tired. It shouldn't be quite so *possible* to leave California and wake up to muffins and Giles in London the next day.

It feels like tempting fate, somehow, but superstitiousness like that is best left on the hellmouth.

"You like blueberries, right?" Oz asks when the muffins are almost finished cooling. "I *think* you do, but -- brain. Sieve. Right now."

Giles pushes back from the table, reaching for the platter, and Oz plops down onto his lap, inhaling the scent off Giles' neck the way other people would say grace first.

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 09:09 pm (UTC)
kindkit

The top of a muffin collapses under Giles' fingers when Oz starts nuzzling and sniffing his neck. He grips Oz's heavy t-shirt with a crumb-covered hand and rubs his face in Oz's hair. It smells more familiar now, bright and herbal from their usual shampoo instead of the cheap, overperfumed one the motel provided. "I missed you," Giles says stupidly. "This, I mean, being . . ." While he's still searching for words Oz kisses him, slowly and somehow analytically, as though he too is trying to understand why it all feels so different here, at home.

The kiss scratches a little, red prickly warmth as their unshaven cheeks scrape and snag. Oz's beard always comes in heavily, rough as a brush against Giles' lips, surprising when his chest is so smooth. Something thrilling in the contrast, and Giles is working his way down Oz's neck, licking at the faint caffeine-bitterness and the stubble that thins out like arctic trees, already imagining the silk-and-bone below his throat, when the oven timer beeps.

He freezes in surprise, mouth open to Oz's skin, and then starts to laugh.

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 09:29 pm (UTC)
glossing

Oz used to think of Giles' stubble in terms of their days in the mountains, cold pearly mornings and the van smelling like sex and pine needles. Since September, though, the rasp of stubble on his lips and under his fingers makes him think of finding Giles in the green dark. White spots in his beard and Scotch clinging to every pore, but the sense-memory isn't sad, not exactly. It's part sad, part hopeful, and nothing can beat the friction-burns Oz got from their sex the morning after.

"Sorry --" He pulls himself off Giles' lap, palm lingering on the nap of his robe -- like the inverse of his stubble and just as touchable -- as long as physically possible before turning to the oven. The mitts would be good, but he can only find one.

"Date bread," he says over his shoulder. "Added some of the dried cranberries we left, too. Gonna be chockful of chewy --"

Goodness, he was about to say, but now that he's across the room, he can *see* Giles and the air goes out of his lungs. Sprawled in the chair, robe open to the belt, flush building in his cheeks, and Oz yanks out the bread, dumping it unceremoniously on the rack, and hurries back.

"Jesus, you look --" No words, but that's okay. Giles opens his arms and jiggles his knee, and he looks about as horny as Oz feels right now. The sun cuts across his face, carving sharp shadows and bright hollows, and Oz kisses wherever he can reach. Cheekbone, clavicle, hollow of Giles' throat. "Taste better, too."

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 10:16 pm (UTC)
kindkit

"Do I?" Giles holds Oz's hips, so narrow and sharp under the velvety corduroy of his ancient trousers, and leans back when Oz nudges his shoulder. With a rough noise, approval and something like triumph, Oz pulls open the neck of his pyjamas and sucks hard at the end of his collarbone. "Better than date bread with cranberries? Better than - god, Oz - better than steak with peppercorn sauce? Better than miso soup, hmm?" His hmm turns into something else, something that's not even close to language, when Oz rubs his bristly cheek fiercely against the hollow of Giles' throat until his skin burns, then licks the hot and sensitized patch.

Giles slides his hands across the ridged cloth to cup Oz's arse, digs his fingers in and pulls Oz up tighter against him. Oz is still licking his throat, rolling the skin between his lips, yanking Giles' hair to tilt his head. "That feels so -" Murmuring, Oz sucks harder, and Giles can feel the blood welling under his skin, the slow bruise deepening. "Don't stop, don't . . . Oz, use your teeth, let me feel it." Oz used to leave him black and blue, truly marked. Not since the wolf, but that was too much caution, surely, that was Oz chaining himself, denying himself. A mistake, and they're done with those mistakes.

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 10:34 pm (UTC)
glossing

Giles is asking for something impossible. Asking with his hoarse, ragged, *shy* voice, with his fingers that grip and clutch, and he tastes like home, flour and spit and soap. Skin that burns and glows under his mouth, and this is all impossible. Making breakfast for Giles, getting thousands of miles away from Sunnydale, sitting here and tasting and making Giles tremble and stammer. All of it.

Oz feels -- oxygenated, carbonated, helium-filled -- something. Light and warm and wiggly in Giles' clenching hold, and hungry, too. And when he scrapes his front teeth down the length of Giles' throat and holds his breath so he can hear Giles' reaction, he has to trust that it's okay. He has to trust that the impossible still happens, sometimes, that biting Giles will make him smile and thrust up his hips like he's doing now.

"Feel that?" Another scrape, horizontal this time, dragging his tongue behind his teeth, tasting and sucking it up. "That?" And he keeps on, teeth that don't break skin, but it must be almost enough, because Giles is *gurgling* and his hands flex and grip on Oz's ass in time with the jerky rocks of his hips. Oz thrusts back, the zipper on his pants going tight over his crotch, heat sucked up from Giles spreading and blooming through his own skin.

Lick, scrape, upward, to the soft spot behind Giles' right ear, and when Oz bites, it's safe, there's not enough skin *to* break, and Giles' head falls back as he gasps.

"Feel it now?" Oz asks and his voice is thick with taste and need. "Want you to feel it, Giles."

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 11:16 pm (UTC)
kindkit

Red flashes behind Giles' eyelids, red smoky glow rippling and throbbing along his skin, and this is what Giles has needed, what he's missed without knowing it even after Oz came back. This roughness, these invisible aching lines Oz draws on him, they mean Oz isn't holding back. He's trusting himself, trusting Giles, and what they used to have they can have again-- dizzying, melting openness, a giving and taking that fragment, kaleidoscope, make symmetry and newness.

"Yes," Giles says. It comes out a soft and sloppy vowel because his mouth is pressed against Oz's shoulder. He bites, another yes that sinks through the black cotton and into Oz's skin, to his nerves and his cock and Oz gasps, shudders, in answer. Wrapping one arm around Oz's shoulders, the other around his hips, Giles tips them both forward onto a sunlit patch of floor. They land with a thump, Giles' knees bruised and probably Oz's backside as well, and the chair clatters down after them. The startlement on Oz's face brightens into a smile, and he pulls Giles the rest of the way down until he's flattened under Giles' body and Giles can feel his every breath. "Want you," Giles says, and Oz laughs, a low and pleased laugh that breaks off when Giles closes his teeth over a bunch of Oz's earrings and tugs. Oz's moan stretches, pleadingly, when Giles pushes back up to his knees. "Let me see you," Giles says, stripping off Oz's t-shirt. He straddles Oz's thighs and kisses his shoulder, wrestling off his dressing gown, and then tucks it under Oz. "Lie back." He wants to see Oz against the velvet, wants Oz to feel it against his bare skin as Giles touches him.

Sun, Jan. 9th, 2005 11:32 pm (UTC)
glossing

Every time he breathes, Oz draws in the air through spit still heavy with the taste of Giles, and it's making his head swim as he lies here, wriggling, the velvet brushing and teasing every hair on his shoulders, back, ass. Everywhere.

Everywhere, so soft underneath, and then on top, the rough-nap of Giles' hands and the intensity of his stare, and Oz can't move. He lies still, gasping like a fish for air, getting drunk on the taste and the sight, lips burning for more kisses, and he can't move.

In Sunnydale, they've been so careful. Except for the amnesia, and Oz didn't even realize it until now, until Giles is looking and touching and he's here, totally here, eyes crinkled up and mouth wet and open, and there's nothing else around them to distract them. Nothing to hide from, and the sun is warm on his chest and lighting up Giles' damp hair like a ragged halo, and now Oz can't not move.

Spreading his arms, lifting his chest off the floor, and looking back at Giles.

"See me?" Oz asks, gulping when Giles pinches one nipple and pushes him back down onto hard floor, soft velvet. "Want to watch me? What do you want to see?"

He moves to open his fly and Giles catches his wrist, holds it there between them so hard the bones grind a little.

Soft and hard, rough and velvet, and they don't have to be afraid any more. They've got everything right here.

"Show you everything," Oz says and watches Giles' eyes squeeze close in response. "Anything."

Tue, Jan. 11th, 2005 12:07 am (UTC)
kindkit

These moments, when Oz's voice rattles like beach pebbles and his hips push and offer, when he'll give everything and they can do anything together, these are the best moments Giles knows. He used to coax them into being, used to heat Oz slowly, carefully, until his shyness melted like the wax core of a statue and Giles could pour pleasure inside, pour himself, make something fine and heavy and true. And sometimes he still coaxes, finding a new way to make Oz shy and knowing this moment will happen. Knowing he can bring Oz to blushing urgency, to a surrender that's really something else, something like possession, like immanence.

This is what they're going to have, forever. Long repeated seduction, the most serious and delicious play. "Show me," Giles says, pressing Oz's fingers around the hill of Oz's own erection, then thrusting in a long slow slide. He watches Oz's face as he moves. So much response there, Oz's eyes clamping shut and his mouth dropping open as he drags in a sucking breath, and it's only the beginning of what Oz can let him see. "Show me, let me see everything." Giles cants his hips up as he talks and works one-handed at Oz's flies. "Let me see you hard for me. Let me see you with your cock red and hard and swollen. Your legs spread open so I can see everything, see your balls and your pink little hole."

Words work on Oz almost like touch; he's red-faced and quivering, flush and a sheen of sweat painting his chest to the nipples. He bucks up once as Giles slips his trousers down a few inches, then stills when Giles grasps his hipbones and holds him down. "So fucking beautiful, Oz." Giles brushes two fingers over Oz's mouth, and Oz, eyes still closed, stretches after them like a baby bird. As Giles draws them down his chest and belly, then slowly pulls his trousers the rest of the way off, Oz holds his breath and starts to shake. "I wish you could see yourself like this. Maybe I'll take pictures for you. Would you like that?" When Giles starts on the underpants, lifting them carefully free of Oz's erection and lowering them just past his hips, Oz takes a sudden, wet-sounding breath and opens his eyes.

Being looked at strengthens looking, gives it richness and savor, and Giles sits back on his heels and stares. It's pornographic, Oz splayed wide and inviting on velvet, his pants bunched around his thighs. But it's more, too, purity and ecstasy, and Giles thinks of painted saints, souls bare and faces turned up to the divine light. "Oz," Giles says, and picks up one of Oz's outflung hands. Still looking into Oz's eyes, he kisses it, then sets it on the valley that curves inside Oz's hip. "Let me see you. Touch yourself for me." Oz licks his lips and blushes redder, eyes widening as Giles guides his hand to his cock. "Like on the plane. I want to see what I missed."

Tue, Jan. 11th, 2005 07:13 pm (UTC)
glossing

<-------- zigged over

Tue, Jan. 11th, 2005 07:12 pm (UTC)
glossing

"Here," Oz says. Giles' eyes are on every inch of him, gaze sinking into him like the warmth of sunlight, churning and glowing inside him. Inside, it's the rich softness of Giles' voice, of his robe, but outside, along his skin, it's tension and heat, hard things. His palm's sticky with sweat and his cock feels, for half a second, alien to his own touch. Too hard, so hard and warm, and then his hand curves and fits into the most familiar thing. He strokes once, upward, crooking his thumb, and then again, downward, squeezing lighter than he'd like.

Lighter, just fingertips up the shaft and a loose hold all around, because he wants to make this last, even if Giles' eyes and weight are speeding everything up. "Like this?"

Giles opens his mouth, says yes silently, and Oz tries again. It's inside-out, private masturbation on display, *for* Giles, and his bones rattle with the effort of controlling it. Putting embarrassment out of his mind -- as much as he can, this is always going to be slightly embarrassing -- and looking at GIles, smiling tightly at him, stroking time with Giles' breathing. Up on the inhale, down at the exhale, and there's a puzzle, some sort of contradiction, in all this. Something about performing what's real, showing off what's secret, and the confusion of terms makes him shut his eyes again and just *feel*. Inside, hot and melting, outside hard and tense, and when he opens his eyes again, he sees Giles looking all over again.

"Didn't miss anything," he tells Giles. "Thought about you the whole time, thought about that summer, and last night in the shop, thought about your mouth on me and your hands, *fuck*, your *hands* --" That's it, that's what's missing. "Giles, touch me, please, I --"

But Giles won't, not for a while -- he's got that intense set to his face, the slitted eyes and deep, almost chuckling breaths going, where he's going to tease Oz to tears and then, only then, make it all better, so much better than seems possible right now -- and the more Oz thinks about it, wanting those long fingers up the inside of his thighs, twisting his balls, stroking hard and relentless until he comes, the more he needs it, the more it hurts.

Oz pulls harder, twisting his shaft, slapping it against his belly, opening his mouth to ask for more.

"Want to come, Giles, come for you, on you -- in your hand, your mouth, want --"

His legs are bent now, briefs stretched tight between his knees, feet braced on the floor, and his hips are lifting, showing Giles, asking with his whole body. Asking that shades into greed, and he's got no time now to worry about selfishness, his skin's shrinking by the second and he *needs* Giles, and it's coming out whiny and angry.

"Could tackle you," he says, lifting his head off the floor, then pounding it back, telling the ceiling all his secrets, all his frustration. "Push you down and fuck you, flip you over and push inside until you're weeping --" He twists his hips, he knows he has to slow down, but it's all quivering and out of his control, and that's the worst-best thing of all. "Fuck, Giles, just -- *touch* me. Make me -- fuck you so hard, or fuck me, *please* --"

Sun, Jan. 16th, 2005 09:19 am (UTC)
kindkit

Pleasure, pushed out to its edges, starts to look like other things--fear, loneliness, pain. Pushed farther, it can become those things. Oz's face is contorted, the tendons in his neck and arms stretched rigid, and it could be misery or the approach of orgasm.

Either way, Giles wants to stop it. He grasps Oz's wrists, pushes his hands to the floor, and Oz freezes, not even breathing for a few moments. "Anything you want," Giles says, and repeats it when Oz opens his eyes. "Anything." There's no telling, from Oz's narrow-eyed stare and shallow, staccato breaths, if he's really heard. Still holding Oz's hands, Giles sinks down on top of him, trying to make himself a stone, an anchor, solid and trustworthy.

"You could fuck me," he says, dragging their interlocked hands up to either side of Oz's head. "You could hold me down and fuck me so hard." Imagining it, imagining Oz using all of that strength on him, taking him, Giles shivers at the knotted heat that crawls up his spine. He groans, low and rough, when Oz trembles too and wriggles his hips, his cock, against Giles' belly. Giles wants, with the painful imperative want of sex, to bury his face in Oz's neck, kiss and bite him, thrust into the hot crease of his thigh and come without even taking his pyjamas off. But he holds still, watching Oz's face, where pleasure is clarifying again, becoming recognizable once more. "Or you could get on your knees for me to fuck you." Oz sucks up a breath and opens his mouth; before he can speak, Giles kisses him, wetly, luxuriously.

All Oz's bones are tattooing their impressions on Giles' body, Oz's cock pokes and stabs, but his mouth is slick and infinitely soft. Giles licks along Oz's jaw until his stubble glistens with their mingled spit, then whispers in his ear, "Or you could let me do this. Touch you like this. Slowly. We could take our time." In the sunlight, with his cropped hair wilder than usual, Oz looks boyish, and Giles remembers their first night. They were both so nervous, impatient, as if they already knew their year was ticking away second by second. Loosing Oz's hands, Giles strokes his hair, his face, and sighs when Oz's arms slide around his back. "No need to hurry. Not anymore. We're got all day." He smiles. "In fact, we've got forever."

Sun, Jan. 16th, 2005 11:48 am (UTC)
glossing

There has to be a happy medium. Oz feels like a little kid, so worked up he's almost teary, but each breath that Giles takes presses him down further, reassures him more.

Giles' weight sinks Oz into the velvet, flattens and spreads him *inside* as well as outside, and Oz feels -- not calm, he's still superheated and prickling all over -- but something close to security bubbling through that heat and friction. Giles slides the kiss back to Oz's mouth and it hovers there, warm and wet, slipping in time with Oz's heartbeat and the motion of his hands up and down Giles' back. He can feel planes and bunches of muscle and bone moving as Giles settles even more firmly on top of him.

"Not hurrying," Oz says thickly, right against Giles' upper lip. His body begs to differ. Contradictions, need and luxury, urgency and slowness, spiral and sizzle through him, right beneath his skin and deep in the center of his bones. He brings one knee up, pressing it against Giles' hip, holding him here, tight and close and heavy. "Just...get worked up. You work me up, you and --"

He doesn't know how to finish the thought, if it even has an end. It sighs out with his breath, and he sucks on the edge of Giles' jaw, feeling his hips move slowly. Like he's little more than the robe, texture and warmth rippling around, clinging to, Giles, and one hand drops to Giles' waist while the other pushes up the back of Giles' hair. Giles smells like *home*, and he's here, here and happy and breathing hard in Oz's ear, and when Oz crooks his fingers and tickles the base of Giles' spine, they both chuckle.

"Can you --" He plucks at the hem of Giles' pajama top. "Want to feel you. All of you?"

Every time's a first time, he thinks, nibbling down Giles' throat, tasting heat and soap, making Giles shiver.

Sun, Jan. 16th, 2005 04:42 pm (UTC)
kindkit

Oz's mouth warm and slippery on Giles' neck, Oz's fingers slipping down from his lapel to curl in his chest hair, and Giles wants his pyjamas off as badly as Oz does. The flannel, soft but absolutely unlike the satin and fuzz, scratchiness and smoothness and pebbliness of Oz's body, frustrates Giles' skin. "Of course," he says, kneeling back and fighting the buttons. Oz watches him, sometimes swirling a fingertip along Giles' leg or his wrist, as he works his arms out of the top and struggles awkwardly free of the bottoms. Tables turned, and Giles feels himself reddening with arousal and an unexpected shyness. It's easier, though, after he takes off his kiss-smeared glasses and Oz goes a little blurry around the edges.

Naked, his knees sore and cold on the linoleum, Giles draws a fold of the velvet down Oz's thigh and up again. The rich, deep plushness of it, then the roughness as it pulls against the nap. "I love to touch you." He tugs off Oz's underpants, which are stretched shapeless, and slides his hands from the soles of Oz's feet to the insides of his thighs. Hairs are soft, fluffy, under his palms, and crinklier over Oz's balls, where Giles strokes a light fingertip. Oz quivers and makes a sound that's half breath, half cry, and he clenches his hands around the knobs of Giles' shoulders. Blurred, he's still beautiful. Almost more beautiful, the colors of his skin more vivid with the outlines a bit indistinct. The head of his cock is bright red against his pale belly, magnetically, hypnotically red, luring Giles to bend and hover over it, open his mouth and breathe softly on it. He knows exactly how it will feel to his tongue, hot metal wrapped in silk, but when he gives it a slow, firm lick, it's still a surprise. Always a surprise.

Sun, Jan. 16th, 2005 04:52 pm (UTC)
glossing

Oz wakes up, some mornings, so tightly curled around and over Giles that he's not sure where his hands are for several moments. He feels that right now, a quick, sharp *stab* of that physical amnesia, when Giles licks him. One hand on Giles' shoulder, the other in his hair, and he rockets around trying to find his ground, to grip and hold still and just moan without folding up like a switchblade like his body wants to.

Giles lifts his head, smile curving slowly over his face, and Oz brings up his knees as he gets his hands under Giles' arms and tugs. So much strength and resistance there, and Oz tries again while Giles' grin widens, and he finally gives up, just thrusting into warm air while his hands run down Giles' sides. Thumbs in his chest hair, seeking his nipples, and they could draw this out all day. His brain knows that, but his mouth is aching and his skin's stretched too tight and thick, sweet heat is clogging his pores.

"Like that," he says and Giles nods. No ground, just Giles' expressions, and Oz twists his waist and raises his ass so his cock brushes along Giles' stomach. He wants to touch Giles back, and his thumbnails dig hard into Giles' nipples as his fingers pop and tighten on Giles' ribs. "Like that, more and --"

Sun, Jan. 16th, 2005 05:01 pm (UTC)
kindkit

Closing his eyes as Oz's nails incise burning crescents (cuneiform, Giles thinks, language that presses and reshapes, that lasts) into his nipples, Giles braces himself on Oz's ribs to keep from tumbling forward. Bright moon-slivers glow and fade inside his eyelids, as though Oz's fingers reach there too, as though his body only exists where he and Oz are touching. "God," he says, not meaning to. "Oz-"

Oz scores a line, quick and sharp as a scalpel-cut, down to Giles' navel, and redness--pain and tooth-grinding pleasure--vibrates out from it, sets Giles' spine shaking, tottering. Nothing of him is steady but his cock, which hardens more with every scrape and dig of Oz's fingers. Giles looks down and sees it, a purplish length next to Oz's red-and-pink cock, Oz's beautiful cock that Giles can still taste down the center of his tongue, and then he breaks and falls.

"Need you," he says into Oz's neck, words gasped out between nips and sucks at the taut skin. "Need to - more, Oz, I need - more, yes -" He's echoing back Oz's word, more, as though it's crawled inside him and multiplied, taken him over, and it's always like this. Together they make a circuit, a feedback loop, amplifying each other's desire, passing it back and forth until there's no distinction.

Somehow, before Giles is aware of moving, he's on his feet and pulling Oz up by the arms. Tangled in the dressing gown, Oz trips, but Giles is holding him so tightly that he doesn't fall. "Come on."

In the bedroom, Giles spreads the dressing gown over the sheet and pushes Oz down onto it, open-limbed and inviting. "I like how it feels," he says, answering Oz's grin. "And I know you do." A long look at Oz's body (maybe pictures aren't a bad idea, then he could touch and still see), and Giles folds himself down into Oz's reaching arms. "Yesterday I wanted to fuck you right there on the plane. It was so hard, waiting. I was so hard." Oz laughs, or maybe gasps, because Giles is rocking his hips as he talks, slow glides of his cock against Oz's, and Oz is pushing up towards him. Giles finds the lube and waits until Oz's eyes focus on it, then squeezes a dollop out into his hand. "Finally I can fuck you. Come inside you. Drive you mad like you drove me mad." With Oz watching, Giles slicks his own cock, and Oz is shuddering and panting even before Giles spreads his arse open and plays two slippery fingers over his hole. "I love you so much, Oz," Giles says, setting the tip of his cock against the opening and pressing in, slowly, slowly, taking all the time in the world.

Sun, Jan. 16th, 2005 05:08 pm (UTC)
glossing

"Owe you," Oz says without any breath. First pressure, the original kind, fingers then cock, pushes all the air out of him. "Owe you big-time --" Giles replies with a tiny choked sound, deep in his throat, and more pressure. Oz goes up on one elbow, sliding his free hand down Giles' waist and over the outside of one thigh, and he grips at the straining muscle there as the angle changes and Giles pushes in more deeply. Friction and pressure that pushes words out Oz's mouth before he thinks them. "Owe you, owe --"

Giles is *gliding* in, everything else paling and withdrawing in comparison to the slick heat and *pressure*, and Oz flops back, pushing up his hips and spreading his legs until one hooks around the back of Giles' thigh. Over him, Giles is poured upward, broad chest and sweat-shining face, all light and heat, and Oz reaches up, impossibly far, to touch Giles' cheek. To hold on and dig in, pull himself up as the heat fills him, pushing out to his fingertips and scorching the soles of his feet.

Hovering and fierce, Giles' face twists with each push, mouth opened as if he's panting though he's *not*, not yet, and Oz pushes his thumb between Giles' teeth, pulls him down, shifting the angle almost horizontal and unbearable, to kiss him.

"Love you --" he whispers against Giles' tongue. Blue-edged sparks travel and double through him when Giles thrusts again and Oz tilts back and clenches. "Feel that? Wanted you so much on the plane. Everywhere, all the time --"

From deep inside, like the sound's dragged through blood and over bone, Giles grunts when his balls slap Oz's, and the sound reverberates against Oz, down his chest, wrenching his cock even harder.

"So good, so fucking *good*, Giles, when you're inside and I -- so much --"

He thrusts back against Giles and brings his other knee up to his chest. Rocking his hips, Oz feels sweat sting his lips and his pelvis crack and complain, and it's the best thing, the only thing.

Mon, Jan. 17th, 2005 05:23 pm (UTC)
kindkit

Slowly. He's meant to be going slowly, giving this miracle of homecoming and time a good, long, leisurely exploration. But Oz is spread underneath him, pulling one thigh back to let Giles in deeper, and he's talking, and then Oz clenches again like a slippery-soft fist around Giles' cock. So tight, knocking Giles' breath out with a wheeze, and Giles shoves Oz's hips up and thrusts fast and hard. The wet sounds, squelch and slap, make a rapid counter-rhythm to Oz's groans and his own rough gasps and grunts.

"So good," Giles is saying indistinctly through a sticky mouth and lips that quiver and flop. "So good, yes, so - we're good - you and me -" Sex has never been like this with anyone else, never so exquisite and shattering. Chemistry, people say, and that's it really. Something beyond the cliché, some obscure catalysis and fusion, their bodies reacting and joining. Making this, pleasurelovepleasure bound together, heat and light and the anticipatory sweetness swelling through Giles' gut, the flush lapping and brightening across Oz's chest with every bedspring-creaking push.

At every thrust Oz flails, spine twisting impossibly as he shudders and pushes back and tugs at the velvet sleeve that's wrapped around his hand, and his leg slips up to Giles' waist and the other hooks over Giles' shoulder. Giles grabs him by the elbows, moves against his weight, and the new angle makes Oz cry out, head and fists hitting the mattress like muffled stones. Oz tightens again and white-hot ripples gust up from Giles' cock like bonfire sparks. "Fuck - don't - oh fuck," Giles says through his teeth, not moving except for the trembling he can't help. Too soon to come yet, too soon to let this end.

"Oz, Christ, you -" Carefully, straining with the effort of will, Giles pulls out, almost losing his resolve when Oz whines and reaches for him. "Shhhh," he says, to Oz and his own complaining body, and slides down between Oz's legs. He kisses the delicate skin inside Oz's thigh, thinking about the smoothness of the skin and the fine softness of the hairs and not about the touch of the sheet under his aching cock. Oz is so pale here that each hair looks brilliantly red. So pale that the skin comes up scarlet when Giles scrubs his bristly cheek over it. So pale that when Giles sucks and bites he leaves a perfect oval bruise, and then another, higher, and another. A ladder to Oz's balls, or breadcrumbs marking the trail, and Giles follows it back down, licking the blood-swelled skin, kissing each bruise as Oz swears and pulls at him. Someday he'll work his way over Oz's whole body like this, covering him in marks like flowers, making Oz a trellis for red-and-purple love bites.

Giving in to Oz's tugs and inarticulate pleas and his own sudden dry-mouthed hunger, Giles comes back to Oz's cock and kisses its base. "So hard, Oz. Jesus, you get hard like this for me, and it's so . . ." No words for the miracle of it, the daily amazement. Giles draws the kiss slowly up the shaft, using the wet insides of his lips, twisting his neck sometimes to mouth it sideways. At the tip he pauses, looks up at Oz, whose lips and eyes are glittering-wet, and then takes just the head in his mouth. All that heat and strength under paperthin skin, and the taste of it, like some strange sea creature, and Oz shouts and thrusts and Giles holds still and lets him move.

Just for a moment, and then he pulls away. "I'll make you come in my mouth, Oz. I promise." Oz shivers when Giles kisses him and sucks his tongue hungrily. "Soon," Giles adds, although he's not sure how soon he means, not when he's slathering fresh lube on his cock and raising Oz's legs and entering him again, feeling Oz's hole open around him. "Soon," he promises again, splaying his fingers over the bites on Oz's thigh and pushing, pushing, and he never wants to come, never wants to leave Oz's body.

Wed, Jan. 19th, 2005 05:32 pm (UTC)
glossing

"Soon? Liar," Oz says, grinning, or maybe grimacing. He means to grin, anyway. Giles' eyes are heavy-lidded, his face red and his hand like a vise on Oz's thigh. And he's pushing in, and in, holding Oz down as he crouches and it's all so much. Oz grabs at Giles' wrists, slips, and grabs again, squeezing and lifting himself up. "Don't stop, don't stop --"

He repeats it as Giles' eyes fly open, the whites gleaming, and Oz hangs there, pinned and grasping, letting Giles fill him entirely. Fully, entirely, and he has to stop and breathe. He has to think of atoms, how each one's as big as a galaxy, the electrons whirling like planets around the nucleus, to offset the hugeness inside him, pushing him out to the bounds of his skin.

"Slow down, right? Not stopping, never stopping." Sliding his hands up Giles' sweat-sticky arms, grasping his shoulders, Oz heaves in another breath, holds it, and pushes until Giles breaks and falls, rolling over to his side.

His cock slips free and Oz exhales at its loss, feeling hollow, malformed, *empty*, so bad that his eyes water and lips pucker together. "Your turn," he says, smoothing out the robe, tugging Giles on top of it, and throwing his leg over Giles' hip and settling on top of him. He rubs the edge of the robe over Giles' chest, then braces one hand on Giles' shoulder, circles the other around the base of Giles' cock, and lowers himself painfully, slowly, downward.

They're both grunting when his ass meets the tops of Giles' thighs, and when Giles cups Oz's ass and *squeezes*, Oz shudders vertiginously, remembering their embrace back in the shop, how Giles' hands explored him, measured him, found him and gave him pleasure all unknowing.

So full, atoms and galaxies and threatening implosions at every pore, and Oz leans back into Giles' hands, takes the thrusts and goes up on his knees with each push. He liberates the belt of the robe from where it's smushed into one pillow and holds it in both hands until Giles' bleary gaze fixes on it.

"Not coming yet," Oz says, and drops forward, kissing the wet hairs curling like spilled commas over Giles' chest, before he leans back again and runs the tie under his balls, around the burning shaft of his cock, and loosely loops the knot. More pressure now, so much sweet-red *heaviness* filling him and flaring up his spine he can hardly focus his eyes. "Don't want to stop. Never want to stop --"

He wraps the end of the tie around Giles' right hand and closes his fingers in the hair on Giles' chest. Pushing up, forward, forward and up in time with the thrusts, rocking into the red glaring heat, Oz feels the air drying out his open mouth, hears himself wheezing and praising and begging, but all he sees, feels, hears, is the thrumming rush of Giles' blood and the heat he's pushing deeper and deeper inside.

Sat, Jan. 22nd, 2005 02:07 pm (UTC)
kindkit

"Oz," Giles says, an almost-whisper that's lost in the words spilling from Oz, bubbling and rushing like water from a boiled-over pot. Oz always changes during sex, always boldens and loosens, but now he's transfigured, rapt. He's moving over Giles in slow waves, arch and hunch, a squeezing heat that sinks, pushes, drags agonizingly away. Moving without stopping, without hurrying, without the least mercy for Giles' groans, and Oz's eyes are narrowed to dark slits, his face clenching and easing as his body flows. Sliding along Giles cock, taking it, working it like it belongs to him, like it's tied in velvet and given to him.

Giles heaves up his head and looks along his own body, sees Oz's cock jutting and bobbing over his belly, exposed for him where his own is hidden inside Oz. And Giles can taste it, feel its shape on his tongue and in his hand, feel the stretch and pull in his gut from the last time Oz fucked him. In and on him, his. Always inside him.

With Oz, fucking is metaphor, is love in friction and fluids. Just as this Oz, the Oz who wrapped a belt around his cock and put the end in Giles' hand, the Oz's who's red with the slow boil of sex and hissing dirty words between his teeth, is the same Oz who blushed and stammered to touch himself with Giles watching. "Oz," Giles says again, lifting and grinding his hips to Oz's rhythm, spooling the belt around his hand and giving it a light tug that makes Oz jerk and dig his fingers into Giles' ribs. He tightens around Giles' cock, shivering, and Giles' nerves spark, firecrackers and smoke and need. "Keep - yes, fuck, keep going." Gripping Oz's hipbones, Giles pulls him tightly down and rocks against him, deep slow pressure that Oz always loves, then looses him to move again. "So good, Oz. Want to come, let me come inside you."

Sat, Jan. 22nd, 2005 02:43 pm (UTC)
glossing

continues here.