random ficlet
tesla321 was looking to be cheered up.
Oz had kissed thirteen people before he kissed Xander. That sounded like a lot, but, really, there was Devon and then twelve others, so it's not that he was extensively experienced. More like, if anything, *deeply* experienced. That was it; his experience until then derived almost entirely from the grape Hubba-Bubba'd, chocolate Velamints, generic orange soda, constant-chatter depths of one mouth.
The other twelve - eight girls and four guys - were all ships in the proverbial night: Spin the Bottle conquests, Truth or Dare visits to broom closets, too much peppermint schnapps.
And Willow. He counts her separately, and figures he always will.
He's stone-cold sober and straight-edge these days, though, due precisely to the Willow-situation, and there's no party game to blame. There's just the cool moist air of very early morning, the heat of Xander's arm brushing against his as they wiggle to get comfortable on the ground, and the little, sleepy sighs that Xander keeps giving off.
"You can sleep, you know," Oz says.
Xander rolls his head and knuckles his eyes. "I'm good."
"Cool," Oz says, and pulls the sleeping bag up under his armpits. He tips his head against Xander's shoulder and realizes he's holding his breath. Xander will probably shift away, fake a cough, do something to disrupt the moment.
But he doesn't. Xander just sighs again, and Oz exhales as he looks upward, and Xander's looking down at him. His eyelashes catch the light from the streetlamp so they're silver at the tips and his irises are dark, bottomless, and he's chewing the corner of his lower lip.
"Always thought this was just a Christmas thing," Oz says, and if he's drawing even closer, forehead against Xander's neck now, then that's just because it's cold. And he wants to kiss Xander but he doesn't want to scare him off.
"Any time thing," Xander says lowly, and blinks, sucking his lower lip between his teeth.
Oz *knows* he has to make the first move. But if he does, then Xander can blame him, shove him, sputter endlessly about faulty gaydar. Thing is, perfect kisses only happen in movies, or with Devon, and with Devon it's because they've been doing it for so long, they know each other's moves better than their own.
Fuck it.
Xander blinks, and Oz realizes he just said that out loud. So he repeats himself, a little louder, and slides his hand around to the back of Xander's neck, over soft tiny bristly hairs and strong tendons, and pulls him in, down, over, and their teeth clack and noses bump, and that's okay. Because Xander's gripping Oz's shoulder and pulling him in, pushing him down onto cold dewy grass and their lips are mashing, opening, and Xander tastes - just like Xander. Like the sharp green scent of shucking corn, and too much Dr. Pepper, and a little like Fritos, too. He cups Oz's cheek, thumb working over the hinge of his jawbone, and he kisses, now that they're settling into it, really damn well. Light but deep, and he gives a little teasing nibble to the insides of Oz's lips, which Oz would love to return (but - wolf, so he doesn't), and Oz feels the kiss's burn spread thick and sure throughout his body, lighting him all over.
Oz had kissed thirteen people before he kissed Xander. That sounded like a lot, but, really, there was Devon and then twelve others, so it's not that he was extensively experienced. More like, if anything, *deeply* experienced. That was it; his experience until then derived almost entirely from the grape Hubba-Bubba'd, chocolate Velamints, generic orange soda, constant-chatter depths of one mouth.
The other twelve - eight girls and four guys - were all ships in the proverbial night: Spin the Bottle conquests, Truth or Dare visits to broom closets, too much peppermint schnapps.
And Willow. He counts her separately, and figures he always will.
He's stone-cold sober and straight-edge these days, though, due precisely to the Willow-situation, and there's no party game to blame. There's just the cool moist air of very early morning, the heat of Xander's arm brushing against his as they wiggle to get comfortable on the ground, and the little, sleepy sighs that Xander keeps giving off.
"You can sleep, you know," Oz says.
Xander rolls his head and knuckles his eyes. "I'm good."
"Cool," Oz says, and pulls the sleeping bag up under his armpits. He tips his head against Xander's shoulder and realizes he's holding his breath. Xander will probably shift away, fake a cough, do something to disrupt the moment.
But he doesn't. Xander just sighs again, and Oz exhales as he looks upward, and Xander's looking down at him. His eyelashes catch the light from the streetlamp so they're silver at the tips and his irises are dark, bottomless, and he's chewing the corner of his lower lip.
"Always thought this was just a Christmas thing," Oz says, and if he's drawing even closer, forehead against Xander's neck now, then that's just because it's cold. And he wants to kiss Xander but he doesn't want to scare him off.
"Any time thing," Xander says lowly, and blinks, sucking his lower lip between his teeth.
Oz *knows* he has to make the first move. But if he does, then Xander can blame him, shove him, sputter endlessly about faulty gaydar. Thing is, perfect kisses only happen in movies, or with Devon, and with Devon it's because they've been doing it for so long, they know each other's moves better than their own.
Fuck it.
Xander blinks, and Oz realizes he just said that out loud. So he repeats himself, a little louder, and slides his hand around to the back of Xander's neck, over soft tiny bristly hairs and strong tendons, and pulls him in, down, over, and their teeth clack and noses bump, and that's okay. Because Xander's gripping Oz's shoulder and pulling him in, pushing him down onto cold dewy grass and their lips are mashing, opening, and Xander tastes - just like Xander. Like the sharp green scent of shucking corn, and too much Dr. Pepper, and a little like Fritos, too. He cups Oz's cheek, thumb working over the hinge of his jawbone, and he kisses, now that they're settling into it, really damn well. Light but deep, and he gives a little teasing nibble to the insides of Oz's lips, which Oz would love to return (but - wolf, so he doesn't), and Oz feels the kiss's burn spread thick and sure throughout his body, lighting him all over.