Giles knows he's fretting entirely too much, but he can't seem to stop. It took him more than fifteen minutes this morning to decide on a blue shirt and blue-and-gray tie, even though it's not the sort of thing Oz cares about. He spent another ten minutes on his hair, with no noticeable results, and put on too much aftershave so that he'll still smell good by the end of the day. And it's all pointless, since when he gets home he'll shower and change anyway
( ... )
For a moment, while Oz fidgets and hovers over him, Giles feels himself falling into the baffled frustration there's been so much of lately. But then Oz sits down and it's all right, it's only that he's nervous and shy, blushing as the words tumble out. Giles turns his head into Oz's kiss and brushes their lips together. "Happy anniversary," he says, kissing Oz again, slowly and lightly. It feels a little strange, saying it, but also wonderful. An anniversary. They've had a year together, their first year
( ... )
Giles circles his palm over Oz's shoulder, like he's polishing one of his weapons, easing the pink paste into silver, rubbing it back out. Oz chews the side of his cheek, remembering how easy this used to be. How he had so much to tell Giles, sometimes he ran out of time, ran out of breath
( ... )
The picture is all too vivid in Giles' head: a frightened little boy, exhausted and footsore and too young to understand that it's a thousand miles from Wyoming to Sunnydale, walking by the roadside with nothing but a blind dog for company. Anything could have happened to him. Not all the world's monsters have fangs and claws
( ... )
"Can't be happy," Oz says, low, under his breath, and clutches at Giles. Somehow his arm's wound around Giles' waist, mimicking Giles' own arm, and there's no fear in holding, not when he's this cold and scared. There's only distant warmth, desperate and needed. He coughs again and scrubs his forehead against Giles' shoulder.
"Love you," he says and needs to tip back his head, needs to see Giles' face. It's like everything he's felt since the wolf, all the physical pain from changing, all the fear and worry and doubt, like it's all coming back in a single moment, a single swooping wave, crashing down on him. "Giles. I
( ... )
"I know," Giles says, although he's wrapped like a fog-bound traveller in swirling confusion, in gray mists that mock with hints of shapes, hints of sense and meaning, and then twist and scatter into nonsense. There's the Oz who clings to him and the Oz who avoids his touch, the Oz who loves him and the Oz who grows more baffling and distant every day. One of them has to be a will-o'-the-wisp, but every time Giles thinks he spots it, the shapes shift again
( ... )
Giles is -- he's holding, and fucking, and kissing, and Oz is so warm, rippling everywhere, his skin barely enough to hold him together, that he can't decide *what* Giles is doing. Everything at once, and he's holding pretty still, moving his hands over Oz's chest, thighs, dick, and Oz tips his head back against Giles's shoulder, looks up at him, the angle all wrong but somehow just right
( ... )
"Yes. Yes," and Giles pushes with a hard thrust and a moving fist, pushes Oz higher, up and over and Oz keens, spasms. Bends back and back, head rolling on Giles' shoulder, hands scrabbling, pleasure shaking him like a flag in a breeze, a thin fabric full of currents and shears and storms.
Every twist and shudder tugs at Giles, and he wants to fly, blow away, let the storm take him. Wants to be the storm, clouds building and swelling and then scattering into wind and rain. Wants to break the way Oz is breaking, wants to shatter with him, fall with him, fall and shatter and merge. But it's too soon, he remembers that it's too soon, so he holds, motionless, agonized
( ... )
Wet: Oz remembers, randomly, that we're 90% water, sacks of liquid with delusions of grandeur. Everything's broken and leaking; every breath he or Giles takes slides slick skin on slicker, wheezes and burbles. Sweat and come and, Oz is pretty sure, tears
( ... )
Giles waits. Waits while his lungs unknot and slow, while the sweat on his back cools, while the choking pressure in his throat and the burn behind his eyelids fade. While the leftover scraps of himself, torn papers and fag-ends and bits of string and aluminum, find their way back inside his empty skin
( ... )
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"Love you," he says and needs to tip back his head, needs to see Giles' face. It's like everything he's felt since the wolf, all the physical pain from changing, all the fear and worry and doubt, like it's all coming back in a single moment, a single swooping wave, crashing down on him. "Giles. I ( ... )
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Every twist and shudder tugs at Giles, and he wants to fly, blow away, let the storm take him. Wants to be the storm, clouds building and swelling and then scattering into wind and rain. Wants to break the way Oz is breaking, wants to shatter with him, fall with him, fall and shatter and merge. But it's too soon, he remembers that it's too soon, so he holds, motionless, agonized ( ... )
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