Heat blossoms in the center of Giles' chest, writhes and glows like solar gases, and explodes out to his skin. Burning, Giles butts his forehead against Oz's cheek, twists his neck to feel the scratch of beard. "Oz - " Terrible heat everywhere, new droplets of sweat forming on Giles' face and neck, scorching wetness behind his tight-squeezed eyelids.
Below the heat Giles is numb. He's stepped out of his body somehow, out of this unlikely fiction where Oz has said love and you with only a few inconsequential words between them
( ... )
In the middle of each scratch, there's a thin barbed line of heat, and Giles's finger finds each one, strokes it slowly, brings up a flush and swelling that reminds Oz where he is. Inside his skin, against Giles's skin. And who he is; he used to be the kid with who hates language, who misses Giles all the time, but he can be different now. Better, maybe
( ... )
For a moment the heat surges impossibly into ice, slow glaciers in Giles' brain and melting snow down his back, and he has to close his eyes against the wet shivers that fracture through him. But then it all fades, cancels itself out. Giles' shivers stop and he's firmly back in his body, with wrinkled sweaty sheets under him and Oz on top of him. The cool air smells of sex, and even through closed eyelids Giles can feel the neutral light of morning
( ... )
Before, he just wanted to blink and hide, but now Oz can't seem to manage one blink. His eyes are dry and wide and he can't look away; it feels, superficially, like it used to, when he'd stare at Giles in the library, force his eyes open until he couldn't breathe and had to break for the bathroom until the shakes calmed down.
Also, he's still nodding. Oz curls his fingers against Giles's chest hair and holds on.
He knew that Giles still, always, felt something. Usually, though, it felt like hatred, but now Oz can't figure out if that's because that's what he was looking for or what was actually coming out. His stomach cramps up at the impossibility of calculating how much Giles must have hurt, all the time, constantly, seeing Oz almost every day and
( ... )
Steam and heat, around Oz and inside him, shifting in clouds without edges or distinction. He squints down at Giles and Giles's face looks different, unusual, when seen from above. Usually Oz is looking up, but from here, he can see the shine of water catching in Giles's eyebrows, the long, thin dip of his nose and his wide, wide eyes. His eyes glitter through the steam, latched on Oz's, hopeful and anxious and something else
( ... )
Oz is holding him hard, insistence in his voice, as though he thinks Giles might deny him. Might slip out of his grasp, leave him, and Giles wishes he could let Oz into his mind, let him know how impossible leaving would be. "I love you," he answers, watching Oz's eyes. The pupils flare wide and dark, swallowing light, and Oz looks dazed. "My Oz." Giles leans forward, kisses him, shapes the words a second time against Oz's lips. "Always," he adds, pulling back just enough to speak.
Awful words, dirty, stinking of ownership and possession. But Oz kisses him back, wraps his arms around Giles' neck, and Giles has to trust that he understands what's meant. The complicated truth that words like mine and yours and always can only approach, inadequate and false, less than metaphor
( ... )
"But chocolate for breakfast is a-okay," Oz says, hopping a little from foot to foot as he scrubs a toothpaste-coated finger over his teeth. He doesn't want to lose the taste of Giles, of *himself*, but the motion helps warm him a little, and, anyway, Giles is brushing his teeth hurriedly. Oz grabs his hand as soon as it's free, and squeezes, smiling all over again
( ... )
Searching the cupboard for a wearable jumper, Giles says, "Delivery? At -" he cranes his head to see the clock "-nine in the morning? Even if we were in California, I shouldn't think that would be likely." Under a mound of balled-up, dirty woolens he finally locates an old black jumper, not one he especially likes, but clean, and pulls it on over his t-shirt
( ... )
When the guy -- Martin -- turns the comb around and starts plucking at Oz's hair, Oz thinks again of the dredger in Giles's copy of Dickens, drifting along the banks, poking his stick into the sludge and water. Martin jabs and prods the end of the comb into Oz's damp hair, twisting and pulling it up until Oz's scalp is tingling and, he's sure, very red. Treasure and memories, garbage and forgotten things: Giles has been touching his hair all morning, studying it, capturing locks of it between his fingers and peering. Oz wonders what he's looking for, if he's simply doing what Oz himself is doing. Looking as hard and thoroughly as he can because he can.
When Martin finishes, Oz's skin buzzes from the electric razor and his scalp aches a little, but he looks better. He let his hair grow after graduation and trimmed it himself while he was on the road with safety scissors and a nail clipper. As long as it was out of his eyes, he didn't care what it looked like; now, with someone who wants to look, with Giles, whose study and eyes make
( ... )
Oz really does look more himself, with his hair spiked up on top and clipped short on the sides and back. Or at least, he looks more like Giles' memories of him. The jumper and coat hide the worst of his thinness, and now that he's had a couple of meals and a long night's sleep, he's lost that fragile, glasslike quality he had when Giles opened the door to him yesterday. There's color in his face, or what little Giles can see of it under his heavy stubble.
Giles can hardly stop looking at him, and his chest aches the way it used to when he'd see Oz opening his locker or walking to class. It shouldn't hurt like this; they can touch now. They are touching, clinging to each other's hands even though it makes them an obstacle on the narrow pavement and more than one person has pushed roughly past them. But it's not enough, really, not after so long. Giles needs to kiss him again, hold him, run his hands through Oz's hair and over his bare skin, confirm yet again that Oz is real and whole and here
( ... )
"Don't think God has much to do with those," Oz says and takes Giles's elbow, turning him gently away from the silicone monstrosities. It's narrow in here, and he wonders if every sex store in the Western world is built for lone browsers rather than the happy, well-adjusted couples they claim to serve. It takes a moment to find the plywood shelf, eye-level for Oz, packed with bottles and jars of lube.
Giles is standing very close by and Oz slides his hand into Giles's, tugging him even closer. "S'okay," he says. Nervous, he knows: Giles's darting eyes and the tightness around his jaw and throat. It's not just the store, but Oz suspects the red vinyl flogger brushing Giles's shoulder isn't helping. "What do we have in mind here? Chocolate flavor? Banana?"
While Giles's mouth opens, Oz drops to a squat and pokes through the bin of condom packages. He doesn't recognize any of the brands, and the colors are all strange.
"Um, also? I don't know what kind --" He waves a box and glances up. "It's like another planet. I like it."
Now that he's looking at boxes and bottles instead of 16-inch-long neon-colored penises and remote-controlled vibrating knickers, Giles feels much better. He bends down next to Oz, who's digging through baskets of single condoms with a sort of concentrated glee
( ... )
Comments 41
Below the heat Giles is numb. He's stepped out of his body somehow, out of this unlikely fiction where Oz has said love and you with only a few inconsequential words between them ( ... )
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Also, he's still nodding. Oz curls his fingers against Giles's chest hair and holds on.
He knew that Giles still, always, felt something. Usually, though, it felt like hatred, but now Oz can't figure out if that's because that's what he was looking for or what was actually coming out. His stomach cramps up at the impossibility of calculating how much Giles must have hurt, all the time, constantly, seeing Oz almost every day and ( ... )
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Awful words, dirty, stinking of ownership and possession. But Oz kisses him back, wraps his arms around Giles' neck, and Giles has to trust that he understands what's meant. The complicated truth that words like mine and yours and always can only approach, inadequate and false, less than metaphor ( ... )
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When Martin finishes, Oz's skin buzzes from the electric razor and his scalp aches a little, but he looks better. He let his hair grow after graduation and trimmed it himself while he was on the road with safety scissors and a nail clipper. As long as it was out of his eyes, he didn't care what it looked like; now, with someone who wants to look, with Giles, whose study and eyes make ( ... )
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Giles can hardly stop looking at him, and his chest aches the way it used to when he'd see Oz opening his locker or walking to class. It shouldn't hurt like this; they can touch now. They are touching, clinging to each other's hands even though it makes them an obstacle on the narrow pavement and more than one person has pushed roughly past them. But it's not enough, really, not after so long. Giles needs to kiss him again, hold him, run his hands through Oz's hair and over his bare skin, confirm yet again that Oz is real and whole and here ( ... )
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Giles is standing very close by and Oz slides his hand into Giles's, tugging him even closer. "S'okay," he says. Nervous, he knows: Giles's darting eyes and the tightness around his jaw and throat. It's not just the store, but Oz suspects the red vinyl flogger brushing Giles's shoulder isn't helping. "What do we have in mind here? Chocolate flavor? Banana?"
While Giles's mouth opens, Oz drops to a squat and pokes through the bin of condom packages. He doesn't recognize any of the brands, and the colors are all strange.
"Um, also? I don't know what kind --" He waves a box and glances up. "It's like another planet. I like it."
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