Oz remembers to stand up as he takes Olivia's hand, and he's pretty sure he manages to say something polite. He also *doesn't* use the old I've heard a lot about you, because that always makes him feel like a museum exhibit. She's beautiful and she smiles like she actually means what she's saying, and her hand is warm and strong in his
( ... )
Giles knows he really ought to have told her. But by the time he mentioned Oz to her, they'd already split up, and Oz's age seemed like an unnecessary detail. Or, truthfully, like a detail she might find sordid. He did say Oz was younger, but Olivia naturally would have taken that to mean a ten- or fifteen-year difference, not a full generation. From the quick sideways look she gives him, Giles thinks she's halfway between surprised and outright shocked.
None of it shows on her face, though. "I haven't, unfortunately," she answers Oz. "I grew up in Liverpool, which is rather grim and industrial. But my desperate prayers for release were answered--I went to the University of London, which is where I met Rupert one boozy night at the student union."
"The University of London is where I took my Ph.D.," Giles says, answering Oz's uncertain look. "And as I recall it, Olivia, I was perfect sober. Well, mostly. I wasn't the one standing on a chair and making a speech about the iniquities of Margaret Thatcher
( ... )
There are looks and smiles passing between Giles and Olivia and Oz knows he ought to be unnerved by it, by the sense that there's another conversation as well as an entire lifetime's worth of history there. He's not, though; maybe he's too busy watching his posture and keeping half an eye on Giles to make sure everything's all right. Besides, there's comfort and ease between them, and if he's not surprised to see Giles comfortable, he is relieved about it
( ... )
"Daniel," Olivia says slowly, as though she's testing the name out and comparing it to the young man in front of her. "That's a very nice name."
Clearly she prefers it to Oz, and her voice has taken on that bright tone she gets when she's about to suggest minor alterations, all for the best of course, in someone else's life. Giles scowls briefly at her while Oz is taking a sip of water, and she clears her throat and asks how Oz got his nickname.
Giles half-listens as Oz explains about his friend Devon's third-grade obsession with both nicknames and Ozzy Osbourne. It's a story he told Giles on their first morning together, as they ate eggs and toast and tried to pretend they felt much more comfortable than they actually did. Like Olivia, Giles said Daniel once, slowly, and commented on how lovely it was.
He's never used it since, although he really does think it's a nice name. And Oz has never once called him Rupert. It's unimaginable. If he heard that name in Oz's mouth, Giles thinks he'd probably burst out laughing. Giles didn't
( ... )
Olivia lets several minicabs go by. "After what happened earlier, I think I want a cabdriver who's possibly looked at a map of London once or twice." A black taxi passes by, already taken, and then a free one pulls over for her. "It was lovely to see you, Rupert," she says, hugging Giles tightly. "And I'm pleased for you," she adds in a whisper. "I like him, and you seem . . . so much happier
( ... )
Nodding, Oz pulls the heavy door, clotted with decades' worth of fliers and posters, layered and peeling, and steps inside. The shop smells just right - vinyl and old cardboard - and looks perfect, creaky wooden shelves loaded with albums, looming over even Giles's head, and mazes of narrow aisles between bins of cassettes and CDs. Giles follows him, hand on the small of his back; Oz feels a bit like the native guide he never got to be, leading the white man into the wilderness
( ... )
"Thank you." Again, Giles adds mentally as they walk through the lobby, which has been transformed since his last visit into a glittery, red-velvet-and-chrome bar. Oz has said happy birthday half a dozen times since they awoke, as though he's afraid Giles will forget if not reminded. And of course he's right. Left to himself, Giles drifts into sorrow like an unmoored boat; Oz is simply keeping him tied to the day, to happiness and celebration.
Oz heads towards the double doors, but Giles tugs him back. "Let's go up to the balcony instead." Something in Oz's face shifts fractionally, his eyes widen and his mouth re-forms into a soft and predatory smile whose heat Giles can feel on his own mouth, and then on his whole skin. "I don't think I meant it like that," he manages to say, but Oz is already bounding up the stairs and dragging him after.
He's been to theaters converted to music venues that had balconies, but Oz has never been to a theater that was still a theater with a balcony before. He pauses at the top, teetering on his toes, scanning the dark, empty space in front of him until Giles joins him
( ... )
Looped, pretzelled, tangled - Oz's arm around Giles' leg, Giles' hands in Oz's hair, and Oz circles and nudges his finger, tip to knuckle, rocking it against the soft, slickened skin and its wrinkles whorling down to the dark center. Caverns, he's thinking, and currents swirling through shadows, sending up streams of cries from Giles' mouth. Rocking in time with the heartbeat clattering in his ears and through Giles' arteries, faster and more urgently until he's inside and Giles is lifting, pulling him deeper, and everything careens forward
( ... )
It's so much, the spread and pressure of Oz's cock, filling Giles to his tight-stretched skin, displacing his own flesh and nerves and everything until all that's left is Oz. Oz inside him, pushing deeper and deeper as Giles hooks his knees over Oz's shoulders, letting him in, taking what's given. Fullness and burn, shimmering between pleasure and pain, start down behind his balls and twist through his cock, up his spine in looping white ribbons.
So much, so full, and then Oz moves, face clenched and eyes ember-bright, arms circling Giles' thighs. Giles groans as Oz pulls back, a long whimpered complaint at the emptiness, the lonely hollowed-out space in his body, and then again when Oz instantly stills and looks at him, reaches a hand up to stroke his belly soothingly. "I'm all right," he says, laying his hand over Oz's and guiding it down past his navel, over the deep inner ache where Oz's cock was, down into rough hair and along the hot, thin skin of his own cock. Oz echoes his moan, trembles, and Giles says, "Please. Need you so
( ... )
As many times as he's replayed the several times they did this, Oz is certain he's never seen Giles quite like this, tense skin stretched over shaking, tugging need, his face entirely open and throat working as he swallows air greedily. He's stretching out, back, farther and farther from Oz, long ribboned expanse of shining skin, even as he cants his hips and claws at Oz, bringing him closer. A face like grief, washed with light and sweat, open, so open, but Oz has seen enough grief to know that this is its opposite, need and love and joy
( ... )
Giles wants to answer, but the words are squeezed to nothing, pinpricks, atomic nuclei, black holes, by the pressure of Oz's cock inside him. Rough, fast pull and slide, every thrust burning up through his gut and chest and throat, scraping him empty and filling him, and he wants to pull Oz down and in, break his own skin open and take him inside, everywhere
( ... )
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None of it shows on her face, though. "I haven't, unfortunately," she answers Oz. "I grew up in Liverpool, which is rather grim and industrial. But my desperate prayers for release were answered--I went to the University of London, which is where I met Rupert one boozy night at the student union."
"The University of London is where I took my Ph.D.," Giles says, answering Oz's uncertain look. "And as I recall it, Olivia, I was perfect sober. Well, mostly. I wasn't the one standing on a chair and making a speech about the iniquities of Margaret Thatcher ( ... )
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Clearly she prefers it to Oz, and her voice has taken on that bright tone she gets when she's about to suggest minor alterations, all for the best of course, in someone else's life. Giles scowls briefly at her while Oz is taking a sip of water, and she clears her throat and asks how Oz got his nickname.
Giles half-listens as Oz explains about his friend Devon's third-grade obsession with both nicknames and Ozzy Osbourne. It's a story he told Giles on their first morning together, as they ate eggs and toast and tried to pretend they felt much more comfortable than they actually did. Like Olivia, Giles said Daniel once, slowly, and commented on how lovely it was.
He's never used it since, although he really does think it's a nice name. And Oz has never once called him Rupert. It's unimaginable. If he heard that name in Oz's mouth, Giles thinks he'd probably burst out laughing. Giles didn't ( ... )
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Oz heads towards the double doors, but Giles tugs him back. "Let's go up to the balcony instead." Something in Oz's face shifts fractionally, his eyes widen and his mouth re-forms into a soft and predatory smile whose heat Giles can feel on his own mouth, and then on his whole skin. "I don't think I meant it like that," he manages to say, but Oz is already bounding up the stairs and dragging him after.
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So much, so full, and then Oz moves, face clenched and eyes ember-bright, arms circling Giles' thighs. Giles groans as Oz pulls back, a long whimpered complaint at the emptiness, the lonely hollowed-out space in his body, and then again when Oz instantly stills and looks at him, reaches a hand up to stroke his belly soothingly. "I'm all right," he says, laying his hand over Oz's and guiding it down past his navel, over the deep inner ache where Oz's cock was, down into rough hair and along the hot, thin skin of his own cock. Oz echoes his moan, trembles, and Giles says, "Please. Need you so ( ... )
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