Giles nearly treads on his glasses when he gets up from the sofa. For a moment he hesitates, thinking about the five years that glasses inevitably add to his age, but the desire to see, to see Oz, wins out. Putting them on again reassures him, somehow, as though focused vision focuses his thoughts
( ... )
Giles is both sturdy and lean, holding Oz closely enough that Oz can't see his face, just blue shirt, warp and weft. He compensates by touching, feeling, everything in reach, the heat of his skin through fabric, soft cotton and raspier khaki, the long twisting muscles in his back and the tight compactness of his waist
( ... )
This is the first time he's seen Oz really smile. Mostly Oz has micro-expressions, quirks of eyebrow and mouth that Giles isn't yet sure how to read. It's like the writings on Easter Island--an unknown script for an unknown language. Yet Oz's body is as mobile and legible as his face is still and mysterious
( ... )
Giles touches him with the air around his fingertips, rearranges the atmosphere over his skin, and Oz tries to match it. Wants that care and gentleness, wants to learn Giles from the outside, the air he displaces and the molecules he breathes out. Sometimes you breathe in something Caesar exhaled, a syllable Joan of Arc spoke, just like a butterfly can shift in its sleep and bring up thunder in Tokyo. Oz thinks about connections, about areas and networks, corners he didn't know until he saw Giles onstage
( ... )
Another time-two of the best words Giles knows-he'll lie back and let Oz eat him up like this. Oz touches like Giles is melting before he can get a proper taste, like Giles is vanishing and only Oz's hands will hold him in this world. Like he wants Giles more than he can bear, and the thought half-stuns Giles, dizzies him
( ... )
Oz can hardly get the words out, his voice is shaking so hard, and Giles would like to be surer that it's just arousal.
"If you don't like this, I'll stop. But-"-he circles Oz's nipple with his tongue, sucks it into his mouth and gets a gasp that's almost a sob-"it seems to me that you like it."
Maybe he's frightening Oz or upsetting him somehow, so he kneels up to let Oz get his breath back. "I'd like to do this. Make you feel good. Make you forget everything else in the world but my mouth on your body." He wants to drive Oz to desperation. Wants this to be the best he's ever had.
His hand circles over Oz's belly, soothing. "Whatever you want."
Oz plucks nonexistent threads from the edge of the sheet, nodding along, picturing maps like that. His own map would either be tiny -- backyard, Bronze, skate park -- or huge and blank, no center, fabric still spilling off the loom. Like Odysseus's wife, unravelling it at night, starting over in the morning
( ... )
Giles has started a new list. Or rather, it's suddenly there in his mind as though it's always existed. Which probably means he began it, without quite noticing, before Oz even kissed him
( ... )
Giles's kiss is like his voice, thoughtful and slightly foreign but all the more comforting for that, and Oz comes back to himself. Shakes off the doom and gloom that thinking too hard about Sunnydale always wraps him up in, and he nods. It's just the way Giles talks, as if there will be other times - another time - more than you can count or otherwise specify, and it leaves Oz feeling weirdly flushed inside and confident
( ... )
Giles' first thought-what do you mean you're hardly ever at school?--he leaves unvoiced, because it's authoritarian, paternal, and it would send the age difference crashing down between them again. As absolute as a portcullis, as a prison gate, as flocks of archangels waving fiery swords.
His second thought--seeing you wouldn't bother me--is fatuous, and also untrue. There's not a moment at school when Oz's presence would be welcome. When it wouldn't be a brewing disaster, just waiting to be poured out and served
( ... )
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"If you don't like this, I'll stop. But-"-he circles Oz's nipple with his tongue, sucks it into his mouth and gets a gasp that's almost a sob-"it seems to me that you like it."
Maybe he's frightening Oz or upsetting him somehow, so he kneels up to let Oz get his breath back. "I'd like to do this. Make you feel good. Make you forget everything else in the world but my mouth on your body." He wants to drive Oz to desperation. Wants this to be the best he's ever had.
His hand circles over Oz's belly, soothing. "Whatever you want."
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His second thought--seeing you wouldn't bother me--is fatuous, and also untrue. There's not a moment at school when Oz's presence would be welcome. When it wouldn't be a brewing disaster, just waiting to be poured out and served ( ... )
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