ficpost: "Multinational Faggot Parade" (Xander/Oz)
Title: "Multinational Faggot Parade"
Fandom: Buffyverse
Pairing: Xander/Oz
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Off-screen character death. Reclaimed homophobic slur (see title). Stagegay. And some really long sentences.
Spoilers/Timeline: Set post-series, spoilers for "Chosen."
Notes: Written for allyndra in the Xander round at maleslashminis. Nonverbal communication, groupies, and an epiphany. Thanks to alixtii and carla_scribbles for beta work.
Summary: The space between them is shaped but not like Willow. (Wake up one morning and discover you're gay.)
Wordcount: ~1500
Multinational Faggot Parade
Xander awakes one morning in late December -- it's near the summer solstice, and the days are lazily lengthening, dusty with drought and anxious with the promise of Christmas -- to discover he misses Sunnydale. There are better things to miss, more recent losses -- Willow dead, then Buffy -- but they all resolve themselves into the suburban landscape they inhabited once upon a time. It's a rough day, sour milk at breakfast, no whiff of Slayer, and Giles's phone call, usually a brightish spot, is dimmed by the unmistakable sound of liquor in his voice. It's as familiar as home, all right, but in all the wrong ways. The slurred directives make him wince and cringe, incite a schoolboy's instinct to run. And it's done, like that.
He's tracked Slayers across three continents for Giles, long past the time when his duty, with Buffy, expired, and now he's done. He's got a toolkit in storage, no depth perception, and a Google full of job possibilities, but he can't stop himself from typing Sunnydale. Like a homing beacon could pull him through the ether and back in time, sitting in the Bronze, ignoring a surly Cordelia and watching Willow beam, wide-eyed, at the band.
Oz is in a band called Ethnofag, formerly Multinational Faggot Parade, and if they got their start in Sunnydale like they claim, it must have been the part of town that Xander never heard of, because he doesn't recognize Oz's bandmates or their costumes as being homegrown. Then, he barely recognizes Oz in the photo, although he's still lean and his hair still dyed and gelled in a way that Xander wants to crush close against his palm. At that he laughs, bitter, but real. Hey, I'm gay too. And he can actually imagine it: his whole life, wanting this one thing. He fills in fantasies and they come remarkably easily, better than invention and not as overworn as reality. He's been wanting his whole life, gritty, scratchy, like Oz's records at three A.M., staying awake and watching the ceiling slowly revolve as their eyes blur out with acid. An afternoon of shared music (real) blurring into nighttime (fantastic), a morning waiting for Willow, a hundred fragments of awkward conversation, and the weird thing is, he did want it, always.
The first time it happened (the first time he succumbed, or the first time his brain opened wide enough to turn off kneejerk fear of touching another guy) he felt the same way he does now, chasing down Ethnofag's latest gig. He's thrilled despite the seediness, anxious and happy and proactive for once. The venue's already milling with groupies, who're hoisting lighters and grinding against each other's spandex torsos like they don't know what decade it is, just that it's sometime last century. The guys see Xander's eye and avoid it; the girls look like they might turn their mock on if the warm-up act doesn't finish soon. He settles himself at a table for one with a cheap beer and waits for Ethnofag to distract them, and him.
Oz on stage has the same steady, corner-of-your-eye appeal he always has, and now that Xander's clear on the gay concept, he can't believe he ever thought this feeling was anything other than pure, blinding desire. The other musicians are bouncing, almost giddy, sometimes groping each other in an obviously pre-planned way -- the backup vocalist's main job seems to be keeping some part of his body at all times wrapped around the drummer's waist. He's humming, something about pollution and absolution and the Catholic church and crutches and survival, and his un-mic'd hand is halfway up the drummer's shirt, which would explain why the percussion sounds like a half-hearted afterthought. The audience is in a frenzy of imitation, hands in wrong places, boners visible under tight shiny pants. Xander sinks a little lower, hoping the strobe won't find him and reveal in its fractured beam the lines on his face or the desire in his eye.
Oz has an old-school love affair with his guitar, music-making music man, my boyfriend's in the band. The guys in the crowd are crooning his name, the girls have silhouette silkscreens across their chests, and Xander feels a new possessiveness towards Oz, whom he remembers as looser and more wired, energetic, not this intense -- he curls around the guitar like it's a woman, or a small city, an electric culture that comes to life at the stroke of his pick, little singing people escaping with his touch.
He waits for Oz backstage, feeling bulky and conservative and overdressed among the fans. Some are waving passes, but most are just convinced that the promiscuity that makes them irresistible at places like the Bronze will also work with mildly notorious international rockstars. The drummer emerges first, not quite clean of his stage makeup. He directs himself toward a respectable-seeming woman who, like Xander, is shuffling awkwardly and looks out of place, sober and grounded. The drummer greets her with a placid kiss, to a collective groan from the crowd. They depart, and Xander scans the crowd for the girl (for Willow, though she's dead) who is Oz's. Is she happy and fresh-faced, checking her watch, or cool and bitter, having a smoke?
The rest of the band knows the script better, emerge together for the post-show show, two (not Oz) holding hands, and if they're looking for their partners, they're watching the groupies, too, and smiling. Xander catches Oz's eye and can't help grinning, pleased and favored. Oz smiles back, all the way to his eyes. He kisses his bandmates chastely (cheering and camera flash) and finds his way against the crowd's current to Xander, who gulps.
"Hey. I know you from someplace."
Xander can't speak for a minute. He's not embarrassed but he's surprised. There are no someplaces. There is Sunnydale, and there is everywhere else, and if the weight of a town that caved in on itself can't affect Oz, nothing ever will -- Oz is holding himself to earth with the sheer gravity of his own personality. Xander finds his breath. "We went to high school together."
Oz closes his eyes and breathes Xander's name, no subtext. Just, I remember you. Yeah.
Which makes the next part harder to say. "Did you hear -- I -- Willow. Did you hear about Willow?"
Oz takes him by the elbow, pulls him around the corner of the building (to the back alley; Xander reaches on instinct for a stake). He crosses his arms in front of himself and pulls the awful day-glo green performance shirt over his head. His chest is red with scratches, some faded to scars, some fresh and bright. Wolf marks. "I heard."
There's nothing to say to that so Xander doesn't. He lets go of the stake like he's not terrified of werewolves, rests his hands in his pockets. Oz's right wrist is wrapped in bracelets, the kind (Xander thinks, without charity) girls make, share, and swap at Girl Scout camp when real men are learning knot-tying and homophobia. Oz wears them without comment (though what kind of comment would be appropriate? Oh by the way, I'm bi? And it's still there, curdling, the I'm gay too that Oz, still a little older, ever a little cooler, will reward with a headpat, a reward for finally figuring it out.)
Xander has the defensively sounder position, a clear fifty yards between him and safety, and Oz is tucked between a wall and a dumpster, but Xander knows he's defeated. When Oz takes a step towards him, Xander's just-a-guy, and Oz is Oz, and a whole high school experience full of repressed fantasies, and the warmth of breath on his chin, and the stubbly heat of kissing a guy, and smooth skin that's scratchy with scars, and stooping down so far to make the kiss deeper, to find the place where Oz stops being weird and starts reacting just like a guy would. And it happens, somewhere around second base (though how do you count bases, when there aren't any breasts?); Xander's hard and so is Oz, against Xander's leg, and the kiss has become sloppy and a little painful, too much stubble, too many teeth (and Xander really likes to be bitten, hard, on his shoulder, so it hurts, and he shudders and pulls or pushes -- anyhow, Oz is against the wall now, and there's grinding and no biting, no biting allowed). He has always wanted this; he has never dreamed of this. When you're seventeen and masturbate about everything and can come in two minutes, you imagine sex-for-two will be different somehow, longer, gentler, extraordinary. And now, older and practiced, Xander's trying very hard not to come in his pants because he's seventeen again and never, ever wanted anything more than this, better than this, hotter than this (bare skin burning although it's close to freezing in this hemisphere), Oz's hand down his pants and reaching through boxers to stroke his cock, his hand gripping Oz's ass, index finger just barely not penetrating him, a kiss that keeps breaking off so Oz can suck but not bite his neck, so Xander can breathe the sweaty, beer-y scent that's Oz, and the bar could be the Bronze. And this could be high school. And he could be doing it right this time.
Fandom: Buffyverse
Pairing: Xander/Oz
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Off-screen character death. Reclaimed homophobic slur (see title). Stagegay. And some really long sentences.
Spoilers/Timeline: Set post-series, spoilers for "Chosen."
Notes: Written for allyndra in the Xander round at maleslashminis. Nonverbal communication, groupies, and an epiphany. Thanks to alixtii and carla_scribbles for beta work.
Summary: The space between them is shaped but not like Willow. (Wake up one morning and discover you're gay.)
Wordcount: ~1500
Multinational Faggot Parade
Xander awakes one morning in late December -- it's near the summer solstice, and the days are lazily lengthening, dusty with drought and anxious with the promise of Christmas -- to discover he misses Sunnydale. There are better things to miss, more recent losses -- Willow dead, then Buffy -- but they all resolve themselves into the suburban landscape they inhabited once upon a time. It's a rough day, sour milk at breakfast, no whiff of Slayer, and Giles's phone call, usually a brightish spot, is dimmed by the unmistakable sound of liquor in his voice. It's as familiar as home, all right, but in all the wrong ways. The slurred directives make him wince and cringe, incite a schoolboy's instinct to run. And it's done, like that.
He's tracked Slayers across three continents for Giles, long past the time when his duty, with Buffy, expired, and now he's done. He's got a toolkit in storage, no depth perception, and a Google full of job possibilities, but he can't stop himself from typing Sunnydale. Like a homing beacon could pull him through the ether and back in time, sitting in the Bronze, ignoring a surly Cordelia and watching Willow beam, wide-eyed, at the band.
Oz is in a band called Ethnofag, formerly Multinational Faggot Parade, and if they got their start in Sunnydale like they claim, it must have been the part of town that Xander never heard of, because he doesn't recognize Oz's bandmates or their costumes as being homegrown. Then, he barely recognizes Oz in the photo, although he's still lean and his hair still dyed and gelled in a way that Xander wants to crush close against his palm. At that he laughs, bitter, but real. Hey, I'm gay too. And he can actually imagine it: his whole life, wanting this one thing. He fills in fantasies and they come remarkably easily, better than invention and not as overworn as reality. He's been wanting his whole life, gritty, scratchy, like Oz's records at three A.M., staying awake and watching the ceiling slowly revolve as their eyes blur out with acid. An afternoon of shared music (real) blurring into nighttime (fantastic), a morning waiting for Willow, a hundred fragments of awkward conversation, and the weird thing is, he did want it, always.
The first time it happened (the first time he succumbed, or the first time his brain opened wide enough to turn off kneejerk fear of touching another guy) he felt the same way he does now, chasing down Ethnofag's latest gig. He's thrilled despite the seediness, anxious and happy and proactive for once. The venue's already milling with groupies, who're hoisting lighters and grinding against each other's spandex torsos like they don't know what decade it is, just that it's sometime last century. The guys see Xander's eye and avoid it; the girls look like they might turn their mock on if the warm-up act doesn't finish soon. He settles himself at a table for one with a cheap beer and waits for Ethnofag to distract them, and him.
Oz on stage has the same steady, corner-of-your-eye appeal he always has, and now that Xander's clear on the gay concept, he can't believe he ever thought this feeling was anything other than pure, blinding desire. The other musicians are bouncing, almost giddy, sometimes groping each other in an obviously pre-planned way -- the backup vocalist's main job seems to be keeping some part of his body at all times wrapped around the drummer's waist. He's humming, something about pollution and absolution and the Catholic church and crutches and survival, and his un-mic'd hand is halfway up the drummer's shirt, which would explain why the percussion sounds like a half-hearted afterthought. The audience is in a frenzy of imitation, hands in wrong places, boners visible under tight shiny pants. Xander sinks a little lower, hoping the strobe won't find him and reveal in its fractured beam the lines on his face or the desire in his eye.
Oz has an old-school love affair with his guitar, music-making music man, my boyfriend's in the band. The guys in the crowd are crooning his name, the girls have silhouette silkscreens across their chests, and Xander feels a new possessiveness towards Oz, whom he remembers as looser and more wired, energetic, not this intense -- he curls around the guitar like it's a woman, or a small city, an electric culture that comes to life at the stroke of his pick, little singing people escaping with his touch.
He waits for Oz backstage, feeling bulky and conservative and overdressed among the fans. Some are waving passes, but most are just convinced that the promiscuity that makes them irresistible at places like the Bronze will also work with mildly notorious international rockstars. The drummer emerges first, not quite clean of his stage makeup. He directs himself toward a respectable-seeming woman who, like Xander, is shuffling awkwardly and looks out of place, sober and grounded. The drummer greets her with a placid kiss, to a collective groan from the crowd. They depart, and Xander scans the crowd for the girl (for Willow, though she's dead) who is Oz's. Is she happy and fresh-faced, checking her watch, or cool and bitter, having a smoke?
The rest of the band knows the script better, emerge together for the post-show show, two (not Oz) holding hands, and if they're looking for their partners, they're watching the groupies, too, and smiling. Xander catches Oz's eye and can't help grinning, pleased and favored. Oz smiles back, all the way to his eyes. He kisses his bandmates chastely (cheering and camera flash) and finds his way against the crowd's current to Xander, who gulps.
"Hey. I know you from someplace."
Xander can't speak for a minute. He's not embarrassed but he's surprised. There are no someplaces. There is Sunnydale, and there is everywhere else, and if the weight of a town that caved in on itself can't affect Oz, nothing ever will -- Oz is holding himself to earth with the sheer gravity of his own personality. Xander finds his breath. "We went to high school together."
Oz closes his eyes and breathes Xander's name, no subtext. Just, I remember you. Yeah.
Which makes the next part harder to say. "Did you hear -- I -- Willow. Did you hear about Willow?"
Oz takes him by the elbow, pulls him around the corner of the building (to the back alley; Xander reaches on instinct for a stake). He crosses his arms in front of himself and pulls the awful day-glo green performance shirt over his head. His chest is red with scratches, some faded to scars, some fresh and bright. Wolf marks. "I heard."
There's nothing to say to that so Xander doesn't. He lets go of the stake like he's not terrified of werewolves, rests his hands in his pockets. Oz's right wrist is wrapped in bracelets, the kind (Xander thinks, without charity) girls make, share, and swap at Girl Scout camp when real men are learning knot-tying and homophobia. Oz wears them without comment (though what kind of comment would be appropriate? Oh by the way, I'm bi? And it's still there, curdling, the I'm gay too that Oz, still a little older, ever a little cooler, will reward with a headpat, a reward for finally figuring it out.)
Xander has the defensively sounder position, a clear fifty yards between him and safety, and Oz is tucked between a wall and a dumpster, but Xander knows he's defeated. When Oz takes a step towards him, Xander's just-a-guy, and Oz is Oz, and a whole high school experience full of repressed fantasies, and the warmth of breath on his chin, and the stubbly heat of kissing a guy, and smooth skin that's scratchy with scars, and stooping down so far to make the kiss deeper, to find the place where Oz stops being weird and starts reacting just like a guy would. And it happens, somewhere around second base (though how do you count bases, when there aren't any breasts?); Xander's hard and so is Oz, against Xander's leg, and the kiss has become sloppy and a little painful, too much stubble, too many teeth (and Xander really likes to be bitten, hard, on his shoulder, so it hurts, and he shudders and pulls or pushes -- anyhow, Oz is against the wall now, and there's grinding and no biting, no biting allowed). He has always wanted this; he has never dreamed of this. When you're seventeen and masturbate about everything and can come in two minutes, you imagine sex-for-two will be different somehow, longer, gentler, extraordinary. And now, older and practiced, Xander's trying very hard not to come in his pants because he's seventeen again and never, ever wanted anything more than this, better than this, hotter than this (bare skin burning although it's close to freezing in this hemisphere), Oz's hand down his pants and reaching through boxers to stroke his cock, his hand gripping Oz's ass, index finger just barely not penetrating him, a kiss that keeps breaking off so Oz can suck but not bite his neck, so Xander can breathe the sweaty, beer-y scent that's Oz, and the bar could be the Bronze. And this could be high school. And he could be doing it right this time.