Once the table's set, Giles goes upstairs to change out of the clothes he's worn for the last two days. He's on his way down again, an extra shirt in his hand for Oz, when he hears Oz's frightened voice calling from the hallway. "I'm right here," he answers, and then stumbles and has to catch himself.
Heart pounding from his near fall, he rushes the rest of the way down and finds Oz standing frozen outside the bathroom door. Oz tries unconvincingly to smile when he sees Giles, and then leans into his hug with a sigh that sounds painfully relieved. "I was upstairs," Giles says, rubbing the gooseflesh on Oz's arms. Suddenly he's very glad that Oz didn't wake alone in the bed while Giles was cooking. "I've brought you a clean shirt. I'd have brought trousers, too, but even with a belt I don't think that would work."
He kisses Oz, tastes sweet mint toothpaste and a sharp overtone of fear, and then closes his eyes and holds him. Oz really ought to stay here tonight. Ought to stay here for as long as they can manage. They need to remember each other, remember what being together feels like. "I missed you, while you were sleeping," he says. It's an absurd thing to say, but it's true, and he wants Oz to know.
Oz tilts his face up, and there's something close to a real smile there, although Giles can see the effort behind it. Another kiss, and then Giles lets him go and puts the shirt in his hands. "I hope you're hungry, as I've made far too much food."
"Really hungry," Oz says as he buttons up the shirt. If he can't hold Giles all day, which is silly *and* impossible, this is probably the next best thing.
Oz loves wearing Giles' shirts, and he's often wondered what that means, since it seems creepily close to the way cheerleaders like to wear their boyfriends' letter-jackets. Then again, he and his friends have always operated on a share and share-alike principle, so maybe this is just a natural extension of that. Anyway, Giles' clothes always smell like starch and lemon, the cotton feels finer, softer and crisper, and, even if they were rough as sand and smelled like sweat, they'd still be Giles'.
"Wow. *Wow*," he says, taking his seat, as Giles ladles out soup and slides the baking dish of cauliflower toward him. Oz heaps his plate, and everything tastes rich and spicy, and if the wolf's improving his tastebuds, he really doesn't want to know that right now. Giles sits beside him, eating almost as hungrily as Oz, and he doesn't seem to mind that Oz has scooted closer so their thighs are touching and he can rest his left hand on Giles' knee.
"Missed you, too," Oz says as he reaches for the ladle to refill their soupbowls. "I shouldn't be so clingy, I -" don't know what got into me: No, best not say that.
"This is amazing," he says instead and slides his chair closer so he can slip his arm around the back of Giles' chair. "Thank you."
"I'm glad you like it," Giles says, and leans over to kiss him. The fear and the terrible cold are fading into memory, and he wonders how he could have been so stupid. The wolf he recalls more vividly; he'll never get that picture out of his mind, and he'll be seeing it again all too soon. Just twenty-six days before Oz will turn again.
But the wolf is not Oz. The wolf is a disease that hurts Oz and frightens him.
"You're not clingy." And then he has to laugh, because Oz has an arm around his shoulders and is trying to eat one-handed. "Well, no more than I am. If we could possibly eat with you in my lap, I'm sure we would be." If he could arrange it, he wouldn't let Oz out of arm's reach for weeks.
After a few more bites, he decides he's had enough, so he turns to watch Oz instead. Oz has left the shirt untucked, loose over his narrow hips, and rolled the sleeves up past his elbows. Lost in all that white cotton, he looks a little like a boy trying on his father's clothes, and Giles wants to ruffle his hair. But Oz looks like something else, too, something slightly rumpled, just shy of innocent, boyish in another way entirely, and Giles wants to unbutton the shirt with his teeth and lick the skin under it.
Giles swallows, and through the tingle of spices in his mouth he can taste Oz. The memory of Oz, anyway; he needs to refresh his memories, confirm and renew them.
He picks up a bit of cauliflower from Oz's plate, eats it, and smiles at the puzzled look Oz gives him.
Heart pounding from his near fall, he rushes the rest of the way down and finds Oz standing frozen outside the bathroom door. Oz tries unconvincingly to smile when he sees Giles, and then leans into his hug with a sigh that sounds painfully relieved. "I was upstairs," Giles says, rubbing the gooseflesh on Oz's arms. Suddenly he's very glad that Oz didn't wake alone in the bed while Giles was cooking. "I've brought you a clean shirt. I'd have brought trousers, too, but even with a belt I don't think that would work."
He kisses Oz, tastes sweet mint toothpaste and a sharp overtone of fear, and then closes his eyes and holds him. Oz really ought to stay here tonight. Ought to stay here for as long as they can manage. They need to remember each other, remember what being together feels like. "I missed you, while you were sleeping," he says. It's an absurd thing to say, but it's true, and he wants Oz to know.
Oz tilts his face up, and there's something close to a real smile there, although Giles can see the effort behind it. Another kiss, and then Giles lets him go and puts the shirt in his hands. "I hope you're hungry, as I've made far too much food."
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Oz loves wearing Giles' shirts, and he's often wondered what that means, since it seems creepily close to the way cheerleaders like to wear their boyfriends' letter-jackets. Then again, he and his friends have always operated on a share and share-alike principle, so maybe this is just a natural extension of that. Anyway, Giles' clothes always smell like starch and lemon, the cotton feels finer, softer and crisper, and, even if they were rough as sand and smelled like sweat, they'd still be Giles'.
"Wow. *Wow*," he says, taking his seat, as Giles ladles out soup and slides the baking dish of cauliflower toward him. Oz heaps his plate, and everything tastes rich and spicy, and if the wolf's improving his tastebuds, he really doesn't want to know that right now. Giles sits beside him, eating almost as hungrily as Oz, and he doesn't seem to mind that Oz has scooted closer so their thighs are touching and he can rest his left hand on Giles' knee.
"Missed you, too," Oz says as he reaches for the ladle to refill their soupbowls. "I shouldn't be so clingy, I -" don't know what got into me: No, best not say that.
"This is amazing," he says instead and slides his chair closer so he can slip his arm around the back of Giles' chair. "Thank you."
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But the wolf is not Oz. The wolf is a disease that hurts Oz and frightens him.
"You're not clingy." And then he has to laugh, because Oz has an arm around his shoulders and is trying to eat one-handed. "Well, no more than I am. If we could possibly eat with you in my lap, I'm sure we would be." If he could arrange it, he wouldn't let Oz out of arm's reach for weeks.
After a few more bites, he decides he's had enough, so he turns to watch Oz instead. Oz has left the shirt untucked, loose over his narrow hips, and rolled the sleeves up past his elbows. Lost in all that white cotton, he looks a little like a boy trying on his father's clothes, and Giles wants to ruffle his hair. But Oz looks like something else, too, something slightly rumpled, just shy of innocent, boyish in another way entirely, and Giles wants to unbutton the shirt with his teeth and lick the skin under it.
Giles swallows, and through the tingle of spices in his mouth he can taste Oz. The memory of Oz, anyway; he needs to refresh his memories, confirm and renew them.
He picks up a bit of cauliflower from Oz's plate, eats it, and smiles at the puzzled look Oz gives him.
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