"Can't be happy," Oz says, low, under his breath, and clutches at Giles. Somehow his arm's wound around Giles' waist, mimicking Giles' own arm, and there's no fear in holding, not when he's this cold and scared. There's only distant warmth, desperate and needed. He coughs again and scrubs his forehead against Giles' shoulder.
"Love you," he says and needs to tip back his head, needs to see Giles' face. It's like everything he's felt since the wolf, all the physical pain from changing, all the fear and worry and doubt, like it's all coming back in a single moment, a single swooping wave, crashing down on him. "Giles. I -"
Nothing he can say will explain what he's feeling; if *he* doesn't know, how the hell can he possibly start to tell Giles about it? He can't tell Giles anyway, can't risk getting him angry again, proving to Giles all over again, yet again, what a stupid idea it ever was to hook up with Oz. Man's got more than enough on his plate.
"Don't know what'll make me happy," he says finally. Tilts his head up at last, feels Giles' cheek sliding down his own, and pulls himself even closer. "Don't know shit. *Do* know I love you, more than anything. I *do*."
All the irritation, all the blunders, he wishes they'd just crawl away, just for a second, just long enough for Giles to listen and believe him. The wave's still breaking over him, North Atlantic cold and fierce, and he's scared to open his eyes again in case Giles is getting washed away.
"I know," Giles says, although he's wrapped like a fog-bound traveller in swirling confusion, in gray mists that mock with hints of shapes, hints of sense and meaning, and then twist and scatter into nonsense. There's the Oz who clings to him and the Oz who avoids his touch, the Oz who loves him and the Oz who grows more baffling and distant every day. One of them has to be a will-o'-the-wisp, but every time Giles thinks he spots it, the shapes shift again.
He kisses Oz's cheek, rubs his palms over Oz's shoulder and side, tries to soothe away whatever his fear might be. "Here," he says, "Let me-" and it's all he needs to say, because Oz lurches blindly forward and crawls into his lap. The mists thicken then, writhe, form grotesque messages that say he's taking advantage of Oz's need. Giles closes his eyes and tries to close his mind, tries to feel nothing but Oz's head on his shoulder and arm around his neck, his own hand in Oz's hair and his other arm circling Oz's waist, steadying and holding him.
It doesn't work for long. Touching Oz like this used to end Giles' confusion, used to bring clarity and truth. And it still feels safe and good, but it feels temporary too. Instead of a lighthouse burning through the fog, it's a torch with the batteries running low.
"No matter what," he says, and the words tear his flesh like barbed hooks, "I'll still love you." But maybe that's not right either. Maybe that's just a way of trapping Oz in guilt and obligation.
The mists are cold around him; they reach clammy tendrils down past his clothes, past his skin, deep into bone and blood. He shivers and holds Oz tighter. And it's something, some light and some warmth, even if it's not enough. Even if it's not forever.
It's a simple thought, plain logic, edged with ice and steel, and Oz doesn't even shiver when it rises through his mind, slicing its way upward. Giles keeps rubbing his back, Oz keeps his arm hooked around Giles' neck, fingers twining through his short, soft hair, and inside he feels quiet, calm, hollow.
Earlier, all month, ever since he changed, he felt like Cody's eyes, blind and smeared with blue-white milk. Clouded and cold, he kept circling aimlessly, knowing he had to stop this, knowing just as well that he couldn't, didn't want to, loved Giles too much to leave. Now he can see. It doesn't matter that he desperately wants *not* to see; there's nothing he can do to stop it.
He's been hurting Giles with his stupid strategy of staying, of only being half here, one leg slung over the windowsill, head turned away. He thought it was better than nothing, thought that even if he was different, he could make sure that Giles remained the same, still loved, still touched.
Oz has never claimed to be all that intelligent.
He turns his head, kisses Giles' mouth, relaxing his hold on Giles' hair but holding him more tightly, rubbing his fingertips into the space between collar and skin. Top of Giles' spine, where nerves thicken and bundle, become his brain. Become Giles, clear-eyed and brilliant, sensitive and anxious, full of love and worry and hope.
A year is a long, long time, and maybe it was just luck. Maybe he got to have Giles this long because the wolf was coming, hell or highwater.
Oz breaks the kiss gently, more gently than he has all month, peppering small pecks over Giles' upper lip and rubbing his neck. Calm and unlucky, he would rather know that Giles was alive, somewhere safe, than indulge any more in this strained cruel frustration that's more selfish than anything Angelus could dream up.
Giles presses his forehead against Oz's; it feels warm where his own skin feels cold and rough, like ice that has melted and refrozen. Oz closes his eyes, and then a little later he opens them. It's hard to focus at this distance, but Giles tries, first on one eye and then the other. He's looked into Oz's eyes time and again, but he can never remember them well enough. There are so many details--the broken layers of color, the precise tones as blue shades into green, the flecks of amber-yellow in the green, the faint blue lines of capillaries in his eyelids, the number and curve of his gingery lashes. So many details that Giles had better not forget.
Maybe Oz notices his scrutiny, because soon he closes his eyes again and folds himself closer to Giles, face in his neck and arms almost chokingly tight. His breath tickles at first, and then dampens Giles' skin, and Giles can feel every rise and fall of Oz's chest against his own. After a while their breathing synchronizes, as it always does.
They must have sat like this a hundred times, or nearly, and Giles wants to remember every one. It happened almost by accident, the first time, as they listened to Low and shifted around trying to get closer. For about five minutes it was surprising, almost awkward, and then it became perfectly comfortable, their bodies fitting so well they might have been designed for it. After that it became habit, automatic, so that Giles can hardly imagine listening to music or watching a video without Oz curled, or sometimes sprawled, over him. Giles has read dozens of books this way, balancing them on Oz's knees, turning the pages one-handed; sometimes, if it's a novel instead of a demonology text, he'll read out loud. He's spent hours not reading, too, especially when Oz falls asleep, as he occasionally does. Giles likes to listen to him sleep.
All those times, Giles never thought too closely about little boys asleep on their fathers' laps, about bedtime stories read aloud. And now that the idea's in his mind he slams a door on it, thunks the locks into place, concentrates on the whisper of breathing until it drowns out the clamor of thought. There will be time for it later, when Oz has gone from his lap, his flat, his life. When there are only memories. There will be time to think of everything then.
In the library, at school, walking down the hallways, Giles looks tall and distant, shoulders tight and face tilted down. Oz still can't square that image with the Giles he knows. Knows him bodily, through skin and ear, the rhythm of his lungs and the scent of his neck. Times like this, Giles is both continentally-huge and exactly Oz's size.
He used to be attuned to the difference in their sizes, used to wonder what Giles thought of it, whether it made him uncomfortable. Then he stopped wondering; once they explored and adjusted, they fit like a key in a lock, a blanket on a sleeping body, a vine on brick and mortar.
When he leaves, it's going to tear his skin off.
He's not leaving yet. Giles is still here and Oz is still whole and they're still pressed together, his mouth on Giles's neck, Giles's arms around his waist. And he can't help it, this is so familiar and right, the scent and sensation and closeness, that Oz's breathing catches as his chest heats up, as he gets hard all over again, as he kisses, then licks, the faintly salty fuzz of the hairline behind Giles's ear.
"Please," he whispers past his sore throat, air like dull knives. "Need you, please, can we? Need *you*."
After certainty and decision, he's learning, there's an unknown time. Oz wants to be flayed, wants to leave here shattered and trembling, wants Giles to know just how wrong and unfair all of this is.
In that space of unnamed time, he needs to finish this, needs to leave the best of himself with Giles.
The breathy whisper in Giles' ear feels like a brush of fingertips, so light it starts every nerve awake and craving. Then comes a lick up the rim of his ear, and Giles can't hold back a choked sound, can't stop his hand from sliding up the inside of Oz's thigh.
Oz's lips close on his earlobe, and as he tongues and sucks it Giles' breathing turns ragged, his cock swells and grows heavy, his lips itch for Oz's mouth and his body.
But not twenty minutes ago Oz flinched from him, and Giles' mind remembers even if his body doesn't. "Oz," he says, twisting until Oz raises his head and look at him. "We don't . . . we don't have to, if you don't want to." Giles rubs his thumb over the frown line between Oz's brows, smoothes it away, and then cups his cheek.
This could be just another present. For their anniversary, for goodbye. And Giles won't take anything Oz doesn't really want to give him. Not anymore.
He's never said anything like that before, never treated Oz like someone breakable, someone incapable of knowing his own mind. Like a stranger. Giles's voice slides crosswise through Oz, through the quiet, but instead of cutting it, of reducing the dark hush, just doubles it. Makes it grow like something cellular.
He's still holding Oz like two different people. Hand on his cheek, hand on his thigh. It makes Oz think of wolves and people, gods and mortals, mistakes and apologies. Of how Giles can love him and hate the wolf, how he can love Giles and still leave, how Ethan can receive both regret and loathing. Before he met Giles, Oz thought you either liked someone or didn't; he had no idea that people were like tapestries, that you could love patterns and colors but abhor rot. That everyone's compound and it's all right to love most but not all of them.
So he nods and turns, kissing the knuckle of Giles's thumb and rocking against his other hand.
"Want to," he says. Hates that he's brought them to a point where Giles can even doubt that. "Need you, I really do."
Giles is solid, cool as the wood in a boardwalk at night in the wind and rain. Eyes steady and deep on him, creases in his face deepening as he considers whether to believe Oz. And, because everyone's multiple and inconstant, his hand tightens on Oz's thigh, squeezes him in time with the rock of Oz's hips.
"Giles," Oz says. Throat raw, eyes cold, head throbbing. "Need you."
There's an edge of irritation in Oz's voice, sharpening a truth as plain and cold as good steel, making it cut. And Giles doesn't know if it's scalpel or sword, if this pain is healing or mutilating, if he's bleeding away his doubts or his life.
Need you, Oz says, but Giles doesn't understand what he needs. Oz needs Giles' touch, thrusts against him, erection clearly outlined under his trousers; Oz needs to keep his distance, needs to sit out of arm's reach, needs to go somewhere else during sex and leave Giles touching an empty body. Oz needs his love; Oz needs, Giles is more and more sure, to leave him.
"Whatever you need," Giles says, hand traveling down from Oz's cheek to his neck, exploring under his two layers of shirts, "I want to give you." Oz moves against him again, rough and hungry, and Giles pulls his head down to kiss him. Takes Oz's tongue in his mouth, groans as Oz licks and probes and tastes as though he never will again. And maybe he won't, after all; maybe this is the last time.
Oz is tugging his hair, kneading his arm with strong fingers, making hoarse sounds deep in his throat as they kiss, as Giles works open the last buttons of his overshirt and pulls it back off his shoulders. "Do you know what I need?" he asks, breathing the words against Oz's lips.
Need you to be like you used to be, to love me as much as you did. Need you not to leave me.
He kisses Oz's neck, licks the pulse point, doesn't bite because they don't do that anymore. Of all the changes, it's the only one Giles can understand. Oz makes one of those sounds again, and Giles wants to tumble him to the floor and fuck him, hard and crude and simple. But he doesn't, because this might be the last time. "I need to see how many times I can make you come."
Before Oz can answer, before he can react at all, Giles pushes him back onto the sofa, slides down to kneel on the floor, opens his trousers, kisses the head of his cock and then takes it in. Oz's hips work, his hands clutch Giles' hair, he pants and grunts and he doesn't pull away, doesn't go still and vacant, doesn't say no.
Giles's mouth is fast and hot, tight lips, wide eyes, hollow cheeks, and Oz can't stop thrusting, tangling his fingers in Giles's hair. Can't stop, not when need's flowing and jerking like a spastic current between them. Sparks sputtering and groans coming thick and hoarse, and Giles moans around his cock, vibrations rippling down Oz's legs and up his spine, and he tries to answer, tries to find words.
Fails. Giles might be on his knees, but he's gripping hard to Oz's legs, spreading them, glaring up at him, and it's almost overwhelming.
*Would* have been overwhelming a month, six weeks, ago, and Oz has to blink fast and concentrate for a moment on the cold stone of his stomach, the emptiness of postdecision time. Those keep him, keep Giles, safe. Can't spare doubt, can't retreat, because then he'll wonder if he can stay, if he can make this work, but he can't, won't, not if he wants Giles safe.
Giles slides his teeth lightly over his cockhead and cups-massages-squeezes his balls, and Oz's hips buck as his spine bows and he throws his head back, moans coming fast and silveryliquid out of his mouth. Giles's name, and random words, and his name again, cursing.
He yanks Giles's head back, or tries to, but Giles is immovable and steadfast, eyes dark and wet on Oz. Arching, snaking, sparking current, doubling and tripling and making Oz writhe under Giles's hands, his mouth.
Every sound out of Oz's mouth, every moan and sob and fuck and please runs hotly down Giles' spine, trickles through his nerves and back to his throat, his mouth. Tongue working wet and fast, mouth tight around musky-sweet hard flesh, hips thrusting helplessly into empty space, and every sound, every cry is for them both.
Oz's body tightens under his hands, muscles rigid with need, and then he shouts unintelligible words, hips jerking and cock pulsing so deep in Giles' throat he almost chokes. Giles mouth fills, and he's trembling and clenching his hands on Oz's thighs, swallowing brine and holding himself motionless. Breathing, staying still, not thinking about coming himself because it's much, much too soon.
Despite the rug, the floor's hard under his knees, but for a while he stays crouched between Oz's knees, kissing Oz's softening cock and his belly. Oz strokes his hair, fingers gentle and soothing on the sore places where he was yanking a few moments ago. Giles rubs his hands up and down Oz's thighs; the muscles are loose now, relaxed.
One of his knees creaks when he hauls himself up beside Oz, and for a moment Giles wishes he were eighteen himself. Young enough to be Oz's friend, his lover, instead of old enough to be his father. But he remembers himself at eighteen, and he knows Oz is better off with the man he is now. If Oz leaves, at least he'll leave undamaged.
"One," he says into Oz's ear, then drops kisses across his cheek to his mouth. This is something Giles loves, the taste of Oz's mouth mingling with the taste of his come, and it's just as good as it always was. Oz lays a hand over Giles' crotch, and Giles arches into it before he can stop himself. Then he picks it up and moves it to his leg. "Come upstairs and we'll start on two."
Rubbery muscles, slack mouth, and Oz can't stop touching Giles. Face, arm, side. He wraps his arm around Giles's waist and stumbles-drags himself toward the stairs, clinging, feeling like mostly-melted ice cream sticking to Giles's warmth and solidity.
There are songs and static buzzing through his skull, and he can barely think, kissing Giles's shoulder, his free hand working at the buttons of his blue shirt, sliding in between, fingertips coasting over his chest.
"Want you to, too," he whispers thickly as they round the landing. He tugs at Giles's shirt, makes him pause and stop, cranes his head back, mouth open, for a kiss. "So much. Want to hear you, feel you--" He slides his hand back over Giles's erection, cupping it loosely, pressing forward. Giles comes in blazes, in fireworks, roughdirty words and shuddering shouts and eyes burning. Oz nudges his knee between Giles's legs, the sizzle of anticipation reanimating loose muscles, tightening the skin over his chest, heating up his face. "--Watch you come, so hard, so desperate."
Usually he's shy, can't quite translate the pictures and need he sees and feels into any kind of sense. But Giles talks to him, wants to hear, and Oz wants him to know everything tonight.
Almost everything, that is.
Top of the stairs, Giles in the loft, Oz a step below, and he presses his face against Giles's belly, kissing old scars and soft hair, his hands kneading Giles's ass through his pants.
Giles steps back, drawing Oz up the last rise. "You can watch me come, I promise. I want you to watch me." If Giles was eighteen, he could come for Oz again and again; they could share this completely. Time is unjust. Time's a liar, an ironist, giving Giles this when it's too late. Giving him Oz, and then stealing Oz away.
He pulls Oz's overshirt the rest of the way off and starts undoing the fiddly little buttons of the green one, fumbling and wanting to rip his way to bare skin. "But you'll have to wait." Finally the shirt's open, and Giles tugs at the cuffs until it falls to the floor. "I want you to come for me again first."
Oz shudders and his mouth opens, wet and inviting; Giles kisses him before he can speak. Little soft bites to Oz's lower lip, sweep of Giles' tongue over it and then inside, a murmuring noise from Oz that Giles echoes back into his mouth. There's a confusion of hands and arms, buttons and zips, the slide of cloth over skin and the thunk of shoes being kicked off. Kisses, sharp breaths that seem to echo in the quiet, the feel of Oz's lips whispering over Giles' chest and his cock against Giles' thigh. "You're so hard," Giles says, and drops his hands to Oz's arse, fingers digging in as he pulls Oz closer. "Hard for me." It is for him, he knows it, Oz's erection and his gasps and the flush in his face. Oz wants him, Oz is touching his back and arms and chest and hips and everywhere as though he can't get enough, and whatever's been wrong is gone now. Gone for now, for this moment that might be the last.
"Of course," Oz starts, then closes his lips around one of Giles's small, soft nipples. Doesn't want to question anything, just wants to feel and touch and taste. Make Giles make those little rumbly murmurs in the back of his throat, feel his fingers flex over Oz's ass, thumbs rubbing hard ovals in the small of his back.
"For you--" and he twists his hips, rubs a little harder against the ropy muscles in Giles's thigh as he kisses the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth. "Always."
He rubs his face against Giles's chest, smelling soap and cologne, dust of bookrot, sweat, kissing as much skin as he can cover. Wants to drown in it, wants to pull Giles over him and feel himself entirely covered, wholly shielded, so he can't escape, can't wriggle away.
"I'll come for you," Oz says, forcing the words past shyness and reluctance, letting the heat spill past his lips, speaking right to the liquid heat of Giles's eyes as he drags his fingernails up Giles's spine. "Much as I can. Want to make you harder than you've ever been."
The more he talks, the harder he shakes, the tighter his chest feels, the more Giles bites his lip and grinds his jaw. Oz feels stuffed with smoke and steam, hot inconstant shifting clouds, and only the grip of Giles's hands on him, only the skid of his own palms and chest against Giles, is keeping him upright.
It's just like it used to be, just like what Giles has been craving for weeks, remembering, replaying over and over. And remembering so badly, so incompletely. He didn't remember the little shivers under Oz's skin or how they spark across to him like a current, sending fire-bright shocks popping in his own flesh. Or the pale, sliding curve of Oz's spine as he thrusts closer and closer, or the way the flat of his tongue feels rough against Giles' nipple. Or his boneless melting, his various music of moans and sighs and shaking breaths.
"I want you so much," Giles says, steering Oz back onto the bed. "Want to make you come and come. Drain you dry, fuck you 'til there's nothing left." Another moan at that, vibrating from Oz's chest, and Giles kisses him, catches his wrists, presses him down into the mattress. Oz's arms strain against him, testing, not quite struggling, and then his eyes close and he arches up. Giles rocks his own hips in response, grunts when his cock rubs and glides along the length of Oz's. He's melting too, his muscles going liquid and loose in his skin, but then he catches himself, stills.
There's so much of Oz he wants to touch and taste, to check against his memories. To re-learn, to store, to keep, in case this really is the last time. He works his way down Oz's neck and chest and belly with kisses and licks, letting words, nonsense out between touches. "Love how you taste. Sweetness and salt. The feel of your skin, so tight and so smooth." Oz's cock is swollen and red, and it twitches when Giles licks the head, toys at the slit with his tongue, drags his mouth down the shaft. Then mouth and tongue over his balls, and Oz jerks and arches so that the whole bed shakes.
Giles kisses down one thigh to the knee, and then turns Oz over. "You're so beautiful." A fingertip tracing up Oz's backbone sets him trembling, and then Giles kisses the base of his spine, licks lower, spreads Oz with his hands until he's open, until Giles' tongue finds the tight little muscle and strokes it. Oz's muffled groan into the pillow tugs at Giles' body, makes him thrust against the quilt.
Giles kneels up, slicks two fingers with lube and pushes them slowly into Oz's body, finding the spot, playing over it while Oz trembles and gasps. When he pulls out, Oz whimpers, and then sighs when Giles urges him up to his knees, when Giles pushes his cock in, as slowly as he can bear. "Going to make you come," Giles says, choking the words out, his whole body trembling against the urge to thrust. He settles back onto his knees, pulling Oz with him, onto his lap. Deep breaths, not thrusting, stroking Oz's cock until Oz moans and pushes back, pushes Giles' cock in deeper. And then Giles rocks his hips gently, slowly, and kisses the back of Oz's neck, and he's going to remember this until the day he dies.
"Love you," he says and needs to tip back his head, needs to see Giles' face. It's like everything he's felt since the wolf, all the physical pain from changing, all the fear and worry and doubt, like it's all coming back in a single moment, a single swooping wave, crashing down on him. "Giles. I -"
Nothing he can say will explain what he's feeling; if *he* doesn't know, how the hell can he possibly start to tell Giles about it? He can't tell Giles anyway, can't risk getting him angry again, proving to Giles all over again, yet again, what a stupid idea it ever was to hook up with Oz. Man's got more than enough on his plate.
"Don't know what'll make me happy," he says finally. Tilts his head up at last, feels Giles' cheek sliding down his own, and pulls himself even closer. "Don't know shit. *Do* know I love you, more than anything. I *do*."
All the irritation, all the blunders, he wishes they'd just crawl away, just for a second, just long enough for Giles to listen and believe him. The wave's still breaking over him, North Atlantic cold and fierce, and he's scared to open his eyes again in case Giles is getting washed away.
Reply
He kisses Oz's cheek, rubs his palms over Oz's shoulder and side, tries to soothe away whatever his fear might be. "Here," he says, "Let me-" and it's all he needs to say, because Oz lurches blindly forward and crawls into his lap. The mists thicken then, writhe, form grotesque messages that say he's taking advantage of Oz's need. Giles closes his eyes and tries to close his mind, tries to feel nothing but Oz's head on his shoulder and arm around his neck, his own hand in Oz's hair and his other arm circling Oz's waist, steadying and holding him.
It doesn't work for long. Touching Oz like this used to end Giles' confusion, used to bring clarity and truth. And it still feels safe and good, but it feels temporary too. Instead of a lighthouse burning through the fog, it's a torch with the batteries running low.
"No matter what," he says, and the words tear his flesh like barbed hooks, "I'll still love you." But maybe that's not right either. Maybe that's just a way of trapping Oz in guilt and obligation.
The mists are cold around him; they reach clammy tendrils down past his clothes, past his skin, deep into bone and blood. He shivers and holds Oz tighter. And it's something, some light and some warmth, even if it's not enough. Even if it's not forever.
Reply
Can't love me if you're dead.
It's a simple thought, plain logic, edged with ice and steel, and Oz doesn't even shiver when it rises through his mind, slicing its way upward. Giles keeps rubbing his back, Oz keeps his arm hooked around Giles' neck, fingers twining through his short, soft hair, and inside he feels quiet, calm, hollow.
Earlier, all month, ever since he changed, he felt like Cody's eyes, blind and smeared with blue-white milk. Clouded and cold, he kept circling aimlessly, knowing he had to stop this, knowing just as well that he couldn't, didn't want to, loved Giles too much to leave. Now he can see. It doesn't matter that he desperately wants *not* to see; there's nothing he can do to stop it.
He's been hurting Giles with his stupid strategy of staying, of only being half here, one leg slung over the windowsill, head turned away. He thought it was better than nothing, thought that even if he was different, he could make sure that Giles remained the same, still loved, still touched.
Oz has never claimed to be all that intelligent.
He turns his head, kisses Giles' mouth, relaxing his hold on Giles' hair but holding him more tightly, rubbing his fingertips into the space between collar and skin. Top of Giles' spine, where nerves thicken and bundle, become his brain. Become Giles, clear-eyed and brilliant, sensitive and anxious, full of love and worry and hope.
A year is a long, long time, and maybe it was just luck. Maybe he got to have Giles this long because the wolf was coming, hell or highwater.
Oz breaks the kiss gently, more gently than he has all month, peppering small pecks over Giles' upper lip and rubbing his neck. Calm and unlucky, he would rather know that Giles was alive, somewhere safe, than indulge any more in this strained cruel frustration that's more selfish than anything Angelus could dream up.
"Love you, Giles."
Reply
Maybe Oz notices his scrutiny, because soon he closes his eyes again and folds himself closer to Giles, face in his neck and arms almost chokingly tight. His breath tickles at first, and then dampens Giles' skin, and Giles can feel every rise and fall of Oz's chest against his own. After a while their breathing synchronizes, as it always does.
They must have sat like this a hundred times, or nearly, and Giles wants to remember every one. It happened almost by accident, the first time, as they listened to Low and shifted around trying to get closer. For about five minutes it was surprising, almost awkward, and then it became perfectly comfortable, their bodies fitting so well they might have been designed for it. After that it became habit, automatic, so that Giles can hardly imagine listening to music or watching a video without Oz curled, or sometimes sprawled, over him. Giles has read dozens of books this way, balancing them on Oz's knees, turning the pages one-handed; sometimes, if it's a novel instead of a demonology text, he'll read out loud. He's spent hours not reading, too, especially when Oz falls asleep, as he occasionally does. Giles likes to listen to him sleep.
All those times, Giles never thought too closely about little boys asleep on their fathers' laps, about bedtime stories read aloud. And now that the idea's in his mind he slams a door on it, thunks the locks into place, concentrates on the whisper of breathing until it drowns out the clamor of thought. There will be time for it later, when Oz has gone from his lap, his flat, his life. When there are only memories. There will be time to think of everything then.
Reply
He used to be attuned to the difference in their sizes, used to wonder what Giles thought of it, whether it made him uncomfortable. Then he stopped wondering; once they explored and adjusted, they fit like a key in a lock, a blanket on a sleeping body, a vine on brick and mortar.
When he leaves, it's going to tear his skin off.
He's not leaving yet. Giles is still here and Oz is still whole and they're still pressed together, his mouth on Giles's neck, Giles's arms around his waist. And he can't help it, this is so familiar and right, the scent and sensation and closeness, that Oz's breathing catches as his chest heats up, as he gets hard all over again, as he kisses, then licks, the faintly salty fuzz of the hairline behind Giles's ear.
"Please," he whispers past his sore throat, air like dull knives. "Need you, please, can we? Need *you*."
After certainty and decision, he's learning, there's an unknown time. Oz wants to be flayed, wants to leave here shattered and trembling, wants Giles to know just how wrong and unfair all of this is.
In that space of unnamed time, he needs to finish this, needs to leave the best of himself with Giles.
Reply
Oz's lips close on his earlobe, and as he tongues and sucks it Giles' breathing turns ragged, his cock swells and grows heavy, his lips itch for Oz's mouth and his body.
But not twenty minutes ago Oz flinched from him, and Giles' mind remembers even if his body doesn't. "Oz," he says, twisting until Oz raises his head and look at him. "We don't . . . we don't have to, if you don't want to." Giles rubs his thumb over the frown line between Oz's brows, smoothes it away, and then cups his cheek.
This could be just another present. For their anniversary, for goodbye. And Giles won't take anything Oz doesn't really want to give him. Not anymore.
Reply
He's still holding Oz like two different people. Hand on his cheek, hand on his thigh. It makes Oz think of wolves and people, gods and mortals, mistakes and apologies. Of how Giles can love him and hate the wolf, how he can love Giles and still leave, how Ethan can receive both regret and loathing. Before he met Giles, Oz thought you either liked someone or didn't; he had no idea that people were like tapestries, that you could love patterns and colors but abhor rot. That everyone's compound and it's all right to love most but not all of them.
So he nods and turns, kissing the knuckle of Giles's thumb and rocking against his other hand.
"Want to," he says. Hates that he's brought them to a point where Giles can even doubt that. "Need you, I really do."
Giles is solid, cool as the wood in a boardwalk at night in the wind and rain. Eyes steady and deep on him, creases in his face deepening as he considers whether to believe Oz. And, because everyone's multiple and inconstant, his hand tightens on Oz's thigh, squeezes him in time with the rock of Oz's hips.
"Giles," Oz says. Throat raw, eyes cold, head throbbing. "Need you."
No matter what.
Reply
Need you, Oz says, but Giles doesn't understand what he needs. Oz needs Giles' touch, thrusts against him, erection clearly outlined under his trousers; Oz needs to keep his distance, needs to sit out of arm's reach, needs to go somewhere else during sex and leave Giles touching an empty body. Oz needs his love; Oz needs, Giles is more and more sure, to leave him.
"Whatever you need," Giles says, hand traveling down from Oz's cheek to his neck, exploring under his two layers of shirts, "I want to give you." Oz moves against him again, rough and hungry, and Giles pulls his head down to kiss him. Takes Oz's tongue in his mouth, groans as Oz licks and probes and tastes as though he never will again. And maybe he won't, after all; maybe this is the last time.
Oz is tugging his hair, kneading his arm with strong fingers, making hoarse sounds deep in his throat as they kiss, as Giles works open the last buttons of his overshirt and pulls it back off his shoulders. "Do you know what I need?" he asks, breathing the words against Oz's lips.
Need you to be like you used to be, to love me as much as you did. Need you not to leave me.
He kisses Oz's neck, licks the pulse point, doesn't bite because they don't do that anymore. Of all the changes, it's the only one Giles can understand. Oz makes one of those sounds again, and Giles wants to tumble him to the floor and fuck him, hard and crude and simple. But he doesn't, because this might be the last time. "I need to see how many times I can make you come."
Before Oz can answer, before he can react at all, Giles pushes him back onto the sofa, slides down to kneel on the floor, opens his trousers, kisses the head of his cock and then takes it in. Oz's hips work, his hands clutch Giles' hair, he pants and grunts and he doesn't pull away, doesn't go still and vacant, doesn't say no.
Reply
Giles's mouth is fast and hot, tight lips, wide eyes, hollow cheeks, and Oz can't stop thrusting, tangling his fingers in Giles's hair. Can't stop, not when need's flowing and jerking like a spastic current between them. Sparks sputtering and groans coming thick and hoarse, and Giles moans around his cock, vibrations rippling down Oz's legs and up his spine, and he tries to answer, tries to find words.
Fails. Giles might be on his knees, but he's gripping hard to Oz's legs, spreading them, glaring up at him, and it's almost overwhelming.
*Would* have been overwhelming a month, six weeks, ago, and Oz has to blink fast and concentrate for a moment on the cold stone of his stomach, the emptiness of postdecision time. Those keep him, keep Giles, safe. Can't spare doubt, can't retreat, because then he'll wonder if he can stay, if he can make this work, but he can't, won't, not if he wants Giles safe.
Giles slides his teeth lightly over his cockhead and cups-massages-squeezes his balls, and Oz's hips buck as his spine bows and he throws his head back, moans coming fast and silveryliquid out of his mouth. Giles's name, and random words, and his name again, cursing.
He yanks Giles's head back, or tries to, but Giles is immovable and steadfast, eyes dark and wet on Oz. Arching, snaking, sparking current, doubling and tripling and making Oz writhe under Giles's hands, his mouth.
"God, Giles, *fuck* --"
Reply
Oz's body tightens under his hands, muscles rigid with need, and then he shouts unintelligible words, hips jerking and cock pulsing so deep in Giles' throat he almost chokes. Giles mouth fills, and he's trembling and clenching his hands on Oz's thighs, swallowing brine and holding himself motionless. Breathing, staying still, not thinking about coming himself because it's much, much too soon.
Despite the rug, the floor's hard under his knees, but for a while he stays crouched between Oz's knees, kissing Oz's softening cock and his belly. Oz strokes his hair, fingers gentle and soothing on the sore places where he was yanking a few moments ago. Giles rubs his hands up and down Oz's thighs; the muscles are loose now, relaxed.
One of his knees creaks when he hauls himself up beside Oz, and for a moment Giles wishes he were eighteen himself. Young enough to be Oz's friend, his lover, instead of old enough to be his father. But he remembers himself at eighteen, and he knows Oz is better off with the man he is now. If Oz leaves, at least he'll leave undamaged.
"One," he says into Oz's ear, then drops kisses across his cheek to his mouth. This is something Giles loves, the taste of Oz's mouth mingling with the taste of his come, and it's just as good as it always was. Oz lays a hand over Giles' crotch, and Giles arches into it before he can stop himself. Then he picks it up and moves it to his leg. "Come upstairs and we'll start on two."
Reply
There are songs and static buzzing through his skull, and he can barely think, kissing Giles's shoulder, his free hand working at the buttons of his blue shirt, sliding in between, fingertips coasting over his chest.
"Want you to, too," he whispers thickly as they round the landing. He tugs at Giles's shirt, makes him pause and stop, cranes his head back, mouth open, for a kiss. "So much. Want to hear you, feel you--" He slides his hand back over Giles's erection, cupping it loosely, pressing forward. Giles comes in blazes, in fireworks, roughdirty words and shuddering shouts and eyes burning. Oz nudges his knee between Giles's legs, the sizzle of anticipation reanimating loose muscles, tightening the skin over his chest, heating up his face. "--Watch you come, so hard, so desperate."
Usually he's shy, can't quite translate the pictures and need he sees and feels into any kind of sense. But Giles talks to him, wants to hear, and Oz wants him to know everything tonight.
Almost everything, that is.
Top of the stairs, Giles in the loft, Oz a step below, and he presses his face against Giles's belly, kissing old scars and soft hair, his hands kneading Giles's ass through his pants.
"Please?" he asks, looking up.
Reply
He pulls Oz's overshirt the rest of the way off and starts undoing the fiddly little buttons of the green one, fumbling and wanting to rip his way to bare skin. "But you'll have to wait." Finally the shirt's open, and Giles tugs at the cuffs until it falls to the floor. "I want you to come for me again first."
Oz shudders and his mouth opens, wet and inviting; Giles kisses him before he can speak. Little soft bites to Oz's lower lip, sweep of Giles' tongue over it and then inside, a murmuring noise from Oz that Giles echoes back into his mouth. There's a confusion of hands and arms, buttons and zips, the slide of cloth over skin and the thunk of shoes being kicked off. Kisses, sharp breaths that seem to echo in the quiet, the feel of Oz's lips whispering over Giles' chest and his cock against Giles' thigh. "You're so hard," Giles says, and drops his hands to Oz's arse, fingers digging in as he pulls Oz closer. "Hard for me." It is for him, he knows it, Oz's erection and his gasps and the flush in his face. Oz wants him, Oz is touching his back and arms and chest and hips and everywhere as though he can't get enough, and whatever's been wrong is gone now. Gone for now, for this moment that might be the last.
Reply
"For you--" and he twists his hips, rubs a little harder against the ropy muscles in Giles's thigh as he kisses the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth. "Always."
He rubs his face against Giles's chest, smelling soap and cologne, dust of bookrot, sweat, kissing as much skin as he can cover. Wants to drown in it, wants to pull Giles over him and feel himself entirely covered, wholly shielded, so he can't escape, can't wriggle away.
"I'll come for you," Oz says, forcing the words past shyness and reluctance, letting the heat spill past his lips, speaking right to the liquid heat of Giles's eyes as he drags his fingernails up Giles's spine. "Much as I can. Want to make you harder than you've ever been."
The more he talks, the harder he shakes, the tighter his chest feels, the more Giles bites his lip and grinds his jaw. Oz feels stuffed with smoke and steam, hot inconstant shifting clouds, and only the grip of Giles's hands on him, only the skid of his own palms and chest against Giles, is keeping him upright.
Reply
"I want you so much," Giles says, steering Oz back onto the bed. "Want to make you come and come. Drain you dry, fuck you 'til there's nothing left." Another moan at that, vibrating from Oz's chest, and Giles kisses him, catches his wrists, presses him down into the mattress. Oz's arms strain against him, testing, not quite struggling, and then his eyes close and he arches up. Giles rocks his own hips in response, grunts when his cock rubs and glides along the length of Oz's. He's melting too, his muscles going liquid and loose in his skin, but then he catches himself, stills.
There's so much of Oz he wants to touch and taste, to check against his memories. To re-learn, to store, to keep, in case this really is the last time. He works his way down Oz's neck and chest and belly with kisses and licks, letting words, nonsense out between touches. "Love how you taste. Sweetness and salt. The feel of your skin, so tight and so smooth." Oz's cock is swollen and red, and it twitches when Giles licks the head, toys at the slit with his tongue, drags his mouth down the shaft. Then mouth and tongue over his balls, and Oz jerks and arches so that the whole bed shakes.
Giles kisses down one thigh to the knee, and then turns Oz over. "You're so beautiful." A fingertip tracing up Oz's backbone sets him trembling, and then Giles kisses the base of his spine, licks lower, spreads Oz with his hands until he's open, until Giles' tongue finds the tight little muscle and strokes it. Oz's muffled groan into the pillow tugs at Giles' body, makes him thrust against the quilt.
Giles kneels up, slicks two fingers with lube and pushes them slowly into Oz's body, finding the spot, playing over it while Oz trembles and gasps. When he pulls out, Oz whimpers, and then sighs when Giles urges him up to his knees, when Giles pushes his cock in, as slowly as he can bear. "Going to make you come," Giles says, choking the words out, his whole body trembling against the urge to thrust. He settles back onto his knees, pulling Oz with him, onto his lap. Deep breaths, not thrusting, stroking Oz's cock until Oz moans and pushes back, pushes Giles' cock in deeper. And then Giles rocks his hips gently, slowly, and kisses the back of Oz's neck, and he's going to remember this until the day he dies.
Reply
Leave a comment