Sunnydale, 1998: it's an anniversary
Continued from here.
The kitchen is narrow and close; it reminds Oz of his van, where everything needs to be put back right away, where everything has its place, where order feels natural and right, rather than imposed and constraining. A little room, everywhere.
"Better with you here," Oz says, glancing at Giles, arms loosely folded, eyes intent. "Felt weird, starting this alone. Thought -"
He'd thought it would be nice. Not like his attendance at school is all that important, certainly not like Giles's presence is, so when he planned for today, it made sense for him to shoulder the majority of the workload.
Giles tips up his chin, encouraging Oz to explain. But the sauce is starting to simmer and Oz just shrugs, stirring it, letting the shallots cook down until they're transparent. He removes the roast from the oven, switches it to the serving platter, and deglazes the pan with a shot of Giles's good sherry.
Moments stretch, pause, hang sometimes, and this one, as the sauce mixes and the potatoes warm, butter melting into the crevices, and he hands the platter to Giles, is one of them. Their fingers brush on the edge of the platter and Oz looks at Giles.
Really sees him, like it's the first time, only Giles isn't onstage, he's right here, bent slightly at the waist so he can meet Oz's eyes, and it's endless. Both stranger and lover, with interest and regret and worry in his eyes.
Until the green beans' water spits and sizzles on the burner and Oz has to turn.
Giles waits while Oz adjusts the lid and lowers the flame. The platter's heavy and getting uncomfortably hot, but Giles waits for Oz to turn back. There was a look in his eyes that Giles wants to know the meaning of, and a tilt to his lips as though words waited behind them. But when Oz looks over again, it's gone. Or maybe just changed into that fond smile, tender and secret and, Giles thinks, sad. He smiles back, feeling sorrow twist and pull at his mouth, and hopes it doesn't show.
After he puts the lamb on the table, he takes the bottle of red Zinfandel that's sitting on the desk, opens it, and fills their glasses. Oz is still unsure about wine, but he seems to like the idea of it, and last week he reminded Giles to buy some. Despite his loose casualness, his unconcern about conventions and appearances, Oz likes occasions and responds to them. There's something almost ceremonious about him; it's one of the quirks that Giles treasures.
Oz calls from the kitchen, and Giles helps him bring the rest of the dishes to the table. "It all looks lovely," Giles says as they sit down. Oz fingers the stem of his wineglass, and Giles realizes they ought to have a toast. For a moment his mind blanks and he can only think of the irony of toasting a future they might not have. He swallows hard and lifts his glass. "To . . . us," he says. "And to a wonderful year."