Crystal clinks strangely on crystal, the sound kind of unnatural, almost jangly. And Giles sounds half-strangled at first, and then just strained. Oz thinks that if he listens hard enough, he'll be able to hear blood running through the lamb, skin popping on the beans. Molecules orbiting each other in the table's legs.
"And, um," Oz says, and his own voice sounds off, too, and it's more than his usual discomfort with toasts, "to friendship."
It's almost what he said last year, but that's not why Giles is starting to frown, he's sure of it. Giles thinks he's being dismissed, reduced to the status of just friends and that's not it. "Because, see -" Oz grips the stem and leans across the corner of the table. "See, you're the best friend I've ever had. Ever. So. Friendship
( ... )
"Of course," Giles says, surprised and then relieved. An omen averted; hope prickles and stabs painfully in him. "I knew you'd see sense eventually," he adds with a smile, and then starts slicing the lamb around the rib bones. It's beautifully cooked, deep pink and juicy. He puts a small slice on Oz's plate, a couple of larger ones on his own, and drizzles sauce over them both.
As Giles helps himself to potatoes and beans, Oz's toast still echoes unpleasantly in his mind. Friendship. Such a weak word, one that's been inflated and debased and devalued until it's got no purchasing power. You'd need wheelbarrows of friendship to buy a fragment of what he feels for Oz.
But friendship doesn't have to be worthless, impoverished. If friend can mean Patrick McTaggart, who worked in the Coins and Seals department of the museum and bought Giles a pint every few months, it can also mean Olivia, dear and missed. Buffy and Willow and Xander are friends, and Giles admires, and sometimes envies, how much they care for each other
( ... )
Giles takes a last bite of lamb, savoring the richness and the texture between his teeth. Seeing the denuded rib bones on the platter, he realizes he's eaten rather a lot. "Sorry to be so gluttonous," he says to Oz, who stopped eating a while ago. "I didn't eat lunch." Or breakfast, either; he was too nervous even for toast
( ... )
Oz is nodding and kissing the pad of Giles's thumb but he can't seem to move. Can't even taste Giles there, even after the kisses, even this close. Every time he swallows, there's a hint of blood from where he's been gnawing the inside of his cheek all day, and he wonders if that's safe, if he could infect Giles without even biting him
( ... )
Giles wonders how many times, in the last year, they've been here in the bedroom undressing. A hundred, maybe, give or take. He ought to have kept a diary in code or shorthand or something, recorded every moment he spent with Oz, because now he'll never know for certain. His memory's so accurate with official things, with research and training. It's only his life he forgets
( ... )
The streetlight has usually been on for hours by the time they reach the bed to sleep, but as Oz lies here, eyes open, trying not to dig his fingers into Giles's skin, it only just now starts to flicker on. He gets the weird, hot flutter in the center of his chest, kind of like the time he got pneumonia in Wyoming after trying to run away, at the sound of Giles's words. He can't remember when Giles started calling him my Oz, what the first time sounded like, whether it was deliberate or just slipped out.
He wants to respond. Wants to say, in return, my Giles, but he doesn't know how. Doesn't know if it's the truth, or if it is, for how long. Because loving somebody isn't just feeling one way, it's having the other person take you inside, let you love them, return it somehow. So whatever he feels for Giles, it depends on Giles if it counts as love.
"Always," he says instead. Because he'll always have Giles inside him, always let him love, even if that only lasts until tomorrow morning. He kisses the underside of Giles's jaw. "Always
They're never made promises, although Giles has thought them sometimes. They've never planned for a future beyond the next month or so, beyond a long Saturday drive or a concert in Los Angeles. Giles hasn't asked Oz to finally make a decision about college; he hasn't asked Oz to get a passport; he's closed his lips on words like always, closed them until they ache.
Oz doesn't mean to be cruel. Giles knows that, repeats it to himself as he smiles and kisses Oz and says nothing. Oz isn't cruel. The cruelty's in something else, in time, in the rotation of the earth that will surely bring tomorrow, bring sunrise, but will never bring alwaysThe cruelty's in this desperate tiredness that makes Giles want to sleep away their last hours, and in the bone-deep ache that makes him think he'll never sleep again. Oz can't seem to get comfortable either; he shifts, fidgets, stretches, massages his own shoulder with a sigh. "Turn over and I'll rub your back," Giles says at last, rolling onto his side
( ... )
Comments 33
"And, um," Oz says, and his own voice sounds off, too, and it's more than his usual discomfort with toasts, "to friendship."
It's almost what he said last year, but that's not why Giles is starting to frown, he's sure of it. Giles thinks he's being dismissed, reduced to the status of just friends and that's not it. "Because, see -" Oz grips the stem and leans across the corner of the table. "See, you're the best friend I've ever had. Ever. So. Friendship ( ... )
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As Giles helps himself to potatoes and beans, Oz's toast still echoes unpleasantly in his mind. Friendship. Such a weak word, one that's been inflated and debased and devalued until it's got no purchasing power. You'd need wheelbarrows of friendship to buy a fragment of what he feels for Oz.
But friendship doesn't have to be worthless, impoverished. If friend can mean Patrick McTaggart, who worked in the Coins and Seals department of the museum and bought Giles a pint every few months, it can also mean Olivia, dear and missed. Buffy and Willow and Xander are friends, and Giles admires, and sometimes envies, how much they care for each other ( ... )
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He wants to respond. Wants to say, in return, my Giles, but he doesn't know how. Doesn't know if it's the truth, or if it is, for how long. Because loving somebody isn't just feeling one way, it's having the other person take you inside, let you love them, return it somehow. So whatever he feels for Giles, it depends on Giles if it counts as love.
"Always," he says instead. Because he'll always have Giles inside him, always let him love, even if that only lasts until tomorrow morning. He kisses the underside of Giles's jaw. "Always
Reply
Oz doesn't mean to be cruel. Giles knows that, repeats it to himself as he smiles and kisses Oz and says nothing. Oz isn't cruel. The cruelty's in something else, in time, in the rotation of the earth that will surely bring tomorrow, bring sunrise, but will never bring alwaysThe cruelty's in this desperate tiredness that makes Giles want to sleep away their last hours, and in the bone-deep ache that makes him think he'll never sleep again. Oz can't seem to get comfortable either; he shifts, fidgets, stretches, massages his own shoulder with a sigh. "Turn over and I'll rub your back," Giles says at last, rolling onto his side ( ... )
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