Too much. Too many words, too much light, too many shadows crawling down Oz's half-averted face. Too much of everything except air. Giles' lungs are empty and laboring, and his heart pounds fiercely, struggling to live. The stupidity of the body, which never gives up.
He'd like to go and lie down. It's dark in the bedroom. He could take the bottle with him, lie down and drink himself to sleep. Drink himself out of this confusion. Drink until he can breathe again, or until he stops needing to.
But Oz is waiting, yet again, for an answer. Waiting for something. The words he's thrown at Giles--sorry and just you--are terrible, full of gelignite and shrapnel. Perhaps he's waiting for the explosion and the blood. Perhaps he's come back to kill. It's one of the things Giles used to dream about-fangs at his throat, claws at his belly. Or a simpler, cleaner death, a knife or a gun and Oz's patient explanation. It has to be this way.
Oz is standing almost close enough to touch. If Giles reached out, what would his skin feel like? Would it be the same, or has Oz turned all to ice and iron, to cold, deadly things?
"Argentina," Giles says finally, because this is something safe. A mapped space, a proper noun. "You . . . you came all the way from Argentina? To tell me you're sorry?"
Too many miles to calculate. And Giles thinks of quests, of pilgrimages, of penitents walking barefoot to Santiago de Compostela. Perhaps this isn't just some new fantastic cruelty. Perhaps Oz really is sorry. Perhaps under those worn-out boots, his feet are bleeding.
"Oz." Giles doesn't know what he wants to say. The word that comes out is: "Why?" It could mean anything or nothing. He won't know what it means until Oz answers.
Giles is asking him questions and Oz sways a little. Questions are cracks, trickles of water over granite, tiny, but if the water keeps running, canyons form, spaces open, air comes in.
Because I love you. Oz has enough of a sense of self-preservation to close his teeth around the real answer, the simple and true one, but it takes too much effort and black swings across his eyes, pushes under his feet. He grabs at air and something rushes up, smacks his knees.
When he can see again, he's clutching Giles's wrist and he's on his knees. Giles's mouth is opening, dark and wet, and Oz shakes his head. Hard enough that black flies across his vision in spots, but he has to answer.
"Yeah," he says. "To tell you I'm sorry."
In his grip, Giles's wrist is familiar, as familiar as the plane on the top of Bill's skull, as the roof of his own mouth, the scent of his own skin.
Giles's mouth is still open. Frozen around why.
"Because I am sorry and because you hate me. Because, because -" He slept alone and climbed the bottom of the world but the wolf was still there, always there, right under his skin. The monks were right: Not control but release was what he needed. Release from fear and guilt. "'cause I can't hide anymore."
Because I love you.
Giles's wrist is broad and solid and the only thing holding Oz up. The floor might as well be a cloud, a gust of wind, nothing. Maybe in forty years they'll laugh at how much of a drama queen he was back then. Maybe in five minutes he'll be rolling down the stairs, kicked to the curb. He's no good at looking at consequences. Never was.
He'd like to go and lie down. It's dark in the bedroom. He could take the bottle with him, lie down and drink himself to sleep. Drink himself out of this confusion. Drink until he can breathe again, or until he stops needing to.
But Oz is waiting, yet again, for an answer. Waiting for something. The words he's thrown at Giles--sorry and just you--are terrible, full of gelignite and shrapnel. Perhaps he's waiting for the explosion and the blood. Perhaps he's come back to kill. It's one of the things Giles used to dream about-fangs at his throat, claws at his belly. Or a simpler, cleaner death, a knife or a gun and Oz's patient explanation. It has to be this way.
Oz is standing almost close enough to touch. If Giles reached out, what would his skin feel like? Would it be the same, or has Oz turned all to ice and iron, to cold, deadly things?
"Argentina," Giles says finally, because this is something safe. A mapped space, a proper noun. "You . . . you came all the way from Argentina? To tell me you're sorry?"
Too many miles to calculate. And Giles thinks of quests, of pilgrimages, of penitents walking barefoot to Santiago de Compostela. Perhaps this isn't just some new fantastic cruelty. Perhaps Oz really is sorry. Perhaps under those worn-out boots, his feet are bleeding.
"Oz." Giles doesn't know what he wants to say. The word that comes out is: "Why?" It could mean anything or nothing. He won't know what it means until Oz answers.
Reply
Because I love you. Oz has enough of a sense of self-preservation to close his teeth around the real answer, the simple and true one, but it takes too much effort and black swings across his eyes, pushes under his feet. He grabs at air and something rushes up, smacks his knees.
When he can see again, he's clutching Giles's wrist and he's on his knees. Giles's mouth is opening, dark and wet, and Oz shakes his head. Hard enough that black flies across his vision in spots, but he has to answer.
"Yeah," he says. "To tell you I'm sorry."
In his grip, Giles's wrist is familiar, as familiar as the plane on the top of Bill's skull, as the roof of his own mouth, the scent of his own skin.
Giles's mouth is still open. Frozen around why.
"Because I am sorry and because you hate me. Because, because -" He slept alone and climbed the bottom of the world but the wolf was still there, always there, right under his skin. The monks were right: Not control but release was what he needed. Release from fear and guilt. "'cause I can't hide anymore."
Because I love you.
Giles's wrist is broad and solid and the only thing holding Oz up. The floor might as well be a cloud, a gust of wind, nothing. Maybe in forty years they'll laugh at how much of a drama queen he was back then. Maybe in five minutes he'll be rolling down the stairs, kicked to the curb. He's no good at looking at consequences. Never was.
Reply
Leave a comment