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.
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.
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