Giles has dreamed about Oz a hundred times, two hundred, more. Some dreams are pleasure, joy, skin and mouth and murmurs, heat and cries and love. Some are just love--Giles has dreamed of driving along the California coast with Oz, listening to mix tapes and looking at the scenery. Some are brutal. Oz has killed him, in his dreams; once or twice, he's killed Oz. He's seen Oz murdered for his wallet or the wolf's pelt, and tortured for the obscure reasons of military men. He's seen Oz kill with fangs and claws, and he's seen Oz fucking Willow, laughing with her, telling her he loves her.
There've been hundreds of dreams, and from every one, he's awakened lonely.
It's different now, today, and when he mutters a half-formed "good morning" against Oz's lips, he'd like to thank Oz for existing. For being so warm and smelling so good, for drawing his hands up and down Giles' back, for speaking and for looking at him. Instead he says, "Oz," and Oz smiles just a little, eyelids dropping and one corner of his mouth curving up. It's a smile from the early days, when waking up together still made them shy, and Giles knows he's never seen it in a dream.
Giles kisses the smiling half of Oz's mouth, licks at the corner and the edges of his lips until Oz's tongue meets his, and then it's a new kiss. A little deeper, sleep-sour and hesitant, not quite in rhythm with the slow rocking of Oz's hips. When Giles licks the inside of his lip, Oz makes a little pleased sound, and Giles answers it with a sigh. Talking back and forth, tongues and noises, better than all the words Giles knows. He holds Oz's head in his hands, cradles him and keeps him, thanks him as best he can.
Even this close, even kissing, Oz can tell that Giles is smiling. His eyes are crinkled up, his brows lifting in time with the tidal push-pull of their bodies and their mouths. He used to see Giles's smile all the time. Quick as light over his face when Oz arrived for the evening, permanent and wide while they watched Life of Brian, slow and sure after they'd had sex, when neither could really talk, and a thousand other variations. He must have seen it later, after, directed toward Buffy or Willow, but Oz can't remember; anyway, it would have been different then. Giles's smile was more secret than anything, sending a cascade of warm shivers down Oz's chest whenever he saw it. He *knows* he didn't feel that again until last night. Until now.
Giles holds Oz's head gently, like his skull is crystal, cracked but precious, and Oz moves his own hands up to Giles's shoulders, rubbing his thumbs around the roots of his collarbone, shivering when Giles paints kisses over the inside of Oz's lower lip, shivering more when Oz sucks the tip of Giles's tongue into his mouth and won't let go.
He's starting at the beginning, earning that smile even as he widens it.
The kiss keeps getting deeper. They're settling into it like they settled into bed last night, shifting and accommodating, easing around one another until they fit, until every weary limb could rest. The tiny nibbles of Oz's teeth, delicate as minnows, make Giles smile, and then Oz's tongue glides wet and slippery against his, and he groans a little, softly. Everything is soft, quiet, light touches and faint sounds, secrets not meant to be overheard. Giles pushes his hand back through Oz's hair, down to his neck, rubs the knobs of his spine and kisses deeper still, and he wishes he could fall into this kiss and never come out again.
Easy enough to sink and spread into the kiss, to pretend that this is a true beginning rather than a resumption. Oz doesn't, actually, know what it is; it could be a beginning, a truce, a break in the clouds. He just hopes it is more, wants more at the same time he knows this is already far more than he deserves. This: Giles's mouth, whispering; his arms, tightening and relaxing; his chest, rising and pressing against Oz's. All of it warm and slow, shyer than they ever were at the *first* beginning, and it's as confusing as it is comforting. Giles's hand roves down his back, fingering his vertebrae, and Oz shivers again, so much warmth and kindness, twisting closer to Giles and opening wider, mouth and arms and legs.
His breath hitches, snags, when Giles palms the small of his back and pulls his teeth down Oz's tongue, and he stares, wild and hopeful, back at Giles.
Oz keeps pulling him closer, arms tight around him, one leg hooked over Giles' body and pressing against his arse, and every time Oz moves Giles can feel that his cock is hard. He twitches when Giles bites his tongue, and then shivers, hot sweat-damp skin rippling to gooseflesh, and somehow the shiver twists his hips and drags his erection against Giles' belly.
Oz's eyes are so wide that he almost looks afraid, but he's tightening his knee against Giles' back and kissing him again with a wet mouth.
Desire, this is desire, this is Oz wanting him. This is more than Giles has let himself imagine in years. "Oz," he says, hand slipping down to cup Oz's arse and pull him closer, "Could we . . .?" He could ask, has been asking, without words, but he wants to hear Oz say yes.
Giles loves his words, needs to hear them, trusts knowledge best, most thoroughly, when it's verbalized. It might be part of his belief in magic, his use and his fear of it, the way he is surest when emotion is transmuted into sounds or scratches on the paper. Like fetishes, wooden gods and spots of ink. Oz wonders if it's some kind of cosmic irony that Giles found *him*, loved him once, he who could barely order in a restaurant or answer a pollster's questions.
It's not irony, though, not the way Giles is peering at him, digging his fingertips into the top of Oz's thigh. Giles always trusted that Oz *would* answer, that there was an answer there worth seeking out. Never ironic, always hopeful.
"Yes," Oz says, and kisses Giles one more time before nudging Giles onto his back and straddling his hips. He can't fear words, not when Giles needs them so much, not when Oz himself has so much to say. "Want to. Need you." He runs his hands up Giles's arms, over his biceps, into the juncture with his body, then down his sides. Ribs and muscle beneath soft fabric; at the hem of Giles's shirt, Oz pushes his hands underneath and goes back upward. "Need *you*, Giles. Please."
Oz has answered him twice, words and body, and Giles knows Oz is being careful with him, gentle. His hands are gentle, ghosting over Giles' ribs as though they might be broken, and if it weren't for the roughness of his skin Giles might not feel the touch at all. He puts his hands over Oz's through the fabric and presses them down until he can feel their weight and friction.
"I need you," he says, and moves his hands to Oz's hips, curving his fingers over the bones. "Need you more than anything." Oz is running splayed fingers through Giles' chest hair, toying at Giles' nipples with his thumbs, and Giles needs this, wants this, but this isn't what he means. He needs Oz more than this, more than touch, but he only half wants Oz to understand. Touch is safer, sex is safer, shallower, than the undertows and oceanic trenches of need, and maybe it's better to be safe now, so early. Better to let Oz wade than to make him fear drowning.
Giles pulls Oz down, trapping his hands under the shirt, and kisses him again.
Giles is hoarse when he speaks, his voice full of winds and rain, the words much older than this moment or this morning. And his kiss is hungry, searching and plunging, his hands on Oz's waist squeezing and pressing him close like Oz is a balm or a bandage.
The first time they said love they ended up just like this, Oz pressed over Giles, wrapping around him, trying to sink all the way through Giles's skin. Kissing and sinking, and Oz's eyes are burning, his skin heating and sliding over his bones, and he has to pull a little back. To breathe, think, speak.
He kisses Giles's chin apologetically. "Have me now," he says. "Giles. Always needed you."
When Oz's hands stop moving, when he stills and his spine goes rigid and he pulls away, Giles knows he should have said nothing. Should have kissed and not spoken, should never have wandered out of the safe shallow language of bodies.
He grips Oz's arms above the elbows, as lightly as he can when he's terrified that Oz will pull farther and farther away, that he'll be gone again and Giles won't be able to stop him. "Don't." Don't go, Giles means, but then he hears what Oz has said in words, gentle well-meant words that cramp Giles' guts like poison. "Don't say always. I can't think about, about that. Always, there was no always, please don't."
His throat hurts from the words, and he can feel his face twisting. He covers it with his hands until the spasm stops, and then, eyes closed, he finds Oz's hand where it rests on his belly. "Could we just kiss some more? Could I just touch you, and n-not think? Please?" He runs his hand up Oz's forearm, hairs prickling his palm, and then to his cotton-covered shoulder, and waits.
Fear and something that's almost like loathing, definitely like confusion, rise in strange wafting sheets off Giles, sour and bittersweet, dandelion wine and last year's mulch. Speaking would just make Giles more upset, so Oz nods. Tries to swallow, but he can't, so he rubs the tops of Giles's shoulders, bone and slung muscle, and turns his head. Kisses Giles's thumb where it lies crooked into Oz's shoulder.
His chest is cold where it had been warm, where it had been pressed against Giles's, sinking and settling. He shivers again and rubs down from Giles's shoulders to his chest, presses his palm over the rattling heartbeat.
"Don't have to talk," Oz says, the words thick and *wrong* all over again. "Sorry. So sorry." He kisses Giles softly, more shyly than he's ever kissed anyone. "Anything you want."
Giles wraps one arm around Oz's waist, the other around his shoulders, and draws Oz down over him like a blanket. But he's warmer than any blanket, and more comforting. His touch softens all Giles' sharp, jagged pains, lulls away thought and fear with it, and Giles kisses him softly, gratefully, on his closed lips.
Thought comes back, though, even as Giles kisses along the spiral of Oz's ear and dips his fingers below the waistband of Oz's trousers. Oz got it backwards. Giles has always needed him, however much he tried to stop, but Oz hasn't always needed Giles.
Oz needs him now, though. It shows in the hitch of his breath when Giles licks his earlobe, the shudder when Giles lifts his hips and grinds his cock against Oz's thigh. And Giles can make Oz need him more, can make him sob at the touch of Giles' mouth, can make his bones melt and his muscles shake. He can make Oz need his touch, need to touch him back, need to come.
"I want you," Giles whispers in his ear. He slides one fingertip along the crack of Oz's arse, drags his tongue down Oz's neck, and he smiles when Oz moans.
Giles's voice blows through Oz's skull, keeps moving through his body, under his skin, warming and inflating and twisting Oz until he has to bite the inside of his bottom lip to keep from shaking apart. He clutches at Giles's wrist, buries his face in his neck, and pushes against the teasing hand. Nightmares are really pale when they come true. He used to dream about this, that he wouldn't be able to stop the change, and he'd gorge himself on Giles's flesh. Same as he used to dream that Willow would slide her eyes off him one day and never look back. When nightmares come to pass, though, there's not terror so much as recognition. Pale resignation.
He doesn't want to be resigned. He wants to be *with* Giles.
Oz grabs hold of one of the iron bars of the headboard - thinks of cages and prisons, helpful correctives - and rocks forward until he's kissing Giles's mouth again and sliding up and down his hips, his cock. The heat speckling his chest and arms from within stokes up higher when he sees Giles's face, twisted and intense, and feels the resilient hardness of his cock.
"Good thing -" he says, breathing out over Giles's cheek and rocking a little faster. "Want *you*, want to make you feel -" Good, he almost said, but he thinks of half-empty scotch bottles and filthy kitchens, cloud-scrubbed mountain peaks and frost on the mud. Giles cants his hips again and presses Oz down, hooks his finger into Oz's crack, and with a yellow flash of need and hunger, Oz realizes that feeling's enough for now. "*Giles*. With you, please -"
The muscles in Oz's arms bunch and flex as he moves, as he grinds into Giles, and Giles thinks of slow massive things, glaciers and continental drift. He twists his head up and licks along one muscle, outlines it with his teeth, gnaws at it as his hips thrust involuntarily and Oz groans. Oz is strong, far stronger than Giles remembers, infinitely stronger than he looks. So strong that he's driving the breath out of Giles, making him pant, making his words come out wheezy and broken. "Want you, want to - Oz - want to make you-" and then Oz leans down again to kiss him, crushing pressure of his lips and the hot width of his tongue, and Giles is silent except for the hungry noises in his throat that he can't control.
Silent and breathless, and this is what Giles wants, this black emptiness behind his eyes. He wants the slow staticky fade of thought, the reduction to white noise and the body's imperatives--lick, thrust, grunt, kiss, bite, more, now, now, now. Oz could give Giles this, with his rough hands and his mouth that's suckling at Giles' throat and his cock that's steel-hard even through his trousers. Oz could be strong for them both, think for them both, and Giles could be a body. Be nothing.
That's what he's been for months now, maybe for years: a body, a shell. He's been empty and weak, as unsound as a rotted shack. Everyone who's needed him, he's failed. But he won't fail Oz.
Giles grasps Oz's wrists and tightens his thighs around Oz's hips to hold him still. Oz has broad sturdy wrists, but Giles' hands circle them easily. "So much I want to do to you," Giles says, and Oz arches and shudders between his legs. "I want to kiss you and lick your body until your skin aches from it." As he talks, he pulls Oz's hands away from the headboard and then rolls them over. "Want to use my mouth on you, and my hands." He's lying on top of Oz now and holding his wrists against the mattress. "Want to see the flush come up in your skin." This he says so quietly it's barely a whisper in Oz's ear, but Oz ripples underneath him. "Want to watch your face when you come." A gasp at that, and a testing push against Giles' arms.
Giles holds him harder, nips his ear, and whispers, "Thank you." For coming back, for wanting him, for playing at weakness so that Giles can be strong.
Watching and needing, and Giles's weight is unbearable and exactly what Oz wants. A slow, steady grind, erosion and deliberation, the dark of his eyes and insistent twist to his face working Oz over, reducing and clarifying and *cleaning* him.
"Welcome," he whispers. "Giles, want you. Want to see -" He tips his forehead against Giles's shoulder, mouthing and sucking the fabric of his shirt, shuddering in long, jagged waves. He wants to see Giles redden and contort, wants to see him blaze and hear him shout, let go and push forward and break apart into something fragmentary but joyful. Oz drives his skull back into the pillow and catches Giles's eyes as he wraps both his legs around Giles's waist. "See you, take you *in*, please, Giles, wanna make you come. Anything."
Seat of nightmares and need, Giles above him, pushing and nipping at him, love and desire spinning in his eyes, and Oz blinks fast. Years since he was *here*, the scariest and the best place. He's not going to change. But the fear is so habitual that he has to shake it off, water and blood spraying, then clutch Giles tighter with his thighs, pull him in and down and closer and moan into his mouth.
"Beautiful," Giles says. Oz is beautiful, hair askew and pale cheeks shadowed with rough gingery beard and mouth twisting as Giles moves on him. It's the first time Giles has looked at him, looked at anything, in years, and he wants to stare. Wants to crane and peer, look at him from every angle like a statue. Wants to run his hands over Oz, feel the textures and curves and planes.
And he can; he is. He pulls Oz's loose shirt up without bothering to unbutton it, works it free of necklaces and mala beads, and then his hands touch bare skin. Smooth, marble and silk and warmth, and Giles palms broad strokes over his chest. Under Giles' mouth it's even smoother, hotter, tasting of sweat and strange foreign herbs. Oz's hands twist in Giles hair, clench and tug at his shirt, and he groans when Giles mouths the fine hairs around his nipple, flicks his tongue over it until it hardens.
Giles drags his teeth lightly along Oz's ribs as he fumbles at the button and zip of Oz's trousers. He's clumsy, stunned, numbed with touch, and he needs Oz naked and he's not sure he can bear it.
"Giles -" Oz twists, pulling at Giles's shirt, his hair, anything. It's coming down to the simplest things, groans and touches and names. Giles's hands reforming him, bringing up his skin, naming him all over again. He covers one of Giles's hands, the fingers plucking and strumming at his fly, and tips up Giles's chin. "Let me."
First he tugs off Giles's shirt, a yank at the back of the neck, and then it's Giles there, really him, hair poking up and mouth open and broad shoulders bowing and heaving. Oz cranes forward, kisses him, and starts to undo his pants. But Giles's eyes are wider than desire, wide with a kind of fear or anticipation, so Oz lies back down.
Hot and flat, fire cascading and sheeting through him. He stays still. Presses his palms into the mattress and raises his hips. Offers and opens, then feels air shudder and stutter down his throat when Giles presses his mouth just over the waistband. He finds Giles's skull with one hand again, stroking and gripping its near-perfect curve, and raises higher, offers it all.
Suns and candles in his throat, beneath Giles's fingertips and mouth, and Oz can't breathe. "Giles. *Now* -"
There've been hundreds of dreams, and from every one, he's awakened lonely.
It's different now, today, and when he mutters a half-formed "good morning" against Oz's lips, he'd like to thank Oz for existing. For being so warm and smelling so good, for drawing his hands up and down Giles' back, for speaking and for looking at him. Instead he says, "Oz," and Oz smiles just a little, eyelids dropping and one corner of his mouth curving up. It's a smile from the early days, when waking up together still made them shy, and Giles knows he's never seen it in a dream.
Giles kisses the smiling half of Oz's mouth, licks at the corner and the edges of his lips until Oz's tongue meets his, and then it's a new kiss. A little deeper, sleep-sour and hesitant, not quite in rhythm with the slow rocking of Oz's hips. When Giles licks the inside of his lip, Oz makes a little pleased sound, and Giles answers it with a sigh. Talking back and forth, tongues and noises, better than all the words Giles knows. He holds Oz's head in his hands, cradles him and keeps him, thanks him as best he can.
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Giles holds Oz's head gently, like his skull is crystal, cracked but precious, and Oz moves his own hands up to Giles's shoulders, rubbing his thumbs around the roots of his collarbone, shivering when Giles paints kisses over the inside of Oz's lower lip, shivering more when Oz sucks the tip of Giles's tongue into his mouth and won't let go.
He's starting at the beginning, earning that smile even as he widens it.
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His breath hitches, snags, when Giles palms the small of his back and pulls his teeth down Oz's tongue, and he stares, wild and hopeful, back at Giles.
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Oz's eyes are so wide that he almost looks afraid, but he's tightening his knee against Giles' back and kissing him again with a wet mouth.
Desire, this is desire, this is Oz wanting him. This is more than Giles has let himself imagine in years. "Oz," he says, hand slipping down to cup Oz's arse and pull him closer, "Could we . . .?" He could ask, has been asking, without words, but he wants to hear Oz say yes.
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It's not irony, though, not the way Giles is peering at him, digging his fingertips into the top of Oz's thigh. Giles always trusted that Oz *would* answer, that there was an answer there worth seeking out. Never ironic, always hopeful.
"Yes," Oz says, and kisses Giles one more time before nudging Giles onto his back and straddling his hips. He can't fear words, not when Giles needs them so much, not when Oz himself has so much to say. "Want to. Need you." He runs his hands up Giles's arms, over his biceps, into the juncture with his body, then down his sides. Ribs and muscle beneath soft fabric; at the hem of Giles's shirt, Oz pushes his hands underneath and goes back upward. "Need *you*, Giles. Please."
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"I need you," he says, and moves his hands to Oz's hips, curving his fingers over the bones. "Need you more than anything." Oz is running splayed fingers through Giles' chest hair, toying at Giles' nipples with his thumbs, and Giles needs this, wants this, but this isn't what he means. He needs Oz more than this, more than touch, but he only half wants Oz to understand. Touch is safer, sex is safer, shallower, than the undertows and oceanic trenches of need, and maybe it's better to be safe now, so early. Better to let Oz wade than to make him fear drowning.
Giles pulls Oz down, trapping his hands under the shirt, and kisses him again.
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The first time they said love they ended up just like this, Oz pressed over Giles, wrapping around him, trying to sink all the way through Giles's skin. Kissing and sinking, and Oz's eyes are burning, his skin heating and sliding over his bones, and he has to pull a little back. To breathe, think, speak.
He kisses Giles's chin apologetically. "Have me now," he says. "Giles. Always needed you."
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He grips Oz's arms above the elbows, as lightly as he can when he's terrified that Oz will pull farther and farther away, that he'll be gone again and Giles won't be able to stop him. "Don't." Don't go, Giles means, but then he hears what Oz has said in words, gentle well-meant words that cramp Giles' guts like poison. "Don't say always. I can't think about, about that. Always, there was no always, please don't."
His throat hurts from the words, and he can feel his face twisting. He covers it with his hands until the spasm stops, and then, eyes closed, he finds Oz's hand where it rests on his belly. "Could we just kiss some more? Could I just touch you, and n-not think? Please?" He runs his hand up Oz's forearm, hairs prickling his palm, and then to his cotton-covered shoulder, and waits.
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His chest is cold where it had been warm, where it had been pressed against Giles's, sinking and settling. He shivers again and rubs down from Giles's shoulders to his chest, presses his palm over the rattling heartbeat.
"Don't have to talk," Oz says, the words thick and *wrong* all over again. "Sorry. So sorry." He kisses Giles softly, more shyly than he's ever kissed anyone. "Anything you want."
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Thought comes back, though, even as Giles kisses along the spiral of Oz's ear and dips his fingers below the waistband of Oz's trousers. Oz got it backwards. Giles has always needed him, however much he tried to stop, but Oz hasn't always needed Giles.
Oz needs him now, though. It shows in the hitch of his breath when Giles licks his earlobe, the shudder when Giles lifts his hips and grinds his cock against Oz's thigh. And Giles can make Oz need him more, can make him sob at the touch of Giles' mouth, can make his bones melt and his muscles shake. He can make Oz need his touch, need to touch him back, need to come.
"I want you," Giles whispers in his ear. He slides one fingertip along the crack of Oz's arse, drags his tongue down Oz's neck, and he smiles when Oz moans.
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He doesn't want to be resigned. He wants to be *with* Giles.
Oz grabs hold of one of the iron bars of the headboard - thinks of cages and prisons, helpful correctives - and rocks forward until he's kissing Giles's mouth again and sliding up and down his hips, his cock. The heat speckling his chest and arms from within stokes up higher when he sees Giles's face, twisted and intense, and feels the resilient hardness of his cock.
"Good thing -" he says, breathing out over Giles's cheek and rocking a little faster. "Want *you*, want to make you feel -" Good, he almost said, but he thinks of half-empty scotch bottles and filthy kitchens, cloud-scrubbed mountain peaks and frost on the mud. Giles cants his hips again and presses Oz down, hooks his finger into Oz's crack, and with a yellow flash of need and hunger, Oz realizes that feeling's enough for now. "*Giles*. With you, please -"
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Silent and breathless, and this is what Giles wants, this black emptiness behind his eyes. He wants the slow staticky fade of thought, the reduction to white noise and the body's imperatives--lick, thrust, grunt, kiss, bite, more, now, now, now. Oz could give Giles this, with his rough hands and his mouth that's suckling at Giles' throat and his cock that's steel-hard even through his trousers. Oz could be strong for them both, think for them both, and Giles could be a body. Be nothing.
That's what he's been for months now, maybe for years: a body, a shell. He's been empty and weak, as unsound as a rotted shack. Everyone who's needed him, he's failed. But he won't fail Oz.
Giles grasps Oz's wrists and tightens his thighs around Oz's hips to hold him still. Oz has broad sturdy wrists, but Giles' hands circle them easily. "So much I want to do to you," Giles says, and Oz arches and shudders between his legs. "I want to kiss you and lick your body until your skin aches from it." As he talks, he pulls Oz's hands away from the headboard and then rolls them over. "Want to use my mouth on you, and my hands." He's lying on top of Oz now and holding his wrists against the mattress. "Want to see the flush come up in your skin." This he says so quietly it's barely a whisper in Oz's ear, but Oz ripples underneath him. "Want to watch your face when you come." A gasp at that, and a testing push against Giles' arms.
Giles holds him harder, nips his ear, and whispers, "Thank you." For coming back, for wanting him, for playing at weakness so that Giles can be strong.
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"Welcome," he whispers. "Giles, want you. Want to see -" He tips his forehead against Giles's shoulder, mouthing and sucking the fabric of his shirt, shuddering in long, jagged waves. He wants to see Giles redden and contort, wants to see him blaze and hear him shout, let go and push forward and break apart into something fragmentary but joyful. Oz drives his skull back into the pillow and catches Giles's eyes as he wraps both his legs around Giles's waist. "See you, take you *in*, please, Giles, wanna make you come. Anything."
Seat of nightmares and need, Giles above him, pushing and nipping at him, love and desire spinning in his eyes, and Oz blinks fast. Years since he was *here*, the scariest and the best place. He's not going to change. But the fear is so habitual that he has to shake it off, water and blood spraying, then clutch Giles tighter with his thighs, pull him in and down and closer and moan into his mouth.
Eyes open, body open. Release.
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And he can; he is. He pulls Oz's loose shirt up without bothering to unbutton it, works it free of necklaces and mala beads, and then his hands touch bare skin. Smooth, marble and silk and warmth, and Giles palms broad strokes over his chest. Under Giles' mouth it's even smoother, hotter, tasting of sweat and strange foreign herbs. Oz's hands twist in Giles hair, clench and tug at his shirt, and he groans when Giles mouths the fine hairs around his nipple, flicks his tongue over it until it hardens.
Giles drags his teeth lightly along Oz's ribs as he fumbles at the button and zip of Oz's trousers. He's clumsy, stunned, numbed with touch, and he needs Oz naked and he's not sure he can bear it.
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First he tugs off Giles's shirt, a yank at the back of the neck, and then it's Giles there, really him, hair poking up and mouth open and broad shoulders bowing and heaving. Oz cranes forward, kisses him, and starts to undo his pants. But Giles's eyes are wider than desire, wide with a kind of fear or anticipation, so Oz lies back down.
Hot and flat, fire cascading and sheeting through him. He stays still. Presses his palms into the mattress and raises his hips. Offers and opens, then feels air shudder and stutter down his throat when Giles presses his mouth just over the waistband. He finds Giles's skull with one hand again, stroking and gripping its near-perfect curve, and raises higher, offers it all.
Suns and candles in his throat, beneath Giles's fingertips and mouth, and Oz can't breathe. "Giles. *Now* -"
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