London, 09/01: Something like evolution
continued from here.
Giles pulls Oz against his chest and pants into his wet hair. Oz has gone limp, and he makes little noises in his throat like a well-fed, sleepy baby. Primitive and blissful. Giles listens, lets his mouth wander over sticky, waving strands, feels the sweat sliding down between their bellies and his cock softening in Oz's body.
I can make you love me again.
After a while, when Oz slips an arm around his back and starts kissing his chest, Giles says, "That was . . . astonishing. Are you all right?" He can remember the soft yielding of Oz's skin under his nails, and those early gasps that weren't just pleasure. Under the heavy warmth that he's more and more sure is happiness, there's a wriggling knot that's probably shame.
*
Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, and within Giles's arms, Oz grows back into his body, passes from fluid amoeba to wriggling fish to clawing, grasping crab and then starts solidifying, tiny mammal to baby chimp until he starts to recognize himself. Everything warm and loose, saltwet, jabbering nerves like calls across the jungle, twitching limbs and deep thorough burn from ass to the center of his chest. Oz mouths his way along Giles's collarbone, travelling closer and closer until he can rest his cheek in the curve of Giles's neck and blink at the sweat stinging his eyes.
"'Course I am," he starts to say, but Giles's eyes are tight and narrow. Oz slides his palm up and down Giles's far shoulder, rolling his lips against his teeth. Oz's throat is ripped flesh, deep-ground gravel and oozing blood, but he swallows several times and smiles. "More than all right. I'm - Jesus. What's a word for really fucking good?"
He seems to have lost a couple vertebrae to the fuck, but Oz cranes up and kisses Giles's jawbone. Lightly, licking softly over stubble, and Giles turns into kiss, meets him gently, bruised lips on bruised.
This is the last stage, the best stage, from merely human to noticed, held, loved, and Oz curls his arm around Giles's neck. Kisses him with all the heat and shyness of a kiss stolen behind the bleachers at an eighth grade formal. His hand slides into Giles's wet hair, then cups his cheek, thumb working over the worry in Giles's brow.
"Something like perfect," Oz says softly and makes himself look at Giles. It's one thing to feel love in the heat of the moment, when everything's huge, bright, savage; something else entirely now, still evolving, coming into hope and doubt. "Really, Giles. I -"
He can't finish. His eyes burn wetly and the scratches on his back throb faster than his heart and Giles's face is so close and so beautiful, lined with worry, and maybe he's just imagining things, maybe Giles is just lonely, and Oz wants to close his eyes, go back to being a baby fish.
He won't, can't, won't let himself, so he blinks rapidly, vision smearing and going kaleidoscopic, and breathes out yet another clutch of fear. "I loved it. You, all of it."
Giles pulls Oz against his chest and pants into his wet hair. Oz has gone limp, and he makes little noises in his throat like a well-fed, sleepy baby. Primitive and blissful. Giles listens, lets his mouth wander over sticky, waving strands, feels the sweat sliding down between their bellies and his cock softening in Oz's body.
I can make you love me again.
After a while, when Oz slips an arm around his back and starts kissing his chest, Giles says, "That was . . . astonishing. Are you all right?" He can remember the soft yielding of Oz's skin under his nails, and those early gasps that weren't just pleasure. Under the heavy warmth that he's more and more sure is happiness, there's a wriggling knot that's probably shame.
*
Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, and within Giles's arms, Oz grows back into his body, passes from fluid amoeba to wriggling fish to clawing, grasping crab and then starts solidifying, tiny mammal to baby chimp until he starts to recognize himself. Everything warm and loose, saltwet, jabbering nerves like calls across the jungle, twitching limbs and deep thorough burn from ass to the center of his chest. Oz mouths his way along Giles's collarbone, travelling closer and closer until he can rest his cheek in the curve of Giles's neck and blink at the sweat stinging his eyes.
"'Course I am," he starts to say, but Giles's eyes are tight and narrow. Oz slides his palm up and down Giles's far shoulder, rolling his lips against his teeth. Oz's throat is ripped flesh, deep-ground gravel and oozing blood, but he swallows several times and smiles. "More than all right. I'm - Jesus. What's a word for really fucking good?"
He seems to have lost a couple vertebrae to the fuck, but Oz cranes up and kisses Giles's jawbone. Lightly, licking softly over stubble, and Giles turns into kiss, meets him gently, bruised lips on bruised.
This is the last stage, the best stage, from merely human to noticed, held, loved, and Oz curls his arm around Giles's neck. Kisses him with all the heat and shyness of a kiss stolen behind the bleachers at an eighth grade formal. His hand slides into Giles's wet hair, then cups his cheek, thumb working over the worry in Giles's brow.
"Something like perfect," Oz says softly and makes himself look at Giles. It's one thing to feel love in the heat of the moment, when everything's huge, bright, savage; something else entirely now, still evolving, coming into hope and doubt. "Really, Giles. I -"
He can't finish. His eyes burn wetly and the scratches on his back throb faster than his heart and Giles's face is so close and so beautiful, lined with worry, and maybe he's just imagining things, maybe Giles is just lonely, and Oz wants to close his eyes, go back to being a baby fish.
He won't, can't, won't let himself, so he blinks rapidly, vision smearing and going kaleidoscopic, and breathes out yet another clutch of fear. "I loved it. You, all of it."