If Olivia weren't here, Giles would follow Oz to the toilet and ask him what's wrong. Something, fear or bad memories or one of Oz's moments of inexplicable shame, flashed across his face and lingered around his eyes like a bruise. It happens sometimes; Giles is getting used to it. Oz won't always talk about it, but when Giles holds him and kisses the tense places along his neck and jaw, it goes away eventually. But Olivia's here, watching Giles thoughtfully over the rim of her wineglass, and it would be rude to leave her alone. Anyway, when they came back Oz would only feel exposed and even more uncomfortable.
Giles gulps down another swallow of wine. He's been drinking very slowly, taking only the tiniest sips until he was sure the wine wouldn't waken the craving for whiskey that still, sometimes, simmers and cramps in him. But now he wants a little more to drink before Olivia says whatever she's about to say.
She tops up his almost-empty glass. "Rupert, how old is that boy?"
"He's not a boy. He's twenty-one." Giles remembers that first night, Oz doing up his trousers and flinching when Giles asked his age, and his own shattering panic at the answer. Even now he sometimes feels guilty about it. Oz says that the numbers don't matter, that age is as false a construction as gender, but Giles has never been able to believe him. Age isn't just a number; it's in Giles' body, his wrinkled skin and susceptible back and the aches he feels after a day of unpacking. It's in his mind, too, in the books he's had time to read and the quarter-century of adult experience that he possesses and Oz doesn't. And it's in the world, real and undeniable. When they go into shops together, the assistants speak to Giles first. The waiter would never have dreamed of giving the wine cork to Oz for inspection.
After studying his face for a moment and reading heaven knows what there, Olivia says, "And how old was he when you met?"
"Seventeen." Giles sighs, raises the glass halfway to his lips, and then puts it down again. He should have told her over the telephone and got all this over with. "Barely."
Olivia shakes a braid back from her face and laughs. "Oh, Rupert. You cradle-snatcher! I never knew you had that much of a wicked streak."
Amusement, sympathy, but no disapproval; this is what Giles should have expected, not moral outrage. Years of living in America, where nothing is too private or too complicated for moralizing, have affected him more than he realized. "It felt entirely too wicked at the time. If we'd been caught, I could actually have gone to prison. And I kept thinking about . . . well, you know."
"Of course." She and Oz are the only people to whom he's ever told the whole story of Ethan. Even Paul, who was Giles' lover for over two years, only heard a brief, sanitized version. "He's a sweet boy," Olivia continues. "Young man, sorry. And he obviously adores you. Even if he does call you Giles."
There's really no way to explain that, so Giles shrugs. It's a gesture, he realizes, that he's picked up from Oz. "Everyone did, in Sunnydale." Giles twists in his seat to see if Oz is coming back. He's been gone quite a while. It could be nothing, or it could be that he's giving them time to talk. Or that he's upset and staying in the toilet as a sort of refuge.
"Right." Olivia smiles too sweetly, pats his hand, and then adds, "You don't make him call you Sir as well, do you? Or Master?"
"Olivia!" Several people at nearby tables turn to look at them, and Giles coughs and almost chokes on his own laughter. "Absolutely not. When have I ever done something like that?"
"Well, you haven't exactly been in the habit of shagging teenagers, either. I thought perhaps America had given you new tastes." She's leaning slightly forward, one eyebrow raised, in the pose of someone about to hear really delicious gossip. They always used to swap stories about men. Olivia was the first person Giles came out to as an adult (if you could call his tearful, shamed confession "coming out"), and even though they were dating at the time, she didn't hate him for it. Which let him hate himself a little less.
Giles gulps down another swallow of wine. He's been drinking very slowly, taking only the tiniest sips until he was sure the wine wouldn't waken the craving for whiskey that still, sometimes, simmers and cramps in him. But now he wants a little more to drink before Olivia says whatever she's about to say.
She tops up his almost-empty glass. "Rupert, how old is that boy?"
"He's not a boy. He's twenty-one." Giles remembers that first night, Oz doing up his trousers and flinching when Giles asked his age, and his own shattering panic at the answer. Even now he sometimes feels guilty about it. Oz says that the numbers don't matter, that age is as false a construction as gender, but Giles has never been able to believe him. Age isn't just a number; it's in Giles' body, his wrinkled skin and susceptible back and the aches he feels after a day of unpacking. It's in his mind, too, in the books he's had time to read and the quarter-century of adult experience that he possesses and Oz doesn't. And it's in the world, real and undeniable. When they go into shops together, the assistants speak to Giles first. The waiter would never have dreamed of giving the wine cork to Oz for inspection.
After studying his face for a moment and reading heaven knows what there, Olivia says, "And how old was he when you met?"
"Seventeen." Giles sighs, raises the glass halfway to his lips, and then puts it down again. He should have told her over the telephone and got all this over with. "Barely."
Olivia shakes a braid back from her face and laughs. "Oh, Rupert. You cradle-snatcher! I never knew you had that much of a wicked streak."
Amusement, sympathy, but no disapproval; this is what Giles should have expected, not moral outrage. Years of living in America, where nothing is too private or too complicated for moralizing, have affected him more than he realized. "It felt entirely too wicked at the time. If we'd been caught, I could actually have gone to prison. And I kept thinking about . . . well, you know."
"Of course." She and Oz are the only people to whom he's ever told the whole story of Ethan. Even Paul, who was Giles' lover for over two years, only heard a brief, sanitized version. "He's a sweet boy," Olivia continues. "Young man, sorry. And he obviously adores you. Even if he does call you Giles."
There's really no way to explain that, so Giles shrugs. It's a gesture, he realizes, that he's picked up from Oz. "Everyone did, in Sunnydale." Giles twists in his seat to see if Oz is coming back. He's been gone quite a while. It could be nothing, or it could be that he's giving them time to talk. Or that he's upset and staying in the toilet as a sort of refuge.
"Right." Olivia smiles too sweetly, pats his hand, and then adds, "You don't make him call you Sir as well, do you? Or Master?"
"Olivia!" Several people at nearby tables turn to look at them, and Giles coughs and almost chokes on his own laughter. "Absolutely not. When have I ever done something like that?"
"Well, you haven't exactly been in the habit of shagging teenagers, either. I thought perhaps America had given you new tastes." She's leaning slightly forward, one eyebrow raised, in the pose of someone about to hear really delicious gossip. They always used to swap stories about men. Olivia was the first person Giles came out to as an adult (if you could call his tearful, shamed confession "coming out"), and even though they were dating at the time, she didn't hate him for it. Which let him hate himself a little less.
Reply
Leave a comment