There's a hint of a blush high on Oz's cheeks, goldpale skin reddening like the center of a peach, or perhaps Giles just imagines it, imagines the awkward lovely boy that this man used to be. Newness and memory, just-met stranger and much-missed lover: Oz is always both at once, always theme and variation played together. Giles presses his lips to the blush, swirls his tongue over it, not sure if he wants to kiss it away or raise it brighter.
"I wouldn't say I let you, exactly." Rolling onto his side, he drapes a leg over Oz's thighs, feeling his muscles pull and complain. He's going to be sore tomorrow. Welcome soreness, a reminder of knees drawn up to his chest and the feeling of Oz inside him. "I'd say I wanted you to, very badly." Exactly what he wanted-some swirling combination of pain and gentleness, safety and helpless pleasure and the full strength of Oz's body-Giles can't quite put into words even to himself, but Oz recognized and gave it. "And it felt, well, amazing, as you say." Oz smiles at that, the worry mostly gone from his eyes for the first time in days. Smiling back, watching Oz's face open into one of its private expressions of thoughtful contentment, Giles says, "You always amaze me. My Oz."
His Oz again, still, despite everything. Giles kisses him, wraps him in a tight knot of arms and legs, and holds on.
He'd just as soon never leave the bed again, but the room's getting cold, and despite their late lunch, he's feeling hungry. After a few minutes, when they've twined themselves as closely together as they can, he says as much to Oz, who stretches and mutters something about risotto and whether the mushrooms are still good. "We'll manage something," Giles says, moving his legs experimentally. "And after dinner, I thought, seeing as it's my birthday and I'm allowed to be greedy, that we might go back to bed. Since there's still so much to learn." He nips Oz's ear, getting a mouthful of metal and a pleased sigh.
"Food's good," Oz says vaguely and tightens his arms back around Giles. His stomach rolls and wobbles emptily, though, and he ought to do something about that. So he stretches again and stands and helps Giles find his pants.
Giles always spoke to him like he was an equal, so Oz doesn't know why he still gets surprised. But he does: You always amaze me. Words like that, my Oz, and thoughtful characterizations of how Oz makes him feel, and just little one-syllable words, us and we, they all add up. Pierce right through the haze of guilt and regret that Oz usually shuffles around in and yank him back into the present.
Giles is determined to live now and *here*, and that's a gift and a kind of miracle that Oz doesn't dare look at too closely. He's left so many times already, and he knows, given all the grief that Giles has sobbed and puked out in the last few days, that if he hadn't come back when he did, if he'd been delayed a couple weeks, there might not have been anyone here to answer the buzzer.
"I'll do the rice," he finally says when they're cleaned up and half-dressed and standing like lost tourists in the middle of the kitchen, blinking and hoping that the food will serve itself. "You sit. It's your birthday."
Giles frowns, mumbling some protest, and Oz slaps him with a handy dishtowel. Living in the present is, he thinks, a matter of taking care of the necessities and hoping that time sloughs away the worst of the pain. Believing that the Oz in Giles' head is someone he has a hope of becoming. Making it up to Giles, one moment and one tiny grain of rice at a time.
He's always been patient and Giles, Giles deserves the best he can do.
"I wouldn't say I let you, exactly." Rolling onto his side, he drapes a leg over Oz's thighs, feeling his muscles pull and complain. He's going to be sore tomorrow. Welcome soreness, a reminder of knees drawn up to his chest and the feeling of Oz inside him. "I'd say I wanted you to, very badly." Exactly what he wanted-some swirling combination of pain and gentleness, safety and helpless pleasure and the full strength of Oz's body-Giles can't quite put into words even to himself, but Oz recognized and gave it. "And it felt, well, amazing, as you say." Oz smiles at that, the worry mostly gone from his eyes for the first time in days. Smiling back, watching Oz's face open into one of its private expressions of thoughtful contentment, Giles says, "You always amaze me. My Oz."
His Oz again, still, despite everything. Giles kisses him, wraps him in a tight knot of arms and legs, and holds on.
He'd just as soon never leave the bed again, but the room's getting cold, and despite their late lunch, he's feeling hungry. After a few minutes, when they've twined themselves as closely together as they can, he says as much to Oz, who stretches and mutters something about risotto and whether the mushrooms are still good. "We'll manage something," Giles says, moving his legs experimentally. "And after dinner, I thought, seeing as it's my birthday and I'm allowed to be greedy, that we might go back to bed. Since there's still so much to learn." He nips Oz's ear, getting a mouthful of metal and a pleased sigh.
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Giles always spoke to him like he was an equal, so Oz doesn't know why he still gets surprised. But he does: You always amaze me. Words like that, my Oz, and thoughtful characterizations of how Oz makes him feel, and just little one-syllable words, us and we, they all add up. Pierce right through the haze of guilt and regret that Oz usually shuffles around in and yank him back into the present.
Giles is determined to live now and *here*, and that's a gift and a kind of miracle that Oz doesn't dare look at too closely. He's left so many times already, and he knows, given all the grief that Giles has sobbed and puked out in the last few days, that if he hadn't come back when he did, if he'd been delayed a couple weeks, there might not have been anyone here to answer the buzzer.
"I'll do the rice," he finally says when they're cleaned up and half-dressed and standing like lost tourists in the middle of the kitchen, blinking and hoping that the food will serve itself. "You sit. It's your birthday."
Giles frowns, mumbling some protest, and Oz slaps him with a handy dishtowel. Living in the present is, he thinks, a matter of taking care of the necessities and hoping that time sloughs away the worst of the pain. Believing that the Oz in Giles' head is someone he has a hope of becoming. Making it up to Giles, one moment and one tiny grain of rice at a time.
He's always been patient and Giles, Giles deserves the best he can do.
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