Oz's hand, layered between jumper and shirt, is a muted warmth on Giles' back. Infinitely frustrating to touch through cloth, to muffle the bare honesty of skin. And this is what they've been doing these last weeks, keeping silence and evasion between them like heavy coats, sacrificing contact to the fear of being naked.
Sorry for everything, Oz says, but that's just another way of saying nothing.
Giles works a hand inside the sleeve of Oz's jumper, heel of his hand pressed to Oz's wrist, fingers circling his arm, and makes himself say the word Oz won't say. "Willow." His throat's dry, and the name emerges like a puff of dust. "You - at Jenny's funeral, not two fucking weeks later, you were holding her hand. And she cried and you put your arms around her and I . . . Christ, I . . ." He looks up from Oz's sleeve and waits until Oz meets his eyes. "If the wolf . . . if you were afraid of - of changing, why were you with her?"
It was the only explanation that ever made sense. Oz left him for Willow, for a sweet, pretty girl, the sort of person he should have been with all along.
So much anger, and pain, always inside Giles, and it's not history; it's alive and darkly bright, and Oz deserves it all. Oz curls his fingers into his palm and breathes through his mouth against the frictionburn grip of Giles' hand on his arm. That day still jangles with all the others around it, one shard in the kaleidoscope, bright and meaningless. Oz remembers Giles' haircut, sunlight off his glasses, the speed from the tab of acid rocketing through his system.
"Liked her," Oz says, and the rough sound of his own voice makes him wince. "Couldn't be alone. Couldn't not see you. Safe with her." He wishes he knew what to say, how to describe the steps Giles' face is taking as it shuts down. Giles is starting to look just like he did back then, shuttered and boarded-up, empty except for rats inside. "Not like, not like. Didn't trade, not like that. Nothing like that. Safe with her, no -"
Too many words, none of them right, and they're dull and small like lead in his mouth. Oz leans back, tilting his head, and when he catches Giles' eye, it still doesn't seem to make a difference.
"Hug a lot of people," he says. Takes a breath between each phrase and thinks of rock-climbing, constant search for handholds and safety. "Or I used to. I was scared. And lonely. And drunk and other shit. Couldn't not see you, and she was nice, and the wolf stayed quiet."
When he closes his eyes, the kaleidoscope's twirling out of control, and it's less scary to open them and see Giles' still, flat expression.
"I'm sorry. Thought I was helping you by leaving. Thought I was helping her by staying. Should've just gone. So sorry."
Sorry for everything, Oz says, but that's just another way of saying nothing.
Giles works a hand inside the sleeve of Oz's jumper, heel of his hand pressed to Oz's wrist, fingers circling his arm, and makes himself say the word Oz won't say. "Willow." His throat's dry, and the name emerges like a puff of dust. "You - at Jenny's funeral, not two fucking weeks later, you were holding her hand. And she cried and you put your arms around her and I . . . Christ, I . . ." He looks up from Oz's sleeve and waits until Oz meets his eyes. "If the wolf . . . if you were afraid of - of changing, why were you with her?"
It was the only explanation that ever made sense. Oz left him for Willow, for a sweet, pretty girl, the sort of person he should have been with all along.
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"Liked her," Oz says, and the rough sound of his own voice makes him wince. "Couldn't be alone. Couldn't not see you. Safe with her." He wishes he knew what to say, how to describe the steps Giles' face is taking as it shuts down. Giles is starting to look just like he did back then, shuttered and boarded-up, empty except for rats inside. "Not like, not like. Didn't trade, not like that. Nothing like that. Safe with her, no -"
Too many words, none of them right, and they're dull and small like lead in his mouth. Oz leans back, tilting his head, and when he catches Giles' eye, it still doesn't seem to make a difference.
"Hug a lot of people," he says. Takes a breath between each phrase and thinks of rock-climbing, constant search for handholds and safety. "Or I used to. I was scared. And lonely. And drunk and other shit. Couldn't not see you, and she was nice, and the wolf stayed quiet."
When he closes his eyes, the kaleidoscope's twirling out of control, and it's less scary to open them and see Giles' still, flat expression.
"I'm sorry. Thought I was helping you by leaving. Thought I was helping her by staying. Should've just gone. So sorry."
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