Rupert's seen Daniel smile a few times, now, but not like this. This is a complete smile, vivid in his mouth and the set of his head and his eyebrows that curve like baroque punctuation marks for happiness. This is the platonic essence of a smile. Rupert's own smile widens as he looks, and he's a lucky man if he gets to see that smile--inspire it--every day.
Carefully, he tucks the envelope into the deepest of his jacket pockets and then touches Daniel's face, needing to feel that delight in his own skin. "I suppose we are. That must be why . . . I don't remember you, but ever since I kissed you, I . . . You feel right." He kisses Daniel again, hugs him tight, and Rupert's laughing for no reason, foolish and amazed. "Now I do want my memories back."
There's a whole history, wondrous as Mayan codices or Sumerian epics, rich as buried Pompeii, waiting to be known again.
Daniel looks up, still smiling, and Rupert strokes his cheek again, fingers delicate over the bruise. Perhaps not all that history is beautiful; perhaps they've forgotten atrocities. "I hope that I - I wasn't -" Rupert doesn't think he's the kind of man to do that, but it's not as if he knows.
Rupert's hand is warm, gentle, the touch like aloe, and Daniel leans his head into it. He blinks once, and when his eyes open, he's looking up at Giles and he is Oz and the forgetfulness is washing away in great lacy swathes like the bubbles left behind by waves on the beach.
"You didn't," Oz says quietly, and Giles' face creases into his part-migraine, part-hard thinking expression. "It's me, Giles."
Giles nods, frowning, but doesn't move away. If anything, he tilts slightly into Oz, his hand slipping into Oz's hair, fingers curling for balance. Oz guides him to the nearest chair and pulls himself up onto the table next to Giles, arm around his shoulders. His legs and ass ache a little in protest, but that's nothing compared to the memories suffusing him. Names, and love, and contact shadowed with history: He doesn't want to forget how *good* and right this feels.
"And we're going home in --" He nudges aside Giles' cuff to check his watch. "In about eight hours." Slumping a little, Oz rests his cheek on top of Giles' head and sighs when Giles' arm slips around his waist.
Giles rubs his face against Oz's chest and sighs when Oz kisses his head again. He and Oz are always touching, but seldom like this, with Oz higher. Strangeness and not, familiarity turned inside out. "Do you know how odd that sounds?" he asks, spreading his fingers over the flexed muscles of Oz's waist. "Hearing you call me Rupert?"
He can remember everything, but he also remembers not remembering. Remembers touching Daniel for the first time, feeling everything for the first time. Losing his virginity with Daniel, everything so unexpected, new-made. Just a few minutes ago, and almost five years ago, and thirty years ago, too, when he first touched another boy's cock. Time has collapsed down to a moment, leaving all Giles' memories on a single plane. He feels like double-exposed film, disparate images overlapping, eerie and uncomfortably beautiful.
"I love you," he says, and reaches up to urge Oz onto his lap. Two familiar things, and he feels better for the words, for Oz's weight on him and Oz's breath warming his neck. "Daniel. Oz."
Past the confusion, Giles is starting to think. Memory spells. There are hundreds of them. But he knows the right books, now, and he can leave the references with Willow. Can't research it himself, because they're going home. They've got to pack, drive to Los Angeles, return the car and get to the airport by six . . .
It's the kind of thinking he can do without real engagement. Most of him is holding Oz, smelling him, remembering him. But that part must be thinking too, because something comes clear from the blurred mental collage that's starting to make Giles' head ache. "You chose me," he says. Whispers into Oz's ear; this can only be whispered. "Oz. You didn't remember me, but you chose me anyway." Out of everyone, Oz wanted him.
Carefully, he tucks the envelope into the deepest of his jacket pockets and then touches Daniel's face, needing to feel that delight in his own skin. "I suppose we are. That must be why . . . I don't remember you, but ever since I kissed you, I . . . You feel right." He kisses Daniel again, hugs him tight, and Rupert's laughing for no reason, foolish and amazed. "Now I do want my memories back."
There's a whole history, wondrous as Mayan codices or Sumerian epics, rich as buried Pompeii, waiting to be known again.
Daniel looks up, still smiling, and Rupert strokes his cheek again, fingers delicate over the bruise. Perhaps not all that history is beautiful; perhaps they've forgotten atrocities. "I hope that I - I wasn't -" Rupert doesn't think he's the kind of man to do that, but it's not as if he knows.
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"You didn't," Oz says quietly, and Giles' face creases into his part-migraine, part-hard thinking expression. "It's me, Giles."
Giles nods, frowning, but doesn't move away. If anything, he tilts slightly into Oz, his hand slipping into Oz's hair, fingers curling for balance. Oz guides him to the nearest chair and pulls himself up onto the table next to Giles, arm around his shoulders. His legs and ass ache a little in protest, but that's nothing compared to the memories suffusing him. Names, and love, and contact shadowed with history: He doesn't want to forget how *good* and right this feels.
"And we're going home in --" He nudges aside Giles' cuff to check his watch. "In about eight hours." Slumping a little, Oz rests his cheek on top of Giles' head and sighs when Giles' arm slips around his waist.
"Love you," Oz says, smiling again. "Rupert."
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His Oz.
Giles rubs his face against Oz's chest and sighs when Oz kisses his head again. He and Oz are always touching, but seldom like this, with Oz higher. Strangeness and not, familiarity turned inside out. "Do you know how odd that sounds?" he asks, spreading his fingers over the flexed muscles of Oz's waist. "Hearing you call me Rupert?"
He can remember everything, but he also remembers not remembering. Remembers touching Daniel for the first time, feeling everything for the first time. Losing his virginity with Daniel, everything so unexpected, new-made. Just a few minutes ago, and almost five years ago, and thirty years ago, too, when he first touched another boy's cock. Time has collapsed down to a moment, leaving all Giles' memories on a single plane. He feels like double-exposed film, disparate images overlapping, eerie and uncomfortably beautiful.
"I love you," he says, and reaches up to urge Oz onto his lap. Two familiar things, and he feels better for the words, for Oz's weight on him and Oz's breath warming his neck. "Daniel. Oz."
Past the confusion, Giles is starting to think. Memory spells. There are hundreds of them. But he knows the right books, now, and he can leave the references with Willow. Can't research it himself, because they're going home. They've got to pack, drive to Los Angeles, return the car and get to the airport by six . . .
It's the kind of thinking he can do without real engagement. Most of him is holding Oz, smelling him, remembering him. But that part must be thinking too, because something comes clear from the blurred mental collage that's starting to make Giles' head ache. "You chose me," he says. Whispers into Oz's ear; this can only be whispered. "Oz. You didn't remember me, but you chose me anyway." Out of everyone, Oz wanted him.
His Oz. Always his.
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