It's been a long time - prom, probably - since Oz danced in public, but Giles is standing there like Astaire and Cary Grant and every other dapper gentleman, reaching for Oz, and it's just a step up, a squeeze of his hand, and then Oz is on his feet, Giles' arm around his waist, and they're dancing.
He folds himself up against Giles, cheek against one soft lapel, their fingers interlocking, and maybe it's a good thing he never learned how to dance officially. This way he doesn't know stuff about leading or counting; he just leans and sways and Giles moves them around in this long, drawn-out, *public* (but he can't think about that) cuddle-to-music.
On the small of his back, Giles' hand is light as air, as the breath through Ella's mouth, and dancing really isn't anything beyond being close and moving slowly.
Plus, it's a pretty song, kind of longing, full of promise, and Oz mouths the words as he feels Giles' hand moving in circles and the pressure, the embrace of it all, really kind of is like losing gravity.
At the chorus, Oz tips back his head and smiles at Giles.
"Good song." At that, Giles' face creases into a smile and Oz adds, "Better dance."
As a small boy, Giles was sent every Saturday morning to the dancing and etiquette lessons that Mrs. Matheson gave in the parish hall. He learned to waltz and foxtrot, to bow at just the right angle when asking a lady to dance, to rest his hand lightly ('never clutch, boys,' Mrs. Matheson said) on the small of his partner's back. Although among the other boys he always claimed to hate it, secretly he thought it was fun. He used to practice with his mum, or, on visits, with his grandmother, who was a marvelous dancer.
And then came the nineteen-sixties, and formal dancing was as unfashionable as Brylcreem and Vera Lynn. Giles has hardly used all those painstakingly-memorized steps, except at family weddings.
This is only dancing in the loosest sense, of course--just a kind of shuffle. But the song's lovely and Oz's hair is mussed where he leaned against Giles' chest, and Giles feels a little like someone in a film. "Wonderful dance," he says, kissing the top of Oz's head when he settles in again.
He can't help thinking of the Sunnydale prom, of how Buffy's eyes shone when Angel came into the room, of how he stood holding her little umbrella, trying not to look at any of the teenage couples showing off their romances. Missing Oz, while Oz was twenty feet away dancing with Willow and whispering in her ear.
That, Giles realizes, is why he wanted to dance tonight. He's writing over that memory. And bragging, too, like those California teenagers. Making sure everyone sees that he's in love.
Love's not tactful. Love's a boaster. Love announces itself with neon and fanfares. Love stands on a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner and shouts Look at me!
The song ends, but another slow one starts, and Giles holds on to Oz. "One more."
It's been a long time - prom, probably - since Oz danced in public, but Giles is standing there like Astaire and Cary Grant and every other dapper gentleman, reaching for Oz, and it's just a step up, a squeeze of his hand, and then Oz is on his feet, Giles' arm around his waist, and they're dancing.
He folds himself up against Giles, cheek against one soft lapel, their fingers interlocking, and maybe it's a good thing he never learned how to dance officially. This way he doesn't know stuff about leading or counting; he just leans and sways and Giles moves them around in this long, drawn-out, *public* (but he can't think about that) cuddle-to-music.
On the small of his back, Giles' hand is light as air, as the breath through Ella's mouth, and dancing really isn't anything beyond being close and moving slowly.
Plus, it's a pretty song, kind of longing, full of promise, and Oz mouths the words as he feels Giles' hand moving in circles and the pressure, the embrace of it all, really kind of is like losing gravity.
At the chorus, Oz tips back his head and smiles at Giles.
"Good song." At that, Giles' face creases into a smile and Oz adds, "Better dance."
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And then came the nineteen-sixties, and formal dancing was as unfashionable as Brylcreem and Vera Lynn. Giles has hardly used all those painstakingly-memorized steps, except at family weddings.
This is only dancing in the loosest sense, of course--just a kind of shuffle. But the song's lovely and Oz's hair is mussed where he leaned against Giles' chest, and Giles feels a little like someone in a film. "Wonderful dance," he says, kissing the top of Oz's head when he settles in again.
He can't help thinking of the Sunnydale prom, of how Buffy's eyes shone when Angel came into the room, of how he stood holding her little umbrella, trying not to look at any of the teenage couples showing off their romances. Missing Oz, while Oz was twenty feet away dancing with Willow and whispering in her ear.
That, Giles realizes, is why he wanted to dance tonight. He's writing over that memory. And bragging, too, like those California teenagers. Making sure everyone sees that he's in love.
Love's not tactful. Love's a boaster. Love announces itself with neon and fanfares. Love stands on a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner and shouts Look at me!
The song ends, but another slow one starts, and Giles holds on to Oz. "One more."
Perhaps someday soon he'll teach Oz to waltz.
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