Oz loves watching Olivia and Giles interact; he always compares them to his memory of Buffy telling them about finding Giles in his apartment with a girl!, like it was something seedy and unbecoming.
It's hard to think of them like that, almost as hard as it is to think of Olivia as a girl. They're like siblings, actually, in how they talk to each other, extremely fond and very easily irritated with each other; it's almost like Buffy and Dawn, or Faith and Buffy before Faith got totally crazy. It's the familiarity between them, the thing that lets them say a lot silently, that Oz loves observing.
"Good eats," Oz tells Olivia when she turns her smile on him. He's not sure, but he thinks she might have changed her dress. Or her hair. Usually, he's pretty good with observing details, but Olivia's a case unto herself, all bright-shiny and glamorous and he tends to feel a little dazzled. "Great party, too."
"Thank you," she says, all trace of remembered worry for Giles passing from her face. She squeezes Giles' arm in farewell and floats away, calling after a couple named Umberto and Sajid.
"Hey," Oz says, handing Giles a little mushroom tied up with rosemary and daubed with goat's cheese. "How're you doing, handsome?"
Chewing, Giles just nods and holds up a hand, asking for time. Oz hipchecks him lightly, then stays close in and whispers, "Part of me kind of wants to find the guestroom and have some fun. Except - loft. No rooms. Sucks."
At the thought of Olivia's face if she caught them fucking in the guest room like a couple of drunk students at a house party, Giles laughs, nearly chokes, and has to be pounded on the back a few times by a rueful Oz. "I don't-" he coughs again "-don't think I'd care to risk Olivia's wrath in any case. Or, well, not wrath, but a good deal of mockery."
On the other hand, the thought of Oz leaning against an unlocked bedroom door, knuckles white on the doorknob, trying to be silent while Giles sucks his cock . . . There'd be a little cold-water thrill of fear every time someone passed by, and they'd have to hurry, both their hearts pounding, and Giles could press his hand over Oz's mouth to muffle the sound when he came.
Good thing Olivia doesn't have a guest room, on the whole. "Later," he says, putting his arm around Oz and squeezing his hip surreptitiously. "I'll see if I can make it worth the wait." Through the cloth, Oz's body feels unfamiliar, like a remodelled room. Giles is used to old corduroy, or threadbare denim, or sleek warm skin.
There's always the toilet, of course . . . "Right, let's find someone to talk to before I give in to temptation." Giles launches himself across the room, Oz in tow, and slides into a conversation with a couple of women talking about the price of London property. An impeccably unerotic subject.
Property prices, the general real-estate market, gentrification in the East End and the pushing of the bounds of suburbia halfway to Wales...Oz listens carefully, filing everything away into his "Factoids of England" memories, but he doesn't exactly have anything to contribute.
That doesn't bother him all that much. It's good just to stand close to Giles, watching him out of the corner of his eye, watching the flush that stained his cheeks start to drain away, holding his hand all the while.
"I'm not sure," Oz says when the taller of the two women, clearly trying to include him, asks what he thinks about Robbie Williams' solo career. "I've kind of been out of the loop for a while now."
Travel talk next, and he's on surer feet here, helping them sort out the differences between Uruguay and Paraguay, deferring to Giles when talk turns to travel within Europe, and the time's just flowing by.
He's hot under his suit, though. Like his skin's a patchwork, waiting for touch and exposure, and starting to ache. Every little nudge and brush against Giles helps and hurts at the same time, and the waiting game is sexy. He thinks.
Olivia floats by with a tray loaded with champagne flutes and pauses at their group.
"Sparkling cider," she whispers to Oz. "Egremont Russet apples, a heritage variety. Enjoy, darling."
He got a darling from Olivia; Oz is grinning as he hands a flute to Giles.
From the bar, there's a volley of corks popping--the bartender and a couple of the caterers are filling rank on rank of champagne glasses. Giles checks his watch. Four minutes to midnight.
"Well," he says to Gemma and Eileen, "It's very nice to have met you." They look a little surprised at the conversation's sudden close, but Oz, saying goodbye, squeezes his hand. This New Year means something, and it wouldn't be right to welcome it with half their attention, trying to make small talk to strangers.
There's an expectant thrum in the crowd, and lots of conversations are stuttering into quiet as they thread their way between groups, finally reaching a bit of space by the window. In a way, it's silly--midnight's only an imaginary line, like birthdays and borders. There's no obvious change from one side to the next, no newness to the air or extra vigor to the flow of time. But then, rationality's a limited thing. People live by symbols, by cycles and divisions, omens and meanings, and so the world lives by them too.
Oz is looking at him. "Just thinking about, well, time," Giles saying, smiling, and then they're quiet as they wait.
Standing on a chair in the middle of the room, Olivia starts the countdown. "Ten, nine, eight-"
Giles takes Oz's glass from his hand, and sets it down, along with his own, on a side table.
"-three, two, one. Happy New Year!"
Rattling noisemakers and those awful paper horns, and Oz's arms around his neck and a long, long kiss amid honking and laughter. "I love you," he says into Oz's ear. "Happy New Year."
"I love you," Oz murmurs against Giles' mouth before kissing him again. Longer, with their lips parting, his hand bunching up the fabric of Giles' jacket before he remembers himself and moves his hand to Giles' neck.
Wonderful, the taste of apples in their mouths on one of the coldest, darkest nights of the year. Like spring and fall all rolled together, and Giles tilting into him, leaning and kissing like they do in the mornings. Reacquaintance and return, and Oz slides his fingers into the bristly short hairs on the nape of Giles' neck.
"Hrmmm," he mutters when they part, and even a little ways apart, Giles is still leaning in, eyes bleary and cheeks going pink. Oz is pretty sure he looks about the same. Regretfully, he slips his palm down the length of Giles' arm, then straightens his lapels and tie. He's rumpled and glamorous, kiss-dazed, and Oz wonders how workable it would be to keep him like this all the time. "Happy happy. Really love you."
It feels important ceremonial, almost, and ritual to tell Giles that. Impress it on him as surely as the kiss.
"Like, so much," he adds, palms on Giles' lapels, tugging him back within kissing-distance. Babies' eyes can only focus as far as it is from breast to mommy's face; Oz gets that now, realizes he's most comfortable within kissing-Giles-distance. "And"
"Darlings!" Olivia is calling, cutting through the chatter and screeching horns. Neely's on her arm, grinning widely. "Happiest of new years to you!"
There's a round of shaking hands and kisses on the cheek, and all Oz can think of that's not about kissing Giles is how glad he is they're not playing "Auld Lang Syne". It's something brighter, jazzier. Holding Giles' hand, he sways a little and runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, tasting all over again.
When the conversation starts to slow, Oz moves half a step ahead of Giles.
"Think we might get going soon " he says, sliding a quick glance at Giles, even though he's pretty sure this is okay. "Such an awesome party. Thank you."
Home, and kissing distance, and skin exposed under good cotton. That's how Oz wants to ring in the new year.
Giles has no idea what he's been saying for the last couple of minutes. Kissing Oz is like deep-sea diving--if you surface too fast, you'll hurt yourself. He could easily believe, from his muzzy head and the half-pleasurable cramps of longing that are twisting through him, that his blood's gone bubbly and oxygen-deprived. He wants to fall back into Oz and have a good long swim.
Which, luckily, Oz seems to have just arranged. "Leaving so soon?" Olivia says. "And I thought I threw very good parties." Giles would never have dared risk that amused, all-too-knowing look on her face, or the certainty that she'll laugh about him, later, with Paul and probably with Neely as well. If Oz hadn't said something, they wouldn't have got home before dawn. Or later--Olivia's been known to drag the last guests out for a fried breakfast somewhere.
They'll never hear the end of it, of course, but Olivia's smile is fond and forgiving, and she even lends them Neely's mobile phone to ring a taxi. "Have a very good night," she whispers when he kisses her goodbye.
Downstairs, waiting just inside the door for their cab, Giles holds Oz around the waist and does his best to ignore the concierge's eyes on them. They're not quite hugging, after all, even though he can feel the shape of Oz's hipbone and the line of his leg. Somehow Oz's tie has gone askew, one collar point crumpled, and Giles wants to kiss him right there where the white shirt touches his throat. Kiss all the edges where skin gives way to cloth, and then undo a button or two and make new edges, and kiss them . . .
"I think we're a hopeless case," Giles says. "We can barely go out in public." He loops his little finger under the edge of Oz's coat, then the jacket, and strokes his side through the two remaining layers. So many clothes. "I missed you. You were with me the whole time, or nearly, and I missed you." Perhaps he ought to be embarrassed about that, but, seeing the happy set of Oz's lips, the hinted smile in his eyes, he isn't. Not the slightest bit.
"Different with people around," Oz says quietly, pushing his hip gently against Giles' hand. He started out just with a finger, but now there's his whole palm, cupping and squeezing. The heat spreading across Oz's skin is still patchy. Irregular, almost aching. It's missing, that's what it is. "Missed you, too. So much."
When the cab finally comes, Oz grabs Giles' hand and hurries through the bitter cold, sharp as porcelain and the edges of Olivia's furniture, then collapses in the wide back seat, pulling Giles up against him.
"Cold," he says after giving their address, and he rubs Giles' hand between both of his own, trying to catch his breath. He can't breathe in this cold, not really; it's like sucking on nitrous.
Giles nods, his lips pressed so tightly together that his mouth is white all around. Oz hooks his leg over Giles' knee to get closer, draw in the heat, stop missing and rubs his foot up and down Giles' calf in time with his hands.
Streaks of lights over Giles' face and their hands, disco-bright for throbbing half-moments, throbbing in time with Oz's heart, then plunging back into shadows that make them look ghostly. He's almost warmed back up when the cab slows to a stop halfway down their street. Oz would sigh, but they're home, and it's only one more mad dash out in the cold.
Inside the doorway, the glass rattling behind them, Oz hugs Giles full-on, kissing him hard, breathing out the little heat left inside him. He sucks lightly on Giles' upper lip before pulling back with a soft plop.
"Almost home," he whispers, and they climb the stairs together. On the last flight, past any nosy neighbors, Oz pauses and pulls Giles back down for a kiss. "We're going to celebrate for real now, right?"
Hair mussed up, tux showing through his open jacket lapels, Giles bends and kisses him again. Hot, cold, bright, shadowy: He always tastes the same, like home and morning.
Oz takes that as a yes, and he's warm again, suddenly, all over. Thoroughly.
"Awesome. Kind of looking forward to undressing you."
For a second, sex-as-celebration seems odd to Giles, even a little funny. Then, leaning against the wall and pulling Oz to him, he decides it's perfectly apt. Celebration means joy, thankfulness, and he feels that most when he's skin-to-skin with Oz, mind and senses immersed in him, calling up every shudder and shout that means pleasure.
He opens his mouth to Oz's kiss, sinks into it, his back slipping down the plaster and one hand clutching the inner rail for balance. Oz starts shivering again as they kiss, and he gasps when Giles holds him slightly away and looks at him. "Are you?" Since they dressed Oz has worn a public face, still and serene, but now a private one's emerging bit by bit, like spring leaves. Eyes half-closed, lips parted and wet from kissing--above his stern suit and high collar the effect is beautifully debauched. "And I thought you wanted a quick one in Olivia's guest room with all our clothes on." As he speaks, Giles slowly undoes the knot of Oz's tie, shivering himself when Oz tips his head back to let Giles stroke his bare throat.
Then, with a sudden laugh, Oz twists and runs up the rest of the stairs to their door.
It's hard to think of them like that, almost as hard as it is to think of Olivia as a girl. They're like siblings, actually, in how they talk to each other, extremely fond and very easily irritated with each other; it's almost like Buffy and Dawn, or Faith and Buffy before Faith got totally crazy. It's the familiarity between them, the thing that lets them say a lot silently, that Oz loves observing.
"Good eats," Oz tells Olivia when she turns her smile on him. He's not sure, but he thinks she might have changed her dress. Or her hair. Usually, he's pretty good with observing details, but Olivia's a case unto herself, all bright-shiny and glamorous and he tends to feel a little dazzled. "Great party, too."
"Thank you," she says, all trace of remembered worry for Giles passing from her face. She squeezes Giles' arm in farewell and floats away, calling after a couple named Umberto and Sajid.
"Hey," Oz says, handing Giles a little mushroom tied up with rosemary and daubed with goat's cheese. "How're you doing, handsome?"
Chewing, Giles just nods and holds up a hand, asking for time. Oz hipchecks him lightly, then stays close in and whispers, "Part of me kind of wants to find the guestroom and have some fun. Except - loft. No rooms. Sucks."
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On the other hand, the thought of Oz leaning against an unlocked bedroom door, knuckles white on the doorknob, trying to be silent while Giles sucks his cock . . . There'd be a little cold-water thrill of fear every time someone passed by, and they'd have to hurry, both their hearts pounding, and Giles could press his hand over Oz's mouth to muffle the sound when he came.
Good thing Olivia doesn't have a guest room, on the whole. "Later," he says, putting his arm around Oz and squeezing his hip surreptitiously. "I'll see if I can make it worth the wait." Through the cloth, Oz's body feels unfamiliar, like a remodelled room. Giles is used to old corduroy, or threadbare denim, or sleek warm skin.
There's always the toilet, of course . . . "Right, let's find someone to talk to before I give in to temptation." Giles launches himself across the room, Oz in tow, and slides into a conversation with a couple of women talking about the price of London property. An impeccably unerotic subject.
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That doesn't bother him all that much. It's good just to stand close to Giles, watching him out of the corner of his eye, watching the flush that stained his cheeks start to drain away, holding his hand all the while.
"I'm not sure," Oz says when the taller of the two women, clearly trying to include him, asks what he thinks about Robbie Williams' solo career. "I've kind of been out of the loop for a while now."
Travel talk next, and he's on surer feet here, helping them sort out the differences between Uruguay and Paraguay, deferring to Giles when talk turns to travel within Europe, and the time's just flowing by.
He's hot under his suit, though. Like his skin's a patchwork, waiting for touch and exposure, and starting to ache. Every little nudge and brush against Giles helps and hurts at the same time, and the waiting game is sexy. He thinks.
Olivia floats by with a tray loaded with champagne flutes and pauses at their group.
"Sparkling cider," she whispers to Oz. "Egremont Russet apples, a heritage variety. Enjoy, darling."
He got a darling from Olivia; Oz is grinning as he hands a flute to Giles.
"Almost there," he says and clinks their glasses.
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"Well," he says to Gemma and Eileen, "It's very nice to have met you." They look a little surprised at the conversation's sudden close, but Oz, saying goodbye, squeezes his hand. This New Year means something, and it wouldn't be right to welcome it with half their attention, trying to make small talk to strangers.
There's an expectant thrum in the crowd, and lots of conversations are stuttering into quiet as they thread their way between groups, finally reaching a bit of space by the window. In a way, it's silly--midnight's only an imaginary line, like birthdays and borders. There's no obvious change from one side to the next, no newness to the air or extra vigor to the flow of time. But then, rationality's a limited thing. People live by symbols, by cycles and divisions, omens and meanings, and so the world lives by them too.
Oz is looking at him. "Just thinking about, well, time," Giles saying, smiling, and then they're quiet as they wait.
Standing on a chair in the middle of the room, Olivia starts the countdown. "Ten, nine, eight-"
Giles takes Oz's glass from his hand, and sets it down, along with his own, on a side table.
"-three, two, one. Happy New Year!"
Rattling noisemakers and those awful paper horns, and Oz's arms around his neck and a long, long kiss amid honking and laughter. "I love you," he says into Oz's ear. "Happy New Year."
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Wonderful, the taste of apples in their mouths on one of the coldest, darkest nights of the year. Like spring and fall all rolled together, and Giles tilting into him, leaning and kissing like they do in the mornings. Reacquaintance and return, and Oz slides his fingers into the bristly short hairs on the nape of Giles' neck.
"Hrmmm," he mutters when they part, and even a little ways apart, Giles is still leaning in, eyes bleary and cheeks going pink. Oz is pretty sure he looks about the same. Regretfully, he slips his palm down the length of Giles' arm, then straightens his lapels and tie. He's rumpled and glamorous, kiss-dazed, and Oz wonders how workable it would be to keep him like this all the time. "Happy happy. Really love you."
It feels important ceremonial, almost, and ritual to tell Giles that. Impress it on him as surely as the kiss.
"Like, so much," he adds, palms on Giles' lapels, tugging him back within kissing-distance. Babies' eyes can only focus as far as it is from breast to mommy's face; Oz gets that now, realizes he's most comfortable within kissing-Giles-distance. "And"
"Darlings!" Olivia is calling, cutting through the chatter and screeching horns. Neely's on her arm, grinning widely. "Happiest of new years to you!"
There's a round of shaking hands and kisses on the cheek, and all Oz can think of that's not about kissing Giles is how glad he is they're not playing "Auld Lang Syne". It's something brighter, jazzier. Holding Giles' hand, he sways a little and runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, tasting all over again.
When the conversation starts to slow, Oz moves half a step ahead of Giles.
"Think we might get going soon " he says, sliding a quick glance at Giles, even though he's pretty sure this is okay. "Such an awesome party. Thank you."
Home, and kissing distance, and skin exposed under good cotton. That's how Oz wants to ring in the new year.
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Which, luckily, Oz seems to have just arranged. "Leaving so soon?" Olivia says. "And I thought I threw very good parties." Giles would never have dared risk that amused, all-too-knowing look on her face, or the certainty that she'll laugh about him, later, with Paul and probably with Neely as well. If Oz hadn't said something, they wouldn't have got home before dawn. Or later--Olivia's been known to drag the last guests out for a fried breakfast somewhere.
They'll never hear the end of it, of course, but Olivia's smile is fond and forgiving, and she even lends them Neely's mobile phone to ring a taxi. "Have a very good night," she whispers when he kisses her goodbye.
Downstairs, waiting just inside the door for their cab, Giles holds Oz around the waist and does his best to ignore the concierge's eyes on them. They're not quite hugging, after all, even though he can feel the shape of Oz's hipbone and the line of his leg. Somehow Oz's tie has gone askew, one collar point crumpled, and Giles wants to kiss him right there where the white shirt touches his throat. Kiss all the edges where skin gives way to cloth, and then undo a button or two and make new edges, and kiss them . . .
"I think we're a hopeless case," Giles says. "We can barely go out in public." He loops his little finger under the edge of Oz's coat, then the jacket, and strokes his side through the two remaining layers. So many clothes. "I missed you. You were with me the whole time, or nearly, and I missed you." Perhaps he ought to be embarrassed about that, but, seeing the happy set of Oz's lips, the hinted smile in his eyes, he isn't. Not the slightest bit.
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When the cab finally comes, Oz grabs Giles' hand and hurries through the bitter cold, sharp as porcelain and the edges of Olivia's furniture, then collapses in the wide back seat, pulling Giles up against him.
"Cold," he says after giving their address, and he rubs Giles' hand between both of his own, trying to catch his breath. He can't breathe in this cold, not really; it's like sucking on nitrous.
Giles nods, his lips pressed so tightly together that his mouth is white all around. Oz hooks his leg over Giles' knee to get closer, draw in the heat, stop missing and rubs his foot up and down Giles' calf in time with his hands.
Streaks of lights over Giles' face and their hands, disco-bright for throbbing half-moments, throbbing in time with Oz's heart, then plunging back into shadows that make them look ghostly. He's almost warmed back up when the cab slows to a stop halfway down their street. Oz would sigh, but they're home, and it's only one more mad dash out in the cold.
Inside the doorway, the glass rattling behind them, Oz hugs Giles full-on, kissing him hard, breathing out the little heat left inside him. He sucks lightly on Giles' upper lip before pulling back with a soft plop.
"Almost home," he whispers, and they climb the stairs together. On the last flight, past any nosy neighbors, Oz pauses and pulls Giles back down for a kiss. "We're going to celebrate for real now, right?"
Hair mussed up, tux showing through his open jacket lapels, Giles bends and kisses him again. Hot, cold, bright, shadowy: He always tastes the same, like home and morning.
Oz takes that as a yes, and he's warm again, suddenly, all over. Thoroughly.
"Awesome. Kind of looking forward to undressing you."
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He opens his mouth to Oz's kiss, sinks into it, his back slipping down the plaster and one hand clutching the inner rail for balance. Oz starts shivering again as they kiss, and he gasps when Giles holds him slightly away and looks at him. "Are you?" Since they dressed Oz has worn a public face, still and serene, but now a private one's emerging bit by bit, like spring leaves. Eyes half-closed, lips parted and wet from kissing--above his stern suit and high collar the effect is beautifully debauched. "And I thought you wanted a quick one in Olivia's guest room with all our clothes on." As he speaks, Giles slowly undoes the knot of Oz's tie, shivering himself when Oz tips his head back to let Giles stroke his bare throat.
Then, with a sudden laugh, Oz twists and runs up the rest of the stairs to their door.
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