A trust thing. Everything is a trust thing, all their history, all the failures that skitter and claw, unmentioned, in the corners and shadows. "I know you were kidding," Giles says, although for a terrible half-second he wasn't sure. "It's just . . ." His throat wants to close around the words. Oz looks up at him, copper-bright lashes catching the light and casting a dark line over his eyes, and Giles runs a fingertip over one delicate eyelid. "It's just that it took me a long time to convince myself that I wasn't actually a child molester
( ... )
"Long time ago," Oz echoes, tilting into Giles' mouth, breathing his air, warm from his lungs and simple. He hasn't been sure, these last few days, just how long it has been. The solid weight of Giles' grief felt like it was decades' worth of emotion, but his face and clinging hands were new, bright as a baby's, shining with tears. Old, old pain and brand-new feeling, and Oz loosens his hold on Giles now. He was squeezing so hard he felt the shoulder-joints shift and creak in his grip. "I'm sorry anyway. However long ago."
He slides off Giles' lap - straddling is for grinning and laughing, sex and teases - and curls up against him, head on Giles' arm, sighing when Giles folds that arm around his back. This is a better position for talking, and remembering, and comforting. There are lines etched down Giles' cheeks, around his eyes and in his forehead, that deepen when he thinks, flash some clue of pain. Oz kisses each one, apologizing and comforting at the same time.
"Love you," he says. "Never thought of you as anything but Giles.
( ... )
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
( ... )
"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
( ... )
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He slides off Giles' lap - straddling is for grinning and laughing, sex and teases - and curls up against him, head on Giles' arm, sighing when Giles folds that arm around his back. This is a better position for talking, and remembering, and comforting. There are lines etched down Giles' cheeks, around his eyes and in his forehead, that deepen when he thinks, flash some clue of pain. Oz kisses each one, apologizing and comforting at the same time.
"Love you," he says. "Never thought of you as anything but Giles. ( ... )
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"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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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