7. Mended

Oz always wakes up around six. Before the day starts, he downs another dose of herbs and sits before the shrine in the corner of his room, mellowing out, working on acceptance.

Some people read the paper, or jog, or swallow a gallon of coffee to feel human first thing in the morning. Oz closes his eyes and acknowledges the monster. It's basically the same thing in the end.

This morning, though, it's hard to get out of bed.

He has to untangle himself from Xander, who barely stirs beyond smacking his lips and heaving a huge sigh, then flops into the space Oz left behind. Though it's not *technically* cold, the air's tight and chilly around Oz as he pisses, even as he showers. It's even clammier when he's out in the kitchen at the kettle. The absence of Xander's body, all its weight and warmth, clings to Oz like something ripped away.

He's never done the meditation thing with someone else in the room. The several people he *has* brought home have never stayed the night; Oz made sure of that. When he comes back into the room, the tea boiling in his belly, he finds Xander still conked out -- on his stomach, face buried in the gap between pillows. An unconscious audience, he figures, isn't as bad as the alternative.

He lights two candles but foregoes the incense -- it makes him sneeze, and it's sure to wake up Xander -- and concentrates on not thinking.

Everything's a paradox, thinking about not-thinking, breathing in illusion, the past erupting into the present.

Through three circuits of the mala, he returns to the necessary calm. Routine's another paradox, liberating through rules. He slips into the near-dream state of illogic and mystery, where sensation dwells with abstract dialectics, where whatever's in his memory slips into the real. It's never been about denial -- he tried that, in Sunnydale, in cages and chains -- but about looking into the dark and finding the light inside himself. The heat of Xander's skin and the pressure of his leg against Oz's, all night long, that's inside him, too, and pleasure is acceptable. Transient, always ephemeral, but not to be scorned.

He sits at the rickety shrine, pulling beads through his fingers, the flames on the candles nearly motionless. He stirs when the light in the room changes, sharpening into day out of the fog of dawn. His knees pop as he unfolds himself and stands. Pinching out the flames, then sucking his fingers, he stretches and heads back to the kitchen.

*

When Xander finally wakes up, Oz has eaten breakfast, flipped through the paper, and finished all the dishes in the sink. Rich has come and gone, pulling on a clean shirt as he rushed out the door, and Oz is curled up on the couch, chin in hand, reading, when Xander stumbles out of the bedroom.

He fights with the curtains, the bamboo jumping and beads clacking, his hands flailing, and swears under his breath until he's free. Then, thickly, rubbing his bruised eye, he says, "Hey. Morning. Top of the."

"Hey," Oz says. "How --"

"Bathroom?"

"Through there."

He makes breakfast for Xander -- eggs and some toast, and Xander says he doesn't have to, but it's good to keep his hands busy -- and gets him an extra towel. Real people have linen closets, with towels and sheets for guests. Oz never thought he'd wish that he was anything like an adult, but he does now. He's got one extra towel and no spare sheets, just the ones on his bed. Xander deserves something better.

The nervousness of last night, however, seems to have fallen away -- mostly -- in sleep. They seem to be sharing space better, without so many jumpy dances and uneasy glances. When he's out of the shower, hair sticking up and face red, Xander even looks relaxed. He swallows the eggs without seeming to chew, and swipes up all the yolk with the edge of toast. Oz wants to ask how long it's been since Xander had a real meal, but that would remind Xander of being away, on the run. Oz is fairly certain that's not something Xander's ready to talk about.

He's also not sure what to *do* with Xander. He's got work in a couple hours, and while it doesn't seem fair to just leave Xander here, it's not like he can bring Xander along. Tuck him under the dishwasher, let him play with the chef-knives.

"These yours?" Xander asks, leaning and scrutinizing the shelves of DVDs and videos.

"Some," Oz says, wiping his hands on the dish towel. "Most are Rich's."

"Oh, *bonus*. Babylon 5?"

"Rich's. Cool show, though."

"It was. Oh -- and the original trilogy. Come to papa." Xander pulls out the three-tape set of Star Wars. "Not the ones contaminated later, right?"

Oz shakes his head and smiles at the Christmas-morning grin doing battle with doubt and suspicion on Xander's face. "Nope, no weird CGI inserts."

"Can I?" Xander gestures at the television.

"Yeah, sure. Pop it in."

"Empire," Xander says. "My favorite."

"Darkest and best."

The tape starts up halfway through, when the Falcon arrives at Cloud City. Oz drops into the couch next to Xander, hands him a glass of water, and says, "They clean up good, huh?"

It's his favorite Leia-look, the long, looped braids and quiet, amused smile. She looks grown-up and grave and really beautiful. Even Han's got better clothes and his hair's combed back.

"Yeah," Xander says.

Xander's tense again; something nervous vibrates off him, maybe because they're sitting together, maybe because he's just Xander.

Swallowing against the bitter grit that leaves in the back of his throat, Oz points at the screen, close-up of Leia and Han smirking at each other. "Always figured this is right after they slept together the first time. Look at them."

"Whoa. Whoa. They never --"

"Sure they did." It's clear as anything, how much closer they look now, still jibing and bickering, but fondly now. "*Look*."

Xander punches stop on the remote and sits heavily back. "They didn't."

Fake-arguing might help dissolve some of Xander's tension, so Oz elbows him gently. "Look how they're smiling at each other. They did."

"No. Because, because --"

"Because why?"

Shooting out a long breath, Xander slumps back and rolls the remote between his hands. "Because I always thought Han was like Giles, okay? And Leia's like Willow, see, so they *can't*." He glances at Oz, shock all over his face. "Sorry, I mean --"

It takes Oz a long, long moment to figure out why Xander looks so freaked out all of a sudden. "You can say Willow's name."

"Yeah?"

There's that strange, very sad ache he always gets at the thought of Willow, settling in the bottom of his stomach. Oz touches Xander's knee. "Yeah. Not a big deal." He thinks of the no-go area, how Sunnydale doesn't mention the ones who left. He doesn't know how to tell Xander it doesn't work like that in the rest of the world. He smiles and Xander nods, clearly still not believing. "Han and Leia kiss in Jedi," Oz says. Changing the topic's always a good plan. "And anyway, *Giles*? Isn't he more like Ben?"

"Assuming Buffy's Luke, yeah."

"Buffy's cooler than Luke, though."

Xander snorts. "*I'm* cooler than Luke. That's not saying much. Anyway, she's not Anakin, that's for sure. Not going over to the dark side." He purses his lips. "Much."

His voice dropped a little there, and Oz doesn't want Xander sliding back into moroseness. "Just not seeing Giles as Han. Buffy and Luke, sure. Blond heroes."

"Han's sarcastic and older and knows stuff," Xander says. "Like Giles."

"So's Ben, minus the sarcasm." Ben could've used some sarcasm, now that he thinks about it, a little acid to cut through the whole Jedi-serenity thing. Yoda had it, though. He was pretty snarky when Luke got going.

Xander circles his hand and points at the video box. "Yeah, but, see -- it's the *three* of them. Gotta work with that."

Graphic design as argument: Oz can get behind that. "Makes sense. So that makes you -- who?"

Checking the box again, Xander says, "Don't know. Chewie?"

Oz swallows the rest of the water in Xander's glass. "Figured *I* was Chewie. All the hair and growling."

"Nope," Xander says and smiles for real. Oz can't put his finger on why this is a real smile -- it's broader, and Xander's shoulders aren't up around his neck, and his eyes just look a little brighter -- but it is. "You're R2."

"That a height comment?"

Eyes widening, Xander shakes his head. "No! Well --. No. Not really."

"But sort of?"

Xander's hand lifts off his lap, dangles a little in the air like he can't decide what to do with it, then drops in the space between their legs. "Maybe?"

Folding his arms across his chest, Oz kicks out his legs. "Don't think this analogy's working. Like, at all."

"Sure it is. You're little, everyone likes you, you're loyal. And, hey, look -- Faith's Lando, all the way. Dark, sexy, treacherous."

He resists the urge to ask Xander why Billy Dee is 'sexy'. "True."

"And you gotta admit, Vader's face? Hell of a lot like the Master's."

Oz rolls his head against the back of the couch and looks at Xander's profile. It feels *good*, having Xander this close, being able to watch the constant, shifting fall of thoughts across his face. Maybe it should feel strange, being this close to someone again, sharing this kind of proximity, but it doesn't. "Never had the pleasure."

"In Jedi," Xander says impatiently. "You know, when --"

"No. Never met the Master."

"Oh. Oh, that's right. I always forget."

That's another little glimpse into Xander's head right there -- everyone in his life seems to have always been there. Oz met the Master, Tara probably knows Angelus, and Riley plays golf with the Mayor. Oz doesn't think like that; he's pretty sure *no one* thinks like that except Xander, but that's what's so cool about it. Time goes out of the equation, and everyone just hangs out, forever mixing and chatting, like a party in heaven.

Patting Xander's knee, then standing up, Oz stretches and says, "Wish I could hang and watch, but I've got to get to work."

"What?" Surprise again, but Xander hides it behind his hand as he rubs hard at his chin. "Okay."

"It's cool," Oz says on his way to the bedroom to retrieve his shirt and find his shoes. "You can stay here if you want and I'll be back --" He checks the clock. "Around eleven, maybe?"

Xander battles the curtains again and stops in the doorway, half-turning away when he sees Oz changing his shirt. "Maybe I could pick you up after?"

Oz stops, shoe in his hand, and looks at Xander. It hadn't even occurred to him -- he thought his options were take Xander or leave him here. But Xander wants to pick him up. "Yeah, that's --. Yeah, I'd like that."

Another real smile. Oz ought to be dizzy from how the mood between them keeps swinging from high to low, morose to psyched, freaked back to comfortable, but he's not. He feels like he's just riding these waves, holding out a hand to Xander, hoping he'll take it. Not that he's ever surfed, but he figures that's what this is like, up and down, unpredictable. Like Blue Crush, only less estrogen and even more paralyzing traumas.

"Cool. How do I get there?" Xander asks, turning and following Oz back to the kitchen. "*Where* do you work, anyway? And you? You've got a job? What's with that?"

"Working stiff," Oz says. "Restaurant kitchen. And I'll draw you a map."

Xander's silent, and a part of Oz wants to know what Xander thought he lived on -- weed smoke and guitar riffs?

All these little clues, dropping like snow, about who he is for Xander; they're incredibly flattering and unrealistic all at the same time. Oz would like to be that guy, some modern dharma bum seeing the real America, eternally on the move and untouched, untouchable.

He gets out the big notebook they keep next to the phone and sorts through the can of pens until he finds one that works. "Inuit draw maps differently. Did you know that?" Oz says, sketching out the route to the restaurant. "It's not an area they're thinking about, it's a line --"

"Inuit like Eskimo?"

"Yeah. Hard to navigate when all you've got is ice and snow and sky, but they've got this whole system."

Xander pulls up the other kitchen chair and leans in. "You're not sending me to the Pole, are you?"

"Which one?"

"North has polar bears, right? And South has penguins."

"Yeah."

"Gimme South, then. Except don't, because I don't handle cold well."

"California boy," Oz says, shading in the extent of Broadway.

"Like you."

"Yeah. They draw their maps in the air, or on the snow," Oz says. "And the scale depends on the time it takes to travel, not just the distance. And the importance of the destination. So the restaurant -- that's where you're going -- that'd be big, like this." He draws a large rectangle that takes up a quarter of the page. "But the markers along the way, they're little and packed together."

Frowning, Xander jabs his finger at the map. "You *are* sending me to the Pole."

"Nah. No Inuit at the South Pole."

"But there're penguins. Right?"

"Penguins, yeah. Not much else."

Xander pulls the map out of Oz's hand and tilts it one way, then the other. "Maybe I'll just take a cab."

Oz pokes the pen into Xander's wrist. "Not that far."

"Man, your map's like one of those, what're they called. Like Rain Man, but he does drawings?"

"Simon?"

"No, there's a name for them. Rain Man, or that lady who hugs cows. Octo--outsider --- aardvark -- something."

"Autistic."

"Oztistic," Xander says and grins.

"It's a good map." Oz takes it back and tries to see it through Xander's eyes. Still looks all right. Maybe a little sketchy, but that's okay. "Labeled the streets, see? And made little arrows for where you should turn."

"I like it," Xander says and grabs the map again, pursing his lips. "As *art*, I mean, it's kind of cool. Has that Ditko-kind of psychedelic feel, all these bubbles and stuff."

Oz's face goes hot, a little embarrassed, especially around the eyes, and that's really strange. It's just Xander and him and a map. Nothing to worry about. "I can just come back."

"No, it's okay." Xander smoothes the paper out and traces the route with his finger. "At least it's not drawn in the air. Not really portable like that, and, anyway, want to see where you work."

Oz leans back in his chair and gets that sleepy-hot feeling inside again. Lava lamps, or old neon signs, bright heat gone liquid and slow. "Yeah?"

He wonders if he was loud enough, because Xander doesn't reply. He's still looking at the map, his lips moving but no sound coming out, finger going over the route in slow motion like he's reading Braille.

"Yeah, 'course," Xander says finally, his eyes flickering up. "It'll be cool."

*

Oz got this job -- he'd be sous chef if he'd gone to school, but since he didn't, he's just the chef's assistant and they don't have to pay him as much -- because he's fast. Fast and calm in the midst of anything, just chopping and grating and organizing everything so that Socorro-the-chef can grab what she needs and cook.

He's small, too, which is good in this tiny kitchen. No one has to work to get around him, and he never has to stop to make room.

You never stop for anything, not for crises, catastrophes, or disasters. You stay calm and keep working and everything will work out. That's the *plan*, at least. Oz holds up his end of the deal, whacking his palm against the flat of the big knife, breaking the joints of sixty duck carcasses, piling the bones in one container and stacking the breasts and legs in another. Blood all over his hands, cold from the fridge, the flesh dead-white and threaded with pink. The joints pop open if he hits them just right, a whack and then a light crackling pop, the gray bone parting.

He's in the zone while Socorro curses out the produce guy and Iggy the dishwasher cowers. Just another night at work.

"Goat-licking, ball-busting motherfucker of a diseased monkey, you're going to *kill* me, Tony, you know that?" Socorro can get her voice into registers Oz thought were reserved for dogs and werewolves. Smiling to himself, keeping his head down and thus out of the line of fire, he wipes down his counter and grabs the next duck.

They're a small operation, and when things are in the groove, everything works beautifully: Oz preps, Socorro cooks, and Iggy keeps everything clean and moving.

She'll expend her anger on the deliveryman, flounce back to her station -- three times as big as Oz's, backed by five gas burners -- and the groove will shift back into gear. Oz knows that. So he whacks and whacks, pulling the meat apart, dumping the bones into a huge saucepan to cook down for gravy, and this is almost better than meditation.

Whack, crack, sizzle, and his mind drops out of the moment, punctured only occasionally by Socorro's curses and grumbles.

He thinks best when he's busy like this. Maybe this is what it's like inside Xander's memory, no change, just eternally-cycling thoughts, breaking and reforming fractally. Little kernels of ideas spin out into their logical antecedents and descendants. So he's thinking about Xander's mind, his memory, how Oz himself seems to be a superhero written by Kerouac, and that gets him thinking about memory, about Xander and what Xander's *doing* here.

More importantly, though, he can't get away from the fact that Xander is here. Here, and Oz has the time now, as he disinfects his cutting board and trades it for a clean one to dice up onions on, to think about that. When he's next to Xander, it's like he's almost too close to think clearly, like he's caught up in some temporal tide and carried along, and everything keeps switching and changing places. But now, eyes stinging from the onions and ears rumbling from Socorro's disgruntled soliloquy over the stockpot, there's just enough distance for him to ponder.

Xander's here, hints of his old self -- of the guy Oz remembers -- trapped underneath all these new layers. Two years' worth of experience, two years he'll hardly talk about it except in terms of who left and why, two years that cover and clog him. But he's under there, Oz has seen it, tasted it in his kiss last night, in the dead weight of his arm in bed, in the twisty teasing tones he used about the movie and the map.

Xander's here and Oz doesn't want him to go.

They're finished with the seven o'clock seating -- thirty-eight servings and half as many desserts -- when Oz figures out what's going on. He drops the fork he's using to stir the duck gravy and scorches his fingers fishing it out.

Xander, and Oz wants to dig him up. Like archaeology, free him from amber and shale, bringing him back to life. Or, and he's embarrassed to go with the metaphor, but it really works for him, it's like cuisine. Xander's cracked apart, half-butchered, but Oz can take those pieces and care for them and create something better.

Now he just has to get through the nine o'clock seating before he can do anything about it.

*

Xander's sitting at the little bar off the kitchen when Oz finally finishes. He's hunched over, laughing with Tina the bartender. Neither of them notices Oz leaning against the wall, head tipped to the side. Tina's drying off a load of pint glasses and Xander's telling her a story about the boy who tried to ruin prom.

Tucker Wells is always good for an anecdote, but Oz is more interested in how relaxed Xander looks, all shaggy hair and wide grin, like he doesn't have a care in the world.

He puts on a good show, almost as good as Oz himself.

Oz watches for as long as he can, enjoying it all, the way Xander smiles and gestures, Tina's reactions as she cleans up for closing. When their conversation pauses, as Xander finishes his beer and Tina squats down to stow away a tray of glasses, Oz takes a breath and moves in.

"Don't serve this guy," Oz says, handing Xander's empty glass to Tina. "He's a mean drunk."

Xander snorts. "Am not."

"Are too," Oz says, turning and smiling. "You start brawls and call me names."

"Oz, man, how *late* do you work?" Xander stands up, reaching over awkwardly to clap Oz on the shoulder. His grin is huge and easy, his eyes almost invisible.

"Til about now. Or five minutes ago." Oz helps himself to his customary post-shift club soda and grenadine, and drops in two extra cherries because Tina's not looking. "Made it over all right?"

"Halfway," Xander says when Tina laughs. Oz looks back and forth between them, trying to figure out the unspoken joke. "Gave up when I could see the signs for Tijuana and border patrol started looking at me funny."

Draining his glass and refilling it, Oz sucks on half a cherry. Epiphanies kind of suck, he thinks, because they're cool as is, but impossible to do *anything* with. He can't finish off his drink, take Xander by the arm, and go, 'hey, I want you to stay'. That'd just be -- weird. And strange and impossible. And other words that are synonyms for weird.

He *could*, but Xander would scowl and probably start another fight.

He doesn't even quite know *why* he wants Xander to stay, but then it's not like he needs a reason. It's like wanting to kiss him -- and Oz could go for that, too -- it's just a fact.

"You make 'em change the name of this place?" Xander asks.

La Luna Dolor: Oz figured it was just serendipity that he found the ad for a dishwasher at a place named after the moon. Now he's not so sure. "Something like that, yeah. Fate?"

Xander starts to shake his head but Tina's straightening up, taking the container of cherries out of Oz's hand. He's been eating them, one by one, without even realizing it. "You two got plans tonight?"

Oz glances at Xander. It's been a really long time since they talked *in front* of someone else; he'd completely forgotten how much fun it is. "Do we have plans, Mr. Harris?"

Xander leans back, twisting the bar stool back and forth as he grips the edge of the bar. "I do not know, Mr. Osbourne. Do we?"

Tina locks up the liquor cabinet and says over her shoulder, "Socorro's girlfriend's band's doing something over on Eighth. You could check it out. Loud, lots of dancing. Might be fun."

She's amused, he can tell, that he brought someone to work. She keeps looking at him, then at Xander, and smiling to herself. When she nudges Oz with her hip, he gets the hint and slides around the end of the bar to join Xander.

The restaurant's almost all dark, the sound of the vacuum and the crystal tinkling the only sounds of life.

He loves this time, when everyone's stretching and tired and looking to leave, but still hanging out. It's inertial, and comfortable, and if he just had another cherry to suck on while he thinks, he'd be set. If he could slide his arm around Xander's waist, that'd be even better.

Nothing's *stopping* him on the Xander-front, actually, so Oz goes ahead and does it. Xander sucks in a breath, slowly, like he's not sure what just happened, his chest expanding like a medieval instrument, but he doesn't move away. He tilts slightly to the side, making room for Oz, and then back, shoulder bumping Oz's.

Nice. Oz taps the back of Xander's hand and looks at him sideways. "You want to go dancing?"

Trying not to smile, keeping his voice low and conversational, Xander says, "You asking?"

"Thought I just did."

"Yeah, I guess you did." He doesn't say anything else, but Oz feels himself waiting, like there's more to come. Xander squints a little at him, then nods slowly. "Sure. Yeah."

After giving them the directions, Tina shoos them out. and when they hit the sidewalk, it's raining. Gently, but insistently, and Oz sticks close by Xander. Not that Xander seems to mind -- he's got his arm raised, holding up his jacket, and they're hurrying down the street, elbows bumping and hips knocking.

The party's on a top floor of a little storefront building and it's packed by the time they get there, shaking off the rain and shivering. Xander's cheeks are flushed and he looks a little freaked by all the people who say hi to Oz. But he's doing okay, bobbing his head and shaking hands when Oz introduces him, and then they've each got a bottle of Rolling Rock and the music's really kicking up. Socorro's girlfriend -- Oz can never remember her name, even though he's worked there for over six months -- is a drummer in a band that wants to out-indie Le Tigre. From the look of things, slide show and matching electric-blue jumpsuits and off-key manifesto pop songs, they're well on their way.

One beer gone and they've partaken of a water bong making the rounds, and Xander leans in and says, right against Oz's ear, "I don't really dance."

"Yeah," Oz shouts back. "Me, neither."

He's finally warming up, loosening inside like a rope getting tugged on one end, and Oz keeps leaning against Xander. Xander taps his beer against his thigh in time with the music, watching the stage and the crowd, the lights painting the surfaces of his eyes.

"You good?" Oz shouts when the band takes a break and the sound system kicks in, bass trembling too loudly. Socorro passes by and slaps his back, knocking him into Xander.

"Whoa," Xander says, steadying Oz by the shoulder, looking at Socorro questioningly. She shrugs, giving him her best 'outta my face' glare, and keeps going. Grimacing, Xander looks back. "Your boss's scary. But, yeah, I guess so. I'm okay."

"Just let me know --" Oz's throat is starting to hurt, from shouting, from sucking down the spliff that Tina just passed him. He offers it to Xander, who squints at it blearily. "Here --"

Oz takes another big toke, then hooks his arm around Xander's neck and pulls him down. Xander goes with it, bending over and in, and when Oz tilts his face up and tugs back on Xander's hair, Xander's eyes close like he's been waiting for this. His mouth opens and Oz kisses him, blowing the smoke in, feeling Xander wait a beat, then inhale and kiss him back. All of it, weed and kissing and *Xander*, slices right through Oz, all the way to his feet, before rebounding back up.

Xander says something as he pulls back, coughs a little, then leans back in. The joint's burned almost away, but Oz takes a last, scorching suck and repeats the shotgun. Except he doesn't let Xander pull away; he drops the roach and grinds it out, then grabs Xander's waist and holds him in place, kissing him until the smoke comes out Xander's nose and covers their faces. Xander's tongue skates over Oz's lips, then inside, and Oz pitches upward and forward, into the kiss, his hands flexing and grasping until they stumble and start to fall.

Xander's eyes are hooded and he's coughing as they straighten up. "*Man* --"

"Sorry?" Oz asks, rubbing his hand up and down Xander's side. "Got carried away."

"No, it's okay, very okay, it's just --" Xander shakes his head, bites his lip, then shakes his head again. His arm drops heavily around Oz's shoulders. "Whoa."

"You want to get going?" Oz asks, but Xander's stiffening slightly. Straightening up and looking into the cloud. "Xander?"

"Gimme a sec --" Xander points at someone in the crowd, a gothy baby-dyke with a good dye job and bad skin under the pancake make-up. "Is she a --?"

"No. No way."

There are no vampires in San Diego.

This is a law that Oz lives by, and he keeps it a law by not going looking for them. For all he knows, the city is half vamp and there's a rampaging werewolf pack war going on, but he doesn't know, because he doesn't want to know.

"Paler than Maybelline," Xander says impatiently. "I don't know."

Xander, however, isn't from here. He's from Sunnydale, where paranoia is a way of life, and for good reason. Oz figures he can enforce his own law and piss Xander off, or take a closer look and reassure him. It's not a choice at all. Oz holds onto Xander's shoulder and goes up on his toes.

"Could be," Oz says. "Hard to tell --"

She's coming toward them. Not exactly *at* them, but close enough, leading a tall Asian girl by the hand. It's too crowded, and he's a little too buzzed, to get a good scent from here. Oz squeezes Xander's neck before twisting away and following them.

They're headed for the back stairs, and then he loses them in the crowd around the band's singer. Xander's right behind him, hand on his shoulder, and in the middle of remembering how to be paranoid, Oz has to grin. No one else's nostalgia takes the form of confronting death together, but that's the hellmouth for you.

"Over there --" Xander says in his ear and Oz looks to the left. The Asian girl's climbing through an open window, having trouble with her stilettos and teeny-tiny skirt.

"Fire escape," Oz says and pushes through the crowd. They could just be two girls hooking up, going up on the roof for some fresh air and privacy, but Xander's face is set, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed, so Oz keeps going. At the window sill, he leans out and sniffs the air. Patchouli, definitely, and aroused girl, and -- "Yeah," he says over his shoulder. "Definitely vamp."

They don't smell like anything else. It's dirt, and rotten meat, and *worms*. Squashed worms, drowned in sudden rainstorms, flattened and drying in the sun afterward. Thousands of them.

He tries to swallow the bilious spit filling his mouth, but it doesn't help. Pulling himself out the window, Oz pauses and hocks, spitting over the railroad. He never wanted to smell another vamp again.

He pulls himself up onto the ladder. It's not raining any more, but the metal is slick and he has to concentrate to keep from slipping. Xander scrambles after him, and once Oz is sure he's following, he climbs up onto the roof.

"Fresh air," he says too loudly as he swings his leg over onto the roof and hits the wet gravel. The roof's empty except for some forlorn tiki lamps and a big curved heating vent. He can hear girls giggling behind that. "All to ourselves."

"Excellent," Xander says, also loudly, stagily, heaving himself over and falling against Oz. "Never thought we'd be alone."

Grinning, Oz kisses him again and says against his ear, "They're behind that vent."

Shivering a little, Xander wriggles and presses a stake into Oz's hand. It's warm from Xander's skin and a little damp from rain and sweat; he must have been carrying it in his belt. "Any ideas?"

"Follow me," Oz says and turns for the vent.

Behind the vent, the Asian girl's on her back, eyes closed and mouth open, with the little vamp squirming on top of her, one hand up her shirt, the other on her hip. They're drunk off their asses, still giggling, and when Oz rounds the corner of the vent, gravel crunching, it takes them a while to look up.

"Oh, man, sorry," Oz says, backing up one step. "Didn't know --"

Xander lunges around from the other side, tackling the vampire, getting her around the waist and pulling her off. She goes nuts, arching her back and shrieking like a cat. Oz struggles to pull her girlfriend back, but she starts yelling, too, grabbing for her hand, cursing Xander.

Oz pushes her back against the vent. Hand on her neck, he checks for damage. Right up against his face, she's all planes, wet eyes and open mouth. "Do you know her?"

Shaking her head, crying, the girl says, "No, just met her, what the *fuck* are --"

Her neck's clean and he shoves her away. The little vamp's scratching at Xander's arms and calling them names even Socorro hasn't thought of, arms flailing. Oz crouches, then jumps up, pinning one arm over her chest.

"Dog," she hisses, twisting again, vamp-face rippling over her features. She sinks her fangs into Oz's hand. Sharp, fiery pain shoots up his arm and he stumbles as he brings the stake up in his other hand, trying to aim for the heart as she wriggles and spits out his blood. Behind her, twisting with her, Xander looks as distant and pale as a ghost. "You taste like a fucking mongrel, you fuck--"

Stake, heart, dust, and the forward momentum crashes him against Xander, and Xander falls back, arms going around Oz's waist, the stake clattering across the gravel.

Dust clogs his nose and mouth and Oz coughs, retches, clutching at Xander.

"This is way too fucked up," the girl says, crawling away, pebbles snagging in her fishnets.

"She's right, you know," Oz says into Xander's chest, shaking with laughter. That's another thing he'd forgotten -- how much has he forgotten, anyway? -- how relief floods out in laughter, takes you over and leaves you breathless and exhilarated.

"She might have a point," Xander replies, mouth warm and hot on Oz's ear. "I mean, it's open to interpretation, of course. Like, how are we defining 'this'?"

"Very Clinton of you. And what is 'too fucked up'?"

"Not to mention 'way'. Could take that any number of ways." Xander's holding him close, sliding his hands up Oz's sides until they come to rest under his arms. "You always go to vampire parties, or did you take me out special?"

Oz pushes himself up on one arm and shakes his head. "First one I've met since I moved here."

"Bullshit," Xander says.

"No, really. I think they follow you around."

Xander squeezes his eyes shut and for a second, Oz thinks he might have fucked all of this up. But then his eyes open and he grins. "Probably. Just my luck."

Vamp-dust is smeared over Xander's cheek and forehead like a giant comma, and Oz spits on his thumb. When he tries to rub it away, the dust just gets gluier, but Xander relaxes against him, arms somehow loosening and pulling him closer at the same time. "Jesus, this stuff is nasty --"

"Hardly notice any more," Xander says, wriggling backward, taking Oz with him, until they're leaning against the vent.

The rain is long gone, but the gravel is wet underneath them, the metal against their backs slick, and they're both shivering. But the sky is bright and open to them, indigo and gold, darker to the east where the ocean starts and they don't move. After a minute or two, Oz realizes that their breathing is synching up, deep and slow, while Xander's fingers move in lazy circles over the knob of Oz's shoulder and Oz traces out the warp and weft in the knee of Xander's pants.

"Nice party," Xander says. "Lotta girls there."

Oz snorts softly. "Kind of an honorary lesbian around here."

"Could have its perks." Xander has a tiny dimple, right off the corner of his mouth, that winks when he smiles. "They let you watch?"

Oz slaps Xander's thigh. "Pig. No."

"Pity."

"Yeah, guess so. Not -- not really looking. Not at the female form, not these days." His breath stills inside his chest -- he's not *holding* it, not exactly, it just does that on its own. Goes silent and motionless, like that pause between heartbeats, as all the old fears and confusions rush and tumble through his mind. He left four messages for Xander after the first night they met, drove by his house twice, saw him at the Bronze deliberately looking away five times, and that was all before Oz ever met Willow. Without breath, there's more room for the torrent.

Softly, looking into the sky, Xander says, "Big Gay Oz in the Big City?"

Oz exhales. "Sort of, yeah."

"Huh. Breaking gay hearts and dancing to Cher? Tucking hankies into your pocket and watching The View?"

"Negative."

Xander pinches him, his smile deepening, and when he looks over at Oz, his eyes are in the shadows, impossible to make out. "It'd be hard, if you're just hanging out with girls."

"Speaking from experience?"

Xander ducks his head, his cheek resting against Oz's skull. "Might be. But it's your social life we're discussing."

"Not much to it. You've seen it all, actually. Work, a couple parties. Bar last night."

"Could be worse. Most of the girls seem cool." Xander shifts and drops his hand down the middle of Oz's chest. Big hand, dim and broad in the soft light out here, tracing out the hints of sensation as it swishes Oz's shirt back and forth. "Looked like you were running for mayor in there. You know all of them?"

"Names, sure. Names and faces."

"But?"

Oz's hand slides over the edge of Xander's knee and slips around his thigh. "Hmm?"

"Sounded like a 'but' was coming there --" Xander inhales slowly, like he's being careful, and the heat of his skin prickles up through his pants. Oz squeezes the line of muscle that twists into Xander's knee and cocks his head, looking at Xander.

"No but. Well, maybe." Oz holds still as Xander's fingers curl, tugging at his shirt, pulling it up, and the chilly air presses like a mouth against his exposed belly. "Oh. Christ."

His skin's white in the dark, almost glowing against Xander's dark hand, pulling up the shirt, nails skating back and forth over his navel, toying with the line of hair below.

"You cold?" Xander asks, breath tickling down Oz's neck, running cold tendrils into his chest.

They're both buzzed, and shivering, and Oz isn't thinking all that clearly. Maybe Xander's not, either; his hand is steady, but his breath is starting to hitch as Oz scoots backward, arching his back as he pushes his hand down into Xander's crotch and grips the swelling rise of his cock.

"Cold and not cold," Oz says. "Maybe home?"

One little grunt as Xander's head tips back, hitting the metal vent hollowly, then another when he twists toward Oz, hauling him up, hands on Oz's neck. Xander kisses him, teeth in Oz's lower lip, tongue probing and pushing. Oz shivers all over again. Hot and cold, granular floods of starlight streaming through him, and he clutches back, hand trapped between them, squeezing and releasing as he grinds against Xander's leg.

"Home," Xander says. "Yeah. Now."

It's beyond difficult to untangle and stand when they're both needy and gasping, and Oz's whole body is doing a pins-and-needles numb buzzing thing. Climbing back down the fire escape is an exercise in frustrated concentration, visions of plunging to his death interrupting his focus on the wet, rusty rungs, and then the party -- still going strong, probably *more* crowded now -- smacks him full-body like a Hawaiian wave, makes him stumble. Dark, hot, close and loud, and it takes half an eon to find Xander's jacket and then push and jostle their way down to the stairs, Oz's hands on Xander's shoulders like a game of Blind Man, back outside.

"Race you?" Oz says, bumping into Xander.

"Since I don't know where I'm -- *Shit*."

Oz takes off, the sound of Xander's boots heavy behind him.

They run for home, like Oz hasn't run since going on patrol back in Sunnydale, just flat-out, chests heaving and breath whistling. Dodging pedestrians, barreling across intersections on the yellow light, Xander yelling at him and Oz yelling back. Stupid shit, "you're going down" and "not before I take you with me", and he has no time to think. All he can do is feel, the rise and slap of the sidewalk beneath him, the stinging rain starting up again, the scent off Xander, citrus-bright, all excitement and need and joy.

Oz beats Xander with less ease than he would have expected. He may be a lot bigger than he used to be, but he can still run, and he fights better than he used to. The old Xander wouldn't have been able, Oz realizes, fumbling for his keys and sucking in breath like Andy Garcia in Dead Again, to hold that vampire like he did.

"Dying," Xander gasps into Oz's ear, pressing up against him, hands roving fast over Oz's chest, as they push open the door and fall inside. "Dying, dying. Gonna die --"

Oz flings his keys down and twists, pulling Xander farther inside, hands on his waist, bunching up his shirt, stepping blindly backward to where he thinks his room is. Through the beads, clacking and rattling, catching their faces and elbows, to the bed.

"Not dying," he says, pushing Xander down onto the bed, dropping on top. "Promise."

Xander's cheeks are red and he's still breathing hard, almost wheezing. Sweat glitters across his hair line and down his throat. "Dying."

"Any last requests?" Under Oz's hands, Xander's skin is damp and hot where the jacket covered, cold and clammy where it didn't, and Xander's nodding, eyes gone wide and startled, as he wiggles up the bed, opening his legs, dragging Oz with him.

Oz kisses the sweat at Xander's temple, swipes his mouth down the curve of his jaw, buries his face in the crook of Xander's shoulder and tastes everything, cold air and sharp rain and trembling sweat. Xander's hand closes on the back of his neck and clenches tight.

"Jesus, *Oz* --"

Breath whistling through him, Oz raises his head. "That a request? I can do the Buddha, but Jesus, he's not --"

Yanking on Oz's hair, sharp needling pain spiking across his scalp, Xander shakes his head and mumbles. "Bastard. I --"

His lips sting with the taste of Xander, and his hands are numb and thick with the need to touch and *feel*. It's hard to talk, all the vowels gone syrupy, the consonants gritty, but Oz kisses him quickly, a little punching kiss, then pulls back as he pushes Xander's shirt up to his armpits.

There's no old Xander. No hidden truth buried under fat and history, no nostalgia that he needs to chip away and discover. This is just Xander, always Xander, lying there, looking up at him blearily, mouth swollen and chest rising and falling. His nipples peak under Oz's pinching thumbs and he makes a long, throaty noise when Oz thrusts into his crotch. It's just Xander, here and now, and it was always like that.

Oz hangs there, looking, *realizing*. Wet brown eyes, glistening in the dark, and big hands that settle on Oz's waist and grasp him firmly, drag him in to meet Xander's upward thrust. Looking and realizing: Just Xander, hoarse voice saying something, dark hair curving off his face like someone testing a pen, skin sliding and snagging against Oz's own.

"Don't stop," Xander's saying as Oz finally tunes back in. Xander's eyes are half-closed and Oz wonders what he sees. His lips are parted, and wet, catching the light.

"You sure?" Oz asks and Xander almost *shudders*, pulling at Oz's beltloops, shaking his head. "Not stopping. Promise."

Oz sits back on his knees, one hand braced on Xander's belly, the other working open his own pants. He can't stop looking, tracking and memorizing all the details, everything. Xander's lashes, the soft whistle of his breath, the blush breaking out over his chest. His nipples, tiny and dark, and the hair on his arms.

Xander's mouth opens when Oz finally gets his fly open, and he sits up, dragging the pants down Oz's thighs, shivering hard when Oz goes for Xander's fly. Arms around Oz's back, holding him close, mouth closing on Oz's shoulder and sucking the shirt wet as Oz unzips and reaches into the hot cavern of fabric. He yowls when Oz's knuckles brush his cock and pummels Oz's back with one fist as he reaches inside Oz's pants with the other.

His palm is wide and rough, and Oz pitches forward at the first touch. Their noses bump and foreheads crack, pain barking up in bright shards, but at the center of it, as he finds Xander's mouth with his own, there's warmth, the heavy pressure of Xander's tongue and grip of his hand and fever-heated silk of his dick, plumping and hardening in Oz's fingers.

Oz can already feel the tension of coming starting up, deep in the center of his spine and out toward the far edges of his skin. His cheeks burn and he sucks hungrily on Xander's tongue, pushing him back and humping his fist even as he pulls slow and sure on Xander's cock. He's going to come, fast and hard, the silver heat already knotting up in his balls, and maybe Xander can tell, because he's twisting Oz's cock, changing the rhythm, kissing him back and shaking.

Oz rips himself away, Xander's arms reaching empty up to the ceiling, and pulls Xander's pants the rest of the way down. His cock stands up against his stomach, dark purple shaft, thatch of black hair, expanse of rosy, tan skin. Oz's mouth remembers it all, taste and texture and weight, but as he parts Xander's legs and holds them open, leans in and swirls his tongue over the head of his cock, it's better than he could have possibly remembered. Better, because it's here, and throbbing against his lips, and Xander's balls are heavy in the palm of his hand, and the skin is so tender, fine as anything over yielding stone.

Xander's nails scrape up through Oz's hair and his breath is coming shallow and urgent as Oz pushes his mouth down, taking half of Xander's cock, fisting the base, knuckles bashing his lips.

"Oh, fuck, fuck. *Oz*, fuck --" Down here, buried between Xander's legs, spit swirling around the chlorine and loam taste, Oz can hear Xander's voice in its obscene singsong, feel Xander's hips lifting and falling, carrying Oz with them. Pausing, Oz sucks two of his fingers good and wet, jerking Xander with the other hand as he looks up.

"Want to --" *Fuck you*, and just the thought, the words alone, strain at his cock, make him thrust against the bed. He can't get the words out, not with Xander all splayed out here, shirt twisted and rucked up, mouth open and cock shining.

"Yeah. *Fuck*, yeah, just --"

Two fingers curving into the crack of Xander's ass, and Oz's mouth goes dry and sour, waiting for Xander's reaction. His tongue is thick, yearning to taste again, and then Xander's eyes fly open, his back arching as Oz's fingers brush over the hot, soft-wrinkled skin around his hole. Oz takes Xander in his mouth again, locking his lips and forgetting to breathe. Xander's cock bumps the back of his palate, sends tears to Oz's eyes, mixing with the sweat already stinging, but he can *feel* Xander's legs opening wider, the softest skin around his hole stretching. When he works one finger inside to the second knuckle, he almost passes out at the heat and tightness, untouched and perfect.

Xander fucks his mouth, both hands tangled in Oz's hair, while his hole closes and pulses around Oz's finger, slick and hot and tighter than anything.

Oz crooks his finger, reaching and searching, swallowing all the spit filling his mouth as Xander's cock pushes deeper and deeper, and then he must hit it, because Xander jerks to the side, then the other, dragging Oz, knee hitting his cheek, shrieking.

Xander's pubic hair rasps at Oz's cheeks, his lips ache from the stretching, and he keeps swallowing and murmuring, stroking Xander deep inside, tasting and feeling, and when Xander starts to come, it's not a break, then a rush, not like usual. It's just more, and then more again, his ass clenching around Oz's finger and lifting off the bed, his cock pulsing and the muscles in his legs freezing before one final thrust and then he collapses. His come spurts and fills Oz's mouth, almost choking him, the taste overpowering, making Oz's stomach twist with need. Xander releases Oz's head, arms dropping like lead weights to the mattress, cock shuddering between Oz's lips and ass throbbing around his finger.

He paws at Oz's shoulder, mumbles something, clears his throat and mumbles again. Oz pulls out slowly and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He's twitching, too, just like Xander, as he crawls up the bed.

Oz combs back Xander's hair and smiles, his mouth smarting. He keeps twisting his tongue against his teeth, but his mouth's empty, still yearning, sore and sour.

"Buh," Xander says throatily. "Buh?"

"Yeah," Oz whispers. "Mucho buh."

Sleepily, Xander smiles and rolls over, pushing his face against Oz's leg. "A world of buh."

"All you need is buh." His hand's shaking, his dick twitching, as he runs his thumb over the curve of Xander's eye socket. Bending over, mouth on the back of Xander's neck, Oz closes his eyes and lets his heartbeat slow down its racket. Xander's hand sneaks up his leg, tickling and teasing, and Oz is so swamped in sensation that he almost bites down when Xander touches his cock. "*Christ*, Xander --"

"Lie back," Xander says, raising his head, and he sounds authoritative. "Oz. Hold still." Authoritative, cop or teacher. Like a grown-up, almost, and then Oz has to laugh, because -- technically, anyway -- they're both grown-ups now.

"You want me," Xander continues, and there's no authority now, and Oz stops laughing, because Xander sounds doubtful. Or wondering. He's got Oz's cock in a loose fist, like he's miming how to jerk off, and Oz pushes his hips up.

"Course I do," Oz says between gritted teeth. "Want to taste, want to -- to fuck you, and --"

Xander's lashes are like a smear, out of focus and soft, over sharp, gleaming eyes. Contrast, juxtaposition, all these *opposites*, like the gentle hold on something so fierce and demanding, hand and cock, and it's all Oz can do not to writhe.

"Yeah?" Xander asks, tightening his hold fractionally, running his other hand up and down Oz's chest. Light touches, hot and good, not nearly enough. "How much?"

Oz swallows hard, then presses his tongue up against his palate, tasting Xander again. His legs and back are rigid with the need to thrust. "A lot?"

"A lot."

"Fuck of a lot." His fingers are going numb, curling in the sheets, digging at the mattress. "Xander --"

"Big Gay Oz," Xander says, almost to himself, his face turned away. He presses his palm over one of Oz's nipples and jerks him faster, twisting his grip at the top. This isn't like any game Oz has ever played in bed. No roles, nothing parodied out of desperation, just Xander and him. But it still feels -- formal. A ritual Oz has never heard of but finds himself in the middle of, flushed and breathless, the need to come roiling at the base of his spine and deep through his cock. Xander slows his hand, drawing it up Oz's shaft in time with his words. "Very big, very gay."

"Xander --"

Xander's head jerks back, like he's surprised, and for a moment, his eyes are sharp and distant. Then he smiles and dips his head down, blows warm, tantalizing air over Oz's cock. "Like that?"

"Want you," Oz says, words dragging out over tight, sore throat, cock jumping. "Want you, please. *Xander*, I do --"

Xander's tongue is wide, warm, teasing in short little licks that make Oz clench his teeth and writhe toward them. But when he moves, Xander stops and looks up again, brows tight and lowered over his eyes. "Want me."

It isn't a question, but it's different from a statement; Xander is hoarse and intent, but doubtful. His shoulders are drawn up around his neck, his eyes glittering, and his mouth -- Jesus, his *mouth* -- dark and narrow. Oz struggles up until he's resting on his elbows, chin poking into his chest, and returns Xander's gaze. "Yeah. I do. So much."

Xander's breath is so close, it almost rasps over Oz's dick, which is swaying a little, yearning, and then Xander's eyes drift closed, his mouth opens, and Oz arches up before falling back. Warm -- tight -- wet and *right*, Xander's tongue around his cock, and he can't last long. Doesn't want to last long, just thrusts up and up and feels Xander's hands on his chest, his hip, rubbing and skating. Oz's every pore is rushing forward, bending and pulling, toward Xander's mouth, yanking him into an arrow until all he feels is the slick heat and throbbing tension. Until all he is pours up and forward, careening through muzzy dark toward the sharp, wet light of *everything*. He yanks on Xander's ear, his hair, trying to tell him, but then it's too late and his spine and cock melt together, sizzle and spurt, and he's coming, rising up, seeing Xander's brows and furrowed forehead, feeling everything he is flash out and away.

Broken, Oz feels only fragments of himself. Twitch and prickle, gasp and shiver.

He shudders and his pulse trembles randomly through his body.

Xander presses against Oz's side, heavy palm on his chest. Oz smacks his lips, tries to turn his head. Tries again, then opens bleary eyes, blinks slowly until he can focus on Xander's face. His tongue is enormous inside his mouth.

A drop of his come, heavy-bottomed and sagging, nestles on Xander's chin.

"Hey," he finally manages to say.

Xander's just been looking at him, not moving, eyes still and dark. He jerks slightly now, but he's just reaching across Oz for the quilt. It is scouring-pad rough on Oz's skin as he breathes in and out, remembering how to feel.

"Sorry --" Oz says, reaching up to wipe the come away with his thumb. Xander turns his head when Oz starts to pull his hand back, and rubs his lips over Oz's thumb.

Raspy, tasting, and Oz shivers right down to the bottom of his balls.

"S'okay," Xander says, nipping down on Oz's knuckle, then flopping back. His leg is jittering under the quilt and his fingers are tapping out something Joplin-fast on the inside of Oz's elbow. "Man, that was --. With the -- and you, and then --"

Only word is agreement. "Yeah."

Sitting up, Xander flings off the quilt and scrubs both hands through his hair. "You hungry? Thirsty?"

"I could nosh."

While Xander rustles in the kitchen, Oz stretches, toes to pinky fingers, twisting his arms and rolling his head, inflating his chest, feeling each pore and inch of muscle buzz anew and tingle. He retrieves his -- their -- shirt from the floor and pulls it on, sitting up in bed and taking down his stash box from the shelf.

He's filled with post-sex goofiness, smiling to himself at the way every movement tickles. To prolong this mood, spin it out into something semi-permanent, he's going to roll a couple jays and enjoy himself.

The box is tin, and purple, the painting faded but legible: Li-Lac Chocolates in lacy, looping script, decorated with drooping bunches of the flower and little white pansies. Inside, he's got his rolled-up stash, papers, several packs of matches, and postcards and letters.

Xander versus the curtains, round umpteen, is a draw as Xander pushes through them, head lowered like a bull, and they catch and tangle around his arms.

"Stupid things. That your trousseau?" Xander asks, kneeling on the bed and handing Oz a plate of jelly sandwiches and Oreos.

Oz sets the plate aside and clutches the box to his chest. "My most treasured memories and possessions, yeah."

"You're out of Dr. Pepper," Xander says, lifting the beer stein of orange juice. "Which might be because I finished it off this afternoon, but don't quote me on that."

Oz holds the joint in his mouth and folds a match over and strikes it one-handed, bringing the flame up and sucking deep. He shakes out the match and hands the joint to Xander. "Not keeping a tab for you, don't worry. Want?"

Xander pinches the joint between thumb and forefinger, studying it for a second, before inhaling gingerly. He holds it in, though, and exhales smoothly before handing it back to Oz and taking a big swallow of juice. "Prefer the other method."

"Oh, yeah. Nothing like shotgunning --" Up on his knees, crawling messily forward, Oz gets his hand on Xander's shoulder, inhales sharply, and kisses him, blowing the smoke in. Weed, and chlorine-sex stink, and sweet juice all whirl through Xander's mouth as he sucks and kisses back. Wiping his mouth, shuddering a little, Oz sits back. "See?"

Xander bites off half a jelly sandwich and chews hungrily, nodding. He finishes off two sandwiches, taking one toke for every two of Oz's, and pretty soon, they're lying at cross-angles, Oz's head on Xander's chest, just resting. Chuckling and tickling, but so slowly it could be an instructional filmstrip.

Xander giggles for a while before swallowing and saying, "Hey, Oz. Got a joke for you."

"Hit me."

"What's a gay vampire say?"

"Dunno. What?"

Xander pulls at his shoulder, still chuckling, until Oz is sitting up again, facing him. Then Xander straightens his back, squares his shoulders, and tries to speak. He laughs again, holds up his hand, and shakes his head. "Okay. Get this. 'I vant to suck your cock'. Get it?"

Despite himself, Oz laughs, big bubbles of silliness rising and multiplying inside him. It's a stupid joke, but Xander's grinning, crumbs all around his mouth, and right now, Oz'd laugh at anything. "Dumbass."

"Yeah, no shit." Xander reaches for the stein and takes another sip. Setting it down, he grins and pokes Oz. "What's a gay werewolf say?"

Oz rolls his tongue behind his teeth and wishes for juice. "Hand me that juice, will you?"

Frowning, Xander cocks his head. "That's not so funny. Shit."

Oz is lost. "Huh?"

Xander knits his fingers together and stretches. "Gay werewolf. So you're supposed to know."

"Thought it was a joke."

Xander's lips purse, then stretch, and he shrugs. "It was. You lost it, though."

"Did not."

"*Yes*, yes you did. See, I ask you, and whatever you say, that's the punchline. Like Wayne and Garth. Assmunch says what? And then you say 'what', and that makes you an assmunch. That's --"

Oz is stoned, and thirsty, and flirty, and he just wants to kiss Xander. Xander's mouth is a little swollen, and the middle of his bottom lip is nice and plump, and it's all Oz can see until he remembers to blink. "Wait. I'm an assmunch?"

"No," Xander says, and he's frowning again, and Oz can't help it -- Xander looks thoroughly confused and disappointed, but it's really funny -- so he laughs again. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, fuzzball. My humor's a little too intellectual for you, I guess."

Oz slumps against Xander's side, arm over his lap, and nods as seriously as he can. "Guess so. Sorry about that."

"I'll think about forgiving you. Not that it's your fault, but it'd be big of me to give you a break." Sighing deeply, Xander leans back against the pillows, taking Oz with him, arm crossed over his chest.

Comfortable like this, all tangled up, the quilt twisted over them, cookies close at hand and weed singing through his system. Oz would close his eyes, but he's not sleepy, not exactly.

He lies here, tracing the pattern of hairs on the back of Xander's arm, marveling at the pink-paleness of his finger against Xander's tan, and just *absorbs*. Petting Xander, his skin warm and tingling, stroking the hair back, then smoothing them down.

Thoughts, like feelings and sensations and memories, are floating past him, over him, a whole sea of stuff that carries him along. He might be dozing, but his eyes are open, and Oz *feels* conscious. Just not, necessarily, engaged.

*

Maybe he does sleep. He's in the back of the ice cream truck with Xander, making a bong out of popsicle sticks and waffle cones, kissing Xander before he melts away. When Oz opens his eyes, he wonders when they closed.

Then he notices Xander. They're back in Oz's room in San Diego and Xander's watching him. Lying on his side, head propped up on his hand, looking at Oz.

"Had an epiphany," he says, looking up at Xander. "A good one."

Xander touches the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I was there. Tasted it."

Squinting, Oz tries to find the logic. "No, *epiphany*."

"Oh," Xander says and Oz knows he still doesn't know what Oz is talking about. But Xander hates feeling dumb and Oz doesn't really care about dictionary definitions. "Want to tell me about it?"

The room is dark, and it could be early morning for all Oz knows. He rolls onto his side, bringing Xander's arm up and pressing his mouth to the pulse point inside his elbow. So much rushing, thrumming *life* under thin, silken skin. He hears Xander's lips rub against each other and a breath whistle out as Xander's hand closes around the side of Oz's neck and holds him there.

"Want you to stay," Oz says as he eases back so he can see Xander.

He wishes he hadn't, because Xander's face twists up into a grimace, eyes squeezing shut and lips curling. Oz would pull all the way back, shake his head and erase what he just said, but he can't. Besides, Xander's hand is still on his neck, squeezing more tightly now.

"Jesus, Oz," Xander says, expression twisting again. He blows out a lungful of air and bangs his fist against his forehead. "Jesus. Yeah. I can't do that."

He's still stoned -- of course he is, that doesn't just go away -- but not happy-dazedly any more. More like that chilly-isolated way, skin gone frigid and brain erased, and Oz opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Nothing but a blast of cold air, and he's becoming a machine, calculating and unfeeling. "Okay."

Xander laughs at that, shoulders lifting, a rough, helpless sound wheezing out. "Yeah, it's okay. It's very okay, it's so okay that it's not okay, and then there's nothing to do but leave."

Metal for hands, circuits for a heart, and when Oz apologizes, it's as sincere as a recording. "Sorry. I meant --"

The bed creaks, Xander slides down, and Oz is just lying here when Xander yanks at his head and pulls him in, kissing him awkwardly. His mouth burns Oz's, his fingers dig into Oz's scalp, and he keeps kissing until Oz kisses back. Vines of heat burrow through Oz, waking him up, making him move up and over Xander, kiss harder, warm all the way up.

"Really am sorry," he says against the side of Xander's mouth, stubble tickling his lips and chin. "Shouldn't have said anything."

"No, see, it's --" Xander rubs at his forehead, and Oz knows that gesture. It's the one he uses to clear his mind, work the thoughts into sense and words. "Sorry. Me, too, I mean. Shouldn't have come."

"You didn't. Ran into you."

"Should've kept going."

"No," Oz says, working his thumb slowly down the unbearably tight tendon in Xander's neck. "Glad you came."

Xander's eyes flicker up and scan Oz slowly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Oz shifts, bringing his other arm up onto Xander's chest and planting his chin on his wrist. "Figured you knew that."

"Need to tell me stuff," Xander says, looking away. "Not too quick on the uptake."

That last time, back in Sunnydale, Oz thought he'd run out of chances. He and Xander had played fast and loose with each other, and it was too late to keep playing. He saw how Xander held Anya, her fair head buried in his arm, heard how he talked about her, and he knew it was too late. Too late with Willow, too late with Xander.

He doesn't believe in anything like personal karma. Not the way people usually talk about it, like there's a balance sheet out there of good deeds and selfish ones, and rewards are coming, like Santa, for the good. But as Oz watches Xander, the softness around his jaw, the pointillist shadow of his beard, the sleepy tilt to his eyes, he wonders if he believes in another chance.

Maybe life is just random and the facts -- wanting to kiss Xander, wanting him to stay -- aren't nearly as important as what you do with them.

He can tell Xander stuff. More than that, he *should* tell Xander stuff. Not because Xander's dumb, but because Oz wants to. Because, actually, he kind of needs to.

"Telling you now," he says softly. "Missed you. Glad you came. Want you to stay." He closes his eyes and waits for Xander to jerk away. Or, worse, shove *him* away. Nothing happens and Oz opens his eyes. "That's about the sum of it. Your turn."

Xander laughs, short and sharp. "My turn? What do you want to know?"

"Why'd you leave?"

Touching Oz's hair, lightly, just stroking it back, Xander doesn't say anything. Oz counts to seventy-four-Mississippi before Xander clears his throat. "Couldn't keep lying. Maybe it wasn't lying, but it sort of was. I don't know -- like, pretending I was sure. Knew what I was doing, with Anya, with the wedding. Everything, I guess. That's kind of lying, isn't it?"

So there was a wedding. Oz nods. "Think that counts, yeah."

"And then there was the tuxedo. That kind of sealed it."

"Didn't like it?" Oz asks, trying to sound light, trying to let Xander say whatever it is that's choking him and twisting him around.

"No, it was okay. Basic black, cummerbund, looked good."

"Sounds good."

"Just -- okay." Xander frowns, hand stilling in Oz's hair. "Okay, formalwear. Will said something about it. You and me and formalwear, she said, something like that."

Oz holds still, letting Xander's hesitant, oddly jumbled phrases settle over him like snow. Eventually, he figures, they'll make sense. "Formalwear?"

"Homecoming. She said that, and all of a sudden -- it made sense. First time in -- God. *Months* that something did. Make sense."

Homecoming, and Willow's long blue dress, and Xander hunching in his tux, and Oz didn't know for another couple months what was going on, why they looked so miserable yet bright-eyed. He's listening, palm rocking slowly over the curve of Xander's shoulder, and Oz wonders, briefly, if he even wants to know where this is going.

"The whole vision thing, that was just the cyanide-soaked cherry on top," Xander continues. "Already understood. Formalwear, and me and you and Willow."

Now Oz does have to ask. "Vision?"

"Blue globe thingamajig. Showed me the future with Anya. Or fear of the future, I guess. Not sure."

"Ugly?"

"Ugly," Xander says. Squinting at something across the room, he looks like he's peering into another crystal ball. "Really ugly, with extra tentacles and slime kind of ugly. Understood then, all of it. Fear, and how I'm just like you."

Oz is quiet, shivering a little, but not doing anything about it. "Nothing like me."

Xander looks away, over to the side of the bed, and doesn't look back. "All made sense -- how I had to leave. How to be a coward, how I'm --"

"Xander." Oz sits up, and he doesn't know where this energy came from, this blue heat that's stiffening him all over, making him wrestle Xander until he's got his hands on Xander's shoulders and he's saying, "Xander. Look at me."

"Yeah?"

"What are you talking about?"

The rims around Xander's eyes are flamingo pink and angry red, his voice dry as ashes. "I had to leave, or else."

"Or else what?"

Xander lifts one shoulder, smiling crookedly, then lets it drop. "Don't know. Like, death. Pain. That kind of else. Like you told Will -- like you said. She said, she said -- you said you had to leave."

"I did." Because he was a wolf and she didn't love him any more. Oz starts to explain, but Xander stops him.

"Just like that." Xander's smile is broad and almost ghastly. Oz would let him go, but Xander's eyes are wet, sad, and he's starting to sag against Oz. "So, yeah. Like that."

His hand on Xander's neck, Oz pulls him over until Xander's head is on his shoulder and Oz is leaning over him, rubbing his back. Neither of them is *crying*, or really doing much of anything, but it's cold and shivery in here and fear's breaking out over Oz like a rash.

"Nothing like me," he says again, but Xander just rolls his face into Oz's neck and doesn't say anything.

The worst thing, Oz thinks as he eases them back onto the bed, holding Xander against his chest and petting his hair, is that Xander's at least half right.

Oz was a coward -- he couldn't be around Willow, he didn't want to stick around when all his chances had run out. He kept moving; he *left*, like everyone does.

Buffy's never going to get away from the hellmouth, nor Willow, but the rest of them, everyone incidental and loved, rather than necessary, they all leave. Angel, Oz, Riley, Giles and now Xander.

Xander mumbles and pulls himself flush against Oz when Oz spreads the quilt over them.

"You're brave," Oz whispers. "Nothing like me. Not a monster."

Xander sighs raggedly but doesn't say anything.

The buzz drains away, taking with it fear and the last sharp curls of metal shavings. In its wake, right up the center of Oz, it leaves a silence that creeps and clings like fog curling off the sea on an early December morning.

In this quiet, he should think, or talk to Xander. Nothing, however, fills Oz, neither thoughts nor words. There's only the silence here, and, on the outside, Xander nudging and pressing. There are traces of rain, sweat, and vamp-dust in the part of Xander's hair, hints of Oz himself, shades of sense-memory and regular memory.

History lies inside and out, in his nerve-endings and on the tip of his tongue.

He's made out with Xander, laughed with him and patrolled with him. Sat across from him in the library, next to him during any number of gaming and video marathons.

Mumbling in his sleep, Xander butts his head against Oz's ribcage.

Proximity and friendship are what he needs, what he wants. Touching the warm hollow of skin behind Xander's ear, Oz realizes that things don't have to be different. He doesn't need the drama and everything else that relationships entrail, that they drag behind them, crying and snarling.

He needs this.

When he left Sunnydale, crunching through the fallen branches in the Harrises' yard, he left Xander.

Oz left because he was a wolf and she didn't love him any more. That's the party line, but he left out Xander.

'Coward' doesn't begin to cover what he was. Like anything else, though, the name is ephemeral. It doesn't have to stay true.

*

The next day is his day off, which is good, Xander-wise, but not so great in terms of chores. Laundry, dishes, and he should probably think about grocery shopping, too.

Oz moves slowly, taking everything, gestures and thoughts alike, as they come, in their own time. While the mellow is good, he wonders if it isn't also due to being sleep-deprived and hungover; he's so fuzzy, he can't really tell.

He's getting his laundry together while Xander finishes in the shower. Slowly, adding a sock at a time to his bag, a shirt, then scanning the room for pants he knows need to be washed but which he hasn't seen in weeks.

Xander clatters through the curtains, one string of beads wrapping around his upper arm this time. "Okay, I have to ask. What's with the door?"

"Or lack thereof?"

"Yeah." Carefully, biting his lip, Xander untangles himself and steps slowly into the room. "Those things are *deadly*."

"Took it off when I moved in," Oz says. "Don't know why. Just did."

"You want to know what I think?" Xander asks, then shrugs and continues as Oz says 'of course'. "Right, anyway. I think it's -- it's like you don't want to be cooped up."

Xander's got so many ideas about Oz and what Oz should be doing that Oz is losing count. "Like the open road, but it's the open door?"

"Sorta?" Xander sounds a little doubtful. He drops his shaving kit on the foot of the bed amid the snarl of Oz's whites, then sits down heavily next to it.

"Got the curtains, though," Oz points out. He really doesn't know *why* he took the door off. At the time, he thought it was because he didn't have a table and couldn't afford to buy one, so he made do. Now he's not so sure.

"Sure. Everyone needs a little privacy." Xander pauses from scrubbing the towel over his hair and jabs his finger semi-accusingly at Oz. "But you can't lock curtains."

"True."

Leaning forward, starting to smile, Xander looks excited and proud all at once. "What I think is, it's more like -- no more cages. No more cages, no more locks."

Thinking that over, Oz looks at the doorway, then at Xander, and back again. It makes a lot of sense, but he's never exactly thought of himself as a sensible person. "Did spend a lot of time locked up, that's true."

"Second only to Faith." Xander leans over to grab a pair of socks. "Can I --?"

"They're dirty. But help yourself."

Oz washes three loads, puts them in the dryers, then hurries to the corner store for the groceries he needs. Nothing fancy, and nothing like his usual Sunday-afternoon trip, but he's still waking up, still muzzy-headed and slightly out of it.

He doesn't want to waste time away from Xander.

At the same time, he doesn't want to make a big deal out of sticking around. Not after last night, because even though things seem okay between them, he wishes like hell he hadn't said anything about Xander staying.

It's not just that he had no right to say that, not after he left two years ago without a goodbye or a word at all. It's not just that he doesn't want Xander to panic and shudder apart again.

It's all that, he thinks as he shoulders his grocery-laden knapsack and sets out for the building, and more. It's something about his aversion to drama, to all the *stuff* that's associated with relationships. So many hangers-on when it comes to relationships -- jealousy and bitterness, definitely, but also that sort of smothering warmth that's like a blanket you think you need.

Abstractly, he can organize all that stuff, evaluate it and decide it's not for him. None of that explains, however, why he picked up a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper and the teriyaki rice chips that Xander likes. Or why he's tossing the laundry into the bag without folding it, just so he can get upstairs faster.

Xander's tied back the curtains with the belt off Oz's robe, so when Oz comes in, he can see right across the apartment into his room. To the bed where Xander's lying on his side, chin in hand, paging through comic books. Raising his head and rubbing his cheek, shaking out his hand, sitting up and --.

Christ. Tousled and comfortable, loose as an old rubber band, Xander looks like he belongs. Like he's just a part of the room.

"Hey," Oz says, lugging the laundry bag into the room and ducking down, kissing the crown of Xander's skull. He hopes that's okay; it better be, because it's not like he could have stopped himself. He glances at the comic book. "Oh, _Hate_, huh? Good stuff."

"I scream, you scream, we all scream for heroin," Xander says, hugging Oz's waist briefly. "Weird, though. Comics without color."

"Takes some getting used to, but it's cool. Purer, kind of."

"Or cheaper, at least. Cuts down on the staff."

Untying the laundry bag, plunging his hands into the clean heat of the laundry, Oz glances up and grins. "I'm not a fucking tracer."

Laughing, Xander reaches for Oz's knapsack. It's like he has radar for food, some ultra-high-frequency Spidey snack sense. With a little appreciative hoot, he finds the rice chips and rips open the package. He resettles on the bed, legs folded, chips on the side table and arm crooked over the book so no crumbs fall.

As he sorts and folds the laundry, Oz remembers what he was going to tell Xander about the party. Up on the roof, he said something about faces and names, and there was something else, something more he was going to say, but they got distracted.

Now, though, Xander coughs and, looking at him, Oz remembers.

Xander laughs really loudly just as Oz opens his mouth. "Yeah?"

Xander drops the book and grins. "You're doing laundry. You've got a job, laundry, apartment. And I'm the guy who fights vampires and sometimes lives with one. Who almost married a vengeance demon."

"Former," Oz says. It's got to be something of a good sign that Xander mentioned Anya. They haven't exactly been tiptoeing around each other since they woke up, but Oz has been half-holding his breath, just in case.

"Former, yeah. Not the point."

"Pretty important distinction, I thought," Oz says, flapping out his Exene Cervenka baseball jersey and folding it up. When he gets in the laundry groove, he could outfold any longtime Gap employee.

"*Anyway* --" Xander points across the bed at Oz and grins more widely. "Get this -- you're a *werewolf*, but I'm the freak. Just realized that."

"That is pretty funny," Oz says, pulling off the shirt he slept in and crawling across the bed, upsetting three piles. He narrows his eyes and says lightly, "Big freak."

"Yeah," Xander says, pretty cheerfully. "That's me --"

He trails off, tilting his head slightly, looking Oz over.

The sun's coming through the window, right in Oz's eyes, but when he starts to move, Xander holds up his hand. Oz stops.

*Something* is happening, a minute shift of Xander's expression, his brows lifting and lips parting, as he looks at Oz.

Xander touches Oz's face, his unshaven cheek, then his bare shoulder. Almost under his breath, so softly Oz has to strain to hear, he says, "Sexy. Wow."

Oz keeps his voice low, too. "What is?"

"You," Xander says and clears his throat. "Sexy. Wow. Never thought of you like that before."

"Never?" Trying to smirk, but probably failing, Oz shifts slightly back out of the light. Touching Xander's knee lightly, he leaves his hand there. "Could've fooled me last night."

Xander gives him a tight, small smile and shrugs. "No, I mean -- I *felt* it, sure -- Not like that, I mean inside -- I mean -- Jesus." He rubs his eyes and sighs heavily. "Felt it *emotionally*, but never exactly thought it."

"Head and heart thing?" Oz asks.

"Yeah. Or, I guess, head, heart and dick thing."

Xander shivers when Oz touches his chest and leans in. "That works, too."

"Good," Xander says, easing back, sweeping his arm out to clear room on the bed. "Good."

"Kind of what I was about to say," Oz says, lowering himself on top of Xander, finding just the right position where he's held and supported and not crushing anything. "Before, I mean. About the freak thing."

Xander doodles his thumb over Oz's stubble, looping it up to the top of his ear and sending tingles down the back of Oz's legs. "Yeah?"

"Remember, at the party? You asked if I knew them all, and I said faces, sure, faces and names?" Wriggling upward a couple inches, Oz kisses the knob of Xander's collarbone, exposed by this twisted-up shirt. Warm, clean skin like morning, like fresh clouds and light breezes.

"Sure," Xander says, index finger stroking over Oz's scalp, forehead to nape and back again. "Oh. Do that again." Oz presses the flat of his tongue into the hollow of Xander's collarbone and sucks lightly, tasting more than soap now, sucking harder. Xander arches up slightly, holding Oz's upper arms, then flops back. "Sorry. Go on."

"Not sorry," Oz says, licking the rosy bruise before shifting again and pushing himself up on one fist. Xander peers up at him, confused and open, waiting and Oz has to close his eyes for a second. "Right. Names and faces. Don't know them, just know how to recognize them."

"Mmm," Xander says, running his hand down the center of Oz's back, tip-tapping his fingers over each vertebra. His palm comes to rest right on the small of Oz's back, fingertips tickling through the hair there.

"Miss it," Oz says, breathing shallowly against the warm tickling. "Miss, like. Knowing people. Really knowing them."

Xander's eyes drift open and he starts to smile as he slips his hand under Oz's waistband. "Have you tried Speed Dating? Saw it on 20-20."

Laughing and grunting simultaneously, Oz hooks his arm around Xander's neck and rolls over, pulling Xander on top of him and shaking his head.

"Ooof," Xander says, then pushes the hair out of his eyes and looks down at Oz. "Oh. Hello there."

"Hey --" Oz mimics Xander's hand, drawing it down Xander's spine, pushing it gently under his waistband. That resolution about not talking seriously seems to have flown out the window. He's embarrassed at the same time he's grateful to Xander for being a jackass. "So, anyway. Yeah."

Xander drops his head, rubbing his cheek against Oz's; when he pulls back, his skin is pink from the abrasion. "No, I know what you mean. In the sense that I *don't* know, not at all. But if I take me and look at the total opposite, I get it."

Maybe it's the hellmouth that pulls people together like this, some kind of unexpected positive side-effect of all the evil roiling inside.

Whatever it is, looking up at Xander, kissing him softly and slipping his fingertips under the elastic of Xander's boxers, Oz gets it now. How he misses the camaraderie, how he misses *Xander*, all the warm, goofy weight of him that's pressing out Oz's breaths and flattening his ribs, how he misses *knowing* someone -- Xander -- like this.

"Know it's pointless," Oz says, "but I have to say it. Sorry about -- about leaving. Last time."

"Milk carton boy," Xander says, then presses his mouth against the hinge of Oz's jaw and scrapes his teeth down his neck. Oz swallows, heat tingling and sparking up. "Runaway. But thanks."

"Welcome."

Xander drops his hips and grinds slowly, his back hunched up so their crotches meet, and Oz stiffens, fingers going numb in the shower of pleasure the motion sends through his gut. Xander's kissing him, more forcefully now, eyes closed and tongue probing while his hips lift and switch back and forth, and Oz pushes up against him, opening his legs, then closing them around Xander's thighs.

"Missed *you*," Xander says, husky and shy, right below Oz's ear. He presses his hand to Oz's forehead, fever-testing, and Oz stares back. "Missed this. Fuck, so much."

He's going to break that resolution *again*. Oz knows he is, feels the shivering honesty start up in his throat, and cranes his neck, kissing the side of Xander's mouth. Whatever they used to have, still have, might have again, it's this, teasing each other and getting close, increasing proximity until their pores touch, talking and feeling. Feeling *good*, warm and loose and wrapped together.

"Me, too," Oz whispers. He has missed this, missed Xander, way more than he ever let himself know. That seems impossible right now, a couple inches from Xander's face, pressed flat and open under his weight, it seems as impossible as swimming on the moon, breathing underwater, flying down to Rio. How could he have *not* known? "You have no idea."

Xander notices things, thinks about him, has ideas and theories and elaborate, fully-detailed fantasies. Oz shudders, his other hand cupping Xander's ass, and thrusts upward, hard and sharp, as he kisses back as hard as he can, gets as close as he can.

Apologies are rituals. They don't erase what you did, but you still have to say them. Given how Xander's moving over him, touching him with the heels of his palms, maybe this ritual worked. Like magic, the simple and scary kind, the kind that works between people, uses regular words, draws you together.

Xander's his friend, maybe the best one he ever had.

Thank you, Hellmouth.

*

Sex with Xander runs the gamut. Last night it was intense, almost melodramatic; this afternoon, it is slow and lingering. They pause, reassure each other about missing, about being sorry, about liking this, then resume, and pleasure spirals languorously through Oz. Brownian motion, the way milk, untouched, will bloom and thread through a cup of coffee, slowly penetrating and mixing itself.

They doze afterward, waking only when Xander's stomach starts rumbling. It's got a voice like Ed Asner, like James Earl Jones singing falsetto, and they're both laughing as they roll out of bed, spilling the rest of the laundry.

Their shirt is clean, and while Xander slaps together grilled cheese for lunch, Oz sits at the kitchen table, sewing up the shoulder seam. He's not exactly skilled with a needle and thread, but it's like Xander says -- after enough bandaging and first aid, not to mention reruns of _ER_, you kind of get the hang of what to do. For some reason, Xander's humming "What's Going On?", doing a modified Motown-shuffle in front of the stove and getting half the lyrics wrong. The sweet rhythm of it keeps the needle dipping in and out of the fabric, until Oz finishes and shakes out the shirt.

"Like new --" he says and Xander turns, spatula in hand, smear of butter on his shirt.

"Yeah, wow. Nice job. Never was new, actually. New to me, yeah, but I got it used. Looks really good."

Oz pulls on the shirt and runs his hands through his hair. "Eats?"

"For you --" Xander scoops up three dripping sandwiches and hands the plate to Oz. "And for moi." Another four sandwiches he kept warming in the oven, and he drops into the chair opposite Oz. "Um. Skol, and stuff."

Oz raises his first sandwich and grins. "Right back at you."

Goofy with sex, flush with pleasure and company, and strengthened by several servings of hot, gooey sandwiches, they are hyper after lunch, wrestling and poking and finally Oz sits up from the living room floor and says, "Get your coat."

Xander follows, still grabbing for Oz and tossing gravel from the building parking lot at him, showering him with a handful of torn-up grass, and in the car, he's even jumpier. Oz explains what happened to the van -- rainy night, drunk soccer mom in enormous SUV, no parts anywhere in the state -- as he eases the little Volkswagen onto the 15 and apologizes, again, for the lack of leg room.

It should be a 20-minute drive, but it's late Sunday afternoon and it takes a good 45 minutes to reach Goleta and the track.

Xander squints at the sign -- Go-Go GO KARTS! -- and, grinning, slaps Oz's shoulder. "Scary genius, man. *Genius*."

He's even more impressed that Oz has an annual membership that gets them five bucks off and a coupon for the snack bar. "I feel the need," Oz says, handing Xander his helmet and buckling his own, "the need for speed."

"On a regular basis, apparently," Xander says, taking off for the garage.

Oz has the double advantage of knowing the course and being a highly experienced driver, but Xander's got the edge in terms of manic energy.

He takes the curves like a wild man, rocketing down the straightaways and hooting so loudly that Oz can hear him clearly over the custom engines. Oz takes it easy, enjoying the speed, looping around the course like visiting an old friend, but Xander seems determined to beat any record, anywhere. By the end of their third circuit, breaking for soda and gloppy nachos in the snack bar, Xander is flushed, wild-eyed, his hair standing out like a crazy person's.

"Sucks that it's inside," he says, and shovels a chip bending under the weight of sour cream and cheese into his mouth. He doesn't seem to chew, just swallows it whole, then grabs the Mountain Dew out of Oz's hand and slurps it down. "But otherwise -- this *rocks*."

"No more outside tracks," Oz says, recapturing the soda and taking two long sips. "Nowhere in Southern California, apparently."

"Okay, see, now that's a crime. Also a crying shame and, just possibly, a human-rights violation."

"Agreed," Oz says, wiping his mouth and balling up his napkin. "You ready for another couple rounds?"

Xander's already halfway across the room, banging the helmet down on his head.

Sliding back into his kart, adjusting the seat and buckling his helmet, Oz wonders if he ought to be concerned about Xander's energy. It could be a sign of, say, an impending depressive crash, one that sends Xander even lower than he was when Oz ran into him. But it could be, and Oz thinks it is, an effect of being happy, too. That's how Oz himself feels, grinning for no reason, gunning the engine and peeling off in pursuit of Xander, stuffed full of effervescent warmth and boundless, ricocheting energy.

The speed, it's different, now that he's here with Xander, now that he has someone to race. He usually chases the speed just for the thrill, just to feel the slap of air against his face and adrenaline rocketing through his blood. Today, though, he has more speed, more excitement, and it's doubling, tripling, every time he catches a glimpse of Xander.

He beats Xander on this round, and again on the second, but only by a nose. Breathless from the race's tension, fingers locked into hooks around the wheel, grin plastered goonily over his face, Oz tips his head against the wheel and tries to breathe.

It's *awesome*.

On the way back home, Xander's jitters have slowed fractionally; he's not bouncing, but he's touching Oz constantly, sliding his palm up Oz's thigh, tickling his hand when it rests on the gear shift, massaging the back of his neck.

Sucking on his lower lip, aching and needing, Oz pulls into the next rest stop, only about ten minutes from home, and pushes Xander into the men's room.

Green-algae glow in here, cracked tile and blown-out bulbs. It stinks like every locker room and hospital in here, medicinal and carnal all at once, and Xander's nose is wrinkling as he coughs and laughs and stumbles backward into the one stall.

"You wanted something?" he asks, face in Oz's neck, pulling up his shirt.

"Beat me," Oz says and nips down on Xander's lower lip. "Three out of five. Figure I owe you."

As he understands, realization and pleasure spread across Xander's face, and he backs up against the toilet tank, legs on either side of the bowl like the Colossus of Rhodes and Gay Sex. His arms are extended, hands resting on Oz's shoulders, kneading hard. "No way. Really?"

Oz doesn't answer, just bends one knee, then the other, ignoring the muck and water on the floor as he tugs open Xander's fly and bites his tongue to get his mouth nice and wet. Fast, they have to be fast, and that's apparently not going to be a problem for Xander -- he's already half-hard and stiffening fast as Oz pulls out his cock -- and Oz sucks in a huge breath, lets it spill out his nose as he runs his lips up the bottom of Xander's shaft. Glancing up, he can see that Xander's sucking his lips over his teeth, now biting his own wrist, eyes rolling as he tries to keep quiet.

Good and fast, and whatever kickass rockstar American hero ideas Xander has about Oz and his adventures, Oz has actually never done this before. Always wanted to, never needed to quite so much.

Sex in the van comes closest, or in the dressing room before a gig, but this is public, really public, and Xander's elbows keep banging the metal walls of the stall and Oz's knees are getting soaked through with disinfectant and piss, and he's pretty sure, in that feverish, amnesiac certainty of sex, that he's never enjoyed this quite so much. Xander's cock fills his mouth, nudges his throat, and it's both mysterious and familiar, tasting like something rare and Japanese, fresh and salty, and delicious even as it's sour, as it swells and Xander pulls his hair, squeezes his shoulder, gasps sharply and comes in quick, hard spurts.

"Really," Oz says, bracing his hand on the damp toilet seat and hauling himself to his feet. His hands are shaking, his face hot, like *he* just came, as he does up Xander's fly and smoothes down his shirt.

Xander leans against the back wall, dazed and, finally, at last, *still*. He licks the corners of his mouth as he touches Oz's cheek. "God."

He looks totally slack and moves like a zombie, following Oz out of the restroom, dragging his feet across the asphalt and dropping into the passenger seat like he just ran a marathon. Oz smiles and pats Xander's knee before turning the key and heading back onto the freeway.

"You want me to --?" Xander asks thickly, miming a fist jerking off. The sight of that jolts the tension inside Oz's skin up about thirteen notches, but he shakes his head.

"Almost home," he says. "Might be able to make it."

Laughing, Xander slumps lower in the seat, thighs spread and head tipped back. "Jesus God, Oz. You're like -- dunno."

"Just like what I do."

"I'll say. What's that called? Vacation?"

"Avocation, I think."

Xander laughs, the sound drawn-out and heavy as honey or molasses. "Avocado. High in fat, but delicious."

"Yup," Oz agrees.

For reasons he can't quite name, he doesn't want to go back to the apartment just yet. Maybe he wants to be the Oz in Xander's head, the road warrior bodhisattva, eternally on the move, or maybe he just needs fresh air. He keeps driving south, two exits past home, then turns toward the ocean.

It's dusk now, the light going granular, seeds of darkness sifting down, and the beach is almost empty. He parks in the space nearest the sand, cuts the engine, and sits back, twining his hand in Xander's.

They sit, strangely, comfortably quiet, looking out at the waves curling white in the gathering dark. Oz steals glances at Xander's face, underlit and stark but soft around the eyes.

Other times, he can feel Xander looking at him, can hear a hitch in breathing or the squeak of vinyl as Xander shifts.

When it's almost all the way dark, the ocean gone blank except for the crests of waves, Oz opens his door and gets out. He knows Xander will follow, and he heads for a swaybacked picnic table. He climbs up onto the rough, salt-battered wood and lies down.

Xander joins him, sitting next to him, hand on Oz's chest. They still haven't said anything. Oz is trying to see the stars, invisible in all the light pollution, and he's trying to memorize what this is, what this feels like. Proximity, and pleasure, Xander tracing out the decal on the shirt.

Silent proximity, and who knew he missed it this much?

*

It's much later when they start talking. A wind's coming off the water, cold and briny, and Oz sits up, knuckling his eyes as he shifts around to face Xander.

"Got a Guatemalan penny," Oz says, digging in his front pocket and handing it to Xander.

Xander cups it in his palm, chewing his lip. "Thoughts, huh?"

"That'd be the cliche, yeah."

Looking up, Xander squints. "So I'm asking myself, what's a guy like Oz want with you? And since I'm a dumbkopf, I skipped class that day, so I don't know the answer."

"Dumbkopf, huh?" Keep it light, let it spill out and spread. Oz moves a little closer, pulling one knee up to his chest and wrapping his arms around it.

"Kopf --" Xander taps his forehead. "Means head. Like Stormin' Norman."

"General Blackhead, yeah."

Xander nods and coughs into his fist. "Dumb. As a door-nail. Struck. Founded. Dumb."

"Dumbledore," Oz says, protests and dismissals -- Xander isn't dumb, Xander is smart in ways people refuse to see -- filling his mouth. He doesn't say them, because Xander's leaning back on one hand, the opposite leg swinging off the edge of the table.

He looks terribly, sadly thoughtful.

"Nah," Xander says finally. "Dumbledore, *he's* wise."

"Cool name, though. And you can't beat the beard."

"Yeah. I like Hagrid more," Xander says, then shakes himself. "Off-topic."

Oz unfolds his knee and drops his leg over Xander's thigh. "Are we?"

"You know we are." Xander's almost smiling, though, and fiddling with the seam on Oz's pants. "So. Screeching back *on* topic --"

"Which is?"

Xander lifts his head and Oz almost reels from the stare, the terse, bitten-off sound of his voice. "Me. You. Why?"

Inhaling slowly, returning Xander's stare, Oz cracks his knuckles. He waits, but this is almost a staring contest and neither of them wants to lose. "That's not a topic, though. That's -- that's just facts."

He's not saying it right. Oz tries to figure out how say it, because while the facts are true, something else is more important. He needs a name for it, for how you arrange facts and put them together. Interpretation, maybe.

"Topic," Xander says firmly and nods. His face relaxes as he pokes Oz's knee. "It's the topic."

"Run it by me again."

"Um --" Xander huffs out his breath loudly and rubs the back of his neck. Dropping his hand, he looks away. "Now it's stupid."

"Always kind of was." Oz cups the back of Xander's head. "You, me, it's like I said. Just how it is, just the facts of the matter. *I* like it. Question is, do --"

Xander's head jerks back. "Oh, I *like* it. I like it a lot. Which is the nut, the whole tapdancing Mr. Peanut kernel of the problem."

Tickling his fingers up into Xander's hairline, Oz smiles. "Thought it was a topic."

Xander frowns tightly. "Topic, problem, whole section on the SAT, whichever. I like it. Like you a lot, and --" The words sputter and fail, but then Xander pounds his knee. "Yeah."

"Okay," Oz says. He understands, that's not the problem, but he can't see how to *fix* whatever's bugging Xander. But it aches, this lack of solution, and he tightens his hand around Xander's neck.

"Not okay."

"No, but it has to be, right?" Oz asks. "Not going to change."

They spent three years not looking at what they had. Sliding around, ducking their heads, making out when they could, hanging out the rest of the time. And now that it's time to *look*, to figure out what's going on, what's going to happen, neither of them seems to know what to say.

"I mean," Oz continues, despite himself, even as Xander tenses and pulls away and won't look at him. "Like, my interpretation? Is we should try."

"Need a minute --"

Xander slides off the table, so fast that Oz is sure his legs and ass are going to be full of splinters, and hurries down to the water's edge. Oz watches him go, watches as Xander fades a little into the dark, head disappearing but shirt still bright against the ocean. Xander crouches, picking something up, then straightens up and flings it into the water. Again, and then a third time, before he squats again like a washerwoman at the river.

He's splashing his face, scrubbing his arms. When he turns back toward Oz, the water catches whatever light there is and Xander's shining as he approaches the table.

"Always felt like --" Xander stops right in front of the table, then kneels on the plank seat. Oz's arms go around his neck and pull him close, the water cold and sharp on his already chilled skin. "Like it was really selfish, how good I felt with you."

"Not selfish," Oz says. combing back Xander's hair.

"Yeah, I don't know about that."

There are layers, caverns, entire mole-man civilizations inside Xander, making up his head and his heart, and no one's ever going to learn them all. But right now, rubbing warmth back into Xander's arms, drying him slowly, Oz thinks that he might, at least, have a good idea of the extent of his ignorance.

"Allowed to feel good," Oz says, looping Xander's dry arm around his waist and setting to work on the other. "Not a crime."

Xander doesn't say anything for a long time. Oz finishes the other arm, then pulls the bottom of his shirt tight over his palm and starts drying Xander's face. Between them, the air is almost warm. Filled with salt and breath, and Xander closes his eyes as Oz dries his cheeks, his chin, his throat.

Xander's eyes open, flashing dark and bright, when Oz finishes. "I have to go back."

Gravel and broken shells, trash and grit, in both their voices.

"I know," Oz says.

Now that he's gotten the worst part out, it's like Xander finally found his voice again. The words spill out, fast and faster. "It's just -- there's stuff I have to do. Make sure Willow's okay, right? She's still shaky and maybe me leaving, maybe that's not so good. And Buffy, too. And I have to -- I gotta talk to Anya again. Not that it'll do any good, but I don't know, have to --"

"Apologies don't do any good," Oz says, running his hands up and down Xander's shoulders, touching all he can. "But it's still a good thing to say them."

"Yeah." Biting his lip, Xander looks down. "I don't want to."

"Want to what?" Oz tips up Xander's chin and slides closer, wrapping his legs around Xander's waist, holding Xander's head in his hands, rubbing warmth back over the arc of Xander's cheeks, the edges of his eye sockets. "Say you're sorry?"

"Go," Xander says.

"Don't want you to, either."

Xander's only been here for two days. Just two days.

Already Oz can't quite imagine what it'll be like to be alone again. Sleeping alone, going to work and seeing faces and doing his thing, he'll be hollow. Hollow and cold again, longing for the hellmouth.

Xander's hair is silky in his fingers and Oz kisses the wrinkle between his eyebrows before he says, "It's okay, though. I'll wait."

Xander smiles at that, and Oz smiles back. A little flare of warmth, small as a birthday candle, in all this cold. "Yeah," Xander says. "You will, won't you?"

"Yeah," Oz says, hooking his hands under Xander's armpits, pulling him up as he leans back onto the creaking table. Xander, over him, fills the whole sky, and there's light in his eyes, in his mouth, and Oz is finally, briefly, warm. "Yes, I will."

"Good."

"You're coming back," Oz says. He can't make it a question. He can't leave things as open as they have been, not any more.

"Soon as I can," Xander says.

Before, what they had was peripheral. Marginal and hidden, sliding in and out of friendship. What it is now, or will be, Oz doesn't know. He does know that Xander's coming back and that the margins are the only place he wants to be. Entailments and drama are optional, and he's leaving them behind to stay here, nestled out in the hinterlands, waiting.

Oz inhales, chest pushing against Xander's, fingers twisted in his hair, and smiles.

The lines around Xander's eyes deepen as he smiles back, deepen and flash. Lines and destinations, all leading toward the wet, soft light of Xander's gaze.

Maps back home.