In The 550s
by Glossolalia

October, 1997.

"Hey."

Giles hears the soft, hoarse voice as he rounds the corner, volumes of Introduction to Geology and Minerals: Your Friends in the Earth under his arms. The middle of the day, and no impending apocalypse: perfect for a spot of reshelving. He sees the small figure sitting against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest, bright afternoon sun licking his hair into lurid spikes.

"Dan — . Pardon. Oz."

Oz ducks his head and looks back up at him under those ruddy lashes. "Daniel's fine, Giles."

Giles shuffles his feet until he's leaning against the bookshelves. Reassured that he will not be falling over any time soon, he sets the books down and takes his glasses off, folding them into his shirt pocket. "How are things? Your term, and such?"

Oz scratches his ankle, the charm bracelet catching on the sparse hairs. "Pretty much the same as it ever was. Classes. Homework. School."

"I see."

Oz squints at him. "Yeah, guess you do."

Giles doesn't know what to say, but the shelf just below eye level is distressingly dusty, and he swipes at it with the back of his tie. That is, he knows what he wants to say, but not what he ought to say. How to respond. He wants to know what the boy is doing here, why he's looking at him with such a mixture of hostility and sadness in his eyes, why he's not in class.

"Free period?" he manages at last.

"Skipping."

"Are you sure that's a — "

"Stuff it, Giles, okay?" Oz's legs shoot out in front of him and he cracks his neck, just once, with a quick yank of the head. "Thought you'd be glad I wasn't out in the van. Degenerate friends, getting up to no good."

"I simply meant — "

With a small push against the wall, Oz has risen and stands in front of him, far closer than anyone would find appropriate. Giles can smell him all over again, herby, damp, and smoky, and he feels his spine sagging automatically, trying to bring himself eye to eye with the boy. "Yeah?" Oz asks. "What did you mean?"

Oz's hand presses against Giles's hip, just as it had that first day, slipping into his pocket and resting there. Giles takes a step backwards, and Oz's arm stretches across the gap, hand snug in the pocket. Face impassive as ever, eyes dark under his plucked brows, he studies Giles like a specimen. Slowly, his elbow bends as he follows his hand, and he has Giles backed up against the shelves.

"Oz," Giles whispers. "Oz, please."

"Hmm?" His hand rolls in Giles's pocket, and a slow smile snakes across his lips as it brushes Giles's erection. "What?"

Giles claps his hand on Oz's shoulder, gripping, ready to shove him away, but Oz pushes back, folding Giles's hand back between their chests. "N-n-not here, Oz. Please."

Oz butts his chest gently against Giles and wiggles his fingers. "But we never did it here, did we? Kinda regret that. Always thought we would." His fingers hook over Giles's cock as he mouths at the buttons on his shirt, and the heat of his mouth, the tickling brush of fabric-wrapped fingertips, all becomes too much. Giles drops his face into Oz's hair, the spikes brushing his cheek, and he breathes in the strong chemical smell of whatever holds those spikes up.

"That a yes?" Mouthed on his chest, two buttons opened, tie flung over his shoulder.

Giles thrusts against the hand and feels the rumble of Oz's chuckle against his chest. With his free hand, Oz slides Giles's trapped hand down between them, and Giles's fingers curl reflexively against the boy's erection. He rubs his palm quickly over the bulge and Oz's head drops back, eyes on his.

"Gonna start humping your leg any minute now," he says. Smirks as he frees his hand from the pocket, leaving just fingers hooked into the entrance. One sharp tug, and Giles is on his knees, head nudging back the books behind him, watching Oz flick open his pants and unzip the fly. He closes his eyes as the soft warmth of Oz's cock brushes his cheek, realizing dimly that there had been no underwear.

He looks up, sees the cock held in a loose fist, up, Oz smirking down, one eyebrow raised. "Hey," Oz says. "I did learn a couple things with you. 'm not totally retarded."

Giles shakes his head, tears burning at the back of his eyes, and Oz sighs. Strokes his cheek with his free hand.

"Jesus, Giles, get over it, okay?"

Giles nods, willing away thoughts, remembering that if this is going to happen, it needs to be over with as quickly as possible. He cranes his neck forward, managing to brush the glistening crown with dry lips before Oz leans back a fraction, guiding the cock in his fist over Giles's face. Giles turns, mouth gaping, following its path, never managing more than a momentary contact. He can hear the chuckle again, doesn't need to look upwards to see the smirk, and tips back his head again. He leaves his mouth open, feeling the air drying his lips, thickening his tongue, as Oz paints his cockhead over his jawline, down his nose, around his cheeks.

His own erection throbs painfully against his trousers, and he knows that this can hardly get any worse. He drops his hand to his fly, fumbling open the zipper, scraping his knuckles on its teeth to tug out his cock. As if that were some signal, Oz leans forward again, running the crown over Giles's dry lips. As he starts to stroke himself with hard, jerky motions, he hollows his cheeks around Oz's cock, rolling his tongue against the underside. He hears the boy whisper a moan, and snakes his free hand around the back of his knees. Pulls him closer, swallowing as his mouth fills with saliva and the cock burns against the back of his throat.

Oz's hand skates over his ear, and Giles glances up, sees him looking down into Giles's lap. Giles gives himself a good hard pull, and Oz's eyes close as he thrusts into Giles's mouth. Braces himself by gripping the bookshelf until the metal rattles, and their eyes are locked as Oz spreads his knees, lowering his hips, thrusting again. Giles wrenches at his foreskin, tilting his chin to rub as best he can against Oz's balls and watches as the boy's eyes widen.

The way they always do, always did, brows leaping and eyes flashing for a moment, jaw dropping. Oz shoves into Giles's mouth, and he can only see a flash of white skin and gleam of zipper before the boy is coming, filling his mouth, soaking his cheek when his cock jerks free of Giles's lips.

Oz sinks, sighing, to the floor, eyes closed, shaking his head. Giles is so close now, swallowing and running his tongue around his lips. His balls shrink up against him, and he's about to turn on his side to come when Oz touches him. Just a fingertip pressed against the slit, and his hips jerk as he shoots into his hand.

He freezes there, sticky cum gluing his hand to his softening cock, and waits for Oz to leave.

"Fuck," Oz whispers, stripping off his tee shirt. He hands it to Giles, who smiles weakly, and tries to wipe himself off. He watches the boy stretch out his arms and shake his hands before tucking himself back in. "Told you it would be good here."

Giles nods and hands back the balled-up shirt. Oz stuffs it into one back pocket and pulls on his overshirt. The blue flannel that Giles has left behind the encyclopedias. What does he say here? Thank you? Get out?

"Oh, hey," Oz says in a more normal tone as he pulls himself up. "You ever see this girl? Redhead, dresses like an Eskimo?"