Resistance Is Futile
Junior year, Oz didn't get his hair cut for a very long time. As soon as he could, he wore it pulled straight back in a stoner's pony-tail.
"Dude," Devon asked. "What's the deal with the hair? That's so Eighties power band and I don't think the rest of the guys are wanna go there." Devon thought a moment. "Or wear Spandex."
"It's not a band thing," Oz said mildly. He leaned back in his seat, raising one Converse to his knee, and re-tying it.
After a moment, Devon asked, "Well, what kind of thing is it?"
"A hair thing," Oz said. Then the bell rang, and class started.
Sunnydale had plenty of mysteries as it was, Devon thought, like why Xander Harris sniffed his neck that time, and what the heck happened to Principal Flutie? Not to mention how people kept leaving perfectly good vans around the place, unclaimed. So, with all that already going on, and band practices for the Dingoes, Devon had enough to think about.
Oz kept his ponytail tucked down his collar, mostly. He wrote a couple of songs for Devon to sing the lead solo, and he was always there with the other guys, for rehearsals in Devon's garage. "I know the manager of the Bronze," Oz said. "He said that we could try out some afternoon, and he'd let us play on open mike nights."
"Wow. Will we get paid?" Mark asked.
Oz shrugged. "Tips. I think the point is to get on stage, right?"
"Right," Devon said. "Then we can get the school dance committees to hire us, because they have some clause about hiring Sunnydale students." He yawned. "Heard about it from Cordelia."
"Nice to know there's no worry about merit," Oz said, with that faint, inward smile.
See, it was stuff like that. Devon always felt that, somehow, Oz was making jokes that no one else got, jokes that he didn't really expect anyone to get.
It made Devon sad, is what it did. And it made him think about Oz all the time, now, instead of at school or when the Dingoes got together. It was like an itch, too, in that the more he thought about Oz, the more he kept thinking about him: about his neat-fingered way with not just his bass, but with the sound equipment and the odd bits of electrical tape. About the smile that curled his lips, about the intense look that came into Oz's eyes when he was writing songs, about his ninja-like quick and quiet walk. About how Devon purposely got the guys to come over and practice on a Saturday afternoon when Devon's parents were supposedly at a marriage-workshop (but Devon knew they were in Vegas, and, dude, who went to Vegas to go to church?), and now Oz was spending the rest of the clear, warm fall evening smoking weed with Devon, listening to the 'rents old Derek and the Domino tapes.
Oz was just cool, man. No, wait.
Oz was hot.
"Whoa," Devon said to himself, removing the doobie from his mouth. He sat up and looked at Oz, lying peaceably on his back on the rag rug beside him, hands crossed on his stomach. "Whoa."
Oz turned his head, raising one cinnamon eyebrow.
"Cinnamon," Devon said, bemused. "Yeah."
"Barbara Bain on Mission Impossible," Oz said. "What? Are we playing trivia?"
"No, man, Oz, you're all...cinnamon." Devon licked his finger and thumb and pinched out the doobie. "I mean, your hair and everything."
"You're so wasted," Oz said, with that smile, again. "Are we done smoking?"
"Yeah," Devon said, hoarsely, and leaned over to trace one of those eyebrows with a fingertip.
Oz went very still under Devon's hand.
"Dev---" he said, softly.
"Oz," Devon said. "God, Oz." And he didn't care if Oz didn't taste like cinnamon, he didn't care, and he bent his head and carefully licked a long stripe down Oz's neck, because this was the Plan that had hazily formed in Devon's mind, the Oz-Plan.
Looked like Oz had no trouble with that, because his next move was to roll over on his side, and slide his mouth onto Devon's.
"Oh, shit," Devon mumbled, as Oz's strong musician's hands gripped his arms. "Oh, shit, Oz, oh, Oz," he said, and, blindly, found Oz's mouth again.
They lay on Devon's bedroom rug, just kissing. Devon couldn't get over Oz's hair, loose now, and down to his shoulders. And Oz was smiling at him now, instead of to himself.
"Oz," Devon said, "I want to get you."
Oz pulled away and sat up, but only to pull his shirt off. He flicked his hair away from his eyes. "You do, Devon."
Devon couldn't answer, because he couldn't stop looking at the red- brown hair lying on Oz's pale skin, skin that was irresistible.
So Devon didn't resist.