Guy Stuff
Xander wasn't sure why he was there, what with the never having said five sentences to Oz, but he was a guy, and guys hang out with guys. He loved Buffy and Willow, but there was only so much dish about nail polish and Nancy Jameson's nose job that he could handle before questioning his manhood.
Besides, Oz was cool in that silent, dry-witted sort of way. And Devon was a guy. Not really bright, or funny, or that cool, aside from the whole "lead singer" thing he had going for him. But, still, he was a guy, with all the requisite guy parts, and...
That was a dangerous train of thought.
Of course, lounging in the back of Oz's van, blasting some tunes that sounded vaguely old-like in nature, Xander felt a little confused. Didn't guy activities usually involve cars, violence, or hot women?
Then again, that didn't sound much different from what he did with Buffy and Willow every night, and no he did not wish he was back at Buffy's house for Manicure Monday.
He was a guy. He was doing guy stuff.
Nevertheless, when Devon pulled a joint out of his pocket and lit up, Xander felt a little relieved. This wasn't something he did with the girls. Granted, it wasn't something he did ever, but still.
Devon offered him the joint, and Xander took it. He held it for a second, prompting a possibly-concerned glance from Oz.
"Copacetic?" Oz murmured.
"Yeah," Xander replied. "If that means what I think it means."
He took a drag, and tried not to cough too much.
Minutes, or possibly days later, he's giggling at the tiny, tiny tattoo of Pepe Le Pew on Devon's chest. It looks like it's moving, and Xander keeps trying to explain why Pepe could never have babies with the black cat, but he can't get the genetics right. He also doesn't remember when Devon took of his shirt, but, dude. Pepe.
He's in the middle of wondering what the cat's name is when he realizes nobody's listening anymore, and he looks over to his right and dude, Oz and Devon are kissing, and pretty darn well, if what Cordelia taught him is any clue.
He can't tell, though, if they're Frenching or not, and that seems like it would be an important detail, so he rolls onto his hands and knees, steadies himself, and crawls closer. And closer, and closer, and he thinks he sees a tongue, but he can't tell, and how can he properly understand guys' night out if he doesn't know if there's tongue?
He trips over Devon's knee and ends up draped over his lap, and Oz's chest, and he can't see them kissing anymore because he thinks he's kissing one of them, and yes, there is tongue. He wonders where his shirt went, but decides it's not an important detail. Oz's hair is softer than he thought, and a little crunchy from the gel, and Devon's hands are quicker than you would think they would be, and everything's spinning.
He woke up the next morning with a weird taste in his mouth, and the phone ringing in his ear.
Stop. The. Noise. He picked up the phone and mustered a half-decent greeting. "Yeah?"
"Morning, Xander!" It was Willow, and he tried not to wince as her perkiness pierced his eardrums.
"Hey, Will." He flopped back into bed. "How was Manicure Monday?"
"Same as always. I have purple nails now."
"Cool."
"How was last night with Oz?"
"Cool."
"What'd you guys do?"
"Oh, you know." He rubbed at his throat, wondered why it felt sore. "Guy stuff."