No-Fix Fixation

Oz stood perfectly still for a long time after Buffy left, staring blankly at the wooden floor as he thought. Gradually, he began paying attention again, and he noted every item of Devon's strewn across the floor. Shirts, socks, an occasional book -- Devon could be surprisingly picky in his choice of reading material. He didn't read often, and when he did, he insisted it be worth the while. Oz spied a book of poetry peeking out from beneath a Cracker Jacks box, and he laughed, shaking his head. Devon's quirky mess was a comfort, like the one way that disorganization could seem so incredibly orderly and appropriate that to clean it up would flip the world upside down.

On impulse, and impulse alone, Oz headed for the bedroom, tugging Devon's shirt off along the way and letting it slip from his grasp in the hallway. The singer was curled up on his side, clutching a small clump of blanket so tightly beneath his chin it seemed he was a small child hugging a security blanket. Amused, Oz sat on the edge of the bed and nudged him, poking lightly until Devon opened his eyes and squinted up at Oz. "Hey," he mumbled with a sleepy smile, his voice rough and dry. "Why the fuck are you poking me?"

Devon gasped as Oz leaned in and attacked his mouth, all lips and tongue and seeking flesh. He was stunned; Oz wasn't usually this forward, this insistent and full of forceful need. But it was nice, 'cause every once in a grand while it felt good to be pushed to his absolute limit of submission, so he could carefully gauge exactly when he'd turn the tables and remind Oz who did what.

Oz, in the meantime, was pressing Devon's shoulders into the mattress and moving onto his knees as he tickled the roof of Devon's mouth with the tip of his tongue. Devon shook beneath him, and the feeling of quivering muscles made Oz so immediately hard it was almost excruciating.

He released Devon's shoulders reluctantly, his sole intent to rid himself of his jeans, and when he fell onto his side next to Devon to shimmy out of them, he was intensely glad that Devon liked to sleep naked. Because that way it was so easy to just be there, to dig his knee between the singer's legs and roll on top and press him down again, and finally have some minute semblance of control in his life. He was so incredibly tired of watching things careen wildly out of his grasp that it wasn't even remotely funny.

It was like one of those dreams where he was running and running down a hallway and trying to reach a door, which should have been amusing because it was such a fucking B-movie cliche. But it was just fucking scary, because Oz really didn't know if he was ever going to be able to reach that door, and it didn't matter that there wasn't a mass murderer or a serial rapist chasing him. He didn't have control over how big his steps were or how far they took him, and that was just about the worst thing Oz could ever imagine dreaming. That, or something crazy happening to Devon. Hurting Devon like he'd hurt Willow, maybe. Or something similarly fucked up.

But that was all fading away as he held Devon down with amazingly little relative strength, because Devon was letting him do this even though he didn't have to, and he tasted so good all over, that familiar taste that managed to be different every time. Oz rubbed his cock down against Devon's hip, hissing a little with every distinct stroke of passing flesh as he painted his way down Devon's throat to his nipples and took one in his mouth. He pinched the hard nub carefully between his teeth, terrified as always of breaking the skin by accident and really fucking up Devon's life for good.

But Devon didn't seem to have any such worries. He was doing way too many other things right then, the most consuming being the effort to concentrate on every bit of Oz's skin that was in contact with his body. And his head was pressed back deep into the pillows so he was staring right at the headboard but not really seeing it, in that sense where your eyes don't actually cross but just get so relaxed they don't look at anything except the fuzzy mist in your head. Devon's fuzzy mist was all about Oz, and his hands came to curl into Oz's ass and rub their way up, until he was kneading Oz's shoulder blades and struggling to not buck wildly up against the heated mass on top of him.

Oz only tolerated that for so long before managing to twist out of Devon's grasp, shoving the singer's arms up so he could kiss his way around the curve of strong pectoral muscles, winding outwards and up to Devon's underarm, then up over the softer, smoother skin of the inner part of his upper arm before he broke contact and found Devon's lips again.

Devon wrapped one arm around Oz's waist, happy with the undulating rhythm they had set up in rocking their bodies together. He didn't know why Oz had suddenly gone all grabby on him, and though he wondered vaguely, he didn't plan on giving much of a shit right then. He only cared about the facts that Oz was one hell of an excellent kisser, and that his free hand had finally managed to find its way to the table to grasp the bottle of lube there. Setting it next to them on the bed, he worked to get Oz's leg out from between his and force the smaller boy to straddle him.

That accomplished, he pressed up, tugging Oz's knees along the mattress as he sat up so that Oz was comfortably molded to his upright body. "Dev," Oz groaned, the heat of Devon's dick pressing into his leg almost too much. "Oh, fuck, Dev."

Devon eased back, reaching once more to pluck a condom from the table. Avoiding Oz's mouth, he leaned his head back, locking their gazes together as he pressed the condom and the lube into Oz's hands. "Your call," he whispered.

Oz stopped, searching for some hint of hesitation in Devon's eyes and finding none. Slowly and deliberately tearing the small square package open, he let his hands hover for a moment before they chose Devon's cock and settled down, rolling the rubber down with light, purposeful strokes of his fingers. Devon gritted his teeth, determined not to screw this up. He knew damn well what Oz needed when he was like this, and he was dead set on going with it, even if Oz's fingers were driving him bonkers as they slicked him up.

"Dev." Oz took his hand and poured a puddle of lube into it. "Help me?"

Groaning, Devon clutched Oz closer, lifting him slightly so he could reach around and rub his hand against the tight entrance. He massaged slowly, circling his finger along the outer edge and smiling at Oz's quickened breath, then hooked up and pressed in, working with practiced skill until Oz relaxed enough to ease another finger in. Oz was making tiny little sounds into his neck, and just those slight vibrations of noise made it difficult to control himself so carefully.

Pulling his hand away, Devon loosened his grip on Oz and waited, falling willingly onto his back when Oz gave him a light push. With a dazed, silly grin, he watched Oz scoot up and then sink down, taking Devon nearly all the way in with the first stroke. Oz's eyes fell closed, and he was rapidly lost in the feel of Devon's cock rubbing all his sensitive inner areas just the right way. He pushed his hands into Devon's chest, squeezing up small bunches of skin and leaving bright red marks whenever he withdrew.

Devon found himself swamped in that fuzzy Oz-ness again, and he was mesmerized by the blurry image of Oz rocking up and down on him. Blindly fumbling, he found Oz's dick and grasped it, suddenly oh so fucking determined to make Oz come first. That turned out to be relatively easy, as it only took a squeeze and three well-timed jerks to make Oz splash warm semen onto Devon's chest, and that ended up making Devon arch up and come with a strangled groan.

Oz had to take a moment to get his bearings, still sitting with Devon inside him. There was absolutely no use in trying to think straight, so he just went with whatever occurred to him. His shirt from the night before was peeking out from under a pillow, and Oz grabbed it, using it to wipe Devon somewhat clean. Then he finally lifted himself up and carefully removed the condom, tying it off and wrapping in the shirt, which he tossed off to the side to be dealt with later.

Devon took charge at last, yanking Oz down into his arms and kissing him roughly. "Oz, what the fuck just happened?" he hissed, his lips still pressed against the corner of Oz's mouth.

Oz rolled over, turning away and letting Devon curl up against his back. "Well, I think the technical term is sodomy, but I generally think of it as sex."

"Ha, ha. Don't be a prick. What's wrong?" Devon's breath was hot against the back of Oz's neck, his voice tenderly inquisitive.

"Nothing," Oz replied quietly, unsettled by the queasy feeling deep within him.

"Don't give me that shit. You never get so fucking insistent unless something is wrong."

"I don't want to talk about it." Oz turned to lie on his back. "Drop it. Please?"

Devon propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at Oz, resting his hand firmly on Oz's chest. "No," he whispered softly. "Oz...tell me what's going on."



"Shut up, Devon."

"But --"

"Dev, I...said...shut...up." Oz met Devon's stare unwaveringly, bitter challenge clear in his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it. Why the fuck won't you let it go?"

"Because I want to know why you came in here and woke me up from a really fucking hot dream starring Courtney Love so you could fuck me like there's no tomorrow. Not that I mind that particular aspect, but Christ, Oz! I can fucking read you like a book." Oz's entire face hardened even more, his jaw clenching painfully. "Yeah, that's right. Your little enigmatic facade doesn't work on me that well. Someone can actually get through your damn wall."

Oz pushed Devon away and sat up, scanning the floor for something of his to put on. It occurred to him that everything he spied was peeking out from under Devon's stuff, not really hidden but always partially obscured. Getting up without really thinking about what he was doing, he yanked on some boxers and began kicking Devon's things around, gathering all his belongings and dumping them into a pile near the closet door. Devon watched, his brow scrunched up in confusion. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Fuck you," Oz muttered, looking around for anything he may have missed.

"Well, gosh, maybe, but we did that already. Next idea?"

"Devon!" Oz threw a chord book on top of the pile of clothes. "Why is it always about figuring out what's wrong? You can't fix everything. Some things can't be fixed. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Devon stared hard at Oz, his eyes narrowed in anger, and then his face slowly evened out, relaxing into a mean, almost amused smile. "Because I know that's what you want, and you can be a stupid fuck sometimes. I never said I wanted to fix anything, Oz."

He stood up and wandered into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat. "And you know what?" he called. "I don't want to fix your life. Fixing your life would entail getting you back with Willow and giving you up again. Fuck it. I like you better screwed up, and if that makes me a horrible person, be it. All I wanted was to know what was bothering you."

Oz watched Devon step into the shower, feeling sick to his stomach. "Dev," he started, his eyes glued to the shadow moving behind the curtain. "Listen, I --" He stopped. This was not good. Nothing about this was good. Using his big toe to press a guitar pick into the carpet, he chewed his lower lip for a long time before wriggling out of his boxers and heading into the bathroom.

Devon turned when Oz stepped in behind him, the hand holding a soapy washcloth pausing over his chest. "What, you going environmental on me?" he snapped. "Trying to save water?"

Oz took the washcloth and pressed closer to the singer, letting his cheek fall into thick suds and wrapping his arms around to run the washcloth across Devon's back. "I don't like being screwed up, Dev," he whispered. "I can't think anymore. I need to think."

Devon turned so Oz was under the spray of water and rubbed his fingers through the short red hair. "I know. Trust me, I know. And I don't really want you to be screwed up. But it is okay to talk about things and not really get anywhere. Solutions are for schmuks."

Oz sighed, leaning along as Devon reached for the shampoo and began massaging onto Oz's head. "When did I forget how to just roll with the punches?"

"Eh." Devon ducked his head slightly to press a watery, slippery kiss on Oz's mouth. "You haven't forgotten anything. You can't roll uphill, right? Think of it that way. You've got some walking to do now."

"Makes sense." Oz tilted his head back, feeling shampoo suds cascade down his back as Devon attached his lips to Oz's exposed throat. "Buffy was here before I woke you up."

"Oh? What'd she want?" Devon grabbed the washcloth Oz had dropped and lathered more soap into it, then started slowly scrubbing the smaller boy's body. "And is that what had you so crazed?"

"Yeah. She just wanted to talk, try to work stuff out. I gotta get things done with Willow, Dev. It isn't just about her. It's a whole part of my life just hanging."

"Yeah." A strange look flickered across Devon's features, a look of cautious and slightly worried hesitation. "You got any idea what you're gonna do?"

"Nope. But I think now that Buffy and I are somewhat straight with each other, she can help me figure it out. She knows more about where Willow is in her head, you know?"

"I guess." Devon fell into a long silence, completing his cleansing of Oz and then going back to where Oz had interrupted him. Finally cleaned and rinsed, he pulled Oz back into his arms and pressed their foreheads together. "I missed you," he murmured softly, shutting his eyes halfway to avoid the misting spray of ricocheting water.

Oz swiped a deep, lingering kiss from him. "When? I've been here all weekend."

"I mean, I missed you when you were with Willow." Devon bit his lip and sighed. "I shouldn't be saying this -- I wanted to butt out and let you figure everything out without my opinions fucking you up, but...That's it. I missed you. And not just 'cause you're good in bed. I missed you, and having you come to me for advice, and...and...and this. Just being like this, taking showers and talking and...Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm going to shut up now."

Frowning, Oz studied Devon's face, carefully reading every little crease of brow and twist of lip for whatever it could tell him. "No, don't. I -- I wish I'd handled things differently, Dev, balanced everything better. But...Dev, why don't you let people know you're not some flake?"

Devon forced a playful smirk and wiggled an eyebrow. "What, and ruin my bad-ass, hotter-than-sin rocker image? Are you nuts? How the hell would I get chicks?"

Oz laughed. "I see your point. Look, Dev, I love your opinion. I need it, okay? Don't not say something 'cause you think it'll mess me up. I'm messed up on my own; I need all the help I can get to get unmessed."

Instead of answering, Devon turned off the water and shoved the shower curtain out of the way. He tossed Oz a towel and quickly dried off before going out to get dressed. "Fine, then. You're messed up. News flash, Oz. You're never gonna get unmessed, and the truth is, you've been fucked from the get-go. That's life.'ve always been great at dealing with the fucked factor, and you've just got to work back up to being able to do that. Then, if you don't mind, you could teach me a thing or two about it."

"You've got shit more together than you think, Dev."

"But less than you think." Devon zipped his pants and pulled on a button-up shirt, avoiding Oz's thoughtful gaze. "Never mind. Could we talk about something more cheerful now?"

"Sure." Oz tugged a t-shirt over his head and stepped over to the singer, kissing him with obvious, successful intent and enticing a groan from Devon. "So, you think I'm just good in bed?"

Devon laughed, launching another kiss and stroking his tongue against Oz's before answering. "Man, you're fucking fabulous."