It's one of those dreams, Oz thinks. Part of his landscape of dreams. He's walking in the desert with Cornfed and they are arguing about cartoon Death and real ducks and what it means to love someone bad. Cornfed's in denial, of course, and keeps talking about some theoretical bad 'someone' who smokes and swears and lies out his beak and would sell Cornfed's ass to Bally for footballs for $10 and the promise of a hooker, even an ugly one. Which is cool but Oz keeps forgetting and calling a duck a duck anyway. And Cornfed's voiceovers are starting to reflect a little ire.

"It's all right, man," Oz says. "You can just think of me as slow in that human way."

Cornfed gives him a look.

"I really am listening," Oz says. And he is. He likes Cornfed a lot, wishes he could come visit in the Live Action world, meet Ethan. Ethan would love Cornfed. Be charmed by him. Maybe the three of them could have sex...

"I could see I was losing control of the situation," Cornfed's voiceover says. "Oz had long ago traded his sanity for the dubious comfort of physical lust."

"Even you don't believe that," Oz says.

"No," the voiceover Cornfed says. "I didn't believe it. But what could I tell him? That I approved of all this? That I was, in fact, blindingly jealous? That the rage of all my years of self-denial was crushing my larynx like the unswallowed stone of an underripe peach."

"You're cute when you're ranting," Oz says. They've reached the lemonade stand and Ethan is there with his shirt-collar open and a red and white striped towel wrapped round his waist. Oz grins at Ethan, who grins back, playing along and pours them all huge glasses of minty lemonade with ice. Cornfed says:

"That's highly inappropriate, you realize?" And his voiceover mutters about how cheerfulness and bestiality together is like squeezing veal sausage through a sock.

"It's all supposed to be dark," Oz stage-whispers to Ethan. Who quirks his eyebrows in amusement and then leans over to cradle Oz's skull in one hand, run his tongue lightly around the outline of Oz's lips.

Makes him shiver despite the heat. Ethan's tongue is cold and tastes of lemons, mint and sugar.

I want you, Oz thinks

I know, Ethan thinks back. And this is the nicest part of dreams. No words needed and Ethan's kisses are intense. Soft and heating up like sand at noon. Measured like the slow scrape of tongue over glans that makes him insane. He's that hard already.

"Ahem..." From somewhere down near his hips and he has to tear himself away.

"Sorry, man," Oz says to Cornfed. "But you need to go find your own evil duck."

"And there it was," Cornfed's voiceover says. "Out on the table like a botched circumcision."

"Jesus, Corny," says Duckman coming around from under the bar wiping his beak on a red and white striped dishtowel. "All these years you wanted me to drive my yellow submarine down your chunnel and it never occurred to you to just... ask?"

Cornfed blushes profoundly but stands his ground.

"Duckman, your homophobia is so ingrained you refuse to admit the sperm that made you came out of penis."

"And your point..."

The argument fades into the background hum as Ethan kisses him again. As Ethan kisses him again and he blinks his eyes and is awake and much closer to coming than he realized. He groans. Ethan's hand is magic. Ethan's eyes have crinkles around them that never go away, even when he's far from smiling. Which isn't very often. Ethan's face is very close and there is a watchfulness in his expression but it's not a bad watchfulness. Not distant at all. Thumb across the glans again, slow this time and Oz has to let the sound out. Let his head fall back, give it all. Everything he has. Even the growling. Even the part where his control goes and claws slip the skin of his fingers with a burst of white hot ache. Even the part...

He comes and coming drops down deep enough and for just long enough to feel the words leave him. Nothing but the howl that is still echoing when they come back. And he lies there, heart a hammer in the late morning sunshine. Sex sweat thick as lotion on his body. Every nerve a pinprick place and, yeah, scared, he opens his eyes to find Ethan watching still. Licking Oz's come off his hand with slow consideration.

"Diff-different?" Oz manages,

Ethan's licks are sleepy, cat-tongued. He grins around his own little finger.

"Wonderfully," he says.

"You're not scared?"

"Oh, I'm terrified," Ethan says. Crinkle, crinkle. "You have wet dreams about evil ducks."

"To be accurate," Oz says, recovering, despite himself. "The duck was animated and you were the one who got the beak job. I was crushing on the pig." Another considering look, the smoothness of which is utterly destroyed by Ethan's sudden collapse into laughter. The way he rolls away and then rolls back to rest his head on Oz's chest, his hardness pressed without demand against Oz's leg.

Mexico heat pulls sex out like taffy. Long, slow, creamy strands that break and rejoin and are sweet and never have to end.

I'm serious, Oz wants to say. This is really dangerous. You should be scared. And it was a talk they are going to have to have. They really are. And they will. Or maybe -- and the tingle is starting again. Ethan's breath coming a little faster, his hands beginning to wander again.

Maybe they already have.