*****

There's a point somewhere in the murky hours when night is folding in on itself and morning is sliding across the distant sky where it just doesn't make sense to try and fall asleep. You can turn the off the lights, shade the windows, dig out your emergency sleep-inducing candles. You can chug warm milk and read yourself stories 'til the words ring in your head. You can count imaginary fucking sheep 'til their wool turns blue and they start snarling at you to get on with it, but if something else is pulling at you, something that has the cojones to flip sleep the bird, to turn on sleep like a rebel child on a schoolmarm, well, there's really nothing for it but to follow that thing to the ends of the earth.

Oz felt that pull. He'd done the requisite tossing and turning, plodded through the relaxation techniques that are either supposed to lullaby you to Nod or encourage astral projection, he couldn't remember which, but still he laid awake, the hours pressing down on him as exhaustion made him weak and churlish. He'd already kicked his blankets off, then his sheets, and he now he gazed down the length of his pale body, to the purple toenails peeking out from behind the rises of his knees. With one hand, he traced the arc of his hipbone through his boxer shorts, feeling it rise and fall into the shallow of his pelvis. A feathery jolt of electricity flooded through him, and he repeated the motion. His body knew just what was keeping him up; it knew the ailment, and it craved the cure.

Silently, Oz rose from his bed, clenching his toes into the thick carpet. He didn't quite know what to do with himself, although the answer was painfully obvious. It seemed like a cheat, that relief was so nearby, so willing. Since he'd been back in town, it had been no secret that there was one flame he was welcome to reignite. Stretching the tight muscles that ran along his back, he crossed the room and grasped the doorknob, not turning it, just warming the cool metal with his hand. Someday, this might feel natural again.

It was only a few feet from Oz's room to Devon's, only a few moments to take it all back before it had begun. Then Devon's doorway, the event horizon, because Devon never missed an opportunity. Devon was like that; he was everywhere, doing everything, meeting everyone. It was dizzying, really. Oz had always been the calm in his storm. Together they had made a place where they could be at peace.

That had been a long time ago, though, and things had changed since then. Willow had happened, and Willow had slipped away, and the wolf had taken over for a bit, and Oz had been a dangerous person to know. He'd done seclusion, he'd done immersion, he'd done anything he could think of that might someday make him someone fit to be near the people he loved. There'd been a point in Eastern Europe when he'd even tried to live the legend. He'd howled at the moon and rattled around in old churches, scaring the natives and giving life to the nightmares of children. He was free of the moon, but not of himself, and he'd tormented himself with the half transformations that kept him in control but let him feel the sense of unreality that went along with monstrosity. He'd only lasted a month like that, though. It had done nothing to free his soul, and he could smell a lynching on the wind if he stuck around.

It had all brought him back here, back to this apartment, with its comforting odors and unkempt charm. When he'd finally told Devon about his curse, Devon had laughed his ass off, and then promised Oz that whatever was going on with him, he'd always have a room there. He didn't believe Oz's story, but he trusted him innately. Oz was grateful for that simplicity tonight. He didn't want to talk, or explain. That's not what he wanted to do. He wanted to breathe Devon's breath, hot and pure. He wanted his skin to stick to Devon's, bound by sweat and familiarity, 'til it didn't matter who was who, 'til their pleasure was a mutual whole. He wanted to unleash on Devon in a way he'd never felt safe doing with Willow, because he knew Devon could take it, knew Devon would relish it, knew Devon would give it back.

Body trembling, he leaned in Devon's open doorway, mindlessly scratching a long, deep itch on the outside of his leg, offhandedly erotic as always. Devon's eyes opened, bleary and sleep-filled, then alert and alive. He had been waiting for this, wondering what happened to this. In an instant he was up, striding over to Oz, pulling Oz to him with one arm and catching the back of the boy's neck with the other. The same quick motion brought their mouths together, and for a few seconds they were out of sync. Oz was searching while Devon was forceful, but the taste of each other brought back the old knowledge. Pulling back a little, Devon allowed just their lips to touch, sliding over each other, unstable, until Devon caught Oz's lower lip in both of his and sucked, playing his tongue along the top of Oz's chin. Oz could feel his heartbeat quickening, could feel his fingers aching to move in the familiar patterns. He wrapped his arms around Devon, drawing him closer. Feeling Devon's growing excitement against his sensitive belly skin, he gasped, pressing their bodies even closer. Devon leaned him back against the wall, no time for the bed, all those years of memory collapsing into this moment. Oz grasped at the other boy's back, his unclipped nails scratching lightly.

"Oz�ah�are you sur�ohh�."

"Shh, Devon. Shh."

"Oz, I wanted�"

"We don't have to talk about it. Just be with me, Devon, and don't make me talk."

With the tips of his fingers, Devon pulled the waistband of Oz's boxers away from his skin, rubbing his thumbs over the dimpled red flesh. Looking up into Oz's dark eyes, he smiled as he slid his hands down thin, strong legs, pulling the white material down so that it fell to the floor. Oz moaned low in his throat as Devon began to kiss his way from shoulder blade to chest, finally letting just the edge of his tongue brush the end of Oz's hard nipple. Oz felt the tickle rush sensation of one of Devon's hands moving down his back, and then a finger was sliding into the curve of Oz's ass. He touched places that Oz had long since forgotten could make him melt, and he did so with the quiet authority of someone who knows his territory, loves it. The twin movements of tongue and finger began to lull Oz, and slow waves of pleasure moved over his body. Then, deliberately breaking the rhythm that he had created, Devon simultaneously engulfed Oz's nipple in his mouth and thrust his finger into Oz's eager ass, feeling the muscles contract around it. Continuing to suck and nip, Devon added another finger, knowing just what Oz needed to prepare him. Oz knocked his head backwards into the wall, but his cry of pain was outdone by his groans of pleasure. Speeding up his fingers, Devon felt Oz widen slightly, as the muscles relaxed. He quickly disentangled himself from Oz's hot and fidgeting form.

Eying the beads of sweat that have formed on the guitarist's forehead, Devon murmured, "You are so beautiful. Don't move." He retrieved the lubricant from the milk crate he used as a bedside table, and returned to his lover. Pressing their bodies together, he kissed Oz long and hard. "It's been too long. I've missed this. You. Have you missed me, Oz?"

Oz snarled in frustration. "I said I don't want to talk." With sudden force, he pushed Devon across the room and onto the mattress. He remained standing, looking down at the surprised boy sprawled across the rumpled blankets. For a moment he saw as the wolf saw, clearly and without emotion. Unless hunger counted as an emotion. It had before.

He fell to his knees, straddling Devon, batting aside the bottle Devon still has gripped in one hand. He knew what he needed, knew what he didn't. Something clicked in Devon's eyes, and he seemed to understand. With either hand, he grasped Oz's hips, marveling at the compactness of Oz's unmistakably manly form. He closed his eyes, not sure what to expect, but they flew open again when Oz plunged downward, taking all of Devon in at once, and riding him. Devon's head rolled back, and it was like he was being fucked with his own dick. Oz grunted and panted on top of him, forcing him deeper and deeper, faster and faster.

"Oz, I can't, I can't keep this up�Oz�." But Oz wasn't listening; he was following his own beat, just like he always did. With a yell that winded its way into a moan as it hit the air, Devon came, jerking upwards and then collapsing into the bed. Oz's mouth twitched, and his teeth flashed in the pale light that seeped in from Devon's window. He jerked downward one last time, and then a low sound that wasn't quite a growl rumbled out from a place that wasn't quite his mouth. The sound vibrated from his chest, and Devon reached one hand up in order to feel what Oz was feeling.

Pushing into the hand, Oz lifted himself up off of Devon, and by the time he had settled at Devon's side, his eyes looked close to normal again. He leaned back into Devon, trying to fill his perception with the boy's salty after-sex scent. It reminded him of the beach, and of sex under the pier, long days spent soaking in the endless footstep serenade that echoed down from the boardwalk. Wrapped in each other, safe and pure, Devon drifting cold white sand across Oz's skin.

He listened to Devon's breath as the boy fell asleep, rhythmic and strong. He listened until dawn, until the sun poured in, tinted red by Devon's curtains. The light fell on his hand, and he examined the pale scars that traced across it, evidence of a hundred nights spent fighting with the metal bars of a cage. Sleep didn't come, but it was okay. He didn't feel tired anymore.

*end*