FEAST AND FAMINE
by Abbie
Notes

 

It's the first time they're together during Thanksgiving. Oz isn't much of a traditionalist--and from what he knows of Xander's past, there aren't many family rituals that he'd like to carry forward. Besides, Oz has always been more of a "roll your own" sort of guy: take what you need, what has meaning for you, leave the rest.

Turkey though--he figures that's a given. As well as mashed potatoes, skins still on, of course. And yams with marsh mellows. Xander hasn't lost his sweet tooth.

But when Oz mentions his plans for a feast on their weekly drive out of the mountains and into town, Xander gets . . . quiet.

There are times, now, when Xander grows quiet that don't worry Oz. Like when he sharpens the blade Oz made for him, the whet stone droning out a steady chant. Or on the rare warm afternoons when the wind has died down enough to make sunbathing possible and Xander toasts his skin to a golden-honey color. Those times Xander is quiet as well, drifting like the ever present clouds.

This silence is full of shattered iron and broken stakes, though, tears never ghosting skin but drowning hearts instead.

"What's up?" Oz asks.

Xander just shakes his head and stares out the window.

The question continues to bounce around the enclosed truck cab like thunder between two peaks, rolling and echoing, never answered and never ending.

Once at the store Oz pulls out their list. He performs their usual ritual of tearing the paper in half, but doesn't get even a smile for his effort. Generally they make the weekly chore of shopping part treasure hunt, part race: each trying to see who can get all their items and checkout first.

Xander takes his half and nods grimly at Oz. Then he snags a cart and marches off. Oz flinches at the stiffness in Xander's shoulders, the fierce pace he's set himself. He should be helping Xander heal, damn it, not causing him more pain.

But the silence continues as they load the their haul into the truck bed. Oz doesn't ask for the traditional victory mug of carrot-lemongrass-ginger juice (though Xander found all his items first, Oz's checkout line was quicker.) He's hopeful, though, when Xander gets back in the passenger seat. Generally they split chores like driving as well, so maybe this means Xander is ready to talk.

He fiddles with the radio when they first get in, settling finally on something country and quiet.

"Why do you think there aren't any Thanksgiving songs?" Xander finally asks.

"Maybe they figured people would be too stuffed to want to sing."

Something eases through the silence, like a single sunbeam breaking through a winter-grey sky--not enough to warm a body, but maybe enough to light a trail.

"We don't have to celebrate, you know," Oz says.

The quiet melts a little more when Xander shakes his head, then flashes Oz a quick smile. Oz turns onto the Interstate, piles of grey snow demarking the beige pavement.

It isn't until they turn off on the first county road that Xander says, "It was his favorite holiday."

Oz nods and waits.

"All that food and you didn't have to buy any presents. That was the problem with Christmas, according to Jesse. It wasn't that he didn't like presents, but buying them was always a pain. Thanksgiving was a guilt-free holiday."

Oz had heard stories of Jesse before, another of the ones who hadn't made it.

"Jesse was just a bottomless pit like me--hell, like all teenaged boys. Impossible to feel really full, you know?"

Xander is silent for another moment. "Jesse always wanted more."

More what? Oz wants to ask. More Xander? More sweet boy kisses that Xander has never told him about but Oz figures happened sometime? More of the heart and heat and goodness that Xander offers to everyone?

"We can just freeze this stuff, not have it now," Oz offers again, trying to give Xander a way out of the forest of the dead that he's wandering through.

"Just promise me we'll only do the eating, not the thanking stuff. Let's keep this guilt-free."

"Okay," Oz readily agrees.

"Too easy to want more."

Oz nods, and lets the silence grow again. He knows about want, about hunger. Some nights when the sky is empty and the snow and cold seem to suck out all the air and it's hard to breathe and the wind just wants to dance with him, pushing him this way and that, it's all he can do not to run. Change and let the stars be his trail, race until he's flying with paws breaking ice and leaping over boundaries caused by shadows and hills. He shudders and pulls his attention back to the road, the closed-in spaces and hard paths laid by men.

"Thanks," Xander says as they finally reach the smithy.

"Sure," Oz says. "But you're still peeling the yams."

Xander grins at him and the last of the clouds between them melt away. He reaches over and hauls Oz in for a kiss that is sweet and warm. There's hunger there too, and promises of love that Oz ignores, as always.

It's just too easy to want more.

 

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