Strong spring winds string the clouds out across the entire sky, wispy and thin, blanching the underlying blue. Oz laughs as chickadees play at being hummingbirds, the gusts strong enough to let them hover. He is tending the garden he keeps for himself and the master smith that morning. Mostly it's practical, root vegetables and tomatoes in pots that can easily be carried inside when the weather plays tricks. But a portion is dedicated to the brightest blossoms he can coax into growing at this altitude: poppy reds and burning-sky oranges and cerulean starbursts.
He's also planted a contorted Hawthorn outside his window. Falls of yellow flowers have just budded on it. The branches twist and Oz spends hours imagining the figures they make as the winds push them into new shapes.
When the wind shifts for the first time that morning and a familiar scent comes whipping around the corner of the workshop Oz is glad he's outside. That he's the first to see Xander. That he's the first person Xander sees.
Oz doesn't wait for his friend to come across the lawn, runs to meet him instead. As the sun has been peaking through the clouds all morning, he doesn't wait for Hellmouth-formalities, just grabs Xander and hugs him. Loosens his grip almost immediately when he scents bandages and antiseptic and realizes that Xander is hurt.
#
"Angelus," Oz repeats.
Xander nods, pulling fresh gauze out of his bag. He's been traveling for almost 48 hours straight and everything needs changing.
"He's Angel again." Xander pauses, snorts. "In control, as much as he ever is."
Now Oz nods, unsure what to say. Hears hurt that doesn't come from broken ribs or fingers or scoured skin. Helps Xander into the shower, doesn't care what the smith says, thinks. Baths new scars with gentle hands and kind soap and kisses. Holds Xander as he sways, exhaustion seeping from his soul.
Oz applies ointments that he doesn't recognize, handmade unguents that sting and soothe at the same time. Rewraps ribs. Though he isn't tired, still crawls into bed with his friend. Comforts him while he sleeps, the past creeping into the present, Xander's whimpers tearing at his own hide. Forces claws down again and again. His friend has no need of a monster.
A monster who is too late.
Falls asleep himself, though he doesn't realize it until soft nips along his throat wake him up. Xander's hair is tangled more than the mistletoe in the juniper out front. Oz tugs on it, forces a shiny eye and a scabbed hole to look at him.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," comes the easy reply. The kiss that follows is soft and sleepy and calm. Not a beginning. Not an end. Just is.
They've never done this before. Kisses are posts along the road to something else, not a destination in and of themselves. Oz tries to clutch and move and stroke but Xander stops him, holds arms down with no pressure and resumes kissing. Oz lets himself fall into the present, pay attention to lips and a soft tongue and pause and kiss again.
Eventually Xander's taste changes--the faint flavor of come floats in--and Oz finally gets it. Xander needs time. Time to adjust to excitement without pressure. Time to accept kisses that come with friendship and not pain. Time to find himself, who he is, who he can be, when he's in lust again.
Oz explores Xander even more leisurely now, touching skin lightly without tickling or pain. The laughter is missing. Something akin to joy still floats between them though, as well as wonder. Oz doesn't know how long it's been since Xander has been able to feel excited without fear or memories. Suspects it's been a while.
Questing fingers exploring his own body let him know when it's alright to do more. He strokes Xander's penis, letting the other man lead the dance, follows patterns and speed and tightness. He wants to cheat, wants to bring Xander off first, but is suddenly afraid that was part of the torment, being brought off by your enemy, unable to control yourself.
Waits and rides the tides and unseen winds that blow through the room and lets the storm take him and doesn't stifle a single moan, lets all his delight shine through. Comes huffing and quiet, pushing himself through the spark hole, into darkness and light. Knows he falters in his own grip.
Is glad to realize that was partly the point.
Finally returns and kisses Xander and speeds up. Xander pulls back to watch his face, dark eye unblinking, making sure of his partner, seeing Oz, no one else. Taking no chance of another's face being superimposed. The seeing grows cloudy quickly, and Xander comes with a cry, mouth panting and open, as if to scream.
Moisture gathers around the corner of Xander's eye. He doesn't acknowledge it, but wipes it away, then lays back as Oz cleans up their accumulated mess. Kisses Oz again. Single word, "Thanks," then curls back up to sleep.
Xander doesn't dream again the whole afternoon while Oz watches and deburrs metal and thinks of cages.
#
In spite of his injuries, Xander's hands are still strong and polishing is something a one-eyed man can do easily enough. The master smith is strangely quiet, only teases Xander sometimes, when he seems most able to take it. Xander responds with quiet as well. It takes Oz by surprise. Doesn't learn until much later about the smith's younger brother and his time in a Vietnam POW camp.
Spring winds warm to summer zephyrs, the thin atmosphere offering little protection from the sun. Xander's skin turns golden again in the light. He lets Oz cut his hair, though he bitches about the result for two weeks afterward. Laughs out loud for the first time when Oz pulls him into one of the streams that runs about two miles from the smithy, and gasps and splashes water and Oz sees that his friend has forgotten, at least for while. Plays horrible music on the experimental iron flute the smith made, out of tune with Oz's guitar and the smith's tenor, but doesn't seem to mind. Sings softly other times, doodling words and notes.
Follows Oz at night sometimes, when he goes out to watch the stars. The wolf hasn't been let out since Xander has been there, which makes it both harder and easier.
The wolf is always there. Oz doesn't hide it. Doesn't advertise it either.
They give each other hand jobs, and blow jobs after a while, but no penetration. Oz listens when Xander talks, when he needs to talk, but doesn't ask questions. Holds him when he hurts too much and the tears leak out. Pounds iron flat and thin afterwards.
"It's alright," Xander says one night as they lay piled together like puppies, sides still sore from laughter that flowed in when Oz tickled and Xander had tickled back and sex had swept them up and Oz had almost pushed, almost tried seeking heat and goodness and opening Xander up watching him blossom but Oz didn't, pulled back, used hands on dick and teeth in neck instead.
"Hmm?" Oz asks, cheek and temple and jaw still pillowed on Xander's chest where breath comes more freely now. Oz tells himself it's because Xander is used to the altitude now, but knows it's also because the fear that had caged Xander is growing thinner bars.
Xander nips at him, pushes him back and bites again, harder. Always the throat, Oz realizes again.
"T-t-the wolf. Sometimes it seems like you need it here."
Oz shivers as cool air hits wet bite marks. Xander nibbles, raising more goose-flesh. Oz shakes his head, doesn't want to explain. Xander worries the skin down further along his shoulder, waits.
When did Xander get so good at asking questions in silence?
"It isn't like a vampire game face. I can't bring out the wolf then pull him back. I have . . . less control than that."
"I won't be safe." The truth lies blandly between them.
"Probably." Oz doesn't want to acknowledge it. Won't lie though.
#
There are no monsters--no other monsters--on the mountain. Still, the next night, Xander pulls out the blade that Oz made for him and sharpens it. Oz sits in the corner of their room, fingers finding easy chords and progressions, sketching scales. The ease with which Xander uses the whet stone tells Oz how frequently Xander did this, sat someplace, alone and quiet, and worked the blade. He's glad that his gift is appreciated. Can't wish away the necessity of razor-edged steel in his friend's life. Isn't sure he wants to.
The pommel is battered, the sharpness of the teardrop end pounded away.
"Do you want me to fix that for you?" Oz offers.
Xander ponders. "Maybe later," he says, fingering the battered piece. "It was useful," he adds before he goes back to his work, his meditation.
Oz shivers. He hadn't envisioned this, Xander's bond with the blade, and yet at the same time it brings a wash of déjà vu that he can't shake.
"You okay?"
A smile creeps across Oz's face. Xander isn't officially a watcher, but he still sees, knows, acts as the heart. It's just one of the adult things that has blossomed from the boy.
"Yeah."
After more notes drift between them, Xander speaks again.
"I have something for you." He puts down the blade and goes back to his bag, digging in the recesses, pulling out a strip of leather.
It's a bracelet. The braid in the leather follows the same pattern Oz did around the pommel of Xander's blade. The same types of stones, obsidian and jade, are woven into it.
"Wow man. Thanks." Oz holds out his wrist and lets it be bound. He fingers the thick leather, sniffs it. Only now that he's wearing it, now that it's ends are tied, does he smell the magic. He raises his head and looks at Xander.
"I had them put an enchantment on it so it wouldn't catch fire. From the sparks and the forge and all." He ducks his head. Oz can't help but smile. Xander had had images of huge fires and molten iron running all the time before he'd actually seen the workshop as well.
"Thanks." Oz leans forward for a kiss. The sudden aggressiveness of Xander's response surprises him. He's on his back on the bed almost before he realizes it, underneath the warm weight of his friend, being ground against, upon. A tongue is thrust into his mouth in time with rhythmically dipping hips. His shirt is shoved up and ripped from him with barely a pause. Slag-hot hands pull at his pants. He tries to help but gives up quickly.
Oz is naked and Xander is shoving down his own pants before he starts to suspect what this is actually about. He tries to push back, push up, roll, but there's a desperation here that he hasn't felt before. A fright that doesn't belong. Fighting and memories deluging them like a shower of stones, sharp and stinging.
With a hard forearm across Xander's throat, Oz finally pushes Xander away. "Air needed here," Oz says. A glazed eye stares back at him blindly for a second, still struggling to reconnect, rejoin, reestablish contact.
Three panting breaths later Xander crumbles and rolls to the side, crying and shaking. Oz folds up behind him, stroking cheeks and running his palm down Xander's chest, comforting and careful, keeping his rapidly diminishing erection away from his friend's bare butt.
"It's okay--" Oz starts to say.
"It's not." Xander rocks in time with the words. "It's not, it's not, it's not."
"It's snot?" Oz asks, nipping at Xander's neck hard enough to make him wince, desperate to do anything to bring his friend out of this. "We got stuff for that you know. Called Kleenex."
The burbling laugh that follows seems equally threaded with tears, but it's a start. Oz grabs a couple tissues from the box on the nightstand and hands them to Xander. "See? Not making this up."
Another almost laugh. Xander sits up and Oz holds on, not letting go for an instant while Xander dries his eyes and blows his nose.
Xander lays back down, this time with Oz pillowed on him, as usual, and they're quiet again.
"I'm sorry," Xander finally says.
"I know. And I'm sorry too. For what happened to you."
Xander nods, rubbing his chin in Oz's hair.
There isn't anything else Oz can do. Nothing that can be said. Xander has to conquer his own monsters. Conquering Oz won't help.
#
It's late the night it does happen. Xander wakes Oz up with sharp, scared kisses. His scent is half arousal, half fear.
"Please. Now," is all he says.
Oz allows Xander's actions to convince him when Xander covers Oz's cock in a condom and slick. Shares it on his own fingers, then starts to prepare his friend. Slower than a half-thawed stream, Oz presses in one finger, then two. There's a clench of fear as each approaches, fright that Oz jerks away with hard pulls on Xander's cock. They don't kiss. Xander wantsneedsmust see Oz, as much as Oz wants to watch his friend blossom in this type of passion again.
With strokes and twisting fingers and timing as natural as hammer blows Oz gets Xander to that clutching panting swirling point, and Oz wonders if this is enough, if he should just keep going, push Xander over the edge like this, take it one step at a time, when Xander says again, "Now."
So Oz pulls his fingers out and positions himself and pushes and it's what he remembered that tightness and goodness and rocking breath pillowing his own belly and Xander's eye opening wide and wider as he's breached and opened and filled. Light seems to spill from both of them as Oz goes faster and twitches and mines deep veins and finally finds stars and gasping laughter and edges and earthquake tumbling shakes and groans as one after another they find the peak and rush back down.
There are no tears afterward. No talk or thanks. Just cleanup and stacking back together fitting of pieces never really lost and maps of kisses followed by sleep and the mere outlines of dreams.
And in the morning they are both still there.
#
"Tell me about it."
Oz doesn't need to ask about what--it's always about the monster he carries inside him that Xander used to forget about, that Oz never did. The one that Xander seeks to find now.
"It isn't like a switch, on and off. Or like a pendulum, one extreme to the other."
These words are easy, describing what the wolf isn't.
"It's, it's, like . . . " Oz pauses, thinks, but he can't say it.
The wolf is like a mountain, always inside him, always present, every time he looks. Sometimes close, sometimes far out on the horizon. Sometimes he's on it and sometimes he's under it and sometimes it encloses him. It's impossible to go around, arduous to climb over. It has secret hidden places that he'll spend his life exploring, as well as open areas where he's overcome with wildness. And now Oz has roots that start at the peak and burrow through eons of stone to the base. He and the mountain walk as one.
Rattling bars slip into his thoughts.
"It's here."
Oz nods, unsurprised that Xander knows him well enough to notice when the wolf is closer to the surface. It won't slip free, not now, not ever. Up here at the smithy it isn't necessary. The winds carry his howls and stir his skin without the need for fur and claws. Stars and tidal moon dance in his thoughts and hunt in his stead.
"Do you need to--" Xander starts.
"No." Oz can reply to that question quickly.
"What about want to?"
Never an answer to that.
Xander hefts his sword, lets himself out of the room. Oz listens to him barricade himself in the forge for the night.
Takes himself to the far side of the mountain before he lets the wolf run free.
#
Seasons shift and this fall brings rain. Mud clogs everything--machinery, noses, boots, clothes. They live too far from any of the streams to worry about flooding, but some of their neighbors aren't so lucky. The old farmhouse fills slowly, the old couple who have been up there since The Depression, the faux witches, the three idealistic guys from the city who figure that everything they need for running a farm can be found in books or on the Internet.
Oz and Xander keep busy, helping with hauling and heating and drying and cooking and running the forge and even entertaining some nights with guitar and soft singing. They manage to keep their room, so it's them alone in the late evenings. The sex leaves them breathless, not just from passion but from joy and tickling and silliness that lets them stretch from boyhood to manhood and back again, lets them resettle into skin and senses. No routine, not even seasons or mountain days are the same. But routes taken and traversed just the same, tides waxing and waning.
When the first snow drifts down Xander stands in the middle of the yard, arms out. Flakes catch on his lashes, on long curls, and dusts his shoulders. Lands in stark contrast to the patch, the void that even Xander defines himself by less.
That night they start training, mock fights, Oz still pulling back his strength, letting the other man work up to it, though days shaping metal haven't left him weak. They run in the day, when they can take a break from the forge, play tag up and down hills. Even try a little bouldering, building balance as well as strength.
Xander quickly regains, and then supersedes what he had before. Oz tells him it's the mountain. Xander claims it's the air.
But Oz knows he's right. Rocks glitter under the most recent layer of snow, half hidden in the yellowing afternoon air. Tufts of dried grass poke between them, demark the decay of erosion, the constant plant battles to turn stone to soil. They're up close to the tree line that afternoon. The junipers that live here are bent over, molded by constant winds. The few birds are big, able to hold their own against the currents.
Xander loses his way quickly in such an alien landscape, familiar markers stripped away--nothing to hold him back. Oz no longer does. He carries the mountain within him.
The neighbors gather together for dinner the week before Xander goes. They gift him as they best can, with homemade venison jerky, blessed stones and dried apples. Oz has fixed the teardrop on the end of the sword's pommel, as well as collaborated with the smith on a small matching boot knife.
The evening ends early and Oz and Xander go out to watch the stars. Xander makes up stories about their paths, how this one is that one's rejected lover, how that third one over there is really an alien spy plane, how The Empire uses the worlds on another for their secret sex camps. They laugh and tickle and nip like pups before they race each other to their room.
Kisses turn to passion and cold noses and cheeks warm soon, pressed against warmer skin. They continue to wrestle and soon are naked and hands are busy and mouths and Xander asks. Clear-eyed and happy with either answer and no need but want.
So this time? Oz says yes.
Rolls onto his back, belly up, legs spread. It's been years and Xander is gentle at first. Then harder, first with fingers, then with cock, spearing him, gutting him with kisses, fisting him with his eye, holding his cock and pulling hard in time with the stutterharsh rhythm of Xander's own hips.
There are teeth in his neck and growling that Xander can't hold back, his own monster and fears manifest. And Oz pulls back and reciprocates bites until Xander's breath is panting faster than when they're running and shivershakes quake through his shoulders and Xander is shouting and crying but holding back now remembering Oz and begging with eye and revealed hole to be whole and alright and Oz cups his cheek with a kiss and says that it is.
Then they're both spinning up and down through caves and along streams that bump and bubble and Xander lets go, lets go of remembered pain and ones he never loved and ever loved and more tears come but so does a laugh, a shout, a release, and Oz floats along for the ride, grey as clouds on the inside wrapped around cages and boulders and eons but light and fleeting as a sunrise outside and lets himself come as well.
More tears and laughter and quiet petting follow as they come back to themselves, the space where they are, where they live. They clean up and sleep and dream wrapped in knowing and carrying what they need.
Xander leaves after a few more days. Oz stays on the mountain, knowing his friend will return, in times of success as well as sorrow, or just to say hello. His is the true path of the tides.
While Oz cherishes and lives among the bones of the earth.