Rupert Giles is lying on his back on thin carpeting of his
living room floor, his arms outstretched,the fingers of his
left hand barely grazing Oz's body as he chuckles, enjoying
the sensation of being totally baked and listening to obscure
Bowie with someone else who, finally, understands.
Oz hears his chuckle, and matches it with something
resembling a chuckle but much softer and mellower, like a
distant echo. He rolls on his side, his face near Giles'. "We
both like young and we both like loud..." he whisper-sings,
faintly off-key, then tilts his head slightly for a slow kiss.