Water Is Slate
While the club wouldn't have been Xander's first choice to get a beer, it was the only place open at two in the morning that had air conditioning. Out of the smothering clutch of the island's humidity, the thud-thump of the bass was a mere caress, and the mass of bodies no different from the revelry in the streets that night. Xander made his way across the dance floor with grace, each body an obstacle rather than a distraction. He felt, if anything, removed to another plane of reality. When he reached the bar, he tossed the unfamiliar, thick bills onto the surface and made the universal sign to indicate two beers.
The first one, he gulped, and even lukewarm, it was twenty degrees cooler than the surface of his skin felt.
Somebody tapped on his shoulder, and the twitch of his muscles was a forestalled strike. It's safe here, he thought to himself, even though it was a lie.
And behind him, Oz smiled, as if they had never left high school, as if the high school wasn't rubble at the bottom of a crater at the entrance to Hell.
The music was too loud, and Xander's greeting was, he knew, a mere mouthing of Oz's name. He handed the second beer over, and reaching past him, Oz dropped money on the counter as well. Four beers appeared as if, ha! By magic. Under the thrum of the music, shellacked electronica and wails, they split the drinks between them, robbed of conversation in the absence of silence.
Finally, Oz tilted his head, his hand loose around Xander's wrist. In backwards motion, they began wending back across the dance floor, but instead became trapped within it.
Between the crush of unknown flesh, Oz reached up and traced the edges of Xander's eye patch. It was a delicate touch, but firm, and then his thumb stroked up Xander's cheekbone.
Xander caught his breath, and as he did, the crowd surged, and their bodies pressed together, Oz's hand sliding to catch against Xander's throat.
It had been months since Xander had been touched, and sometimes it felt like years, and somehow all the time that had separated them, all the broken hearts and shredded lives fell away for a moment, and Xander bent his head, and they kissed.
The music was too loud, too ambient, for Xander to catch a melody, but the beat was unmistakable when their bodies writhed together, almost involuntarily, to echo the frantic movement of the masses that surrounded them. He ached, down to his blood, down to his bones, and Oz's tongue sought out his, counterpoint to the way Xander's hips shifted, seeking right--
God.
Xander groaned, the sound reduced to an intimate thrum, resounding within the two of them. He slid his hands down Oz's back, tracing the rhythm of his ribs, the pattern of his spine. Oz snaked a hand under the waistband of Xander's jeans, and Xander wished, desperately, for space, for an empty hallway, for a bed.
On every side of him, women and men danced, skin sticky and hair mussed. An audience, if any of them could see outside their own galaxies. Xander thrust blindly against Oz, uncaring. Oz's fingers were tight against the back of his neck, his breath a hot bloom on Xander's cheek. They stopped kissing only to pant, only to let float moans that built into the drumbeat of the club.
Then suddenly, cool air where there had been flesh, and Xander staggered at the loss of support--he hadn't been dancing, not really.
Oz stared at him, eyes wide under the smudges of eyeliner, his lips parted. He tilted his head, a quick jerk of direction, and then he spun, ducking around people, every angle an evasion.
Xander blinked, then blinked again.
Then he followed him out the door.
Compared to the center of the dance floor, the fragrant night was ice and sugar and darkness, and Xander barely had time to breath before Oz pressed him into an alcove, hands tugging against the fastenings of his jeans. His body responded before his mind did, and Xander did the same for Oz, his fingers fumbling as long-rusty memory supplied him action.
The sounds they made were harsh, choked with quiet, the rough rustling of cloth eclipsing them. It was almost too difficult for Xander to move his hand in time with Oz, to match the thrust of his cock with the slide of his palm.
He came too quickly, his hips moving jaggedly as his knees went weak. Catching his back against the wall, Xander finally managed to watch Oz, watch his head fall forward, his hand clawing into the front of Xander's shirt. It seemed like minutes before he came, his breath hissing out from behind bared teeth.
Slowly, slowly, they slumped against each other, and Xander licked his lips and stared into the sky.
Then Oz stirred against him, raised his head, and laughed. "Hey," he said.
Xander smiled. "Hey."