Ozslashficathon
Mar. 31st, 2004 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleTitle: words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup
Author: Doyle
Rating: R
Pairing: Oz/Devon
Notes: for the Ozslashficathon for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girlflesh who wanted drugs and rock and roll and no major fluff.
And the punchline is that he isn’t even surprised, like this is a rehearsal for the day when he’ll turn a corner in Istanbul and find Willow there. He’s been in Hamburg three days when he guys he’s crashing with mention a party, and he goes along, and Devon’s on the stage, and Oz just thinks: interesting.
Band’s a little better than the Dingoes. Devon’s singing’s no better, no worse. He must be twenty-five now, same as Oz, and Devon at twenty-five looks pretty much like Devon at twenty and eighteen and fifteen, thin and pretty and lit with the attitude that Kurt and Jesus would kick the shit from each other to suck his cock.
Place like this doesn’t even warrant a backstage, so he sits at the bar and waits for the band to come out front. Oz can get by in a dozen languages, say hi and order drinks in fifteen more. Half the bottles behind the bar are mineral water. Oz can say ‘no thank you, I don’t want any drugs’ in eight major European languages, ‘I’m looking to score’ in twelve. He orders a coke, drinks it slowly.
Devon, when he spots him past the groupies, gives him a sloppy hug that staggers them both backwards like drunken dancers, pissing off the guy behind Oz. They ignore the pissy German and Devon says, “Where the hell’d you go, man? Been like two years.”
“Yet your math’s as stellar as ever.” Sixth grade math, Ms. Michaels’ class, Devon cheating from his homework. If a werewolf leaves California going East at sixty miles per hour and a musician stays in Sunnydale till it’s a hole in the ground and then goes all over at a hundred miles per hour, where will they meet? Five years later, a shitty club in the Reeperbahn, and Ms. Michaels gives them twin gold stars.
Devon gets himself water from the bar, another soda for Oz. “You hear about Sunnydale?”
“Hm,” he agrees. “I heard it was a meteor.” No word a lie, since this is the official story on Sunnydale. He caught the TV movie on cable last year. Exciting. The version he got from Giles was more interesting, plus actually being true, but he feels its wider appeal would be limited.
“Fucking fire from the sky,” Devon says, holding his hands apart, “blew a hole in the ground sizea’ Texas.”
Not exactly plausible, Oz thinks, but Dev always flunked Physics, no matter how many papers he copied. Anyway, the pinprick pupils mean Devon’s high, so he’s allowed to talk more crap than usual.
The plan was to leave Hamburg after a couple of days, go to the more secluded parts of Germany. He’s heard rumours, legends, about a pack of werewolves in the Black Forest. Wants to get there before winter.
They stay in the club till it closes at three, and Devon pulls him backstage – turns out there is one, not much more than a concrete hallway – and out the staff exit, and when everybody’s gone for the night Devon shoves him against the wall by the dumpsters and sucks him off, which is the moment when Oz discovers Devon now has a pierced tongue. And Oz thinks, well, maybe he could stay a couple of weeks.
Devon’s place is big enough for two people, if they don’t mind sharing a bed and one of them is short. Oz fits the criteria, and he and his duffel bag move in. The building’s not a prime piece of real estate but the neighbours are cool about loud noises in the middle of the night and nobody ever comes looking for rent money, so it’s all good.
The singing gets Devon free drinks, unless the club owner’s in a mellow mood, and then the band get a couple dozen euros to flash around on stuff like food. Oz still has cash left from selling the van. That lasts them till October, and then the weather turns chill and the apartment needs heat.
Oz temps in the bar a couple of nights a week. Easy work, and the manager’s cool about letting him take shifts when Devon’s band are on. They actually draw in crowds these days. He’s starting to suspect that Devon may honest-to-God be the next big thing, and that would be the funniest thing that could ever happen.
“No, it’s good,” he says straight-faced when they’re getting home at four in the morning. “You could be the biggest German music star since David Hasselhoff.”
“Fuck you,” Devon says, pushing his full weight on the door. The rain leaks from the roof, makes it swell. It’s bad today. He finally has to rush it, almost breaking it down.
Oz sits on the single bed while Devon paws through the fridge and bitches about the cold and how they’re out of orangensaft. He learned in Nepal how to tune out external distractions, because before he could control the wolf he had to reduce his world down to him and it. Comes in handy for Dev’s stream of consciousness narration of his life.
Devon, Willow… Oz feels most balanced when he’s with someone who talks a lot.
“Oz, man,” Devon says. “I said, we need to get the space heater looked at. Get a new one, maybe. Cold as a bitch here in December.”
He thinks of dark forests in the snow. “I don’t know if I’ll be here that long,” he says absently, forgetting till Devon swears at him and slams the door that he didn’t say it to himself.
Devon comes back at six with juice and poptarts from the twenty-four hour on the next street over. He tells a long story about an American guy at the store recognizing him from the club. Recognition makes Devon happy. He doesn’t mention anything about Oz leaving. They fuck slowly under a heap of blankets, body heat making up for the subzero apartment.
American guy comes to the bar that night. Oz sees him talk to Devon, heads close together, and he sees the vial that passes from the American’s hand. Halfway through the set, when Devon’s eyes glaze over and he falls off the stage, Oz is already running forward.
Eyes that are all pupil, sweating, babbling about time being too fast and too slow at the same time. Survey says ketamine. Horse tranq. Oz pictures a field of wasted My Little Ponies, trackmarks beneath their shiny plastic eyes. He has to let Devon slide to the ground in the hallway while he throws himself at the apartment door.
Devon drops bonelessly onto the bed, body folding into an L so he’s half over the edge.
Oz pulls him into some position more comfortable, checks his airways are okay. He spends the rest of the night sitting at the end of the bed reading the music magazines Devon keeps stacked around the apartment like alternative furniture.
November’s much the same as the month before it. Devon sings, people worship him, Oz thinks about leaving. Three days in the middle of the month he spends meditating.
He’d like to say the wolf is under control, now.
(Even on a new moon a woman wearing Willow’s perfume will pass him, or he’ll smell meat cooking, and beneath his skin he feels the claws.)
Devon doesn’t ask. Assumes he found Buddha on his travels East.
(He hasn’t Changed in close to two years.)
Breathe in, hold, count, exhale. Repeat. Find the calm centre inside himself.
(He dreams of Veruca’s blood, rich and intoxicating, and wakes up hard.)
Devon’s band break up the week before Christmas. Or they just fire him, it’s hard to tell. He mixes the story up when he tries to tell Oz, losing what he was saying mid-sentence to giggle at some private thought or pull at Oz’s clothes.
Oz lets himself be slowly stripped like this. Most of Devon’s clothes are still on, but that’s okay. Oz tugs at his shirt, sucking above his collarbone, up to his neck, as if he can pull the blood straight through the skin. Unbuttons his jeans at the same time. Their breath hangs in the air like smoke.
After, Devon falls asleep, or passes out. He’s a shallow breather. Oz has to shake him in his sleep, sometimes, just to be sure he hasn’t died.
He doesn’t think Devon would choose to die, if he was told he could go out young, leave a beautiful corpse that would never get old, never be forced to grow up. Devon knows he’s hot, yeah, but he’s vain only in that he appreciates what that hotness can get for him.
Devon, for all that he’s doing a great impression of slow suicide right now, is a survivor. Got out of Sunnydale with barely a scratch, physical or otherwise. Oz has every faith that he’ll outlive them all.
That’s the type of thing he’d like to put in the note, only he doesn’t leave one. Packs his bag and leaves Hamburg on December 19th. Still on schedule, give or take a few months. He arrives at the outskirts of the forests on the first night of the wolf-moon, and when he feels his bones shift and the fur cover his body it’s such a relief to let it happen.
The last thing he thinks of as he changes is Istanbul.
The werewolf moves slowly through the fresh snow. It would have bounded through these woods, once, following the howls on the wind and the tantalizing blood in the air - but it’s old, almost eight, a full two years older than its kind normally live, when they’re not killed by hunters first. Its human form unwittingly prolonged its life with the same meditations that kept it buried inside the uncomfortable two-legged skin.
The wolf has been dying for a year. The human felt it, researched the cause until he was convinced that it was simply age and inevitability. He made the arrangements, then, to come to this place, follow the legends of a pack deep in the old forests of Europe.
The wolf knows none of this. It understands only that the moon is heavy and bright on the snow, and the air is crisp and good for tracking. There are other wolves not far away. It’s a good night for running. But it’s weary, and will
just lie down beneath
the trees for a
little
while
before –
Author: Doyle
Rating: R
Pairing: Oz/Devon
Notes: for the Ozslashficathon for
girlflesh who wanted drugs and rock and roll and no major fluff.And the punchline is that he isn’t even surprised, like this is a rehearsal for the day when he’ll turn a corner in Istanbul and find Willow there. He’s been in Hamburg three days when he guys he’s crashing with mention a party, and he goes along, and Devon’s on the stage, and Oz just thinks: interesting.
Band’s a little better than the Dingoes. Devon’s singing’s no better, no worse. He must be twenty-five now, same as Oz, and Devon at twenty-five looks pretty much like Devon at twenty and eighteen and fifteen, thin and pretty and lit with the attitude that Kurt and Jesus would kick the shit from each other to suck his cock.
Place like this doesn’t even warrant a backstage, so he sits at the bar and waits for the band to come out front. Oz can get by in a dozen languages, say hi and order drinks in fifteen more. Half the bottles behind the bar are mineral water. Oz can say ‘no thank you, I don’t want any drugs’ in eight major European languages, ‘I’m looking to score’ in twelve. He orders a coke, drinks it slowly.
Devon, when he spots him past the groupies, gives him a sloppy hug that staggers them both backwards like drunken dancers, pissing off the guy behind Oz. They ignore the pissy German and Devon says, “Where the hell’d you go, man? Been like two years.”
“Yet your math’s as stellar as ever.” Sixth grade math, Ms. Michaels’ class, Devon cheating from his homework. If a werewolf leaves California going East at sixty miles per hour and a musician stays in Sunnydale till it’s a hole in the ground and then goes all over at a hundred miles per hour, where will they meet? Five years later, a shitty club in the Reeperbahn, and Ms. Michaels gives them twin gold stars.
Devon gets himself water from the bar, another soda for Oz. “You hear about Sunnydale?”
“Hm,” he agrees. “I heard it was a meteor.” No word a lie, since this is the official story on Sunnydale. He caught the TV movie on cable last year. Exciting. The version he got from Giles was more interesting, plus actually being true, but he feels its wider appeal would be limited.
“Fucking fire from the sky,” Devon says, holding his hands apart, “blew a hole in the ground sizea’ Texas.”
Not exactly plausible, Oz thinks, but Dev always flunked Physics, no matter how many papers he copied. Anyway, the pinprick pupils mean Devon’s high, so he’s allowed to talk more crap than usual.
The plan was to leave Hamburg after a couple of days, go to the more secluded parts of Germany. He’s heard rumours, legends, about a pack of werewolves in the Black Forest. Wants to get there before winter.
They stay in the club till it closes at three, and Devon pulls him backstage – turns out there is one, not much more than a concrete hallway – and out the staff exit, and when everybody’s gone for the night Devon shoves him against the wall by the dumpsters and sucks him off, which is the moment when Oz discovers Devon now has a pierced tongue. And Oz thinks, well, maybe he could stay a couple of weeks.
Devon’s place is big enough for two people, if they don’t mind sharing a bed and one of them is short. Oz fits the criteria, and he and his duffel bag move in. The building’s not a prime piece of real estate but the neighbours are cool about loud noises in the middle of the night and nobody ever comes looking for rent money, so it’s all good.
The singing gets Devon free drinks, unless the club owner’s in a mellow mood, and then the band get a couple dozen euros to flash around on stuff like food. Oz still has cash left from selling the van. That lasts them till October, and then the weather turns chill and the apartment needs heat.
Oz temps in the bar a couple of nights a week. Easy work, and the manager’s cool about letting him take shifts when Devon’s band are on. They actually draw in crowds these days. He’s starting to suspect that Devon may honest-to-God be the next big thing, and that would be the funniest thing that could ever happen.
“No, it’s good,” he says straight-faced when they’re getting home at four in the morning. “You could be the biggest German music star since David Hasselhoff.”
“Fuck you,” Devon says, pushing his full weight on the door. The rain leaks from the roof, makes it swell. It’s bad today. He finally has to rush it, almost breaking it down.
Oz sits on the single bed while Devon paws through the fridge and bitches about the cold and how they’re out of orangensaft. He learned in Nepal how to tune out external distractions, because before he could control the wolf he had to reduce his world down to him and it. Comes in handy for Dev’s stream of consciousness narration of his life.
Devon, Willow… Oz feels most balanced when he’s with someone who talks a lot.
“Oz, man,” Devon says. “I said, we need to get the space heater looked at. Get a new one, maybe. Cold as a bitch here in December.”
He thinks of dark forests in the snow. “I don’t know if I’ll be here that long,” he says absently, forgetting till Devon swears at him and slams the door that he didn’t say it to himself.
Devon comes back at six with juice and poptarts from the twenty-four hour on the next street over. He tells a long story about an American guy at the store recognizing him from the club. Recognition makes Devon happy. He doesn’t mention anything about Oz leaving. They fuck slowly under a heap of blankets, body heat making up for the subzero apartment.
American guy comes to the bar that night. Oz sees him talk to Devon, heads close together, and he sees the vial that passes from the American’s hand. Halfway through the set, when Devon’s eyes glaze over and he falls off the stage, Oz is already running forward.
Eyes that are all pupil, sweating, babbling about time being too fast and too slow at the same time. Survey says ketamine. Horse tranq. Oz pictures a field of wasted My Little Ponies, trackmarks beneath their shiny plastic eyes. He has to let Devon slide to the ground in the hallway while he throws himself at the apartment door.
Devon drops bonelessly onto the bed, body folding into an L so he’s half over the edge.
Oz pulls him into some position more comfortable, checks his airways are okay. He spends the rest of the night sitting at the end of the bed reading the music magazines Devon keeps stacked around the apartment like alternative furniture.
November’s much the same as the month before it. Devon sings, people worship him, Oz thinks about leaving. Three days in the middle of the month he spends meditating.
He’d like to say the wolf is under control, now.
(Even on a new moon a woman wearing Willow’s perfume will pass him, or he’ll smell meat cooking, and beneath his skin he feels the claws.)
Devon doesn’t ask. Assumes he found Buddha on his travels East.
(He hasn’t Changed in close to two years.)
Breathe in, hold, count, exhale. Repeat. Find the calm centre inside himself.
(He dreams of Veruca’s blood, rich and intoxicating, and wakes up hard.)
Devon’s band break up the week before Christmas. Or they just fire him, it’s hard to tell. He mixes the story up when he tries to tell Oz, losing what he was saying mid-sentence to giggle at some private thought or pull at Oz’s clothes.
Oz lets himself be slowly stripped like this. Most of Devon’s clothes are still on, but that’s okay. Oz tugs at his shirt, sucking above his collarbone, up to his neck, as if he can pull the blood straight through the skin. Unbuttons his jeans at the same time. Their breath hangs in the air like smoke.
After, Devon falls asleep, or passes out. He’s a shallow breather. Oz has to shake him in his sleep, sometimes, just to be sure he hasn’t died.
He doesn’t think Devon would choose to die, if he was told he could go out young, leave a beautiful corpse that would never get old, never be forced to grow up. Devon knows he’s hot, yeah, but he’s vain only in that he appreciates what that hotness can get for him.
Devon, for all that he’s doing a great impression of slow suicide right now, is a survivor. Got out of Sunnydale with barely a scratch, physical or otherwise. Oz has every faith that he’ll outlive them all.
That’s the type of thing he’d like to put in the note, only he doesn’t leave one. Packs his bag and leaves Hamburg on December 19th. Still on schedule, give or take a few months. He arrives at the outskirts of the forests on the first night of the wolf-moon, and when he feels his bones shift and the fur cover his body it’s such a relief to let it happen.
The last thing he thinks of as he changes is Istanbul.
The werewolf moves slowly through the fresh snow. It would have bounded through these woods, once, following the howls on the wind and the tantalizing blood in the air - but it’s old, almost eight, a full two years older than its kind normally live, when they’re not killed by hunters first. Its human form unwittingly prolonged its life with the same meditations that kept it buried inside the uncomfortable two-legged skin.
The wolf has been dying for a year. The human felt it, researched the cause until he was convinced that it was simply age and inevitability. He made the arrangements, then, to come to this place, follow the legends of a pack deep in the old forests of Europe.
The wolf knows none of this. It understands only that the moon is heavy and bright on the snow, and the air is crisp and good for tracking. There are other wolves not far away. It’s a good night for running. But it’s weary, and will
just lie down beneath
the trees for a
little
while
before –
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2004-04-15 09:08 pm (UTC)