Concerted Effort

“Try going from A to E.” Oz’s voice was encouraging, his eyes fixed on Xander’s hands. “Like this ...” His fingers moved into position on the guitar he held and a flicker-press-strum later the warm air in the bedroom was resonant with sound, each note hanging and quivering in the full air.

Xander ghosted his fingers over the strings, trying to fix the pattern in his head and then tried it. The thick, stiff string slipped as his sweaty fingers pressed down too hard and he winced, more at the discordant twang than the throb it sent through abused, swollen flesh.

“Oz- you’ve been a saint, man, but let’s give up shall we?” Xander put the guitar down with relief and disappointment fighting it out for victory. “Even if I have mastered a chord – sort of- I don’t think coolness lies this way, you know?”

The late afternoon sun poured through the half-closed curtains and Oz squinted a little and then walked over and twitched them closed. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“No maybes,” Xander said firmly. “And how come you never mentioned the pain?” He held up his left hand to show Oz the grooves worn into his finger pads. “When the numbness wears off, I’m gonna be whimpering myself to sleep.”

Oz squatted down beside his bed and reached out, taking Xander’s hand in his. “Sore? It wears off though. You get tough.” He rubbed a rough finger against Xander’s. “Feel that?”

“Hurts,” Xander whined, hearing himself from a distance. Hot in here...but Oz’s hand felt cool.

“What? Just touching it?”

The surprise in Oz’s voice made Xander reconsider. “Do it again.”

Slow, gentle scrape against hot rawness. Yeah, it hurt but it was a different kind of pain when Oz made it happen. A tiny twinge of pain in four finger tips and he felt it race through him, like a tour of Europe; twelve erogenous zones in six seconds. Oz glanced up. “Really hurts?”

“You’ve no idea,” Xander said, whispering the words into the quiet room.

“My fault,” Oz said. “Should have taken it easy, broken you in gently, first time and all that.” He glanced up. “Try one more time? Something new?”

Only Oz could say it in a way that put no pressure on and was impossible to refuse. Xander’s head nodded ‘yes’ before he thought about it, getting back a slow smile.


He expected Oz to pick up his own guitar again but Oz reached out and passed Xander the one he’d been using all afternoon; the one Oz said was good to learn on, but not much else, long, bony fingers patting the orange wood with something that wasn’t affection – Oz wasn’t the sentimental sort – but came close to respect.

“Here; try that chord again.”

Xander laboriously fitted his fingers to the strings, knuckles bent awkwardly. Oz hissed, fingers twitching, and fitted himself between the wall the bed was against and Xander’s back, wriggling and twisting until he was kneeling behind him.

Pale hands appeared in front of Xander and a pointed, sharp chin dug into his shoulder to go with the knees against his ass.

“Uh, Oz?” Not that he minded, but Oz was as close as he’d ever been and his hands might have been cool, but his body was giving off heat like a tiny new sun.

“Ever seen kids at weddings dancing on people’s shoes?” Oz asked, running a hand across the strings until they sang softly in relief.

Xander’s toes twinged, remembering. “I’ve been in those shoes,” he said bitterly, “and no, the kids aren’t like little angels; more like miniature elephants.”

That got a silent laugh that he felt because Oz widened his knees and scootched in closer still. “Move your hands – yeah – see where I’m putting mine? Put yours on top of them.”

Xander’s hands were bigger, but he tried, feeling a stripe of coolness against his bruised flesh. “Now relax. Don’t fight it; just follow my lead, okay?”

“Try,” Xander murmured, sparkles dancing in front of his eyes. Kind of dusty in here, each mote with a note attached. Mote, note, note, mote, Oz attaching them with sticky tape, singing dust....a sharp stab of ouch brought him back. “Did you just bite me?”

“You were floating away.” Oz said reasonably. “Said ‘relax’, not fall asleep. Don’t worry; didn’t bite hard.”

“Right. Don’t want to share your cage, is that it?”

The chin burrowed in a bit and he felt Oz think about that. “Not sure. No. Forget it. Hands on mine.”

Xander let himself drift again, letting his hands piggy-back and getting, yeah, just a hint of where they should be going...Oz nodded, which rubbed his cheek against Xander’s because somehow they were closer than he’d ever been with anyone but Cordy, and said, “Want to try it solo?”

And he did, and he fucked it up. “Oz, can’t we stop?”

“Put the guitar down.”

Oz didn’t sound disappointed, which was good, and when Xander straightened up he was still behind him, which was ...yeah, that was good, too.

“Oz?” He whispered it because it had to be said, it couldn’t be ignored, but if he said it nice and quiet, maybe Oz wouldn’t hear it. “What’re you doing?”

“Not done yet, Xander.”

And it didn’t matter that Oz had heard, because his fingers weren’t stopping, moving over Xander’s face, blind fingers, because Oz’s face was dipped down and he was sucking hard at Xander’s neck, wet tongue tickling, teeth tucked away. Xander moaned and felt one hand home in on his mouth, tracing its outline and then diving inside, one finger, two, giving him something to do, something to taste. Oz’s fingers tasted of metal and were quivering like a tuning fork coming to rest. Xander bit and sucked, fucking them with his tongue and teeth, knowing he was doing this right, oh yeah, he knew...with Oz rammed tight up against him, he knew...

The fingers stayed where they were, but the other hand began to explore, moving fast without going anywhere, endless minutes circling and pinching Xander’s nipples until they felt as raw as his fingers, rasping tightly against his shirt. He pushed Oz’s fingers out of his mouth with his tongue and gasped, “ them, make them better...”

Buttons slid through holes and his shirt parted but he barely noticed because Oz’s mouth had moved up to his ear and it was finding every place that made the goose bumps pop up and Xander was a mass of chills and thrills and Oz hadn’t done anything yet, not really.

He was looking ahead, straight ahead and he’d memorised the titles of a dozen books and concert dates by the time Oz had finished soothing his nipples with spit-wet fingers, swiping them across hot skin and leaning forward enough to blow down in maddeningly imprecise puffs of air, then sliding his fingers back into Xander’s mouth again for more.

“Enough,” Xander said eventually. His nipples were throbbing still, but so was his cock and that was becoming an issue.

Oz began to move away and Xander panicked. “No! I mean – they feel better. Don’t stop.” He couldn’t breathe until he felt Oz tug at his shirt, peeling it away and, by the way the bed rocked, taking care of his own. Not over and he didn’t want it to be. When Oz got back into place, the difference was electrifying. Bare on bare and Oz’s hands were sliding and touching in long, smooth strokes now, while Xander’s hands were on his thighs, gripping and flexing but not daring to go where they wanted to, because this was Oz’s game still, and follow-my-leader wasn’t scary if you took care to stay near the back.

Oz reached around Xander’s waist , hugging him in a brief, uncomplicated squeeze before slipping his hands over Xander’s where they lay flat against his legs. “Go on.”

Oz could read minds. Had to. Deep breath and Xander looked down at last, looked away from book spines and posters and watched his hands move to his button, pull down his zip, with Oz’s hands right there, clinging to him light and cool. He watched his fingers ease out his cock, dark head damp, curling up to smack into his hand, full before he’d had time to take in the weirdness of four hands down there.

“Do it,” Oz whispered, in his head, because he didn’t think either of them were speaking right then.

He stroked it, one finger, then two, skating and skidding over the wetness at the tip, running a finger around it as he used to do to the rim of a glass to make it squeal high. Too much clothing to be able to do this properly; his balls were still nested in cotton and he couldn’t...

Oz’s hands left, but only to tug and pull down, so that with a lift and a shimmy, Xander was out of his clothes and naked between Oz’s spread knees. He wanted Oz naked too, but their hands were back to work again now and when he squeezed hard, Oz squeezed too so his cock felt held, secure, and it sent the breath rushing out of him with every stroke so he was gasping, shoulders rising.


And that was in his ear because Oz followed it with a kiss and Xander couldn’t bear it any longer and he let his hands fall away. “You do it. Please?”

Small, strong hands, curious and clumsy and he realised Oz wasn’t as good at this as he was, but it didn’t matter. The minor frustrations of fingers missing sweet spots by a hair, pressing too hard, not hard enough – all were lost in the pleasure of seeing his cock vanish under hands that weren’t his, the uncertainty of knowing what was coming next. And Oz was getting better. Xander gave him clues, nudging him with whimpers and soft-sighed yes, yes, yeses, rewarding him with smiles Oz couldn’t see...

Oz wasn’t doing anything but play, wasn’t stripping him, hand blurring or squeezing tight...Xander relaxed and if it hadn’t been such a good view, he’d have closed his eyes. It felt like the times he did this when he’d just woken up, still fuzzy around the edges, ready to drift back to sleep between strokes because it just felt so good, no need to come even, just –

Limber as a cat, Oz moved down and curled around, teeth scraping gently across his hipbone, headed south-east, or was it west? Xander concentrated on compass points, mouth open and panting because Oz’s tongue was lapping away in a furious, ferocious attack, diving and dipping and making him go from drowsy contentment to ball-tightening desperation in about three seconds. It was awkward like that; Oz’s teeth were a hazard he couldn’t get the hang of missing and he couldn’t get deeper inside his mouth. One plaintive yowl and Oz was falling off the bed in a controlled slither without ever taking his mouth away and for the first time in a long time, Xander got to look at him. Oz’s face with Xander’s cock in his mouth was sun-rising glorious; green eyes slitted, orange hair dimmed to russet, red lips stretched by a smile and nin-eight- inches of solid, shaking, needy cock.

He wanted to make it last, he really did, but Oz wasn’t taking prisoners any more. Xander lost the visuals because his eyes squinched shut when he came and he came when Oz swallowed him root-deep and Oz did that after three long slow slides up and down and that was all it took.

Oz rocked back on his heels, wiping his mouth and smiling. “Want to try that, then? From the top?”

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