Devon swallows and winces. "Hurts," he croaks. "Shouldn't have done those extra numbers."
Oz looks sympathetic, which in his case is a complicated collection of minimalist adjustments to face, hands and body, that all add up to a single emotion. "That sucks, dude."
Devon nods and looks pitifully at his friend, his customary calm ruffled by the pain lancing through him every time he swallows. "Make it better?" he says, a little hopelessly.
There's enough trust that he'll be able to, underlying the plea, to make Oz lay his guitar aside, still not tuned, and go over to where Devon's lying and join him.
He runs long, cool fingers over Devon's throat then bends in close to kiss it, gentle brushes that leave a warmth behind, kisses that sink in deep, sweet as honey, with a lemon tang as he finishes with a nip at an earlobe.
Devon's lying back, drifting into sleep. Oz is clever. He can rub his stomach and pat his head at the same time, play a guitar and sing...and he can kiss better while his hands are coaxing and commanding, distracting and demanding, exciting and enticing...
Oz looks down at him with a nod of satisfaction,licking his fingers clean with a painstaking thoroughness then stopping when he gets bored.
He glances over at his guitar and then realises he might wake Devon. Shrugging, he curls up beside him and is asleep in moments.
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