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Title: Changing Course: Unrequited
Author: Willa
Pairing: Angel/Oz
Rating: R
Setting: During the first half of BtVS S2



From Sonnet #18:

So Oz has moved back into town, and the first thing he notices is that things have changed. A lot.

Or maybe it's him that's changed. Either way, Sunnydale isn't what it used to be although to be fair he was only around seven when they left. Still doesn't have a good answer for why or why go back, but that's life. Life here looked different through younger eyes. Mostly, he remembers your basic kid stuff ö ice cream cones, playing in the park, be sure to come inside before dark.

Hmm.

They always did emphasize that last one.

Makes you think.

(but there are things he really shouldn't think about, like --)

His problem is there's too much time for his mind to wrestle with quiet puzzles. More since summer started. He finds himself hiding out during the days. Too bright, too sunny, too California. Heâs gotten used to nights ö since --

He'd rather start at the beginning of things. Go on to the end. Then stop.

(trouble is, there's no end yet)

And it's music that starts it, faint notes on the edge of hearing. He can hear it, the way he wants it to be, deep inside his head. But it's too noisy during the day to catch the chords. He needs the quiet. So he stays up into the night hours and he discovers that playing late and practicing later on the sidewalk outside the town's one cafe keeps him out past dark and shows him just how soothing the night-time is. Streets soft with shadows, quiet hours.

He likes wandering through midnight and beyond, just looking at the world through its blackout curtains.

So he misses a lot of summer school, no problem. He already knows everything they try to teach him; ergo, why study? Might as well wander as it suits his soul. And play. Guitar, that's his thing. Sitting on the edge of a fountain at three a.m., just softly plucking chords, no real songs. Just pure music.

(the songs make him think of things he shouldn't think about -- like--)

Some nights he meets up with this one guy, a sweet pothead called Devon. He has some pretty wild ideas. A few he even follows through on. Like the Dingoes.

Oz goes with it. No reason not to. Besides, he likes Devon in his way. Decent voice, loose hips, shiny curls. Permanently stoned since the personal best day of his life when he'd discovered weed. He loves sitting in the van and bullshitting for hours about nothing at all while Oz listens. It's company. And he gets half-baked every time they hang, gently swaying while the secondhand fills his own lungs. Nice.

People don't notice the smell. People don't see much of anything they don't want to in this town. They just shake their heads and say nothing phases Oz, that he's calm as a glossy sea, no chopping waves or much of an undertow. Just a guy who takes life as it comes. Mellow.

(but inside his head, he's tormented, full of things he shouldn't think about)

Sometimes Oz wishes it were that easy, that he could look at all of life through glasses that are a fine, mellow, whiter shade of pale.

He guesses that on one level he does. But that's surface. Inside himself, he thinks. About a lot of things.

(things he really shouldn't think about)

Then there's this one night that just happens. The way things do when you're not looking.

Starts off simple. Their first gig in the best (only) club in town. People like them OK, or at least the girls like Devon. When it's over, Oz starts hauling instruments back out to the van. He doesn't mind. Work clears the head, and after the applause he needs it. Get back to simple, back to serene.

Except on the second trip he sees this fight going on. More of a one-sided brawl, actually. A nasty looking guy - all unwashed mullet and stained T-shirt ö is whaling holy hell out of this one tiny girl. What startles him is there's not much size to her, but she's kicking decent ass. Small and red-haired and terrified, but not lying down to die.

It takes a half-second to process from 'hey, what?' to putting down his guitar. Willing to step in and get whipped on her behalf, maybe even help a little. Guy's seriously nasty. Something wrong with his face.

Then this fucking huge Neanderthal --

(no, he was beautiful, so beautiful)

-- just comes out of nowhere, like he was spun from the the shadows, and beats seven kinds of black and blue out of other one, knocks him clear around the corner. The redhead makes this cute 'meep' sound and gets out, fast. Can't blame her.

For the men's parts, he hears a few crashes, a whoosh, and nothing more.

(things he shouldn't think about --)

It's quiet the rest of the night. Not really knowing why, he lingers in the alley long after that, plucking chords and wondering. Devon doesn't care; he just goes home with one of their new groupies. Good timing for once. Oz wants to be alone.

'Cause it was only a glimpse, but he can't forget that guy's face. Shining. Alive with this strange passion. Maybe like a zealot would look. Knowing he's right in what he does. Not much liking it, but not able to leave it be. And the way he moves - like a panther. Very smooth.

Hadn't spared Oz a glance, but somehow he knows he's been seen.

Lots to think about, that night.

(things he shouldn't think about)

He finds himself composing songs about moonless nights and darkened hearts. Very Joseph Conrad-neo-Goth. Devon thinks it's a phase and he's cool, even expresses interest in stage makeup. That brings Oz back down fast. Much better to be writing simple stuff about getting the girl and starting up the parties. Devon in mascara, man. Some things don't bear thinking about.

(like--)

But he starts hanging around that alley, even when they don't have a gig. Waiting for something (someone). Watching. Wondering. On those nights he sometimes hears the sounds of fighting that never comes close enough to see and ends before he can reach it. Sometimes he feels dark eyes watching him, but never where he can look back.

Once, he feels the ghostlike whisper of breath on his neck. Just once, in and out, and no more. Like it wasn't needed· just wanted. Makes him go cold, then over-warm. Whatever it is, it's keeping an eye out for him. May not care for the job, but he's part of the thing's (that man's) responsibility now. His own (sort of) private superhero.

He goes to the alley more often after that. Fools around with his guitar, trying out different sounds. The way you'd coax an animal closer to you with soft whistles and gentle calls. Just seeing if he can lure him into sight, or hoping to sense him there. Spanish doesn't work, or folk, or classical. When he tries out some old Gaelic, though, that's when it clicks. He sees the faintest glimpse of a luminous face, winking in and out of the shadows.

So that works. Oz decides not to push his luck with that trick. Just when it's been a bad day, and he needs the reassurance that knowing the Man is there brings.

Then he sees the red-haired girl again, and she's cute. As a button, as a doll, as everything old woman say when they pinch your cheeks, and he knows he could fall for her. Wishes he knew who she is. Finds out what he can about her ö just from watching. Her name is Willow, which he likes. It suits her. Fragile, dainty, but with something that stands tall and knows when to bend and when to break, all hidden in her heart. Smart and sweet and hangs out in the school library a lot. Knows her way around a computer. He likes that in a woman. Yeah, he could fall for her easy.

But then he goes to play in the alley at night, and all those confusing feelings come welling back up. He plays for his own serenity more than anything else now, needing the drug released in his system when the chords are just right and that pale face glimmers at him like the moon behind clouds.

Halloween night he sees Her crossing the road in front of his van. Nearly swallows his tongue. Cute, yeah, he knew that. Not this. Who is that girl? He's got to know. And he's afraid to know.

Moving too fast can be disaster.

(things he shouldn't, couldn't, can't think about)

'Cause it's also All Hallows Eve, somewhere around three in the morning, that he becomes aware the man is watching him. Not trying to hide. Just· calm, and there, listening to songs from ancient Ireland meant for the harp and transposed with lots of patience to acoustic guitar. Oz's fingers twitch a bit and he hits some flat notes, but the man doesn't seem to notice.

When he's calmed down, heart stopped trying to beat through his ribcage, he takes slow, careful looks out of the corner of his eye. It's him, yeah. Just as unique ö

(no, beautiful, beautiful)

- as Oz had remembered him. Tall and bulky, not fat, but easily twice his own size. Makes him feel smaller and younger than he is, which isn't that bad. He has great hands, an artist's hands, long fingers and agile palms, resting face-down on his knees as he crouches and listens.

When he finishes playing 'Siuil a Ruin', the man leans forward. His voice is dark and deep as a panther's purr. Husky, as if he doesn't use it much. 'Do you·- he hesitates. 'Danny Boy?'

Oz jumps, thinking the man knows his name, but then it sinks in. Oh. He wants the song. That's kind of· pedestrian, but he knows it, and he can do it. So he does, and he gets way more pleasure out of watching the man's eyes go half-closed and dreaming than from any of the notes that fly from his fingertips.

(dangerous to think about these things)

And because he wants to, he lets his eyelids drift as well, and tries one of the pieces he wrote himself. It's not really a song, just a collection of sounds, soft and soothing. A low croon that sounds a little like a wolf's song. To amuse himself he adds the occasional tumble of notes, like yipping cubs, and suddenly it's music.

He feels, instead of seeing, how the man likes (no, loves) this even better. He can feel it humming in his bones, Oz knows. He gets what it's all about, what it means to wander lonely in the moonlight.

(it is a trap to think of these things)

'May I?' The voices startles Oz much less now. Good sound to it. Probably can't sing, though, good speaking voices usually can't. He nods without thinking, lost in the sounds his fingers are making on the strings.

He hears some soft rustling, then silence. Then ö scratch, scratch, scratch ö soft rubbings ö and his ear flicks up in curiosity. ãDon't move,ä the man warns. 'Stay like that.' He hesitates. 'Please.'

A faint wash of heat surges through Oz. The man's got a small tablet balanced on one knee, and a fountain pen in his hand. His hand moves in rapid, fluid strokes over the paper, while his eyes glance up and down, from the forming drawing to Oz himself. He feels again that rush of heat, lower, in his belly. No one's ever drawn him before - a small, thin boy with a guitar half the size he is. He wonders if he'll look stupid. Decides he doesn't care. Will the man let him see it when it's done?

(it burns despite himself to think about these things)

God, he can feel those eyes sweeping over him with every stroke of the pencil.

(things he really really shouldn't think about)

Tucked to the left in his jeans, he feels himself grow hard, tight against the denim. Pinned down. Hurts in the best way -

(shouldn't think shouldn't think)

and it's not that he's against anything like that, it's just that for all their strange connection this is a stranger and he has that look to him, like he belongs heart and soul to someone else the way he's staring at Oz like a forbidden candy and he's seeing the weeping willow tree behind his eyelids, no, Willow, that's her name, and he's not supposed to be this way, he's faithful and trustworthy for a freak and he always has been, but he can hear the wolf song that he's playing howling in his ears and he doesn't understand why and no amount of thinking will make it so.

But he's looking at Oz like he understands.

(can't think why or how)

"Thank you," he says quietly, folding the sketch over out of sight.

Oz's inner calm is gone. He's still got the outer shell. "No problem."

His fingers are still playing that hypnotic tune.

"I'm-"

"Don't." Oz shakes his head short, sharp, hard. "Better that way."

The man is silent for a long moment. "Okay. But stop coming out here? It's-" and his voice breaks off. "Just don't."

Oz's fingers falter on the strings. So what he's saying is, this, whatever it is, has to end.

(better that way, better that way, so don't you think about this thing)

"I'll find somewhere else," he says blandly. "One corner's good as another."

"Good." He can hear rustling as the man stands, his coat falling in snug folds around him. "You're too... talent shouldn't be wasted."

Oz has to laugh just a little at that. It comes out as a smirk.

"I'm sorry."

He's not.

"Yeah."

The man hesitates, stretching time out for another forever moment, then sighs. Oz realizes again that he hasn't been breathing. Strangely, this doesn't bother him. 'Cause he's walking toward both boy and guitar, shoulders slumped, strangely helpless.

He goes down in a crouch before Oz, and puts those hands over the ones on the strings. Silence comes after a discordant crunch.

(the quiet is good but also bad because it leads a man to think about these things)

Slow, so slow, he shifts his balance until he's leaning over. His lips brush against Oz's in a surprisingly cool-skinned, gentle kiss, barely skin to skin.

Something that crinkles is tucked between his fingers and the guitar. "Thank you," the man whispers against his ear. "Goodbye."

He's too stunned. Can't look up, can't look down, until that last flash of moonlight on the face and his strange companion is gone.

Then he wonders if it's money in his hand. Did he think this was some kind of -?

But no. It's a picture. A quick sketch, a few thrown-together lines. He can recognize the man's face in there. The look of pain.

His lips still feel the brush of others.

(you just can't think about these things)

He takes the picture home and stuffs it under his mattress. Tries to forget about it. Finally meets Willow, and she's everything he'd hoped for. Even works up the nerve to ask her out, and gets roped into a birthday party. That's cool, even if he doesn't know the others. They seem pretty accepting --

until he sees the Man again, inside, standing way too close to a pretty blonde and it all comes flooding back and he doesn't really understand anything until he sees another guy go *poof*, exploding into ashes and he's left to dumbly stare while the Man looks at him quickly, in sad apology and Willow's at his side trying to explain and all he can think of to say is that this explains a lot.

and they don't understand

except him

he does

and they can't say a word

(don't think about it. don't think don't speak don't remember it, don't...)


-End

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