Title: Useless
Author: meagan <nutmeg@serv.net>
Summary: Oz has a problem. Set about seven years in the future.
Spoilers: Um... Let's say "Amends."
Disclaimer: Of *course* they belong to someone else. If they were mine, things would be different. Specifically, they belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, WB (even though they *really* don't deserve these guys after what they did to us in May), and anyone else I forgot.
Rating: I'm going to guess PG.
Distribution: Eh, what the heck. If you want it, go for it, but please tell me so I can go admire my story on other people's sites.
Feedback: Um, sure, I think. But meanness makes me cry. My kitties don't like it when I cry. Keep them happy, please?
Dedicated to anyone with a repetitive stress injury. Isn't it *fun* to have to ask coworkers to uncap your pen for you?

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He felt useless.

There was no other word for it. After nearly a lifetime of playing guitar and slaving over keyboards, the shooting pains in his arms were getting to be too much to bear. And all the doctors could think to suggest was to stop playing guitar and typing. The only things that he did anymore, and they wanted him to stop. So he had no useful purpose.

And now the big fun. The itching. His wrists were going to be scratched raw by the time the evening was over. All he wanted to do was work on that story that had been stuck in his brain all day, festering and growing until he had to find some way of getting it *out* before his head exploded. Now that he had the time, he had shooting/stabbing pains in one wrist and the aforementioned itchiness in the other.

So now he had to stop writing. He had already quit the band. He couldn't remember a time he didn't hole up in his room for days on end, plucking and strumming his way through endless hours of loneliness. Music, his one friend that would never leave him. But now he had to leave it.

Now the pain moved from his wrist to his forearm. The dull ache in his upper arm would be next. He flexed his fingers experimentally, shaking out his hands. They were still more or less okay. Another hour or two at the keyboard, and he would hit the ice before he went to bed.

"Hi, honey, I'm home!" Xander's voice -- always ready to quote an old sitcom -- rang through the apartment. Oz still didn't know what had possessed him to agree to move in with Xander, but he was glad that he had. He could always forget his problems whenever the brunette was around. That kid -- no matter how old he was, Oz still thought of Xander as a kid -- had things harder than Oz had ever dreamed possible. And his sense of humor always managed to stay with him no matter how horrible things got.

Sighing, Oz stood up from the computer desk. No use tempting himself by staring at the screen and allowing more words to spill forth. That would just make things worse. And he really didn't want to have to explain this to anyone. It was one of those things that seems silly -- who injures themself playing guitar and typing? -- so you hide it from everyone who doesn't *have* to know. Really, who needed to know that the reason he quit the band was that he couldn't physically handle playing shows every night after rehearsing all day? And what twentysomething guy had this sort of problem, anyway? It was easier to gloss over things and claim "irreconcilable differences" with the rest of the band. Hey, that's rock'n'roll, after all. Let everyone think it was because Devon was doing too many drugs or spending too much time chasing sex partners. Devon sure wasn't too upset with those rumors. Anything to escape everyone's pity about Oz's inability to continue literally grasping to that lifeline that was his music. And let them think that he just became too despondent after the loss of his friendship with Devon to continue playing. The friendship wasn't gone -- just on hold while the vocalist chased his dream that Oz could no longer help pursue -- but no one else knew that. No one else *needed* to know.

Thumping sounds in the living room reminded him that he was not alone. Well, he needed ice for his arms, so he might as well head to the kitchen. Barefoot, he padded his way down the hall. "Hey, Xander. How was class?" After years of floundering, Xander had finally decided to pursue a course of study that would result in the acquisition of a useful skill: massage therapy. Oz moved to the shelf that housed their glassware -- mostly pint glasses advertising various microbrewed beers, just like most single young guys' glassware collections.

Xander shrugged. "It was class. Hey, couldja hand me a glass?"

A simple, normal request made -- and successfully complied with -- many times since they moved in together. But as Oz's hand attempted to grip the glass, he realized this time would be different. He concentrated on holding his fingers clamped around the glass until he could hand it over to Xander, but, to his horror, he watched his fingers spasm open, dropping the glass to the floor. He could feel tears well up. It wasn't just any glass. It was the glass that Xander had acquired on the night of his twenty-first birthday. As the oldest member of the group -- and the only one aside from Giles that was of legal drinking age at the time -- it had fallen to Oz to take Xander out on the traditional first legal barhop of his life. It just so happened that one of the bars had been handing out souvenir glasses that night. Xander had seemed to have an attachment to that glass ever since.

But Xander hadn't watched the glass hit the floor, and he wasn't paying attention to the shards of cobalt blue glass littering the floor. His attention had been caught by his roommate's hiss of pain. He noticed Oz flexing his hands and rubbing his wrists. He recognized those motions. The instructor of one of his classes did that when her arms and wrists were giving her problems. She had become an instructor because of the problems that developed after years of secretarial work and then her career as a massage therapist. Some people could live their whole lives performing that type of manual labor and not experience a single twinge of pain, and others made it only a few years. And then he noticed the former guitarist trying to hold back tears.

"I'm sorry, Xander. I didn't mean --"

"It's okay." The younger man watched as bare feet shifted, catching and grinding dark blue shrapnel into tender flesh. "Wait -- don't move." He easily picked up Oz and carried him to the couch before he retrieved the first aid kit and a couple of towels from the bathroom. If there was one useful skill he had acquired during his years as a Slayerette, it was first aid. He sat at the end of the couch opposite Oz, pulling the sometimes-redhead's feet onto his lap. "This might sting, but I promise it's better than the alternative."

Oz watched long lashes protecting eyes concentrating on his feet, slender fingers grasping the needle working out glass. Then the tweezers came out of the kit, plucking the fragile foreign objects from the heels of his feet. Finally, the fingers massaged antibiotic ointment into the cuts and taped gauze over the many tiny wounds

"Do you know why that was my favorite glass?" Xander's voice was soft, and he was carefully avoiding Oz's eyes, causing Oz to feel his stomach drop. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Xander, and he was surely about to hear just what he had destroyed. "It wasn't the glass. It was what happened the night I got it." Oz stared in confusion, but Xander continued to concentrate on his hands, smoothing the tape over the bandages. "That night, for the first time, I felt like you were truly my friend. Not just Willow's boyfriend or a werewolf who hung out with us because we knew your secret. Okay, so you were there because you were the only one who *could* be there, but I didn't feel like you were there because Will asked you to do it or because you felt obligated. You were there because you wanted to be there." He sighed. "Anyway, it wasn't the glass that I cared about. It was the fact that it represented a time when it was just you and me, hanging out and being friends. Did you notice that neither of us mentioned Willow, Buffy, or Giles once that night? I did." He paused. "It really meant a lot to me. One of the greatest nights of my life."

This was most assuredly not the direction Oz had expected this conversation to take. He remembered that night. He had been concerned about Xander's first legal encounter with alcohol given his family's history, and Oz had wanted to be sure that someone was with Xander who knew about that history and who actually *cared* about making sure a tragedy didn't occur. And he didn't know anyone else he trusted enough to make sure everything went smoothly. Even if Willow had been old enough to drink, she would probably have been caught up in making sure Xander had a good time, not paying attention to those little subtle clues that Oz had long ago recognized as warning signs in his hard-drinking non-Slayerette pals as well as audience members at assorted gigs. Oz had decided it was his responsibility to watch over one of his closest friends.

"Oz? Why did you do it? I mean, you just announced that you wanted to take me out to celebrate that night. I thought that someone asked you to, but everyone seemed as surprised as I was to hear you volunteer."

Suddenly, Oz realized that Xander's hands were still working on his now-glass-free feet, gently massaging and stroking the soles. He sighed, relaxing against those hands' magical movements. Why did he do it? He himself wasn't too sure how to explain his actions in a way that wouldn't sound offensive or patronizing. "I wanted to make sure you were safe." Well, okay, now that the words were out, they made sense all by themselves, no elaboration or clarification required. "Believe it or not, I do consider you a friend."

"Really? Even after the whole mess with Willow our senior year of high school?" Xander had always assumed that the guitarist had "befriended" him out of jealousy and a desire to keep tabs on the guy who had nearly destroyed his then-budding relationship with the witch.

Oz shook his head. "No, not 'even after.' More like 'especially because.' Yeah, at first, I was jealous whenever I saw the two of you together, but then I started noticing how... resigned you were to not being Willow's close friend but willing to be whatever kind of friend she let you be. And how determined she was to keep you at a distance. Honestly, it hurt me to see the two of you so carefully keeping away from each other. But it was like there was some sort of unspoken agreement between the two of you, and I had no right to interfere." He sighed. "Sometimes, all I wanted to do was hug you and tell you it was okay -- all is forgiven. But how weird would that be? Your childhood buddy's boyfriend treating you like a hurt four-year-old?"

Speechless for once, the brunette could only stare. Finally finding his voice, he managed to squeak out, "So you really do mean that? You think of me as a friend?" Then another of Oz's statements filtered into his brain. Quietly, he added, "Hug me?"

Oz smiled. He could interpret those last two words as a mere question or as a request. He opted for the latter. "Well, if you insist."

"I didn't --" Xander's protest faded as Oz's arms carefully embraced him. Carefully, as if Oz was afraid of hurting himself, not Xander. He remembered the reason they were on the couch to begin with. Oz could barely hold a glass. Something was wrong. He slowly extracted himself from Oz's arms. "Oz, are you okay? I mean, your arms..."

He sighed. So much for hiding it. "Please don't tell anyone, Xander. Not even Willow. I've done some research on this, and it's nothing that can be cured." At Xander's alarmed look, he hurried to add, "Oh, it's nothing mystical. Nothing Hellmouth-related, unless you consider it to be the result of hours of research for the cause. Just too many years of playing guitar and typing. I can look forward to years of physical therapy, ice treatments, pain killers, and maybe surgery if things get bad enough. It's why I quit the band."

Xander's eyes grew wide. "So all that stuff about Devon..."

"Complete and utter bullshit. He may be obsessed with groupies, but he's also very serious about his career, such as it is. I didn't want to hold him back, forcing him to stay small and local just so I could play, so I left the band. The drugs-and-sex stories are just that. Stories. Good for the rock'n'roll image. He likes having girls at shows because they attract guys, and that just means a bigger audience for the band." He stopped, staring at some spot in the distance. "Really, though -- and this is more stuff not to be repeated -- I just don't see the big contract coming his way. The songs he's coming up with... Well, let's just say that writing music isn't his strong suit. But I was useless in the band. I couldn't keep up with the schedule -- practice every day, play gigs every night. I was in the way, holding them back. So I left."

Xander frowned. "Do you really think you're useless? Oz, who wrote all those songs when you were still in the band? If I recall correctly, that was you. Okay, so Devon does the lyric thing, but without your music, all he has is poetry. Couldn't you write the songs without being in the band itself? I mean, it worked for Carole King."

"Hmm." Truthfully, that had never occurred to Oz. It didn't *completely* solve his problem, but it did seem like a step in the right direction, even though his whole life until now had been centered around playing guitar. "That could work." Without thinking, he leaned back against the couch, pulling Xander's arm over his shoulder and curling against the larger man's body.

Xander recognized that position. It was the traditional "just hold me while I think things through and cry" position. He couldn't count the number of times in the past he had wished there had been someone he could have curled against. He did the only thing he could do. He shifted, wrapping his other arm around Oz. "You realize you're stuck with me now, right? I know all of your secrets."

"Not quite all of them." Well, he was already practically curled up in Xander's lap after telling him about his arms and Devon. He might as well finish the job. Get everything out in the open so Xander knew what he was getting into. And give him the chance to leave. "There's one thing that Willow knows about that no one else does."

"Well, it's only right that she knows certain things about you. I mean, you guys have only been together since the beginning of the werewolf thing." He paused. "I still don't get why you two haven't moved in together, though."

Oz tried to figure out how to explain that aspect of his relationship with her. "You know, she spent an awfully long time being her parents' perfect daughter. She needs time to be Willow. And if we lived together, she would probably just end up being my girlfriend, fiancee, or wife. No identity of her own. It's not fair to her to lock her into a role like that until she figures out who *she* is, apart from living with her parents or roommates or boyfriends. I love her, and I do want to marry her some day, but I don't want to discover that I've married somebody's daughter, unable to think or make decisions on her own, so we're waiting a few more years." He paused. "And then there's this other thing, the thing that she knows that no one else does that she wants me to face down before we commit to each other. A me thing."

Confused, Xander could only repeat those last three words. "'A me thing?'"

"Yeah." Oz took a deep breath. "Do you really want to know? It's going to change things between us. I mean *really* change things. You'll probably decide that you want to move out once I tell you."

Xander closed his eyes, thinking about Oz's words. This sounded like bad news. But bad news could be a good thing. If something was about to happen that was going to make him want to move out, he might as well go out with a bang. Decision made, he opened his eyes, fixing them on Oz's orbs. He pulled one arm away from Oz's body so he could tilt the older man's head properly. And then he carefully, deliberately pressed his lips to Oz's. They stayed in that position, mouths chastely closed, for a few long seconds. Then Oz pulled away. Xander silently cursed the impulse that made him think that kissing Oz could possibly have been a good idea. And then all thought fled from his brain as Oz leaned back in, this time not carefully keeping his mouth closed but instead eagerly using his tongue to draw Xander's out from its hiding place. Finally, they parted once more.

Oz stared for a long moment. "Well, never mind. It seems to be a you thing, too." And as he stretched out along the length of the couch, he pulled Xander's body down to cover his own.


~~~ the end ~~~