For the contrelamontre non-alcoholic drink challenge.
First day out of the apartment and Oz exhausted himself in record time. LA is too bright, far too full of desperate people, too hot, too overwhelming for him to take. He waits out the rest of the afternoon in a bar; he doesn't want to go back to the apartment, but he doesn't want to be outside, either. Liminal, that's him. Stuck between states and what looks like mellow is anything but.
"Want anything?"
Oz considers the man next to him, taller than he - who isn't? - but not by much. Boyish, if boyish is a costume like the worn shirt and faded jeans, or a prosthesis like his hand. He smells expensive, and smell is always far more trustworthy than vision. Expensive like bottled water, faint cologne, shampoo they don't sell at Rite-Aid.
"I'm good."
His companion shrugs and looks him over. Too quickly, Oz thinks, flickering eyes and twisting, bitable lips, like he's accustomed to sizing things up and judging them in an instant. Like he doesn't usually have more time than that.
"Reconsider?" the guy asks.
Oz smiles. Slow and easy as the guy's voice. "I'm underage, you know."
"Don't look to me like that's stopped you before." Bad grammar and honey-liquor voice: Guy's pulling out all the stops and Oz kind of appreciates it.
"Good point. Still. I'm Oz -" he says, holds out his hand.
Takes the guy's real hand, skin soft and warm against his own palm.
"Lindsey," the guy says. "Oz, huh?"
"Nickname."
"What can I get you to drink, Oz?"
"Juice. OJ."
Another flicker of blue eyes. Long, long, godawfully long lashes, and Oz has always been a sucker for that. Girls, boys, doesn't matter; there's something childish and sweet when you're getting looked at hotly from beneath baby-long lashes. "Juice it is," Lindsey says. Orders juice and bourbon and slides a little closer to Oz. "What's brought you here, anyway?"
The bar's like Lindsey. It used to be real, just a place to sit and drink and chew the shit. Now it's tarted up, ironic-cool Miller-Time signs and Pabst's clocks and bras hung from mounted antlers. Too clean; surfaces would shine if they turned up the lights. "Waiting on a friend. You?"
"Forgetting my month."
His juice arrives. Lukewarm, still tasting of the tin can it's sat in long past the expiration date. Oz sips it delicately, watching three pieces of pulp chase each other like sea monkeys across the surface.
"My month," Lindsey says again, a little louder, so Oz looks over at him. Insecure: Needs to repeat things, make sure he has your attention. Interesting. Nods at him to continue.
"Bad?"
"Worse than bad. Hellish comes to mind -" And here Lindsey laughs, and Oz doesn't like this kind of joke. The personal kind, where the laughter seals you off from understanding. Not just that it's rude; he doesn't care about rude, he's been accused of it often enough. Selfish, though, that's another matter.
"Mmm," Oz says and sets down his juice. He shifts a little on his stool 'cause his ass is asleep, he's been waiting for Angel so long, but the motion makes his ribs grind together unpleasantly, and he massages his side for a second. He wonders just how hellish this guy's month could be, compared to almost ripping out the throat of your ex's new girl and getting flayed and dissected by your representative, democratic government. "Sounds pretty bad."
Lindsey nudges Oz's thigh with his hip; the movement's skilful, practiced, could easily be dismissed as just what happens in a crowded public place.
Except the bar is empty and Lindsey's eyes are hot, center-of-the-candle-flame blue and Oz isn't naive. So he sips his juice and returns the look over the spotty rim of the glass.
"Look like you're lost," Lindsey murmurs. Brushes his real fingers over Oz's wrist, turns his hand over. Touches old calluses on Oz's palm and fingerpads. Glances up, and for once there's real emotion on his face. A real smile, more lickable and touchable than anything Oz can manage to remember at this moment. "You play?"
"Used to."
Lindsey holds up the prosthetic hand. "Me, too."
And the smile's gone, the eyes are going hang-dog, and Oz knows he's supposed to pity him. "Them's the breaks," he says instead. Finishes off his orange juice and slides the glass to the edge of the bar. "Sometimes you choose the wrong side. Sometimes the other guy's just bigger, huh?"
Lindsey blinks and Oz isn't the one who looks lost. Oz is never lost; it's just something that people press on him, because he's small and pale and dresses like a poor relation. It's an excuse to feed him, cuddle him, beat him to pieces, toss him out with the trash. But it's not true. Lindsey's eyes darken, the blue sinking a little beneath a wash of gunmetal gray, and Oz takes his hand.
"Buy me another juice before Angel gets here?"
Lindsey's arm stiffens in Oz's grasp and he tries to pull away. But that's another thing. Oz isn't weak. He squeezes Lindsey's wrist until his fist uncurls and fingers spread. Brings the palm to his mouth and licks it slowly. Tastes panic-sweat, bourbon, shrill scent of expensive paper. He holds Lindsey's gaze and pulls him closer.
"Not supposed to talk to you, did you know that?"
Lindsey shakes his head. Lost, boyish, arrogant, insecure. It tastes good, so Oz kisses him, inhales all of it as he licks that plump lower lip and sees Lindsey's lids droop, then fly up when he gnaws a little.
"Thing is," Oz says, pulling back, rotating the stool, pulling Lindsey between his legs. "Don't think this counts as talking."
Lindsey nods and when he kisses back, it's full-force, broad sweet tongue and capped teeth and hot blue eyes. Oz smiles against the kiss, pushes him back a little. Never lets go of his wrist.
"OJ, remember?"