Set early S2.
*
"Harris!"
Startled, Xander jumps entirely not-girlishly, wheeling around, almost dropping his load of books and banging his elbow on the corner of his locker door, which proceeds to slam and rattle. He'd expect Larry, maybe, or one of his thuggish companions to accost right before first period.
Not Devon MacLeish. Tall and lanky and golden, arms crossed casually over his chest.
Xander's not even sure how Devon knows his name.
"Hey," he remembers to say. Studies the red beads hugging Devon's throat. "Can I do you for? Sorry. *What* can I--?"
Devon stretches out his arms, flexing his wrists and appraising Xander with wide, hazel eyes. "Sit-down, Harris. You. Me. After school."
"Huh?" Oh, very intelligent. "Wha--?"
Devon pushes off from the lockers in a long, liquid motion. Runs his hand through golden curls. "Sit-down. Later, Harris."
*
So all day, Xander's more on edge than he usually is, even. Jittery, confused, *really* doesn't know what the hell is going on. It's made worse every time he thinks of Devon's casual shrug, elegant. That shrug said: You know what I'm talking about.
Only thing is, Xander *doesn't* know.
He tries to ask around. Discreetly. The problem is that since he obviously *should* know, he doesn't want it to be known just how dumb he is. Even a crappy rep's better than nothing.
What he needs to do is get Willow alone. She'll know. Willow knows all; he used her in a vocab assignment once when they had to put "omniscient" in a sentence. But she's always with Buffy in class; then, at lunch, she's over there with Oz, and he'd prefer not to show just what a loser he is in front of Way Cool Band Guy.
So he ends up asking entirely the wrong kind of people.
Jonathan thinks a sit down has something to do with drugs. Or girls. Maybe drugs *and* girls. Beyond that, he's not sure.
Tucker Wells narrows his ferrety eyes and asks Xander in turn if he knows the recipe for homemade napalm. Which he does, but that's not the kind of knowledge you want falling in the wrong hands.
Freddy Iverson gets all excited and wants to come along and take pictures to document the historic cultural encounter between two previously rigidly-segregated social groups. Xander backs away slowly.
Giles blinks a lot and says he'll try to look it up, but can't promise anything.
He can't ask Cordy, because god knows she's impatient with him enough, doesn't want him approaching her when more than two people are around, and, anyway, she'll never make out with him again once she finds out he doesn't know what the hell a sit-down is.
*
After last period, when he finds a note instructing him to come to the Wilkins Bird Sanctuary by four, sharp, he really panics. That's what, eight miles across town, and only Cordy has a car--
"Xander?"
"Man! Why do people keep *doing* that?" Xander turns on his heel, finds Giles looking at him curiously.
He smiles apologetically at Xander. Also, kind of insincerely. "I found some information for you. Quite fascinating, really--"
"Great." Xander grabs his arm and propels him toward the exit. "Tell me in the car."
Giles blinks. "Wonderful! I can accompany you? This really should be quite illuminating."
Xander's well past panic now, into that full-tilt, world going off its axis mode that he's a little too familiar with. This sit-down thing has to be bad if Giles can not only figure out what it is, but wants to observe.
Definitely something demonic, then; he probably shouldn't be surprised. (A) That's his luck; (B) Hellmouth; and (C) Devon wants to be a rock star. He was probably biting the heads off bats while Xander was still playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with Jesse in the backyard.
"You're driving," Xander says. "No observing. Just driving."
Giles sighs and they head for the car.
*
The sit-down appears to be based on marriage rituals throughout European cultures. For that reason, one could even say with some confidence that it derives from Etruscan mating customs via the Romans. In its nearest historical form, it appeared in the immigrant communities in the Bowery, Five Corners, and Hell's Kitchen neighborhoods of New York in the mid-nineteenth century.
"Hell's Kitchen? *Really* don't like the sound of that."
Tight-lipped Giles grimace/smile, so Xander shuts up.
In those communities, the level of poverty was intense enough that marriage _per se_ was not an option for many young people. In addition, poverty and oppression had weakened family bonds to the extent that traditional patriarchal authority did not figure.
"All hail the patriarchy. The patriarchy's dead."
"Really, Xander. Do you want to know, or shall we just send you in there blind and fumbling?"
"Works for me." Catching the sigh before Giles can give it, Xander says quickly, "Sorry. Hit me with the knowledge."
But the car is slowing as it turns into the huge, empty parking lot of the bird sanctuary.
"Or don't," Xander says. "I'll be okay." He doesn't believe it himself, but Giles never listens to him anyway, so maybe he can get away with it.
"You're sure you wouldn't like some company?"
Xander's out of the car, door already closed, when Giles asks, so he sticks his head in through the open window. Giles peers at him expectantly, hand hovering over the key.
"It's cool, Giles." Over Giles's head, at the far end of the lot, he can see Oz's van waiting. Alone, no exhaust. Silent. Xander shudders. "Yeah. It's -- cool."
"If you're sure--"
"Sorry," Xander says. "Think I need to do this one on my own. Lone wolf. Pale rider. You know."
Giles obviously doesn't know what to say, so he just sighs and releases the parking brake.
Xander waits until Giles's car has put-putted out of sight before starting the long trek over to the van.
Empty lot.
Long Xander-shadow ahead of him.
Breeze whispering.
He can do this.
He's about three paces away when one of the back doors flies open and Devon jumps out.
"Right on time."
"Yeah," Xander says. "Big believer in punctuality, that's me."
Devon whistles through his teeth as he walks slowly around Xander.
"Where's your second?"
What the hell's a second? "Um."
"Guy who'll back you up. Watch your back. He's late?"
Crap. Giles didn't say anything about a second. Well, Giles didn't say much at all, except for stuff about mating and ritual, and Xander's sure he'll be delighted to hear about this regional variation. If, you know, he makes it out of here in one piece.
And who would second him, anyway? Buffy, she's strong. Willow, if it was a battle of the wits. But Devon said "guy". Maybe he's just sexist. Or maybe it *does* have to be a guy, in which case Xander's even more shit out of luck than he thought. He doesn't know many guys. Angel would probably feed him to the demon in delicious bite-sized pieces. Giles puts up with him, but given a choice, he'd stammer an apology and decline the opportunity to watch Xander's back.
"Um, Oz?" Xander tries. Oz is a good guy. Probably. Bonus that he's already here.
Devon laughs -- actually throws his head back and guffaws. Xander's never heard a guffaw before. "Righteous," Devon says finally. "Okay, so the munchkin's doing double duty. He's flexible. Fucking *perfect*. Knew you'd come through."
He claps his hand on Xander's shoulder, really hard. It could bruise. Compared to whatever's next, though, Xander'll take the bruising. Then he slings his arm all the way around Xander's neck, like he's about to give him a noogie, and pushes him forward. "After you, Harris."
Xander pauses for a second, trying to figure out how to scramble up inside the van halfway gracefully. When Devon slaps his ass, though, Xander stifles a yelp and just jumps up.
"Hey."
He hears Oz but it's taking forever for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Especially when Devon slams the doors closed. All he can see is wavering neon-green squares.
"Oz?"
"Over here."
Someone's hand brushes his arm, and Xander takes it, gripping it, letting himself be guided across, then down to the floor.
"Harris says you're his second."
"Heard that."
Xander can't make anything out from Oz's tone. He barely knows the guy, and he's inscrutable as hell *anyway*. "Is that okay?"
Devon chuckles and Xander winces at the sound. Nothing worse than being left out of the joke.
"Really, man," Xander continues, swallowing anxiety the way he pops Advil after a night of patrolling: desperately, taking way too much, certain it won't help. "Just say so, you know, if it's not--"
"It's cool," Oz says. Even pats Xander's arm.
Xander exhales slowly. "Thanks. I'm not exactly up on this whole thing, so--"
A lighter sparks and glows across from them. So that's where Devon is; a joint on his lips, his face all bottom-lit and red for a second, like a really handsome jack o'lantern.
He hears Devon inhale -- wet and gulpy -- and now he can see a little better. Devon extends his arm, snaps his fingers lazily, and Oz slips past Xander, going over on his knees until Devon's arm wraps around his waist. They're leaning into each other, heads tilting in opposite directions. Holy shit, mouths are meeting.
Xander leans over, trying to get a better view. Devon's hand is on Oz's neck, fingers in spiky black hair, open mouths sliding over each other. Lips mashing. Little wisps of smoke escape as Devon's cheeks hollow (awesome cheekbones, sharp as Giles's good weapons) and Oz's adam's apple bobs.
Totally bizarre but really fucking cool. Xander's still leaning, watching, when Oz pulls back and gives him a crooked grin.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," Xander says. "Yeah, I'm cool."
"Want a taste?" Devon asks. Doesn't wait for an answer, just inhales again and unfolds himself until he's right in front of Xander, cupping his cheek with a wide warm hand, pursing his lips. Xander closes his eyes but they fly right open again. He tilts back his head. Tastes first, then feels, Devon's lips -- bitter, then soft -- enjoying it, forgetting to open his mouth until Devon's tongue taps his lower lip, and then he does. He's inhaling and swallowing and kissing all at once, sucking in the smoke and rush of spit and along with them, Devon's tongue, strong and hot. He congratulates himself on not coughing or choking; not bad for a beginner.
No freaking out. Oz wasn't just kissing Devon, and he's not kissing Devon right now. This is obviously just how band guys smoke up, so even if he's tonguing Devon's teeth a little, that's okay. Devon doesn't seem to mind, and he's giving as good as he gets.
Underneath his heartbeat and gasps, Xander hears Oz clear his throat. Devon slides his hand off Xander's neck, trails it down his chest, then takes his lips away. Xander slumps back. Everything feels thick and he's more than a little dazed, which must be the pot, because he didn't just kiss Devon MacLeish. It felt like a kiss. Definitely tasted like one, even with the sweetness of lip gloss replaced by the bitterness of smoke, and he *is* breathless and his lips hurt. Maybe it was a kiss.
"Oz?" Xander whispers.
Oz smiles that crooked smile again. He drops his voice conspiratorially. "Yeah, Xander?"
"Was that normal?"
"Define normal."
Xander chews his lip. Tastes Devon again. "Can't," he finally admits. "But I've got another question for you."
"Shoot." Oz takes the joint from Devon, who's just sitting there, arms looped around his knees, grinning at nothing in particular.
"What are we doing?"
"That," Oz says, inhales, and holds up his finger. Xander waits. Oz exhales in a thin stream and Xander tries to catch little bits of it like a goldfish until he realizes he probably looks exactly like Anthony Michael Hall in Breakfast Club. He claps his mouth shut. "Is open to debate."
Devon's moving closer. How does he do that? He moves slow and graceful, just sort of *appears*.
"Not philosophy, shithead," he says and takes the joint back from Oz. Oz looks kind of offended. "He means *here*. Now. Sit-down."
Xander nods. He doesn't want to offend Oz, because, hey, second. And cool guy with great hair. But this whole thing's bugging him. He watches Devon inhale and finds himself leaning in a little bit. Hopefully.
"Greedy, ain't he?" Devon chuckles and grabs Xander by the neck. The kiss or whatever is fast and wide this time, totally different and just as good. Devon nips at his lower lip and tugs his hair so Xander's head goes back and Xander sucks down the smoke in big desperate gulps along with what feels like half of Devon's tongue.
"Sit down," Devon says, drawing back so fast that Xander's left gaping like an overheated dog. "Basically we need to make sure everything's copacetic with Oz here and that Inuit chick."
"Willow," Xander and Oz say together.
"That's the one."
"What do you need me for? Isn't that Will's problem--" He turns to Oz, who's studying his fingernails really intently. It occurs to him that Oz might be shy. Weird. "Not *problem*. Sorry. Like--business. It's Will's business. And yours. You two. Together."
"You're her best friend," Oz says. Won't look up.
"Well, yeah, but--"
"So you get a say," Devon says. He's exasperated, it's written all over his face. Even in the dimness of the van and through clouds of sweet smoke, Xander can see that.
"But--" Xander says. "Is this 'cause I'm a guy? Because that'd be wrong. Like giving her away or something."
"No," Oz says. Xander doesn't know why, but he looks over and finds Oz staring at him. "It's 'cause you're her best friend."
"Just how it works," Devon says. "Sorry."
"Not complaining. Really, so not complaining. Just--confused. I'm confused."
Oz rubs his back lightly, high on his shoulders. "Chill."
"Yeah. Chilling." Xander doesn't believe himself, and his voice is totally giving him away. He might hyperventilate, and wouldn't that be the contact high to end all contact highs? Devon shifts over so he's on Xander's other side and now he's rubbing, too, and there's a warm moment when his hand meets Oz's and they both stop and hold. And Xander's calm again. Just like that.
"Better?" Devon asks.
Xander nods, then shakes his head, then just goes still. Sure, this is better if you just think about whispery warm touches up and down his back. Down? Sliding down, yep. Probably not really better if you look at it from the outside, which all of a sudden he's able to do. Then you see two hot guys flanking him (and they are hot, he might as well admit that), two guys he hardly knows, one guy he just may or may not have kissed, the other who wants to date his best friend yet who also may or may not have kissed the first guy.
He's dizzy. He's sitting down, but he's dizzy.
"Xan?" Oz whispers.
Xander turns slowly, sees Oz with his arm around his neck, looking crease-faced and worried.
"I'm okay," Xander says. Oz doesn't look convinced. "Really, I'm good. Adjusting, it just takes me awhile."
Oz shakes his head and Xander needs to do something. He can't stand seeing the mellow disrupted, shattering in countless spiderwebs over the small, pale face.
He leans in, kisses Oz hard, and holds his breath against dry, savory lips. Slow as a dream, he feels one hand settle on his shoulder, fingers curving around his neck, and the other slide around his waist. Then everything speeds up -- he exhales, Oz's lips part, fingers start to grab and move, Devon laughs -- and he's *floating* on this huge billowing rushing current of warm air. Oz kissing him back, sharp tongue thrusting against his own, fabric rustling, nails scraping up the nape of his neck, his own palms fisting and releasing Oz's shirt, tugging it up, and they're *swinging* around the bases now, he's losing count. Not sure if rubbing thumbs over a *boy's* nipples counts as second, but a small, callused palm slipping into his pants, cupping his dick, that's totally *third*, that's almost home, and Xander leans back and sideways, right into Devon.
Oz is slipping from his hands, rocking, this small tight armful of boy and skin and shirt, slipping downward, working open his fly, and Xander might take a moment to regret, even whimper, but he's leaning back on Devon's lap and kissing the sweat off the beads on his necklace. Rolling the beads against his tongue, clicking them with his teeth, and Devon's laughing again, tugging Xander's shirt up and over his head. He's blind, staring through a red haze of shirt, catching his breath, shuddering under Devon's long fingers and wide palms and sweet *Christ*, Oz has got his pants down around his knees and he's blowing warm little puffs of breath up Xander's thighs. So Xander shakes and thrusts, but Devon's got him in some kind of porno half-nelson, and he's sucking on Xander's neck, up to his ear, so there are hot little shakes going down his body, meeting up with the ones coming up from Oz's mouth over his balls, and doing some kind of supernova tap dance in his guts. He's twisting around, trying to go liquid or at least rubber so he can touch everything all at once, and he's thrusting jerkily so that Oz laughs at him, this low quiet *sexy* chuckle spreading slow and deep under his skin.
Devon gets Xander over on his side, and he's lying down too, long expanse of Dev-lines blurring out into the distance, hands dancing over Xander's arms and chest, Xander tonguing those beads again and up his throat, tasting cologne and sweat and weed, his own hands stroking distractedly over Oz's spiky hair and the tight rope of muscle around Dev's waist. He hears music, finally, something definitely not top-40, all sad and slow, bottomheavy with bass notes, mixing with his own guttural sighs and Oz's chuckle and the bassoon-heavy giggles Devon exhales every time Xander nibbles right...*there*, right under his ear. Something about Devon's hands, maybe the way they can span whatever they touch, maybe just their warmth and their softness that's only soap, not slick with moisturizer like a girl's, but anyway they stroke and twist him until Xander's lying in Devon's lap, against his chest. Devon's toying with his nipples and kissing him slow and deep, which feels radical enough, but then there's the rapid, wet licks Oz is painting around the base of his dick.
Xander clenches every muscle from abdomen to ankle, trying not to thrust up, but it's so hard, his eyes are squeezed shut and Oz's mouth slides up his shaft as he grips the base, and he's like jerking *and* sucking him off. Xander grabs onto Devon, anywhere, pulling at him, almost crying into his mouth, over his lips. Devon holds him down, hand on his throat just tight enough that Xander sees *more* stars, his breath going shallow just when he needs it the most. Oz's teeth brush against the ridge of Xander's cockhead, and he cries out as his hips jerk up and Devon holds his jaw, kissing him tonsil-deep. He's coming, seeing saffron and ruby starbursts, skin contracting down, down, down before it surges up and he feels the cum splash hot on his belly.
Xander shudders and moans as his limbs go heavy and numb, flashing hot then cold and he gradually tunes into the sound of Devon's voice. Can't make out the words, just hears sound and laughter.
Laughing, like water over stones, going in and out as Xander's rolled over, and sees Oz kissing Devon again, both of them up on their knees, rocking back and forth and he just kind of lies there, watching and grinning stupidly. Getting hard again, which hurts but it's worth it. Oz is guiding Devon down onto his side with some intricate hand gestures and twists of his hip, until Oz's lying right in front of Xander. Xander scoots forward, wrapping an arm around the sharp little pelvic bone, fingers splayed out over warm, tight skin. He's holding Oz against him, burying his face in against his neck, and Devon's pressed up against Oz, kissing him so hard that Xander hears breathy little squeals coming from Oz, feels them ripple against his face. Oz rocks his hips into Xander's palm, nudges it down until his knuckles brush Devon's hand and wiry hair.
Devon takes his hand, wraps it around two cocks tightly enough that Oz bucks back against Xander and breathes high and sweet. And when Devon wraps *his* hand the other way around, so his fingers brush against the meat of Xander's thumb, Xander tips back his head and moans again. His cock might as well be there, right in the center, the way his palm's curved and tingling around the shifting shafts and Oz is grinding back against him. His hand's getting wet and slick from precum, and Devon speeds up the rhythm, rocking and thrusting against Oz, against Xander, maybe against the whole *van*. Oz lifts his leg, slings it over Devon's hip, then grinds back and --
*Shit*. Xander's dick is sliding between the damp hot skin of Oz's thighs, nudging at his balls. He starts jerking them faster like he's doing himself. Oz's head turns, his lips closing over Xander's as Devon's head tosses back, and Xander's staring into Oz's eyes, so wide he can see the white almost all the way around, as they kiss and rock back, matching Devon's rhythm. Devon goes stiff and still, then shoves forward, coming in Xander's fist, all over Oz's leg and stomach.
Oz kisses Xander hard, eyes squeezing shut, worming his hand under Xander's arm to clutch at his hip, mash them closer together. Xander holds on, trusting only that this feels good, that it's making the others feel good, forswearing any other thoughts for the time being. Devon's rolled away, onto his back, but he's watching them through lowered lids, licking his lips. Oz jerks in Xander's arm, hot skin sliding against Xander's chest, tongue swirling around Xander's.
Xander slides his fist faster, taking advantage of Devon's cum, making it as fast and rough as he can, just so he can hear Oz whimper and squeak into his mouth again. Because Oz never talks, and this is loud for him, and that makes Xander happier than anything. When Xander pinches his cockhead and rubs a knuckle into his slit, Oz throws out all his limbs, arches away, tearing his mouth away, then collapses back, shooting and whimpering. Xander wraps both arms around him then, squeezes tightly, hears Oz sigh and Devon grunt with laughter.
"Now, that? *That* was because you're a guy," Devon says.
His real reason for being here filters back into Xander's mind, clawing slowly through satiation and surprise at the way Oz *fits* against him. Sit-down. Friends.
Fuck. *Willow*.
"Oz?" Xander whispers. Urgency and worry slice through, starting at the gut and twisting upwards, hara-kiri-style. "Willow. What about *Willow*?"
Oz nods to himself. He looks almost pleased, as if Xander against all the odds got the answer right.
"Seriously," Xander hisses. "Sit-down, remember? What would Willow say about this--" He doesn't know what to call it. More than a meeting. Not really bonding. Naked sweaty guy thing? With cocks? "--this *thing*? With cocks?"
*Shit*. He said that out loud.
Oz is still nodding, running purple-tipped fingers up and down Xander's forearm, trailing goosebumps in their wake.
"Thought you could help with that," Oz says. He twists around a little. "Hence the *thing*." Xander realizes all too slowly that Oz is smiling at him. He blinks rapidly, still unsure if it's *possible* for Oz to smile. Nope, still there. And Oz is pinching his arm now, lightly, all over the place. "Make it a regular thing. If, y'know, you wanted to."
"Fuck you," Devon says cheerfully. "That was *my* line. You're just the second. Harris. How about it?"
Let's see. His dick is terrifically hard and very, very happy, tucked between Oz's legs. Oz fits rather spectacularly perfectly against him. Devon's grinning at them and waving away smoke while scratching his lean, gold-tinged stomach. Tough call. Not.
"So you're not going to kill me? Sacrifice me to something?"
They both stare at him and Xander shrugs. Oz's with Willow now, and Xander's with, weirdness, but he's with Oz and Devon, so they're bound to understand sooner or later.
"Sure," Xander says. "I'm game."