It all started easily-normally-nicely enough.
Party, lots of good-looking people, some kicking oldskool on the stereo, rum in the punch that left a sweet, sweet burn all the way down Devon's chest, inside and out. He was in the motherfucking *groove*, buzzing and loose like old elastic bands inside his skin, dancing and grinding with a couple of blackhaired, crimson-lipped sisters.
Maybe they weren't sisters; he can't really remember.
Anyway. So he was there and the room was a shifting blur like in the HK movies when they're racing down city streets after the tong or Yakuza or whatever, just smears of colors and light. For a while he'd been keeping half an eye on the door. Lindsey was supposed to meet him here, and while Devon didn't exactly *believe* he'd show, it still would rock *if* he appeared.
Dancing, swirling, spinning, and then the neon stopped smudging, started clearing. Resolving, shrinking, paling, sharpening.
"Mother*fucker*. Oz?"
Little nod, curling twist to the lips, shine of those eyes like greentea ice cream, and the music might as well have cut off, the cuties stumbled away into marriage and childbearing, the party emptied, because -
"Jesus. Fucking dirty goat*fucker*. Oz."
Another nod. "Got it the first time, Dev."
And they were catching up, Oz against the wall, Devon holding both his shoulders like he'd disappear if he let go - which, knowing Oz, was actually kind of possible - and the party kept churning, the noise kept buzzing, the rum kept burning. And then they were kissing, and he had one hand on Oz's little narrow waist, all ropes of muscle and babysoft skin, and his tongue down Oz's throat, and it was just right, just like old times, just perfect.
Until someone was shaking his shoulder and licking his ear and whispering, hot and wet, "Can't leave you alone for a night, can I?"
Lindsey.
Devon twisted around, wrapping his arm around Oz's waist and wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand, then kissing Lindsey, clapping his shoulder. "Dude. No big. Old friend -"
"Hey, Lindsey." And even with all the party racket, Oz's voice was quiet and harsh and it *carried*. Fucking sent chills down Devon's spine.
"Oz." Lindsey's voice flat, his eyes narrowing.
Neon was whirling around *inside* Devon's skull now as he kept looking back and forth between them. "Fuck do you two know each other?"
"Had a thing," Oz said. Squinted at Linds. "You're not supposed to be here. LA."
Lindsey smiled and more shivers ran up Devon. "Free country, last I heard. And you're supposed to be -- where, exactly?"
"Travelling man," Devon said and slid two fingers through Oz's belt loop. Held on even as he squeezed Lindsey's shoulder. "Oz is like that guy. With the balloon."
"Live here," Oz said.
"What?" Devon asked.
"Where?" Lindsey asked. Much better question than Devon's; Lindsey can be scarysmart sometimes.
When Oz shrugged, his arm rubbed against the nylon of Devon's shirt and it made a weird unnatural whisper. "Live here. West side."
"Wait," Devon said. He closed his eyes, tried to let the confused swirl settle a little. It made a pretty fucking cool picture, though, Linds and Oz, pale and pinktan skin, green eyes and blue. "You two had a *thing*. What the fuck kind of thing?"
"Some*thing*," Lindsey said. When Devon opened his eyes, Lindsey raised his brows at Oz and licked the corner of his lip. "What would you call it, *Daniel*? Love-hate? Torrid affair?"
"Mistake."
"Without regret, there is no living," Devon said.
They both looked at him, green eyes, then blue, widening.
"What? Fortune cookie. Like how it sounds. Makes a lot of sense."
Lindsey slid to the side, and Devon's arm followed him, until they were standing in this bizarre lumpy circle, Lindsey facing Oz.
"Always have liked 'em big and dumb, haven't you?" he asked Oz.
"Something like that," Oz said.
Too many shivers, too much whirling, like Devon waded out of a nice clean blue pool straight into the Amazon or something, piranhas and anacondas brushing against him. Threatening and confusing and just way too much static for his liking.
"Dudes. Chill. Jesus."
*
It's a month or so later, and it really hasn't gotten much better. *They* haven't gotten much better, that is; Devon's pretty copacetic with the whole situation. He just wishes they would chill the fuck out.
Hence, he's taking drastic measures. They want to snipe at each other, let 'em do it for real. Raise the stakes. Make them work for it.
"Remind me why I'm doing this," Oz says as he slides down the wall and folds his legs. He glances at Lindsey, just half a second, then picks up his guitar.
"'Cause you *owe* me, man," Devon says, popping open a can of Dr. Pepper and drinking long and fast. "Oz. Dude. Houdini, Invisible Man, world traveller. I am owed."
"Yeah." Quiet and calm, Oz nods and Devon grins.
"And me?" Lindsey asks.
"You love it," Devon says and slings his arm around Lindsey's shoulder. "Can't pass up any chance to perform."
Lindsey flexes his hands and gives him a small little smile as Devon runs his knuckles down the warm swell of Lindsey's cheek before breaking away and collapsing into the recliner. Front row, only row.
"Right. So I'm thinking - Show me your stuff. Really make me feel it."
He sits back in the recliner and crosses his legs. Just lets Oz and Lindsey look back at him while he cocks an eyebrow and smirks.
This is the fucking life: Two small pretty men, axes in their hands, playing to *him*. For him. About him.
It's all about Devon.
They look back at him and even if they've got the instruments, he's the one who gets the attention.
Yeah, this fucking *rocks*.
Kind of spectacular and incredible, actually, how he's always managed to duck the old 'Stop Juggling Us and Just Choose One' scenario. The one where your two, um, friends team up and confront your funloving ass. Got pretty close a couple times, of course; the unholy Cordy-Becka alliance comes immediately to mind.
Back in high school, buzzed by some laced weed and what he's pretty sure was some bad mozzarella down at Gino's Slices, he even considered, briefly, linking arms with Willow and giving the speech to Oz himself.
"She know where else your mouth goes, dude?" Back of the van - of course - their senior year (Oz's first), skipping seventh period, sound of the surf coming through the windows. Devon just lay back, enjoying what chicks would call the afterglow, smearing the trickles of sweat on his chest into paisleys.
Oz yanked his shirt on over his head. "She wouldn't under--"
"'Hey, geekgirl. Thinking your little Dannyboy's been playing doubles.' Gotta admit, it's tempting."
"Right, Dev." Oz turned, his waist twisting like, like--like art. Or something architectural. Pale and carved, really kind of beautiful. "Go tell her. Should be interesting."
"Maybe I will, my man." Devon lobbed an empty can at Oz's head but he ducked just in time. "Maybe."
Fucking called his bluff. Mofo always knew Devon better than Devon himself.
Today, Oz just sits on the floor and plucks out something half-familiar. Almost Irish but a little too punked out to count as the stuff that Dev's Aunt Peggy (by marriage, and *that* was a mess and a half with clan MacLeish) always blasted in her Toyota. It picks up, goes half-nuts, and despite himself, Devon gets into it.
When it's his turn, Lindsey goes all the way over the edge and around the rhinestone cowboy bend, humming then singing some tune he's plucking out fast and furious that'd make Glen Campbell stop and think and reconsider.
"Your voice's okay," Lindsey said the first time they met. Pressed up close in some smoky shithole's open mic night, little too close to closing time for comfort. "But your stage presence is for shit. You're no Robert Plant."
Devon threw back another shot and slid his hand higher up Lindsey's thigh. "And who're you s'posed to be? Dwight fucking Yoakam?"
Lindsey smiled. "Just a guy, just tryin' to get along."
Drawl like chocolate syrup - gritty like Quik, not as rich as Hershey's - and Devon laughed. All fake, all bullshit, this guy. But. But. But so fucking *pretty*, even more confident than Devon himself, blue eyes, plump mouth, stupid long hair shining in the glow of neon beer signs. Pettable. He started to wonder if it was possible that drawls, like, affected your mouth. Left physical traces. Like, would it be a drawljob once he got that pink mouth wrapped around his dick?
The room's ringing with silence when Lindsey strums off the last chord. Loud and showy, but that's what you need and want and crave sometimes, and Devon has to grin.
He claps, then crosses his arms behind his head. "Go on. Pick up the pace. Make it like a real competition."
So then Oz plays something Devon *knows* he's heard before, but he can't really place it. Oz used to play this album all the time, it was pretty old, but it had cool lyrics. The singer couldn't sing for shit, though, no matter how many times Oz insisted he was some kind of genius. The song's a little sad, like someone's crying underneath the bouncy twang, and Devon cuts him off before the third chorus.
"Hell was that, Oz?"
Oz scratches the side of his neck and looks away.
"He's making fun of me," Lindsey says.
Oz just shoots Lindsey one of those knife-smiles of his and shrugs.
Oz doesn't like Lindsey, says he's dangerous, shit like that. It's fucked-up, really, because Oz generally likes everybody. Or he used to, anyway.
Devon figures he's just jealous.
"Not about jealousy," Oz said several days after they ran into each other at the party. He crushed the pizza box and dropped it into the recycling bin he made Devon get. "Trust me."
"So what is it?" Devon still had his mouth full of 'za, but when Oz talks, you listen. Grab the moment. Carpe fucking diem.
"Told you. He's dangerous -"
Devon shook his head.
"Not a good guy -"
Scrubbed a napkin over his mouth and cracked his knuckles.
"Makes bad moral choices -"
He just stared at Oz, because, hello? What?
Oz stared back, completely, perfectly still, and let it get quiet. Then he sighed. "Look, he's just no good, Dev."
Devon tipped his chair back from the table, reaching for Oz's arm, and Oz let himself be pulled closer. Looking up at Oz, all bright eyes and sharp bones, Devon felt a weird hollow thump in his chest. Like his heart burped or something.
Probably heartburn.
"You worried about Mac the Leish, Oz?" he asked, lightly, grinning, tickling his fingers up Oz's cool, skinny arm.
Oz gazed down at him. Lights at the bottom of his eyes. "Yeah. I am."
Which is just ridiculous when you think about it.
Lindsey adjusts his guitar and winks at Devon. Starts playing a couple familiar chords as he looks over at Oz.
"Little obvious, isn't it?" Oz asks. He rarely sings - hasn't, not really, since Devon decided he'd be the singer when they were ten and they confirmed the selection with a marathon session of Rock-Paper-Scissors - but he's got a nice, hoarse, sweet voice, as he sings along. "'Today I found my friends. They're in my head -"
He stops when Lindsey grins wide and changes tunes. Jangly and glittery, and Devon has to lean forward, drop the cool objective judge's mask for a second.
"Dude! I know this one. Oz, dude, remember, you used to play this all the fucking time! Eric almost broke your arm if you played it one more time, remember?"
Oz nods, his smile flattening, and he looks down at his guitar, then up at Devon from beneath his lashes.
"Kind of your theme song, ain't it, Devon?" Lindsey says, playing more lightly.
"Yeah," Devon says, sitting back. "Hell, yeah. I'll give *you* some sweet head."
Lindsey's in his shit-kickin'-finest, worn Wranglers and wife-beater under an unbuttoned flannel. Rough trade for the mean streets of Galveston, but he holds his guitar like a baby daughter, all care and gentleness.
"What about Kurt, Jr. over there?" Lindsey asks. "He ever gonna say anything?"
Oz is still sitting on the floor, tuning, and he glances up. Eventually. Sharp look, slitted eyes.
Oz is being weird all around. Weird*er*, anyway. He'll hang with Devon, nice and close, just like old times, just like always. Smoke up, kick back, relax, but then he'll shake his head and wriggle away if things heat up.
"Told you," he said last weekend, lifting Devon's hand from his crotch and putting it back in Devon's lap. Like it was a cat or a piece of paper or something. "Seeing someone."
Devon scratched his chest and squinted against the late-afternoon glare. "Yeah. So?"
Oz was sitting up, hunched over, fiddling with the loose threads of his chopped-off pantscuffs. "Don't want to --. You know. Can't, won't."
"No, really," Devon said. Bullshit explanations make him itchy. "What's up?"
Oz ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the spikes, looking past Devon, across the room, toward some secret window only he could see. At least he didn't flinch or anything when Devon rubbed his arm.
"Seeing someone," Oz said. Kind of snorted, half-laughing but not really. "Fuck, *living* with someone."
He never, ever, says the name. Sometimes Devon's not even sure if it's a guy or a chick Oz has shacked up with, but judging from some of the bruises on his arms, throat, ass, Devon's going with guy. Big guy, too. Strong.
Oz always did have a streak of liking it rough.
"Oz, dude. Man. Tell me you're not all married and shit."
Not long after Oz hooked up with the little freak girl, things changed. He got even quieter, even around Devon, and he kissed differently. Like he was holding back, like he was about to say something. Tenser, like he was always just about to pull away. Didn't use his teeth any more, either.
It's kind of like that now, all over again.
"Hey, talking about you. Pretty quiet," Lindsey says to Oz. "You reconsidering? Throwing in the towel?"
"I'm good," Oz says and wrenches another little knob.
Devon just grins. Oil and water, seriously, these two. Lindsey all clinging, dark, sticky. Combustible, flammable. And Oz all quiet, powerful. Clear, sliding out of your hands, gone before you know it.
Neither of them gives Devon what he wants, not really. He doesn't get big pretty cow-eyes, bubbling laughter, touches full of admiration, of adoration. They're not easy, these two, they don't yield and twine around him. They make it hard.
That probably means something, actually. Devon isn't sure. They sure do make *him* hard, though.
Lindsey's got no inhibitions around him, not like Oz suddenly has. He'll lounge for hours, buckfuckingnaked, sweaty and stinky. It's cool.
"What kind of *thing*?" Devon asked one night. They'd been sharing the pipe, passing it back and forth, and Lindsey had his free hand wrapped around a can of beer. Everything loose and sticky and hot.
Lindsey just chuckled and rolled his eyes. "You starting that up again?"
Devon crawled up Lindsey's body, looking down, admiring the string of hickeys he'd left across Lindsey's chest. "This kind of thing?" he asked, running his teeth over one nipple, "Or *this* -?", as he dropped his hips and ground gently against Lindsey's cock.
Still chuckling, Lindsey slid his hand into Devon's hair and pulled him down. "You're much better looking when you're not talking, you know."
"Yeah?" Devon kissed Lindsey, swiping his tongue across Lindsey's parted lips, tasting weed, beer, come, and usually *that* taste sensation would make him grin, would instantly push everything else out of his head, but he was trying to think. Not like he hadn't heard this kind of thing before, but it was something to consider. Ponder, contemplate, Oz-ify. Or not; it kind of started giving him a headache. "But, okay. Oz and you. What kind of -"
Lindsey nibbled along Devon's jaw, his chuckles sending gorgeous little vibrating ripples through his skin, until he reached the earlobe. When he spoke, Devon couldn't help shivering. "You're in love with him."
"Bullshit." Devon tried to pull away, but Lindsey had his arm across his back and held him fast.
"No, not bullshit. You are."
"Nah." Devon snorted. "I'm cool."
Love and Devon? It's impossible. He *wants* stuff, *needs* to have a constant good time, *craves* food-sex-booze-weed. But none of that is love. Love is like velcro, sticky and scratchy. Like gin, clear and bitter and strong enough to strip paint.
Lindsey's sigh roared like ocean waves in Devon's ear. "Fine, pretty boy."
"No fine," Devon said, finally pulling away. He sat back on his heels, on top of Lindsey, shaking his head. "Fuck do you mean?"
"Simple enough, Devon. You. Are in. *Love*. With Oz." Lindsey spoke like a first-grade teacher, slow and loud, enunciating. Patient.
Devon hates when people treat him like he's retarded.
"Fuck off," he finally said. For some reason his throat had just started to hurt like hell and he was suddenly really tired. "Maybe *you* are. Rubber, glue, McDonald."
Oz is his best friend. Always was, always will be. That's better than love. In fact, now that he's thinking about it (again, for the millionth time, endless buzz of neon thought), it's pretty pathetic that Lindsey has to call friendship 'love'. That he can't see it for what it is, so much better and longlasting.
Love is for chicks and fags and oddballs like Oz currently doing his best Mike Brady impression, Mr. Commitment and House Hubby extraordinaire. Not for Devon.
He shifts now in the recliner, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate on what's in front of him. "Don't either of you know any *real* songs? Like, ones people *know*? That *I* know?"
Oz and Lindsey glance at each other, starting to smile a little.
Much better. Devon had been serious, and now they're basically laughing at him, but if it gets them a little chiller, he's happy.
"Okay, change-up. Oz, none of your emo artfag alt-dot-whine shit. Linds, you fucking twang one more time and you're out of here." He gives them his widest, easiest smile and lights the half-spliff left in the ashtray.
"Broad categories there, Dev," Oz says. Rises, setting aside his guitar, and perches on the arm of the chair. He plucks the joint out of Devon's hand and takes a huge inhale. "Wanna be more specific?"
Devon loops his arm around Oz's waist and yanks him into his lap. Kickass, being so much taller.
"No," he breathes in Oz's ear, slides his free hand down Oz's chest, then back up, but under his snug little t-shirt. Doesn't let himself expect Oz to tense up. "Think I said what I meant."
Lindsey just leans against the windowframe, looking at them and half-smiling. He likes to pull the older-wiser schtick, does it to Devon all the fucking time, and the first couple times it was cute. Kind of hot.
Now he's rubbing the thin red scar on his wrist, the one that Devon can lick and get Lindsey hard all over again, no matter how soon it's been since he came.
It occurs to Devon, as he kisses Oz's neck down to the curve of his shoulder and keeps his eye on Lindsey, that this is something he knows. Maybe the only-best thing he knows.
Lindsey adjusts himself and Devon grins against Oz's skin.
Gotta go with what you know.
The three of them have only spent one other afternoon together since the party, before today. Lindsey was sprawled on the couch and said - *something*, Devon doesn't exactly remember, but it was bitchy and Oz just turned his head, gazed out the window.
"Dude," Devon said, sitting up. "What've you got against Oz, anyway?"
"Freak," Lindsey said and nudged his foot against Oz's shoulder. Oz didn't move, didn't react. It was fucking *cold* in the room. "Too quiet. Too little."
"You like 'em bigger, huh?" Devon couldn't help it; he took it as a compliment and shook out his hair. He remembered something and elbowed Oz, determined to drag him back into the conversation. There's quiet, and then there's dead-quiet. Dead-quiet's just not cool, not when it's coming off your best friend like fog out of a walk-in freezer. "Oz, remember that guy?"
"Which guy?"
"You know," Devon said. Circled his hand. "Him. That guy."
"No, Dev. Need a little more here."
Devon exhaled and closed his eyes, picturing the guy he meant. "*Him*. You had that thing for him for, like, ever."
"Who, Giles?"
Lindsey just watched them and, remembering it now, Devon realizes the guy does a lot of watching, like he's a computer, observing, recording, storing information. Might be kind of creepy, might be kind of cool. He's up in the air about it.
"No," Devon said to Oz. "Not your whole senior-citizen fetish. This guy was young. Hot. Remember? Big guy. Wore leather."
Oz nodded and Devon could have sworn he slid a glance over at Lindsey before smiling a little. "Yeah, okay."
"Linds'd like him, huh?"
Snort, just one, from Oz before he rubbed his jaw and pretended, Devon was sure he was pretending, to think it over. "Expect he would, yeah."
Now, back in the same room but it's warm and golden, not cold and stark, Devon lifts his mouth from Oz's neck and meets Lindsey's watching eyes straight on. "You gonna participate, babe?"
Lindsey shrugs, but his legs are spread a little further apart than they were a second ago and his lips are parted, too, and even though he's standing against the window, Devon can kind of see a flush in his cheeks.
"Pretty sight," Lindsey says, moving forward, his usual swagger a little muted, his eyes still fixed on them. Devon drags his fingertips back down Oz's chest and tucks them under his waistband, right under the fly.
"Dev -" Oz whispers but Devon just spreads his fingers and presses Oz back against him.
Most of the time, Devon doesn't know what's going on. Piranhas, anacondas, riptides. And he still doesn't know what Oz and Lindsey had, or have, or why Oz is half-wriggling away, but he *does* know one thing. He wants -.
Something.
Maybe it's the dark fresh spruce-needle smell of Oz's skin. Maybe it's Lindsey's blue eyes and pouty mouth, how he's dropping to his knees, hands on Devon's knees, spreading them, holding him.
Maybe it's all of that, or none of that. He pretty much loses track when Lindsey starts popping his fly and mouthing the seam of his jeans. Devon arches and groans and Oz starts to slip off to the side.
"Oz, wait -"
"You two go ahead," Oz says, lifting himself out of the recliner. "I'll watch. Or read. Maybe fix a sandwich."
Oz sounds - quiet, slightly hoarse, almost kind of sad. Devon's still arching, Lindsey's hand on his balls, tongue in his pubes, and Lindsey's mouth is hot and sweet, full of syrup and poison, just like his voice.
Devon tangles his hand in Lindsey's hair, tugging back his head, locking their eyes. Hot blue, like neon, like beer signs and roadside flares. Light sabers. Lindsey licks his lips, then runs them back and forth over the head of Devon's dick, and he's growling a little at the back of his throat and Devon has to close his eyes for a second.
Constant neon-swirling in his head these days, full of want and confusion, porn and music. Nothing new there, except it's starting to get a little old, maybe. Lindsey slides his palm up Devon's chest, starts fingering his nipple as he pushes his lips down Devon's shaft, and *fuck* if the man doesn't know what he's doing.
Devon opens his eyes, meeting Lindsey's again.
Except Lindsey's looking off to the side. Looking at Oz.
Oz glances over his shoulder as he walks away, heads for the kitchenette. Small as he ever was, but stronger than ever, and all of a sudden Devon feels like huge and ginourmous and klutzy and just fucking *gross* in comparison, even with Lindsey on his knees and his cock halfway down Lindsey's throat.
Lindsey's eyes are blue like the sky. Oz's are green like the ocean, like rivers and trees.
The sky's empty.
"Holy *fuck* -" Devon grinds out. His heart burps again, his throat starts to ache, and -
Lindsey grunts encouragingly and sucks harder.
That's not what Devon meant.
In the archway to the kitchen, Oz is standing still.
Arms crossed, tiny. Eyebrows straight and red like they were drawn by a lip pencil. Green eyes, full and bright. Oz blinks, pale as marble, still like a statue, and, Jesusfuckinghell, Devon has to groan again.
He *is* in love with the little guy, isn't he?
Well, fuck.
Fuck with some extra fucking sprinkles on top. That changes everything. Like Y2K, whole new age, new millennium, everything.
Devon grips Lindsey's head, pulls his hair, thrusts his hips, while he keeps on looking over at Oz. Oz and love and Devon and love and *fuck*.
Whole new thing. Time to move forward.
He's going to come first, of course.
Things might be changing, but he's still himself. Some things are, like, eternal.