Oz groans as Xander thrusts into him. Their bodies melting, conforming, twisting to each other. It's like he never left.
They're in Sunnydale in Xander's basement. They're in London in the supply closet of the Watcher's Council. Xander's ass bumps a stake off the shelves, and Oz laughs.
Oz sucks Xander's finger, tongue going over every callus. Calluses from Madrid, Los Angeles, Sunnydale, Toronto, and Jerusalem. Every ridge tells of a different Slayer found, of a different demon kill.
Xander's hand wraps around Oz's cock. A rhythm of airports, of four-wheel vehicles, of letting Dawn speed down the Autobahn on a Vespa on their cross-country travels. Oz tastes of red sand, incense, and sweat.
With a gasp into a hotel's starchy pillow, Oz comes. He slackens, putty against Xander's movements. Every meeting, another reunion.