Since The Time We Left Ourselves
by Dessert First & Tesla321

They used to drape blankets over chairs, shore them up with pillows, and make pretend tents. Only Devon didn't like to pretend they were out camping as much as he liked to pretend they were lounging in some Sheik's harem, about to go ride some camels in the desert--Devon's older brother Dean made a pretty good camel when he felt like it.

Oz didn't like to pretend they were out camping as much as he liked to pretend they were hanging out between gigs, following the Grateful Dead.

Oz's parents really liked the Grateful Dead.

When they got older, it got kind of lame, although Devon still remembered the feel of Oz lying snuggled up against him in the cramped little tent, back before Devon's big growth spurt that made him leap a foot or ten above poor Oz. Oz's hands would be sticky with grape juice and peanut butter, and he would smell like crushed peppermint sticks and glue and soap and boy.

But those were the days when Oz was Danny and Devon was Dev, and Dean was the wisest, smartest, best brother in the world, and the biggest pain in the neck that ever lived, and still hadn't moved away to college in Boston.

Sometimes Devon pulls the covers up over his head and thinks about lying crushed up against Oz now, their hands sneaking across the pillowy divide to clasp. He wonders if this is what love feels like. It's bittersweet. Kinda hollow. He savors it like the best weed.


Devon has that opaque look again, that mildly smiling glance that says he's thinking about getting high. Or getting into Cordelia Chase's pants.

Come to think about it, Devon hasn't had much to say about Cordelia, lately. He hums lyrics, like always, goes out to Oz's van and tokes up at lunch, like always, and manages to look as baked as any surfer dude, without actually surfing.

Something's kind of out of tune with him. Oz will look up and see Devon staring at him like he can't remember who Oz is. Instead of talking, he just twists his leather bracelet, over and over, like he's trying to remember the set list.

"Dude? Need something?" Oz finally says one afternoon, after he lugs the drum set to the stage at the Bronze, and Devon just sits in the front of the van, staring out the windshield and fingering Oz's dashboard gods.

Devon turns his head slowly and says, "You know what? I just may."


Devon knew it was only a matter of time before Oz caught on to him. He's lucky it's still just the opening strains of this tune, but Oz will figure it out. Devon's always been transparent to Oz, when Oz takes the time to look. He figures he's got a matter of days, maybe less, before Oz cracks him.

Maybe more, if that little redhead walks by again and distracts him. It's a good thing Oz does such a thorough job all the time of not thinking about that summer.

It's all Devon thinks about these days.

Around the time Oz stopped being Danny, Danny stopped kissing Dev. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Either way, Devon's hands feel empty now that Oz has learned to keep a respectably manly distance from him. He fills them with the microphone, cool and smooth, and wails into it, shakes everything and makes them beg for more. It's not the same, not even in the same fucking country.

The girls and the boys are sweet, but make a different kind of hollow from the one Oz leaves behind. Tossing groupies into the hollow is like tossing virgins into a volcano. Maybe the natives feel better, but it makes no difference, in the end.

That fucker's still gonna blow.


Oz has always been able to tell when Devon's got something on his mind, but since they got older, it's harder to tell what, exactly. Devon maintains an even strain, at all times; he could have been that guy who went to sleep on top of the rocket, waiting for the countdown.

Devon, man, Devon.

Oz always wanted to be in a band, travel around the west, sing for his supper. Going up and down the coast is just cool, and sometimes, when Devon is in the spotlight, wailing, his shirt open, Oz can't believe his luck. How often do you get to be doing what you want to do, at this age? And Devon's his muse, really, Devon sings his heart out in songs that Oz has written and sung, in his hoarse post-doobie voice, making them sound, well, great.

Oz has always had a little man-crush on Devon, a goofy fondness for him. Devon grew up sturdy and tall, and it was having Devon behind him in school that let Oz be Oz, really. Kept the Larrys and the Scotts and the other assholes from thumping Oz in the boys' restroom, all these years.

Good guy to have at your back, even stoned.


What the hell, Devon thinks. The countdown is on. Oz wants to know if he needs something?

Yeah, he fucking well does.

A million lines zip through his head, the kind that make the groupies go glassy-eyed and give it up, but this is Oz here, and that's the whole point, right?

So he leans over, letting just exactly what it is he needs show on his face. And kisses Oz.


Devon leans over and kisses Oz, and it isn't like those sweet boykisses they exchanged years and years ago, when they were the same height. And Oz forgets all about sweetness, and forgets about everything, for a moment, with Devon's naked need washing over them both.

Suddenly, it's Oz's need, too.

Suddenly, something feels like it's all right, in this jangled life, with Devon's hand on the back of his neck, with Devon's tongue hot and wet and weed-tasting in Oz's mouth.

Devon pulls back, and looks at Oz.

Oz can't think of a thing to say that wouldn't be unnecessary. Which is usually why he doesn't say stuff, but right now...more so.

"Okay," Devon says, satisfied with whatever he sees. He looks past Oz, through the windshield, at the unremarkable sunshiny alley behind the Bronze. He lets go of Oz, and crawls behind the curtain into the back of the van.

Oz locks the doors, and follows him. In the back of the van, which smells all incense-y and weed-y, Devon's pulled the doors shut, and is crouched on the old air mattress, smoothing out all the old packing quilts that pad the drum set. He's got that purposeful set to his mouth, the same one... Oz swallows. It's the same one Devon has when he's chasing... Chases, actually.

"C'mere," Devon says, leaning against the Indian print bolster. "Kinda like our tents, huh?" He's leaning on one elbow, and pulls on Oz's wrist.

"Huh. Yeah. Shoulda brought some grape juice," Oz replies, stretching out beside him.

Devon still has his hold on Oz's wrist, and he examines Oz's hand like he's reading the set list on it. Again. "I miss our tents," he says, not quite mumbling.

"Yeah, that was fun," Oz agrees, letting Devon play with his fingers. He hasn't been, physically, this close to Devon in years. Since... tents. "I missed it when we stopped."

"I missed you," Devon says simply, and pushes Oz down on the dusty blankets and kisses him, and it's hot and wet and... right. "I want to sleep with you," Devon says, and his hands are pulling up Oz's tee shirt.

"Okay," Oz says, blinking a little.

"Well, I mean, later. I want to sleep with you. Dude, why'd we stop doing that?" Devon stops kissing Oz to ponder it. He really is pondering it, too, staring into Oz's face so earnestly.

Oz has to take Devon's face in his hands, and Devon's face is so broad, and hard; the last time they touched like this, he had a soft boyface.

Still has soft lips, though.


Everything is new and magical and whoa. Devon can't figure what the hell he's been doing kissing other people all these years, because, Oz, man. He's got his Oz again.

And Oz has Devon, and that's fanfuckingtastic. Devon licks his lips, tasting Oz, tasting Danny, and "What took you so damn long?" he asks. Oz just blinks at him, still not quite up to speed, but that's okay. They can hash it out later.

Right now Devon needs to know if Oz's skin is still as soft as it used to be, and if he's still ticklish behind his knees. He turns his face in Oz's hands, licks Oz's palm and follows it with a sharp bite, then backs away to pull off Oz's faded tee. Oz sits up a bit to let him, and Devon impatiently whips off his own shirts and lies back down, pressing their chests together.

There are fucking sparks going off everywhere.

Oz pushes up against him and strong small arms lock around Devon's waist.

"Gotta taste you, man," Devon says, and breaks away, ignoring the way Oz's little whimper sets off something in his chest. He slides down a little, concentrates on Oz's body. It's pale, yeah, but perfect, perfectly Oz, and Devon just has to rub his face there, in the spot above Oz's stomach. He slips his fingers up along Oz's sides, feels him quiver at the sensation, palms his shoulders and kisses and licks everywhere, fucking everywhere, and Oz lets him.

Devon looks up, and Oz is looking down at him, green eyes wide and glazed, face still kinda puzzled but too doped up on sex to care. He puts a hand on Devon's head, tentative, and it was never, never like this before. He pets Devon's hair, threading his fingers through it, and Devon watches him through lowered lashes. Whatever he's seeing in Devon's face must make the cut, though, because Oz smiles a little bit, and Devon feels just like... just like when Danny used to smile at him, in the dark.

He smiles back, and presses his lips to Oz's chest again, mouths his way down to the soft skin of his belly, pauses to circle his navel. Yeah, Oz tastes fucking fine.

He licks a broad swipe above Oz's waistband, finishing up with a kiss. He pulls himself up into Oz's arms again and slides a hand down to cup the bulge in Oz's pants. Oz writhes and clutches him harder, a little moan escaping his throat. He'd never put his mouth on Oz's skin like that before, but the warm shape under Devon's hand is familar, if a little bigger than he remembers. Oz kisses him and shoves a hand down Devon's jeans, and everything else falls out of Devon's head.


Oz has fooled around, a little, with guys before, but not with Devon. They once knew every inch of each other's nakedness, but that was child and child.

This is man and man, and Oz does know, theoretically, what to do. But it's all new, doing it with Devon, feeling Devon's cock hard and wet against his fingertips. Devon looks stoned, and Oz feels stoned, too, stoned with the sensation. This would feel good, anyway, but with Devon, man, it's awesome.

Yeah, but he does know what to do, knows exactly what Devon likes, just like Oz knows what he likes, himself. He pulls as hard at Devon's erection as he would pull on his own, kisses Devon as smotheringly as he would want to be kissed and this is nothing like that old kid's stuff. Now it's Oz's turn, and he takes his hand out. "Fuuuck, man," Devon moans, and Oz ignores him, to bite and kiss his way down Devon's neck to suck on a nipple. Devon almost jack-knifes at that.

Devon's hands shake as he unbuttons his jeans, as he reaches for Oz again. Oz lies back down in Devon's arms, all the while letting his hand trace the trail of hair from navel to groin, and strokes Devon again.

"Oh, fuck, Oz, fuck," Devon whispers, hoarsely, fisting Oz through the fabric of his pants. "God, Oz, I've missed you. Missed you, dude."

Which has Oz puzzling, in the back of his mind (the front of his mind being involved in tasting the roof of Devon's mouth) about that: not like Oz has been anywhere. Been right here with Devon all these years. Never thought Devon would seem to need him as much as this, but Oz understands need. Understands it even better than want.

Oz hadn't realized just how badly he wanted this. Wanted Devon back. He lets go, moves onto his elbow, and begins peeling off his cargo pants.


Devon shimmies out of his jeans, getting a little stuck when he gets to his sneakers, wrenching one off and tossing it across the van in frustration.

Oz snickers at that. "See, I like that you're unpredictable. Some people might have taken you for a smooth operator." He pushes Devon back down onto the mattress, efficiently finishes stripping, and bends over Devon's foot, nimble fingers untangling knotted shoelaces. Devon just lies back on his elbows, staring at him. Oz removes the shoe and peels off the sock, then the other one, planting a little kiss on top of Devon's foot when he's done. He grabs hold of the jeans and pulls them off, tossing them aside, running his hands gently up and down Devon's newly bared legs, curving around to stroke the back of one thigh. He nods, satisfied, and scoots up to lie next to Devon.

"Dude, why did I ever do this with anyone else?" Devon asks, mystified, as Oz's hands continue exploring Devon's body, hitting all his sweet spots.

Oz's eyebrows get some serious lift. "Because it was fun?"

"Oh, yeah." Devon grins. "Dude, it really was."

Oz snorts, and rolls over on top of him. His weight is solid and just right, and Devon's skin burns all along his body at the contact.

"Wasn't anything like this, though," Devon gasps, as Oz takes hold of his erection. He thrusts up into the small, sure hand, and Oz tightens his grip just enough to make Devon whimper. Fuck, yeah, this is the stuff.

Feels like Oz is fucking everywhere now, crawling up inside Devon, under his skin, setting his nerve endings on fire. Devon winds an arm around Oz's waist, pinning him closer, and thrusts again. Oz pulls his hand away and wraps his arms around Devon, twines their legs together and they both pull and push and thrust and rub and everything's getting a little wet with precome and so fucking hot Devon can barely stand it. He thinks he might hurt Oz, grabbing him so tightly, white-knuckled grip on his hips, but he can't bring himself to stop.

"Oz--fuck--yeah--fuck, Oz!" and Devon's words are crap, but he's writing songs inside his head, yeah, just can't get the words out because Oz is taking him apart.

Oz bends his head into the curve of Devon's neck, hot breath on Devon's skin. Devon unclenches his fingers from Oz's hips and cradles Oz's head, kisses his face, everywhere he can reach, neither of them slowing down their thrusting. It's just like jamming in the garage, man, they are in synch, move and countermove and Devon can hear it, little whimpers and grunts and moans, the van gently bobbing. Devon unwinds his legs from Oz's to wrap them around Oz's waist and runs one hand down Oz's spine to cup his ass. He fists the other hand in Oz's hair, pressing his face down into Devon's neck, feels Oz wetly mouthing him there.

"You're gonna fuck me, aren't you, Oz?" he says, and there isn't even a name for the sound Oz makes at that. "Yeah, you're gonna fuck me, stick your cock up my ass, really let me have it, and it's gonna be the best fucking ride you ever had, man, I swear it will. I fucking swear it."

Oz moans, the sound drawing out all over the register, and thrusts harder, his cock slipping down between Devon's legs, rubbing in the crack of his ass, and it's all so good Devon can just imagine how it's gonna feel when Oz rams into him. Oz raises up again, the hot drag of his cock burning Devon's skin, and grinds into him almost painfully. His face is tight with control as he kisses Devon, shoving his tongue in Devon's mouth, and Devon opens, welcomes him in; any part of Oz inside of him is heaven, fucking heaven. The kiss turns lewd and sloppy, and Devon's going lightheaded from lack of air. He cups the back of Oz's head in one hand, fingers tangled in his hair, and snakes the other hand between them to grab both their cocks.

Oz fucking growls at that, and bats Devon's hand away, grabs Devon's aching cock himself, squeezes it, gives one long, perfect twistingpull up, flicks the head, down and up again and Devon shatters, spurts his come all over Oz's hand, all over his belly, and Oz just keeps on working Devon's cock.


Oz is more alive with sensation than he has been for what seems like months. Years. Years, wrapped in mittens and socks and long underwear and whatever that covers all your pores and keeps you from feeling alive. >From feeling this, this, this sweet fire, this wet lightning, this Devon in his arms.

And Devon begging him. "Jesus, Oz, Jesus, dude, please, please Oz, please fuck me," Devon moans into his ear, his breath rasping, unable to stop licking and biting every inch of Oz he can reach. He's shaking convulsively, his cock thick and come-damp in Oz's hand.

It's making Oz more stoned than the finest weed he ever had. Stoned with lust and want, as he lies on Devon and strokes him from the root to the tip, and Devon's cock is slick and already hardening again in Oz's hand, his chest covered with little beads of sweat. He reaches with his other hand and cups Devon's balls, and Devon's eyes fall closed.

"Shitfuck, doitdoitdoit," he breathes, and Oz lets a fingertip brush the tight hole.

His own cock is throbbing and so hard it hurts. Frankly, he doesn't think he's going to last long enough to fuck Devon.

"Lube, man?" he manages to ask.


"Pockets," Devon manages, waving an arm in the direction he thinks his jeans ended up. "I've got all that shit, man. Don't leave home without it, right?"

Oz nods and fishes around in Devon's jeans, coming up with a handful of condoms and a little tube of slick. His hands are a unsteady as he tries to rip open one of the foil packets, so Devon pulls it together long enough to grab the base of Oz's dick, making them both moan. He holds it firmly and uses his other hand to pull at Oz's balls until the look on Oz's face starts to soften a little.

"Take it easy, man," Devon tells him. He rips the foil open with his teeth and rolls the condom onto Oz's dick while Oz does some of that deep breathing shit he likes to read about. Devon let him breathe, squirts a little lube onto his fingers and lies back, trailing the tip of one slick finger around his hole. When he looks up Oz is staring at him through half-lidded eyes and it makes him fucking burn all over again.


"You won't hurt me," Devon says, his voice a low growl. "Do it, man." Then he blinks, with those long eyelashes. He puts his lips to Oz's neck. "Please."

And with that last, "please," against his skin, Oz lines up and goes in, and Devon lets out a strangled groan and pulls him in, man, with arms and legs and mouth and ass, and he's totally in Devon, and Devon breathes in short pants and his fingers are molding prints in Oz's shoulders, imprinting into Oz's muscles and nerves and bones and--

"Fuck," Oz says, moving his hips and pounding into Devon, who's saying every nasty hot thing that Oz ever wanted anyone to say, his cock hard and wet against Oz's stomach, That's right, baby, fuck me so hard, you feel so fucking good, you're the man, dude, give it to me harder, Oz, give it to me, yeah, Oz, and Devon bears down, he grips Oz's cock and it's tighter and hotter than Oz would have imagined. Oz gets his hand on Devon's cock and Devon's face freezes, and he says, low, almost surprised, "Danny," just before coming, all over Oz's hands and their bellies, and the snap of Devon's muscles clenching on him actually makes Oz's vision blank and his ears buzz and he comes, God, he comes so hard that he feels like he's been shaken out like a tablecloth in the wind.

Devon is murmuring fragments of words into his ear, but Oz can't move. He's the tablecloth after it's dropped back into the laundry basket. But he finally gets his central nervous system to respond to mission control, and he peels himself off Devon, slipping out with a wet juicy pop.

Devon lies back on the rug, one arm flung over his head, lips swollen with kisses, eyelids showing just a gleam of iris.

"Told you," he says, sounding indulgent, the other hand stroking his belly.

"What?" Oz asks, carefully getting the condom off. His hands are still shaking.

Devon waits until Oz turns back to him.

"Best fucking ride of your life, man," Devon says.


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