Cherry Cola
by Dolores

Not for the first time, Oz walked in to a room to find Devon with both hands stuck down his pants.

Whilst the temptation to scream like Penelope Pitstop and run from the room was obviously sorely tempting, it was Devon's bedroom, so if he was entitled to be groping himself anywhere it was surely there. Oz settled for a, "Hey."

He was greeted with silence. Or, more precisely, a muffled scrabbling sound.

"Are you okay?"

Devon continued to ignore Oz for a moment, still intent on his task, hands jerking quickly inside the voluminous denim. Eventually he grunted, "So. Fucking. Itchy. Jesus!"

"Do I need to take you to a clinic?"

"No! It's just growing back," Devon now extracted his hands and looked at Oz seriously. "Man, I didn't know it'd itch like this."

Oz nodded slowly. "Okay, just so I'm clear: you are talking about hair, right?"

Devon grinned. "Yeah, doofus, what else?"


A sigh. "I shaved my pubes off."

"Fair enough."

This established, Oz closed the door and crossed to Devon's desk. He found a clear spot in amongst computer periphery, magazines and other detritus and put his backpack down on it. This was then unzipped so he could rummage around for the box of Cherry Cola L'Oreal he'd bought in Sav-On.

"So, dude, what we doing tonight?" Devon asked, still absently scratching his crotch.

Having just found it, Oz held up the box. "I was gonna dye my hair."

Devon gave him a look which Oz took to mean 'oh fuck, not again'. "Man, that's your only hobby."

Oz could have remarked that Devon was hardly one to talk: his recent experimentation with body hair removal was almost certainly connected to a boundless preoccupation with the discovery of interesting new ways to masturbate -- or, at least, the discovery of adjustments that enhanced his experience of the old ways.

But then there wasn't much else to do. Since the town had ceased to function on anything approaching a normal level (even a 'normal' as relative as that in Sunnydale) their social lives has been less than stellar. Oz was quite content to stay in, so he was less affected, but Devon's old routine of performing with the Dingoes, showing off to everyone, and then flirting with a girl in the hope she'd take him further than third base had come to a grinding halt one night more than six months before. He was starting to go a little stir crazy.

Of course, they'd lost more than a social life that night in the Bronze. Devon's favourite silver shirt. Most of their instruments. Two bandmates.

Even if this wasn't a big enough impediment to continuing as a band, there was nowhere to play any more, and Devon rapidly lost interest in carrying on once he realised he no longer had an audience.

Music was gone, girls were gone, and whilst Oz had discovered limited body modification, Devon had resorted to devout onanism.

"So can I use your bathroom?" Oz asked, out of courtesy. He spent most weekends at Devon's house, and so spent most weekends in Devon's bathroom dying his hair and wishing he had his own ensuite. Permission was probably redundant.

Devon nodded. "Yeah, 'course."

A few minutes later, Oz was standing over the sink, t-shirt discarded on the floor, rubbing dye into his scalp. Steam from the basin of hot water drifted skywards. He examined his reflection in the mirror and tried to decide which nipple he should get pierced, if he didn't go for both.

He heard Devon come into the room behind him, followed by the gushing sound of water as faucets were turned on. Then there was the rustle of clothing. When he glanced to one side, hands still attached to his head, Devon was gingerly stepping into the tub, quite naked.

As long as Oz had known Devon -- fourteen years and counting -- he had never been shy. Even so, he couldn't remember a time, at least since they'd reached adolescence, where Devon had been naked in front of him.

Devon had always had what Oz's mother (pale as her son) liked to refer to as, "a healthy glow." Personally, Oz was always reminded of the Stranglers when thinking about Devon's skin. Texture like sun and all that.

A glowing Devon sank into the water, the steam swirling about his long, lean frame and Oz...

...realised he was staring. He blinked, looking away, but if Devon had noticed he didn't seem bothered. "Hey, pass me the razor, will you? I'm gonna shave again, can't stand it."

There was a razor next to the sink and Oz removed one dye-coated hand to pass it over. Devon's fingers brushed his own in receiving it, and Oz felt a shiver run up his arm.

"I read that you have to do it in a hot bath. The heat makes the skin loose, and it's easier to shave then," Devon explained airily, though Oz hadn't asked. In Devon's case, a little bit of internet was clearly a dangerous thing.

Though Oz had probably done all the dye application that was necessary, he kept going, unable to leave when this would mean missing the fascinating spectacle of Devon running a razor around parts of his body that few people would have trusted him to put sharp things near and not cause a terrible accident.

He seemed remarkably adept, even though Oz couldn't imagine he had that much experience. But then Devon was arrogant enough to believe that if he thought something should be easy then, at least for him, it would be. This confidence meant he was disturbingly talented at more things than most would give him credit for, and he remained the only person in the McLeish household able to program the VCR.

Of course, he was especially good at picking up girls. He knew he was good-looking, so pretty much as soon as he'd reached an age where he wanted to pick up girls he'd assumed it wouldn't be a problem. He wasn't wrong: even if he didn't usually get as far as he'd like with most of them, he certainly had no trouble in getting somewhere. Oz had never had that skill, but then it wasn't something he'd particularly sought.

Over the years Devon had honed his talent. Rather than rest on his laurels he'd figured out the best ways to maximise his attractiveness: be the lead singer in a band, wear flamboyant shirts with as few buttons fastened as possible, keep yourself in shape. Essentially, show off what you've got as much as you can get away with.

Therefore, Oz was astute enough to realise that Devon's exhibitionism might therefore be at least partly for his benefit - which wasn't to say the effort wasn't appreciated.

Ablutions completed, Devon stood up in the tub, shiny and slick. He stood there for a moment, looking at Oz, a cocky smile on his face.

"So what d'you think, man?"

Oz looked at him sidelong. "Dev, I'm not about to tell you you're hot."

"What, even if it's true?"

Devon stepped out of the bath, water trickling down his lithe form and dripping onto the linoleum. He took a step toward Oz.

"Hey, remember what we said that time? On your roof?"

So this was what this was about.

For all his swaggering heterosexuality, Devon had never been one of those stupid jocks like Larry, who'd somehow managed to make homophobia cool. It was true that he'd never shown a great deal of interest in guys, but there'd been the odd dude at gigs who'd fluttered his eyelashes, and Devon was as content to flirt with them as he was the girls.

He'd only kissed the girls as far as Oz knew, but he'd known there was potential for the other. One night nearly a year ago they'd climbed out of the skylight in Oz's bedroom and lay on his roof smoking some fine sensimilla. Somehow the conversation had turned to naming the one guy you'd sleep with if you absolutely had to.

After a mulling it over Oz had said, "Ewan McGregor. I like the accent."

Devon had quickly whispered, "River Phoenix," before lapsing into an uncharacteristic silence and chewing on his bottom lip.

Then they started talking about Thundercats again.

Back in the bathroom, Oz pointed out, "yeah, sure -- but you're not Ewan."

"Aww, man! Couldn't you make do?"

That night on the roof, the first name to come into Oz's head had been Devon McLeish, and Ewan had come a distant second. Thus he quite easily could. Apart from anything else, and even though he'd never been quite the slut Devon was, he still missed proper physical contact.

Even so.

"Sex changes things."

"What? Jeez, are you worried I won't still respect you in the morning or something? Man, Harmony was like that too."

"So this won't go awkward later so I can't come over any more?"

Devon rolled his eyes. "Oz, we're not chicks! We're guys! We can have sex without it meaning anything. It's the best thing about being a guy!"

"You sure?"

Two hands reached up and grabbed either side of Oz's skull, thumbs pressing hard into his temples. Devon brought their heads together and smashed his mouth into Oz's own, cool lips and hot tongue and the taste of salt.

He broke the kiss but barely moved his head, so Oz could feel his breath when he said, "fuck yes." His eyes glittered gimlet and Oz didn't believe him, but the rational part of Oz that knew this was probably a very bad idea was overruled by the rest of him, who saw those eyes and felt those lips and was quite happy to take the risk.

"We're going to get dye everywhere."

"Fuck it," Devon said, and pulled Oz though into the bedroom, shoving him down onto the bed.

"I mean, really everywhere," said Oz, raising his hips so Devon could pull off his jeans and boxers.

"Shut up."

As soon as the jeans fell to the floor Devon jumped onto the newly naked Oz and started to kiss him again, even more savagely than before. He was still damp from the bath, his skin flushed warm, and he seemed to be trying to rub as many parts of his body against as many parts of Oz as he could.

They rolled around on the sheets which tangled about their legs, furiously kissing so that Oz could feel his mouth burn from the stubble, hands sliding up and down bare torsos.

And Devon was kissing Oz everywhere, on cheeks and jaw and neck, and he bit Oz, not so much that it would break the skin, but Oz would certainly have hickeys so that would take some explaining, and then Devon had moved again, teeth closing around a nipple and chewing the flesh, so Oz hissed with pain but bucked his hips.

Then, tongue swiping over ivory stomach, Devon reached Oz's cock and he barely paused to take breath. If he wasn't perfect he was as good as Oz had ever experienced, and when his bottom teeth scraped the head Oz couldn't be sure he didn't mean it because that very nearly hit the spot.

Perhaps Devon could sense he'd almost brought Oz off because he stopped, sitting up and grabbing Oz in a fist and slowly jacking him, saying in a hoarse voice, "I want to fuck you."

And Oz agreed, and Devon had condoms and hand lotion, which would have to do. It hurt like hell, even after Devon had used his fingers -- and really, what had he been reading that he knew all this? -- but they did it all the same, facing each other, Oz on top of Devon, Devon still using one hand on Oz. The other hand smeared around the dye that was already all over the sheets and all over them both in thick red-black streaks.

Devon came first, making little "oh!" sounds of varying lengths and pitches, and his nails scored down Oz's chest. When he recovered enough he started with his hand again and made Oz finish with Devon still inside him, and Oz couldn't help but wonder if it really was only the girls who Devon had kissed.

Afterwards, they lay next to each other, surveying the damage.

Dye was everywhere. Apart from them and the sheets, there was at least one handprint on the wall, above the headboard, looking for all the world like congealed blood.

"How the hell are we gonna explain this to my mom?"


"Dude, it looks like we murdered someone."

"It got out of hand?"

Oz let one hand drift down Devon's body, fingertips skimming the stubble at the base of Devon's cock.

"So are you gonna keep it smooth?"

Devon stretched his arms out above his head. "I dunno. Maybe, if it's gonna itch so much to get 'em back. But maybe chicks won't like it."

"You could always get a merkin."

"Huh? Like, one of those little dog things I saw on Discovery?"

"Nah, they're like wigs. For your dick."

"Fuck you! Does my dick look like William Shatner?"

"Well, now you mention it..."

"Hey!" Devon deadarmed Oz.

Aside from the fact they were naked and talking about Devon's dick, this was pretty much like most Saturday nights. Whilst he rubbed away the pain, Oz figured that maybe it was possible that they could just do this for fun. Maybe.

There were worse hobbies.


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