Five minutes after last call and Oz waits. The wall is cool and it holds him up fine as he catches his breath. The dance floor is still packed, just like it's been all night. He's danced with everyone and no one, just as content alone as with hot hands on his hips and a body pressed close. He's in his own quiet space amid the throbbing music and muddled voices and the steady beat of a hundred hearts. He waits.

Xander is walking, slipping through the crowd with an unusual grace. It's as if the music and the heat and the sweat have washed away his awkwardness, his need to babble, his fear. On the dance floor, he moved like he held the music inside, like his muscles were oiled, like he was meant to move - animal and sure. He approaches, a sweating bottle of beer in his hand.

"Only had enough for one," he shouts.

Oz makes a little back and forth gesture between them, and Xander gets it: share. He drinks, then hands the bottle over.

The lip of the bottle caries the faintest taste of Xander's sweat, and Oz licks it before drinking. Xander sees, and his eyes get hooded. Oz drinks, and then flicks his tongue over the bottle again, waiting, watching.

Xander drinks again, and this time, he, too, licks the rim of the bottle. When Oz takes it from him he leans forward, propping a hand on the wall, closing in on Oz's personal space.

Oz hands the bottle back and tilts his head up, watching the motion of Xander's throat as he drinks. When the bottle is handed back, he drains it, and then slides forward.

Xander meets him in the middle.