Lipstick Boy
by Te
June 2000

Disclaimers: Nothing much mine here, but I play nice.

Spoilers: Vagueish ones for Oz events 4th season.

Summary: A night with Devon.

Ratings Note: Call it an R.

Archival: Sure, just let me know if itıs not UCSL.

Authorıs Note: So basically, I listened to ³Born Slippy² for about
the 80th time today, and "dirty numb angel boy" leapt out at me.

Feedback/Website: Welcomed at thete1@earthlink.net, located at
http://strangeplaces.net/te/index.html.

Thanks: To Caerie, for sudden audiencing. And to Sheila and
Khanfusd for readthrough.  *smooch*

*

The lipstick is always the very last thing to go on.

Devon isn't much more than a dabbler in the glam revival. It's cool
and all, the music is interesting, but Devon knows that people who
show too much loyalty to one particular scene are stuck there
forever.

Not his groove.

Still, with the old Bowie Classics CD on the stereo, and glitter on
the edges of his eyelashes, and the low slung leather pants -- bitch
to put on -- and the cheerfully anachronistic gauzy top... Yeah, Devon
likes this look. Nice little transformation, goes well with his slicked
back hair.

Devon is... pretty.
And when he smiles he looks pretty damned dangerous.

So lipstick goes on last, so it has the best possible chance of him
not licking it off before he even gets to the Bronze. Oh yeah, and it
would be almost worth it to use the disgusting bathrooms just to
reapply his makeup while some jock pissed right next to him. Damn, he
hadn't been able to start a fight since all the boys figured out that
injured Devon meant no nookie from the cheerleaders.

Which makes him strut, and he knows that grin of his is killer, but
sometimes he just wants to piss some thick-necked gorrilla boy
right the fuck off. Just make him get all red and the face and
ham-fisted and start swinging, while Devon dances away and laughs
and laughs.

And yeah, maybe one day he'll miss a step and get pummelled right
into the tile, bruised and cut up and maybe even scarred.

Devon runs a finger over his smooth cheek -- the men in his family
are pretty hopeless when it came to facial hair -- and imagines the
trail he leaves is the pink shinyness of permanently new flesh. Would
it be humped up a little? Or faded and flat?

What would it look like with the rest of his face? Would it fuck
with his grin? Oh yeah, Devon was fully fucking aware he liked to look
at himself. It makes him laugh, but he takes it pretty seriously. 19
years in Sunnydale without a scar has to be some kind of record. He
puts on another coat of lipstick, just to be sure.

Winks at the mirror.

And then itıs out into the night. Behind the wheel of Mom's chunky
little sedan, all smooth little grey lemon drop and beige interior. God,
he *misses* Oz.

And his van.

Heıs gonna have to suck it up and get a job if he doesnıt want to keep
trying and failing to look cool in the Mommybile.

Thatıs for another night, though. Some night when the Dingoes aren't
tuning up, pretending they don't care that Devon is showing up late,
*again*. Oz always kept him on time, but without him... hell, itıs
just another gig.

It isn't the music -- their new guitarist is at least as good as Oz
had ever been, and believes in the Dingoesı music so much he makes the
rest of them care a little more. It isn't the damned van, or his Aunt
Sadie's kind, kind bud.

Itıs the vibe. That slow, easy, scarily cool little Oz vibe that had
always made him deeply *aware* of Oz behind him onstage, and that it
was *his* fingers on the strings... oh yeah, he'd been nursing a crush
on the guy since he was just little Danny around the corner. Not that
he'd ever do anything about it even if Oz was really there. Sexy as
the guy was, it would just be weird fucking someone you'd grown up
with.

But still, it would've been nice to have him around.

As it is, Kurt, Randy, and new-guy Mike all gave him these *looks* as
he walks in. Different looks. Only Mike had made himself up any, too.
The other guys are just too damned stiff sometimes. Doesn't matter,
it'll make Devon stand out onstage more. They'll all be watching him
lean in close to the mic, wondering if he would...

If he would really... yeah, fuck with their minds and get the chicas'
 panties wet. Take it, ladies.

He gives Mike a look of his own. A promise that makes the guy blush so
hard Devonıs forced to remember that itıs now time for him to start
paying attention to things like a guy being only 16 years old.

Shudders. Too harsh to think about.

Goes over the set list, the old glammy covers interspliced in, jazzed up
with way more bass than they'd ever had because Randy is kind of
obsessive that way, yet another coat of lipstick and then itıs out
there.

Out there.
Yeah. The lights are up, footlights are mostly new and immediately
try to burn his face off.

Devon struts, square-heeled boots clumping too loud for a moment
before Randy kicks in with his accompaniment. Only way to start, all
slinky bass and himself. Showing off. Muttering little nonsense words
into the mic, yeah, I want you, I want you so bad I'm gonna... I'm
 gonnna unnnngh and he lets the little grunt lengthen out into the
growling whine he'd stolen from god knew who and itıs on.

Kick off with "Sleep," just like always and he catches the sight bright
copper hair in the audience and snarls reflexively. And uses it to sing
to her about the empty branches clawing at the sky and the wind that
made us all fly and make you fly, too, little Willow. Away away away
and oh, yeah, Mike is working out just fine.

Guitar screaming into the solo, and he's moving, too. Shifting and
dancing, face screwed up in a little pout and someone tosses a feather
boa up onstage and it's his now.

All his.

Devon claps and shakes his head, moans into the mic just when the
guitar does the same.

Yeah, fuck yeah.

And this, he can do this all fucking night. He can do this in an empty
room because dig, the Eye is a *presence*. The eyes goes above and
beyond anything physical. Make a stage, and the Eye comes, and the
Eye is all and the Eye fucking loves him.

And he loves the Eye right back.

Time for "Marbleye" and the crowd is small, tonight, Monday night,
but that's cool because most of them are only there for the Dingoes.
They know this one, stupid little call to the Night, when not a single
one of them wants to walk home alone. Yeah, the cemetaries are
wiiiiiild, children.

Starting to sweat now and that's part of it, he's gonna be *slick* when
it's all over, rank with himself and the leather he's wearing. When he
peels off his shirt he's gonna stay there for a while, live in his own
stink.

Dancing with the marbleye, children.

And after that it's nothing but the stage. *Can't* be anything more
than that 'cause it's just too big. The covers flow like water, just
like they've been practicing. "John I'm Only Dancing," is one, and
Devon gets to show off his new and improved falsetto and the looks
Mike is giving him are *raw*.

And just keep getting more so, and Mike has spiky blond hair, real
blond, and he's just a couple of inches shorter than Devon and he's got
a surferboy smile. A smile that makes Devon's soft little knuckles itch,
but in a weirdly good way. His eyes are a freaky olive green shade. His
sweat is rank with cloves and cheap aftershave.

Devon has no fucking clue what his last name is, and that makes him
laugh and shakes him loose. Laughs right in the middle of the stage
patter. Can't be helped and he had to laugh a little more. Whooooops.

Randy, surprisingly is the one who steps up. Just a vaguely chubby
head floating over the drumkit: "Ladies and Gentlemen, Devon has finally
realized that he's wearing leather pants. That is all."

And Devon grin screams his way into the next and the next, and then,
wham. Set's over.

All over.

Damn.

Slinks backstage, tries to look cool dripping sweat on the floor and
tries to cope with the empty, buzzy feeling that makes him wonder if
he's gonna just float right up out of the hellboots currently making
him wince with every step. Things fuzz out every few steps, he
forgot to eat dinner again, but his feet know where they're going.

Know where he's going. Hmm. Feet. Foots. Heh. Maybe a song in there,
maybe... and scrubbing a hand across his mouth leaves a big
reddish-brown glitter-flecked smear. Success.

He made it through the show. Turns to his side, looks down to brag to Oz
about his victory, but there's nobody there.

And suddenly it hits just a little too fucking hard, because Oz is
gone -- *again*. Crashed a night at his place then fucking disappeared
then came back looking like somebody's goddamn punching bag, and
disappeared.

Again. Off into the fucking sunset to find himself. Shit, Devon could've
dealt with the wolf. Buy some chains from the weird old queen at the
leather shop he frequents in L.A.

He could've dealt, but cool, calm Oz never once thought to let him.

Devon smears the lipstick along the stained cinderblock wall. Considers
throwing a bitchfit. Instead, "Mike."

"Yeah, Dev?"

Right behind him. So fucking young. Jesus. "Stick around a while."

"OK."

And Devon can hear the candy bright smile. At the very least, he's
gonna enjoy kissing it.

End.