Chapter Text
They have a long weekend not long after Willow kisses Oz outside the school. Something about a teacher workday, or a teacher group therapy day, or something. Oz invites Willow over to his house while his mom is at his work. His heart pounds uncomfortably in his chest all day, and his hands have been trembling for an hour.
He has to do this. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
“So, what’s up?” Willow asks, settling onto Oz’s bedroom floor across from him, smiling expectantly. It’s that soft smile, the one he’s only ever seen directed at himself and, on rare occasions, ones Willow herself seems unaware of, at Buffy. Oz hesitates. When he told her to come over, he told her he had something to say, but now that he’s sitting here, he has no idea how to say it.
“I’m…” Oz tries, but his words fail him. He stands, running his hands through his hair. Willow stays on the floor, looking up at him. “I was…” he tries again, but again, the next words fail to appear.
“Oz?” Willow says. She’s frowning now, still sitting, still looking up at him. “What’s wrong?” Oz drops his hands from his hair, exhaling heavily. He’s sweating, he realizes. Testosterone comes with a laundry list of fun side effects, one of his personal favorites being the way his fight-or-flight response is on a hair trigger. Although that may just be living in Sunnydale. The town isn’t exactly relaxing.
He’s spiraling.
“Oz?” Willow says again. “Oz, you’re spiraling.” Oz manages a grin.
“I am,” he agrees. “I just…”
He doesn’t know how to say it. He knows the word transsexual, but hates how it feels in his mouth. Transvestite is all wrong, confusing and wrong and full of all the wrong connotations. His doctor, the new one, the one with the fancy degree and dozens of books on psychology, calls him transgender, but he doesn’t know if Willow would know that word.
“I think it’ll be easier to show you than to say it,” Oz says eventually. Willow nods expectantly, brow furrowed in that adorably worried way. Oz takes a moment to stare at her, memorizing how she looks in this moment: sitting in an old t-shirt on his bedroom floor, eyes open and gentle, gazing up at him softly. He holds the image in his mind until he’s sure he’ll never forget it before he allows himself to blink.
Willow is the most beautiful person Oz has ever met, and before he loses his courage, he pulls his t-shirt over his head and drops it to the ground.
His chest is bound with athletic tape. It hurts him less than bandages, and he’s blessed with a small enough chest that it works pretty well. Oz keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, but he can see Willow’s face out of the corner of his eye. He sees the confusion that spreads across it initially, the furrowed brow, the crinkling nose. He sees the sudden realization, the eyes snapping wide, mouth falling open.
Willow stands, stepping towards him, and suddenly Oz has nowhere to look but at her.
“You’re…” she begins.
“I’m a guy,” Oz says, unable to stop the words before they fall out. “I’m a guy, I just…” Willow takes a step closer to him, and Oz takes an involuntary step back. “I wasn’t. Always,” he finishes. It’s vague, but Willow nods like she understands, and takes another step forward. This time, Oz stands his ground.
“But you are now,” Willow says. “In here.” She presses her hand to Oz’s chest, on the skin just above where the tape ends, where his heart is. Oz nods. Willow smiles, and Jesus, there it is again: that Willow-smile that’s just his, soft and affectionate and her nose is crinkling and oh God Oz wants to kiss her.
But…is he still allowed? Maybe Willow is okay with this, maybe she still wants to be friends, maybe she still cares about him. Maybe she’ll even keep his secret from Xander and Buffy and Giles. But he can’t imagine a world where she still wants to kiss him.
(Oz of the pre-Willow days wouldn’t have been able to imagine the existence of Willow or Willow-adjacent persons in the first place. She isn’t the kind of person you can imagine or comprehend.)
Willow leans in and kisses him, still smiling, her lips curving up against his. It feels like their first kiss all over again: the nervous, giddy feeling is back in his stomach (did it ever leave?), she’s smiling into the kiss, he can barely keep from doing the same, his hands are shaking.
The guilt, the heavy darkness in the pit of his stomach, is gone.
“We’re okay?” Oz asks when Willow pulls away. Willow smiles, and her nose crinkles, and Oz just about blacks out right there.
“We’re okay,” she agrees. “Is this why you were all…” Willow makes a vague gesture with her hands.
“Shifty?” Oz says.
“Shifty before we started dating?” Willow finishes. Oz nods.
“I didn’t wanna lie to you,” he says.
“Well, I like honest Oz more than I like shifty Oz,” Willow says. “But I get why you didn’t tell me.” Oz nods, grins, and reaches down to pick up his shirt. He pulls it back on, messing up his hair even more. He turns back to Willow, still grinning, but her smile is gone. His stomach drops abruptly before he realizes she’s looking at him with concern and affection, not disgust.
“What?” Oz says.
“You’re…” Willow reaches out, pressing her fingertips to Oz’s cheek, and suddenly, he becomes aware of the tears streaming down his face. He raises his own hand, touching the other side of his face. His hand comes away wet.
“Oh,” he says, more an exhale than a word. “Happy tears,” he assures her. Willow nods. She looks a little teary-eyed as well.
“Stop it,” she orders him. “If you keep crying I’m gonna cry.”
“All happy tears,” Oz repeats, his smile so wide it’s starting to hurt. Willow steps forward, slipping her arms around him and pulling him into her. Oz goes willingly, leaning into her. He sort of likes being shorter than her. He spends a lot of time wishing he was taller, but with Willow, he’s grateful for the inch she has on him. In some inexplicable way, it makes him feel safe.
Oz almost tells her he loves her right there. It’s too much too soon, but God, it feels right—he feels safe, he feels real—standing there, crying into each other’s shoulders, smiles on both their faces.
One of them leads the other over to Oz’s bed—Oz has no idea who’s leading who; maybe they’re both just stumbling along—and they sit on the edge, Willow’s arm around Oz’s shoulders. She stops crying quickly, but it takes Oz a few minutes to put himself back together again.
“So you…don’t have questions?” Oz says when he stops trembling.
“I have so many questions,” Willow says. “But it seemed like you needed supportive girlfriend Willow more than scientific curiosity Willow right now.” Oz frowns.
“It’s not…” he tries. “I’m not a scientific curiosity, I’m—“
“Oz, baby,” Willow says, cutting him off. “That’s not what I meant.” Oz stares down at the carpet on his bedroom floor. “Oz,” Willow says again. “I just—I just meant I have questions about…y’know, how you have a beard and stuff. But you’re more important than all that. That’s all I meant.” Oz nods. “Hey,” Willow says. She presses her hand to his cheek, lifting his face so he has to meet her gaze. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I said a dumb thing, huh?”
“Not dumb,” Oz says. “Just…”
“Clueless.” Oz nods. “I’m probably gonna say a lot of clueless stuff. I’m pretty, y’know, clueless. No clues here. And now I’m babbling, so you can stop me any time you want.”
“I’m enjoying it,” Oz says, smiling. “It’s a very artful kind of babble. And thoughtful.”
“Lies,” Willow says. She tips her head forward, resting her forehead against Oz’s. They sit there for a moment, Oz’s arms around Willow’s waist, her hand on his cheek, foreheads together, eyes closed.
“Hey, Oz?” Willow says eventually.
“Mm?” Oz hums, neither of them moving.
“Must’ve been really scary telling me that, huh?” Oz exhales slowly, shakily. Willow runs her thumb over his cheekbone, and he does his best to memorize the sensation.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I’m guessing you don’t want to tell any of the others.” Oz’s stomach jerks with anxiety.
“Nope,” he says. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like lying to them, but—“
“It’s okay,” Willow interrupts. “It’s not my secret. And it’s not really lying, is it?” Oz opens his eyes, only to see that Willow’s are already open, looking at him.
“How’s that?” he asks. They’re both nearly whispering. He isn’t sure why, but he sees no reason to get any louder.
“Well, you’re a boy,” Willow says. “You’re a little different, but as long as no one asks any super weirdly specific questions about your childhood, we’re not lying.” Oz smiles.
“Guess not,” he says. “Hey, Wil?” Willow shifts away from him a bit, just enough so that they can make proper eye contact without getting cross eyed. “Thank you.” Willow kisses him, and this time, no one is crying or shaking or anxious. It’s brief, chaste, easy. Peaceful. Safe.
“You’re welcome,” Willow says. She leans up and kisses his forehead. Oz relaxes into the contact, closing his eyes and letting Willow wash over every one of his senses.
He still kind of wants to say he loves her, but one confession is enough for today.