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It’s probably only mildly surprising that Figaro tends to barge into Oz’s castle whenever he pleases. Arthur made it easy, sweet boy that he was always eager to play with good ‘ol Figaro, and after he left, well. Once Oz calmed down, at least it was easier to coax him into helping them both get distracted.
Figaro was the one who started it. He always starts it. He would pull Oz along, the way well memorized, all while coaxing him open with sweet words. These days, the excuses are flimsier, though it doesn’t change anything. He would drag them both into Oz’s bed, enjoying the sweet comfort as he meets Oz’s lips again. Oz gave him a questioning look the first time, an annoyed look the second time, and a look that’s simply unreadable every time after.
Well, it’s not like he minds, Figaro muses as he breaks away from the kiss. It’s kind of nice how unshakable Oz is. A weird sense of comfort in the consistency of his reactions. The world could fall apart and that man wouldn’t be touched at all. He’s beyond them all, even the twins. Figaro likes that.
"You wouldn’t be the one to leave me, right?" Figaro whispers too softly, mouth stretching into the tiniest of smiles.
Oz doesn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t hear. It’s not like Figaro expected a reply, used to carrying the conversation on his own, and this way he doesn’t have to bother with sweetly faked compliments. He doesn’t say anything when Figaro pulls the tie out of his ponytail either, letting the long hair cascade down around them. Figaro loves Oz’s hair, loves running his hands through them, loves how it blocks out the last bit of light creeping into the room.
Figaro can’t see Oz’s face clearly like this, especially not the way his brows wrinkle when Figaro puts his arm around his neck, pulling him into another kiss. It feels like he’s the one leading, isn’t that cute? Him, leading along Oz, who can summon storms and crush cities with a flick of his fingers.
He doesn’t know why Oz lets him do this. It doesn’t matter, not when the all-powerful wizard is so kindly going along with his whims, those large hands wrapping around his wrist. It feels good, which is all Figaro really needs.
That’s why he stopped asking ages ago. ‘Do you want me, do I want you to want me, hey, can you smile for me, can you show me something that’s just for me.’ He knows Oz won’t answer and he’s not quite arrogant enough to guess that he’ll like the answers anyway.
He curls his fingers into Oz’s hair and yanks hard, smiling into the kiss thanks to the soft gasp he manages to get. He pushes his tongue into the younger’s mouth, though his moment of victory was short-lived as Oz took over, drawing a much louder pleasured noise out of Figaro. Oz’s hands move to his shoulders, pushing Figaro into the bed. He lets him.
Be demanding, Figaro wants to urge. He takes hold of one of Oz’s hands, guides it to the hem of his shirt. It slips under and Figaro feels like letting out a relieved sigh. Good, this is what he wanted. Oz, the force of nature that he was, drowning out even the sound of his thoughts.
When they pull apart again, Figaro is breathing heavily, and Oz… he’s frowning, expression clouded with confusion. His partner stops pinning him down and sits up. The pale moonlight illuminates his face, revealing the question waiting in those red eyes. Damn shame, Figaro thinks. It was going well.
"What is it?" Figaro asks, sitting up as well.
It takes several beats for Oz to finally ask, "Do you… love me?"
It’s a genuine question, asked as innocently as a child would, and it makes Figaro want to laugh. Love, can you believe? Well, then. Maybe even the great Oz changes after all.
Figaro gently strokes the side of Oz’s face. "Love is overrated."
He kisses Oz’s forehead before laying down and closing his eyes, facing away. Oz doesn’t ask anything else, settling down next to him. He doesn’t touch Figaro anymore, and Figaro doesn’t ask him to.
Perhaps you’ll leave me after all.