Title: Gunplay
Fandom: Pandora Hearts
Pairing: Oz/Raven
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Contains flagrant molestation mishandling of a gun.

"Hey!" Gilbert scolded. "Don't point that thing at your face!"

"Why not?" said Oz. "It's not like it's loaded..."

"Don't be stupid! It doesn't matter if it's loaded or not, you treat it like it is!"

"You don't treat it like that when you point it at Alice," Oz noted.

"That rabbit is a different matter," said Gilbert firmly. (He decided not to mention the fact that when he pointed his gun at Alice, it usually was loaded.) "Anyway, it's not a toy. Give it here."

Oz puckered his lips into a pout. "Gil's no fun!" he whined, and did not return the gun. "Don't be such a worrier. I'll be careful."

Gilbert clucked his tongue in frustration. Oz, one leg swinging contentedly, fingered the trigger with a curious expression, and held the gun up as though aiming at an invisible enemy. Then he lowered it again, and continued to trace the designs that curled over the sides of the weapon as he'd been doing before, running his fingertips up and down the shaft, feeling out the contours.

Watching him closely, Gilbert cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Why was Oz so fixated on that thing? Boys liked guns, he reasoned, but wasn't this a little excessive? Why couldn't he just do something normal, something that other boys would do, like ask Gilbert to take him for target practice? Why did he keep... touching it like that? It looked... well. Gilbert was trying not to think too deeply on what it looked like, Oz running his hands all over it with that enraptured look on his face.

"Aren't you done yet?" Gilbert said, impatient.

Oz pouted again, clearly gearing up for another whine, but when he looked up and saw Gilbert's face the pout melted away and his brow knitted in concern. "Huh?" said Oz. "Gil...? You're kind of... red."

Gilbert's heart stumbled clumsily over a beat. "No, I'm not," he snapped.

"Yes, you are! Do you have a fever?" Oz started to lean forward to check, and Gilbert shrank away from him like a cornered animal.

"I don't have a fever!" he said. "It's probably just warm in here! Now give me my gun back!"

Oz blinked at him with wide, bewildered eyes. He glanced down at the gun, then back at Gilbert, then back at the gun again, a thoughtful expression creeping over his features. After a moment, Gilbert thought he saw the smallest of smiles tug at the corners of Oz's mouth; but then it was gone, and Gilbert thought it must have been his imagination.

"Hmm, then I guess Gil should open a window or something..." Oz murmured, once again running his fingers up and down the gun's shaft.

"Hey, I said -" Gil started, but his voice died in his throat as he watched Oz's hand wrap fully around the barrel, almost caressing it, index finger reaching upward to stroke slowly and deliberately around the rim at the mouth of the barrel. Softly, his finger flicked over opening.

"Gil said...?" Oz prompted, looking back up him.

Gilbert just stared at him, unable to find his voice. It wasn't... Oz couldn't be doing it on purpose... Could he?

Even as he thought it, Oz lifted the gun up near his face, as though to mime blowing smoke away from the barrel; but he brought it up so close that his lips actually touched it, just barely. Then he drew in a breath and pursed his lips - more like he meant to kiss the thing than anything else - and blew softly over the mouth.

Gilbert shivered, warmth spreading down from his face into other regions.

Oz tilted his head, all innocent curiosity. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "Are you sure you're not running a fever?"

Gilbert swallowed thickly. Surely Oz wasn't teasing him? Surely he wouldn't tease him like this?

Oz giggled. It was a wicked, wicked sound.

"Gil looks like a fish!" Oz chirped lightly. "Well, if he wants his gun back so much, he can have it!" And with that Oz leapt up from his seat and dropped the gun unceremoniously onto Gilbert's lap.

"He... Hey!" Gilbert protested.

But Oz was already running from the room, humming a cheerful tune as he went.

"Gil should make sure to open a window, so he'll cool off!" Oz called out as he disappeared from sight.

Gilbert could only stare after him, dumbfounded. "That... That little..." he muttered, rubbing his face.

He decided right then and there: Oz was never, ever getting his hands on that gun again.
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lim⋅i⋅nal ho⋅ri⋅zon

a place only seen through a green door.


July 2010

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