The only phone in the village is in the post office. It reminds Oz of the one in his grandmother's dining room. Black with a rotary dial, a clunky black receiver, the same fraying, ancient black and white cord.

The locals almost never use it. Who would they call? Everyone they know or ever will know is just a few doors down and a shout away. In the time Oz has been here, he's only seen it used once, by some tourist who wandered too far down the coast without his traveler's checks and ran his rental car out of gas.

It first amused Oz, then, later, bothered him that he'd stood with the crowd and watched with their same sense of bemusement as the sunburned and irate Texan shouted at American Express. It wasn't the language he used. Even though Oz has become fairly fluent in Spanish, he and Ethan still speak English to each other.

Perhaps it was, he thinks as he walks home, the concept of a world outside this small village.

It was easy to forget there was anything beyond what had become home these last few weeks; the dusty main street, the dim bar where they drink too much of the local beer or indifferent sangria, their small house where they spent an inordinate amount of time in bed, or the beach off the front porch where Ethan tans and Oz burns.

But now he remembers and the phone bothers him.

Not so much that it's the twin of his grandmother's, but that it is there.

He used to call home. Short, infrequent, calls, mostly collect, just to let his folks know he was alive and to assure *him* they were as well. This was not so much of a worry after they moved away from the Hellmouth, but still. Things happen.

Sometimes he called Devon, and heard about the band and the latest guitar payer and the latest love interest, who were usually one and the same, even though Devon never actually *said* that. He never needed to, since Oz has always been good at Devon-speak. Sometimes he called Xander, and could tell just by Xander's voice that everything was pretty much the same. No deaths, or none that would matter to Oz, no major shake ups and if Xander sometimes wistfully asked how things were going, he'd never asked when Oz was coming back, or even if he wanted to. Oz was pretty good at Xander-speak too.

But since Ethan, he hasn't really thought of home, or calling and who may or may not be dead.

Until now.

*

The porch is empty, as is the beach. A look at the ocean confirms Ethan's not out there either.

So Oz enters the house, walks through the small, messy kitchen, then the living room with its battered sofa and two lawn chairs. Glances in the empty bathroom and equally empty claw foot tub. Finally stops at the bedroom, where Ethan sleeps on Oz's side of their perpetually unmade bed in a boneless, yet elegant sprawl.

Naked, as has become their custom. Practical in this heat, especially midday. Ethan has adopted the practice of the siesta with dedicated enthusiasm.

He's tan all over. The bruises are gone. Some of the scars, too. The rest, however, are a stark white against the brown skin. They gleam in the diffuse light and almost look…deliberate is the best word Oz can think of. Almost as if they could be arcane symbols Ethan has carved, or caused to be carved into his own skin.

And that could be the case, Oz thinks. Ethan is pretty open about what he is, what he does, and the tools he likes to use, blood being one of them. Oz is not so naïve that he imagines it was ever only Ethan's blood. For some reason, this still does not trouble him.

There are moments when Oz wonders what Ethan's blood would taste like. This does trouble him, probably because Ethan would happily open a vein for him. Or let Oz bite him. There's always a sort of tacit permission in the way Ethan's hand cups the back of his head when Oz growls against his throat as he comes.

Sometimes he wants to. Purely selfish desire and he knows this, knows it has less to do with the wolf and more with the way Ethan sometimes looks like he's thinking of someplace far away.

There are worlds within Ethan, entire universes that have nothing to do with Oz.

And that's…probably realistic, he thinks. Donne was full of crap. Every man *is* an island and no vacation can last forever.

"I can feel you thinking," Ethan says without opening his eyes.

Oz shrugs, walks to the bed, then drops down beside Ethan who obligingly slides over to make room. "Sometimes," Oz says, "I do that."

"You do. But not, usually, with quite so much intensity. What's got you in a turmoil?"

"Poetry."

"Well, we can't have that." Ethan nuzzles his neck, licks at his pulse and slowly, wetly, kisses his way down Oz's torso. "I've been thinking too," he says into Oz's belly.

And Oz can't help but tense, then shudder a little as Ethan unzips his pants, then pulls his cock free, strokes it while still nuzzling his belly. "About what?"

"Places south of here," Ethan says between kisses and almost ungentle bites, "in the jungle. Old places where the canopy blocks out the sky and the trees wrap their roots around ancient bones."

In his mind's eye, Oz can almost see it; greenish dappled sunlight during the day, no light at all at night. No moon, just him and Ethan in the darkness, looking for dark things in hidden places. No people, no roads leading anywhere, no phones.

Ethan looks up, gives Oz a slow smile and raises an eyebrow. Waiting.

And Oz has to ask, has to know. "Do you ever think of going home?"

After a startled blink, Ethan laughs softly and says, "My dear child, I told you before. The world is my home." His fingertips stroke, almost as if he was petting, and Oz suddenly realizes Ethan has probably become fluent in Oz-speak.

"I like south," Oz says, as the tension slowly drains out of him. "South sounds like a plan."

*