1 P R O L O G U E

James wasn't around anymore. And no, he wasn't dead (though sometimes it felt like it), he was just... gone, off to L.A, living his star-studded Hollywood dream. And, yeah okay, Ozzie knew it wasn't fair, and he wasn't really angry - he was proud dammit, he was, his best friend was going to be on the big screen! - no matter what he said, James was someone from their bourgie ass town that got out, someone who was actually making a name for themselves, but there was a part of him that just couldn't help feeling jealous of James all the same.

And that wasn't the saddest thing. No. That belonged to the jealous part. Because really, that was just him being scared of being lonely.

It was pathetic.

Ozzie could still remember the moment he stole James' favorite sweater clearly. It was right before he left. His last day in fact. Thinking about it made him feel a bit like a girl and way more sentimental than he'd have liked but he did it anyway.

He remembered that the fabric was soft and worn between his fingers, a dark green that reminded him of James' eyes. The sleeves were fraying at the wrists, looking moth-eaten where James had taken to stress biting their ends.

It was well-loved, that sweater, smelling of Axe and weed and something just a touch muskier beneath that - which was a pretty fucking gross combination - but it was so James, and that knowledge by itself was enough to make his heart hurt.

He remembered that he didn't cry that day. He wanted to, but he didn't. He was strong enough to avoid that.

Maybe he should have though, the vindictive, lonely side of him said. It's the part that Ozzie kept buried deep, a little devil locked behind a closet door. James would have given everything up for him, even then. His heart was just too big.

Ozzie knew one day it was going to get James hurt.

Instead, he helped James pack what few things he was shipping down to SoCal, and Ozzie didn't care that the mood was a little (a lot) more somber than it should have been between them. Neither mentioned it. They were together and that had to be enough.

Even if it really, really wasn't.

So, when the opportunity presented itself, Ozzie took the sweater. It was big on him, falling to his mid-thighs, his body drowning in its cotton folds, but that wasn't a surprise. It didn't matter that Ozzie was a year younger, he was a mousy fifteen, slim and not having hit his growth spurt yet, and James was taller at sixteen, already passing six-foot, and more filled out than Ozzie could ever dream of being.

He remembered that was how James found him when he came back to the room. He was swamped in James' sweater, sleeves pressed against the thin line of his lips, looking small and over bony with how it hung off his shoulders, his knees pulled up to his chest.

James didn't say anything though, he just walked over to Ozzie and brought him into this weird half-hug--more of a hold--the crook of his arm bearing Ozzie's head down against his sternum. His other arm came up to bracket the side of Ozzie's face.

And they stayed like that, breathing.

"I'm just a phone call away," James had murmured after a while, voice more subdued than Ozzie could ever remember hearing it.

"Sounds like a song lyric," Ozzie had forced out, "'just a phone call away," he warbled out of tune and in a key of his own making, catching a whiff of James' deodorant through his shirt. He bit his lip, "'M sure those L.A chicks'll love it." James laughed, void of humor.

"I mean it though," he breathed, patting the top of Ozzie's head. "Anytime. I'll always pick up."

"I know," Ozzie whispered.

And he did. It was why Ozzie let go. He had to. Because James' heart was too big for his body, too big for the world in Ozzie's opinion, and it was plastered on his sleeve for all to see. He had to let go because keeping all that to himself wasn't an option. It wasn't fair.

It didn't make him a good person, Ozzie knew, but it made him something that wasn't bad and that was enough for him at this point.

When they parted, the two of them went back to packing. When they finished, James ordered pizza and they ate in the maze of boxes they'd set up, chilling until the sun had fully set. Then it was time for bed. James' dad still wasn't home (which wasn't odd, the man had seemed to have forgotten he had a son by the time James had turned ten) so Ozzie took a shower and crashed on the sofa.

He thought it would take him ages to fall asleep but it didn't.

(In his dream he was happy. Cynthia hadn't cheated on him but they'd still broken up and James was still the best friend anyone could ask for. There was a kiss too, one that sparked butterflies in his stomach, black hair tickling his cheeks and for once Ozzie was tilting his head up to meet the lips in front of him. He was smiling, he knew, and his partner was too, their laugh deep and warm and--)

Then it was morning and James had to go. Ozzie watched as the movers came and took the boxes they'd packed up away and James stood by his side until he couldn't anymore. He turned, bringing their foreheads together, green eyes meeting honey-gold.

"Be good, Romanoff," James said.

A watery laugh. "Right back at you, Stark. Stay an asshole, yeah?" Ozzie mumbled.

"'Course man," he smiled, warm and soft, giving the back of Ozzie's neck a squeeze. Then they were hugging, full-body, chest to chest, hip to hip and Ozzie was more than willing to stand there until the movers said they were ready to go and James had to pull back.

Ozzie sniffed. "Bye," he whispered, throat burning.

"Hey," James said, "don't cry, man. Phone call remember? It'll be fine. We'll be fine. Like Gucci bro."

"'M not crying," he sniffed again, "and you're a dork."

"You love me."

"Yeah."

James' lips twitched with just the faintest of ticks upwards, though his eyes remained sad. "We'll be fine," he repeated, then sighed, running a hand through his raven curls. A truck honked behind them. The movers were getting impatient. "Well," he said, "guess this is bye for now." Ozzie just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. James would never leave if he did.

So he watched. Silent.

"Take care of yourself, Oz."

He walked away after that, backward and clumsy on the two left feet he'd been born with before getting in the car. He waved once more.

Then James was gone.

It was only after the fact that Ozzie realized he was still wearing James' sweater - that his friend had left it behind for him to keep. It filled his stomach with butterflies and he finally let the tears run down his face. And it was weird because now Ozzie couldn't really say they were sad. They were sweet but tinged with something a little sour but above all, he was at peace. Content.

He swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his stolen sweater and began the short walk home.

++++

"Do you feel it?" Sam asked. Her voice was hardly over that of a whisper, light like the smoke in the room. Ozzie kept his eyes closed, the smell of incense vaguely overpowering, "it will only work if you find tranquility." Ozzie frowned.

"Like Nirvana," he said.

"Some say the Touch is synonymous with enlightenment if that is what you mean," Sam replied, "it is a feeling of peace and understanding in the world around you. Do you have your moment?"

Green sweaters and dreamed kisses. Black hair and a dimpled smile. Tears not born of sadness but something much more complicated. Something much less easily defined.

"I-" Ozzie bit his lip.

"You do," he heard the sound of rustling, and then he smelled rosemary on top of the incense, strong enough to make him gag. "Keep your eyes closed," Sam warned, "I'm going to touch your forehead. It will be cold for a moment but it will help you focus." There was the pop of a cap and then a breath running across his face that smelled like cinnamon. Ozzie wrinkled his nose.

"How do you even know I have it?" He mumbled, disgruntled as he felt Sam's finger begin to trace lines across his skin.

"Because of the Knowing," she said simply, "not unlike how you Visit. Where you see the past imprinted in the objects you come in contact with, I can see the future. It is how I found you in the first place. I Knew you would need my help." Her hands stopped moving against his face and the smell of cinnamon and rosemary began to fade.

"Wish I could do that."

"No, Ozzie," came the response, "you do not. The Sight is as dangerous as it is powerful. Do not wish for the blessings of others for they very well may become your curse. Now--" she said,"--open your mind."

And Ozzie did.

It was sudden, the rush. His forehead burned where Sam had placed the oil, but he hardly noticed what with everything else he was feeling. It was sensory overload, everything sharper, the smells the sounds, the feelings.

"Holy shit," he gasped, eyes snapping open.

"Focus," Sam directed, calm as a placid lake.

"On, what?!" Ozzie grit out. His vision was swimming, lines upon lines of...he wasn't even sure what, clouding his sight, "everything's just rocketed up a million."

"Direct it," Sam said, "give it purpose. Let it flow through you, like water. You have it bottled up, breathe, close your eyes. Focus."

Ozzie gasped again, wincing as another wave of, whatever the fuck he was feeling rolled through him, but he complied all the same. He closed his eyes. Breathe, she said. He could do that. So he did. And she was right. It did help, the burn started to fade, replaced by that really awesome mellow feeling he'd felt at the start. It was like being high but like a bigillion times better. Okay. He could do this.

Direct it, she said. Let it flow through you, she said.

He had no idea how to do that, he just knew he wanted it out of him. Because no matter how good the high, it was still overwhelming, too many points of stimulation to be remotely comfortable.

Well, Sam had called it the Touch...

So, Ozzie focused on his hands. He imagined all of the... energy in his palms, tingling in his fingertips, not unlike the static he felt when he Visited. He breathed. He felt the waves traveling through his body and he imagined he could feel them pooling in that one spot. He wasn't really sure it was working though. All he knew was that things were starting to feel even less overwhelming, more controlled in his mind, like maybe at some point soon this whole Touch thing would actually be manageable.

Then it was gone.

Ozzie blinked, staring confused at Sam. "That's...it?" He asked. He brought his hands up to his face as if they'd have magically changed in the past however many minutes it had took him to come back down from his spiritual high.

"For now, yes," Sam nodded and stood up, blowing out her candles and incense sticks, "you've taken the first steps towards understanding, which is all I Know to happen."

Ozzie cocked his head to the side, stretching out his legs. He didn't trust standing yet. Even if he was no longer 'enlightened' he could still feel the aftershocks trembling through his limbs, almost like dull phantom pains. "W'as that mean?" He asked, hair falling out of his eyes.

"It means that this was our last lesson," Sam said, hand poised over a fluffy, sequin lined pillow, "it is time for the both of us to move on. I'm sorry." She picked it up, moving it back onto the couch of her trailer. "I have nothing left to teach you."

"...Oh," Ozzie bit his thumbnail, brow furrowing. He licked his lips, bringing his gaze down to his faded jeans, "but what am I supposed to do now?"

Sam sighed. She crossed the distance between them in a few short strides. "Now," She said, kneeling beside him and tilting his chin up with her forefinger, "you carve your own path." She opened his palm and slipped something small and cylindrical inside it, curving his fingers back into a fist when that was done, "do you understand what I am saying? Your destiny is yours to make. Let no one tell you otherwise."

Ozzie swallowed. "Do you mean that?" he whispered.

She smiled. "Of course Ozzie."

His eyes darted to the side and he would have looked back down if not for the firm grip Sam still had on his chin. "Don't look away Ozzie," she chastised, "do not feel less than others. You are not weak. You are stronger than you know. Own it."

Slowly, Ozzie brought his eyes back up to meet the pale gray of her own. "Do you believe that?" He said, sounding even smaller than before and looking every bit the mousy fifteen-year-old he didn't want to be.

Sam held his gaze, as serious as anything. "I do," she said, "Ozzie, you are going to make history. That I Know."