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| Blond |
| Title: Blond
Disclaimers: Joss is boss. Spoilers: Some season 6 Summary: Jonathan likes them blond. Ratings Note: NC-17 Pairing: Jonathan/Andrew Author's Site: www.oocities.org/karenmnick Acknowledgments: Thanks to Katie and graceless for the beta Feedback: scarletsfiction@yahoo.com ______________________________________________________________ Jonathan prefers blonds. Specifically blonds with impish smiles and a penchant for Hot Pockets. He sometimes wishes it was a redhead that caught his eye or another brunet. Wishes that some sort of desire for brunet solidarity would take away the jealous churning in the pit of his stomach. Instead it's a blond that turns his head, raises his dimples, makes him hot and hard. When he first met him sophomore year, Andrew's hair was Dark Blonde. Jonathan knew the color well—his mom pulled in money hand over fist giving women, and a notable number of men, that very color at her salon. Dark Blond hair hanging just the slightest bit too long over the collar of a Dr. Who T-shirt in geometry. Hair that would probably lighten in the sun, but Andrew had that shut-in look that told you that this was a kid that didn't see sunlight too often. A kid who shied away from public pools and tennis games and *casual* hikes for fun. In other words, a blonde after his own heart. Andrew's hair is blonde like honey and so, in the deep, deep, deep, far-back part of his mind, Jonathan calls him "Honey." The hair on Andrew's arm is lighter. Golden Blonde and shiny and thick. When they sit in the lair and Andrew takes his turn at Mortal Kombat, Jonathan watches those fingers flying over the buttons. He watches the fine sprinkling of Golden Blonde hair over his knuckles and the backs of Andrew's hand and wonders if Andrew would bitch too much if he asked to stroke them with one of his own stubby fingers. His eyes move past the wrist and back up and then his eyes travel to those Golden Blond arms and Jonathan *really* wants to pet them and see if they're as soft as he used to imagine them to be when he sat in geometry. To know if they're stiff and wiry like other places he now imagines on Andrew's body. Living in the lair brings him closer to all of that…well, blondness. Jonathan grows ecstatic, even while he curses Warren's name. Warren has them up at six a.m. training. ("I doubt the Slayer is even up before Spongebob Squarepants," Andrew pouts and Jonathan silently agrees.) He hates training and he pretty much hates Warren, but Andrew wears running shorts to train and Jonathan can't complain too much. See, the hair on Andrew's legs is sparse and almost silver—Light Ash Blond. It's the lightest hair he's ever seen on a guy—not that he's some kid of leg-hair-checking-out-pervert, he adds to himself for the fourth time in four days. It's just…cool. The tiny strands curl at odd angles and are utterly absent over the tops of his thighs. Jonathan stares at the two large bald spots with interest until he notices Andrew noticing. Then his eyes graze over the silvery blond hairs one last time and he swears, again, that he's going to find some nice redheaded girl to fall for. * Later, Jonathan wonders if that thought, the one about a redheaded girlfriend, had anything to do with Willow Rosenburg in the grand scheme of things. Maybe he was teasing fate. Willow is insane. She's crazy and gets crazier and then it's just him and Andrew which is just like he always wanted and also like nothing he'd ever wish on his worst enemy. Light Honey Blonde is the color he chooses for Andrew and him in the Sunnydale Stop and Shop. A disguise might earn them a day or two of safety or it might just delay their inevitable end, but Andrew says they have to do *something*, so this is it. The bottles and cremes that tumble from the cheap boxes would have made his mom grit her teeth but Jonathan finds them fascinating. "I'll do you, then you do me." It shouldn't sound sexual but it does and Andrew is looking at him like he just said, "I'd like to fuck you in the cockroach infested shower here at Chez Sunnydale Craphole Motel." He might *have* said it, actually, because Andrew has a strange look on his face. Sort of half-intrigued, and half-confused, and half-frightened and Jonathan's too tired to count how many halves that makes. "My mom's a hairdresser, remember?" Then the mood changes and Jonathan feels better. Better and disappointed. His hands on Andrew's hair aren't as hot as he thinks they should be. For one thing, he has to wear gloves and he can't let the purple strands run through his fingers like silk the way he wants them to. Andrew complains about the smell and it *does* stink but Jonathan doesn't really notice because that's when he realized that Andrew's eyelashes are gold. Real gold spun into thick, curling stalks. Andrew's eyes water from the chemicals and exhaustion and the fear that comes after twelve hours of being a fugitive. The blue, blue eyes are wet and watery and moisture clings to them, then disappears, as Jonathan tips him back and runs warm water over the stinking strands. It runs until his hands hold only the white-blond strands of Golden Honey Blond. It looks more like Spike-blond but Jonathan won't complain. He just turns the gloves over to Andrew to do his magic. When it's over, Jonathan's hair is orange and he imagines they would have been a lot more incognito if they hadn't even begun the hair-dying debacle at two a.m. but hindsight is always 20/20. * It doesn’t take long for the dark blond and dark brown to grow out. After a month of living La Vida Loca, they shell out several zillion pesos and Senorita Rosemarie give them each a neat buzz cut that leaves them feeling strangely naked. Their casa is on the beach, in a part of town no one dares to go into. "Los vampiros", some mutter in hushed tones. Jonathan isn't worried. After twenty years in Sunnydale, vampires are old hat. Their house is small and it leaks when it rains but it's cheap and they can watch the roll of waves while they fry tortillas and argue about quantum physics and Quantum Leap. During the day they troll the beach. Andrew gets a tan. Jonathan burns and peels. The orange hair is gone and for once Andrew's Dark Blond sees sunlight. Jonathan likes this best: Andrew's hair, wet with the salty ocean water, loose strands spiking out—those lucky enough to be the first to dry. Andrew's chest is bare most of the time and as the weeks pass his skin glows golden. When he dozes in the warm sand, Jonathan notices that there's a fine trail of hair dusting Andrew's sternum. It's only noticeable now that Andrew's got a tan; the hairs are paler than his skin now. Jonathan watches the rise and fall of Andrew's chest for hours as Andrew naps in the sand. The day turns warmer and a fine sheen of sweat mists their bodies. Jonathan knows he's a voyeur but the sight is too tempting not to watch, not to imagine trailing his tongue up that smooth valley, or kissing the spun-gold lashes, or running his lips over rough stubble that Andrew lets dot his skin. At night, they wash dishes quietly, Andrew's gaze intent on the forks and pans, Jonathan's gaze intent on the soap bubbles and moisture clinging to the thick, light hairs on Andrew's forearm. Then they watch television for a couple of hours and make up their own storylines for the incoherent drama taking place onscreen. Later, they crawl into the large, rock-hard bed and Andrew curls to his side. When he knows Andrew is asleep, Jonathan turns, too, because the hair at the base of Andrew's neck is its own color entirely. Something between Ash Blond and Golden Sunrise. He lets himself touch now, because Andrew's asleep and it's not *that* big of a bed and it's easy to justify an innocent touch, a stray hand. He imagines he's felt an innocent caress himself on occasion. * Living in the vampiest part of town has its disadvantages, too. Jonathan used to sleep most of the day and go out at night. Sometimes to a movie, sometimes to Warren's house or Andrew's apartment. Now he embraces the sunlit hours. He still can't seem to tan, but Andrew's body does it enough for both of them. He teaches Andrew to swim in the clear, cold waves of the deserted beachfront they call home. Andrew sputters and complains about potential shark attacks, but each time he rises from the waves he plugs his nose and tries again. Andrew says he has nothing to teach Jonathan in return. Jonathan isn't sure that is entirely true but he doesn't tell Andrew that. One day, after a swimming lesson ("The breaststroke is such a dumb name for this." "Quit complaining. You don't *actually* have to have breasts to do a breaststroke, you know."), they collapse on the beach. The sand is almost too hot, but not quite. They lay on their bellies, enjoying the near-burn as cool air blows over their wet backs, hot and cold. Jonathan's skin prickles and he lifts himself up on his elbows to let his gaze drift over a smooth, golden back while Andrew breathes deeply, dozing next to him. He tries to count the knobs of Andrew's spine, loses count, tries again. The hair above Andrew's tailbone is the most beautiful hair of all. Its color defies description. It's seems blond, but finer than anything Jonathan's seen before. It reflects the light from the big, lazy sun and Jonathan squints, examining the dusting of hair in which tiny beads of water still cling. Andrew's swim trunks are heavy with seawater and Jonathan can see the barest cleft below the downy trail. It's a landing strip, he giggles inwardly. The wet fabric molds to round globes of skin and Jonathan imagines the promise held by the dark recesses beneath. His heart races and his breathing speeds up. Then he quickly sinks back onto his stomach, pressing his face into the too-hot sand to hide scarlet skin made red by something other than the hot sun in the height of the summer. * Nights in Mexico are sultry. One night Jonathan and Andrew find a dramatic movie playing on the gritty television and put their customary dialogue on hold long enough to dip washcloths in cool bowls of water. Stripped down to boxers, they let the cloths cool them in the stifling Mexican heat. They could open the windows and doors to catch a cool breeze, but they're not entirely sure if Mexican vampires follow the same rules about invitations as American vamps and they don't want to take a chance. "That guy's mustache is so fake!" Andrew complains and Jonathan agrees. "He looks like Tom Selleck on the skids." Andrew stretches back on the hard bed, chest covered with a green cloth and hands absently pressing against the crumbling wall. From his spot next to him, Jonathan's eyes flick over Andrew while he wrings out his cloth, then linger. He wonders why he never noticed the pretty, dark tufts of hair under Andrew's arms. "What?" "What, what?" "You're staring again." "Am not." "Am so." "Shut up!" Jonathan drops the cloth over the back of his neck, squirming at the delicious cool feeling, then folds his hands behind his head. The not-quite-Tom-Selleck is shaking his fist, vowing vengeance on someone; Jonathan hopes it's his hairdresser. He turns to share the thought with Andrew, but stops when a narrow hand touches his belly. His intake of air is audible and he feels his heart race. Andrew is still watching television, but his hand is on Jonathan's belly. It strokes upward, tangling in the fine, dark fur of Jonathan's chest. The touch only lasts a moment, then Andrew claims his washcloth and dips it in the bowl, laughing at the incomprehensible antics on the television. * Andrew calls them the Drop Zones, the four places where water leaks into their home. One zone in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, and two in the rest of the house--which is only one giant room but Andrew still calls the bed and nightstand "the bedroom" and the two dilapidated chairs and television "the living room" even though they can see the TV from their bed and turn off the bedside lamp from the aforementioned chairs. There's a routine of sorts. Place the chair under the bowl and the bowl directly under the leak. Remove old bowl, then dump down sink, rotate it to Drop Zone Two, and so forth. Jonathan is making the exchange at Drop Zone Three when Andrew emerges from the bathroom. His hair is wet and around his waist he's clutching a dingy towel that might have once been white. "We should have put that tar paper stuff on the roof last week when it wasn't raining. There's a spot in the kitchen that looks like it's gonna blow." Jonathan hears his own voice and is pleased that his words didn't come out too whiney. They could have been whiney; it was Andrew's job to fix the roof and he'd forgone it in favor of going into town to check el mercado for back issues of The Punisher. Andrew doesn't comment, just squishes water from his hair and lets it join the growing puddle on the drab linoleum floor. "Hey! You don't have to make it *worse*." Again, Jonathan receives no response and that in and of itself is odd. When he looks, Andrew is staring at him. So he stares back, the same way he stares at Andrew when the blonde boy isn't aware, the same way he stares at Andrew when the blond boy isn't awake. "You don't see me." It's not an accusation, only an observation delivered with the same emotion Andrew might use to describe at two-degree change in weather. Andrew shifts his eyes and stares in apparent fascination at a crack spreading down the water-damaged wall like a fault line from a little tiny earthquake. "Huh?" "You stare at me all the time. You don't want to touch me." And now Jonathan is seriously freaking because the words should sound whiney and nasal like his own accusations; they should sound like demands from a put-upon housewife and not placid observations made in a damp, smelly room from a barely-twenty-one-year-old fugitive. "I…" Jonathan has no words to speak. He doesn't look Andrew in the eyes. Not into the blue, blue orbs or the spun gold lashes or the deep black pupils that shrink to pinpoints when they stand under the bright sun and let the waves break over their hips. Jonathan exchanges the bowl on the chair—Now overflowing; he's waited too long to make the drop—and proceeds to dump it into the sink. When he returns, Andrew is in the same place. Andrew is still holding his towel. Andrew is still staring at the tiny fault line and Andrew is crying. It's hard to tell, at first, if they're real tears. He's moved closer to the Drop Zone and residue from the steady pling, pling, pling has been splashing his chest. Then one fat drop rolls down his cheek and strikes a sweet, pink nipple and Jonathan knows the tears are real. It's odd, this war in his head. This war in his heart. He thinks things should be difficult, as all things worth having are. He thinks it should be painfully awkward, that to bend forward and take the chilled pink nub into his mouth should be a clumsy act worthy of the Sunnydale High School loser he knows he is. It isn't. And when he bites hard and Andrew doesn't cry out, just drops his hands that were clenching the towel and lets his fingertips brush the bare patches on the tops of his thighs, Jonathan glances down. Then he knows that good things come to those who wait. The down on Andrew's chest tastes like cheap soap and briny tears. Jonathan's tongue leaves a wet strip that's hardly noticeable on Andrew's damp skin. He tastes the other nipple. Snuffles gently under Andrew's arm and is rewarded with a giggle. Now Jonathan likes this best: Andrew's giggles when he makes the blond boy feel good. Then he runs his chin down the smooth sternum, over course, pale hair, and licks at Andrew's navel. He wants to hear Andrew giggle again, but Andrew doesn’t. There's a muted groan and then Jonathan's chin isn't running over hair so much as bumping Andrew's cock. He knows what he should do, what he wants to do. Later. But first he nuzzles into the shiny curls and breathes deep. Andrew smells like saltwater here, even though he's just come from the shower. Salty and sweet and musky all at once. When his head and heart and nose are saturated with the scent, he takes a first, tentative lick at the weeping tip bumping his cheek. Andrew gasps then, shudders uncontrollably, and grabs at Jonathan's hair to steady himself. Jonathan likes this power, this ability to unbalance someone with the touch of his lips. He tastes Andrew and sucks Andrew and swallows him until his lips touch blond curls and tries breathing again, though fairly unsuccessfully. The hands on his head are gentle. His hair has grown out since the first haircut they received in Mexico. Andrew is tangling his fingers into Jonathan's hair and tugging until Jonathan whimpers around him. When he comes, Andrew calls his name and Jonathan decided he likes that even better than Andrew's giggles. He wants to hear Andrew call his name again. Andrew's dick drops from his mouth with a pop and Jonathan presses his cheek to the blond boy's sweaty stomach. Hands are still in his hair. Then Andrew drops to his own knees on the wet linoleum and draws Jonathan's head back by his hair, tipping his face until their mouths meet. Jonathan has to reevaluate his likes and dislikes because maybe he likes this best: Andrew's mouth all minty and warm and wet. "You kissed me." He sounds amazed and he knows it's completely absurd after what he's just done, but he doesn't care. "Yeah." Nervous now. Andrew bites his lip. Jonathan would like to help him break that habit. Or at least encourage him to share. "I did." "Cool." Jonathan tries encouraging Andrew to stand, prompting him to edge his way toward the bed where they'll be more comfortable and where the overflowing bowls and blowing rain outside can be forgotten. Regretfully, Andrew lets go of his hair. Then he kisses Jonathan again on the mouth, once again on his chest. Reverently then, "Your hair is really soft." And Jonathan smiles, because he does prefer blondes. Preferably blondes with a penchant for brunets. ~The End~ |