10.

::::::::::::::::::

The sun has been up for a while and Xander was down. It was all symmetrical and shit.

He knew he must have fallen asleep before Spike was out the door. Simple deduction //ha! Giles-word//, since he didn't recall hearing the door close. And he'd gotten up to pee once before it was fully light. He was alone then. When he'd woken up, the living room was bright with sunlight. Since the bed was still empty, that meant--

Yeah. No Spike.

He'd slapped water on his face and gargled the bit that got into his mouth. Pulled on a fresh pair of boxers, the cool fabric chafing not entirely unpleasantly on his sore dick and bruised ass. He'd made it all the way out to the living room before, suddenly tired, lying down on the couch.

Being alone and feeling down was easy in the movies. In a movie, he could flop down on the couch, and it would fade into a montage of various contorted couch positions with sad music playing to show the passage of time. Like in a Cameron Crowe movie, with discarded pizza boxes slowly rising around him as Mudhoney growled on the soundtrack; or a Linklater movie, although Xander suspects he's not nearly cool and smart enough to be in one of those. He definitely hasn't read enough to hold up his end of a Linklater conversation. Maybe he could be in the bad one, the one with the guy who played Frank Buffay, Jr. on Friends. He could probably manage to be a bit player in that one, because, (A) it really was pretty bad, and (B) living in your parents' basement is only a step away from living in their garage. He took a moment, thankful suddenly that his parents didn't have a garage. Except maybe the sheer fact of knowing Frank Buffay's full name excluded him right from the get-go.

Right, movies. It was easy to be alone and depressed and pondering in the movies. They made it look pretty cool, gave the hero some stubble and carefully-sculpted bedhead, and let him loose. Editing and acting took care of the actual boredom of it all, transformed it into lackadaisical pensiveness. In real life, he actually had to wait through the various couch positions, actually had to stare at the uneven plastering job on the ceiling, and it was boring. His leg, so artfully flung over the arm of the couch, was asleep and tingling, and the sleep-granules in his eyes were starting to itch.

//All right, children. Before we move on to the principal exports of Bolivia and Venezuela, let's review the causes, symptoms, and motivations of Xander's depression. First, there's some mindblowing sex with the undead, the mechanics of which we've covered in health class. Second, there's the lack of said undead being in bed, and stop giggling, I know it rhymes--//

On second //third? fourth?// thought, let's just move on.

Xander swung his feet onto the floor; the one with pins-and-needles slapped with a thud, and he worked his toes against the floor, sending sluggish shocks up his calf.

He dressed, ran a wet hand through his hair, and was nearly out the door before his hand automatically patted his pockets for his keys. Three tours of the apartment turned up nothing. He could stay inside and memorize plaster, or lock himself out. //Walk on the wild side, Xan//: Sneering voice in his head, sounded kind of like Buffy when Buffy's mean. Or preoccupied; the moods were starting to run together. But he listened, shrugged, and pulled the door shut behind him. The locks clicked into place.

Hot sun baking acres of pavement and smog whiling its way around the horizon: Just another weather-less day in Sunnydale. He'd like to see weather some day. He'd heard it could be pretty spectacular.

He wove his way around town, not knowing until disappointment settled at the back of his throat like a particularly bilious scrape that he was looking for something. Looking for familiar faces, and not seeing them. He had lived here his entire life, and didn't recognize a single soul. He drifted through the comic store, gaze slipping over high-priced fetish objects: Platinum Tin-Tin tall as GI Joe, fully-painted die-cast Vulcan sex goddesses, Spawn leering and threatening a razor fist. Weird trio. He found himself flipping through something from the shelf of new releases, fingertips rubbing soft pulpy paper, longing for that narcotic haze that used to overtake him. Every Wednesday in junior high, in high school, even a couple months ago: happy-sweet-absorbed haze of new comics. Comics were his Prozac. Better than television by a long shot, because you could look and look and look as long you liked at comics, hold them still in your hands and pull out each moment in a long, droopy, sweet toffee-string. Better than chocolate, which melted too fast, got sticky, and left a fatty taste on his tongue. He'd read once about a man who liked to eat Tater Tots while reading his week's stack of new comics, probably a bag per page, and had grown so fat he had to get weighed on truck-stop scales and big ones in the back of post-offices. He could understand that, that kind of bottomless consumption that wasn't anything like hunger. Except he didn't have it any more.

He wandered out of the comics store with a bag of something, and resumed wandering the streets. Up and down the perfect grid of Sunnydale, laid out and subdivided by Wilkins and developers and speculators until it looked just like any other town. Except, he suspected, other towns had friends in them.

Here, he didn't know a soul. Something inside him hitched up and caught on that word, something kind of sad but more resolute than anything else, and Xander checked his watch. Well past five, which meant he could safely stop by Revello Drive and not be forced to make up anything about his day at work. He could mutter and groan when asked about the day, but if it was any earlier, he'd have to come up with something, some excuse to accompany the dismissive flip of the hand, and that would be lying.

Xander didn't lie. He, um, moved the pieces around until the puzzle looked complete and no one was the wiser.

He considered going around the side, but didn't exactly feel like revisiting that particular scene. It was probably crowded with potentials practicing some martial art he couldn't pronounce, anyway. He let himself in the front door, wondering again for the hundredth time why it wasn't locked and double-bolted against Harbingers and such-like. It was oddly calm inside: a couple girls bent over tomes in the living room; Willow's voice from upstairs asking for some help; and a clatter of pans and cutlery from the kitchen.

He edged down the hall, trailing his hand across the basement door as he passed. Andrew was on his knees next to the counter island, trying to restack sauce pans inside each other. His pale, bony hands fluttered helplessly.

"Need some help?"

Startled, eyes widening, Andrew shook his head, sitting back on his heels. "I-I got it," he said. "I think. How are you?" His voice rose on the question too far; he sounded as if he was onstage, anxious that everyone in the back row would know it was a question.

"Good," Xander said. He held out the bag. "I got you some comics--I figured you wouldn't have a chance to get out much, so--. Yeah."

"For me?" Andrew grabbed the bag and looked at him as if Xander had offered him redemption and advance tickets to the new X-Men movie with holograms of Hugh Jackman in the buff. "You didn't--"

Xander leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "It's no big deal," he said. "How're things around here?"

Andrew exhaled dramatically. "Same old chaos. It's like a Motley Crue video around here, you know, 'Girls'--"

"--Girls, Girls?" Xander finished. Andrew nodded, delighted. "Any grown-ups around?"

"Um, does Kennedy count?"

"No."

"Okay, then Dawn's upstairs, except she's not really a grown-up. Buffy's somewhere. Willow's upstairs with Dawn and some of the others. Anya's shopping--"

"Anya's shopping? That's got to be a sign of something."

"Grocery shopping."

"Oh, okay."

"So, all present and accounted for?" Andrew asked.

Xander pretended to think. He frowned and sucked in one cheek. "What about Wood?"

"Haven't seen him."

"And Spike?"

Andrew raised his eyebrows. Everything about Andrew was stagy, Xander realized, and that wasn't some kind of musical-theater-fag observation, it really wasn't. Especially since Andrew didn't look like his lungs were strong enough to belt out a tune in the shower, let alone before an audience. He was just--stagy. Like someone was always telling him what his motivation was, how to convey emotion, what to say. And whoever it was wasn't a very good director, or Andrew wasn't a very good actor, because it all came across a beat or two too late and too much, too heightened, trying far too hard for credibility.

"Basement?" Xander asked, and Andrew nodded, making Xander wonder just what stunt Spike had pulled on the poor kid to make him so nervous.

"Dinner's at 6:30," Andrew called as Xander went back into the hall. "I made lasagna!"

A snarl as soon as he opened the basement door, lengthening into a yell. "Told you, you little git, I don't want anything--"

Xander took the stairs two at a time. "Shut up, Spike. You know it's me."

And he was pressed against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, Spike's hand on his throat. Xander slid down the wall, pulling Spike with him. Cool lips on his cheek, fingers dipping down his throat and under the neck of his shirt. "Mmmph," Xander offered.

Spike was standing now, tugging him around the railing and down onto the mattress. His free hand slipped onto Xander's hip. "What took you so fucking long?"

Xander licked the tendon connecting Spike's thumb to the rest of his hand and raised his eyes, grinning. "What took me? Where the hell did you go?"

"Out," Spike said. "Needed smokes."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Spike's thumb worked in circles on Xander's hip as Xander tried to move his head; Spike's other thumb was still clamped over his jawbone, and he had the sudden, desperate need to feel it run over his lips. Spike was appraising him with a flat gaze, distantly amused at Xander's wriggling. "How was work?"

Xander felt his face tightening into a frown. The thumb digging into his cheek wasn't going to move any time soon. He flopped over, covering his eyes with his arm. "You know. Work."

::::::::::::::::::

He'd been locked in the basement all day, watching a tiny square of sunlight crawl down the wall and across the floor, roaring at the skinny kid whenever he ventured to the top of the stairs, hugging his knees as he rocked back and forth on the mattress.

And it wasn't as if he was addicted to the fags, at least he didn't think so; it had been so long without one between his fingers that he couldn't tell whether he really needed them or not. And it wasn't as if he wanted to explain this to Xander, exactly, explain how force of habit propelled him to the corner store with reservation cigarettes and a flexible attitude toward the currency used for payment. Except he wanted to explain the delay, the way he'd lost his sense of the dark and of the sun, miscalculated the time and had to run full-throttle in the opposite direction. How to explain that sometimes shade had to win out over--well, this.

Spike walked his fingers down the hollow of Xander's hip.

"Mmmm?" Spike's fingers dipped slightly lower, brushing the elastic of Xander's boxers.

"Day," Spike said. His fingertips ached numbly. "Sun, and all that."

Xander was looking at him crossways, head facing forward but eyes turned towards him under dark lashes. The boy had old eyes, eyes so old that Spike felt fidgety and unformed under them. Dru had had a baby's eyes, glinting and selfish and gleeful; Angelus wanted old eyes, wanted the weight of the world to dim his gaze, but however much he tried, they remained plain brown. The summer Spike had spent with Giles, when they weren't fighting or debating the depths of Timmy's devotion to Charity, he'd heard the librarian refer to the rest of them as children. The children don't know what they're up against; the children left a mess; the children, the children. The term gave the watcher what he wanted, a slim breakable feeling that he was different. Maybe not better, but certainly different.

Spike figured they've never been children. Not on a Hellmouth.

Xander said something.

"Mmm?" Spike shook off thought, because thoughts were what usually got him into trouble. He reached for Xander's chest, splaying open his fingers against the dull heat--sun and body--enveloping the boy.

"--like teenagers or something," Xander said. Spike felt him shiver under his hand, and rolled his wrist to grab some fabric and tug Xander closer. He worked his other hand around Xander's back, brushing the hard cord of muscle that twists from waist down to ass. "Are you even listening to me?"

"'Course I am." Spike licked the hollow behind Xander's ear, tasted sweat and shampoo and smog. Gritty, sweet, and salty. "Go on."

Xander laughed and Spike felt it rippling up Xander's chest before the sound even reached him. His hand slid down the boy's front, skimming hot skin, and cupped the hard-on throbbing under soft, many-times-washed khaki. "Fuck, Spike--"

"Yeah?"

Xander just looked at him. Old eyes, young face, but the gaze was quickly softening, blurring a bit the longer Spike returned the look. Spike flicked open the button on Xander's fly and eased down the zipper. Xander's eyes were closing, and Spike kissed the lids as he worked his hand inside.

"Missed you," Spike said against Xander's flushed face. He coaxed the cock out as gently as he could and ran his finger around the head. "Missed you a lot--"

Xander almost groaned and Spike covered his mouth with his own. Sucked in the vibrating tongue, quieting it. Xander thrusted against his hand and Spike pulled back.

"So it did keep, hmmm?"

::::::::::::::::::

Xander shook his head. He was biting his lip, determined not to make any more noise. The welcome chill of Spike's hand, wrapped loosely around his cock, made him want to cry and laugh and scream. //Crazy. You really are crazy.//

"No?" Spike asked.

Xander shook his head again. If he opened his mouth, he was going to make noise, and he didn't want to. Not here, not now.

Spike was lifting him, rearranging Xander's limbs until they were kneeling together, Xander's leg between Spike's, Spike's hand in the small of Xander's back, and they were kissing. Finally, kissing.

He needed to tell Spike to stop, that they needed to wait, that dinner would be ready soon and they had to go up, go back upstairs, go back to barely tolerating each other and--

Spike sucked Xander's tongue into his mouth and pinched it between his teeth. Xander's hand found Spike's ass and dug its fingers against the muscle. Spike was thrusting against him and Xander matched his rhythm, grinding awkwardly.

There was something needed to tell Spike. Something--.

He tugged Spike's jeans down his hips, grinning against the kiss that he had enough presence of mind to get the fabric out of the way. His tongue curled against the roof of Spike's mouth, sweeping back and forth, sucking in citrusy spit and old smoke. Spike's hand was in his hair now, nails raking his scalp, his cock riding hard against Xander's hipbone.

Xander yanked his own pants and boxers down and struggled not to moan, pushed his cock against Spike's.

//Swordplay?// Xander opened his mouth wider, heard the hinge of his jaw pop, and the angle was all wrong but he was grinding anyway. Against Spike's rapidly warming skin, his cock was jumping and skittering and bursts of heat kept shaking him.

He felt Spike's mouth slide over his cheek to his ear.

"Gonna come?" This close, it roared like a shout and Xander tried not to answer, tried to nod, not make a sound. And Spike saved him. Clamped one hand over Xander's mouth, the fingers slick with precum, as the other hand wrapped around their cocks. Xander bit Spike's palm. "Come with me--"

Spike gripped their cocks and tugged as Xander sucked against the trickle of blood. He was coming, or Spike was coming, or there was some mutual coming as his cock exploded in Spike's wrenching hold. He felt a searing wetness mix with something frigid, so cold it shouldn't still be liquid. Roaring in his ear again, he heard his name and imploded again.

Gasping, the wind wholly knocked out of him, Xander fell against Spike. Draped himself against the shivering body. "Shit--" he heard himself say, hoped too late it was quiet enough, and Spike wrapped his arms around him.

"You were saying?" Spike asked.

Notes.
1. Xander's probably thinking of Cameron Crowe's Singles (1992), where Campbell Scott lounges through one of the greatest depresso-montages, complete with model railroad, ever filmed.
2. Giovanni Ribisi played Frank Jr. on Friends, and earlier starred in the "really bad" subUrbia (1997), directed by Richard Linklater, which actually has kind of grown on me.
3. The Tater Tot anecdote comes from Tom Spurgeon's classic essay, "Comics Made Me Fat."