shriftDon't wanna weep for you, don't wanna know
I'm blind and tortured
It wasn't unusual for Xander to come to Wes's bed. They'd gone past the point of asking questions years ago, after one night of mutual alcohol-soaked companionship and general don't-ask-don't-tell tendencies. He would show up at whatever time seemed to please him, thoughtful or haggard or angry, and Wes would pull him in the door. They'd get sloshed, have sex, and he would be gone in the morning, usually leaving a cheeky note behind him.
Wesley was beyond the point of questioning why Xander came here, or why he was inclined to let Xander stay, time after time; perhaps it was because those times seemed so out of the context of their original relationship that he could convince himself they never really happened, or that they didn't matter in any way that should.
So, a few months after they'd recieved notice that Sunnydale didn't quite exist anymore, Wesley was less than suprised to see a strained-looking Xander leaning heavily against the door frame, a patch over his eye Wesley decided not to question and an unopened bottle of whiskey in his hand.
He was grateful that Gunn had left early that evening, begging off dinner and movie in favor of rising early for the stack of paperwork awaiting him on his desk. He wasn't sure yet where that relationship was going, and had no desire to influence it with a tired, pained Sunnydale refugee who came 'round at the randomest of moments.
He let him in--what else would he do?
Xander didn't even wait for the door to shut when he fastened his mouth to Wesley's, fixing ungentle fingers to the back of Wesley's head and leading them, stumbling, backwards.
Wesley's hands found purchase on Xander's hipbone, thicker and with more muscle and fat than he'd had on him the last time he was here. He pulled the shirt from the waistband of Xander's pants, pressing his fingertips roughly against smooth, hot skin, aching for breath but not willing to stop.
These times with Xander were not the best sex of his life, but he could hardly be bothered to care when Xander twisted his hips just so and ground harshly against Wesley.
When Xander's hand slipped down the back of Wesley's denims, grabbing at the soft flesh there, he felt the warm metal of a band around one of Xander's fingers and though, oh. That must be why.
It didn't matter. Those words always resounded in his head whenever Xander came to visit him, and he worked hard to convince himself of it; it was easy to lose himself in the motions, to forget his tendency to love those who only sought physical release in him, with him, and when Xander pulled at his clothes efficiently and quickly he let himself take the simple reality of what was offered and turned over on his stomach, reaching his hands around to encourage Xander on. They didn't normally do this; but then, what about this was normal?
In the morning the coffee pot was on, and there was no note; Wesley supposed it was enough.
postscript: this is a sort of coda to a much earlier fic called Doubling In that was written with minim_calibre and is rather lighter. so you know.
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.