Heat
"I hate you," Xander says, purposefully not looking at him. Or at Spike's clothes on the floor. Or at anything other than his own hands.
Spike just lies there. Watching, as Xander pulls on his clothes and leaves in a hurry, like he always does.
It's not a game, it's their lives. Or his Xander's life and Spike's unlife.
It's not deception, it's just the way they do things.
Xander comes to him, eyes so dark it makes Spike's heart almost beat. And he wants and he needs, and Spike's always there to oblige, and the boy's hands tremble when he takes off their clothes one by one.
The smell of alcohol on his breath enough to give Spike a small buzz, and he's never gentle, but he never, ever hurts the vampire.
When morning comes, and Xander's eyes have given their darkness to the night and to Spike, he says the same words -- the only words he ever says -- and then he goes.
From dusk 'til dawn he's Spike's, or Spike's his, or maybe they're each other's.
First the days are sporadic, once or twice a month, then every other Wednesday, then Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and Spike never asks what he does on the other nights, where he goes; it's none of his business.
And Xander chases away the cold that Spike never stops feeling, the cold of not living, not breathing, not having his heart beat in his chest. The cold only blood could take away, and the chip in his head brings pain, and the pain sends chills all over his body, that's the thing.
That's the only thing that keeps him from biting. He can deal with pain - he can love pain - but he can't deal with the chills that freeze his body all over and in that moment all his senses are gone, and he's deprived.
Deprivation he can't stand. He has to feel, has to see, has to hear, has to smell. Has to taste.
Xander's skin is salty with sweat, but not bitter. And the fear's lacking. The fear that was as dark as Xander's eyes when he first came to Spike, and Spike didn't need to have the conversation to know what it meant.
Fear keeps you alive. Gives you a rush of adrenaline. Makes you feel real, and not just a shadow in a world of nothing but colours, and Spike knows all about that. It was the first thing Angel taught him. Fear makes the blood sweeter, and people live the most right before their hearts give up and they're drained to the core.
There's lines around the once smooth boy-face, shadows and still healing wounds. And this child will turn 32 next September, and he's the last one. And for the unlife of him, Spike can't remember the first time Xander came. After Anya, before Willow's death. Before Buffy's insanity, and it doesn't matter.
They're there, and they're real.
And Xander mumbles "I hate you" to him before he snuggles close, and that's enough.