Twenty-Six Years
The problem with having a toyboy was how it made you feel.
Mostly, you felt old. And rather weary a great deal of the time.
Certainly, it made Giles feel a little better that Xander had now reached an age -- 28, since you ask -- that he was now no longer less than half as old as Giles himself was. Symbolic, in some nebulous fashion. Although, in truth, Xander, for all his moments of immaturity, was far more adult than Giles himself had been at the same age.
There were physical indications too: the odd strand of grey at the temples, a line or two at the corner of the eye not covered by a patch. It was clear that Xander was no child, but all the same, he was still a much younger man.
One who wanted sex at least twice a day, and in a variety of complicated positions, which was exhausting for a man of 54 who had to run the Watchers' Council at the same time as service Xander's every carnal need. And there was no hope of a night -- or morning -- off, for Xander had long since abandoned his own flat.
Giles hadn't lived with someone, in the sense of sharing one's bed as well as one's quarters, for almost as long as Xander had been alive. There had been dalliances, of course. Ethan; Olivia; Jenny; Joyce -- if one cared to call candy-induced sex on the bonnet of a police car a relationship of any sort -- but none who had taken up permanent residence in some two decades.
Technically, Xander hadn't moved in. No conversation had actually occurred where it was agreed that Xander and he would share the London apartment, far less a duvet. It was just that as dog-eared copies of 'The Astonishing X-Men' could now be discovered in between volumes of 'The Colwick Codex' on Giles' bookshelves, and bottles of some dreadful American lager mingled in between condiments in the fridge, so the burly, warm, firm presence of Xander was to be found between Giles' sheets every morning.
This had its perks of course Xander was a fan of something he termed 'spooning', and Giles would often wake to find Xander pressed up against him, broad, smooth chest to Giles' back, with one large arm wrapped around his former librarian. Xander's construction work, not to mention the physical exertions of fighting evil, had built up his muscle, and the feeling of his hard bicep against Giles' skin was heavenly.
This position was, of course, often a prelude to something more energetic; Xander's bicep not being the only hard thing to be felt against Giles' skin in the morning.
And as much as Giles might grumble that he would have to leave bed right this minute, that there was far too much work to be done and much too little time for pleasure, Xander's mouth would already be dragging along Giles' shoulder, his hands on Giles' belly and thighs, kneading and stroking until Giles would turn and meet Xander's lips with his own -- and work would be postponed yet again.
Sometimes, at the height of passion, Giles' elderly teasmade would putter into action on the bedside table, hissing and popping to a refrain of incessant giggling from Xander, who thought the device to be the funniest thing he had ever come across since the time Giles had found some old 'Rupert the Bear' annuals in a box he had left in storage.
But then, technology was always a matter which divided the generations, whether you meant the infernal noise made by Xander's various games consoles, or the tendency of his lover to prefer to use military hardware to combat the demon hordes when swords and stakes had served humanity quite well for hundreds of years.
Perhaps, this is a cultural matter. American faith in modern technology versus an English devotion to tradition. Much like Xander's iPod versus Giles' record player, or Xander's repeated viewing of the 'Sex and the City' movie compared with Giles' deep desire to throw himself off Tower Bridge rather than listen any further to that witless woman and her babbling about shoes.
Culture divided them in other areas too. Such as British reticence and the American instinct for emotional intelligence. For Xander, somehow, just knew that Giles was uneasy. Not only unused to surrendering so completely sole control over his domestic arrangements, not only merely fatigued by running the Watchers' Council, but deeply scared that he was being seen as a silly old fool by people whose opinions did not matter and were in many cases quite dead.
"You know Buffy and Dawn and Willow are happy if we're happy," Xander told him. He had just stepped out of the shower and was towelling his hair, such that the rest of his wet, naked body was wantonly displayed to Giles and therefore quite distracting -- especially as Giles was sitting on the end of the bed and was therefore more or less at eye level with...
"Giles?"
"Hmm? Oh. Yes, I know."
"They're the only ones that matter. And anyway, I'm old enough to decide what I want to do. Or, y'know, who." He advanced across the bedroom so he was inches from Giles, still dripping onto the carpet.
"Yes, Xander."
"And that you've taught me things that would have made even Anya blush."
Giles finally dragged his gaze up to Xander's face, and smiled. "Oh, yes I know."
There was an apocalypse to be averted in Belgium that day -- but it could wait a little longer. It was only Belgium after all.
Giles leaned forward, hand sliding around one damp buttock, and swallowed Xander, who for his part groaned and tipped back his head, the towel falling to the ground.
Yes, the problem with having a toyboy was how he made you feel.
Young and utterly irresponsible -- but very much alive.