A Piece Of Work
Poems start to form in his head sometimes, but when he tries to write them down they vanish. The words always fall apart or fly away, and he's just left with little hopping toads, and he can't even help them back to the river because toads, he recalls, unlike frogs, live on land.
The birds sing things about Xander's eyes, because they're the same sweet raw brown of someone who's trying so hard to get through that Drusilla's were, and yet they look on him with the same contempt that Angelus's did, and it's so strange.
He wants the boy to see his words.
It's important to him, that Xander see his words. Even though Xander Harris wouldn't know great poetry if it ripped his fool head off. But he'll only believe Spike's words if he can see them. And he'll only see the words if Spike can catch the birds that fly around like mad bits of white and gray and rainbows inside of his head.
Or maybe like butterflies, they're that bloody tiny and pure and hard to catch.
Butterfly wings brush like eyelashes against his cheeks and Xander's long lashes might feel a little like that and that would be a poem in itself.
He just can't pin the damn things down.
He's always thought he might like to collect butterflies, although he doesn't understand the hobby. Pinning down the wings -- keeping the trophies of the tiny little murders -- it seems pointless, contrary to all that comes in nature and beauty and art and all the things he's dreamt of in his philosophies. Kill them, yes, he could maybe understand that. William and Spike both could see the point in killing butterflies.
He knows when Xander comes, in just that eternity's instant before his muscles tighten around Spike's cock, before the first drop of his seed hits Spike's hand. Spike just knows.
But if you hate their beauty, why keep them, still all clean and beautiful? You can't make vampire butterflies, so if you love their beauty, all you can really do is just watch them.
Spike's free arm is always curled across the boy's chest protectively and in that instant it tightens and in that instant he can feel his ragged, bitten nails, too short to scratch, and they dig into his fingertips in dull little red flashes, but are soon drowned out by the violet glow of his orgasm.
Xander doesn't let him kiss or cuddle or such, only does what he has to when Spike gets a little out there, and Spike sometimes pretends he's a little more nuts than he is...
...and then sometimes when he pretends, he sees things anyway.
Somehow, it doesn't matter to him that Xander doesn't hold him, for there are more kisses at his beck than he has words to give them shape.