Xander wasn't dreaming.

It was hard to be sure at first, but the warmth of the body pressed along the length of his, the rough texture of the fingers sliding over his skin, the smell freshly washed hair mingled with the smell of nicotine - these were sensory details too sharp, too real for the world dreams. Smell and touch.

And then there was taste. A mouth over his. Soft lips, wet tongue. Toothpaste and nicotine and something spicy underneath.

Xander wasn't dreaming, but he was getting lost in the sensations, being carried away and going willingly - his hands gliding over the smooth skin of a muscled back, his hip pressing against hardness, his tongue probing and tangling. It all felt so good, so needed.

But there was something somewhere in his head that was trying to send up warning flares, searching for an emergency break, asking where he was and what the hell was going on.

Xander tried to remember. He remembered getting up from the couch and sending Spike to take a shower. He remembered loaning Spike boxers, then getting in the shower himself. He remembered coming out of the bathroom to find Spike smoking on his bed. He remembered not bothering to tell Spike not to. He remembered going back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and coming out to find Spike sound asleep. He remembered thinking about taking the couch, which was too damn short, and deciding just to stretch out next to Spike on the bed a moment while he decided.

He didn't remember anything after that.

And now there were lips and hands and whispered 'don't talk' and 'please' like a litany and Xander could never say no to 'please'. Not when Spike was kissing him with lips that tasted now like fresh salt more than lingering tobacco and -

Spike was kissing him.

Spike was -

Xander moaned because Spike was sliding on top of him, rubbing against him skin to skin because *let's face it - boxers that old might as well be skin* and Xander couldn't bring him to stop - Because he needed it too. Needed... something. "Spike - ?"

"God, please don't talk. Don't - I need - " Spike's voice cracked and he got a knee between Xander's, pushed and slid and Xander moaned because it was good and -

"Okay." Xander slid a hand up along the fine bones of Spike's neck, into his hair and felt him go still. "It's okay."

"Don't -"

"- talk." Xander closed the gap between them - closed down the part of his mind laying out warning flares that spelled 'what the hell are you doing?' in big red flickering letters - and opened his legs to let Spike settle between with a hitching groan Xander could feel.

It was strange to do it this way. Not that Xander had done "it" all that often in all that many different ways, but still, there'd always been words or light or both.

Well, no, that wasn't strictly true. Unless you conveniently ignored - as Xander tended to do - those times back in high school in the janitor's closet with Cordelia, when words and light would have ruined everything because it was all about lust and shame.

And it had taken Cordelia a while to figure out that the Xander was carrying more than his share of shame and less than his share of lust. To see that "the closet" wasn't just a place Xander visited with her - it was a place he lived all the time, his true desires hidden from father and friends.

But at heart, what made Cordelia Cordelia was that she was shameless - that she never apologized to anyone for anything. And so, she had dumped Xander as a fling and adopted him as a friend and taught him pride, confidence and how to give a decent blow job. Of course, it was practicing the latter on one Daniel Osbourne - with the lights on and plenty of talking, albeit incoherent, on Oz's part at least - that had gotten him kicked out of his parents house. But that was hardly Cordy's fault... and where had Xander been going with this thought again?

Spike's teeth at his neck snapped Xander back to the present. Back from the quiet, desperate groping of yesteryear to the quiet, desperate groping of the here and now.

Because that's what Spike's touches were - not coordinated skillful stroking but desperate needful groping and when Xander opened his eyes, the room was lit in soft orangey grays from the reflected sodium lights of the parking lot across the street. Lit only enough for Xander to see that Spike's eyes were closed, lashes spiked with moisture that couldn't have lasted since his shower, and that his lips were parted, harsh and panting breath.

Touch, touch... Spike touched without any purpose Xander could understand beyond the need to touch, for more contact, more skin and Xander wanted to roll them over, pin Spike to the mattress and keep him from flying apart.

But then who would keep Xander from flying apart?

Or maybe it wasn't about keeping it together. Xander had been holding himself together for so long. For days or weeks or maybe even years and maybe it was time to let it is all go. Maybe it was time to fly apart.

Then Spike teeth bit at his neck again and Xander got it.

Xander reached up and threaded his fingers through Spike's hair, pulled Spike's head down and held it - tight - as he crushed their lips together. And then Spike's tongue was there, dueling with his, giving as good as it got.

And Spike's fingers were cold, so cold but his body was hot where it rubbed against Xander's. Beads of sweat bloomed and slicked away between the desperate slide of two bodies needing together.

Then Spike's hands were at Xander's boxers and that was okay too - more than okay, moving toward necessary - and Xander fumbled with Spike's too, shoving the too-big shorts off, shoving them down, getting rid of them and then -

"Ah!" Skin and voice but no words - it wasn't talking if it wasn't words... right?

Spike's hands were tight on Xander's hips and fumbling was finding a rhythm - rhythm like Spike's teeth on his throat then his tongue in his mouth - and Xander pushed, rolled and took and Spike arched up with an inarticulate groan and clutched him closer, harder.

The sweat on their chests allowed for slide, but where their hips and cocks met and pressed - ground - into each other, there was friction. The kind of friction that hurt too good to stop and maybe Xander wished he had lube handy or maybe he didn't give a damn. Maybe he just wanted to know he was alive and not alone in his bed for once.

And suddenly he wanted to hear Spike, but he didn't need to hear Spike speak. One thing about not talking - you could hear, really hear the pants and the moans and every little hitch of breath. And Xander wanted that. Wanted to know Spike was alive, too. Wanted to hear that life and feel that life, and if he had lube and condoms he knew he'd be feeling it inside him right now and it would be good, but maybe harder to write off in the morning... or deal with in the morning.... or something in the morning that wasn't going to happen now when -

Teeth in his neck again, and Spike seemed to know when Xander was thinking and that thinking was bad, bad, bad. So Xander stopped thinking and bit back.

Thrust back - and that got a groan out of Spike, deep - deeper than Spike's speaking voice - and the rhythm of skin on skin took on bass that shuddered its way under Xander's flesh and into his bones and it was good and it was now and it hurt but that only made it more real -

And then Spike was faster harder frantic and shuddering against him - the space between them warm and slick and that was enough to take Xander to a place where thinking was impossible and his world was nothing but warm slippery salty and colored lights that burst behind Xander's eyes, under his skin - burst and left him limp and drained and - somehow safer.

Xander lay tangled up around Spike, listening to their hearts slow from the race, listening to harsh breath become quiet and even out into sleep.