__Fishes And Crosses__
By Dutchbuffy
There's excess and there's exaggeration. Someone could be indulging in drink, drugs, and pain far
too heavily, and his friends could feel worried about it. If he had friends that
is; but of course there's only Wesley. And then this hypothetical friend could
be very happy when said someone turned to the light and started eating regularly
and exercising and taking walks in the sunlight and so on. Except that there was
too much of it, again. It seemed Spike couldn't do anything with moderation,
there must always be drama and overindulgence. So now Wesley didn't walk off
drug overdoses or mop up vomit, he applied soothing balms to sunburns, picked
out sea-urchin spikes and worried about beach babes instead of moody Goths. It
only seemed like progress, this cry of despair masked in the scent of sun cream
and the sound of rolling waves.
Wesley trudged through the pale yellow sand. The initial impression of softness had speedily
been replaced by a growing irritation against the tender soles of his feet,
which had become far too used to silk socks and perfectly fitting leather shoes.
On his left the late afternoon sun bored needles of red-tinted agony in his
unprotected computer eyes, from his right a warm but relentless wind blew dust
and sand in them. The collar of his shirt chafed his sweaty neck and he wished
he hadn't left his sunglasses in the car.
Spike's note had been more than cryptic; a pirate's map with only a few squiggles and spikes to
indicate his location. Squinting against the glare he saw only an endless line
of pale sand and tame surf, dotted here and there with bright towels and
broiling bodies. He felt pale and sluggish, a myopic office worm crawling out
from under the protective concrete and necro-tempered glass into the glare of
the real world and shriveling under its impact. His washed silk shirt was a
mistake and an affectation, cool wool a myth. He longed to shuck the clothes off
but was too wary of the sun's death ray potential to go for it.
A line of low rocks came into view, signaling the end of this stretch of beach. He shaded his
eyes by his hand, peering around and trying to find Spike.
"Oi!" it sounded behind him.
He turned sharply and beheld Spike, enthroned behind a small wooden table, a bucket with the neck
of a bottle sticking out of it and a wicker basket perched on top. His mouth
flooded with saliva; he didn't know if it was the sight of Spike's bare chest,
his wide grin, or the food that did it. An involuntary smile stretched his cheek
muscles and he hastened to cross the last few yards, the sand fighting him all
the way. Spike was a dark silhouette against the western sky, the golden light
turning his white hair into a halo.
Spike gestured to the other chair.
"Sit down, Pryce," he commanded.
Wesley glared. His eyes hurt and he imagined they must be bloodshot.
"Sit down, Wes," Spike said in a softer tone.
Wesley sat down gingerly in the canvas chair, still hot, sun and wind still making his life
hard, a headache threatening behind his eyes. If this was supposed to be fun, he
wasn’t having any yet.
"Close your eyes."
He obeyed. The chair seemed more wobbly than before and the surf rushed louder. He gripped the
rough edge of the table to keep from tipping over backwards. Something cool and
wet descended on his face and wiped off salt and sand. Glasses were placed on
his nose. Warm hands unbuttoned his shirt and peeled away the collar from his
sweaty neck, and finally the cold cloth landed in his nape. He sighed in relief
and stretched out his legs under the table.
A hand landed on his now bare stomach and a muscle jumped nervously in response. His cock shifted
a bit and he was so tired of the damn thing dictating his every action. Spike's
hand gave it a brief squeeze and he heard him chuckle, so close to his body that
he could feel Spike's breath stir the hairs on his skin.
"Not yet," Spike said, to his dick he supposed. "Got to get him fed and watered first, don't I?"
He was glad Spike was siding with him and not with his glands. His belt was unbuckled, his fly
unbuttoned and the pants tugged gently open. He heard a tiny pop and then liquid
gurgling in a glass. A slim cool stem was pressed in his hands.
"Drink up," Spike said.
It was a chilled dry white wine, not his beverage of choice, but quite suitable for the
circumstances. He held the fragrant sip in his mouth for a moment and he could
feel the fumes go up his nose, straight into his brain. The cold mouthful slid
down his throat, into his empty stomach and his fingertips immediately started
to feel numb. A few more sips of this and the only way he'd get back to the car
was by crawling.
There was rustling and clicking and the table stirred faintly under his hands. Finally Spike said
he could open his eyes. The shades protected them from the transition, but the
sun wasn’t blaring so loudly now. He could see coppery shimmers stretching their
fingers over the oily waves towards him and immediately he felt cooler. Nearly
sunset.
On the table there was a rough picnic, French bread and butter, a stack of oysters on melting ice.
Spike had opened the first one and offered it to him in the shell.
"Salt and pepper? Lime?"
"All of it," Wesley said luxuriously and happily opened wide for the first salty mouthful.
"Ah. Delicious."
"To life," Spike said and lifted his own glass.
"To life," Wesley answered, sighing inwardly and wondering what Spike was up to.
Spike nodded and moved around the table to sit down. He was no longer outlined against the sun,
which had obscured all the luscious details and Wesley let his eyes roam over
the tanned expanse of skin that was in view. He stopped eating, because the view
of an oyster going down Spike's throat was much more riveting than eating them
himself. Spike's mouth opened to let the gob of quivering flesh slide down, the
dark pink lips closed and Wesley saw him swallow and his Adam's apple bob up and
down. Spike's tongue came out and licked his lips slowly. His eyes were half
closed against the last glare of the sun but he directed a glittering look at
Wesley and winked. He slid down his chair, boneless as oyster flesh, and
disappeared under the table. Wesley sat bolt upright and looked around covertly,
panting in ridiculous sudden fear of being seen and caught in the act. He knew
it wasn't shameful but he couldn’t shake off the paralyzing memory of fear.
He tried to dislodge the curly head that lay on his legs while impatient hands scrabbled at
his briefs.
"Spike. Come on. Not here."
"Yes here," Spike growled against his stomach.
"No!" Wesley panicked and tried to stand up. Spike held on fiercely and the chair tipped
over, landing Wesley sprawled in the sand on his back.
"This is even better," Spike laughed and made fast progress with undressing him. The sure
hands touching him in intimate places had the expected effect and Wesley kept
twisting his head around to make sure no one was watching. He shouldn't have
done that, because Spike was wrestling him out of his pants easily now, holding
his legs up like a wayward baby. Wesley landed on his butt in the sand and
started to back away, still half in earnest. The feel of cool water lapping his
hands elicited an involuntary sound from his mouth and Spike laughed even
harder, fighting him for the possession of his briefs and winning. At last
Wesley gave himself over to the visceral pleasure of the tussle, muscles
straining against Spike's onslaught, cocks rubbing against each other,
occasionally getting a face full of brine.
Because he was bigger and heavier he managed to wrestle Spike down into the surf and Spike let
go of him and bared his neck in a gesture that Wesley found very vampire-like.
He sat up on Spike's hips and looked down at him. The lightly tanned flesh
glistened in the reddish evening sunlight, making it seem very pale pink against
the tan sand and greenish waves. Spike smiled at him and spread his arms wide,
transfiguring himself into a sacrificial god surrendering to slaughter. A small
wave rolled over Spike's face, but he hardly blinked. His muscles rolled like
putty under Wesley's hands and Wesley's throat caught. He knew he could do
anything to Spike right know, fuck him, drown him, throttle him and he wouldn’t
resist at all, but go where Wesley led.
"I surrender," Spike said.
"I know," Wesley said and bent over to kiss Spike's lips, forgetting to care about onlookers. For
all he knew the Malibu police were out in force already but he didn’t give a damn right now.
He had handfuls of happy Spike, a gift he would never have expected to receive or enjoy and he felt
strangely humble to have all this reborn innocence in his arms, pliant and
willing. It scared him, all this trust, but why be so afraid of abusing it? No
reason to think he'd harm Spike, was there? No blood of the lamb on his hands.
He slid off and lay down next to him in the shallow murmuring water.
The sky darkened further and they stared up together at the evening star which pinked up as soon
as the last sliver of grapefruit sun slid behind the horizon.
"She gives us our blessing," Spike said gravely.
"I'm not sure she was too keen on men's love," Wesley said thoughtlessly.
Spike elbowed him in the side. "Don’t say it. No bits of skirt here, so who else she'd be
twinkling for, eh?"
"You're right."
* * *