A Thousand Words

a/n: New story! I won't say how quickly I'll add a new short story to this, but I plan for it to be ongoing. I have another little short in progress now, and I'm keeping my eyes open for inspiration.

Just a warning, this opens with some light het sex, mostly lime, not really graphic, and then goes into full-blown slashy, man-on-man sex at the end. Enjoy!

A Thousand Words
Snapshot One

Title: Over and Over
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: het smex, yaoi smex, angst, language
Desc: Wesley thinks it's ironic that the one person he wants to hold onto, is the one who keeps slipping right out of his bed.


He's balls deep in Lindsey when the door bell rings. She's cooing and sighing, making that sexy little noise in her throat as her nails dig into his shoulders. Wesley himself is getting close, breathing hot and wet into her throat and resisting the urge to bite. Lindsey tends to slap him when he does that. Something about leaving marks, hell if he knows.

Normally, Wesley would ignore the door. And he even plans to do so this time. The headboard knocks against the wall as he shoves in deep, mattress squeaking obscenely. Lindsey throws her head back, panting harshly, biting on her lip in that sexy way she does. And Wesley has no fucking intention of stopping.

The doorbell rings again. Twice this time. In that annoying, jangling manner that says whoever is standing on the other side isn't going away anytime soon. That they know good and well someone is home.

Wesley growls under his breath, curls his fingers into the thick comforter by Lindsey's sprawled out curls, and tries to ignore the obnoxious sound. She's utterly oblivious, her legs locked tight around his waist and her hips rocking into every thrust. He licks over her throat, tasting sweat and remnants of the perfume she's slathered herself in. Eyuck. But then she whimpers and it's all good.

He's just getting back into the rhythm, hips pumping forward, losing himself to lust, when the door bell goes off again. And he swears it sounds louder this time. Gritting his teeth, Wesley rolls his eyes and pulls back onto his heels, growling fiercely in his chest.

“What the fuck!” he calls to no one, entire body throbbing as it is denied its release. He has this insane urge to punch the mattress, even if it will do him no good.

Lindsey runs a hand up his arm. “Just ignore it,” she purrs, curling her fingers around his elbow and trying to drag him back down towards her.

She's pretty damn alluring, lying there amongst his dark sheets, her pale skin a lovely contrast. Her pink nipples are perky and begging to be sucked or fondled, whichever he decides to do first.

He agrees with Lindsey. Ignore the visitor. He'll eventually go away. It can't be that important. It isn't like Wesley's expecting anyone or anything.

He grins at her suggestion and leans forward, intending to capture her lips and restore his mood. There is a smart-ass comment on the tip of his tongue. His hands already sliding across her bared abdomen, briefly stopping to fiddle with her belly ring before reaching up to cup one large breast. She sighs and shifts into his touch, blue eyes inviting.

Wesley's intentions are halted before he even gets to taste her lips, the doorbell making every hair on the back of his neck raise in pure fury. His pale eyes narrow and then he's pulling Lindsey's legs from around him – carefully mind – and withdrawing, sliding off the bed with a furious motion. He swipes a pair of boxers off the floor and steps into them, ignoring Lindsey's huff of disappointment.

“I'm going to kill whoever the fuck is on the other side,” Wesley snarls under his breath, stalking through the half-lit hallway towards the front door.

One hand rakes over reddish hair, in messy spikes on his head, and he flicks on the living room main light, flooding it with illumination. Above him, the sky crackles and thunders, a counterpoint to the steady rhythm of drowning rain. He's hardly noticed the storm in the past hour or so, but now, it's become more prominent. Fucking visitors.

Cursing as his bare feet slaps on tile, Wesley fumbles at the deadbolt and knob lock, throwing both with a loud noise. He whips the door open, not even giving the hinges their usual time to squeak, and fixes the person standing on the other side of the screen door with his most hateful glare. Pale brown eyes are practically menacing.

He has something vicious to say to the visitor, practically dancing on the tip of his tongue. He's ready to give the person a lashing they'll never forget. Wesley is sure that he's never been more pissed.

But the moment he lays eyes on the figure through the glass, distorted thanks to the fogging of the window and the mesh of the screen, it all dies in his mouth. He swallows the ashen words, forces them down past a lump in his throat. He should have known. He should have fucking known.

Reaching forward, he thumbs open the latch for the screen door, and the visitor on the other side grabs the handle. With a soft, slow squeak, the door is pulled open and there he is, rain-soaked and miserable. His dark hair is plastered against his head and curling to the sides of his neck, his grey-green eyes reflecting nothing but wretchedness. They are rimmed in red, and damn if Alex looks like he's not slept in days. One arm is tucked around a laptop case, the handle slung over one shoulder. There's another duffel bag at his feet, no doubt packed of what he considers to be his most important possessions.

“I need somewhere to stay,” is what Alex says, without so much as an explanation or an “how've you been, gosh it's been two years”. It's always been like though, and Wesley should have known better than to expect anything different.

Wesley sighs and pushes the door open further, leaving him an open invitation to enter. “Your room's as you left it,” he says, stepping aside and shivering when a cold breeze follows Alex's entrance.

“Thanks,” Alex mutters, and enters, dripping water all over the place and not looking too apologetic for it.

He pauses in the entree, taking in the changes and the lack thereof. A shiver attacks his thin frame.

“Dry off,” Wesley suggests, closing the door and throwing the lock and latch. He reminds himself that he'll have to take Alex's key off his ring and give it back. “You're getting my carpet wet.”

Alex makes a non-committal sound in his throat, and toes off his shoes, leaving the soaked footwear by the door next to another various tumble of shoes. He pauses for a moment, looking at the strappy red heels that so obviously don't belong to Wesley. And there's a breath of silence.

He doesn't look up. “You had a guest. Sorry.”

Wesley waves off the apology, forcing himself not to stare longer than he should at that soaked frame. He turns, striding back towards his bedroom. “Don't worry about it,” he mutters, though his body is still thrumming from the interrupted pleasure. “I'm used to it.”

But the last is said much quieter. Too quiet for Alex to catch and Wesley doesn't want him to. Otherwise the other man might think he shouldn't return. And Wesley isn't sure if that's what he wants or not. Alex gone from his life? He hates how just the thought of that makes something in him pull terribly hard.

Lindsey has curled under the covers when he slips back into the room, her delicious skin covered by the dark of his sheets. Her eyes watch him carefully, and Wesley is glad for the stirring of interest he manages at just the sight of her breasts. She is a beautiful woman, no doubt. With an intelligence to match.

She is also only temporary, as all the others have been. She simply doesn't know it yet.

“Something came up,” Wesley says, wincing when her inquisitive brow melds into a disapproving scowl. He snags a hook through his belt loop to pull on his jeans. “You should just go home.”

She folds her arms over her bended knees, something curious in her dark gaze. “Something... or someone?” Lindsey asks, her tone cool.

It is almost like she knows. When she leaves today, he will not be calling her again.

“It is a friend,” he admits, owing her that much.

He never has had anything to give her, and Wesley wants to believe that she has always known that. She's an intelligent woman after all.

She scoffs, sliding the blanket off her nude body and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “More than a friend,” she corrects, though Lindsey knows nothing of Alex because Wesley has never told her. He's never told anyone.

Wesley watches as she dresses, her movements calm and controlled. She is annoyed and angry, but she is in control. Her lips are a thin line, and he is again reminded of how beautiful she is. If he had any room left inside of himself for anyone else, Wesley thinks he probably could have loved her once upon a time. Once upon a fairy tale.

“I'll walk you to the door,” he says as she pulls her hair free from her shirt and swings it over a shoulder, snagging her wallet and keys off his nightstand.

She smiles, but it is bitter. “The last act of a gentleman,” Lindsey says, and swings her hips as she leaves the bedroom ahead of him.

She pauses in the hallway, looking at the door half-cracked just down the corridor. A small light pouring across the carpet. A strange expression crosses her face, one of understanding perhaps. Wesley doesn't offer an explanation. Lindsey doesn't demand one.

Wesley accompanies her to the door, providing a frame for support as she steps into her heels and carefully snaps the straps into place. He knows he should say something. Apologize perhaps, or reassure her that the fault is not hers. Lindsey is a smart girl. She knows all of that will be bullshit.

He opens the door. “Be careful,” Wesley says instead, holding it for her. “The rain is coming down pretty hard.”

“Take care of yourself,” Lindsey says, and then she's rushing out into the rain, hurrying towards her car to prevent getting too soaked.

Wesley watches her leave and wishes that he could feel something more than apathy. She had been fun, for a while. And entertaining enough to make him forget. But she hadn't been enough, and Wesley always knew it would come to this. Always.

He closes the door behind him, locks it shut once more, and heads to the hall closet. He draws out a towel, the scent of the fabric softener and detergent on it still going strong -- Clean Linen and Warm Breeze respectively. Not his favorite scent, but Alex's.

Wesley doesn't bother to knock, just pushes open the door with a soft squeak and watches as Alex stands in the middle of the room, looking for all the world, entirely lost. He has his bag open, clothes halfway pulled out before giving up, and he's managed to set his laptop on his computer desk. Now he's left staring into space, mossy eyes locked on an inner pain only he could discuss.

He clears his throat. “This time?”

Alex's eyes drag from the wall over to him, still red-rimmed and drowning in sorrow. “I don't want to talk about it,” he says softly, jerking his gaze back to the safety of his bag. He rummages through it without removing anything at all.

Wesley wonders if that means this long, it won't even last a night. Or maybe he's still too distressed to think of unpacking. He wishes he knew.

He bites back what he really wants to say, and tosses the towel at Alex. “Just don't drip all over the floor,” he says, and it comes out more gruffly than he'd like.

Alex catches it easily, inclining his head in thanks. A non-committal noise resonating in his throat. Wesley supposes he can take it as a thank you, if he squints.

He looks Alex over once more, a bedraggled, soggy man, and something inside of himself cries out for mercy. He wonders how much longer he can keep doing this.

Wesley leaves the room without another word said and returns to his own bedroom. The silence of the house is overwhelming, though the rain continues a steady beat on his roof. The clock in the kitchen is a constant, dull beat. One he's learned to tune out.

He pauses in the hallway once, casting a glance towards Alex's room. They door is cracked again, but it might as well be closed. Wesley shakes his head, muttering under his breath, and slips into his own room.

Lindsey's perfume lingers in the air, sweet and sultry. He grabs a can of air freshener and gives it a liberal spray. And then the sheets have to go. They smell like Lindsey, too. Even if it is busy work. Idle work means more time for Wesley to think and he doesn't really want to do that right now. He knows what his mind will immediately turn towards. Or whom rather.

It shouldn't be this unfair.

~

He's in his bed, with its new sheets and new scent of laundry detergent stubbornly clinging to the cotton, when he feels the eyes on him. Wesley looks up over his book to find Alex standing in the doorway. He says nothing, but the emotion in his eyes tells all the story that Wesley needs to know.

He wonders why Alex keeps doing this, setting himself up for a fall. Over and over, he goes after something he knows he can't obtain. Something he can't keep in his two hands alone. And when he shatters, it is up to Wesley to pick up the pieces. He knows that he should stop, that he's just the crutch Alex uses to fix himself. But Wesley has a problem of his own. He can't help himself.

The silence stretches between them, strained yet comfortable. Alex asks without words, and Wesley considers, knowing how he will choose in the end without debate.

A soft sigh fills the room. Wesley takes off his reading glasses and sets them on the nightstand, joining the book. It is wordless agreement, and the both of them know this. The lamp clicks off, casting his room into a soft darkness save for the yellow light streaming from the hallway.

The door shuts, darkening the room completely. The sound of Alex's footsteps shouldn't sound so familiar, but Wesley feels as if he hasn't forgotten them. Nor the sound of clothes slithering to the floor in easily discarded piles. The bed dips on the side as Alex pulls himself up onto it, and Wesley turns his head, just in time to meet the first, almost tentative kiss.

He tastes, as always, of coffee and Irish creme. Sometimes, Wesley thinks that Alex must bleed the stuff, as much as he drinks it. Their tongues touch, lightly at first, until Wesley presses for more, one hand lifting and snagging in shaggy black hair. His fingers massage against a scalp, mouth opening to deepen the kiss.

Alex edges nearer and one of his hands reaches out, dappled with light from the streetlamp outside streaming through the blinds. It finds the edges of the sheets, and just the light brush of his knuckles against Wesley's own bare skin makes his body stir. Cool air wafts over him as the sheets are tugged down, and Alex presses against him, rising up on his knees and forcing the kiss to break.

“Do you...?” the open-ended question is barely louder than a whisper, and Wesley worries that the sound of his own breathing is much too loud. Echoing over and over in the walls until it feels as if they breathe, too.

Wesley's free hand skates along Alex's side, touching smooth skin that shouldn't be this cold. “In the nightstand.”

There is a moment's pause. “Always?”

And there's more than a question there. As if Alex is surprised that Wesley still has some connection to this... this between them. Wesley doesn't know what to call it. Relationship or friends or salve to a broken heart.

He doesn't want to answer it honestly. Otherwise he would be laying bare all the things he has purposefully kept from Alex. He knows that Alex isn't entirely aware of Wesley's feelings. He knows enough that he can always return, but he doesn't understand why. And he's never asked before.

Wesley chooses not to answer at all. Instead, he tugs on dark strands, still somewhat damp, and drags Alex down for another kiss. The taste is enough, and the familiarity of Alex. He feels a sluggish heat stirring through his body, settling warm and languid in his veins. Wesley hungers and it's nothing like what he felt for Lindsey. It is utter desire, that can never be completely quenched, because it is only temporary.

He drags Alex closer to him and Alex obliges, straddling Wesley's lap and causing their groins to collide with gut-rattling moans. Wesley rolls his hips, their cocks rubbing together, fluid seeping from the tip of his own to ease the way. One hand falls on Alex's thigh, squeezing as he pulls Alex against him in a mouth-watering grind.

Alex's hands are no less busy. One wanders across Wesley's chest, flitting touches that madden him with their inconsistency. Sliding over the flatness of his abdomen, trailing through the line of light hair that vanishes into the hem of his boxers. Alex's fingers curl around the hip and Wesley's breath stutters, feeling every brush of his knuckles like a fire across his skin. The kiss doesn't end as they wrestle and twist, trying to work Wesley's boxers off without losing contact.

There's a sense of frenetic energy and Wesley can hear his blood pulsing in his own ears. He couldn't remove his hands from Alex if he tried, wanting more, more, more and finding that nothing is enough. He's harder than a rock and the desire he had felt for Lindsey is nothing compared to this pressing need that thuds through his veins and squeezes on his heart.

His stubble rasps along Alex's chin and Wesley breaks away from the kiss only because there are other things to taste. He licks a line up Alex's collarbone, breathes hotly into his ear, and embraces the sound of a caught breath as Alex's hips rock against his. Sparks of pleasure pepper up and down his spine and it's just not enough.

In the dark, he can't see much of Alex, and Wesley mourns that fact. But he knows this body well enough that he doesn't necessarily need the light. His mouth finds the mole just behind his ear, tongue flicking against it in remembrance. His fingers travel a familiar path, a scar on Alex's hip from a motorcycle accident, flesh indented and ridged.

Alex groans, his fingers clenching on Wesley's shoulders as he grinds down. Muscles flex strongly beneath Wesley's fingertips. His cock strains for more, wanting to be reminded of Alex's heat, how it feels to sink deep inside of him.

“The nightstand,” he mutters against darker skin, teeth scraping lightly against a bony collarbone, too stark in the slanted-light darkness. He loosens his hold on Alex's hair, letting the dark strands slip through his fingers.

“Impatient much?” Alex jokes lightly, but it's strained, cracked and falling short of humor. There is too much tension here for them to easily fall into their usual rhythm.

It's been too long for them. Wesley needs too much and Alex is too broken. It'll take a while to re-establish the easygoing cycle. But for now, they can pretend. It's easy enough. Wesley feels like he's been pretending for years.

He watches Alex lean to the side, the mattress creaking as he reaches for the drawer and roots around in it. Plastic crinkles and Wesley can't help but drag his fingers down Alex's side, feeling the ridge of each rib, the pimpling of Alex's skin. He's so cold, always so cold. And he tells himself that his hand did not tremble in the slightest.

Alex only grabs one condom and Wesley shakes his head, kicking off the last restraints of his boxers. “Grab another,” he murmurs, his hand sliding from Alex's hip to cup the curve of his buttocks, fingers slipping into the crease teasingly.

“Two?”

“I just changed the sheets.”

There is a moment of silence, a noncommittal noise of understanding echoing in Alex's throat, and then he's back, pressing the lube and condoms into Wesley's hand. The small plastic bottle feels cold against the heat of Wesley's palm, and he's on fire. He wants, so much he wants.

“Who was she?” Alex asks, his eyes caught in a slant of streetlight for a moment, dark and unreadable before he tips his head to the side, hiding behind strands of black.

Ripping open one package with his teeth, Wesley slides the rubber over his aching cock, wondering how long he'll last at the rate he's throbbing. He tucks the other against his side and grabs Alex, pulling the other man over him. Alex comes to him without hesitation, knees digging into the mattress and Wesley's slippery fingers find his entrance, tight after so long.

“No one important,” Wesley finally remembers to respond as he slides one finger in, groaning at the heat that encloses the digit. Heat and clenching and he can't wait to be buried inside. He crooks a finger, setting a careful rhythm, wanting to watch Alex's dance atop him.

A hand slaps down onto his shoulder, startling loud in the silence. Fingers digging into his skin, the sound of Alex's harsh breathing. His cock is leaking copiously, just as needy as Wesley and he curls fingers around Alex's shaft. His thumb rubs across the seeping slit of it, smearing precum everywhere.

“Enough,” Alex groans, his voice a sexy growl that echoes in the starkness of Wesley's bedroom. “Just put it in.”

Wesley hesitates, but even he's reached his limit. And it's what Alex wants. It's what he's always wanted, and he knows better than to try and deny him. He withdraws his finger and Alex shifts backwards, positioning himself before Wesley can even get a handle on the situation. He has a moment to place a hand on his cock, to guide himself in, before Alex sinks down and he's letting loose a deep moan, instantly swallowed by clenching, burning heat.

He whites out for a second, his throbbing shaft fritzes out at the pleasure. Alex pants above him, too much too fast, but he pushes himself down anyways, taking Wesley to the hilt. His fingers are digging into Wesley's shoulder, and he knows he'll have a bruise tomorrow. But by god, it's worth it. He pulses, resisting the urge to thrust.

There's a tight set to Alex's jaw, stubbornness and the obvious pain that he must be in. Wesley rolls a condom over Alex's cock with his free hand and strokes him carefully, trying to ease the initial burn. He is relieved by the need still present in Alex, his body taut and wanting over Wesley's.

One hand slaps against the wall just behind Wesley, fingers rubbing against white paint as Alex leans forward and their mouths collide. Breaths intermingling hot and heavy. Hair slides against Wesley's cheek as Alex rises up, and pushes himself back down again, the both of them groaning in tandem. Wesley's not going to be able to last, he can tell already. The need clenching in his gut, the fire spreading through his veins, the pulsing in his groin.

Wesley reaches up and slides his fingers into Alex's hair, touching the damp strands, pulling him closer for a tongue-tangling kiss. He lets Alex set the rhythm, slow at first, but gaining intensity as the pain of the first penetration bleeds into pleasure. Wesley tastes coffee again, and the scent of Alex's conditioner is stronger for the dampness of it – something spicy and exotic. Intoxicating. He wants to bury his face in Alex's hair as he pushes him down against the mattress, sliding over and over into that tight heat.

The bright image fills him with need and Wesley nips at Alex's mouth before drawing back from the kiss, dropping his lips to Alex's neck. He tongues over his bobbing Adam's apple, pulling back with a light tug to bare his throat. Alex's hand drops from the wall and lands on Wesley's head, plucking at his own reddish spikes, mussing them.

He gasps, body falling and rising in rapid rhythm. Wesley squeezes Alex's cock, feeling the weight of him in his hand. Throbbing within his fingers. The condom is slick and annoying, but necessary as he alternates squeezing and stroking. Familiar motions. He knows what Alex likes, has known for years, and Wesley uses that knowledge to his satisfaction.

It coils inside of him, a lashing pressure begging to be released. Wesley sucks in a sharp breath, trying to control himself long enough to make it. He wants to see Alex come undone first, to watch him unravel. His hips surge upwards, meeting Alex's downwards push and Wesley groans, feeling every pulse and throb of Alex's passage.

He whispers something against tanned skin, not even sure what the words are. Encouragement perhaps. Wesley doesn't know. The phrase is lost to the pounding of his heart, blood rushing in his ears and the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing. Alex presses closer, his hips rocking and rising, rhythm turning erratic as he sucks in several breaths. Close, so close, Wesley can hear it in him.

He has to kiss him again and Wesley captures his mouth, tongue plunging hungrily between Alex's lips. He feels the shudder rocketing through Alex, the groan that starts deep in his chest, rattles through his lungs and growls in his throat, the following moan that's lost to their mouths. Alex grinds down, clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he comes, releasing into the confines of the condom, his fingers digging deep into Wesley's shoulders.

He wants to hold out longer, to drown himself in the heat and the enclosing feeling of Alex's body. But it's been far too long and the gripping of Alex's inner walls are determined to wring every last drop from his body. Wesley nearly whines as he slams his hips upwards, pulling Alex down as he climaxes. Every muscle draws tight, mouth falling away from Alex's lips for fear of biting him as something explodes behind his eyes.

His breathing sharp and ragged, Wesley bathes in the warmth and pleasure seeping through his body. He rocks slowly, his cock softening. Alex feels languid against him, the stress of the day fading from him. Wesley's hand slides down from Alex's hair, skating down the length of his back as he presses forward for another kiss. Something more languorous.

Alex's tongue is exploratory against his and Wesley feels a stirring of interest trying to rebuild itself. If it weren't for the evident fatigue that he can sense, he would press for more.

“Tired,” Alex mumbles, shifting back as Wesley slips from him.

“Then sleep.”

The other man mutters something else, something Wesley doesn't quite catch, and sort of tips over, letting his body sink against the mattress and the sheets. Long, gangly limbs sprawl across Wesley's new bedding, Alex fighting back a yawn.

Comfortable and awkward, both somehow manage to seep into the atmosphere. Wesley twists his body and slides from the bed, toes clutching at the carpet. He rolls his neck as he tugs off the condom carefully, body still thrumming.

He wants to ask. The words are dancing on his tongue. But he doesn't voice them. He never does. He can't. So he just rises to his feet, dropping the used prophylactic into the small trash bin in his room. Wesley rakes a hand through his hair, feeling the ghost of Alex's fingers through the reddish strands.

Behind him, the bed creaks as Alex rolls over and reaches in vain for the trash can himself. Wesley kindly nudges it closer with the side of his foot.

“Where you going?”

“Bathroom.” Not for any real reason. He just needs a moment to compose himself. To remind himself not to fall too deeply, because the more he stands here, the more he tries to believe it might be permanent this time around.

“Mmm.” Alex rolls over again and Wesley forces himself not to look as he pads quietly across the floor, towards the door and out into the hall.

It's too bright, and he slams a hand against the switch, bathing the corridor in shadows. Much better. The bathroom is one door down, and he steps into it, cursing under his breath at the cold tile. He flicks the light on, catches sight of himself in the mirror, brown eyes haunted. There are marks on his shoulders, the beginnings of a bruise, but he can't find it in himself to be bothered.

His hands fall against the sink, braced against an imaginary wind and Wesley hangs his head. Closes his eyes. Rolls his shoulders again. Curses under his breath. Why does he keep doing this to himself? Why does he allow it? Alex is as bad as a drug for him, one he can't put down. Every time he thinks he's quit, he's there again, drowning himself.

The silence of the house surrounds him. The ticking of the wall clock. The humming of the fluorescent lights. The drip-drip of the leaky faucet he never got around to fixing. A car passing by beyond his window, headlights tracking a path around the walls of his bathroom. Rain a steady rhythm against the roof and the ground outside. His own heartbeat, wanting nothing more than to return to that room and that bed and that warmth, but not quite since Alex always feels so cold.

He doesn't know why he's bothering to resist.

Biting back a sigh, Wesley uses the toilet to keep up appearances, washes his hands and heads back to his room, flicking off all lights around him. There's a chill in the air, so he pauses by the thermostat, pushing it a little closer to heat. His house – no, their house once again – practically breathes with the silence.

He left the door open earlier, and when Wesley steps inside, he finds that Alex has had enough thought to crawl beneath the covers. He's an almost undefinable lump beneath the comforter and sheets, half of his upper body visible.

Alex's breathing is deep and even as he lapses deeper and deeper into sleep, hugging a pillow to his chest and curled around it. Black hair is sprawled across the white case. He's almost cute like that, even for being a grown man. Grown never really equates to maturity though, and Wesley knows that. The both of them are still just fumbling teenagers, unwilling to embrace the rigors of an adult life.

Wesley slips back into the bed without disturbing the sleeping form and resigns himself to not having a pillow for the night. It won't be the first time he's slept without one. Wesley wonders what's driven Alex to him this time. Abandoned again? Another failed interview? Another harsh critic? Another break-up? He is almost afraid to ask.

'Why am I always the last you turn to?' he wonders, but he doesn't ask it aloud. He never does, and that's his own weakness.

He thinks that if he asks, it will be the end of everything. And even if it's barely anything, that's better than nothing.

Wesley knows that in a month or two, or year, or some indeterminable time, Alex will leave again. For some reason or another, made up or real. He'll pack up his belongings again and step through the door. There might be the occasional phone call or two. Perhaps a postcard to inform Wesley of his new address, one probably filled with glee over the next relationship doomed to fail.

This right here is just as evanescent as Lindsey had been. Or Sarah. Or Madeline. Or Tyra. In and out of his life with the changing seasons.

Wesley finds it ironic. The one person he wants to keep, to hold onto, is the one person who keeps slipping right out of his bed.

The thought makes something clench in his chest and Wesley shakes his head. He doesn't know why he bothers to think about it. Nothing's going to change. He would be stupid to ask for it.

He slides down in the bed, slipping beneath the sheets, and presses up against Alex's warm back. The curve of his spine nestles neatly against Wesley's chest, the coarseness of Alex's leg hair brushing Wesley's own. Alex murmurs something in his sleep, pressing back against Wesley's warmth. He soaks up the moment because he knows it will end all too soon.

And Wesley hates himself for holding on.

* * *

a/n: There might be more featuring these two later. There's so much potential here that I just can't abandon the pairing completely. So keep an eye peeled. And I should have another short story on the way as soon as I finish it, titled "The Things He Shouldn't".

Hope you enjoyed. And I'd love some feedback!