Xander's not sure when it seemed like such a good idea to lean over and run his tongue over that bright red line on Wesley's throat. Somewhere around the seventh beer, unless it was the tenth. But he can't remember what he was supposed to forget anymore. It seems like a great idea when Wesley's got his hand on his cock, out and hard, pumping it with those long English fingers and whispering angrydirty words in his ear. Sounds harsh, like Giles when he's getting his Ripper on.

Xander only knows that his dick likes it, and his brain's too numbed down to care, so he goes with it, thrusting into Wesley's hand and drinking down the sharp metallic tang of his barely healed throat. And shouldn't that be a lot more gross than it is? But it feels good, rough, sharp, like the calluses on his hand when he jerks off after a long day working. And he feels the words, tastes them, and wonders if this is what it's like for Spike when he latches on to a warm human throat.

No. He's not gonna think about Spike.

Not gonna think about Spike. Not gonna think about Anya. He's getting rough now; he can tell by the sharply truncated groan under his lips and the way Wesley's legs are spreading and wrapping him, pants shoved down, and his hand's bringing Xander's cock down some place Xander's never gone before.

"Fuck! What?!"

And then he's on his back, and Wesley's sinking down on him dry, hot, hard enough that it hurts and Wesley's pants are stretched tight across Xander's belly, cutting off his air, and all he can do is thrust up helplessly and dig into Wesley's thighs and close his eyes, and this he's good at. Being used. Being ridden hard and put away wet.

But it's never been this dry before, this tight before, all skin dragging against skin before, and he doesn't even know if he likes it, but he doesn't hate it, doesn't stop.

And then those long, strong, hot hands are on his throat, squeezing, squeezing until he's numb everywhere Wesley's not touching him, and where he's touching him, he burns. And his brain's flying back, back before Anya, back before basements and shit jobs to stronger hands wrapped around his throat, and he understands that this time, Angel won't save him.

This time, he doesn't want Angel to save him.

And Wesley's voice has gone all growling until Xander can't even hear the accent anymore. Something about stolen sons and prophecies and lies. It's all broken glass and splintered wood, and he's hearing the words a long way away beyond the roaring in his ears and the lights behind his eyes.

And his dick throbs, aches, burns, and when he comes, everything shatters, blind, deaf, and dumb, with fire flashing through his veins, burning him quick from the inside out.

His next breath, indrawn harsh and deep, feels like his first, scraping over scorched skin and charred lungs. It's loud, rattling, harsh as Wesley's, and as feeling comes back, the first thing Xander knows is cool-wet-slick. Tears on his face, come on his belly, and only some of the tears are his. Only some of the harsh, rough breathing is his.

Somewhere, they lost the words, and Xander only holds Wesley to him hard, and lets him shake. And if the bruises on his throat are wet with tears that aren't his, he doesn't say.

It's not Xander's first time waking up to the knowledge that he's let himself be used.

But it is his first time doing that waking up with the person responsible.

He's not completely sure how he feels about that yet.

But there doesn't seem to be any immediate freaking out happening.

And he's pretty sure that when it comes down to the line, he did his own share of using.

If he'd paid more attention in English classes, he'd probably have a word for what happened between them, what feels different, better, more free. And Wesley's awake. He's smart. He'd know. "What happened?" Xander asks. His voice comes out like Wesley's, all rough and gravel. Like Wesley's hands re-shaped him in the night, and made Xander a little more like him.

"Catharsis," Wesley says, and leave it to a Watcher to know the right word. And answer the right question. "I need a shower. Help yourself to whatever you like," he says, and climbs out of bed, no kisses, no caresses, but with a glance that says he's giving Xander's brain the space to process it all.

"Thanks," Xander says, because he means it. It's hard to think about Wesley with Wesley right there.

But that's all there's room in his head to think about this morning, and he's glad. It's like there's a secret little button hidden in his throat. Press it, squeeze it hard, and click, everything in Xander's life changes.

Wesley's still in the shower when there's a knock on the door. Xander's still floating in that place where nothing seems like a big deal anymore, so he drags on his pants and pads through the living room, opening the door on the second round of knocking.

"I would have called, but I figured you'd only tell me to go to hell again, so, I thought I'd just take a shot and drop by-" Lilah stops in mid-sentence, and looks Xander up and down. But this time, he doesn't feel sixteen anymore. He feels twenty one, and invulnerable. "Okay, who are you?" She's folding her arms, and tapping a foot, and it makes Xander smile because it means he's clearly not part of her plan.

He shrugs. "Wesley's in the shower."

And he watches her eyes slide down to his throat, and wants to see his bruises too. "Are you going to let me in?"

"No," Xander says, and shuts the door on her, walking back to the bedroom.

"Who was at the door?" Wesley asks, when he comes out in a cloud of sandalwood steam.

Xander shrugs again, "Nobody important," and takes his first good look at Wesley in three years. It's then he pins down the change, what's different about Wesley now; he looks invulnerable too.

Maybe they can't break each other because they've already been broken. And that feels... good.