(no subject)
Title: Champagne From a Paper Cup
Author: Flannery
Rating: PG
Pairing: Andrew/Xander
Disclaimer: Andrew and Xander aren’t mine, you know. They belong to Joss.
Feedback: If it’s constructive, please, or unadulterated praise.
Author’s Note: Takes place post-Chosen. Written quickly, unbetaed, and a distraction from stuff I actually need to be doing. *g*
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The drink slammed into his mouth, deluging his tongue with sensation, burning the back of his throat. Andrew’s nose wrinkled briefly; he was unaccustomed to any sort of alcohol, even the kind that was fizzy and mixed generously with orange juice.
“Okay there, Andy?”
Andrew blinked heavy eyelids and nodded.
Sighing, Xander took a deep swig from the nearly empty champagne bottle.
There was silence, lots of silence. In theory, this was a celebration: they’d kicked Hellmouth ass and lived to see the sun rise on another tomorrow. And yet…
And yet.
The celebratory champagne had become salve for emotional wounds. Faith had bought several cheap bottles coated with a layer of convenience-store dust, and because most of the survivors were either underage or needed to supervise the under aged, Xander and Andrew had polished off two full bottles between them.
A trickle of champagne dripped down Xander’s chin as he drained his current bottle, bringing the total emptied to three.
“Eye patches are neat,” Andrew opined. His eyes shifted toward Xander; his head felt too heavy to tilt.
“Neat if you’ve still got an eye under one.”
That was it. They’d finished their allotted bottles. Getting more would mean knocking on Faith’s door at - Andrew’s head rolled to one side so he could see the digital clock - 2:41 in the morning, and god only knows what that woman got up to at this hour.
Such things might take another three bottles of champagne to successfully erase from Andrew’s memory.
He giggled loudly at the thought.
Lone eye fixed on the other man, and Xander said, “What’s funny?”
“Was thinking ‘bout Faith,” answered Andrew, “and what things she might be doing in her hotel room right now.”
Xander snorted. There was a clever retort somewhere in his system. Something witty. Something that would justify his survival. Wit just wouldn’t rise to the surface at this point.
He gestured to Andrew’s drink. “You gonna finish that?”
Andrew took a final sip and handed the cup off to Xander. It was strangely shaped and flimsy and Xander held it between his fingers like he was afraid its paper walls would collapse and send mimosa all over his lap. “We had these same cups at work,” he said into the drink. Those cups were now buried under a zillion pounds of broken Sunnydale, along with…
“I’m going to, uh,” Andrew staggered to his feet, leaning on the bed for balance. “I’m going to put the rest a’ the juice in the sink. ‘Less you want more?” He looked questioningly at Xander, who shook his head in the negative.
The sink was full of half-melted ice, a makeshift refrigerator for a motel room too cheap to supply its guests with an actual one. It was into this that the carton of juice went; Andrew watched it bob in the water for more than a minute before stumbling back over to the main part of the room.
“My hands are cold,” he pouted to Xander. Andrew bounced onto the single bed, causing Xander’s drink to slosh over the side of the cup. A tiny splash landed on the bed covers.
“Mmph,” responded Xander. He hurriedly emptied the cup before he lost any more drink. The puddle was small and Xander was drunk enough to let it lay there all night, but Andrew was already rubbing at the spill with his sleeve.
With a dissatisfied noise, Andrew pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. “I saw this thing on Dateline or something once where, like, they tested motel rooms for body - uh - body-ly fluids that…”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“It was gross,” affirmed Andrew.
“I don’t doubt that.”
Andrew made the same irritated noise from a moment before, only this time it was louder and more insistent. “My hands won’t warm up,” he complained.
Xander looked passively at him. He didn’t answer, for the simple reason that he didn’t want to answer.
He’d always been a quiet and introspective drunk.
On all fours, Andrew crawled up behind Xander. He rose onto his knees, swayed against Xander’s back, and placed his icy hands against Xander’s cheeks.
“Andrew!” Xander yelped. He struggled, but Andrew, giggling maniacally, held firm. The force with which he pressed his fingers into Xander’s skin would leave little red marks, capped with shallow crescent indentations from his fingernails.
As he writhed, Xander stopped shouting indignantly and began laughing breathlessly. He fell backward against Andrew with Andrew’s splayed legs on either side of his body. He continued thrashing for only a moment before he noticed the touch on his face had gone slack and Andrew was no longer laughing.
For a moment, both men were still but for heavy breathing. Then Andrew’s hands dropped slowly, as if he could no longer bother to hold them up, over Xander’s jaw, down his neck. His fingertips paused on Xander’s shoulders.
Xander felt warm breath on the back of his neck.
He shivered.
A soft kiss was pressed just below his hairline.
Only momentarily did he hesitate, and then Xander sprung off the bed. “I’m really, really tired,” he told Andrew, apologetically, unable to look at the other man. “It’s… it’s been a long day.”
”Yeah,” agreed Andrew. His voice was breathy and made Xander shiver again.
Andrew held his hands in front of his mouth and blew on them. “Still, uh, still not thawed.” His grin was too wide and didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Put socks on your hands,” Xander suggested.
“That’s, uh, that’s a really good idea, Xander. An… an inspired idea.” Andrew fell silent, watching the other man slip fully-clothed into the covers of the bed. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know why I did that so please don’t hate me or…”
Xander rolled onto his side, propped himself up on one arm. “It’s nothing,” he said and signaled nothingness with a wave of his hand. “But don’t think you're gonna get me drunk and take advantage of me again,” he chided, smirking at Andrew.
“Right.” Andrew sat up in bed. “Next time,” he teased, “It’s your turn for that.” And switched off the lamp.
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