The Lyre of Orphans :: a Spangel Ficlet.
Title: The Lyre of Orphans
Author: fenderlove
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of male/male intimacy.
Summary: Angel and Spike are searching for something, but maybe they're looking in the wrong places.
The Lyre of Orphans
The hand on Spike's belly traced down the slight curve leading down from the blonde's navel. Angel's lips parted and gently sucked on delicately protruding hipbones, eliciting a soft moan from the smaller vampire beneath him. Spike's face was half-hidden in the shadows of the darkened apartment, but each nuanced expression was crystal clear under Angel's gaze.
They didn't belong there, not in that dingy apartment bought with false promises, not in a world that struggled to bear their existence, and definitely not with one another. Angel had found himself knocking on the door to Spike's flat; for once, neither brought harsh words or wanted a fight. The vampires settled on the narrow bed that creaked and sagged beneath their collective weight.
It wasn't about sex. In truth, they never seemed to get around to the act. They rejoiced in the simple, wordless pleasure of just being close to another, the feel of bare skin, the familiarity of childhood scars and birthmarks and hidden freckles. Still, the warmest comfort could be blinding, making both men want to shrink away from it.
Could either find the end of something that had its beginning so long ago? Somewhere in the tangled knot of hurt and anger, lust and love were two lost children, clinging to the only memory worth retaining from the bad old days, but they were fooling themselves. Whatever intangible hope they tried to recover was just that- unattainable.
Panting, grasping, sticky serpentine movements led to the inevitable. Reeking of regret, they separated, sitting on opposite sides of the small bed. Angel shrugged on his shirt and stood to yank up his trousers. He turned his head to speak, and he caught sight of Spike's nude form. As he tried to not appear as though he was avoiding Angel's eyes, Spike's back and shoulders gave the illusion of distortion, his too-large hands resting pensively on his knees while his body turned away from Angel. The blonde finally moved to stand, crossing the small space between the bed and the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.
Madness can be defined as the repetition of the same actions with the expectation of a different result, and Angel supposed that both he and Spike were quite mad by that token. They could have ended it; they could have tried talking, but they were doomed to repeat the cycle, never gaining ground while losing pieces of themselves along the way.
Author: fenderlove
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of male/male intimacy.
Summary: Angel and Spike are searching for something, but maybe they're looking in the wrong places.
The Lyre of Orphans
The hand on Spike's belly traced down the slight curve leading down from the blonde's navel. Angel's lips parted and gently sucked on delicately protruding hipbones, eliciting a soft moan from the smaller vampire beneath him. Spike's face was half-hidden in the shadows of the darkened apartment, but each nuanced expression was crystal clear under Angel's gaze.
They didn't belong there, not in that dingy apartment bought with false promises, not in a world that struggled to bear their existence, and definitely not with one another. Angel had found himself knocking on the door to Spike's flat; for once, neither brought harsh words or wanted a fight. The vampires settled on the narrow bed that creaked and sagged beneath their collective weight.
It wasn't about sex. In truth, they never seemed to get around to the act. They rejoiced in the simple, wordless pleasure of just being close to another, the feel of bare skin, the familiarity of childhood scars and birthmarks and hidden freckles. Still, the warmest comfort could be blinding, making both men want to shrink away from it.
Could either find the end of something that had its beginning so long ago? Somewhere in the tangled knot of hurt and anger, lust and love were two lost children, clinging to the only memory worth retaining from the bad old days, but they were fooling themselves. Whatever intangible hope they tried to recover was just that- unattainable.
Panting, grasping, sticky serpentine movements led to the inevitable. Reeking of regret, they separated, sitting on opposite sides of the small bed. Angel shrugged on his shirt and stood to yank up his trousers. He turned his head to speak, and he caught sight of Spike's nude form. As he tried to not appear as though he was avoiding Angel's eyes, Spike's back and shoulders gave the illusion of distortion, his too-large hands resting pensively on his knees while his body turned away from Angel. The blonde finally moved to stand, crossing the small space between the bed and the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.
Madness can be defined as the repetition of the same actions with the expectation of a different result, and Angel supposed that both he and Spike were quite mad by that token. They could have ended it; they could have tried talking, but they were doomed to repeat the cycle, never gaining ground while losing pieces of themselves along the way.