Rating: R for language, sexual situations, cousin!kink (is that even a thing?)
If it helps, cousin relationships aren't defined as incest in California
Disclaimer: Not mine
Warnings: Kissing Cousins, cock watching (?), underage stuff (both under 18)
Summary:Fucking Uncle Rory shows up for a visit with someone in tow. S/X in the basement.
A/N: Something different from me: Human AU. I completely have madame_meretrix to thank (or blame *g*) for this, and it's dedicated to her.
Please forgive any mistakes re: California, the seventies, and British drinking games. I know not of what I speak. The suburban California of the seventies that exists in my head was placed there by Bill Owens. The title is from the Cat Stevens song "Oh Very Young".
Reference Links: Cat Stevens, "Oh Very Young" on YouTube, Bill Owens (under “Portfolios” choose “Suburbia”), I Never, Go Fish, Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Oh Very Young
It’s just a basement.
In a house.
In a neighborhood like any other California neighborhood that was dropped to the earth, fully formed and immaculately suburban, in the nineteen seventies.
The street is curved, the plots are square, and they call it a cul-de-sac now, but that’s just the French way of saying place to get stoned and have a block party.
People were friendlier then. They were painters and nudists and high and their word for a street full of identical two story boxes was zen.
Fucking zen, man. Puff. Exhale. Fucking zen.
Xander knows this, not from personal experience, but because it’s written on the plastered basement ceiling. His ceiling. The ceiling of this, his new room.
Room, not bedroom, because there’s no bed. There’s a couch, and yeah, it’s a sleeper, but it’s stained and sagging and more of an overgrown chair with an identity crisis than a bed.
No interior walls, either. Just space and boxes, a half finished bathroom, the couch, and the words on the ceiling.
Xander can’t tell whether it’s him or the couch that groans louder as he sits. His back hurts from hauling boxes down the stairs.
Fucking Uncle Rory.
Xander’s never even met the man, but Uncle Rory’s the guy who sent him a five dollar check—addressed to Alex—for his tenth birthday. The check bounced.
Uncle Rory’s the guy who called today for the first time in five years and said he’d be coming for a visit. In two hours.
Uncle Rory hasn’t made a good impression.
Especially since Xander’s room is no longer his own now that mom’s big brother is coming to visit.
It’s taken him over an hour to collect and move five boxes of his most precious possessions from his bedroom to the basement. He’s got a feeling Uncle Rory’s the kind of guy who would accidentally grab his prized Marvel Star Wars #1 and accidentally drop it off at the nearest pawn shop for a quick fifty bucks.
Fucking Uncle Rory.
Xander’s about to get off the couch and head upstairs for the last box when the door opens and a pair of heavy black boots clomps down the stairs.
“You’re not Uncle Rory,” he says to the attached body.
The body, which is young and lean and defined under a tight black t-shirt and jeans, dumps a duffel bag at the foot of the stairs.
The boots carry the body into the half finished bathroom. Which has the essentials—toilet, sink shower—but is lacking in details. Like a door. And a wall.
The jeans give way to a slice of bare skin, and then there’s a cock.
And then there’s pissing.
And it must have been a long trip.
Xander’s cock twitches in sympathy. At sixteen years old, it’s very sympathetic.
“Oi! What’re you looking at?”
Apparently, the body has a head. And an accent. And white blonde hair—so fake—blue eyes vibrant even from across the room, and cheekbones like Xander’s never seen, except in that one gay porn mag he absolutely doesn’t own.
“You’re not Uncle Rory,” Xander says again, and even pissing, this guy is so much cooler than him.
Xander’s not cool when he pisses. He’s got that goofy sigh thing going on. Plus, there’s the blushing and the modesty. He’s the wait for a stall type. The wait for a bathroom with a door type.
“You soft or something?” He tucks his dick back in and Xander aims his gaze upwards. “I know the old man told you we were coming.”
“And we would be who, exactly?” Talking’s easier now that he’s not seeing another guy’s cock.
Before he can answer, the door opens again and Xander’s mom smiles down at them. “Xander, I expect you to make some room for William down there. You boys behave!”
“Thought your name was Alex.”
“Well, I thought—who are you?”
“Let’s simplify this for you, yeah? You Xander, son of Jessica. Me William, son of sodding Rory. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Xander says, and the first one is why the hell did my parents let an asshole like you into our house? But he doesn’t say that. He says, “Why are you all British? And why have I never heard of you? What, did you suddenly just materialize out of thin air after all these years?”
“Something like that. Live with my mum, don’t I? North of London. Been here maybe three weeks out of the last four years—and that’s three too many.” He joins Xander on the couch. “And the name’s Spike. Only my mum calls me William. And other mum types, I suppose. You try it and I’ll rip your balls off and feed ‘em to you for dinner.”
Fucking Uncle Rory.
“Spike. That’s… interesting.”
Spike snorts and shuffles his body so he’s laying down with his feet on Xander’s armrest and his legs suspended over Xander’s lap. He puts an arm over his eyes like he’s settling in for a nap. “Do we need to talk about your name, mate?”
Apparently British people are snarky and not so much with the personal space.
Xander’s not sure what to do about the British invasion, so he keeps talking. “So, north of London…”
“So, Sunnydale…” Spike mocks.
And that’s just about all Xander's willing to take. He’s already lost his room; he’s not going to deal with some British guy with an attitude.
“Are all British people as annoying as you?”
“Are all Americans dim-witted fucks?”
The or is it just you? is implied.
Fucking Uncle Rory.
Xander shoves Spike’s legs aside and heads for the stairs.
Fucking Uncle Rory and his fucking—
“Wait,” Spike calls, “I didn’t mean—I’m just pissed I’m not at home, right? Come on, let’s do something. Cards?”
And Spike’s on his feet, pulling a deck of cards out of his bag before Xander can protest. He sits on the cement floor with his back against the couch and says, “Come on. I’ll teach you a game from back home, yeah?”
Turns out, English games are drinking games, and Spike’s duffel’s carrying more beer than clothing.
“Three rules, mate,” Spike says as he shuffles. “One—play the card game fair. No cheating. Two—when it’s your turn, you say something you’ve never done. Whoever’s done it has to take a drink. Three—you get up to use the toilet or piss yourself, you lose.”
Xander’s suddenly proud to be an American. “So you’re saying you just play I Never while playing a regular card game and not using the bathroom.”
British people are weird.
Spike laughs. “Well, when you say it like that, it doesn’t sound quite so clever. So what’s your game? Blackjack? Poker?”
Spike quirks an eyebrow, and somehow, it’s a question.
Xander shrugs. “It was my favorite game when I was little, but no one would ever play with me. I still like it.”
“Right, then,” Spike says, “Go Fish it is. Gonna use the head before we start?”
Yes, Xander thinks, absolutely, but his dick takes one look at the gaping hole in the wall that is the bathroom and tries to retreat into his body.
“Nah,” he says, flashing a smile, “I like to live dangerously.”
Spike’s eyes are wicked, and he leers his approval. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, downing his beer in one long gulp.
Xander can’t help feeling like Spike’s purposely evened the odds a bit. Maybe he’s really not such a bad guy.
Spike shuffles, Xander deals, and Spike says, “I’ve never had sex with a woman. D’you have any sevens?”
Xander has no sevens. He also has no idea why Spike’s letting loose with the private info. And he’s suddenly one hundred percent sure Spike is gay. There’s just no way someone with that face and that body isn’t getting laid every day and twice on Sunday unless he doesn’t want it. Which makes Spike so much cooler than his no, I own absolutely no gay porn, nuh-uh, no way self.
Rules are rules, though, and Xander takes a drink.
Spike lets out a delighted laugh and claps Xander on the shoulder. “Knew it! All puppy eyes and shaggy hair—the birds at home wouldn’t leave you alone for a second. God, how old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Xander says. Sixteen and feeling a little less like a sloppy kid in desperate need of a haircut. “You?”
Though looking at Spike dressed all in black, he’s ready to admit that his Kramer-inspired seventies thrift store chic ensemble isn’t quite cutting it.
“Eighteen, nearly. Can’t fucking wait—I’m never coming back here. Not here, I mean. America.”
Xander feels a twinge of disappointment at that. He’s finally found a relative he can stand—at least, for the past fifteen minutes, which may well be a new record—and it’s someone from another continent. It figures.
“So when was it?” Spike asks. “The girl?”
“Last year,” Xander answers. “Faith. It was…” Bad. Awful. It was Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Fuck. It was enough to make him buy a gay porn mag. “…not what I was expecting.”
Spike tilts his head and just looks at Xander until Xander has to look away. “I know the feeling, mate,” he says. “Your turn.”
Xander needs a three. He wants to say I’ve never had sex with a guy, but he just can’t make himself do it. Instead, he says, “I’ve never gotten caught making out in my room.”
Spike hands over a three as he raises his bottle in a mock toast and takes a swig. “Mum doesn’t care, though, so long as we’re careful.”
The we doesn’t exactly impart the information Xander’s looking for.
“We?” Xander asks.
The leer is back, all knowing eyes and smug, closed-lipped smile, when Spike answers, “Me and whoever.”
It’s not until two hours later—two hours, nine empties, three games of Go Fish, and thousands of ineffective questions later—that Spike says, “Listen mate, birds are great for snogging and a good set of tits is a bit of all right, but if it’s all the same, I’d rather stick my cock in an arse than a quim.”
Xander doesn’t say anything.
“Isn’t that what you wanted to know?” Spike asks.
“Yeah,” Xander says, because it’s the truth.
“Should’ve just asked.”
“I know.” Because it seems so much simpler after a few beers.
Spike holds up the cards.
“Again?” Xander asks. “How does this game end?”
“’S not over till it’s over,” Spike says. “Rule number three: you get up to use the toilet or piss yourself, you lose. Last man standing, mate.”
“Sitting,” Xander says, and Spike snorts.
“I’ve seen it done both ways,” he says. “’S not pretty.”
“Oh God,” Xander says. “British people are weird.”
Spike deals. “Well where’s the challenge in just playing cards or telling the truth?”
“It’s not about a challenge. It’s a long and humiliating tradition of telling friends and strangers embarrassing things that you wouldn’t say when you’re sober.”
“Yeah? What wouldn’t you tell me right now if you were sober?”
Xander doesn’t even think about it. “God, I have to piss.”
Spike looks up from dealing. “That’s what you wouldn’t tell me? Out of all the things floating around in your brain, you’d pick that?”
“Honestly, there’s not too many other things in my brain right now.”
Spike smiles—the real smile, not the leer—and says, “Well, I already knew that, you nit. Can tell just by looking at you.”
“Means you’re being silly. It’s like moron, ‘cept I like you.”
“Oh,” Xander says, closing his eyes and wishing he hadn’t said anything. Having it out in the open and knowing Spike knows just makes it worse, and no amount of talking about it—or not talking about it, for that matter—is going to put a wall and a door on that bathroom.
Plus, he doesn’t want to lose.
“Hey listen, if it helps, you can…” Spike presses a hand to his crotch and lets out a little groan.
Xander sucks a breath in through his teeth. Spike’s hand is on his cock, squeezing just a little, and even if he’s groaning out of momentary relief, it’s still…
And Xander wants that same relief about as much as he wants Spike’s groan to be about something else entirely, but his hand won’t move.
Spike takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and even then, Xander’s too embarrassed at the thought of grabbing his own dick to budge.
He shifts uncomfortably, and Spike opens his eyes. “Bloody hell,” he whispers. “Americans are so repressed.”
Before Xander can even speak, the heel of Spike’s hand is pushed up against his cock, and there’s a moment of blissful relief before his cock begins to respond. Xander blushes and backs away, but Spike just chuckles.
“You sure there wasn’t something else you wouldn’t tell me if you were sober?”
“I…” Xander can’t figure out what to say.
“Listen, it’s okay,” Spike says. “And for God’s sake,” he grabs Xander’s hand and lays it in his lap, “if it helps, do it!”
It does help.
It helps for another ten minutes.
Another ten minutes of watching Spike squeeze himself lightly and thinking he’s going to die if he doesn’t piss. Another ten minutes of determination to not lose this game.
“Could take the edge off,” Spike offers.
“Five seconds,” Spike says, nodding toward the bathroom.
Xander’s still trying to figure out what Spike means when Spike sighs and says, “You get five seconds to piss out as much as you can.”
And Xander laughs. It’s harsh and bordering on hysterical, but there’s nothing else he can do because the idea that he could start and then stop five seconds later is completely laughable. But the laughter goes straight to his bladder, and he grabs his cock hard and says, “Okay.”
Because right now, there’s not a better option that doesn’t involving losing.
“You first, then.”
Xander doesn’t move.
“Listen, I’ve had more experience at this than you. It’s easier to be first, so go.”
Xander autopilots himself to the bathroom without stumbling and stands in front of the toilet. The only things between him and Spike are a doorframe and three evenly placed studs. He lifts the seat and looks out into the basement. Spike’s reading his beer bottle, not looking at him but not looking away.
He unbuttons and sneaks another glance at Spike. Nothing’s changed. He sticks his hand inside his boxers and grabs his dick. It’s a tight fit, with his zipper still zipped, but he holds on, trying to think of a way to get it out without it being visible to Spike.
Who says, without looking over, “Don’t hear anything, mate. Changed your mind?”
“No,” he says, cringing at the waver in his voice.
He takes a deep breath. He’s just got to do it. He unzips, cursing his mother for buying the bargain boxers with no front opening, and pulls his dick free.
God, this is going to be loud.
It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t be this difficult.
But he’s breathing hard, and he can see his hand shaking, and it’s just not going to happen. He’s thinking there’s just no way he can possibly do this out in the open when a hand comes down on his trembling shoulder.
He whimpers because it’s the only sound he can make. His body doesn’t even register the surprise of Spike’s closeness; his head pounds, and he realizes that he’s going to win this game because his kidneys are going to explode and he’s going to die before he can piss in front of Spike.
Spike moves closer, and he feels Spike’s forehead come to rest on the nape of his neck.
“Hey, shhh…” Spike says, and he feels Spike’s hand rubbing small circles on his lower back.
“It’s okay. ‘S hard for everyone, the first time.”
His breath is warm on Xander’s neck.
“You’ll be okay,” he whispers.
“And hey,” Xander feels Spike’s lips turn up in a smile, “if you don’t do it, chances are you’ll die.”
And Xander laughs. And Spike laughs. And that breaks the ball of tension in Xander’s stomach, and he lets go. He can feel himself blushing, but he doesn’t care. And he doesn’t care when another stream joins his, and he turns to see Spike pissing next to him.
And he looks at Spike’s cock because he’s pretty sure Spike looked at his.
Spike uses his free hand to wipe away a tear that Xander hadn’t even noticed on his cheek. Xander feels his face get hot again.
“‘S okay, you can look,” Spike says. “Again.” His tone is teasing, and Xander’s thankful that he’s not mentioning the crying. Which absolutely did not happen.
“Call it a tie, yeah?” Spike says as Xander finishes up.
“Sure,” Xander says, zipping his jeans. He scrubs his hands in the avocado colored sink and then walks out into the basement. Spike joins him a minute later.
“Listen Xander, I didn’t mean for you to… it’s just a game. It’s all in fun, you know?” Spike rubs a hand over his face. “When it stops being fun, you’re supposed to… stop.”
Xander looks at Spike. His blue eyes are so wide with concern that Xander has to laugh a little. Which turns into a lot. He laughs so hard that he doesn’t think he can stand, and he stumbles over to the couch and collapses on it.
Spike crouches in front of him and waits for the laughter to subside into giggles before he asks, “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t even know!” Xander answers, making room for Spike on the couch. “Nothing? Everything? It’s fine, though. I’m fine. And I think maybe I’ve got one less hangup now. God, and I think I have to piss again.”
That sets Xander off into another fit of laughter, and Spike just smiles and mumbles, “Silly sod,” as he sits on the fuzzy, rust-colored couch.
“So what do you wanna do now?” Xander asks.
“Dunno,” Spike says as he turns and lies down with his head in Xander’s lap. “S’pose we could—hey, what’s all that?”
“Huh?” is all Xander can manage while processing his new lapful of Spike.
Spike points at the ceiling.
Xander decides he could get used to the lack of personal space.
“Came with the place,” he says. “It’s a mural, I guess, but it’s all about the house and the neighborhood in the seventies. It’s kind of neat to read through it, what people were like back then and stuff.”
“Half of it’s Cat Stevens lyrics,” Spike says. Xander tries Spike’s eyebrow question technique, and Spike laughs. “He’s a British singer,” Spike explains. “Mum’s favorite. I could play you some. Brought it with me just so—hey, what’s wrong?”
Xander’s stopped breathing.
Spike’s stopped talking.
And as the sound of a second bottle shattering cuts through the silence, it’s suddenly very obvious what’s wrong.
There’s muffled shouting and a slamming door and squealing tires.
Xander waits to see who left. After a minute, he gets his answer in the form of a muted thump that he knows is his dad’s fist hitting the wall. Then the yelling starts.
He breathes again as he nudges Spike out of the way and runs up the stairs to lock the basement door.
“Wait, he’s not going to—he doesn’t—God, he’s not gonna hurt you, is he?”
Xander walks back down the stairs and curls up on the opposite end of the couch from Spike.
“No,” he says. “He just opened the door by accident and fell down the stairs once, so now we lock it.”
“I lock it. When mom leaves.”
“She always leave you here?”
Xander examines the fuzziest part of his armrest. “Sometimes Dad leaves instead.”
There’s another crash from upstairs, and then there’s a warm hand next to Xander’s. He doesn’t look, but he takes it and squeezes. After a minute, Spike says, “So tell me about the rest of the mural.”
Xander looks up. “Not much to tell.”
“Humor me,” Spike says, moving closer.
“Everything is dated,” Xander winces at a thump on the basement door. “It starts on the left, and goes chronologically from nineteen seventy-three until nineteen seventy-five.”
Spike reaches up to brush Xander’s hair off his face.
“The end of it has some really weird parts about vampires and demons and stuff. I think the people must have gotten into some really heavy drugs because it’s all normal before that.”
There’s a purposeful hit against the basement door, and Xander closes his eyes as his father’s voice cuts through—“You fucking useless mama’s boy fag!”—but before tears can form in his eyes, there’s a warm hand on his face.
“No!” Spike’s voice is low and intense and his eyes are just inches from Xander’s. “Listen to me. This is not about you. This is about him. He’s not good enough. You are funny and beautiful and good, and your mum should be here telling you this every fucking time this happens, but since she won’t, I will. There is nothing—oh, fuck it…”
And suddenly, Spike’s lips are covering Xander’s.
And just as suddenly, they’re pulling away, until Xander reaches out and threads his fingers through Spike’s hair, pulling him back.
“Please,” he whispers, and he feels like a child, but he rests his forehead against Spike’s and begs anyway. “Please?”
Spike doesn’t answer. Instead, he licks at Xander’s bottom lip, and Xander opens his mouth and slides their tongues together. Spike thrusts into Xander’s mouth, and Xander forgets to listen to what’s going on upstairs. There’s only the feeling of Spike’s mouth on his and the need to get closer.
Xander breaks away and straddles Spike’s hips. His cock is tight against his jeans and he thrusts against nothing as Spike nips and sucks at his neck, and then he’s thrusting against the heel of Spike’s hand, which is suddenly in the perfect spot.
He tugs at Spike's shirt until he can get a hand inside, and he runs a thumb over a nipple as he uses his other hand to bring Spike’s mouth back to his. He pushes into Spike’s mouth, thrusting his hips and his tongue in unison.
He feels Spike gasp into his mouth, and then Spike’s hand strokes him hard from root to tip and he groans as he comes hard in his jeans.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Spike says into Xander’s neck. “I haven’t shot that quick in years.”
Xander backs up so he can see Spike’s face, which is adorably pink around the cheeks and ears, and he’s wearing a shy smile that Xander has to kiss.
“So,” Xander asks between kisses, “it wasn’t just me?”
“No,” Spike laughs, and he suddenly looks so young, and not nearly as tough as the big bad attitude had originally led Xander to believe.
Xander shifts off of Spike’s lap. “How long are you staying?”
“Not long, I hope.”
“Oh,” Xander says, but before he can think of anything else to say, Spike continues.
“It’s not like that. My mum’s sick. ‘S why she sent me; she doesn’t want me worrying.” Spike sighs. “Thing is, now I’m just worrying thousands of miles away, and I hate it. Hate fucking Rory, too.”
“I call him that, too. Fucking Uncle Rory.”
Spike smiles and runs a hand through Xander’s hair.
“What’s wrong?” Xander asks.
“You heard of leukemia? All I know is it’s in her blood, and I know fuck all about blood, so it’s no use having me try and explain it.” Spike takes Xander’s hand and whispers, “It could be really bad, though.”
Xander squeezes Spike's hand.
Spike squeezes back.
“We’re just stopping here on the way to Los Angeles,” Spike says. “As soon as we get there, I can go home.”
Spike sighs. “We should clean up, yeah? That shower work?”
“You mean the one with no curtain behind the invisible wall?” Xander asks, grinning. “Yeah, it works.”
“Want to share?”
Spike is quiet as they clean up under the warm water, and Xander’s rinsing his hair when Spike’s arms envelop him.
“Don’t fancy leaving you here, pet,” Spike whispers in his ear. “My ticket’s first class, could trade it for two coach seats easy. Won’t have to pay for anything once we get there, either. Could stay the rest of the summer, maybe stay on if we could work out your school situation. What do you think?”
Xander lets the water run over his body.
He thinks that this is what being wanted feels like.
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