Two-Beer Queer


"Oi, Harris. I'm parched. Bronze?"

That's how it all started. It had been a nasty fight with the demon of the week, and I was still jangling with adrenaline. Some mindless time shaking my groove thang on the dance floor working it off, accompanied by a beer or three, sounded like a great idea to me.

And going with Spike wasn't that odd, either; we'd become friends, of a sort. It was inevitable, I guess, seeing as we were the only guys in a crowd of girls. We ended up pals by default.

So we went to the Bronze. I bought a round of beer, and lost myself in the driving rhythms of whatever the house band was playing, taking the occasional break for more beer. I was aware of Spike, always on the periphery, watching me. I danced with whoever was closest and danced with someone else when my erstwhile partners moved on. At least once my dance partner was Spike, grinding against me, losing himself in the driving beat too.

Some unknown time later I was up against the bathroom door in the Bronze, with my pants down around my thighs and my cock down Spike's throat, and no real idea of how I'd gotten there. I came hard enough to make my knees wobble, and when Spike pressed up against me, pushing his hard-on into my hip, pushing a come- and beer-flavored tongue into my mouth, I let him. I jacked him off hard and slow, and swallowed his grunt as he came. We zipped up, paid up, and he walked me home, dusting a couple fledges on the way. I rolled into bed and slept better than I had in a long time.

By the next morning, the previous night was like a dream, clear but distant, and not really me. When we met later that day at the magic shop, he didn't say a thing about what we'd done the night before. I chalked it up to drunken adrenaline and didn't think any more about it.

Except every time I saw Spike, graceful and deadly as a cobra, or any time I smelled beer. I was spending a lot of time in the shower, pretending I wasn't jerking off to thoughts of a spectacular blowjob.

After the next big fight with the monster of the week, I made my excuses and skedaddled, straight to the Bronze. I bought beer, danced, bought more beer, danced some more, and was always, always aware of Spike, who had apparently followed me, at the edge of the crowd, watching.

I left early, and thought I'd left Spike behind. I hadn't. I got blown in an alley that time, and when I jacked him off, I licked two fingers on my other hand and slid them down the crack of his ass and stroked them over his hole. It was his knees that were wobbly when we were done. He walked me home, I went to bed, and the next time I saw him, he didn't mention it.

It got to be a habit. There'd be a big fight, we'd go have a few beers, followed by a mind-bending blowjob.

"Oi, Harris. Beer?"

Translation: Are you interested in getting drunk enough to let me blow you, and jerk me off after?

I usually was. Occasionally, I'd ask him 'out for a beer'. We both knew what it meant. He still didn't say anything about our nights, during the days.

One night I didn't go. I went home, and had a few beers there instead. When I got out of the shower, Spike was standing in my open front door. Apparently being hauled through the doorway counts as an invitation. I dragged him to the living room, pushed him down on the couch, dropped to my knees and went down on him. Inexpertly, I'm sure, but it didn't seem to matter-he came in my mouth a lot faster than I figured he would. Before I could swallow, he'd hauled me into his lap and kissed me, tasting his own flavor. My towel had gotten lost somewhere in the proceedings, and it didn't take very long before I was spurting on his belly. He followed me to bed, but was gone by the time I got up.

After that, we went to my place more often than not, and I went down on him as often as he went down on me.

Last night was bad. The demon of the week was a big sucker, with more horns, claws and slime than any one being should rightfully possess. We all got knocked around, even Buffy and Spike. After we'd dragged the body to the dump, cleaned the weapons back at the shop and had applied Band-Aids to the nastiest of our booboos, we all wearily headed for home. Not surprisingly, Spike followed me. He followed me into the shower, too. I was expecting a blowjob, but what I got was washed, thoroughly, a favor I returned. When we were clean and dry, we went to bed.

Once again, I was expecting a blowjob and I still didn't get it. Instead he kissed me. Gently, tenderly, passionately and possessively, and I fell into it for a long hazy while. When I came back to myself, he was straddled over my waist, and I had one hand wrapped around his cock, two fingers in his ass, and I was so hard I was making a puddle on my belly.

"C'mon, fuck me, already," Spike groaned, sounding pained. I knew the basics, had done it with Anya a few times before we broke up. Apparently Spike was a step ahead of me because he handed me a battered tube of lube. I quit wondering where it came from and slicked myself up. He pushed back against me, and I rubbed the tip of my cock against his hole. Slowly I slid into the cool heat that was Spike.

I still can't describe the look in his eyes.

I put my hands up and he held them, fingers laced with mine, and rode me, slow and deep, then fast and hard as I rocked up to meet him. I nearly dumped him off as I thrust into that cold fire one last time and came. He ground down against me, pushing me back into the mattress and squeezing my cock mercilessly as his come spattered over my chest and belly.

He slumped against me and I tipped us carefully over to our sides. We lay like that, breathing and silent, but awake, for a long time.

He was gone when I woke up, but he'd left me something on the kitchen counter: a bottle of beer.

A full, unopened bottle of beer.

Last night the first time we'd ever been together without benefit of alcohol.

I put the bottle back in the fridge and went back to bed. After tossing and turning restlessly for an hour, I got back up again and went and sat on the couch. Eventually I realized I was sitting on the same end where he'd been sitting the first time I'd gone down on him. For some reason, that crystallized things like nothing else had.

I am apparently bisexual. Drunk or no, I like what we're doing. A lot. And yes, bi; girls still turn me on. But I don't have a girl, I have Spike.

I have Spike. After last night 'have' has a whole new meaning. And I like having Spike, in all senses of the word. I like having Spike, I like doing Spike, I like Spike.

I figured out something I should have known from watching my father-beer gets in the way of your thinking. And now that I'm thinking, I'm thinking that Spike is more patient than I'd have given him credit for, and that I'm pretty stupid, but finally getting a clue. I like Spike. I love Spike.

A glance at the clock has me jumping for the shower; I have to be at the Magic Box in less than an hour.

Patrol is relatively quiet for a change, and Spike once again says nothing to me about the night before. We finish up fairly early and head back to the shop in a good mood.

"Anybody up for the Bronze?" asks Buffy. Giles passes, Willow says yes, and she and Buffy leave just ahead of us.

Once we're out on the sidewalk, Spike turns to me. "What about it, Xander? Up for a beer?"

"No more beer for me." Spike's face falls, then smoothes into that tough-guy mask he hides behind. I let everything I was thinking, everything I was feeling, show in my face, in my voice. "But why don't you come home with me anyway?"

He stares hard at me for a few minutes then smiles. "Sure, pet. Sounds good to me."

The End

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