Warnings: m/m sex
Summary: "It's hot. Damned hot." Set post-Chosen, ignores S8 Comics.
Word Count: 500
A/N: for slashthedrabble, challenge: Hot and Cold.
A/N2: this is...different. Second Person POV (I think?), almost stream-of-consciousness...call it an experiment.
You'd curse Giles for sending you into this godforsaken oven of a country, but the heat's sapped your energy, leaving you listless and groggy.
Too bad it's too damned hot to sleep.
There's a thick haze of smoke over the room and a fine layer of sweat over every warm body. The air's so thick you could almost swim in it.
At this rate, you'll be the first Scooby boiled alive.
The patch rubs against your skin; a maddening itch against your temples.
It always itches.
You grunt, finger slipping beneath the strap to scratch as you flip another of those funny hexagonally-shaped coins onto the bar, calling for something cold.
But the icy frost on the bottle doesn't last; it's lukewarm before it hits your lips. You gulp it down anyways, desperate for relief.
The clink of the empty bottle against the bar echoes in your ears as the drink sloshes in your stomach. Your mind whirls, lost somewhere between the heat and the alcohol, and for a moment, you think this might be the end; Xander Harris, survivor of the Hellmouth, baked to a crisp by an African summer.
Your balance falters and you pitch forward…into blessed coolness. You look up, and it's him, and he's supposed to be dead and he is dead but not permanently, like you'd heard, and he's in Africa—why is he in Africa?—and his skin is so cool and smooth like marble and your press yourself against him, desperate for the relief, for his pale flesh to soak up the heat from your flushed skin.
You lean into his body, forehead finding the hollow of his neck. You hear a whimper and you think it might have come from you but before you can think to be embarrassed about it, you're moving and are your feet touching the ground? Strong arms pull you away from the bar, away from the crowds and the smoke and the clink of liquor bottles that are never cold enough, into someplace quiet, someplace still, where the only sound is the beat of your own heart and the puffs of your breath against his neck.
His hands leave for only a moment, and the black tee disappears. The chilly flesh is exactly what you need, and your fingers fumble with buttons and zippers and laces until all that cool flesh meets your own, flushed and hot and sticky with sweat. You can feel his hardness brush against yours, and you're rubbing together, cold and hot, living and non-living, good and…mostly good, and you sigh as his coolness splatters against your stomach.
You sink, together, sated and limp and exhausted, to the floor.
Your mind, fuzzy with alcohol and afterglow, struggles to put the pieces together, but a cold hand strokes your forehead, long fingers combing through your sticky, sweaty hair and you allow yourself to slump against the still, still body beneath.
Then, finally cool, you fall asleep.
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