Imprint - 18. Chapter Four: Sweet Vengeance

I

Middle of the night and Xander was awake for no reason he could think of, staring at his sleeping bedmate. Strife, two days later and still fucking here, was sprawled on his stomach, face half buried in the pillow, sleeping but he already knew the man slept lightly, popping awake at the slightest disturbance and drifting off again just as quickly. Xander had already had some fun experimenting with that the other night, kicking the bed, bumping the headboard, coughing and clearing his throat, popping his shoulder loudly, a thousand other little things he could think of just to watch the blond jerk up into a sitting position every few minutes. At least until Strife realized he was doing it on purpose and hit him for it. He even had to be careful about letting his eyes linger on the man too long at a time, a prolonged stare would be enough.

That itch in his mind was acting up again; it never really went away but sometimes it was louder and right now, something was bugging it. His eyes flitted over Strife's tattooed eye, the gold snake around his upper arm, the tribal like bands around his wrist; all familiar sights by now, or rapidly becoming that way. His pierced ear, more metal than flesh, and always half hidden by his...

On a whim, Xander reached a hand out, forgoing subtlety for speed, needing to get it done quick before he lost his chance, and pushed the hair back from that ear.

“What the fuck?!” the words were out of his mouth before he could think to censor it; Strife had popped up instantly, pushing up into a crouch, hand going right to his thigh, as it always did, where he sometimes wore that knife but not right now.

The thing that annoyed Xander the most was how unsurprised he really was.

Strife blinked at him with bleary yellow eyes, “What? Wha- why are you touching me?”

“Are you fucking kidding me with this?”

“With what? I'm fucking sleeping here,” Strife's hand raised off his thigh, up to his head where Xander's had been; it didn't take more than a second to figure out what had caught his attention, Strife's eyes rolled. “Oh yeah,” he scoffed, “Totally kidding here. I sharpened them just for you, you know.”

Xander watched him rearranging his hair, tucking it back behind his ears, almost proudly displaying them, running his fingers along the metal studded edge. They came to a fucking point, both of them. Not as dramatically large as he might have expected from Hollywood special effects or that shitty fantasy art his sister used to collect, but still a distinct, unmistakable point. The hoop that sat in the corner was half a size larger than the rest, drawing even more notice to it.

His eyes took in the whole man kneeling on the bed in front of him, all the little details that were just off that he couldn't pretend he hadn't seen right from the start. Xander thought he was probably too calm, more so than he should have been, should've been backing out of the room, should've been questioning his sanity; instead he just asked, “What the fuck are you?”

“What do you think I am?”

“Back to this, huh?”

Strife laughed, “Well, come on, love, use your fucking head. What else could I be?”

Xander wasn't sure he wanted to say it, put words to the insanity, make it real; no going back from that.

“I heard stories here and everything, I was so impressed. Even if you don't remember yet, I know you know.”

He looked away, “That shit isn't real.”

“I was real enough when I was sucking you off.”

“Well, you aren't right now.”

“Would it help?” Xander turned back to catch that teasing smirk.

The only thing Strife was wearing was that ring on his neck; Xander found himself staring at it a lot, mentally measuring it, trying to decide if it could fit on his finger. He was always careful to never actually touch the thing, because then he might find out and he wasn't sure he wanted that answer yet if at all; it could be a coincidence but it wouldn't feel that way, he wouldn't believe it. And is this any more impossible than that? Or anything else since his life turned into the Twilight Zone?

“Its still more likely you're fucking with me,” he tried to insist.

“And why the fuck would I do that?” Strife crawled forward, resuming his former position on the bed, “So you can wake me up at two in the fucking morning, playing with my fucking ears? Oh yeah, that sounds like something I'd do.” He buried his face half in the pillow and looked like he was ready to go back to sleep.

His casualness was disarming and wore down Xander's resolve; hard to maintain an impossibility when the other man just didn't seem to care. He glared down at Strife and his pointy fucking ears and oh fuck it all, just say it, what the fuck does it even matter anymore? “I wasn't aware that elves had yellow eyes.”

His one visible eye opened again, lips curling into a smirk, “Maybe they don't. Maybe only I do.”

He frowned, “How does that work?”

“Maybe its because I'm special. Or evil. Specially evil.”

Xander honestly could not tell if he was joking, “What?”

That smirk grew wider briefly, he thought he saw a half assed head shake, “They're just eyes.”

“So, do-”

“Go to sleep, Canaan.”

Canaan, that was all that Strife called him now (aside from a variety of colorful epithets, often affectionately); you already know you're name, he'd said, why do I need to bother remembering another one? Xander wasn't entirely sold on that yet but he was trying, testing it out, rolling the name around in his head, seeing how well it fit. It did, disturbingly well, and the more often he toyed with it the more naturally it came, until it was the other name that felt false.

(the missing piece, first in a series...everything back in its place, as it should be...)

He woke the next morning to find Strife perched naked on a stool at the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in front of him, cigarette in hand, popping grapes into his mouth. Xander poured what was left in the pot for himself, leaning back against the counter and contemplating his guest. In the bright light of day, with the shock worn off, he found himself much less interested in logical questions like how one came to have yellow eyes and pointed ears; now he was far more curious about, “So I thought elves spent all their time dancing in magic circles and fucking trees?”

“What?” Strife had to choke back laughter, looking at him from over the rim of his coffee cup with an incredulous grin.

Xander shrugged a casual shoulder, “Just what I heard.”

“Did you now? Who from?”

“You said yourself, there are stories. I thought you were impressed.”

“With their existence, not their accuracy.” Strife shook his head, “Stupidest fucking thing I ever heard.”

“So you're not a peaceful, sparkling little nature fairy then?”

This time Strife did laugh, “No, that's the stupidest thing I ever heard,” shook his head, “Since when is nature peaceful anyway?”

Huh. Not something he'd ever thought much about before, the automatic correlation he grew up hearing, but now that it was pointed out he wasn't sure. It didn't stop him from teasing, “I guess you would know.”

Strife smirked, “I was born in a fucking citadel. You're closer to a nature fairy than I am.”

Xander conceded defeat there, reaching forward and stealing a few grapes for himself. “Is that where your name came from?” he asked, chewing slowly on the fruit, thoughtful, “Do all elves give themselves stupid names like that? Strife, Famine, Pestilence, Migraine? House Guest That Won't Leave?”

“Host Who Complains To Hear Himself Bitch?” Strife laughed, “No, but it'd be funny if they did.”

Canaan made note of the non inclusive term used, but decided not to ask, not right now.

“Besides, like I told you, its more a title than a name.”

He raised a brow, “So, what? You got knighted for being an exceptional pain in the ass?”

“Something like that,” Strife paused, eyes wandering up into the corner, seeming to think something through. Xander leaned back, downed half his coffee, and waited.

Finally, “Its a very literal translation of an Elvish word my mother's husband used to call me, well first him then everyone else.” He paused, taking a long drag off his cigarette, “In terms of tone and context, bastard probably would've been a closer substitute. But by the time I worked that out, I was already using Strife. So,” he shrugged casually.

Xander blinked at him, trying to decide how surprised he really was, “So what? You'd be calling yourself Bastard then?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Why not?” Xander repeated, feeling his cock give an unexpected twitch at that. I find this attractive then? Clearly I have problems.

Strife nodded, dropping his spent cigarette in what was left of his coffee, pushing the cup toward the other end of the counter. “Yeah, why not? I mean, what did I have before? A throwaway name for a throwaway kid. This – okay, they gave it to me based on fucking nothing, but I could take it as a challenge, something to live up to, you know?” He grinned, “I like to think I earned it by now.”

Xander's cock gave another twitch; yep, problems. “Your parents must be very proud.” He wondered if it was too soon to go back to the bedroom; never having been terribly interested before now, he never bothered to learn the etiquette.

“My parents are dead.”

“Sorry,” another knee jerk response from the mental catalog of meaningless apologies.

“I never was.”

Xander looked at him, questioning; Strife stared back, smirking, answering his inquiry without saying a word.

(but don't I already know the answer to that? wasn't I...)

(“Ever heard of Khar'tal?... How would you like to own it?”)

(“All you want...people? Dead?”)

(“...means more to me than anything.”)

“So what was your real name?' more knee jerk absent minded questions, look engaged, show interest. At least here he didn't have to suppress boredom or murderous impulse; he actually was curious.

“You mean my birth name?” Strife shook his head, “You never knew it. We had this deal, I'd tell you mine if you told me yours, both knowing we'd never do it, you know?”

It was bizarre, listening to Strife talk like that, referencing a history together Xander still didn't remember having, which still seemed impossible however he tried to think about it. Maybe they could've slept together once before, a stretch (big stretch) but it could've happened; Strife's occasional slips though, hinted at something more, something deeper, closer, more...

(“He is with you, yes? Your husband?”)

“I thought you said Canaan was my real name?” he asked.

“It is,” Strife waved a hand, “What makes a name real, except that you use it? Who gives a shit if a parent gave it to you or if it was something your ex made up? Your birth name is the least real one you got.”

Xander thought that over, mind latching eagerly on to one particular detail, “Something an ex made up?”

(“Let me guess, you had something to do with that clever little moniker?”)

(“Perhaps...'Tis catchy, no?”)

Strife nodded, “And before you ask, I think its suppose to mean I am a badass, fear me.”

Canaan snorted a laugh, “Is that it?”

“You totally earned it, too.”

“That means a lot, coming from a bastard.”

“We were quite a pair.”

Turned out it wasn't too soon to go back to bed.

---

The sex was still good; more than good, it was fucking mind blowing. Finally, Xander gained some understanding with what people were so obsessed with, even as he had to figure their standards were much lower than his own; he was far from inexperienced, but it had never been like this.

There was something about that though, that was troubling. Some note of concern that would try to sound before things got too out of control, but that was always such a narrow window; it would float through his tired, pleasure soaked brain afterward, wanting notice but who could bring themselves to care? It was always there, hovering just out of reach; something off, something wrong, if he could only put his finger on it.

At the moment he was more interested in Strife's fingers, the man was seated on his lower back and rubbing his shoulders and fuck he was good at that. Xander stretched out on his stomach and tried to maintain some semblance of coherence while the rest of his brain tried to disconnect and drift away.

“You know, I am so fucking glad to see this,” he realized Strife was talking to him; those hands had moved over his upper back, fingers feeling cool against the overheated skin there, “There was some question about that, so its a fucking relief. Too bad I can't track that shithead down, shove it in his face.”

It was very hard to figure out what the hell he was talking about, not the least of which because Xander was finding it hard to think at all. What is there to...oh. Right. The tattoo of course, it still got questions and comments; he might not have thought a comment was warranted from someone with more ink than he had, but it should at the least be less idiotic than he was used to.

“Got it when I was sixteen,” he mumbled the automatic response, one he didn't need to think about, “at this little tattoo parlor a half hour from home. Thought it looked cool.”

Strife's hands stopped moving, there was a long pause. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The tattoo?” Xander replied tiredly, “Isn't that what you meant?”

Another long pause, then, “Oh, wait a minute. Is that the bullshit lies you tell everyone else?”

Xander's mind snapped back on almost violently, jerking up into a sitting position, still sluggish body trying desperately to keep up. He stared at Strife, now kneeling on the mattress opposite him. “How did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That its a lie. That I don't remember where I got it.” Xander himself barely knew that anymore, he'd repeated that story so many times now it started to feel like the truth.

Strife blinked at him, seeming confused, “Well, I didn't know that,” he said, “I just know its not a tattoo.”

Xander stared at him in disbelief, “What the fuck are you talking about?” how much crazy was he supposed to take here? “Just because I don't remember where I got it, I know I got it somewhere. Its not a fucking birthmark.” His eyes moved over Strife's body, for once lust was a secondary concern. “No different than anything you got,” he added somewhat lamely.

Strife laughed, “Funny you mention that,” he stated with some satisfaction, “I only have two tattoos.”

“Do you now?” he couldn't wait to hear this, what the possible reason for it would be.

“Yeah. This,” Strife's scarred finger tapped at his face, the series of black curls and colored dots that half circled his eye. “And this,” the gold snake around his upper left arm.

Xander's eyes flicked back and forth between them. “And what's so fucking different?”

“There are subtle visual clues if you know what you're looking at, but there is one easy way to tell.” Strife held out both hands, making impatient motions with his fingers when Xander didn't do anything, “Come on, Canaan, don't have all fucking day.”

With some small measure of reluctance, Canaan held his hands out, letting Strife grab his wrists, pull him closer. His right hand was guided up to the blond's face, fingers laid against the mark around his eyes, “Feel that?” Xander brushed his thumb under Strife's yellow eye, feeling the raised skin under all that ink, thinking again that it looked so much like foreign lettering and wondering what it might say.

“Now feel this,” and Strife brought Xander's left hand to his right leg, that horseshoe wrapped around his thigh, pressing his palm to the inner part down toward his knee.

What the..? He could feel it, the skin wasn't raised like it should've been; it was hot, a line of heat pulsing under his fingers. Xander looked up again, meeting Strife's laughing eyes. “Interesting trick,” he muttered, “How's it work?”

“I told you, its not a tattoo,” Strife said again, “Now, what does yours feel like?”

“I'm not in the habit of groping myself,” Xander replied, “Even if I was, its not in a convenient place.” He ran his hand around Strife's thigh, spread out so the mark touched his palm and his fingers felt the surrounding skin, near hairless, less smooth and much less hot.

“You wear light, loose clothing, right? Because its sensitive, you overheat easy? Right?”

Xander looked at him, quietly; he didn't know what to say to that.

“I'm right, aren't I?” Strife smirked at him, shifting his body, wrapping his legs around Xander's waist, urging him down on top of him. Arms wrapped around him next, deliberately laying his forearm with those tribal bands around the wrist and halfway up against that blood and iron clockwork; letting Xander notice the contrast where the not tattoo felt neutral but Strife's hand was cooler, running up and down his spine. Strife's smirk only got wider.

He had an urge to bite that lip until it bled, make the smirk go away, or change into something lustful more like. But before losing himself again, he had to ask, wanted to hear what would be said. “So where did I get it then? Don't tell me its a birthmark.”

“Okay, I won't,” Strife said, “Its a mod.”

“Mod?”

“Yeah.”

“As in modification?” Xander frowned, “Like people that split their tongue or put metal rings in their back?”

“Why would someone do that?”

“Because they think it looks good.”

“Does it?”

“No.”

Strife's fingers were still stroking his back, playing along the red tipped spikes, “That sounds like vanity, then. Not the same thing, mod burns serve a purpose.”

“Do they now? Aside from serving as a personal furnace?”

He laughed, “Yeah, aside from that.”

“As in?”

“What?”

“As in, what? What purpose? What are you fucking talking about here?”

The instant Strife paused to think, Xander knew he had lost; the man shook his head, “If you don't remember, you'll figure it out soon enough. Give it a few more years, it'll be obvious.”

It was an effort saving the breath he'd waste by asking. “And I got it where, then?”

“I don't know, I was hoping you'd tell me.” Strife shook his head at the incredulous look he got, “Hey, you heard me say I was surprised, right? Why don't you remember?”

“I was sick. Badly, for close to a month.”

Strife nodded, unfazed, “Right. Makes sense.”

He raised a brow, “Does it?”

“Yeah, you said before that happens, body adjusting and all that.”

“I said that when?”

“Before.”

Xander rolled his eyes, “Ah yes, before, when you and I wandered the earth, back when I was ten.”

Strife laughed, “Yeah, right. Back then.”

“Still doesn't explain where I got it from.”

“You already had it,” he said, “But I don't know how it came back without the catalyst.” A half shrug, “I guess we'll find out with the rest of them.”

Xander paused, “The rest of them?”

“Well, yeah, you got more than that,” Strife's hand moved from his back and ran down his arm.

(an itch, spreading up every limb...a chain, red and hot, wrapped around your arm...something there, some meaning to be found...)

“And yours?” he asked, trying to blink that image out of his mind, “What purpose do they serve?”

“Small but crucial improvements,” Strife answered, “If you're trying to mine me for info, don't bother. This is the take home, kiddie version of what you got. There really is no comparison.”

He figured it was probably more drastic than that, if Strife were willing to admit defeat; it was an interesting thought, if only it made any sense at all.

Xander's hand cupped the side of Strife's face, running his thumb over the ink marks there. “The tattoos then?” he decided to ask.

Strife was nonchalant, more so than before, “Personal significance,” he said, “Reminders of things I don't want to forget.”

“Must be something, to put it on your face like that.” Teasing, but truthfully Xander liked it, found it attractive

(dangerous...marked, tainted, a warning, stay back stay away)

“That one wasn't my choice.”

“How does that work?”

“When you're, like, twelve years old and five grown men are holding you down, they're going to do what they want.”

If Strife hadn't sounded so casual, he might've been more concerned – though that by itself was odd enough, since when did he give a shit? His frown was as much at himself as at Strife's words.

Strife raised a brow in turn, “Don't look at me like that,” he said, “I'm proud of it now. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

Again that itch in his mind, never went away

(you know that, too, don't you?)

(“What did they do? ...something to do with this?”)

(“That would be the obvious answer, but are things ever really as simple as that?”)

(“In my experience, yes.”)

Something...there's something...

“Are you going to keep wasting time talking? Because I can take care of myself here, if that's what you want.”

Yes, that's what I want, he wanted to say. So fucking tempting, tie him to the bed so he can't take care of shit, just run his mouth, keep the bastard there until his mouth ran the course he wanted it to, until Xander had his answers, until this insanity made sense. That's what I want, all I want, to know what the fuck is going on here.

Where did his resolve go?

---

Strife did leave sometimes, for a couple hours or most of a day; never said where he was going and Xander never asked, just opened the door for him when he knocked. He assumed Strife had a home somewhere he was visiting, the man always came back wearing different clothes, though the clothes always looked the same. With all that black leather he might've thought Strife was deliberately trying to look like a fetishistic wet dream, but Xander quickly realized it was more a matter of practicality than anything else. That he looked that good in it was just a bonus.

The first time Strife returned with two cell phones, which was odd but Canaan didn't comment. The one was silver and it sat on the nightstand by the bed, never turned on but always disappeared with him when he left; the other he was frequently checking messages from but never seemed to respond to them. Other things followed, little things; an extra pair of shoes, toiletries in the bathroom, things that made it clear he wasn't intending on going anywhere. And Xander watched this growing collection of personal items with a baffling lack of alarm; he wouldn't let Gina keep her own toothbrush, and when he caught her leaving her clothes in his drawers they were thrown out the window into the yard. He didn't know what to make of that either.

(“He is with you, yes? Your husband?”)

Jeff was still calling him, and his unwillingness to answer the phone only seemed to increase the phone calls. Xander kept his ringer turned off, changed his voice mail to advise callers to fuck themselves and erased messages unheard. Impossible to bring himself to care on a good day, and lately...

(“He is with you, yes? Your husband?”)

...I have a lot on my mind.

Like Strife showing up with a second knife, took his coat off and there it was strapped to his arm. He looked fucking good wearing nothing but those weapons, spread out on the bed; he could get them in his hands so quickly, be sitting up with both pressed to either side of your neck, a wild look in his eyes, wouldn't think twice, he's done this before. It was thrilling, Xander couldn't remember coming so hard in his life.

Half distracted fingering the marks on his neck, faint scratches by this point, he unthinkingly answered the phone when he felt it vibrating in his pocket. “Stop fucking calling me.”

“...Alex?”

Oh fuck. Worse than Jeff, his fucking mother.

“Alex, is that you?”

“Yeah.” Keep it short and sweet, not like she's really listening anyway.

“Is that how you answer the phone now?”

“Yeah.”

Anita Cain made some indignant noise, “Really, aren't you a little old for this?”

“Didn't know it was you,” he answered mildly; it was the truth.

“Who were you expecting?”

“Someone else,” Xander glanced at the clock; his unasked for room mate had been gone for close to two hours, should be home soon now, “What do you want?”

“Seeing how you're doing,” came the answer, “Anything new?”

“Is there ever?”

“I always hope,” spoken with a false brightness, it still carried a faint note of disapproval. Xander might've been more of a black sheep if his parents had placed more stock in him, but they had the three success stories they planned on and, though it was never bluntly said, he had been an unwanted pregnancy, “Did you get that article your father sent you? Some exciting new classes at the local university?”

Subtle, mother. “Don't think so, haven't checked the computer in a while.” And I'm done wasting my time here, whether you like it or not.

“Oh. I'll have him resend it then, just in case. Something to think about, for the future.”

Xander rolled his eyes, “Will do. Been kind of busy now.”

“Oh?” she sounded surprised by that, the cunt, “With what then?”

Getting a blow job.

“...excuse me? What did you say?”

Fuck, did I say that out loud? Hard to bring himself to care, “I'm seeing someone.”

“Oh?” there was a worrying note of interest in Anita's voice at that, “Well, that's news. I was wondering when you'd finally move past Gina.”

He rolled his eyes again, “I dumped her.”

“And I'll never understand why, she was perfect.”

Perfectly boring, and he'd never realized how much so. “Its been three years now, are you ever going to drop it?”

“I'm sorry,” she wasn't, “I'm sure your new girlfriend is just as lovely.”

He couldn't stifle the laugh that bubbled up his throat, “That's one way to put it.” Like a predator, dangerous and calculating, that's its own kind of beauty.

(blood and battle and death...perfection...)

“What does she do?”

“Doesn't bore me.”

Anita made a sound that could've been a snort or a laugh, “For a living, Alex. Or is she a student?”

I'm guessing a killer or a whore. Not sure which, hoping for both.

“...excuse me?”

Was that out loud again?

“Are you trying to be funny, Alex?”

He was growing very tired of this. Clearly. “No, mother, I'm not trying to be funny. I just don't fucking care.”

“Okay, look, this isn't necess-”

“Seems like it is, though,” he interrupted, “Don't worry, as amusing as it would be, I'm not planning on subjecting him to the whole meet the family bullshit. I don't see me climbing off of him long enough for that to happen.”

“Okay, wait a min-”

“I did say I was busy, didn't I?” this was too much fun, “Speaking of which, I better get back to it. I take too much longer, he might snap his legs closed out of spite, and then where would I be?” He closed the phone again, letting it fly across the room where he wouldn't need to see it.

Well, that was fun. Xander lounged back on the couch, feeling satisfied, half wishing Strife were here so he could have celebrated more properly. She'll either never call back, or be at my doorstep tomorrow full of righteous indignation. That could be funny, too; Strife verses his parents.

Of course, some horrible traitorous voice in the back of his mind piped up after he had too much time to himself to think, there is every chance they might show up to be supportive. His parents, like the rest of Brighton, tended toward conservatism but sometimes cozied up to socially liberal causes to make themselves feel less guilty about all their wealth and privilege. There was every chance they'd be okay with it, enough to forget all the shit he'd just said; so much so they might convince themselves that the only reason he spoke so harshly was out of a fear he wouldn't be accepted and they'd want to reassure him. They would make him choke on their approval.

On second thought, I probably shouldn't have done that.

---

Strife's fascination with the television could probably be classified as unhealthy.

“Are you watching the Home fucking Shopping Network?” Surely there were limits to what he had to put up with; the sex wasn't that good, was it?

Strife shrugged a shoulder, he'd stolen one of Canaan's shirts again, his long legs curled up underneath him; it was disgusting how hot that man was. “I don't know, I just turned it on,” he smiled, “It kind of reminds me of the bazaar in Kandha'l-har, you know? Oh this shit has been blessed with the blood of such and such legendary badass or who the fuck ever. Or it was made from their bones or something like that.”

Xander raised an eyebrow, “Really?”

Strife nodded, seeming perfectly serious, “When I was growing up there, the Butcher was the popular one. Which I thought was stupid then and is just hilarious now.” He rolled his eyes, “I'm sure there'd be assholes there now selling Wolf parts if they weren't afraid I'd appear out of the thin fucking air and hand them their asses for it.”

A spike of annoyance flashed through Canaan's mind, almost like a migraine, there and gone; he wasn't sure why. “...Wolf parts?”

Strife smirked, “Oh man, if you don't remember that, I'm not going to remind you, not yet anyway.”

Xander felt his eye twitch; he tried to ignore it.

“But you said this thing was for entertainment, right?” Strife gestured at the TV, “I mean, the bazaar was funny, but I'm not sure I'd call it entertaining.”

“Its not,” Xander agreed, “And its not supposed to be. People call in and buy that shit.”

Strife gaped at him, “You're fucking me, right?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Even the most gullible asshole in Kandha'l-har knew to leave that bullshit alone, and this is fucking jewelry that looks like its made of candy. People buy it anyway?”

Xander nodded, “Apparently.”

“Why?”

“Why are you asking me? Do you see any candy jewelry around here?”

Strife shook his head, “Its a wonder these people are still alive.”

“These people?”

“Well, I'm not including you in that,” Strife lifted the remote to change the channel.

“Why do you watch this shit?” Canaan decided to ask, “Fucking thing's been on more since you got here than since I bought it, and you do nothing but bitch.”

“Cultural research, I'm seeing what you grew up with. And I got to say, I'm not impressed.”

“And where do you come from, exactly?” What the hell was that he just said, Kandha'l-har? Was that a place, city Xander never heard of?

(...sure about that, are you?)

“Not from here, that's for sure.” Strife stopped on a channel seemingly at random, “Like this,” it was a commercial, “Is shaving, like, a really dangerous thing for men to do here? Those things don't look that fucking scary, not like a straight razor, but you'd think, from the way the voice goes on, like its going to rip the skin right off your face.”

Xander snorted a laugh, “They do, don't they?”

“So, no chance of that then?”

“Not even if you were trying,” Xander glanced at him, “Never had a disposable razor?”

“Elf, don't shave,” Strife glanced back at him, “And you? What would you have one for?”

He was just about to give the standard response and stopped himself; it wasn't just that hint of knowledge he saw in Strife that told him there was no need, he was just tired of lying, of pretending, and the longer he spent around someone who seemed to accept his honesty the less tolerance he found he had for it. “Appearances. Its expected, don't want questions. Not that I could answer anyway.”

Strife grinned, “There's got to be some irony in that, all the work put into what was supposed to be low maintenance, right?”

He frowned, “And that means, what?”

“What I said, the lying, its a lot of work,” Strife had already turned back to the television, flipping through channels once more; Xander made mental note to ask that again later.

“Or this,” and now Strife had stopped on some sitcom, “All these women ever do is whine about how they're fat, even though they're not, and about how they can't get men, even though there's a new one every week, for some reason.”

It took Canaan's distracted mind a moment to catch up, process that; his frown deepened, “Do you watch this show?” Okay, surely now...nope, still attractive.

“I keep waiting for someone to kill them, but it doesn't ever happen. I think I'm supposed to feel sorry for them or something.”

“You are, usually.”

“Wow. Seriously,” and Strife put the remote down, seemed to settle back with his eyes on the screen.

Xander was vaguely horrified, “Is this what you're going to do all day?” The itch in his mind came back, faint but insistent.

“I didn't have any better ideas,” Strife had retrieved a cigarette from the case he left in the living room, holding it between his lips while he pulled a match to light.

(easy enough to change his mind...pick a button, push it, go...)

Xander reached a hand out, placing it on the nape of Strife's neck, squeezing hard.

Strife moaned, closing his eyes, cigarette falling from his lips unlit. “Shithead,” it was half hearted at best.

Smirking, Canaan squeezed again; Strife moaned louder.

“You are such a fucking shithead,” but the man climbed on to his lap anyway, grabbing him around the throat, shoving his tongue in Xander's mouth like he hoped he'd choke on it.

Xander responded with smug satisfaction

(I knew that would do it)

that was all too short lived

...I knew that would do it.

It was only thanks to many years of practice keeping his every thought to himself that allowed him to not become distracted when he least wanted it, with whom he least wanted it.

That's it, that's what it was, that persistent feeling of wrong.

He knew what to do, knew what it took, to turn the other man on, to keep him satisfied; Strife, too, seemed to know things about himself that even he didn't know, things he wouldn't have thought to ask for, or might have but wouldn't have dared. This is no way felt like two men who just met at a nightclub and decided to give it a go, there was no awkward fumbling, hesitant pauses, no trying typical unimaginative shit and hoping it worked (and on him, about never); no, they went unerringly for all the right places, even the odd ones (why on earth would you bite someone's face, unless you really thought they would like it?) without needing to ask, pushing the other over the edge with little effort, drawing it out as long as possible with no error. That's what made it so fucking good, and so different; Xander's experience was mostly one night stands and a girl who just laid there, he'd never had the pleasure of being with someone that...

...someone that knew him.

(“He is with you, yes? Your husband?”)

And that's what's wrong with it, too.

He sat up in bed, staring idly at the marks up his arms, deep scratches perhaps but he'd almost swear they felt like more, going in; Strife next to him, calmly licking blood off his knife points, and that was both hot and bizarre to him and he didn't know how to wrap his head around any of this.

“How do people figure this out?” Canaan heard himself asking, not paying much attention to his own words, but just lately that's how he's come up with what needs to be said, “Weird kinks, what they like?”

Strife shrugged, slipping both knives back into their sheathes at arm and thigh, “I don't know. I guess they just try shit out, experiment until they find something good.”

“Or it happens by accident,” he mused, eyes following red lines, dried blood, red, all so... “A couple times, you decide you like it.” He shook his head, trying to push these thoughts away, “Doesn't make sense. How would you accidentally cut someone in bed?”

There wasn't a peep out of Strife, no smart ass comments like he might have expected. Canaan glanced over at yellow eyes that calmly watched him back. “But you know exactly what I'm talking about.” Strife's lip ticked up in a half grin; Xander snorted, shaking his head, “All right then, how'd you do it?”

“Not me,” and Strife, oddly but deliberately, wiggled all ten fingers at him.

Xander watched him getting up, heading for the bathroom, still wondering at that, trying to think, to make sense. Thinking back to something Strife had said earlier, he nodded with some semblance of understanding, “Ah right, my...ex,” he said, “...of course.”

Strife scoffed, “Yeah, of course,” he kept his back turned, talking more to himself than Xander, “Who the fuck else?”

Xander smirked, satisfied with the outcome; Strife was distracted temporarily, so maybe if he played it right, acted like he knew what he was talking about, maybe the man would slip up. “...it was a long time,” vague enough it could be taken for anything.

“And don't I fucking know it. The great knight, a perfect reflection, what didn't start with him, right?”

(...perfection...do anything...my knight...)

Him? The first instinct was surprise, but that didn't last long; after all this, could the answer really be anything else? “Don't do that,” the words came automatically.

“I'm not, I'm really fucking not,” the bathroom light flipped on, door stayed open, Strife's voice carried out, “Hey, I'm the one here now, right? Drogan hate is the furthest thing from my mind.”

Xander sat back quietly, “Drogan, huh?” He paused, feeling for that now near constant mental itch.

Strife appeared in the doorway again, scowling at his loss. “You're an asshole.”

“Like you wouldn't have done the same,” he turned the name over and over in his head, did it sound familiar, fit in any

(empty space, a void where something belongs)

Strife lingered there, watching him with some curiosity, “What do you remember about Drogan?”

Xander thought about it, trying, pulling something

(red, red, flowing, spurting, spraying the walls, stabbing tearing ripping grinding blackened steel dripping red, blood and battle and death, beware the path the raven flies he catches you he'll take your mind)

“...red?”

Strife nodded, “That works.”

“Does it now? How?”

“Lots of ways. Why'd you say it?”

“It just popped in my head.”

(blood red and corpse white, powerful, beautiful...he was mine and I was his and nothing could stand in our way)

“Did you know him?” Canaan decided to ask, trying to shake these thoughts out of his head, violent jumble he could make no sense of.

Make no sense of anything.

“No. He was long gone before I showed up.”

“Well, obviously,” though having something to roll his eyes at did help bring his thoughts into sharper focus. “Doesn't mean you never met him, if he was that...big a part of my life.” That is how it works, right? When two people are that close the relationship never really goes away, though it may change, evolve into a different thing; there passes a point where you can't just simply walk away anymore, even where you might wish you could, because however bad you think it is now, it can always get worse...

...or so he often heard, from people that spouted romantic nonsense they rarely seemed to understand, trying to dress up and justify their own co-dependent tendencies. Xander himself couldn't imagine it, being that tied to someone, that you couldn't just let them go.

(“This is not done, this will never be done, you kid yourself to think otherwise.”)

Strife looked vaguely uncomfortable, unsure what to say, and that was worrying. “What?”

“I didn't mean it like that. I meant gone, as in...”

“As in what?”

Strife hesitated, thought it over, and the came out with it. “As in dead. He's dead.”

That mental itch all but exploded

(no...no...that can't be, its...)

he was frankly surprised at himself.

Mourning a meaningless name attached to an empty void

(where something belongs)

but nothing is.

“It was a while ago,” Strife continued, keeping his tone careful like he expected Canaan to be upset, “and before you start at me, I don't know. I know rumors, but not what actually happened. You never wanted to talk about it.”

“Wait, I knew?” Xander questioned, trying to read Strife's face for the answer, picking up on those notes of discomfort, “Was I there?”

Strife snorted, “Yeah, you were there. You were kind of the cause.”

“I was what?” Xander looked him in the eye, the expression completely serious.

(and are you really surprised? that you would, that you could...)

Strife shrugged, casually, “I'm sure he deserved it. The guy was a world class asshole, everyone wanted to kill him.”

Canaan opened his mouth, intending to ask, but anything he might have wanted to say dried up before it could come out.

What is there to say? This is fucking nuts, how much more of this am I supposed to take?

(empty space, a void where something belongs)

(“There you are”)

“Popular story,” Strife's voice, coming from the bathroom over the sound of running water, “is Drogan got a little pissy after his brother got mangled. I know I used to believe that one, until I actually met the brother, now I'm not so sure. And not just because he was an even bigger shithead and I just can't imagine anyone giving a fuck, but something he said and...”

Xander tuned him out; that was more than enough for one night.

---

He was surprised to answer the unexpected knock at the door, finding Jeff Anders on the other side; surprised and not even remotely amused. “The phone calls were enough, don't you think this is pushing it?”

“I haven't called in a few days, and-” Jeff paused, getting his first good look at Xander, blinking comically. “Is that – did someone bite your face?”

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, catching Jeff's eyes starting to wander lower over his bare torso, ready to take in more sex related injury and, no doubt ask stupid questions about it; its not that he was embarrassed (far from it, Jeff ought to count himself lucky he bothered to put on pants) but he didn't want things derailed. “What are you doing here?”

“Playing errand boy,” Jeff grinned sheepishly.

“Playing wha-” and then he got it; he groaned, knocking his head against the door frame. “My parents called you?”

“That they did, actually tracked my father down in the Catskills to get my number,” he smirked, “Guess you said some pretty crazy shit on the phone.”

“So what? She sent you to stop me?”

“Or make sure you haven't had a breakdown,” Jeff rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. “I mean, she just wanted me to say it wasn't true, and normally I'd laugh it off, but...well, I remember Craig saying you bought some guy a drink before you ran off there.”

Who...oh, right. Craig. He was never going to remember that.

“If you were planing to pull some joke on them, that's pretty elaborate. Just wish you'd let me in on it.”

“What are you-” Xander could make no sense of that, why he would ever bother, but no, he didn't care, he didn't fucking care. “I'm busy, okay. So run along.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jeff was pointedly not looking lower than neck level. “She must be something if you ditch everything for like, a whole month.”

A month? Had it really been that long? Xander shook his head, “Since you spoke to my mother, I think you know better. Now, go away.”

“Yeah, sure I do,” and fuck everything in existence, that presumptuous bag of shit actually took a step forward. “At least let me say I went inside and there's no tinfoil on the windows.”

Xander narrowed his eyes, not fooled for a minute; this fucking loser idiot just wanted to see what he was shacking up with, get his vicarious thrills. So tempting to let him have it, but no, better to have him be gone. “This is enough to tell her I'm coherent, now go away.”

“Oh no, I think I got to see for myself,” and Jeff ducked quickly under Xander's blocking arm, moving past him and into the apartment.

Oh, fucking great. Nothing to do now but close the door and follow.

Strife was actually dressed for once, though as usual it was something half buttoned stolen out of Xander's laundry basket; he was not wearing his glasses, and there was a momentary spark of concern wondering what Jeff would think of the bright yellow eyes, but of course Jeff was oblivious and too wrapped up in the gender of his guest to notice anything else.

Strife looked at Jeff like some interesting form of roadkill, glancing beyond him to Xander with a sneer and an eye roll, “We have an arrangement here, remember? If you want a threeway, I pick the other guy, because aside from me you have no taste.”

Jeff sputtered, out of words and for once Xander agreed with him; that was a visual he did not need. “Strife, shut up.”

Strife piped down, but continued watching.

Jeff whipped back to him, “Okay, what the fuck is going on here?”

Xander shrugged calmly, “Exactly what I said, I don't know why you're surprised.”

“Because, this – its,” Jeff just stared at him, “You're not gay.”

“No,” he agreed. Seeing Jeff's features relax somewhat, he realized his error. “I am fucking him, though.” Then, just to rub it in further, “When he isn't fucking me.”

Jeff gaped, “How does that even work?”

“Very well, actually. Or do you need me to draw you a picture?”

That got a snort out of Strife, Jeff didn't see the humor. “Okay, I really don't understand this. You're not – but you are, and...where did this even come from?” he asked, “You don't just wake up one day and-”

“It might've happened sooner if I ever met anyone worth my time,” Xander calmly explained, “This is not new. I've actually never cared.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

Jeff struggled for words, it was kind of amusing, “So, Gina-”

“I fucking hated Gina. And I wasn't even subtle about it, I don't know how no one saw.”

“But,” Jeff looked around, as though to find an answer written on the walls, “But, even if...you got to do this? Do that?”

“Do that what?” Strife spoke up again, eyes flicking back to Xander, “Who the fuck is this guy?”

“Someone I knew in high school.”

Jeff looked wounded, “I thought I was a friend.”

“Uh-huh,” Strife intoned, bored and unsympathetic, “And what, does he wish he was here in my place?”

“What?” Jeff spun around to face him, “What the fuck did you say?”

Strife shrugged, “Just trying to figure out what your investment in this is. You seem real upset, considering this has nothing to do with you.”

Jeff blinked, opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, turned back to Xander. “Can you get your twink out of here.”

“Your what?” Strife sounded like he was suppressing laughter. “Did he just insult me? The tone says he did, but I don't know that word.”

“He's suggesting you aren't a man,” Xander found himself anticipating the result of this, watching Strife, trying to hide a smile.

(familiar...its a game, and we've played this before...)

Strife's eyes lit up, a beautiful gold, not even a little strange to him now but how was Jeff missing it? “Oh, was he now? Isn't that cute,” his eyes moved to Jeff, looking him up and down with ill concealed contempt, “Aren't you just adorable, with your scrawny ass and your flapping tongue. Careful you don't lose it one day.”

Jeff looked disbelieving, “Are you threatening me?”

Strife's lip curled, “It would be beneath me to threaten you.”

Jeff didn't know how to respond, it was hard to know how seriously he took it. “Okay, I'm trying to have a conversation here that doesn't concern you, so do you mind?”

“Actually, your conversation has everything to do with me. And I mind very much, but I'll deal because I don't think you'll be here much longer.”

He saw Jeff grinding his teeth, turning back to him again, “You're not going to say anything?”

Xander shrugged, barely trying to contain his amusement, “I never invited you in the first place. And he has a point, why does this matter to you?”

“Oh for god's sake, Xander, I don't care! I wouldn't give a shit if you were gay, or bi, or whatever the fuck that is,” swinging an arm back at Strife, who laughed. “But this is...you're acting weird, all right? I mean this is, none of it, is anything like you usually are. You can't blame people for wondering.”

He locked eyes with Strife again, morbidly interested, silently egging him on. It was a rush, having him there, made lying impossible; not that he wanted to anymore, he was done with that now.

(back where I belong...doing what I need...)

“Or maybe this is who I really am,” Xander retorted, “Who I've always been, and I'm just tired of pretending like I give a shit anymore. Maybe you never knew me at all, isn't that possible?”

Jeff stared at him in confusion, “...I guess its possible, but why would you? For so fucking long.”

“Because lying was easier than being honest.”

“And now? With him? What's so different now?”

“He's different,” came the answer, “He gets it. He's...he's like me.” It was an honest response even if he did not understand what it meant; glancing over at Strife, he saw the man wasn't surprised, seemed pleased with himself.

And maybe one of these days, I'll remember how to strangle some answers out of him.

“How do you even know that?” Jeff protested, “You don't even know this guy, he's just an asshole you picked up at a bar.”

“And yet so different than the bitches from the same club?”

“Well, none of them were still here three weeks later. None of them had you ignoring everyone you know and acting like a nutjob.”

“And yet I've never felt more sane,” Xander paused and decided it was time for further honesty, “Why are you still here, Jeff? High school ended a long time ago, don't you think you ought to move on at some point?”

“What?” Jeff blinked at him, “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about you getting your own life, and stop trying to piggyback off mine.”

“What? Where – where is this coming from?”

“From years of repression,” Xander's eyes remained locked on Strife's, “Tell the woman who sent you the same thing, she doesn't need to pretend she cares anymore. If she's worried about appearances, she can tell her bridge club whatever she wants.”

Jeff just stared at him, “So now you want everyone out of your life, all your friends and your family, too? And you wonder why I think you sound nuts?”

“If you pulled your head out of your ass, you'd realize its far from sudden.”

“But suddenly now-”

“Because he's got me now,” Strife spoke up again, not turning away, smiling softly, “And I'm all he needs. So you can piss off now, puppy, find another leg to hump.”

Jeff wheeled on him, visibly fuming over that last comparison. “Okay, seriously, I want you the fuck out of here.”

“We all want things we can't have.”

Jeff turned back to Xander, “I want him out, I want to talk to you without him in the room.”

Xander shrugged, “Don't know why, my answers won't change.”

“Yeah, well, I'd like to see that for myself,” Jeff took three steps to the right, reached out and put his hand on Strife's arm. “Go on, go do your fucking hair or something.”

Strife's attention zeroed right in on that connection, studying it with a strange sort of calm. “Get your hand off me,” his voice was low, almost a whisper, and Xander found himself instantly standing at attention.

(that tone...I love what happens when he talks like that...)

Jeff didn't notice, he was too busy focusing his attention on Xander, dismissing the other man in the room entirely.

(not wise...but fun, so much fun...)

“And I'm not telling your mother anything. You want to pull this crap, you can call her yourself.”

Xander nodded, “Sure thing, better yet bring her down and she can see the scene for herself.”

“And you'd really-” and that was all Jeff got out before Strife finally made his move.

It was the knives, the scars on his body and wondering where they came from, that spurred his violent fantasies on, fantasies that had always been there but better focused with a viable figure to center on; Xander would close his eyes and try to imagine that strong, sleek body in action, fiery yellow eyes void of mercy, watching his reaction with a teasing smirk. It was a beautiful image that failed to live up to reality; it was hard to say even what Strife had done he moved so fast. He seemed to have balanced on the arm of the chair with his hands, swinging one leg out and wrapping it around Jeff's neck before pushing off, knocking Jeff over and landing half on top of him, perching on the man's chest, Jeff's head poking out beneath his thigh.

“Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I'm not sure you could hear me,” it was amazing how polite Strife sounded, looking down at Jeff with wide, innocent eyes, “and this is important, so I wouldn't want you to miss it. You are not man enough to handle this, okay? So hands off, before you get hurt.” Strife's gaze cut to him, winking and Canaan knew this was all a performance, for him.

(of course, if I weren't here he'd have slit the guy's throat already)

...he would?

“Have you ever? Used it that is?”

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

Jeff was slowly coming out of his daze, trying to move his head, trying to figure out what happened. He raised both hands, pushing half heartedly at Strife's bare thigh, testing almost; it was hard to say if he really knew what it was, or why it was there.

Strife tsked at him like a misbehaving child, “See, this is exactly what I'm talking about.” And his closed fist came hammering down, hitting Jeff square in the face with a crack that echoed through the room, through Canaan himself, making his senses stand out sharper, making his pulse race and his cock jump. That sounded hard enough to scar...gods, he is beautiful. Yellow eyes watching him, always on him

(its for you...all for you...)

Jeff's body jerked, he might've screamed if not for the pressure on his throat, what did come out was an undignified squeak, like a fucking rodent; Strife's lip curled up in what he knew was an unvoiced laugh he didn't pause the show to make. “What did I just say to you, huh? What did I fucking say?” A pause, “Something like..get your fucking hands off of me, right? Sound familiar?” His hand moved to the top of Jeff's head, gripping his hair, moving it up and down in a mockery of a nod Jeff might've been trying to make. Very carefully, Jeff took his hands off, lowering them palm down and fingers spread on the floor.

“Didn't someone ever tell you to listen when people are talking to you, huh? If you're not going to use these things why should I let you keep them?” and he grabbed both of Jeff's ears, twisting them, making Jeff squeal, his legs kicking at the floor as though to escape.

Xander frowned, eyes wandering away from the scene

...that...was that...?

(he was glowing almost, a sheen of sweat on his skin, breath coming just a little harder after the exertion, blond hair in disarray. Spots of blood up the side of his face, on both hands, on the knife slipped back in its sheath on that beautiful leather clad thigh)

(always loved a man in red...)

(screams could still be heard in the background, hysterical, muffled now that the man's attendant was able to creep close enough to help; not that you notice much, you only have eyes for that golden creature striding closer, casually tossing something into the fireplace as he goes)

(you speak, “Not very diplomatic of you.”)

(he snorts, “Well, neither is groping my ass. Told him to knock if off, shoud've listened.”)

(he holds up the second object in his hand, the other ear with that elaborate gold and ruby wiring wound around the outer shell, in and out of many stretched holes; some family crest of sorts from what you understand of the culture here, some indication of local significance. Rather than try to pull it all out, Strife pockets the ear; the presence of the severed part, proof the item was neither found nor stolen, would net him a higher price in the bazaar)

(Strife turns to you, feral yellow eyes shining in the fire light, skin gleaming, beautiful...you want to push him up against a wall, the way he's glaring now)

(“If you're looking for an apology, you got a long fucking wait.”)

(a shrug, “Nope. Couldn't care less.”)

(he steps closer, studying your face; he knows the game by now, knows what to look for and of course he sees it, smirking in a triumph you will never admit is deserved)

(“I can see how little you care,” licks his lips slowly, tilts his head so the red is caught in the light, “We get out of here, you can explain in detail.”)

(well, this night is going better than I thought it would)

(eyes follow him as he walks away, toward the door, toward two people waiting by the exit that you...)

...that I know..?

(the closer man was short and built like a tank, dark skin with a reddish undertone that reminds you of cherry wood, dreadlocked salt and pepper hair down to his waist, probably never had a pretty face even before someone tried to peel half of it off. His arms were tattooed to look like snake skin, white with black spots, and marred with deep burn scars. He had a hand over his mouth as though trying to keep from laughing, dark eyes on Strife. And next to him...)

(...next to him a second man, a little taller but far more delicate, feminine even; in a long black dress, gloves covering half his arms, blue stripes up the rest, disappearing into his hair line, that thick black mop that didn't cover what he wanted it to. A pair of small round sunglasses kept his eyes obscured)

...you again.

(Strife paused to exchange words with the pair, nothing you can hear but you can imagine it-)

-or could...maybe, once...

(the dark skinned man snorted and shook his head, following Strife out the room. The other watched them go, head cocking, an oddly bird like motion before starting away himself, heavy boots clip clopping on the wooden floor)

(at least you kept by me...if it had been you he grabbed, bastard would've lost more than his ears)

(he pauses at the threshold, turning back over his shoulder; those strange, pulsing eyes searching you out, not quite getting there but seeing nonetheless. He smiles warmly)

(“Are you coming?”)

Xander blinked, shaking his head, trying to focus on the here and now, not get lost up in these...

...whatever they are. I have to stop doing this.

He could still hear Jeff squealing, begging in between not to be hit again, please don't, please stop; it was giving him a headache. “I think you made your point,” he said to Strife.

Yellow eyes glanced up at him and Xander could see just a hint of a question, some knowledge that something was wrong (curious in itself), but not that that was going to stop the show. Strife sneered back down at his victim, “Ooh, do you hear that?” all but purred, and gods, that was sexy, “Riding to your rescue, defending you from the big bad dragon, like the pampered, useless little aristocratic bauble that you are. And you say that I'm not a man?” he chuckled, leaning down closer, lowering his voice, an almost intimate whisper. “You are an insect, next to me. And I could squish you like one, just that easy, and without any of those pesky guilty feelings that come up when you hurt real people. Got it?” he saw Jeff trying to nod, trying to stay still, calm, his hands rattling against the floor; never could handle confrontation.

Strife snatched up one of those trembling hands, yanking it around and holding it immobile in Jeff's face. “I catch this thing on me again, and I'm going to take a finger for my collection.” Strife's head lowered and there was enough pressure off Jeff's neck for him to scream, for him to thrash and struggle half hysterical.

And isn't that thrilling; sent shivers through him, he'd be hearing it for weeks.

“There,” Strife let him go, standing up and all but kicking Jeff over as he was released. “Now I made my point.” Stepping casually over the man without even a glance down.

Their eyes locked as Strife came closer, he was slowly running his tongue along the front of his teeth. Is that...it is. What the fuck did he do? “Sweep that garbage out the door, would you?” he said, just loud enough to be heard, not pausing in his step, “I'll be waiting in out bed.”

Our bed, huh? Xander's eyes continued following his lover, that usual itch in his brain all but dancing

(I know this, I know this game, very well)

so tempting to follow, let the garbage sweep itself out, or it can stay and listen, whatever it wants. But before Xander could make that decision, Jeff had scrambled back to his feet; the blood from his nose had mostly clotted into an ugly, red and swollen mess, more dribbled down from his index finger where Strife had bitten hard enough to break skin but did not further damage. It was hard to tell if Jeff was ready to burst out in rage or tears, either would've been amusing. “You fucking asshole!” he screamed after, or tried to anyway, it came out sounding strangled through the bruised throat and broken nose. “Where do you think you're going, you fucking faggot!”

He didn't realize he was going to speak until the words were coming out of his mouth; even still he wasn't sure why he bothered. “Are you an idiot?” he'd never sounded more bored, “You just got your ass handed to you, now you're calling him back for more?”

Jeff whipped around to glare at him with puffy eyes, “And you just fucking stand there?”

Xander shrugged a shoulder, “What was I supposed to do?” he casually inquired, “You barge into my home uninvited, insult my guest unprovoked, butt your nose into what is none of your business. At what point, exactly, was I supposed to stick up for you?”

Jeff stared back, visibly hurt, visibly shuffling through possible responses in his head but, seeing Xander's blank expression, discarding them as useless. Xander could've laughed, finally, after all this time, he gets it. At the end of it, Jeff just shook his head, “You know what, whatever. Its not even worth it.”

“For once, we agree on something,” Xander moved to open the door.

Jeff paused at the threshold, looking at him a moment as though expecting him to change his mind; when he didn't, Jeff's expression hardened, “You know...I really hope this guy is everything you want him to be. But if he isn't, don't – don't call me, I don't think I'm going to be around for a while.”

“Fine with me,” and Xander let the door fall closed on Jeff Anders.

Hmm...that felt kind of final. Give it a couple of months and he knew Jeff would be over it, calling him up with a lame apology or else acting like nothing happened. But Xander himself...

(I don't think I'm going to be around much longer)

And for now...I believe I have someone waiting for me. He made his way back to the bedroom.

Strife, minus previous clothing, add two knives, spread out on the bed (pardon me, our bed); rolling his eyes at him as soon as he came in. “Please tell me that is not my competition. You couldn't have been that desperate for cock.”

How quickly arousal can fade. “Don't be stupid. And don't say that again.”

“He acted like he was in love with you.”

“He is. But not like that.” Xander stared down at him, mind itching again.

“You always did have a knack for attracting them, huh? Too bad you couldn't get a better crowd.”

“Uh-huh,” still itching, something was bugging it. And he did what tended to help, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “You don't collect fingers.”

(and that's true, but not like it would be with most people...its the word choice that's wrong...)

“Collect is the wrong word,” Strife unknowingly confirmed, “Have use of, more like.”

“Do you really?” so close, yet so maddeningly out of reach.

Strife raised a brow, running hands along his thighs. “The things you don't remember about me.”

“I was always a quick study.”

“Hmm, I remember. More patient once, too.” Strife grinned, he was enjoying himself, the bastard. “He had nice fingers, too, since he must've never used them.”

“Sounds about right,” Canaan stepped forward, kneeling at the edge of the mattress, “What stopped you?”

Strife shrugged, leaning back against the pillows, “I would've had to kill him first. I assumed you wouldn't want that.”

“Are you kidding me?” Canaan crawled forward, leaning over him; how quickly arousal could return, “If I thought for a second we'd get away with it, I'd have fed him to you.”

(and you would've let me, too...you would've chewed the meat off his bones until there was nothing left...I don't know how that could possibly be, but I know it...)

“Would you really?” Strife's legs folded around him, “And what would you have me do? If you could?”

He shrugged, dipping his head lower to run teeth along Strife's neck, “Hadn't thought that far.”

“Should I, then?” Strife urged him to look up, running fingers through his hair, “What say, to start with, I tell you everything I would've done, if I could, while you blow me.”

“And then?”

“Then we do whatever you want.”

Xander nodded, “Good plan.”

---

Strife had stepped out early in the morning, presumably to visit the home he barely lived in; he was back in the early evening when Xander got home from running errands, just sitting there on the couch watching television, like there was nothing at all odd about it.

Truthfully, Xander wasn't that surprised; that didn't stop him from commenting, “Did I give you a key?”

Strife snorted, “Did I ask for one?” Yellow eyes drifted away from – oh fuck, seriously, a fucking soap opera (and yet, still attracted to him) – winking at him, “I've improved my skills, you know. You'll need something enchanted if you want to keep me out.”

Xander wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but took a step closer on instinct, squinting to see, knowing there was something. Something, some – there, right there.

The four hooks on Strife's earlobe, one of those dangling metal strips was missing.

Huh. I knew that would be there...don't know how, or why.

“Here,” distracting himself, Canaan pulled out the only thing he bought that wasn't food, tossing the nondescript black plastic bag in Strife's lap, “Got you a present.”

“You did?” Strife sounded surprised and, he was pleased to note, a little skeptical, “What is it?”

“Open it,” Xander moved off to the kitchen area to put the food away. Most of which is for him, too...might as well face it, at this point he's my room mate. If not my-

-on second thought, never mind.

He could hear the bag being opened then discarded, then, “Okay, what is it?” a pause, “It feels weird.”

“Its a silicon, I think,” he responded absently, “Turn it on.”

“It turns on? What does it do, light up? Does it play music?”

He raised an eyebrow, “That's a weird question.”

“Well, a lot of weird looking things around here play music, what the fuck do I know?”

“I wouldn't have thought you'd want something like that.”

“Well, if its not the shit we heard at the club. Some of it isn't bad.” Another long pause, “I don't see a button. Or a switch or anything.”

“Its the bottom. Twist it.”

“...okay then,” another short pause, followed by a startled scream and some loud noise. Frowning in confusion, Xander closed the refrigerator and made his way back.

Strife had jumped to his feet, turned and hit him in the arm as soon as he was in striking range. “That scared the shit out of me.”

“Unintentional,” Xander winced, rubbing at his arm; that little fucker knew how to make it hurt when he wanted to.

Strife didn't seem to believe that but graciously refrained from taking a second swing. They both stared down at the half comical sight of his gift writhing on the hardwood floor; the noise of it was louder than he might've expected, and Xander wished again the color wasn't so gaudy, at least it wasn't bright pink.

“What would you even do with that?” Strife asked, frowning.

...really? That came as something of a surprise.

Strife turned to face him, his frown deepening into a look of confusion, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

And Xander just couldn't seem to stop smiling.

He managed to wipe that look off Strife's face quick enough, wiped all expression away, he hasn't even seen the man's eyes in over an hour, they'd rolled up in his head and stayed there. Canaan watched him, a sweaty boneless mess spread out on the bed next to him, a sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment he'd never felt before, never cared before. He grabbed the case of cigarettes that had at some point made their way into the nightstand drawer (and isn't there something oddly intimate about that? Something on the level of a girlfriend leaving tampons over? More things he tries not to think much of) and dropped them by Strife's hand, for whenever he's ready.

Strife's scarred fingers fumbled one out; those attractive golden eyes rolled back into view, moving lazily in his direction. Slowly found his voice again, “Just so you know,” cigarette placed between his lips, lighter flicking to life, flame reflected in gold, “if I find out that thing can swing a blade, I'm leaving you for it.”

Xander felt his eyes widen, something in his throat tighten; it was a joke, a stupid one at that, no reason to react at all. And yet...

“Leaving me?” Xander rolled over, propped up on an elbow, half leaning over the other man, “Funny, here I was under the impression you were already taken.”

Strife frowned, blowing smoke straight up, blinking at him through it, “What are you going on about?”

He doesn't even know... Xander's other hand moved of its own accord, fingers wrapping around the one thing they had been avoiding like the plague, holding it up as far as the leather cord would allow, “Whose ring is this?”

Strife looked taken by surprise; Xander was as well, but he supposed he had sat on this for more than long enough. It took a moment for the answer to come. “Its my husband's,” a pause, “I told you it was complicated.”

“How complicated?” Xander held the ring between his fingers, not trying to slip it on but easy to tell, to know once and for all that he could, it would fit. “Whose ring is this?”

Strife met his eyes, searching carefully for something; his sense of calm was almost maddening, “...why are you asking me questions you already know the answer to?”

“Because I want to hear you say it.” He couldn't on his own.

Yellow eyes watched him, smoke curled from his mouth; the silence dragged on. “Canaan was my husband,” a small smirk, too relieved to be cruel, “Happy now?”

His next breath came in cold. That's...that's not possible. You're lying. You have to be. It can't be that- “So this is my ring?”

“Back off, quick draw,” Strife smacked his hand away, moving into a sitting position; the clear rejection actually stung for a second, Xander wasn't interested in examining that too closely. “You aren't quite there yet.”

“Not where?” he managed to ask, numbness spreading rapidly.

“When you earn this back,” Strife touched the ring at his neck, like the one on his finger, a twin after all, “I'll give it to you. Until then, hands off.”

Xander sat still while Strife got up and headed toward the bathroom to wash up; somehow that was not how he had envisioned this conversation going, even where he could see Strife doing something other than laughing at him, it never looked like this.

(it never does with him, though...he never does what you think he will...)

“Until then,” he repeated, “I can just keep fucking you for free.”

Strife stopped walking, whipping around so fast he knew he'd hit a sore spot. “What free?” he snapped, “This isn't free. This is me collecting what I'm owed.” Strife crossed his arms on his chest, “Do you have any idea how long its been since I've gotten laid? And all because you're a dumbass?”

(you can hear the door slam open, small objects pelting the paper you're reading – about ten of them exactly, one with a little more weight behind it thanks to that gaudy fucking ring shithead was once so proud of. You can just imagine the indignant look you were getting if only you lowered the paper to check, but why give him the satisfaction; it was more fun this way)

(“Trying to tell me something, Canaan?”)

(calmly turn the page, “Nope.”)

(“So this just happened to wander into my room? All a big fucking mistake?”)

(“I think,” another page turn, “if there was a message here, its been delivered.” pause, “You have first hand proof of that.”)

(“First hand-” can feel that glare, its an effort not to look up for it, “Are you trying to be funny?”)

(a pause, then the killing blow, “You do realize you're not a prostitute any longer, yes?”)

(its very quiet, you can't resist a quick glance at that withering glare, liquid gold. “Excuse me?”)

(you meet his gaze steadily, trying to think of strategy, boring little bits of gossip people wandered through with, anything to keep too much from showing on your face; challenging, but if it was easy it wouldn't be fun. “So there's no longer any need to lower yourself to sleep with peasants. Okay?”)

(his face is a perfect mess of confusion, anger just starting to slide away, not sure yet if it really belongs there but not quite ready to give up the fight; that's not an expression you get to see too often)

(“But – he was-”)

(“He was a worm. Beneath you. He didn't deserve what he took,” a slow grin, “he knows that now.”)

(his face is turning red; its probably not all on account of anger, but you'll pretend you don't notice for now)

(“Next time you get bored without me, try to show some discernment. Don't just jump in bed with the first grub that buys you a drink. That's not the way the rest of us do things.”)

(bright red and blazing gold, grinding his teeth together; shuffling through a multitude of angry retorts, starting a number of times before deciding it wasn't good enough. “I – I – I,” hands curled into fists, can imagine the nails digging in)

(“I never fucked peasants.” then, “You're an asshole!”)

(worth it)

(...light laughter interrupts any celebration after Strife storms off; forgot for a minute there you weren't alone. No matter, calmly return your attention to the paper you aren't really reading)

(“No one asked for your input.”)

(“I was not aware I needed to be asked,” high pitched, with a heavy accent, “I was given to believe I could speak freely.”)

(“Did I say that?”)

(he's sitting in front of you now, this...boy...who-)

...I know you? I do, right..?

(running gloved fingers through his thick hair; uncovered eyes fixed in your direction, not quite there but close enough, pulsing as usual. He smiles, completely at ease)

(“Shall I go to smooth that out? Can't imagine it would improve your mood much, to continue sleeping alone.”)

(you glance over calmly, eyes catching on the necklace he was wearing just below the hollow of his throat, still new enough to be noticeable...intact finger bone hanging down, a thick, curved brownish claw protruding from between the first and second knuckle; rounded bone beads decorate the cord on either side, bright like pearls)

(“No need.”)

(“He looked angry.”)

(“He was. He will be all day. By tonight, he'll have some plan to make me pay for it.” a pause, “What do you think this was about?”)

(those too large pupils widen even more, head cocking oddly; you know what he's doing and you allow it, a small sow of trust though not as small as you like to tell yourself, tis is one of the only people who could still make you feel ashamed, if he really wanted to)

(if he knew...)

(“So...that man...?”)

(“Had it coming. Helping himself to what was mine when he knew I was laid up like that, just the final straw.”)

(a nearly invisible eyebrow goes up, he shakes his head, grinning that very young grin; a small bit on tension melts off your shoulders, knowing the approval is still there)

(“Very well then, I”ll leave you to your games.”)

(“Appreciated.”)

(he pauses, “I suppose I could always let it slip out I heard you call him a syphilitic whore. If you think it would help.”)

(laughter, “You do that.”)

“And when I'm done taking what I deserve for those years wasted jerking off every fucking night, we'll see if I still feel like being available to you. And I wouldn't count on it either.” the bathroom door slams and he's gone for now.

Canaan stayed put, certain he missed most of that, equally certain it didn't matter, grinning like an idiot now that he was alone but unable to stop it. He felt good enough right now, he almost wanted to steal one of those cigarettes to celebrate.

Now this is...is this what nostalgia feels like?

(he'd do it, too, you know...he'd shoot himself right in the foot just to spite you...fuck, you'd do the same thing to him. And that's what you loved about him, he's never boring)

Yeah...yeah, I'm getting that.