*****

Sometimes the dead of night, outdoors, is way better than the safe and sound of the basement dungeon that Xander calls a home. Out wandering the cemeteries, playing tag with Sunnydale's vamp population, can be less depressing than low ceilings, the smell of mold and Mom stomping around overhead.

It's okay when Anya's there; it's even bearable when Spike's around. Hell, if he could just sleep...

...unfortunately, he's out of health bars, and Xander never could konk out on an empty stomach.

So he's out with a cross and a stake, prowling the graveyard, visiting old friends. Hey, Miss Calendar, how's it going? Veruca--ugh--he gives her the evil eye on Willow's behalf. Empty graves, too. Harmony, you faker, I know you're not down there. Over there used to rest the four zombie boys who tried to blow up the school. And here... Jesse. He passes that one quickly, still too much pain there.

He ends up where he always ends up, the new white stone with a football embedded in it. Dead gay Larry's grave--adorned with a stranger's name, Lawrence, and the two numbers that between them represent a bare fistful of years. At nineteen, Larry outlived half the people in this boneyard--at least it seems that way to Xander, even though he knows Buffy's driving the average up.

Standing there, he wants to say things, and knows he won't. What is there to say, really? I'm glad I helped you come out, even if it was an accident? I'm sorry we didn't get past blow jobs before it all turned to shit?

I miss you?

Sound behind him, feather soft. Xander whirls, cross out, ready for combat. He's glad, even, though more sensible fear-based instincts are already jacking his senses into overdrive.

Spinning, he comes face to face with something he's feared since the day Harmony got her fangs into Willow.

Larry. Red-haired, blue-eyed, dirty, his jaw is clenched with a sense of purpose. Xander's heart flip-flops and his groin goes tingly. He reminds himself, firmly, that any second now the Lare is gonna go vamp on him.

But he doesn't. In fact, he's got a cross too, a handmade job--two bits of wood lashed together with a shoelace. Larry's mirror-imaging Xander's pose. Cross out, stake in the left hand, his lips are drawn back in a feral, terrified snarl.

A cross. A stake. Xander decides he can afford to stand down a little.

He steps back, lowers his own stake, gives himself a good look. Larry's got bruised knuckles, which implies that maybe his circulatory system's on-line. Not a zombie, then. Zombies don't bruise, right? No, no, he's pretty sure. There wasn't a mark on him after the Mayor killed him--the bruises have to be new. He's wearing a brown turtleneck and beige slacks, scuffed and plain. He's ruddy, not pale, and he smells alive, in a very in-your-face sweaty and scared shitless way.

"I saw you die," Larry says, in a low, hoarse voice. "The little blond--she staked you."

I saw you die, too, Xander thinks, but his throat won't let the words out. Instead, he lifts the cross he's holding, raises it to eye level, makes Larry see it in his hand. "You aren't there anymore," he says. "Wherever there was."

Larry's eyes focus on the cross--he frowns, shakes his head, gives Xander a once-over. Then he goes shock white as he sees past Xander to the gravestone with his name on it. Lawrence. Beloved son. Football in lucite.

"I gotta sit down," he mutters, and proceeds to execute a faint in perfect, knee-buckling slow-mo.

***

While Larry's unconscious, Xander walks a quick perimeter, keeping Larry in sight but checking for badness. While he's at it, he manages to put a few things together. There's sand on the grass in front of the grave, maybe sand like the magic stuff that Willow and Anya used when they summoned Willow's evil twin to this world. There's a picture of Larry, too, sewn onto a small and scungy rug that's lying behind a crypt along with a bottle of Jack Daniels. That fits with the temporal fold spell too, at least what Xander knows of it. Question is, who wanted to summon the big guy? And where'd they go afterwards?

His investigation is interrupted by the arrival of a real vamp. Rupture of earth from a fresh grave and a hand clawing its way to the stars. Larry's eyes snap open and he clutches his arsenal, the stake, the makeshift cross. Xander makes hand gestures--you in front, me behind?

Larry nods, closes his eyes, pretends to nap.

The vamp gets itself loose finally, spots Larry on the ground and takes the bait. Xander behind him lines up a perfect shot on his heart. One two three, easiest kill yet.

Except then his stomach growls--loud, hard, and such bad timing-- Geerrroouuuch rar rar rar. His inner hyena announcing its presence. Hey mouthy, you're about to get ambushed!

The thing spins, hits him high on the shoulder. Newborn vamp strength is still enough to send him flying. Fuck! My shoulder! Shit!--as his hip hits Larry's headstone. Then--ouch--his head connects with a random hunk of shattered coffin.

But he leaps up right away, not even half ready to abandon Larry, just got him back Larry to the mercies of the Sunnydale night.

It's a long fight. Larry's weak, Xander's starved, the vampire's disoriented. In the end they club it half senseless with broken chunks of a crypt fascia and it takes them both, panting and shaky, to drive the stake home.

"That was pathetic," Larry gasps as they fall into the dissipating dust cloud. Xander's stomach growls and he can't help smiling.

"Yep. Not a story for the grandkids, I'm thinking."

"As if we'd live that long," Larry says with a grimness that cuts Xander to the soul.

"It's different here," he says, but Larry's eyes are on the entombed football again. "We should get inside."

Larry nods automatically and then Xander can't deal anymore, he hates this soldierly fatalism, hates seeing Larry hardened and cynical. It's enough to dry up the desire he's been feeling ever since he decided this Larry wasn't a vamp. And he can't bear to lose that again, that fond horny familiar feeling. Uncomplicated and pleasant and god, he's missed the guy.

So he kisses him. Just grabs both ears, pulls him in, presses his lips to one mightily surprised mouth and gives him all the things he hasn't been able to say to dead gay Larry's gravestone, all of it and more. The couple of tears that leak down his face are glad and grief at once.

Larry's big fingers twine in his hair. His mouth opens and Xander slides his tongue inside eagerly. He knows this mouth--okay, not that gap where a molar has obviously gone astray, but the rest he knows--taste, the moves, the spreading smile.

He breaks it, looks. There it is, the open Larry face he needs to see. Almost innocent.

"We..."

"Really have to get out of here," Larry finishes. "I know a place."

Xander climbs up, brushes vamp dust off his jeans. "Let's go."

***

Larry's 'place' turns out to be a massive rooming house in the turn-of-the-century part of town, a four-storey pink behemoth with plum trim and a veranda the length of a football field. It's decorated in late run-down--peeling paint, yard choked with weeds, a rusty bicycle collection. An ancient codger and his dog are passed out on the porch, snores mingling, smelling of whiskey, sweat and a tang of urine. There's also more than a little whiff of magic shop around.

"This could be the guy who brought you here," Xander says. "You think?"

"Yeah. He's my great-uncle," Larry whispers. They creep past, into a dusty foyer that smells of mouse occupation. "After the Master turned you and Willow, he sent the two of you to take him out. I didn't find out he was a warlock until I went through his stuff. That's what led me to Giles."

It's just before dawn. Sun creeps horizontal through the windows on the east side of the house as Larry threads the maze of abandoned and dusty furniture to the kitchen. The fridge is empty except for a jar of mayonnaise and a bottle of ketchup. Grimacing, he opens a cupboard, finds a box of Cheerios. "Best I can do."

"I'm okay," Xander says. Predictably, his stomach disagrees. Audibly. Larry fills two mineral-streaked glasses with water from the sink and they tiptoe upstairs with the cereal.

The place is full of light, bedroom upon bedroom, all big windows and hardwood floors. The fourth floor hallway ends in a narrow staircase leading up. Larry has a massive grin on his face. "Used to spend hours up here, me and my cousin Jack. Come on."

The attic is a little darker than the bedrooms, with a peaked ceiling. It's still an anti-basement, as far as Xander's concerned--bright, warm, with a foundation odor of dust rather than mold. Boxes gather cobwebs in the corners, where the roof's too low for them to stand upright. In the middle of the room, a pile of blankets leans, Piza-like.

"Picnic," Larry announces. They spread a blanket across the warming floor, eat the Cheerios dry, toast each other with the water. Xander plays with a frenchman riff--pleeze to sample zee fine cheezes and wine I have brought you, monsieur--but it doesn't go anywhere. It's all just foreplay anyway--his cock is straining his shorts, singing a happy little song and across the cereal box he can see that Larry's in the same state.

Which doesn't stop them from devouring the whole pitiful meal. The last handful they toss into each other's mouths, one by one, moving a few inches closer each time they hit the target without bouncing the little wheaty 'oh' off a chin or nose. Then they're on each other, clutching and pulling, yanking fabric aside to reveal the bruises from their stupid fight with the stupid vampire. They hold each other tightly, as if they're trying to mesh into one person. Xander finds himself taking the lead, holding both their cocks together, wrapping his two hands around their combined widths. So very good to hear a Larry gasp again. The big hands cup his ass, squeeze, drift up and down his skin.

They're kissing and giggling at once, a couple happy guys screwing around in a warm cozy secret place, nobody has a clue where he is or what he's doing, and the sensation of Larry's cock squeezed up against his is heaven, like being forgiven, like falling in love.

Larry's hands come down over his then, squeezing harder, melting what passes for concentration right out of Xander's mind. They work themselves together for a minute, cock to cock, Larry's hands wrapped around Xander's fingers. Then Larry jerks and sighs, one long ahhh and he's spurting onto Xander's chest. His grip falls away and Xander's left with his hard-on.

"I love it here," Larry says dreamily.

"Here where? This attic, or this dimension?"

"Shhh." He blinks seriously, drags his hand across Xander's chest to gather the white drops, rubs it all onto Xander's cock so he's glistening and slick in the sunlight. His gaze never breaks; his fingers play gently with Xander' s balls and he rocks onto his belly.

"We can take this slow," Xander says, although it's the last thing he wants. But Larry shakes his head. His eyes darken and Xander can see what's in them--the memory of the gravestone, knowledge of night and danger, of fragile mortality and finite time.

"Okay." Peck on the cheek and then he climbs on top, gently fingers his way down Larry's ass. He nibbles at the shoulders, carefully, avoiding the neck. Courtesy, Sunnydale style. He finds the soft core of Larry with his thumb, slides in once to pave the way. Larry's serious mood breaks and he giggles again.

"Hut! Hut!"

"No football talk," Xander snorts. "I'm concentrating, man."

He guides his cock, pressing it in, pulling his thumb back. He takes his time, moves slow so he doesn't burst. He pushes, listens to the in-drawn breath below and decides he's doing okay. Deeper, easy, rock back and forward.

Once, twice, he's in all the way. Larry's smile is wider and he's bucking against Xander's cock, so very fine and seductive; he can't help but move with it. Dancing, he thinks, matching the rhythm. The last time they were together was the Bronze. His own excitement builds. He draws his fingers over Larry's body, traces the scars, finds the sensitive places, pulls groans from the man below him with his tongue and hands. Wonderful, wonderful; a second chance for the both and now they're breaking a sweat, their unison is harder and fast and Xander is thrusting, thrusting. Apart-together-apart-together and he can't hold it off any longer. He loses the beat, explodes into white hot joy, bathed in sunshine and glowing dustmotes, spasms of pleasure so intense he feels them from his temples to his toes. His hands twitch and then he collapses, unceremoniously, onto the blanket. He's half out, half off of Larry, who's making a sound that could be a sob, but when his face turns up to the light he's tearless and smiling.

Larry lashes out with a leg, toppling the tower of blankets onto their bodies. They burrow in, skin to skin, sweaty and spent.

"What now, Larry?" he murmurs, wiggling into the embrace, finding the places where his head and shoulders fit naturally in the circled arms.

"Sleep," Larry mumbles into his ear. "Showers. More food?"

"Sounds like a plan," Xander says, surrendering to drowsiness. He feels something inside come loose, unknotting, letting his heart widen and stretch. Spooned in behind him, Larry blows a stream of warm air past his ear with a buzzing sound that is barely a step from a snore.

Let it go, Xander thinks, sort of addressing them both. Maybe he even says it aloud. And then he takes his own advice, drifting on the current, floating into well-deserved sleep and happy dreams.

~fin~