I've lived in this apartment for three years now, and I've never once paid attention to
the spinning of the ceiling fan.

It's the little things in your life that go unnoticed...unappreciated. Everyone knows that -
accepts it, even; you can't possibly take it all in. But when something big, something
right in front of your face, something you've looked straight at and somehow failed to
see, creeps up on you and suddenly shrieks to be noticed...that's when you have to
wonder.

What the hell have you been thinking?

Xander is all curled in the crook of my arm, his breath slow and easy against the side of
my chest. I wonder when he'll wake up, when I can show him yet again how much I love
him. There's this all-consuming need to make up for every second, minute, hour I never
told him.

To hell with hours. Weeks, months, *years*.

I carelessly rub the stubble on his chin, aching to feel it scratch across my stomach,
moving lower...never get enough of him, slowly slipping down to take me in...

My mind abruptly changes as soon as he opens his eyes. God, those eyes...Bloodshot and
sleepy, almost swollen shut.  But he doesn't move to rub them, not right away; he lets
them burn for the extra moments it takes to get the first early morning taste of my
lips.

It's how it always is, now; two months and it's always a kiss, and I think I'd get tired of
the routine if he weren't so bruisingly different every time. Always a flicker of his
tongue in a new spot, always a stroke of his hand to branch my attention. And this
morning...

It takes all of my willpower and then some to swat his curling fingers away from my
all-too-eager cock.

< Maybe just one more quick stroke...one more lazy caress. >

No. Must stick to the plan at hand...His hand, ignoring my admonitions. His tongue,
curling into my mouth and around my own, swiping tasting plunging...Oh.

It's getting ever so hard to keep my mind on track, to slowly pull back and ease lower.

Down his neck, breathing into the hollow of his shoulderblade.

Lower.

Each nipple, just a taste, just enough to raise them to little peaks.

Lower.

Lazy wet circles all across his tautly muscled stomach...quick dip into the pucker of his
belly button.

And lower.

Right past the flat bony protrusions of his hips to where he's waiting for me, for my
fingers, for my eagerly straining tongue to swipe the tip of his cock in an excruciating
promise.

He moans, grips the bedsheets and holds so perfectly, so admirably still I'm determined
to make this perfect for him. I *always* want it to be perfect for him.

I want to be able to take the world and cleanse it for him, remove everything filthy and
painful and then present the end product to him as a gift. I want to ensure that the only
tears he ever cries again are of joy.

I want to protect him from everything that is big and bad, and I know that I can't.

I can only take him deeper into my mouth, playing every nerve ending against him so that
he shudders in absolutely agonizing pleasure. I can only cup his searingly hot balls in my
hands, work them with my fingers...ease my tongue to the base and moisten every little
bit of him.

I can only try and give him everything that my love dictates he have.

It's over far too soon; he's simply too ready. And after every bit of evidence is licked
away, after I've removed every trace, something about the way his hand comes down
atop my head gives me the smallest of hints that something is different, that this time
there's something else left to be done.

Or said.

I look up from where my cheek has been resting against the solidity of his pelvic bone.
I'm not so sure it's a good idea, because he holds more power than I've ever wielded in
my entire life. All he has to do is open his mouth, say that it was the last time.

Gee, yeah, been nice, gotta move on to reality. Thanks, anyway.

There's something sparkling in the distance as I look up at him; I have to focus and pay
close attention to realize it's his eyes. It's the pool of tears welling up and threatening
to spill over the edge. It's every fear I've let myself have in the past two months,
reflected back at me with startling clarity.

Sometimes your eyes mirror more than your own soul.

"Xander?" I can't believe I have the audacity to utter the simple word, to attempt to
draw what is probably my downfall from between his lips. "Xander, is there
something...?"

I've always loved that curve of his mouth, that recognition of self-irony. Now is the only
time I've ever wished it away, wished for the signal that he's blindly going along with
what may not be his heart's desire.

Because when he opens his mouth, I'm sure it will be over. I'm sure I've never read a
prophecy that made me fear more for my life and sanity. I'm sure -

"Yeah, there's something." His voice is so soft. "There's...You know me so well."

He's drawing me up, closer and closer still, back into the curve of his arms and closer to
the whispering brush of his breath against my forehead. "I love that."

My eyes, which have been preparing to fight a flood of bitter tears, fly open. "What?"

He kisses me, so hard and deep I can't honestly say which tongue is his and which tongue
is mine. It's all mingled...all together.

"I said I love that...I love you."

When I was a little boy, I would never win the staring contests we often got into.
Something always made me look down, away, anywhere but into a pair of challenging
eyes. It's so hard to meet someone's gaze, openly admitting that you're analyzing what's
shown there...I've never mastered it until this moment, and I think more that it's
mastered me.

Because I can't look away. I'm drowning in his eyes, caught in the deep liquid of them,
mesmerized by the honesty and devotion I see there. Something I should have seen had I
been brave enough to pay attention to the most important thing in my life.

He breaks it first, glancing at the clock and smiling. He understands. Everything. Every
little thing. "Breakfast time," he says lightly, stroking my chin with his thumb.

I nod, sit up. "Omelet?"

"Sure thing, G-man."

I'm getting to truly love that name.

The End