Too Late - BtVS, X/Andrew, UST, 100 words.

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Too Late

Andrew looks like Hell. If Hell has sated debauchery all over its unshaven face. “Another rough night?” Xander attends with coffee for the figure half-slumped at the breakfast table.

Smudged eyes, taunting. “Almost rough enough.” The crush that died of Xander’s neglect, took with it the stumbling tongue, the whine. Camp is tempered to a smooth challenge. No more apologies.

A ruined t-shirt betrays a piercing, a tattoo or three, on a body honed and cultured. Peacock from the ashes of himself. Andrew goes out and takes his pick. Xander lies watching the clock, longing to turn it back.