Xander’s fingers made swirls, dips and figure eights on the skin of the smooth white back spread out before him.
 
Spike’s cheek rubbed sleepily against the pillow, his face pressing deeper into the cool cotton. “You bloody better well not be writing ‘Spike loves Xander’,” he mumbled grumpily.
 
Xander snickered. “No. I’m writing ‘Xander’s bitch’,” he said, as his fingers explored the paleness, following veins that were vividly blue from the before bedtime O Neg and Oreos snack, and skin still warm from the heat and friction of Xander’s body.
 
He pressed the tips of his fingers harder, in a vain attempt to get a pink flush to rise. “You’re so…white.”
 
That astute observation earned him a half-hearted brow arch and a quick flash of blue as one eye squinted open. “You want a ‘duh’ or was that a snipe at my hipness?”
 
Xander smacked Spike lightly on the ass and then trailed his fingers up, splaying his summer-browned hand against the preternatural vamp flesh of Spike’s back. “I’m serious,” he said, noticing how dark he appeared next to Spike. “We’re like…Jungle Fever.”
 
“Go to sleep, Xander.”
 
“White boys give me goose bumps…white boys give me chills…” Xander sang softly as his hand traced down Spike’s spine and then began the return journey until his fingers just teased the blond waves at Spike’s neck.
 
Another flash of blue as an eye peeked open. “What?”
 
“White boys are so groovy…white boys are so tough,” Xander continued, leaning over Spike’s back to whisper the last line laughingly in his ear.
 
“Pet, I know you didn’t just call me groovy.”
 
Xander laughed softly and then his lips began to follow his hand as it moved from Spike’s shoulder and down and around to just above his ribs.
 
Spike wriggled, annoyed, vaguely aroused and curious despite himself.
 
“Xander, I know we’re together, but I think we’ve already defied enough conventions, so I don’t believe you have to jump on the musical theatre bandwagon.  And when did you ever see Hair?”
 
“Hello – summoned a musical demon, here. Anyway, never seen it,” Xander said, his words muffled against the skin just below Spike’s nipple. His lips trailed backwards, returning to the indention of the vampire’s spine. “Mom had all these records of musicals…you know, the big round records?”
 
“LPs,” Spike said, his fingers briefly tightening on the pillow as Xander’s tongue followed his spine to where the sheet draped just across his hips. “I’m familiar.”
 
“Well, there were lots of ‘em,” Xander said, his voice cool and calm as he pushed the sheets lower, contemplating his tanned skin against the pale rise of Spike’s buttocks. “West Side Story, South Pacific, Oklahoma!  And a bunch of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams stuff, too. I used to go down to the basement and play them. Loud. ‘Cause, you know…”
 
Xander trailed off and Spike turned slowly over, looking up at him. He raised a hand to the flushed cheek above him, observing for himself the beauty and contrast of their skin. He smiled. “And of all the giants of musical theatre, you chose to honor me with Hair.”
 
Xander grinned wickedly, his hands smoothing down Spike’s chest to pull the sheets taut on either side of the vampire’s hips. “I love those sprayed-on trousers,” his eyes were hot as he lowered his head to brush his lips against the slope of pelvic arch showing just below the sheet, “I love the love machine.”
 
“C’mere,” Spike said softly, pulling Xander down to his chest, feeling the softness of the dark waves that nuzzled just below his chin. Hair like Chinese silk, he thought to himself, smiling. He pressed a kiss to the top of Xander’s head. “Git,” he muttered fondly.
 
Xander closed his eyes, smiling against the soft paleness of Spike’s neck. “Mmm. Purr for me and I’ll do something from Cats.”