Air
Sometimes, it still wakes him- that unexpected breeze, the gentle, natural flow of air on the back of his neck. He's felt the wind outside, smelled salt and fury on it as it swept over him from the sea by moonlight- by starlight and candles, faerie lights for his dark princess, timeless and gothic and surreal. And he's stood strong against the wind-driven rain, squinting through the stinging gales for one last look at the morning sky, even in its veiled state.
Spike knows the winds, but this- is a memory from a time of sun and warmth that is, every minute, just a little further away.
Xander breathes out again, damp on the tiny hairs that trail down his spine. Spike smiles. The boy's breath smells like pizza, and onions- or onion rings, at least, so deep-fried that Spike doubted they'd contained any onion at all. He's certain he'll have to shower later, smelling like fast food and drool, but he can't really bring himself to draw away.
The still-unfamiliar hiss of breath becomes less so with its thousandth repetition, until he's slowly drawn back under. He shifts a little closer before he slips away, and dreams of day.