[
Tucker's Brother] by Jess
Spike/Andrew.
I identified so strongly with Andrew in this fic, and it was hideously painful. At the end, I had to suppress a strong urge to hug my computer screen. Hard. And tell it that someone loved it.
No. It's not just that. I-" He bites down on his lip, fighting back tears of frustration. "I'm really drunk, Spike."
He means more than that. He means that he didn't mean to take that third whiskey or that fourth or that fifth but he couldn't seem to help it once he felt that cold hardness start to break down into something soft and safe and warm and there's something about Spike's eyes that are so fucking *blue.* He means that the edges of the world were blurry and nothing made sense even *before* he started drinking so he doesn't hold out much hope for any decisions that he makes at this point. He means that he can hear thoughts in his head that he knows aren't quite sane, and he can already see himself doing something very, very stupid before the night is over, something he might very well regret, something that could get him fucking *killed* and he can't even stop himself from plummeting headlong down this path of Something Very Stupid because-
because he's cold inside his skin most days, like he's rattling around in here by himself, and the echo is deafening. And if somebody, anybody would fucking *touch* him it could pull him back to the surface of his skin again, make it bearable to live in here.
His parents were never big on physical contact, and when they were it always turned out badly. Some doctors- Andrew read it somewhere once- say that children who aren't touched can die. They get sick, weak, they wither away. Andrew knows it's not true, but he wishes it were. And if he starts being honest with himself, he'll have to admit why he picks so many fights with Jonathan that result in punches and playful wrestling, or why he savors the friendly back-slaps Warren dispenses at a job well done. Because he needs something, anything to convince him that he's not fucking *radioactive.* Because he can live with skinny and ugly and geeky and stupid and clueless and scared and confused but he's having a real fucking tough time with coping with *alone,* and the whiskey tugging his brain in ten dizzy directions is doing a damn fine job of convincing him that all the Something Very Stupids in the world don't stand a chance when he feels like this, when he feels like he's trapped inside himself, screaming to be let out. Because alcohol and fear have worn down his defenses to the point where the only coherent thought he has left is *I'd like this ache to stop, please, I don't much care how.* Because, Jesus Christ, Spike might rip his throat out tonight and he wishes he could summon up the energy to care. 
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