Heartbroken by rejection, Andrew makes a wish - and finds himself carried
away to
a dimension where his dreams
of Xander can come true. But is that what he really wants, after all?
* * * * * *
* * * *
Sweat from the over-warm California night running down his cheeks and his
back, bare of any shirt, Andrew Wells sat with his eyes closed and considered
his life. Sat on the back stoop of the tiny, run-down bungalow that
he shared with a handful of minty-fresh Slayers, occasionally Giles, and
- him - and took stock of himself: who he was, where, and why.
He had nothing else to do. Except this. Which he had to do.
And now was as good as any time, right?
Now that it was all over for good. Now that he knew he could never
enjoy any daydreams about - him - again, because he knew they would never
come true.
So he went over the checklist inside his head. Making sure it was
all ready. All correct and accounted for.
Andrew liked to be sure of what he was doing, because he'd messed up so
much in the past. And when you did this kind of thing, you had to do
it right. He'd never... Well, he hadn't had a chance with Warren, you
know, because he'd been on the lam. A Wanted Man. Then it was...
different, with Jonathan. And he hadn't thought to find and keep anything
of Spike's before Sunnydale disappeared.
Maybe all of that was why - this - had turned out so badly. He wasn't
used to the way closure was supposed to work. He didn't know how to
read the signs.
He didn't know how to end, and he didn't know how to begin.
If he'd done it right before, maybe he would have known what to do different
this time around.
And he wouldn't be here in the first place. He'd be inside.
Snuggled inside warm, strong arms that pinned him tight, flesh to flesh, soft
snores muffled against his hair, head tucked beneath - his - chin. A
heated, callused hand resting against his hip. The way he'd dreamed
it. Andrew figured he should have gotten at least a toe-hold on reality
by now, because stuff like that just didn't happen to him. Not with
the people he wanted, the people who mattered.
"Screw dreams," Andrew muttered, quiet just in case someone heard him and
came to investigate, and that would be just way too embarrassing.
He didn't want to have to explain. No one - especially - him - would
want that.
He had to do this, but he didn't want any questions. Didn't want
any laughter at Andrew, the freak, the - queer. How come when Willow
came out of the closet it was all sunshine and puppies, but let him peek
out through the doors and suddenly it was like he had leprosy?
He needed some closure. Needed to do this to hold himself together,
all the cracked parts Crazy-Glued together in a wild, mazed design, so he
could face another day. Besides, Cosmo said this was very therapeutic.
So.
He ticked off the proper elements on his fingers.
Privacy?
Check. A good, deep-dark night, with only a star or two to be seen
in the sullen sky.
Bonfire?
Check. A smallish bonfire, anyway. More of a campfire if you
wanted to be really precise. Mostly wood right now, but next to it
he had the stack of stuff he wanted to burn, all ready to toss in.
Video diaries, mix tapes, photographs, the odd note scribbled to him, all
just waiting for a touch of the flame.
Burn cream?
Check. He hadn't realized natural fibers were that flammable. He
wouldn't have used the soft, battered old T-shirt of - his - as tinder,
if he'd known how fast it would go up.
Frosty-cold Zima?
No check. Someone had drunk it all, and that someone wasn't him (so
bad mood enhancement, check). He'd stolen a bottle of the Glenfinnan
Giles kept hidden in the bottom of his file cabinet, to drink in its place.
It made him choke a little every time he swallowed; he wasn't used to strong
whiskey.
It was a little embarassing to admit that he couldn't handle and didn't
really like anything but the kind of "girly drinks" that the others scoffed
at (even though they were mostly girls themselves). As he swallowed
grimly, he figured from the deep burn in his throat after each swig that Glenfinnan
was definitely a man's drink.
OK. Fire, whiskey, courage. He was ready. He could do
this now.
Almost.
He fished the note out of his pocket. One last time. He'd read
it one last time. To make sure he'd understood it. That it was
over. Even though it had never really begun.
/Andrew,/
Not 'Dear Andrew', just 'Andrew'. Funny how that hurt almost as much
as the rest of it.
/You're going to think I'm nuts, but I've got to get this out before things
go any further. The girls are noticing. Giles is asking me strange
questions.
I know that you - well, that you think you like me 'that way'. I
may not be the brightest guy in the world, but I've noticed what's going
on. The way you're always there to meet me when I come home.
The way you cook my favorite foods every night, even if you say it's crap
that's going to plug my arteries before I reach 30, or stuff the Slayers
won't touch because they might get a pimple from the grease, god forbid.
It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time.
And that's why it's got to stop. I'm not ready yet. And I don't
think I'd ever be ready for - well - for what you want. And Andrew,
you're not Anya. I know she was your friend and all, but you're not
her, you're not going to replace her, and you have to stop hoping and playing
all these little games to worm your way into my heart.
You're a nice kid, but that's it. I don't see you that way.
I do care about you but not - it's just - I'm not - I don't, that's all.
I don't want to break your heart, so that's why I think I just need to
go ahead and let you know - don't hope. There'll be someone out there
who'll soak up every bit of what you have to give, and you just have to find
her or him. But it won't be me.
I'm sorry. But this thing has to be over. Now.
Xander./
Andrew sniffed hard, trying to ignore the stupid tears that had started
to fall - again - while he read the note, already crumpled and splotchy from
the times he'd read it before. He wished he could think of something
really good to call Xander. Some really evil villain's name.
But he knew already that calling names didn't work. It didn't make
him feel any better.
Time to start burning. Maybe he could burn out the pain of being
rejected - again. Not wanted for who or what he was - again.
The video diaries and the mix tapes went first, tossed in one at a time.
Thick, greasy billows of truly foul smoke puffed up, and he really should
have remembered how nasty melting plastic smelled. It would probably
wake up one or two of the women in the house, and then they'd be out here,
and there'd be laughter at his expense and scornful darts aimed at his heart,
and maybe even Xander himself, hanging back with his arms crossed over his
chest, looking disgusted and maybe even repulsed.
Then again, he didn't guess he cared anymore. Let them come.
The pictures he burned last. There weren't many. Xander didn't
like having his picture taken after he lost the eye, and he was always careful
to put his good side forward. You had to catch him in a candid moment
if you wanted a decent shot. And then you had to protect your film
and your negatives if you wanted them to survive long enough to be printed.
One of them sitting inside the lobby of the Hyperion, where they'd gone
the first night after - after Sunnydale. After Anya. Xander had
been so tired that he'd fallen asleep on one of the really uncomfortable lobby
couches, and Andrew had decided to find a blanket and just tuck him in where
he lay. He needed the rest. Dawn had snapped that picture, he
thought. At least she'd been the one he stole it from. It was
nice, peaceful, just him bending over, smoothing a soft, pale-green blanket
down around Xander's shoulders, under his chin.
Into the fire.
One of them loading up the bus the next morning. Xander's hand brushing
Andrew's as he passed the slighter boy a heavy knapsack. It looked
as if their eyes were meeting, as if they were passing a slightly amusing
secret between them. They hadn't been. Just a nice trick of the
light and angle.
Into the fire.
The pair of them goofing off, wrestling the "For Sale - S O L D" sign out
of the lawn in front of their new bungalow home. Giles, being pretty
much de facto *the* Council of Watchers himself, had decided the least he/they
could do would be to dip into some pretty darn vast coffers and set up the
newly homeless with places to stay. That had been a good day, a fun
moment. Both he and Xander liked the new place. Xander because
it was a fixer-upper and he really did like to work with his hands, showing
people his depth perception was just fine, thank you. Andrew liked
it because Xander had.
Into the fire.
The two of them hunkered down in front of the X-Box they'd splurged on,
playing a racing game. Xander's good eye was alight with excitement
and delight; he'd been beating Andrew's butt into the pavement. He'd
made a joke about driving and steering around the curves, and there was such
an odd tone to his voice when he said that, that Andrew couldn't help but
look at him in confusion. Their eyes had met, and it had been really
odd until Xander almost visibly shook it off and went back to focusing entirely
on the digital car he was crashing through the digital city.
Into the fire.
Only one picture left - his very favorite. His fingers softened as
he picked that one up, trying fruitlessly to smoothe out the creases.
He wasn't in the shot; he'd been behind the camera. Xander, sitting
cross-legged on the short green grass of the lawn, savoring the soft cool
of an autumn evening. Eye closed in bliss, in peace. A long-necked
Bud held loosely in his hand, fingers stroking the lip of the bottle in
a way that had gotten Andrew instantly half-hard, and taken him all the
way, engorged so fully that he ached, when Xander took a long, lingering
sip of the dark brew and licked his lips with a soft pink tongue.
He knew Xander had been celibate for months at that point, but he had the
languid, lazy look of someone who'd just been well-fucked, and it had driven
Andrew almost crazy with the need to be the person who'd led him into that
catlike bliss.
He loved that picture. He'd slept with it under his pillow sometimes.
Xander had found it one day when he was changing the sheets. Andrew
had had to dig through the trash for it after the lecture - well, one-sided
screaming match - was over. Half-understanding and half not why that
had made Xander so mad. It was still smeared with gunk and smelled
like the banana peels and coffee grounds it had been buried under.
He'd held onto it, hidden it better. Hoping. Still hoping.
Not hoping any more.
Into the fire.
"It's not fair," Andrew mumbled. Miserably watching the once-glossy
photo edges curl and blacken. Then, louder, not caring who heard:
"It's not fair!"
What was so wrong with him, anyway? He knew that if he'd let himself,
Xander could have found happiness with him. He was gentle, caring,
he looked out for small things, and when he was in love, he lived to make
the one he loved happy.
Xander hadn't said anything about that. Or about not swinging on
that vine. About not being willing or interested because of the whole
gay thing. It was Andrew he didn't want. It was Andrew whose
heart he'd decided to break by pretending to avoid breaking it. Because
he didn't care.
"It's not fair," Andrew whispered again as his beloved picture dissolved
into ash. He poked at the crumpled fragments with a stick. "If
he'd let me, I could have been the love of his life. I'd have been
good for him. Really I would have."
But he wasn't good enough, after all, was he?
And even though he knew better - he'd been friends with Anya, so come on
- his mouth found itself swallowing another burning rush of Glenfinnan,
and the words welled up like a sneeze or an orgasm, whether he wanted them
to or not: "I wish things were different. I wish that I could
find someone who loved me just for me, you know? I wish I was where
none of this had ever happened. I wish that I could have a second
chance. I don't care where or how. Just a chance to make things
right again." Poke, poke with the stick, and then, angrier:
"A chance to show him what he's missing out on."
Wish.
A dangerous word for someone who'd grown up in Sunnydale. Because
even though Anya wasn't around anymore, some of her friends and not-such-friends
were, and they had a habit of listening in.
And answering.
Andrew had half-a-second, perhaps less, to register that the relatively
small bonfire was exploding up into a column of flame. Another half-second
to realize that the fireball was hurtling itself at him. A fraction
less to think "ohshitohshitohshit" while hearing a sibilant, whispered "Done",
before it hit him, consumed him, devoured him from the inside out -
And - blink - just like that all the fire, and any traces of it on the
lawn, were utterly gone from this world.
And so was one Andrew Wells.
~TBC~
B A C K
