Grateful thanks to
Sounding sea and Viciouswishes for beta reading this.
Andrew stared out of the corridor window at the swimming pool, blue in
a shade water was never meant to be, but glittering, cool and inviting
all the same. It was nice. They hadnât stayed at places with pools very
often but Mr Giles had been in a much better mood the last few days.
Andrew had heard him telling Buffy about ‘contingency plans for
disasters of this magnitudeâ and then some terse comments about
bureaucracy taken to extremes that had delayed ... stuff. Bottom line
seemed to be that there was money again and they were all going to be
fine. Mr Giles was going home, back to England, and - at that point
Andrewâs thoughts cut off abruptly. What was he doing with these
people? Where would he go? He didnât even have a passport. Well, none
of them did. Heâd dressed for the battle that final day with no
expectation of surviving and tucking a passport into his pocket just
hadnât occurred to him. Like a lot of other things, it was buried in
the Sunnydale Crater. That was what they called it now. Wouldnât be
long before the tourists could have hats and t-shirts and postcards
with that vast, sunken hole emblazoned across the front. Andrew felt
vaguely pleased that the idea bothered him. It meant he was seeing
things the right way now he was sure of it.
For a moment, he brightened, even considering going to his room and
changing into swim trunks, joining the crowd clustered around or in the
pool. Acting like he belonged so that maybe, just maybe, heâd get
included in whatever was going to happen.
Then a hand fell on his shoulder and he felt sickness and excitement
mix and burn holes in his stomach, acid sour and tangy sweet.
“Andrew. I havenât seen you all day.”
“Hi, Xander.”
Andrew twisted out of Xanderâs grip as if it had been a spider landing
on him rather than a hand, covering his reaction by turning to smile up
at him, as though that were the only reason heâd moved, so that he
could see that ruined face. Not the patch; that was cool, really cool.
No; it was the rest of Xanderâs face that hurt to look at. Sad
desperation and the knowledge nothing, ever, was going to fix what was
wrong in his world. Andrew knew that look himself and he knew his face
could fall into those lines without trying, but he wasnât going to let
it.
“Got a minute?” Xander said, his voice quiet and insistent.
“I was - I was going to go swim. You know; take advantage of -”
Wrong words. Wrong. That was what Xander said when the beer took away
the last shred of dignity. How heâd taken advantage of her, how heâd
used her body and never told her that he loved her, that he cared, that
he wanted to try again if only sheâd forgive him ...
Andrew saw the words register and Xanderâs mouth open and he tried to
squirm away. He couldnât - it was too soon - it wasnât <i>fair.
</i>
“Canât you just - please? One more time? Thatâs all. I wonât ask again,
I promise. Iâll leave you alone -”
Liar, Andrew thought, snide, spiteful anger rising up, sickening him
but giving him strength to resist. Heâd believed that once, but no
more. It was never the last time. Never.
Xander was taller than he, bigger in every way, but Andrew felt himself
tower above him as he looked him full in the face. “I wonât do it,
Xander. Not again. Iâve told you, Iâve told you everything I know.”
Xanderâs face went blank. A scary, closed-off stubbornness thinned his
lips. “You canât have. It couldnât have happened like that. Youâre
lying.”
Andrew braced himself but Xander didnât touch him. “Why would I lie?”
“Youâre a murderer. You killed your friend. Why would you tell the
truth?”
Andrew flinched as the words shrank him down, diminished and shriveled
him like salt on a slug. The others knew but they didnât mention it.
They couldnât have forgotten but they didnât seem to think he was worth
fearing. Faith had come up to him once, swaying and slightly drunk,
after a row with Principal Wood - Andrew couldnât call him Robin, he
just couldnât - and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to
make him dance with her as the others snickered and Wood looked on,
eyes cold but somehow pleased. When heâd broken away, his face on fire,
sheâd drawn close, her lips brushing his ear, and whispered, “You think
weâre alike because weâve both killed?”
Heâd shaken his head, wondering how she knew that, yes, sometimes heâd
thought that, thought they stood alone, together, no, that wasnât right
-
“Weâre not, you know.” Faith murmured. “Wanna know why?”
Heâd nodded hesitantly, terrified because her eyes were burning bright.
“See, you killed once and youâd never do it again, would you? Hmm?”
“Never,” he agreed, the word spilling from his lips, fervent and eager.
Sheâd smiled, he remembered, soft, full lips curved and amused. “I
will. And Iâll get a kick out of it when I do.”
Heâd believed her, he really had, and then Wood had laughed, appearing
by Faithâs side and sheâd turned and laughed with him, her face sharp
and hungry and theyâd gone off together without even looking at him
again.
Andrew looked up at Xander. “I swear itâs the truth.”
“So tell me. Tell me again. Please?” Xander reached out then, his large
hand tight on Andrewâs bare arm. “Tell me how she died.”
Andrew began to shake, the way he always did when Xander touched him.
Wanted that touch, wanted it really badly but not like this. “I canât -
you know already -”
Xander swallowed, looked as if he was trying really hard to control
himself. But his grip didnât slacken. “Iâll fuck you, Andrew. All the
way. Let you touch me, let you - anything. Do anything you want. Just
tell me.”
Andrew wasnât sure that he ever said ‘yesâ but Xander was pulling him,
tugging him, taking him down the corridors that led to Xanderâs room
and Andrew wasnât resisting.
The room was dim, curtains drawn, bed rumpled and messy. Andrewâs gaze
slid around the room. Not that many empty bottles ... then he saw the
whisky bottle and felt the panic swell like a balloon inside him,
pressing out until he was waiting for it to pop, waiting for the noise
and the explosion and the thin shreds of nothing much that would be all
that remained.
Xander locked the door and turned to face Andrew. He came over to him
and pushed him onto the bed and Andrew let him, let him do everything
he wanted, let Xander strip him, suck him, shove shaking fingers into
his mouth to wet them, into Andrewâs ass to wet that, let himself be
fucked. He tried not to care that neither of them came and Xander
didnât even try to pretend it mattered. Because no matter what Xander
said, heâd never let Andrew in that far, never let Andrew try to show
him how he felt. And every time they did this, he cared a little less.
Then Xander pulled out of him and vanished into the bathroom for the
longest time and Andrew waited, dressing himself with unsteady fingers
that kept moving the wrong way and waited.
This time heâd do it. This time heâd tell Xander the right lie. This
time heâd tell him Anya had died with his name on her lips.
“Tell Xander I love him.”
He could almost hear her saying it. It was so real, so clear in his
head.
Then Xander came out of the bathroom, showered and slicked down and
looked at Andrew, just looked.
“She died alone. I wasnât there.”
“Get out.”
I wish I could, Andrew thought as he stumbled along the corridors away
from Xander, the pool, these people. But Iâve got nowhere else to go.
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