Notes: This is set between Storyteller and Lies My Parents Told Me. This
first part is Xander's P.O.V. It's introspective, bordering on stream of
consciousness but not quite as disorganised.
***
Complicated. That should be my middle name: Alexander Complicated Harris. It's far more suitable and less embarrassing than LaVelle in my opinion.
Every night that I spend in the Summers' home rather than my own dingy place, I creep down stairs to the living room, curl up in a chair and watch him as he sleeps on the couch. I don't know what it is that draws me too him. I think it's the pure innocence that shines through him in spite of everything he's done or been an accomplice too. He took the life of his best friend, and yet he is still the most genuinely naïve and innocent person I've ever seen.
He's reminiscent of the old Willow. Willow who was meek in high school with shades of crayon brakey Willow evident in warm coloured clothing and honest smiles. He knows the severity of everything that's transpired, but yet still seems ignorant to the possible doom we may all face.
Ignorant even more so in his slumber. He curls his knees toward his chest in his sleep, wraps his arms around himself, whimpering softly, inaudibly. Dusky gold hair, less gelled, brushes against his pale forehead, lips sometimes curl in a smile, sometimes a pout or frown. His dreams are almost readable in his expressive features.
Often I yearn to reach out and brush a finger down the side of his face, over his lips. To pull him into my arms, and give him the comfort he secretly prays for. I never do. I don't know if I ever could.
Never have I felt this way before. Noticed another guy like this. Sure I snuck peeks in the locker room or at the urinals, but I never noticed a guy in a way that tightened my chest, sped up my heart and made me tremble just to think about touching him.
Could this be a part of the reason why I couldn't commit myself to Anya when that time had come? It's a possibility that some small portion of my subconscious knew there would be a new desire awoken within me in time. I had to save her from the pain of this eventuality. We haven't even fully repaired the damage between us, and some how I don't think these new feelings will help any.
I'm not even sure what could come of this - this whatever this is that I feel. Sometimes those inaudible murmurs of sleep are intermitted with the soft whispers of their names. Warren. Said in such desperation, with a hint of anguish. Volumes of truths about their relationship are revealed in the way he mutters that name, and yet those volumes are unreadable to me as if they were in some ancient foreign tongue. Jonathan. Whispered softly into the night, breathed with loyalty, trust, hope. If Andrew had one true friend in the world it had been Jonathan. Why he took that away from himself, I'll never begin to fathom. My heart sinks to hear him speak their names. Not a jealousy sort of sinking, but it's at those moments that I get a glimpse of how lonely he must be. They were three guys who banded together because all their lives they'd been lonely, had gone seemingly unnoticed. And now he's without their familiarity, and now he must be lonely again. He would never admit it, not that I know of. And he doesn't show it. But so much about him is made evident only while he sleeps.
Things have been gradually becoming more and more complicated for years. For the past seven years. And this is just one more twist in the road of life that Xander Harris travels. And will hopefully continue to travel for many more years to come if this moment's Big Bad doesn't get his way. A curve in the road that I once thought was straight as an arrow. A curve that winds me toward a fragile, golden haired boy who annoys me and delights me at the same time.
I can't possibly conceal these feelings any longer.
***
Complicated. That should be my middle name: Alexander Complicated Harris. It's far more suitable and less embarrassing than LaVelle in my opinion.
Every night that I spend in the Summers' home rather than my own dingy place, I creep down stairs to the living room, curl up in a chair and watch him as he sleeps on the couch. I don't know what it is that draws me too him. I think it's the pure innocence that shines through him in spite of everything he's done or been an accomplice too. He took the life of his best friend, and yet he is still the most genuinely naïve and innocent person I've ever seen.
He's reminiscent of the old Willow. Willow who was meek in high school with shades of crayon brakey Willow evident in warm coloured clothing and honest smiles. He knows the severity of everything that's transpired, but yet still seems ignorant to the possible doom we may all face.
Ignorant even more so in his slumber. He curls his knees toward his chest in his sleep, wraps his arms around himself, whimpering softly, inaudibly. Dusky gold hair, less gelled, brushes against his pale forehead, lips sometimes curl in a smile, sometimes a pout or frown. His dreams are almost readable in his expressive features.
Often I yearn to reach out and brush a finger down the side of his face, over his lips. To pull him into my arms, and give him the comfort he secretly prays for. I never do. I don't know if I ever could.
Never have I felt this way before. Noticed another guy like this. Sure I snuck peeks in the locker room or at the urinals, but I never noticed a guy in a way that tightened my chest, sped up my heart and made me tremble just to think about touching him.
Could this be a part of the reason why I couldn't commit myself to Anya when that time had come? It's a possibility that some small portion of my subconscious knew there would be a new desire awoken within me in time. I had to save her from the pain of this eventuality. We haven't even fully repaired the damage between us, and some how I don't think these new feelings will help any.
I'm not even sure what could come of this - this whatever this is that I feel. Sometimes those inaudible murmurs of sleep are intermitted with the soft whispers of their names. Warren. Said in such desperation, with a hint of anguish. Volumes of truths about their relationship are revealed in the way he mutters that name, and yet those volumes are unreadable to me as if they were in some ancient foreign tongue. Jonathan. Whispered softly into the night, breathed with loyalty, trust, hope. If Andrew had one true friend in the world it had been Jonathan. Why he took that away from himself, I'll never begin to fathom. My heart sinks to hear him speak their names. Not a jealousy sort of sinking, but it's at those moments that I get a glimpse of how lonely he must be. They were three guys who banded together because all their lives they'd been lonely, had gone seemingly unnoticed. And now he's without their familiarity, and now he must be lonely again. He would never admit it, not that I know of. And he doesn't show it. But so much about him is made evident only while he sleeps.
Things have been gradually becoming more and more complicated for years. For the past seven years. And this is just one more twist in the road of life that Xander Harris travels. And will hopefully continue to travel for many more years to come if this moment's Big Bad doesn't get his way. A curve in the road that I once thought was straight as an arrow. A curve that winds me toward a fragile, golden haired boy who annoys me and delights me at the same time.
I can't possibly conceal these feelings any longer.