He stood there as stock still as a tree. He felt no need or want for movement, lest it could have been to make time stop. But time, horrid and unmerciful time, would not end. It would keep going dutifully, marching towards its own roaring collapse.
Every day a little death
In the parlour, in the bed
His fingers curled around themselves, aching in pain and frustration. There was no thing that he could fight to resolve this. No medium that could restore what had been done. Nothing to destroy or erase the volatile years of back and forth. What a waste, he thought, what a waste of time.
In the curtains, in the silver
In the buttons, in the bread
It was cold, a chilly night. They had made sure to consecrate the ground right away, not even allowing a mourning period to pass. He imagined those vile friends holding back bile while lighting candles and it brought such a perverse pleasure to such a tainted scenario. The boy had been mortal, but so much more. He had been so much more than he ever knew.
Every day a little sting
In the heart and in the head
There were other graves, he knew, dotted throughout the makeshift cemetery. Veterans of supernatural wars, changed beings, hurt beings. But none of them had been so important to him. His head shook. No, it was worse when things happened like they had to Cordelia. That prolonged agony that you feel deep inside your gut and have to bury away makes whatever life you have so austerely unbearable that coping is just undeniably difficult.
Every move and every breath
And you hardly feel a thing
They hadn't fought the last time they'd seen each other. At least there had been sort of a resigned fate to it all. There was some strange wonderful way that they had been tossed together so many times and neither cared anymore about the future. There was no future in the universe in the lives they led. There was day to day and then the risk of the greater good. He despised that risk.
He smiles sweetly, strokes my hair
Says he misses me
I would murder him right there
"Its not right." William is just tossing his way around, weaving about with the stench of alcohol. "Not even a proper sodden goodbye."
He shakes his head. "No, they made sure of that."
He can hear the breaks in William's voice, his own fresh tears far too familiar to deny. "I never expected this."
William is hurt, William is hurting. Everyone is.
He talks softly of his wars
Of his horses, of his whores
I think love's a dirty business
Angel loved Xander. He would never have turned the boy, would have never let anyone hurt him. Buffy poured salt in the open wound by consecrating his grave. She made sure that he was never near enough to at least drop a single rose on the ground. It was a bitter, guilty feeling that it was his own doing that had lead her to be so vengeful. Which is ironic, all things considered.
I'm before him on my knees
And he kisses me
He assumes I'll lose my reason
And I do
Xander had looked at him once with those soft eyes, hiding great intelligence. "You know, Dead boy, I figured something out."
He would triumphantly pick a piece of popcorn from the massive bowl while Angel half-tuned in to the current Star Wars movie. Angel didn't mind Dead Boy anymore. It's not a nickname, it's a real term of endearment now when the lights are low and the glow of light sabers is all they have between them. Every once in a while, Xander's toes brushed Angel's ankles and that simple touch would make Angel smile. "What have you figured out?"
Xander would rearrange himself so they can talk face to face. "Well, its simple." He'd lean on his arm, looking at Angel at an angle. "The reason everything took so long was because I'm denim and you're silk. You don't know they go together until you try them on."
And Angel can't resist smiling when that spark comes to his eyes, knowing that he finally hit a target he had been missing for quite a long time.
Love is stupid, love is vain
Love's disgusting, love's insane
A humiliating business
And then Angel would do nothing more than extend his reach across, rubbing his thumb against Xander's knuckles. Xander would normally scooch himself in closer, cradling Angel like a pillow while the popcorn rests on his lap. He'll shush Angel when Angel tries to dissect the plot and the major mythological themes. And its quite a fun time. Angel will never be able to watch those movies again.
Every day a little death
In the looks and in the acts
In the murmurs and the gestures
Angel supposes the craziest thing about it all is that they didn't say goodbyes, didn't have many fights. They just had something, which made whatever it was even better. Angel sometimes foolishly wishes for either more time or an explanation that he knows he'll never get or never deserve. At some small consolation, he thinks, I won't see his face when I see the Sunnydale team. That's because they're so small that they won't acknowledge my existence.
Every day a little sting
In the looks and in the lies
Perhaps it had all been because of him or in spite of him that the Rift not only widened but splintered when that drunk driver swerved and ran down the man looking for vampire nests in Las Vegas. Xander Harris was dead because of some random act of pain. It was like Tara or Winifred all over again. Bodies, love, stacked up against Angel end to end until he couldn't bear the weight.
As he fell to his knees, crying absent tears, Angel felt the weight against his soul, knowing that Xander wouldn't stick around. Angel wasn't even sure they would give him that option. Angel wasn't sure he wanted Xander to take it. All the while, the moon shown through the gravestones, highlighting a beloved young man who had a Nick Fury eye patch and a particular pizazz for finding the diamond inside the rough.
And you hardly feel a thing
Brings a perfect little death