Sweet Hereafter

Title: Sweet Hereafter
Author: Scarlet
Pairing: Andrew/Xander
Rating: R for a tiny bit of language and smuttiness
Archive: Feel free. Just let me know where my story ends up.
Feedback: Please! I would love it.
Email: scarletsfiction@yahoo.com
Authors Web Site: www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimers: Joss is king. All others bow before him.
Authors Notes: Thanks to Katiekins for the beta.
Spoilers: Up to season 3 of Buffy.
Summary: An alternative summer for Andrew and Xander. No Oxnard. No Troika. Lots of ice cream.
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On Wednesdays it's wedgies. Usually in the locker room after P.E. Sometimes out in the hall while the teachers turn a Sunnydale blind eye. Andrew knows the feel of hands, rough and fierce, grasping his underwear. The sensation of them being pulled, of being lifted, and the bitter shame/pleasure that comes from that first moment. Soft cotton pulled tight, binding his balls, and hard friction on his cock.

Fridays are Tuna Surprise. That's what the marquee in the lunchroom boasts and Andrew's life claims no exception. Great globs of leftover casserole find their way into his backpack, his locker, the pockets of the jacket he foolishly left behind when he sharpened his pencil. He knows the reference only vaguely. Fishy smells, a female stink so far removed from his understanding as to be laughable, but they torment him regardless.

It's not just the boys, though he knows it's almost always their idea. Lipstick words are scratched on his locker. Scarlet letters of shame Hawthorne would have written of in modern times. Fag. Queer. Cocksucker—except the whole word didn’t really fit so his locker bore "cocksuc" for two days until the janitor cleaned it off. Any boys who owned a lipstick wouldn’t be the kind to defile his locker so he has to believe it's girls, too. Or guys with girlfriends that don't care about what ends their cosmetics meet.

Andrew hates school and it's no great mystery why. He's euphoric when Sunnydale High explodes junior year. He skips the senior orientation for Westmont High School—the school that takes all of the transplanted Sunnydale students. Instead, he locks himself in his room for four days. Two seasons of X- Files and a case of Hot Pockets later, he feels prepared enough to go to Sunnydale Community College and take the GED.

Not having to take his senior year pisses off Tucker, but there are few things that don't piss him off after the prom. By then, Andrew is a boarder in his own house; his room is paid for by obligatory family meal and false humor about mundane family experiences.

Sure he'll give Aunt Marge a call.

Of course he'll pass the butter.

The Henderson's dog ran away? How terrible.

He sits quietly, eats his vegetables, and imagines a life beyond the dinner table. And when it finally happens, it's the greatest of ironies that it happens on a Wednesday.

*****
Andrew's dropped off dozens of applications all over town, desperate for some income that will take him from his little-boy bedroom with the Star Wars sheets into…well, to be honest, a big-boy bedroom with Star Wars sheets. Because Andrew knows Star Wars is the best fucking movie ever, even if Tucker doesn’t agree. When he arrives at the small warehouse advertising for a frozen food rep., he's wearing his Han Solo tee and a long-sleeved shirt. He instantly wishes he'd also brought a coat. He knew it would be cold, but he also knew it wouldn’t last long. Rejections rarely do.

Andrew walks past the dingy loading dock and into the small frozen foods warehouse--his breath puffing out like a chain smoker. The place is deserted and he laughs at the unintentional pun. Deserted. Desserted.

It could be a trap.

Andrew knows about vampires, but after three years at Sunnydale High, they seem much less of a threat than the humans he's met.

"Andrew Wells?"

Andrew rarely thinks about being gay, the way he rarely thinks about being Caucasian or being good at math. It's just him. The way he is. The way he's always been. He knows some guys are attractive, imagines kissing them, and enjoys the sweet burn in his belly when he does that. Then it's a wedgie on Wednesday or tuna on Friday or blood-red lipstick on his locker. So he tries to stop thinking about it, which he knows is as impossible as stopping your heart from pumping by thinking about it, but Andrew is also persistent.

Today, though, he's thinking about it. Really thinking, because his belly is instantly on fire after he turns to the source of that voice. He thinks about it as he whispers, "Yeah?"

"I’m Xander Harris. Are you a demon?"

"Huh?"

"A demon. Vampire? No, you came through the dock during the day."

"I'm not a demon!" he whines.

"Drug user? Smoker? Booze hound?"

"No. No. Once at my cousins Julia's wedding, but….no."

"Good. You're hired. I'll get you an oh-so-attractive clown shirt tomorrow. Hop on." Xander climbs into a white truck and Andrew is instantly wary. He knows this game; he's played it once before. It started with the offer of a ride and ended with his lip split and his thumb broken behind the Doublemeat Palace sophomore year.

"We're losing daylight, chief. We can do your new-hire paperwork at the same time."

"That's the interview?"

"Yeah?"

"You're hiring me?"

"Yeah." The dark-haired guy gives Andrew a longsuffering sigh. "Look, Benny got vamped on Monday and my friend dusted him yesterday. It takes two real live humans to run this baby and there are thirty cases of frozen delights melting in the back of the truck, just waiting to be gobbled up by ungrateful children that'll make you count $1.25 in nickels. How can you turn that down, Han?"

Andrew's heart skips a beat when the guy calls him by that name. Han. Han Solo. The rakish mercenary. The guy—Xander, Andrew thinks—is gesturing toward Andrew's Star Wars t-shirt. Andrew nods slowly, following Xander's red and white striped shirt into an ice cream truck and settling into the passenger side.

"You're Tucker's brother, right?" Andrew scowls. "I take it you think he's an asshole, too."

*****

Andrew's never been in love. He's been in lust, of course, but never in love.

Xander cruises the streets of Sunnydale, selling ice cream to grubby children who don't say thank you, while Andrew fills out forms and tries to follow Xander's instructions. In reality, he's trying not to blush or choke or let his gaze linger too long on the curls over Xander's ears or the way Xander tucks cold hands between his thighs after they've been in the freezer. Xander shows him how to make change from the small register; he shows him where the Fudgesicles are kept, the Good Humor bars; he shows him where the Windex and paper towels hang.

Andrew doesn't speak, only watches. He's good at watching, just like he's good at math. Xander drives and Andrew watches and even though it's an ice cream truck, he's unusually warm.

"So, your brother and the devil dogs, huh?"

"Yeah."

Xander's quiet then. He stops and the music tinkles, a sweet siren song to lure children from their paddling pools and video games long enough to thrust sticky fists of borrowed—or more often than not, stolen—money into the truck. Xander dispenses ice cream and popsicles as Andrew struggles to remember his social security number. They eat a quiet lunch in the back of the truck. Doublemeat burgers and large drinks that ensure several bathroom breaks before quitting time. When at last the day is done, Xander drives him back to his house.

"I'll see you bright and early tomorrow." Andrew climbs out, exhausted despite the fact that he's done nothing strenuous today. "Hey, Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't talk much, do you?"

Andrew just smirks. Xander has no idea.

*****

He arrives at the warehouse early, wearing a long shirt under his Babylon 5 tee.

"Oh! Babylon 5! I have all the collector plates."

Xander hands him a striped shirt and a paper hat, which Andrew quickly puts on. He feels like a dork and he knows he looks like one too, but Xander is wearing it so it's not that bad. It's easier today, watching Xander. Andrew knows where the ice cream is, can run the register with only a little help, and tries not to scowl when a little girl pays for a push-up pop with 100 pennies.

"You may just be a natural at this," Xander jokes and Andrew feels warm.

Summers in Sunnydale have always been blissful times in Andrew terms. No reason to go to bed early or hide in the bandroom or avoid checking out Percy's package in gym. It's usually just Andrew home alone while his folks are at work and his brother spends time at the beach with his friends. Andrew is an aficionado of I Love Lucy, The Twilight Zone, and Star Trek by the end of June and the couch has an impression of his ass to prove it.

This summer, however, Andrew has plans. Big plans. He's got a job, and if he plays his cards—and his meager paycheck—right, he could have a car by August. And a car means a better job and a better job means an apartment of his own. He tells Xander about this over ice cream sandwiches, waiting for a red light on 7th street.

"I live in my parent's basement," Xander admits, like it's a big shame.

"Separate entrance?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

Xander seems pleased and Andrew's belly tingles again. Then he realizes Xander is still staring at him, watching as Andrew licks vanilla ice cream from the sides of his chocolate sandwich. A long lick down one side, then a short lick. Long stroke of the tongue, followed by a short one.

"Light's green," Andrew says with a mouthful of ice cream and Xander quickly accelerates. "So this guy Benny didn't mind you eating the merchandise?"

"Are you kidding? He was a bigger pothead than my friend Oz. He matched me two to one in the ice cream consumption."

"Sorry he got vamped."

"Thanks. It kinda sucks."

"Yeah."

Andrew feels bad. Not for a guy he never knew who died, or even for Xander who doesn't seem that broken up about his co-worker's death, but for himself. Because he's glad Benny died, 'cause that left a job available, 'cause now the job is his which means Xander is—well, not *his*, but something. And his mom was always telling him that he shouldn’t think bad thoughts about people because that was a sin and here he was, sinning all over the passenger side of an ice cream truck.

*****

The days pass like this: Xander drives, and Andrew eats, and they shovel frozen delicacies by the truckload. Andrew shows up at the dock each morning and Xander drops him off at home each night, and it's the happiest time of Andrew's life. He even begins to appreciate the job—bringing happiness and obesity to America's youth.

Handing four teenagers red, white, and blue popsicles, he absently realizes that it might be close to July.

"The fourth of, to be exact," Xander answers when Andrew ventures to ask. He still doesn't talk much around Xander, though he itches to. He wants to ask him about this Babylon 5 collection and his friend that killed Benny—and how Xander knows about vamps at all for that matter—but he doesn't have a lot of practice at talking with hot guys. He doesn't have a lot of practice talking with people at all to tell the truth. He has tons of things to say but never an opportunity. And now, now he's afraid to. Afraid, because if Xander's eyes roll back when he talks about Star Wars the way Tucker's do, then he'll die. He'll just melt away with the crushing disappointment of it all. Instead he sits in comfortable silence and grazes from boxes of ice cream and popsicles. A rainbow of colors and flavors, wet and creamy and partaken in the best of company.

Andrew is in love.

"Are you doing anything special tonight?" Xander asks and for a split second Andrew thinks Xander's asking him out.

"Oh, you mean for the 4th of July? No. Hadn't planned on it."

"You wanna hang out with me and my friends? I can't promise it'll be the most exciting night of your life, but at least it's better than doing nothing."

"Okay."

Xander smiles and Andrew might be mistaken but Xander kind of looks relieved. "Well, good. It's a—plan, then." Xander starts the truck suddenly and drives a tad too fast, scanning for children. Andrew's belly is filled with sweet, icy goodness, but he suddenly feels warmer than he's ever been.

The day passes slowly and Andrew wants to will the dashboard clock to speed up. As dusk closes in, his heart begins fluttering and he tries to calm himself with deep breaths. It's not a date. His eyes flick to the hands clenched on the steering wheel and his belly turns. When, at last, Xander pulls up in front of a pleasant looking house on Revello Dr., Andrew is close to hyperventilating, trying to calm himself. Xander turns off the engine and crawls to the back where Andrew is breaking down empty push-up boxes. He begins unbuttoning his shirt and Andrew's pulse quickens further.

"Will you pass me my other shirt?" Andrew nods and hands Xander the t-shirt stuffed in the corner. For a brief minute, Andrew can see Xander's bare chest and he thinks maybe he can die now. Die happy and full and warm to his toes. "Are you gonna change?"

Andrew hasn't brought anything else but he is wearing another shirt under his uniform. He unbuttons the striped monstrosity and drops it over Xander's. The older boy gives him a beautiful, dopey grin and says, "This is Buffy's house. She has a big backyard. We're gonna watch fireworks there. Is that okay?"

"Sure." Andrew can't manage more than single words now, so full is his mind with images of Xander's back and chest.

"Ready?" The introductions are brief and only a little painful. Andrew wants to kiss Xander when the older boy wraps his hand around Andrew's neck and shakes him gently, saying, "This is my friend Andrew. Andrew here is in-the-know when it comes to demons. And he could sell Fudgesicles to an Eskimo."

"Nice to meet you," a redhead girl chirps and hands him lemonade. "You look kinda familiar. Do I know you?"

"He's Tucker's brother," Xander explains.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Willow says apologetically. "Brownie?"

Andrew is plied with burgers and sodas and lemonade by the pitcher. Tucker isn't mentioned again and Andrew is in heaven. The night grows cool and dark and fireflies appear just after dusk. Andrew is aware of Xander all night. Xander by the swingset, Xander pitching horseshoes with the Dingo's bass player, Xander chatting with a small blond girl that could only be Buffy. Andrew sits in a lawnchair and sips lemonade and feels so at home, so *wanted*, that he startles himself when he blurts, "Star Wars is the best movie ever!"

It slips out before he can control it and, by the look on Buffy's kid sister's face, it wasn't an appropriate response to her question.

"I don't think we *have* any Star Wars blankets, Andrew. I have a black one, though. Want that one?" The dark-haired girl with the luminous eyes passes him a black fleece blanket and Andrew clutches it to his chest. "Xander *loves* Star Wars," she adds.

Andrew's eyes flick to Xander, talking quietly to Buffy's mom as she clears food from a beat up old picnic table.

There's a 'pop' in the distance and Dawn squeals, "It's starting!"

Suddenly everyone is scrambling for space on the grass, throwing out blankets, and lying prone on the ground. Buffy lives close to the high school where the city is setting them off this year. It feels like they're being launched from Buffy's house itself, so big are the colors and explosions in the sky. Andrew hurries to spread out the blanket and feels someone do the same next to him.

"This spot taken?"

Xander. Andrew's reply is eaten up by an explosion and the sky is illuminated with red light. As fireworks rock the night sky, Andrew can hear Xander's appreciative sighs. He scoots closer in order to hear Xander better and is startled when hot breath reaches his ear.

"I like the red ones."

Andrew nods, then realizes that Xander can't see his motions in the dark. "Yeah," he says, turning his face so it's only inches from Xander, and speaks into his ear. "The red ones are cool."

A soft smile from Xander turns uncomfortable and he looks back into the blossoming sky. Andrew swallows hard and looks to the heavens again as well. He's embarrassed. Maybe he shouldn't have turned to Xander. It was too close, too private. Maybe he crossed into Xander's personal bubble. All of his friends are around and can see him lying next to Andrew, can see Andrew whispering to him.

A huge blossom of blue bursts and then three small, green ones in quick succession. Andrew can hear appreciative oohs an ahs from everyone on the grass. Later, Xander's arm bumps his fingers. He starts to move away from the heat before he realizes that Xander has his own blanket, and his own space, and that if something on his body crossed to Andrew's side, then it might just be intentional.

A burst of white, huge and glittering, followed by a red burst in the middle. Xander likes the red ones.

Andrew can feel the heat radiating toward his pinkie finger and he knows without looking that it's Xander's hand. He reaches the pinkie out minutely and it comes up against heated skin.

Two purple snakes of color slide through the black, black sky, glittering trails sparkling as they fall.

"I like those ones," Andrew whispers and he imagines Xander can almost hear him. He must hear *something*, if only shear awe from his voice, because then Xander's pinkie finger is over his.

It could be accidental. Maybe. Andrew doesn't dare hope that it could be more but the small, trembling finger stays and Andrew doesn't move his hand for the entire time the fireworks light the sky. His heart is pounding in his chest like it might leap straight out and join the show above.

After that, there's a long pause between fireworks, indicating that a finale is fast approaching. Andrew's hand aches from remaining immobile, but he doesn’t dare remove it. He imagines being brave, bold, Bond-like. Just pushing his hand under Xander's, turning it palm-side up, and letting Xander grasp it if he wants. His thoughts are interrupted with *the* mother of all explosions. The sky is on fire, red and blue and white and purple. Twin green snakes shoot through the middle and a dozen small, white, sparking blooms follow.

The breath leaves Andrew's body and his eyes shine larger and glassy toward the magical sky. Then he does it. He turns his head to watch Xander. Because he has to know if it's just him made breathless by the sky and lemonade and green, green summer grass and the free ice cream and warm smiles and the six whole weeks without wedgies.

Xander's not looking at the sky, though. His eyes are as large and glassy as Andrew's, but it's not the fireworks making them that way. Suddenly it's not so much a pinkie finger touching Andrew but a whole hand, cold and shaking just a bit. It covers the back of Andrew's hand and squeezes briefly, then Xander swallows hard and turns back to the sky.

Eleven seconds. Andrew counts them slowly, trying to memorize each moment. As the last sparkles burn out, the hand slips away. Faint traces of white hang in the air long after the original burst has passed and Andrew's hand feels like that. The places where Xander's hand touched are still tingling and, if Andrew's lucky, it won't ever stop.

Everyone clears out after that. Andrew is folding his blanket when Buffy's mom asks him where he lives.

"My folks live on Kennedy Ave."

"Oh, Kennedy! We're going that way!" Willow says, brightly. "We can give him a ride, right Oz?"

The quiet bass player just smiles enigmatically and says, "Certainly."

"I—I came with Xander—" he starts, but Buffy jumps in.

"Oz practically lives next door to you and Xander lives on the other side of town. Don't worry. Willow and Oz don't mind."

Disappointment doesn’t being to cover Andrew's feelings, but his spirits lift when he realized he'll see Xander tomorrow and the next day and the next.

"Bye Xander," he mumbles and Xander only nods. Then he climbs into that vaguely weed-scented van and lets the small musician and his girlfriend drop him off at his house.

*****

By the next morning Andrew has worked himself into another bout of near hyperventilation. His lips are numb and his fingers tingle and he has to tell himself to chill out before Xander notices. But it doesn't matter. Xander doesn't notice or Xander doesn't care. Either way, they're both quiet and neither let a spare word pass between them.

At dusk, Xander drops him off and the truck is gone even before Andrew is at his door. Andrew feels like a fool. Like a jerk. Like the nerd he knows he is. He wishes Xander would just give him a wedgie or scrawl "faggot" on his lunchbox—something to show how he really feels. Something real and tangible.

The next day is much like the one before it. The silences become less awkward, though, and soon they're back to their same routine. Xander drives and Andrew pedals ice cream until it becomes too busy. Then Xander joins him and they work together to satisfy the masses.

These become Andrew's favorite times. Xander pressing behind him to search the freezer for popsicles, Xander squishing tightly against him to fit out the window, Xander's hand bumping and brushing Andrew's as it dangles patiently by his side while someone makes their decision. He takes it all and yet Andrew craves more, more, more. Anything Xander will give and still it won't be enough because Xander touched him once, touched him with desire, and however brief that touch was it was enough to ensure Andrew's undying affection.

*****

"Fucking AC is broken."

Xander slaps his hand on the dashboard as Andrew says a quiet, "Good morning," and climbs in. Xander never, never, never cusses without meaning to, so Andrew knows it can't be good. "What about the ice cream and stuff?"

"The coolers run a on a separate generator. They'll be fine. *We'll* be in hell, though."

An hour later, the sun's not even high in the sky, and Andrew knows what Xander meant. The truck is roasting them like T.V. dinners. The extra tee Andrew wore to work goes first, then shoes and socks when he realizes that the customers can't see his feet from outside. He considers removing his pants when the thermometer on the outside of the cooler passes one hundred ten degrees, but that seems kinda pervy so he settles for running Big Sticks over his skin until they melt and must be consumed.

"It's so fucking HOT!" Xander complains when they stop the truck at Orchard Ave. and crawl into the back where it's marginally cooler. It's usually a busy street but there aren't any kids out today. The heat has even driven *them* inside, to the cool oasis of air conditioning and Playstations.

"Yeah, like Tatooine," Andrew commiserates and takes a long lick down the melting treat.

Xander grins. "Yeah, just like Tatooine. But without the sand or the droids."

"Or the Jawas." Andrew tucks his lips into his mouth, licking them clean.

"Or Obi-Wan."

"Or Luke."

"We should get going. No one's coming," Xander says. Andrew nods and puts the Big Stick in his mouth and spins it, sucking all the while. Then he pulls it out with a pop and stares at Xander.

Xander is watching the popsicle the same way he watched the ice cream sandwich. Like he's hungry. His face is shiny with sweat; his hair is pasted to his forehead in damp black curls. One hand sweeps the hair back but it only succeeds in shifting the wet locks.

When he breathes deep enough, Andrew imagines that he can smell saltwater on an ocean breeze and wonders if Tucker is having as much fun on the beach as Andrew is having at work. He has to squint, the inside of the truck is so darn bright; sunlight is sparking off the clean surfaces, melting the popsicle, and illuminating their sweaty faces. Xander's eyes are darker than a Fudgesicle, Andrew thinks inanely, and then realizes he's stopped mid-lick. When Andrew pulls his tongue back in, it's sweet with melted juice. Andrew runs his tongue along the length of the popsicle again and gets another of Xander's looks.

"Can I have a lick?"

Andrew reaches out his sticky hand, stained red. He watches as Xander's hand clenches around his own and when a pink tongue slides out between Xander's lips, he is hypnotized. As Xander's tongue slides along the Big Stick, he remembers to give extra licks to the base to keep the wetness from melting onto their hands. Xander licks fast but it's way over one hundred degrees in the truck now and the popsicle is melting rapidly. The side not currently being licked starts dripping onto their hands, sweet drops of red and yellow and orange. Andrew laughs when Xander licks faster, trying to catch them.

Andrew moves forward to help and licks the unattended side. His hand is cold, his tongue and lips are cold, but the rest of is body is shining with perspiration. A long lick to the tip and he meets Xander's eyes. On the other side, Xander has slowed too. Andrew sucks his freezing tongue back into his mouth, then lets it dart tentatively back to the popsicle as Xander does the same. The large hand covering Andrew's own squeezes gently and Andrew's breath catches. Xander is staring at him, dark eyes tracking his tongue, his lips, the slight flutter of his eyelashes when he tilts his eyes nervously back to the Big Stick. A warm, anticipatory burn begins in Andrew's stomach and spreads toward his toes. It's on his next pass at the dwindling Big Stick that he feels Xander's head tilt, bringing their tongues within reach of each other.

Andrew's never kissed anyone. In his best fantasies he's imagined someone else's tongue feeling alien and slimy, like some wonderful slick snake or eel. But Xander's tongue is like none of those things. One moment it's sliding across the popsiclele, then it's licking past it, and then Xander's tongue is touching his own. He's startled, but pleased, to discover he likes the cool/warm sandpaper feel. It's soft like velvet then gone in an instant as Xander licks back onto the popsicle.

The hand over his hand is shaking and Andrew slides his tongue across the base once more. One lick right to left. Then another lick left to right. He's bold this time and leaves his tongue out for a moment, searching for the soft skin he hopes will be there when he passes.

The tip of Xander's tongue is more hesitant this time, perhaps worried that he's made a mistake or that the touch of Andrew's tongue was an accident the first time. Andrew drags the popsicle away just the slightest bit. This contact is no accident now and Andrew hopes that Xander knows this as he slides against the sweet pink skin pointing out between red lips. They kiss softly, chastely, then Xander pulls away.

Xander is breathing heavily. He lets go of the popsicle and touches Andrew's face. With Andrew's jaw in both hands he places his thumbs over sticky lips. Then he slides them to each side of Andrew's mouth and lets them linger there on the skin before leaning forward and pressing his lips against Andrew's.

Andrew is stunned and exhilarated. The Big Stick drops unnoticed and he instinctively darts his tongue out to meet Xander's. He imagines the way it looks, all reddish orange and sweet and cold.

Xander kisses him harder, more intensely, and oh sweet joy! Perfect pleasure! Xander grabs roughly at Andrew's thighs, lifting him and setting him on the freezer. The angle is different now. Better. Andrew could cry or laugh or curl up and scream with happiness because Xander is kissing him, biting his lips, and pulling at Andrew's horrible striped shirt. Andrew's hands feel nervous and clumsy as he tries to do the same to Xander, running over sweaty fabric and hard muscle.

Xander moves to pull Andrew's shirt off, but the shirt catches on Andrew's chin and the blond boy giggles. Then Xander giggles and stops, looking at Andrew. Andrew, who's so completely in love right now, he'd give up his limited edition Star Trek still for one more kiss from Xander's mouth. Thankfully he doesn't have to make that decision because Xander kisses him slowly then, making each kiss count. His lips are harder, less pliant and more serious. Andrew wraps his legs around Xander's waist and feels the taller boy pulling their bodies together. Xander rocks into him and gasps against Andrew's smiling mouth—

A hard rapping at the window startles them both.

"Hey! Is anybody there?" They can't see the child through the window, but they can see the top of a ponytail and a small fist pounding the glass.

Andrew's first instinct is to hide. He'd like to pull Xander down onto the floor of the truck and kiss him until he made the gasping sound again. But as Xander steps away from him, the small fist at the window is joined by a larger adult head and Andrew scrambles to pull his shirt down.

After the child and her mother have their ice cream, more children find their way to the truck. It isn't the busiest they've ever been, but Andrew has a hard time finding a moment to talk to Xander until they pull up in front of Andrew's house at sunset.

"So…work was fun today." He's not sure what else to say. "I liked making out with you and think we should do it again sometime, say…right now?" comes to mind, but he can see from the small, orange pinpoint of light on the porch that Tucker is outside sneaking a cigarette.

"Right. Work was…fun."

Will Xander act cold and quiet like nothing happened? Or will he try to kiss him again, and let Tucker get a full view from his perch on the front porch? Neither option is appealing so Andrew jumps out quickly before he can find out what Xander will do next. Outside, he presses his hand to the glass and stares at Xander who stares back. Then Andrew smiles and turns toward his house, mentally counting the hours until he gets to be at work again.

*****

Two days pass, then three, and Xander doesn't kiss him or even talk about what happened. Andrew's not exactly in hell because hell would probably have flames *as well as* a dark-eyed devil and scorching heat. At noon he passes another ice cream to a family on Orchard and casts a quick glance at Xander, wondering if he remembers their time spent on this street as anything but drudgery. The rational part of his mind knows that Xander wouldn’t have kissed him if he hadn't wanted to, but he can't help feeling like he…what? Made advances? Got fresh? What other phrase would his mother use? He tries to recall who kissed who first and he honestly can't remember.

"So, have you found a car yet?"

Xander has been quit for a good long while, so his words startle Andrew just the slightest bit.

"Oh. No, my grandma might sell me her Lincoln, though. It's kind of a Miss Daisy, but it has a big back seat. Because that's important, you know? A big…a big back seat." What in Shatner's name is he saying? He knows his face is red, but Xander is counting money and doesn't comment.

"Yeah. I told my friend Willow you were looking for a car and she said she'd keep her eyes open for a good deal."

"You talk to your friends about me?"

"Sure. Why not?" Xander looks uncomfortable, now pointedly recounting money.

"Oh."

"I know you've been looking for a car for a while. When you get a car you can drive to work and stuff. It'll be nice not having to bum a ride home from me and Sally here." Xander affectionately slaps the sides of the truck. A small boy wearing pajamas and a fireman's hat calls for a popsicle and Andrew dips into the cooler. When the transaction is complete, he stares out at the wide suburban street and closes his eyes, letting the breeze from outside cool his face while the newly repaired AC cools the rest of him.

Mistaking Andrew's quiet for something else, Xander suddenly says, "I talk to Willow about lots of stuff, not just you, you know."

"Oh."

"She's my best friend. I mean, not that there's a lot of Andrew Talking going on because there's not. There's just the normal amount."

"Okay."

"Just so we have that straight—straight meaning clear. Not to imply someone wasn't straight. You, for example—"

"Me?"

"Or me. Maybe. But I wasn't. Saying anything about being straight. Or not."

"Xander, you're babbling."

"I know! I can't stop. I'm sorry." Xander flings himself quickly into the driver's seat before Andrew can sort out what's been said. Two blocks later and they stop again. Andrew sells snow cones while Xander seethes silently behind him. His stare makes Andrew sweat and the young man has no idea what's gong on, what he did wrong, or what he should say. When he finally slides the small window shut, Xander fiercely blurts out, "You know, I’m not sorry! Willow was right. You *are* a big fat meanie."

"A what?"

"Oh, yeah. I said it, buddy. A big. Fat. Meanie."

"Willow called me a meanie?" For some reason, Andrew feels stung. Willow seemed so nice. He thought they'd hit it off. "Wait, why did she call me that?"

Undaunted, Xander plowed forward. "And *you* with your messy hair and your baby face and knowing all about Star Wars. I bet you don't even *like* Star Wars, do you? Admit it!"

"Huh?"

"I told her you were just shy. And then I told her you were quiet and that you probably didn’t even like guys in the way that...guys sometimes like other guys. But we kissed! You can't tell me that that wasn't a good kiss, either, because I *know* kisses."

"You're mad at me."

"You're darn tootin' I'm mad. And what does that mean, anyway? Tootin'?"

"Just calm down, okay?"

"Oh, I'll calm down. I can be Mr. Calm. And I know you watch me all the time. I've seen you do it. I mean, I watch you watch me while I watch you, but still. There's definitely reciprocated watching and I know I haven't imagined it. I know it because if I *have* imagined it I'll feel like a total jerk and, yes, I know I'm in full throttle babble mode and yes, I know I’m squealing like a girl!"

Watching Xander's rant, seeing his anger and confusion, Andrew's understanding grows. He takes a moment to ponder the concept of power. He knows that what he says next will change everything and he realizes that he has in him the power to make Xander happy or sad, to bring himself joy or misery. Andrew knows he's never had this kind of power before and it's an awesome responsibility. The next words he speaks will control the lay of his life as he knows it and that of the person he loves. Yes, loves. The idea is as strange to him as the X-Files conspiracy to his mother, but he does love this hyper, insecure man wagging his finger in front of him.

It's so quiet in the truck that all he can hear is the steady breathing of two bodies standing face to face in the tiny space. Xander doesn't speak again, only breathes hard and stares critically at Andrew, a young man who knows his next words will make or break the fledgling relationship he's been gifted by the Powers That Be. Words have never been something he's good at…so Andrew smiles.

He smiles wide and rises on this toes until he's the same height as Xander, then presses his mouth as hard as he can against Xander's lips. When it comes to kissing experience, Andrew has none but his previous kiss with Xander to guide him, but the other boy doesn't seem to mind. After his initial confusion, Xander returns the kiss hesitantly, then sighs softly as he melts into it, his warm breath heating Andrew's cheeks when he tilts his head.

Andrew lets his lips speak words he cannot say. He'd like to thank Xander for being his friend—the only real friend he's ever had. He'd like to tell Xander how years of being called "faggot" and "cocksuc" and a dozen other things don't seem as important when Xander's laughing with him and showing him what "normal" looks like. When they finally part, Andrew opens his mouth to apologize and explain, in some small way, what he's feeling. But then Xander emits a soft, "oh," of understanding and smiles himself.

They stay like that for a while, not speaking, just watching, kissing, breathing, and enjoying the exquisite pleasure that comes from loving and finding your love returned.


The End
Sweet Hereafter