To Wish Upon A Star

Title: To Wish Upon A Star

Chapter: To Wish Upon A Star

Rating: R (if I continue it, though nothing warrants that rating now, I'm merely taking precautions)

Disclaimer: Any character you find to be familiar isn't mine, I'm merely borrowing.

Distribution: Take it if you want it, though I would be happy if you tell me where you take it to, thanks.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Xander looked at the stars shining brightly in the obsidian sky. He was lying on his back on the hood of his car, warmly dressed, had several blankets cocooning him, though not restricting his moverments, and sipped from the hot cocoa he had stored in one of the several heat containers.

His location was a remote area near Sunnydale, but not close enough to warrant having to constantly look out for demons, or humans. Not that it would truly matter if anyone did stumble upon his secret hide-away for the night, they wouldn't notice him anyway. Despite what Giles, Buffy or Willow thought of him, he was able to cast warding spells. In fact, he was actually very apt at magic. Not that he would even want to inform anyone of that tidbit of a fact. He was perfectly happy with keeping his magical aptitude below the scooby radar, and he admitted to himself, if not to anyone else, that he used his connection to keep it below that particular radar. He also admitted that while the scoobies were lousy friends, as loosely as he wielded that term, he did have part in their perception of him.

He may not have created it, but he had cultivated it, molded to his advantage.

He knew that if they even suspected that he easily outclassed Giles and Willow, then they would force him to actually use his magic against others. Use it for the greater good by corrupting his essence. He could understand that they would want to do it, but it didn't mean that he had to condone it.

He went to great lengths for them, even if they didn't notice or acknowledge it, but he always had.Yet he knew he wouldn't be able to keep on living his life on his terms if he granted them acces to this part of his life. A part of his life he was proud of, yet kept fanatically hidden, rather choosing discomfort, pain even death before he revealed this secret of his. He knew it was a distinct possibility that they would find out about him. He knew they would be angry when they did, he could understand.

After all, he could save them the trouble of risking their lives every night, by using his magic to merely 'fix' the 'problem'. He could do it, easily. Yet he craved for it not to be expected of him, he needed this to be his own, his secret, his focus, his core.

Still, he knew that when cornered, he probably would help them. Either that or turn on them.

Or turn away from them.

It was such an alluring thought really, and it had caressed his conciousness more than once these past couple of years.

In fact it came back to haunt him quite frequently. When Buffy had run away from Sunnydale, he had understood why she had done it, he had never condoned it, had never forgiven her for it, never.

But he understood.

Maybe if she had just told them, one word was all Xander would have needed to see her off with his blessings, yet she hadn't, and when she came back it had defined his way of perceiving her... probably just as much as her opinion of life, sacrifices and duty had been changed.

When she had come back, he'd felt oddly numb, choatic, furious and drained at the same time. It had felt worse then when he had realised and accepted that she had gone away. And a large part of him had hoped she would have just stayed away.

It hadn't happened obviously, and he had been drawn into the cycle of pain and shame once more. Life continued, and he called people who hardly knew him friends.

And even though they were not good friends, not the best of friends, not even Willow, not anymore... he still 'worried' about them, for lack of a better way to describe the mass of conflicting emotions he felt towards them.

Worried wasn't actually accurate, but they were major players in his life, and that was just something he couldn't ignore.

Adding to it, that these people repeatedly battled evil keeping the innocent and the corrupted safe on a daily basis... he felt some kind of obligation to at least be there, if not let them corrupt what was left of his soul.

It was hard really. He didn't want to share the elemental magic he controlled; he knew that it would be the emotional death of him if he did, yet eveear ear this was one of the things that bothered him the most as well.

He did 'this' every year, had done so ever since he remembered, ever since he was old enought to understand what he was doing.

'This' entailing his own somewhat strange, yet oddly liberating ritual. An anual ritual.

Although before, Jesse had been with him, and the time when he had forgone the yearly ritual, had been the the year he had murdered the shell of his best friend.

He'd regretted it afterwards, that he hadn't performed thitualtual at age 16. It had seemed such an important age, and it was, but he could not come here or anywhere else to perform this rite of passage. This turning of the tides so to speak, the change from old to new. A cycle, a rebirth.

December 31st unto January 1st.

New Year.

Jesse and himself had always done this in Jesse's backyard. Ingnorant of demons and magic, of tales of horror and monsters.

Ingnorant of the fact that the monsters most children feared to be hiding beneath their beds, were just as real of the monsters that they had to call parents, the monsters they feared in their beds.

Xandert hadn't been kidding when he'd commented on the fact that he had slept outside on Christmas, he'd only kept quiet about what Jesse and he did on New Year.

They would lie sheltered beneath a tree, huddled in blankets, dressed warmly in several coats, shirts and other pieces of clothing, and they would gaze at the stars. Such a simple yet humbling thing to do.

They would watch the old year die softly and silently, amidst the cheer and exuberance expressed at birtbirth of a new year. During that night, they would search their hearts and minds for the best and the worst that had happened to them during the old, and expressed it to the other boy, knowing that they would be understood.

Knowing that nothing more but a mere word, whisper, implication or innuendo would suffice.

Knowing that sometimes, even silence red sud supreme.

And when they had felt and seen and heard the old year pass, whither, die...

They expressed wishes for the other boy, wishes for themselves, they wished a wish for every star and then they had basked in that one moment where they could fool themselves that a new year truly meant a new beginning.

That it truly meant that they could start anew.

That it truly meant that life could be better now that they had left the horrors of domestical jurisdiction behind.

In that one night, they built up the courage to face a new cycle. And instead of slowly dying inside, just accepting the fact that they would always live out the part their parents had appointed them, they believed, truly believed that there could be a better way for them to pass their lives.

They believed, briefly, that the next year would not be filled with bruises, with cuts and scrapes and rapes.

They believed.

If only for a little while.

If only not completely.

If only not honestly.

Then again, Xander remembered he had read somewhere that it was difficult to be honest with others, yet more so with one's self.

Still, they both had known when the first rays of dawn had brought forth the first sun of the new year, that it was only wishing, and at that time. A time before Buffy and witches, werewolves and warlocks, they lived where wishing meant being disillusioned, instead of thinking the wishes would be granted.

But, still, he had believed, and that belief he needed desperately, if only for a little while.

Over the years, this ritual had been honoured if not somewhat changed, except for the one time, of course.

It was honoured, even if was no longer performed in the garden of the boy who died and took his last innocence with him.

even if it were no longer wishes about parents and beatings, though punches and cuts and scrapes still featured in his yearly contemplation.

Even if he no longer spoke his faults, his errors, his experiences, his grief, his sorrow out loud.

What mattered was that he had honoured it, and would honoure it as as long as he could.

He would always honour it, and never let another year pass by as the one when he'd lost Jesse.

Yet he still thought that year to be justified, even it was regretted, for how could he have believed in rebirth and a chance at starting anew, making everything better, when it was so obvious that Jesse would not be given the same opportunities.

He had not performed this little ritual, because he knew he would not have been able to believe, not ever so slightly, or ever so briefly, and he had felt that he in turn would have been further desecrating the memory of the best friend he had ever had in his entire life.

He had taken the ritual back up, when he had come to terms with Jesse's death, though had not accepted it, and he once more spent the night from old to new outside, in the cold , letting himself remember and muse on things to come, on things that were now past. On things that could happen, and things that would never be.

Xander looked at the shooting star that burned its fiery path through the sky, and repressed the urge to laugh insanely at the painfully, meaningsless accuracy of the symbol.

'If only' His mind whispered...

To wish upon a star.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*