Eighth-graders' lunch period, the crazed hum even louder than usual because it's Friday and there's only three hours left till freedom. At their usual table in the corner, under the window. Jesse's slurping up chocolate milk through his straw, and throwing out ideas for what to do over the weekend. Willow's managing to check their algebra homework while reading Mists of Avalon for the thirtieth time. And Xander?
Xander's doing what he always does these days. Staring hard and long at a portrait that takes up a whole page in Rolling Stone.
Jesse knocks Xander on the shoulder. Tries to grab the magazine but Xander won't let go. Covers the portrait's face with his hand, but Xander just slips the page out from under and brings it up almost to his nose for a closer look.
"Will! He's doing it again!" Jesse whines.
Willow glances over, smiling. When she tries to fold back the page to get a look at what Xander finds so fascinating, he ducks away, hugging the magazine to his chest. Her smile fades.
"Told you," Jesse says. "He's hopeless."
"Xan?" Willow asks. "What are you looking at?"
Xander shrugs. He glances down at his picture, then closes his eyes.
"What do you think he's looking at?"
Willow slides down the bench, exchanging another look with Jesse, who just slumps back and raises his hands in mock-surrender.
"Xander. Look at me." Willow speaks slowly and coaxingly, like Xander's a kitten up a tree who just needs to understand the elementary nature of gravity. Xander darts her a glance. Since his latest growth spurt, he has to bend his neck and slide down in order to see Willow eye to eye. Most of the time he feels like she's shrinking, not him growing. He hugs the magazine more tightly, the pages crinkling.
"Can't help it," Xander whispers. He looks around guiltily, eyes darting for eavesdroppers out for blackmail material, but it's not like anyone ever listens to them anyway. "I like the picture."
Willow smiles gently. "It's all right. We know you like the picture." She reaches to take the magazine from him, but Xander twists away, shaking his head hard enough to make himself dizzy.
"No, I really like it--"
Willow tilts her head, getting that studious look.
Jesse sighs melodramatically. "This is getting sick, man."
Xander loves the picture. He could stare into those pale, haunted eyes all day. He does stare all day. Sometimes, in his mind, he can feel the eyes on him, watching back, full of kindness and comprehension. Xander dreams about those bony hands strumming over his body, hoarse voice crooning in his ear. He finds himself more and more looking at other boys, looking for clues that they know, too, that they've seen those eyes and they get it. He sees traces and echoes of the picture wherever he goes, in oversized cardigans on skinny boys who need all the warmth they can get, in full lips that twist sadly when no one but him is looking, in hair that hangs too long in their eyes, straw-dry from so many crayon-colored dye jobs. Nothing he sees ever adds up to the portrait itself, but it's comforting all the same. He's not that alone.
"Look at me," Willow says again.
Xander shakes his head.
"Jesus, man, you're turning into some kind of fag!" Jesse spits out. "What? It had to be said."
Xander looks at him, eyes huge and wide, opening his mouth to say something. Willow touches his arm but it burns and stings, so he shakes it off.
"Xander?" she whispers.
He can't say anything. Jesse's glaring at him, Willow's bottom lip has gone all puffy like she's about to cry, and all Xander can do is look back down into those pale eyes. They know, and they can help.
"Outta here," Jesse says, grabbing his tray and stomping away.
Xander sees the picture in his mind. He knows the guy is married and has a kid and everything, but he's beautiful and fragile and not like other men. He could help Xander, take care of him and hold him tightly. In the landscape of Xander's dreams, he will sing to Xander, teach him to play guitar, kiss him with eyes open, staring into his, and it will all be okay. He can almost feel the kiss, not that he's ever been kissed, but it would be soft and knowing and taste like acoustic guitar--
He opens his eyes, shaking himself back to reality.
Willow murmurs something. Maybe she's practicing for Hebrew school, because he can't understand what she's saying. Thick strands of light slide like mercury over her lips and a swarm of lightning bugs winks around her head. Then everything vanishes, she goes quiet, and it's back to normal.
Willow is smiling at him, looking like she's about to ask what's wrong, as Xander blinks.
She has a thousand and one smiles, and that's the sad one, the one she gets when he lingers too long at her house after dinner, the one she gets when he leaves his French book in the rain for a week, the one she gets when he's not even looking at her.
"Coming to class?" she asks, packing all her books back in the straw bag her aunt sent her from Kenya.
Xander nods and stands up, following Willow out of the cafeteria. She squeezes his hand for a second and leans against him, the side of her breast brushing his side. Soft but firm, and he knows Jesse's never going to believe him, but he made contact.
He slings his arm around her and kisses the top of her head. She's his best friend, and he loves her more than anything.
Back on the table, the pages of the magazine riffle in the breeze from the window. The Jesus-sad-angel face stares back at the opposite page blindly. He'll be dead by midnight.
Xander won't ever look at another boy like he looked at Kurt again.