Falling apart would have been so easy to do. It didn’t take much brainpower to sob, scream, tear your hair and wail about how unfair life and love and the world itself was. It didn’t take much doing to refuse to eat, sleep or bathe until your heart was mended or to regale friends and family with sob stories and empty threats.

But he didn’t want to do easy. Hell, he didn’t have the patience for it. He didn’t have the time for it, either. Everyone wanted a piece of him; he was being pulled in seventy different directions at once. So he had to keep a stiff upper lip – among other things -- suck it up and ignore the pain and hurt that raged inside him. He had to pretend that it didn’t hurt to breathe or think or feel. He had to let everyone think that he was okay . . . that everything was okay. He had to put on a show – the one thing he was impeccable at, and he had to be the tortured genius that everyone had come to know and love. Well, maybe not love, but respect, at the very least. And respect was a good thing.

Love, though. That’s what he wanted. Love. To love and be loved, to adore and be adored. And for a while, he thought he’d had it. Thought he’d hit the jackpot. He’d just been minding his own business, doing his thing, when he’d come into his life. Light-haired, beautiful and angelic looking, he remembered how his throat had gone dry and his heart trembled at the sight of him. His whole being had throbbed and he felt . . . well . . . he felt like he was in some other world, some other universe. A universe that made him hypersensitive to every thing around him – the heaviness of the air, the firm earth beneath his feet, the gentle warmth in the air . . . and in that world, there was only the two of them. Him and his golden boy. Destined to meet and love and love and love and keep loving. He remembered staring into those deep blue eyes and recalled that his one coherent thought was “forever.” Forever . . . that’s how long we will love each other. Forever.

And it had certainly seemed that way. They were happy for a time. Laughing, loving, and playing, each becoming more and more a fixture in the others’ lives. They shared a living space and food and friends, and family – though really, friends and family were the same thing. And they’d shared their goals and desires . . . or, more correctly, his golden boy had shared his goals with him and encouraged him to share his wishes, as well.

With his golden boy, his Pietro, he thought that he would have no problem rising to the top of his profession. The white-haired boy was his inspiration. Just one smile or one glance from those sparkling eyes made him want to press on to succeed. Made him want to battle to the best he could be, damn the consequences and fuck whomever got in the way. He found he’d do anything just to get another smile . . . another kiss . . . another night of having his beautiful Pietro in his bed, in his arms.

The moment their eyes met – the world was at peace, the air tasted sweet, and they were completely, blissfully happy.

So happy, in fact, that even now he had trouble grasping that none of it had been real. The laughter, the loving, the talking, the sharing – all of it, he realized now, was a dream. A pretty dream, a sweet, light, never-to-be-forgotten dream, but a dream nonetheless. It had taken him some moments to draw this conclusion, upon waking up that morning and finding himself in bed, alone, and his room empty, totally devoid of the golden presence he thought was in his life for good. After his morning cereal, and a quick run on his board, he came to the slow realization that none of the loving or the sharing had happened in reality. He’d dreamt it all. In the space of a night, he’d dreamt up a beautiful fable, complete with his snow-haired prince and with him in the role as the handsome dark knight come to save the day. In the space of a few hours, he’d loved, laughed and lived as never before with the golden boy that had haunted his thoughts since the minute he laid eyes on him.

A dream. A pretty, pointless dream. That’s all it had been. His subconscious had imagined it all, giving him a love beyond his wildest imaginations.

But what he was seeing now was no mirage, nothing imagined. He was wide awake now, and what he was seeing now was reality. There went his golden boy, the boy he’d loved only behind closed eyelids, walking with him. The interloper. He seethed as he watched the two interact. Catching a glimpse of Pietro’s face as he passed him, he saw that he was smiling that smile that could stop a heart and start it again in the same instant. His companion was smirking, it looked like, and said something that made Pietro smile wider.

I made him smile like that. In my dream. But none of it ever happened! But it seemed so real . . . He was with me. He left him and came with me . . . His eyes followed them as they walked down the lonesome street, huddled together. The interloper’s arm was around Pietro’s shoulders, pulling him closer. They moved almost as if they were one being, and indeed, if it weren’t for Pietro’s hair, it would have been difficult for him to tell where his golden boy began and where the interloper ended.

Seething and saddened, he watched them until they got to the end of the block. They paused at the corner, and he froze as Pietro and the interloper looked around, right at him it seemed. He stood very still and very calm, though it was quite a strain to remain upright. Ignoring the trembling in his knees, he forced himself to look at them, to watch them watching him. He gave the impassive face of the interloper a passing glance. This was what made Pietro happy? What banished the shadows from those sky-blue eyes? This was the person who whispered sweet nothings in his ear, who told him he was beautiful? Who spoke of loving and not just screwing around? Who cherished him? This was him? The interloper could barely take care of himself, and he was the one Pietro was going to trust his heart to?

He’d been sure that the instant love he’d felt for Pietro had shown in every move that he made, every line of his body, every fiber of his being. He could see it. Hell, everyone could see it. But could Pietro? Had Pietro? Obviously not.

And it was, in the end, his fault. He’d had the chance to say the words. He remembered the look in those blue eyes -- the searching look, and the questioning gaze. Pietro had given him the chance to say the words that would have made him stay. That would have made him his. He’d given him ample opportunity to say the words that would ease the pain he’d seen in those eyes in the moments before they’d gone to bed together. He remembered their easy conversation. Their gentle flirting. The passion that ensued between them. And then . . . he’d frozen. Wanting to say the words, but unable to. Unable to move, even, as complete love for this boy overwhelmed him. Fuck . . . the most important moment of his life, and he’d totally blanked! In his mind, he saw Pietro turn his back and leave – a silver blur as he left the warm bed and returned back to the ramshackle dump he called home. And not two days later, he was back into the arms of the interloper. He saw himself staring after the thin teen, wanting to knock the interloper on his ass and gather Pietro in his arms and tell him just their one night together had meant to him. That it had been, for him, love at first sight.

But he’d blown it. He’d been able to do more than stare bug-eyed as Pietro gave him a forlorn, sad little shrug and turned away, walking out of his life, into the interloper’s arms. Leaving him utterly alone. And then he dreamt. In the dream, he had said the words, and Pietro had chosen him – and it was the interloper who’d been left out in the cold.

But it had been a fucking dream. A dream. He had a brief thought of running after Pietro now, and saying, “Last night, I dreamt of you, and we were beautiful together.” But his legs wouldn’t obey him. The words sounded idiotic to his ear. And besides . . . they were out of sight now.

He wondered if it would have made a difference if he had run after Pietro and plied him with pretty words and gentle touches. Would he have gone with him? Would he have given up his interloper? He’d seemed so open just a week ago, so vulnerable. Looking at him now, he was conscious that something had changed. Pietro seemed happy, buoyant. Secure. And none of it had anything to do with him.

Pietro loved the interloper. He could see it, and it made his heart grow sick. His dream, it had been so perfect, giving him a glimpse at what could have been. But it was never going to happen now. He’d had his chance to reel Pietro in while he was hurting, but in the interim, the interloper had moved in and made Pietro whole again.

A dream. All a fucking dream. Why’d I have to wake up? Why couldn’t I have just kept on loving him . . . kept on dreaming . . .

He took a deep breath and looked up at a darkening gray sky. It would be easy to sit on the ground, feel the cold of the concrete seep into his bones until he couldn’t think, move or feel. It would be so easy . . .

But he didn’t have time for easy. Grim-faced, he turned and resumed walking in the direction he’d been going before being confronted with his golden boy once more. He had to suck it up. Soldier on. It was expected of him. And he wouldn’t disappoint.

~*~

“What are you smiling about?” Lance glanced over at his grinning, speed demon boyfriend as he fished in his pocket for the keys to the car. “The movie sucked.”

“And? It’s not like we saw any of it.” Pietro’s smile grew, and he gave his lover a sideways glance as they climbed into the jeep. “I was thinking about last night. It was the best birthday I’ve ever had. Nice job of convincing that one guy to open the restaurant for us.” He smiled, recalling how Lance’s form of convincing had shattered several windows and opened up myriad cracks in the sidewalk outside a certain Italian bistro in downtown Bayville.

“The guy was being an asshole. The place closed at ten . . . we got there at quarter of.” Lance rounded a corner, heading for the main drag that would take them back to the Brotherhood home. “How long could it take to boil water for spaghetti? Besides . . . I made it worth his while, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I guess feeding us in exchange for you not turning his restaurant into a chalk outline was a pretty fair deal,” Pietro grinned stretching his arms above his head, conscious that he was more than a little sleepy. It had been a long night. A late night. And a very, very good one. “And that cake . . . how’d you get it on such short notice?” He recalled the three-layer confection garnished with chocolate curls and raspberries, half of which was sitting in Lance’s refrigerator waiting to be devoured. “I still can’t believe it was still there when we got back.”

“Well, I wanted you to have a good birthday, and Fred wanted his boxers not to be slimed on by Todd. So it all worked out.”

Pietro mulled that over for a minute, then decided that he really didn’t want to know. “And going to that late show at the planetarium was fun,” Pietro went on. “How’d you know I liked that stuff?”

“I do have ears as well as a hot body, you know. And I know you have a mouth and a brain. And you use them independently of each other at times, even.” Lance smirked at him, and then his expression immediately softened. “I listen, Pietro. So talk to me. The communication thing works, you know. It works both ways.” He paused for a moment. “I know that now.”

“I know,” Pietro said softly. He wondered for a moment what might have happened if Lance hadn’t made an effort to make up for the faux-pas of leaving the Brotherhood to join the X-Men. The speedster had been more than confused by the defection – he’d been devastated. Lance had given no indication that anything was wrong – not between them, anyway – and then one day, poof! He’d just up and left, no letter, no explanation, nothing! And to be with Kitty Pryde, no less? That had been the kicker for the speedy mutant. He’d been loath to think that his and Lance’s fumbling attempts toward building a relationship had scared the rock tumbler off, but all signs seemed to point to that as the reason for Lance’s taking off. Pietro had wondered if maybe he’d moved too fast, pressed too hard, wanted too much. But still . . . he had left. And just a week before Pietro’s birthday. That was a little extreme, even for Lance. Had made the speedster wonder if he’d read the older boy wrong. Made him wonder if he was just another checkpoint in Lance’s “finding himself” journey.

And even though Lance had snapped out of whatever haze he was in just days before Pietro’s big day, things had been strained between them. No loving, definitely. And hardly any talking. It had gotten the white-haired boy to thinking -- what if Lance had just gone on his way, not bothering to show Pietro that he really cared? What if his birthday had passed without Lance making some sort of conciliatory gesture? Pietro shuddered as he thought of the possibilities, and was thankful Lance had come to his senses and shown him he cared before anything happened that they both might end up regretting. “It was a great birthday. I can’t wait to open my presents.” Lance had hinted that the large parcels stashed in the back were for him.

“Patience,” Lance grinned, nudging the gas a little. “I wasn’t sure about some of the sizes, so you’ll have to try some things on. That should be fun.” His eyebrows rose. “I like a show.”

“Hey . . . it’s my birthday . . . shouldn’t I get the show?”

“Oh don’t worry.” Lance’s voice took on a smoky, teasing tone and Pietro shivered. “You’ll be entertained. Trust me.”

Wow. Pietro settled back into his seat, with a self-satisfied look. This Lance – warm, gentle, showing flashes of an understanding of what romance was and what made a relationship work -- was such a change from the coldhearted, hard-headed prick he purported to be. It was like a dream come true. One Pietro hoped he’d never wake up from. “Laaaaaaaaaance! Fuck the stop signs and let’s haul it! Don’t make me get out of here and race you.”

Lance’s smirk was evident, and he glanced over at Pietro, about to speak, but then halted. “Hey, there’s your buddy.” He nodded out the window toward where Evan was walking. “They put me in the room next to his, and I wanted to shove those stupid spikes of his down his throat. Not only does he have piss-ass taste in music, he snores worse than Fred.” Lance paused. “Guess we shocked him, huh, back there. I thought he was gonna piss himself when he saw us holding hands, looking all shocked and shit. Like he’s not on his knees getting off with Fuzzbrain every night. . .”

Pietro looked out his window, seeing the blond-haired boy moving slowly down the block, his head bent to the ground, and his skateboard clasped tightly under his arm. The silver-haired boy studied his rival as he and Lance passed him in the jeep. He wasn’t such a bad-looking guy, the bleach job and the faux-skater attire aside. He wasn’t such a bad lay, either, Pietro hid a smirk, thinking of their very brief hook-up the week before. He’d been vulnerable and Evan had been available . . . and strangely willing. And strangely very, very enjoyable. Under very different circumstances, Pietro wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have gone for Evan. But not now. Why settle for that when he had the pick of the litter? And things were going to be all right between him and Lance. Pietro could feel it.

“Yeah I see what you mean about Xavier and his stupid training sessions. Looks like you got out just in time. Look at poor spykey,” Pietro said, a note of mocking pity in his voice. “Pathetic fuck looks like he’s totally sleepwalking.”

Fin