Two

Mr. Jessup was having entirely too much fun with his laptop. The teacher had barely acknowledged his students’ presence at the start of the next day’s class except to gasp out a short assignment before turning his full attention to whatever was flashing on that 17-inch screen before him. Evan wondered if the affable man was downloading porn or something. Didn’t seem to Evan like Mr. Jessup would be laughing so hard if he were, but then again, some of the sex sites he and Kurt had managed to get into were pretty funny.

In any event, Evan welcomed the assignment as it would allow him to puzzle out his own series of problems – no factoring or logarithms involved. Kurt had done it. The fuzzball had finally done it – lost his damn mind, that is. The night before, Kurt had waylaid Evan with “wunderbar news!” Amanda’s favorite cousin, Sylvia, was coming to Bayville for a visit! And Sylvia was a cutie, their age, and single, and up for a good time, and into guys who like extreme sports, and did Evan see where the German boy was going with this? Yes, indeedy! Double-date time, and Kurt would foot the bill for all! Kurt yammered on about how Evan was the first person he thought of shackling – er, introducing – Sylvia to, even before he’d heard about the girl’s trip to last year’s X-Games and her crush on Dave Mirra.

Evan had been . . . in more a state of shock than anything. He’d been slightly impressed when Kurt whipped out a picture of Sylvia – she was a slightly darker version of Amanda with long braided hair that looked like neat rows of beads – but . . . that was about as far as his enthusiasm had gone. So she’d gone to the X-Games . . . the one held the past summer had been notoriously lame. Even Bucky Lasek had said so, and he never complained about anything. And so she liked Dave Mirra? Great, but he was a fricking biker for god’s sake.

Still, despite his annoyance, Evan found he hadn’t been able to look into Kurt’s pleading, gold eyes and say that he wouldn’t do it. The skater just stammered out something about Kurt owing him big down the road and stumbled back to his room, falling on top of his bed as if he’d been shot. He’d seen confusion on Kurt’s face as he’d walked away; the other teen had really thought Evan would be excited at the prospect of spending a cost-free evening in the company of a pretty girl who might know a thing or two about skating.

Upon reflection, Evan himself wondered, too, why he wasn’t exactly jumping up and down at the idea. As he’d overheard his aunt say once, he was at that age when girls and not awesome stunts would be turning his head. Evan guessed that would be accurate – he was nearly 16 after all, and his Auntie O was pretty good at predicting stuff like that. But then . . . that had been before Ethan . . . and the . . . thing.

“Shit!”

Pietro’s anguished whisper snapped Evan to attention, and he looked up in time to see an almost comically woeful expression on the speedster’s face as he held his beloved pencil – now broken into two neat pieces. Pietro’s eyes, full of more sorrow than horror, flicked up to meet Evan’s briefly before dropping back down to the dismembered implement, apparently at a loss of what to do next. His rival’s discomfiture would have usually given the blond a sort of perverse satisfaction, but there was something in Pietro’s woebegone expression that strummed the pitying bone in Evan’s body. Pietro wasn’t the type to have a contingency plan . . . a backup. He just . . . did stuff, full-bore, no forethought. It was the way Pietro was made, something ingrained in the very fiber of his being, etc. To that end, Evan was sure the other teen didn’t have another pencil on him, nor did Evan think the white-haired boy would go around to their oh-so-interested classmates and ask to borrow one. Quicksilver around and steal one, yeah, Pietro would do that. But borrow? Nah. And Evan didn’t feel like having papers blown in face by the wind Pietro’s speed-running would kick up.

“Here.” Evan pushed across the desk just as Pietro had begun writing again with the nub of the broken thing. “You’ll get splinters and shit writing with that. Just throw it away.”

Pietro looked down at the pencil in mild confusion, and then back at the piece he held in his hand, and then regarded Evan with shaded eyes. “It was my favorite. I’ve had it since . . . back when we were at 104. I cheated on about three dozen tests with it. Found it underneath a chair during one of those lame-ass assemblies they have about not bringing guns to school.”

“Um, sorry, man.” Evan was a bit taken aback by the sincerity in his rival’s voice. Pietro, man of the multi-track mind, kept the same pencil for nearly two years? “You can have mine. It’s . . . one of my favorites, too, but . . . I can get another.”

Pietro picked up the new pencil and studied it with a critical eye. It was one of those mechanical jobs . . . press down on the eraser and voila! More lead, or whatever in the world that was, appeared. “Gee, thanks, Daniels. This mean we’re going steady?”

Great. The sarcasm was back. And it was a sarcasm made a bit insinuating by that looking-up-from-under-his-lashes thing Pietro tended to do that made him look so . . . so . . . Well, Evan wasn’t sure what exactly, but whatever it was, was making him nervous. “Maximoff, just use the fucking –”

“Mr. Daniels, is there a problem?”

Evan jumped at Mr. Jessup’s voice, now devoid of all amusement. Maybe whatever site the teacher had been looking at was experiencing server overload. Evan hated when that happened; it always meant he had to restart, and usually someone else would jump on the line before he got things going again.

“No sir.” Evan ignored Pietro’s teasing grin. “I was, uh, just lending somebody a pencil.” Out of the corner of his eye, Evan saw the speedster’s grin turn lopsided.

“I see.” Mr. Jessup clasped his hands together, his lips flatlining into a grimace. “Maybe you’d also like to lead the class in checking answers for the exercises you’ve been doing this morning? You can start us off with questions two through five.”

“Uh . . . I . . .” Questions two through five? That would be questions two through five that he’d ignored in favor of mooning over Kurt’s silliness and his reaction to said silliness, and getting sucked in by Pietro’s antics, yes? Those questions? Uh-oh. “Um . . .”

“Mr. Daniels?” Jessup’s eyebrows disappeared into what little hairline he had. “You did complete the assignment, did you not?”

“Well . . .”

“Good!” Mr. Jessup smiled a most unpleasant smile, turning to write something on the chalkboard. “So up to the board with you. Let’s see what you came up with.”

“I . . . sure.” Evan slowly got to his feet, ignoring the stares of his classmates and the evil cackling of one very amused archrival. And the blond had actually thought the day had a chance of not sucking much. Ha! So much for optimism.

“Daniels.” Evan had just turned his back when he heard Pietro’s voice float up to him and felt something being slid into his hand. A piece of paper. “You . . . can have it.”

Evan stared at the sheet and nearly pissed himself. Right there in uncharacteristically neat print, was the entire assignment. Evan couldn’t tell right off if the answers were even correct, but the questions had been neatly diagrammed anyway, all steps written out. Evan gaped at the other teen in surprise. When had Pietro done this? From the minute they’d sat down, the white head had been bent over the ever-present notebook. And why was Pietro giving it to him? Evan studied the questions . . . maybe all the answers were wrong . . . but even if they were, why wouldn’t Maximoff just let him flounder in front of the entire class? It would be a lot more amusing . . . at least with Pietro’s little cheat sheet, Evan could put on a convincing show –

“Mr. Daniels?” Mr. Jessup was tapping a chalk cloud onto his dark slacks. “We’re waiting . . .”

“Um . . . okay . . .” Evan glanced at Pietro, not sure whether to say something, but Pietro cut him off with a wave of his hand, which quickly turned into a shooing motion in the direction of the blackboard. Evan marched down the aisle like a convicted man, the scratching sound of Pietro putting his pencil to use following him to the board.

~*~

“A what?”

“You heard me, Daniels. Now shut the fuck up.”

“You’re serious?” Evan blinked several dozen times, but the picture didn’t change. Yes, he was awake. Yes, he was in school for another rousing day of summer education. Yes, his greatest foe was sitting across from him, and yes, said foe had just admitted that he was writing . . . a play. A play. Just went to show, a little judicious whining and some well-placed spikes worked wonders for getting information out of a reluctant source. Plus, Pietro had started asking more weird questions, and this time, Evan didn’t give it up without a fight.

“Do something halfway useful, would you? Go get hit by a car, die or something. I’m trying to work here.”

“You’re reading me wrong, Maximoff. I’m not ragging you. I just . . . you don’t seem like . . . um . . .” The blond took a minute to think things through. He was intrigued, but one false move, and everything would collapse on him like a house of cards. “Uh . . . it’s a play about Super Block Brawlers?”

Pietro looked up just long enough to glare at Evan before going back to his work. “They’re just the characters. It’s more a play about life.”

“Life.” Well, that answered . . . nothing. “Uh . . . whose life? Yarweh’s?”

“No. And not yours, either. Or all these pages would be blank.” Pietro’s chuckle rang hollow, and after a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, he sighed and laid his pencil – he was still using Evan’s ex-favorite – down, and stared into the darker teen’s eyes. Didn’t blink, didn’t fidget, didn’t move. Just stared.

Evan tried to meet the assessing gaze with aloofness, but there was something in the white-haired teen’s eyes that seemed off somehow. It wasn’t a pained look or a contemptuous one or even one of boredom. If Evan had to guess, he’d say it was one of fatigue. Yeah . . . that was it. Pietro just looked very, very tired, as if he’d Quicksilvered himself into a ditch the size of the Grand Canyon and was having trouble finding his way out again.

“All right, Daniels, what are you trying to pull? What’s with all the questions?”

Beautiful . . . Pietro smelled a trap, and for once wasn’t running his mouth a thousand miles a minute. Evan kept his expression neutral.

“I should get, like, half the credit. I’m giving you all the good ideas. First ‘dusk’ and then the whole Ken, Reiish, Yarweh story.” Evan wasn’t sure why he felt he’d won some sort of moral victory, but it was worth it to see Pietro’s lips curl in grudging acknowledgment. Deciding to press his advantage, Evan continued, “So . . . um . . . what else is in it? Any sword fights?”

The pencil started again. “Any what?”

“Sword fights. Action. You know. Remember in the movie where Treia and El Chupparon had that fencing thing? Y’know . . . this play can’t be any more suckass than the movie was. Maybe you could sell it. Naw . . . never mind. Thing’s probably copyrighted.”

“Swords? Jesus. These are people who can kill people with their bare hands – well most of them can – and you want swords ? Although . . .” Pietro trailed off, grunted something under his breath. “It’s got enough action. It’s just a . . .” The next few words degenerated into mumbles. “ . . . okay? NowgetoutofmyfaceI’mbusy!”

Evan let it go for the moment, and began the tedious task of pretending to care about matrices. Pietro was starting to get edgy, and an edgy speedster was no fun, and kinda dangerous. Besides, Mr. Jessup didn’t seem in such a playful mood that day. The teacher had strode in sans laptop, wearing an expression reminiscent of one of those stone monsters that adorned older buildings; all he needed to complete the image was water spouting out of his mouth. Scrawling an assignment on the board, he’d briefly discussed some topics and had stood at the front of the room glaring out the window.

As he worked on some of the harder questions, Evan’s mind circled back to the thoughts that had ushered him into slumber the night before. Ethan and the thing was at the forefront of those thoughts, but some Pietro thoughts had crept in, too.

The day after the . . . thing happened, Evan had heard through the grapevine that Ethan was going to take sousaphone lessons for marching band and was giving up skateboarding for good. And that had been that. They’d stopped hanging out together, stopped skating together, almost stopped talking. No one in Evan’s circle really cared, because they hadn’t liked Ethan anyway, but Evan had been stunned at the abrupt end to their contact. The skater figured that maybe the problem was Ethan was kinda freaked out by it, as was he, but still . . . ceasing all contact and giving up skateboarding seemed kind of extreme.

Not that he had much of a chance to talk to Ethan about it: Evan had seen the boy a handful of times in the hallway, and they always made small-talk, almost entirely about skating, but neither of them had brought up what had happened between them in the park that day. Evan considered himself too much in a state of shock to even start that conversation, and Ethan never even came close to broaching the subject. So the conversation had never happened, and they talked at each other, never quite meeting the other’s eyes, with the thing lying between them like an exploded bomb. The damage had been done, and the subject was dead, made so by a mutual and unspoken agreement by the two blonds that talking about it was off-limits. Bringing it up would have been as pointless as . . . well, as the thing itself had ultimately been. And nowhere near as satisfying.

But Evan suspected that it wouldn’t have been that way if it had been Pietro and him doing . . . the thing. They would have maybe gone for burgers or something – or maybe attempted to strangle each other afterward, but there would have been something more. There always was something more with him. With them. There was always something more, and probably always would be. Evan didn’t know if it was one of those love-hate things Ororo talked about sometimes.

He was reasonably sure that he didn’t love Pietro. Evan was also reasonably sure that he wasn’t really into guys, the thing notwithstanding. He would have known if he were that way, by now. Of course, being into guys and being into Pietro were two very different things . . . and there were times Evan got a glimpse of the Pietro he once knew, and he felt sad . . . felt like he’d missed out on something. That they both had.

Take the day before, as a prime example, and Pietro’s giving him that deus ex machina in the form of neatly done algebraic equations. All of the questions had been correct. Mr. Jessup had even complimented Evan on his technique and thoroughness in answering all the problems and held up the work as the way all the problems should be done. You couldn’t have pried the smile off Maximoff’s face when Evan returned to his seat, though the blond wasn’t sure why Pietro was smiling. If Mr. Jessup had found out he hadn’t done the assignment, Evan would have gotten an F for the day . . . and that would not have been a good thing for his summer school average.

So in that respect, Pietro had saved his ass . . . for what, Evan wasn’t entirely sure, but once Pietro had stopped grinning, he’d held up the pencil Evan had given him, waved it around like a conductor’s baton, and mouthed “Thanks” before busying himself with writing until the end of the period. It had taken Evan almost 20 minutes to pick his jaw up off the floor. Pietro had pulled his fat out of the fire because of a pencil? A pencil?!

“Yo, Pietro . . . don’t forget the Griots can’t be out in the rain without their bones caving in,” Evan whispered at the bent head. “So if Yarweh tries to do his rain dance, they have to be kept in their burrows.”

Silence.

“And, um . . . I was wondering . . . you gonna have a funeral for Reiish and Ken? I got some books on samurai customs and junk if you want to borrow it.”

Silence. More scribbling of the pencil. Erasing. More scribbling. Erasing. Annnd more scribbling.

Evan stared ahead a few moments more, taking the hint. Why Pietro was being so uncommunicative after having talked his ear off the past week, Evan didn’t know. Pietro wasn’t given to being moody, really, but there was a first time for everything. Evan uneasily wondered why he even gave a damn about Pietro not listening to him . . . not like he couldn’t live without Pietro’s chatter. Just made the day a little bit more boring, that was all.

Halfway through his first set of problems, a tapping sound caught Evan’s attention, and he looked up irritably. Great. Now Maximoff wants to talk. But Pietro’s head was still lowered, and after a minute, Evan noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Swiveling his head slightly, the brown eyes widened as he spotted the lanky figure of Mr. Jessup making its way toward their table, a grim look on his thin face.

Aw, shit. “Uh . . . Maximoff . . .” Evan made his voice as soft as he could. “Maximoff . . . you’d better . . .”

“Do you understand English or what, Daniels? I’m busy?” Pietro’s hand moved in ceaseless arcs and swoops and short strokes across the page. “No funeral. They’re just gonna die, so forget the book.”

“Uh, Maximoff?” The teacher was closing in rapidly. “Cut out what you’re doin’. Jessup’s –”

“Christ, Daniels, whaddaya want?” Pietro’s head snapped up, and he seemed oblivious to the impending danger. “Can’t a guy write a stupid sentence without being bothered?”

“Of course one can, Mr. Maximoff. If one is in English class.” A bony hand swooped before Pietro’s stunned eyes and grabbed the notebook. “But this is a math class . . . I’ll make the assumption that the little y and x on the board alerted you to that?”

Mr. Jessup flipped idly through the notebook, and Evan watched Pietro watch the teacher. The pale teen didn’t seem to be embarrassed or anxious or anything of the sort, but those blue eyes stayed trained to the little notebook.

“Very interesting, Mr. Maximoff. This doesn’t appear to be an essay at all.” Jessup squinted at a page. “A series of notes?”

Pietro’s eyes didn’t move. “It’s a play.”

“A play. I see. How imaginative. How intriguing. And how inappropriate. It must be very important to you to risk getting an F for the day in this class.”

Mr. Jessup smiled unkindly at Pietro’s half-hearted shrug. “Come on, Mr. Maximoff. Take some pride in your work. Your . . . play looks rather lengthy. Perhaps you’d like to do an advance performance for the class?”

Evan saw something dangerous and desperate flash across Pietro’s face at those words, and the pale skin seemed to grow the color of spoiled buttermilk. Shit! He’s gonna run for it!

“I . . . uh . . . no thanks . . .” Pietro didn’t make any sudden moves, but he sounded like he was choking on barbed wire.

“No, I think we’ve all earned a little diversion.” Mr. Jessup clapped a hand on Pietro’s shoulder, and Evan winced in sympathy as the class turned to stare in their direction. “Now, it’s been a little bit since I took that drama class in college, but I think I still have a little bit of the ham in me.” The teacher thumbed over a page, and cleared his throat. “All right, how about we start here.” He read silently for awhile, and then. “Hmm. How is this name pronounced? Re-YI-shi?”

“Reiish. One syllable.” Evan could read the “I’m screwedscrewedscrewed” expression clear as day on the face of his rival.

“Reiish. And who is this other person? Ken-chum? Sounds like an exotic dish.”

“Ken-chun. And it’s . . . a nickname.” Pietro flushed as a few of the girls began to giggle. “It’s just Ken. His name is Ken.”

Mr. Jessup read for another moment, looked from a spot on the page he was reading, to Pietro and back to the page. “On second thought, Mr. Maximoff, I think you’d best give your own reading. It seems it will be more authentic that way.”

Pietro’s mouth dropped open. “Me?”

“You. Now.” Jessup pulled the reluctant Pietro to his feet. “This particular passage interests me a great deal. This is a drama about love?”

Love play? Maximoff wrote a love play? About Block Brawlers? How far did he go with Yarweh and the Griot Queen? Evan was a little startled when Pietro’s eyes flicked his way. “Something like that.”

“How sweet.” There was a world of insincerity packed into those two words. “Well, I suppose you’ll need someone to read the part of Reiish. You’ll excuse me if I don’t volunteer. I was never good at the girl’s role.” Mr. Jessup’s smile was a little sinister. “Can we have a volunteer to help Mr. Maximoff with his performance. Perhaps Ms. Marsh –”

“Reiish is a guy.” Pietro’s turned to Evan, and he smiled brilliantly into the blond’s eyes. “Daniels . . . you always played as him. You wanna be him?”

“Uh . . .” Evan felt sweat beginning to collect on his brow. They used to kid around and pretend to be the characters back when they were kids, but not in front of people for goodness’ sakes. And Evan was still a little confused. Jessup had called it a love play . . . what did Reiish and Ken have to do with love?

“By all means, Mr. Daniels . . . read the part of Reiish . . .” A sickly smile stretched Mr. Jessup’s cheeks almost to the breaking point. “Gentlemen, the floor is yours.”

To work on or to faint on, Evan wasn’t sure, but he got up anyway followed Pietro up to the front of the class on surprisingly steady legs, and it wasn’t until Pietro had shoved the notebook in his hands that Evan had remembered where he was, and remembered to be amazingly nervous.

“Don’t muff this, Daniels. We’ve got an audience,” Pietro murmured. “Let’s make it good.”

Nod, nod. Evan scanned the page, ignoring the panic he felt knotting his stomach. Reiish had, like, two sentences of dialogue, and the other guy was blathering on about something or other. Leave it to Pietro to give himself the best part. That made Evan feel a little better . . . but not much.

“Are you cold?”

Evan wanted to bolt. Were his teeth chattering that much? Damn. “Uh . . . nah, I’m okay . . .”

“No, that’s my line, idiot. Keep up, willya?” All this delivered through clenched teeth. Pietro raked a hand through his hair, and began again, “Are . . . you . . . cold?”

Evan scanned the page for Reiish’s line. Saw the passage marked “R,” and began to speak. “No, I’m hot. I always feel that way around you. Hot and wanting to burn up.” Uh . . . okay. What? The blond knew his delivery was clunky, but Jesus, what was Reiish on talking like this? Maybe he’s delirious or something.

“Ken-chun, why did you wait until now to tell me?” that was the end of his line, and Evan passed the book back to Pietro, who waved him off. “I know what to say,” was the terse explanation, and Evan took the book back without a word.

“Because you wouldn’t have cared if I had told you.” The speedster delivered the line with closed eyes. “Did you really think I didn’t know what you were doing with Ian?”

Ian?! Waitaminute. There was no Ian in Super Block Brawlers. Evan’s nose grew warm, and it took a sharp nudge from Pietro’s elbow to remind him that it was his turn to read. “Uh . . . that was just a one-time thing. We never even talked about it after. And now he’s gone. Iowa, I think.”

Iowa. Iowa.

What

The

Fuck?

Wait a fucking minute! Maximoff knew about Ethan? Maximoff knows about me and Ethan?! Deep cleansing breath. It was his line again. “B-besides . . . it wouldn’t have worked out with me and him. I knew that. It was just a . . . thing.” Shit. Shitshitshit. Evan was grateful that he was leaning against the chalkboard because his legs felt like they were going to give way any second. “Not-nothing serious.”

“I could have told you that, but how did you know? Because he never made you laugh the way I do?” Pietro’s eyes were still closed, and Evan envied him. He wished he could read the thing with eyes closed, too. Then he wouldn’t have to see all girls staring at them open-mouthed or the guys squirming in their seats or Mr. Jessup looking embalmed. Pietro went on. “Because he only pretended to like the things you liked? Because he acted like it was a curse to touch you after he already used you? I bet he didn’t even kiss you goodbye afterward.”

Evan swallowed air. He didn’t. He just . . . booked. “No.” The blond read the next lines more than once before he managed, in a low voice. “No. It was because . . . he wasn’t you.” The blond swallowed hard. His tongue felt like a dead snake. “And I couldn’t pretend even during those two minutes he and I were together that he was.” Dammit, Maximoff, it was at least five minutes! “It wasn’t going to be good enough – ever.” What the hell . . . Reiish wants Ken? Maximoff’s writing them as gay?

The skater fought for calm, though he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, maybe everyone could hear it, possibly even see it. Pietro had known about Ethan all along? How? Wasn’t possible. Maximoff could have just added in that part to throw him. No way Ethan would have said anything . . . and . . . just how? How did he know?

“You fooled me.” Pietro opened his eyes, and though his gaze was elsewhere, there was no question as to whom the words were directed. “I used to think you were just dense, Reiish-san, but when I saw you with him, I knew you knew what you wanted. And it was me, wasn’t it? It was me all along, just like it’s been you . . . all along. For me.”

Again: What. The. Fuck? Breathe, Ev, breathe! Evan peered at the slanted scrawl on the page. “I don’t know what to say.” That’s a freaking understatement. “Ian was a poor substitute. I didn’t think you’d want me, and now I know it’s too late. Even now. Too late, Ken-chun. And when this rock collapses, we will die. My only hope now is that the others can stop Yarweh and slay him in our honor.”

“It will be done. Yarweh won’t win. He never does. But you are wrong, Reiish..” Pietro turned his body toward the blond. “There is still one thing we can do before we meet our deaths.”

The last word was barely out of his mouth before Pietro leaned maddeningly close, backing Evan up until he was almost flush against the blackboard. Evan could see the other boy’s teeth, could feel Pietro’s hand come to rest on his collarbone. Evan had no choice but to look into the intense blue of Pietro’s eyes. And meeting that gaze, there was no way Evan could hide his thoughts. This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it would happen, and it was a little scary that he and Pietro were going to have their first real moment on a classroom floor. Evan prepared for screams from the girls, threats from the guys, and . . . something weird from Mr. Jessup.

Evan steeled himself for the fallout, because Pietro was gonna kiss him and Evan knew he was going to let him. It was gonna happen right there in the middle of the classroom floor, which was sort of pathetic in a way, but oh, well, such was life, and he should stop him, but he wasn’t going to, and Auntie O was definitely getting a phone call that night, and Evan didn't think he was confused anymore . . . not really, not looking into those eyes . . .

“ . . . Er, gentlemen, thank you.” Mr. Jessup’s treble stunned them apart, and the wiry teacher looked about to break into a sprint if the two got any closer. “I think we can use our imaginations on what happens, er, next. Let’s all give Mr. Maximoff a hand. That was most . . . interesting.” He clapped like a seal, bringing his wrists, not his hands, together. No one else made a sound.

Mr. Jessup rummaged into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief, holding it to his shining forehead. “You can go back to your seats. And now . . . back to work. Page 156, problems 2-15.”

Pietro glowered at the teacher for a second, and then with a sideways glance at Evan, grabbed the notebook from his hands and headed back to the table without a word. After a few seconds in which he remembered how to get his legs to work, Evan straggled behind, mostly oblivious to the stares and giggles and blank looks that came at him from either side of the aisle. As Evan reached the table, the speedster looked up and gave him a “thumbs up” – smiling almost guiltily. Evan collapsed into his seat, staring glumly at Pietro’s lips, trying shake the feeling that he’d just been cheated out of something important, something special. And it was a long time before he could look away.

~*~

Same stairs, same posture, same gray clouds outside, same threat of rain, different day.

And a different person sitting on the bottom-most step. Evan stared at the back of Pietro’s head, momentarily confused to see the other boy sitting in his usual spot on the steps. One thing about Maximoff was that he didn’t hang around. Once school was out, so was the speed demon – likely sitting at home watching Dragonball Z before most kids had cleared the school parking lot. But there he sat, back to the school’s entrance looking at nothing in particular. Evan’s eyes shifted left to right. There were other exits, plenty of ways he could get around having to pass Pietro. Part of him figured it wouldn’t matter anyway. Jessup had given them Fs for the day, and Pietro had stopped writing. They hadn’t even breathed in each other’s directions for the rest of the period . . . Maximoff probably wouldn’t say anything to him now, either.

But then, why was he just sitting there? Quietly. Almost deathly still. Two attributes that were very un-Pietro.

Deciding just not to chance it, Evan began to backtrack into the school, but he hadn’t taken three steps before the silvery head lifted, like an animal scenting danger in the air. Pietro looked up and around. The speedster was backlit against the sun, and Evan was reminded of the painted angels he’d seen as kid on Christmas cards, all shimmering, light hair and with eyes like liquid sky, calm and serene.

Unable to find somewhere else to look, Evan dragged his board to a stop and waited until he was sure Pietro wouldn’t speak first. “You waiting for someone, Maximoff?”

“I was.” The speedster smiled thinly and scratched the back of his neck. “But never mind. I’d get on that moving disgrace you call a mode of transportation and start booking, Daniels. You saw the guys in there . . . I don’t think they appreciated our little show. Those types never do . . . and summertime’s just right for pounding freaks into the ground.”

Evan self-consciously rolled his board a little ways. It was making a weird squealing sound when he rolled a little ways on it, teetering a little, which meant the axle and the wheels likely needed to be replaced. He didn’t share Pietro’s concerns; the guys in their class weren’t going to touch either of them – they didn’t give a damn about anyone’s strangeness except their own, and most of them were stoned out of their mind. That was the type the were. They’d all gone home, anyway, breaking for the door as soon as Mr. Jessup had said go. Plus, it’d be likely forgotten by all the next morning anyway – nothing really had happened, and there was a test to be taken. Trigonometric identities and the like tended to take all the fun out of even the choicest gossip. Plus, it was summer school . . . there was no one around to tell.

The blond suspected Pietro didn’t really believe it either and was just saying that to get a response, and for the life of him, Evan couldn’t think of a decent comeback. What was there to say, really? I’m sorry we never screwed around ‘cause it would’ve been great? The thing had happened years too late and possibly with the wrong guy? I would’ve kissed you in front of everybody and not given a damn if I got my ass kicked for it? Knicks were gonna suck again this year? Pietro was expecting him to say . . . something .

“I . . . um . . . I thought the play was cool.” It was something to say. Not the best thing, and probably not the right thing, but Pietro seemed to be expecting something more, and Evan was doing his best to oblige. He saw the pale boy’s eyes widen a little, and Evan wondered if what Pietro had wanted to hear was some sort of half-baked denial. He couldn’t be entirely sure of the messages he was sending. A little unnerving, that, but Evan was used to it. “But . . . it sorta sucks that they find out how they feel about each other, and then they die.”

It was a long time before Pietro spoke. “That’s whole point of the play. All that time they wasted when they could’ve been . . . something to each other. And by the time they stop screwing around, it’s too late. That’s the way it goes. Tragedy. You know.” Pietro looked thoughtful. “But . . . you got a better idea of how it could end, maybe I’ll listen. Maybe I’ll even have ‘em get off that rock in one piece.”

Evan kept his eyes down. It was like getting kicked in the head each time he got glimpses of the Old Pietro. The Pietro who shared a tent with him in basketball camp and could tell the best stories. The Pietro he’d sneak into the arcades with because the white-haired boy knew how to break their favorite games so they could play as long as they wanted on one quarter. The Pietro who got him hooked on spicy foods and pineapple and mushroom pizza. The Pietro who’d nearly squeezed the life out of him when they’d won the state championship . . . that Pietro. Evan missed that Pietro.

It was possible – even probable – judging by the events of the week, to say nothing of the speedy mutant’s play, that Pietro missed the Old Evan, who was his boon companion, sounding board and partner in nominal “crimes.” And maybe Pietro did little things, weird things – like asking him about times of day, and giving Evan his homework to keep him from getting slammed, and smiling the way he did sometimes. Gifting Evan with real smiles . . . the ones that didn’t go sour at the ends, the ones that made his eyes look like slivers of ocean. Maybe Pietro, too, wondered what could’ve been . . . what probably would have been if things hadn’t happened and gotten them to where they were now: Enemies on two sides of a “war” that was being waged by no one in particular over an issue that didn’t really exist, and probably would not for several years, or whenever the Professor felt mankind was ready to learn about the existence of mutants.

“You know what? Maybe you’re right.” Evan flipped his skateboard beneath his arm. Better to just walk home today, and not test the wheels – too dangerous. “The way you wrote it is probably better and more realistic than any sugar-coated sappy shit. They’re better as what they were. It just . . . makes more sense. You know Reiish and Ken . . . they can’t really change. And it’ll give the Brawlers even more incentive to kick the hell outta Yarweh. Solidarity, and stuff.”

The blond was serious and sincere, but also knew he wasn’t making a bit of sense. It sucked hard, and it was a shame, and maybe it was a waste, but things were the way things were, and it was stupid to think otherwise. Surely Pietro understood that on some level. Maybe Pietro didn’t care that the ‘Old’ Evan had disappeared, but Evan knew he couldn’t be satisfied with intermittent appearances of the Pietro he used to know. That couldn’t make a relationship. A warm, familiar, slightly mellowing rivalry, maybe . . . A couple of hot makeout sessions? Maybe. But likely not something that could be called love, and not likely something that would be worth alienating his friends and family for. No. Best thing Evan could figure to do was keep on skating, go out with Kurt and the girls and try to be what everyone thought he was anyway . . . a normal, natural skaterpunk with no regrets.

Pietro was still looking at him, his throat working as if he were trying to swallow a mouthful of lead. Evan knew he was going to dream that night about beyond-blue eyes that could see straight through him to the other side and back again. Round-trip tunnel eyes. Pietro always had to put a spin on things.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I thought. Guess you can have this back, then.”

Evan flinched as something dark and slender was hurled his way, and he just managed to catch it before it poked his eye out. It was the pencil he’d given Pietro days before. Looked no real worse for the wear, except the end looked like it’d been chewed on and it was still warm. Like Pietro had kept close hold on it or kept it in his pocket, or something.

The skater turned the pencil around in his hand. When he looked up again, Pietro was off the steps and halfway across the quad, walking kind of slow – for him. Evan gazed at the retreating form of his rival, the boy’s silver strands waving a forlorn farewell like a thousand ghostly fingers. Evan sighed and clutched his recovered pencil like a spear. Yeah, that's what he was, a normal, nice skaterpunk with no regrets, except maybe . . . one. And Evan felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he realized he’d have three more weeks of staring that one regret right in the face.

FIN