Seven-B

 

 

A scowl etched itself firmly into Lance Alvers’ brow as he stared vacantly into the dark, narrow void he called his locker, only half-seeing the heaps of books, papers, torn clothing and other odds and ends he kept stored in the space. He grasped the locker door, feeling the thin metal give a little under the pressure of his fingertips, and wondered if there would ever come a day when he didn’t feel like going home and banging his head repeatedly into the nearest wall.

It was quiet and oddly still in the corridors of Bayville High. In fifteen minutes, that would all change -- the ringing of final bell would sound, setting off the controlled chaos that typically marked the end of the school day. At the moment, though, all was quiet, silent . . . peaceful.

God-fucking-dammit! Lance rammed his fist into his locker door, the tinny report echoing through the hallway, disturbing the calm for a moment. His scowl deepened.

Fuck! Why today? Why the fuck today?

A Big Mac run gone awry had shortened the school day for students in Mark Krygek’s American History class. The scatterbrained teacher had returned late from his lunch break and locked his car keys in the trunk – which, inexplicably, he didn’t discover until he was well into discussing the economic repercussions of Reconstruction. He dismissed the class immediately, to the delight of most of the students. The mortified teacher hurried out close behind the thong, oblivious to the dark look a lanky, still-seated student was aiming him, but absently aware that the ground beneath his feet seemed to be shuddering.

Ignoring the throbbing in his fist, Lance yanked his jacket from the confines of the locker he’d spent an inordinate amount of time glaring at. Shutting the door with a resounding bang, his gaze swept the still empty hallway. The early dismissal might have made his classmates happy, but it had the potential to get the rock tumbler’s afternoon off to a sucky start.

Since he and Kitty had begun their clandestine rendezvous, they’d followed the same routine for meeting after school – Lance would loiter in the hallways five minutes or so after the final bell sounded, conveniently finding himself walking down the very corridor where Kitty’s locker was located. He’d walk by the girl slowly, his presence usually nicely shielded by other students in the hallway. He managed to break free of the crowd just long enough to catch her eye. In a split second -- usually, that was all they had before one of them became obscured by their fellow classmates -- Lance could tell, either by a quick nod or a curt shake of her head, whether he would be spending the afternoon in the company of the lovely X-Girl or if he’d be listening to Tabby screech along to her No Doubt CD back at the Brotherhood abode.

It was a neat little system, and worked like a charm every time -- well, there was that one incident in which some girl had knocked into him just as he was looking for the signal. He missed it, and as a result, stood alone in the rain for a half-hour. But that aside, it was foolproof -- but the window of opportunity was minuscule. The little scene had to take place in the same spot, at the same time as scheduled, or else something could go very wrong.

And already, something had gone wrong, thanks to Krygek and his airheadedness. Ordinarily, being let go early would not have been a big deal; Lance would have just cooled his heels until the bell rang and then proceeded as usual. But that day, after the lunchtime scene with his Brotherhood brethren, Lance knew he couldn’t just hang around. Dark eyes narrowed as the image of a furious Fred elbowed its way into the forefront of Lance’s consciousness. The argument he’d had with the hefty mutant had rankled at the older boy all day. It was hours later, and Fred’s words still rankled, making something deep within Lance shudder. Fred’s expression, the tone of his voice, the way the immovable teen had interrogated him seemed like something out of a cop drama . . . it was wild. And highly disturbing.

He was aware that his activities might pique the interest – and suspicion – of some of his housemates, and had been prepared for questions, insults – maybe even veiled threats – from Pietro or maybe Tabby. But Fred? Fred, whose world-view seemed to be limited to eating, causing general mayhem and  . . . eating . . . Fred was questioning him? Either the husky blond had undergone a complete personality transformation in the short time Lance had been away, or he was not being as careful about covering his tracks as he’d imagined.

Neither thought appealed to Lance. There was a whole week left in his “probationary” period. Before that afternoon, he thought he could breeze through the days covertly pursuing Kitty while patching things up with his teammates. Now, he wasn’t so sure; if Fred continued on his case, things could get scary – and could become even more so if the rest of the team started scrutinizing his movements. So far, Todd, Pietro and even Tabitha had appeared largely unconcerned with his comings and goings – or so he’d thought. Fred’s outburst could be indicative of suspicions the rest of the Brotherhood shared. Lance couldn’t forget the odd coincidence of Pietro’s showing up at his and Kitty’s rendezvous point, but he’d been happy enough to dismiss it as just that . . . an odd coincidence. Now, he wasn’t so sure it was, and that uncertainty was making him crazy. 

Lance’s head snapped up at the sound of footsteps close by. A trickle of anonymous underclassmen moved down the hall, their voices harsh in the white-noise calm of the corridor. Lance checked his watch – five minutes left. He considered his options – he could hang around, proceed as usual. He walked slowly to the end of the hallway in the direction of Kitty’s locker.

He knew he couldn’t linger long. After the scene at lunch, Lance didn’t feel up to another possible confrontation with any of his teammates. He’d already been worn down by Fred’s verbal pummeling, and Pietro’s follow-up talk . . . was something else again. Something he was sure both of them would rather forget. But Lance had to laugh, remembering the look on Pietro’s face when --

The shriek of the final bell caught him in midstride. The almost simultaneous opening of classroom doors startled him into inaction for a moment as the hallway became flooded with laughing, yelling, annoying fellow students. Hunching his shoulders, he moved along with the swell of the crowd, eyes darting this way and that, keeping his eyes peeled for familiar faces. One good thing about Fred was that it was impossible to miss him – on the other hand, it would be equally impossible to avoid the huge teen if their paths happened to cross. He bowed his shoulders a little more and dropped his head lower.

A logjam of grunting football players slowed Lance’s progress, and for a moment, he was stuck, unable to push through the masses at his back or forward through the wall of thick-necked muscle. Battling the desire to clear a path for himself by opening a gulch beneath the goon squad, Lance pressed forward with a fierce frown. Craning his neck to see beyond those in his way, he noticed a slight gap between the beefy bodies that he’d be able to squeeze through if he exhibited some . . . insistence. Getting his elbows ready, he made a dash for the space, but screeched to a stop when he spotted Pietro walking toward him, winding effortlessly through the crowd. His initial alarm in seeing his teammate was replaced by curiosity as the speedster came closer. Pietro’s expression was serious -- almost solemn – quite different than how he appeared during their “talk.”

Lance continued his surreptitious study as Pietro passed close by, but not looking over at Lance or anyone else in the hall. The slender teen was headed in the opposite direction of the parking lot, where Lance assumed Freddy, Tabby and Todd were waiting in the Jeep. He wondered just where he was going, and . . .  what the hell was he wearing?

Lance turned to watch the retreating back until it was obscured by the crowd. The earth-mover shook his head slowly. And the Brotherhood had the nerve to say he was acting weird . . .

 

~*~

 

Being the thrashing street skater he was, Evan was very accustomed to obstacles, but this was getting ridiculous.

School had ended twenty minutes before, and for at least that amount of time, the blond had been fighting his way through a wall of humanity that clogged the halls in what was becoming an epic-length attempt to collect his skateboard from his locker. There were about 1500 students at Bayville High, and by the looks of it, every last one of them were packed in the small stretches of hallway, milling around the hallway like drowsy bees. Evan never understood how these same people who counted down the very minutes until the end of the school day could find nothing better to do than hang around the building after the final bell had rung, crowding the hallways and blocking most of the exits.

And if that weren’t enough to tick him off, it seemed every step he took toward freedom, someone was there to block him. First, Kurt had cornered him after their last class, wanting to drag him off to shoot hoops. Evan had begged out of it, pleading a “prior commitment,” which Kurt – bless him – accepted and moved on. But no sooner had he gotten rid of Kurt and had gone three steps forward than had Rogue had accosted him, asking if he knew whether Ororo or Jean was cooking that night. Evan hadn’t been too sure, but he figured that after the last time Jean had tried to cook, the mansion had to be evacuated, so it was pretty safe bet that his Auntie O would be pulling dinner duty. He told the goth girl as much. Rogue looked dissatisfied for a moment, though Evan was sure that’s what she wanted to hear, and then shrugged and said she’d be eating at Risty’s, asking him to make the appropriate excuses to Professor X and the rest.

After that, Evan had made somewhat steady progress down the clogged corridor after, but was stopped three times in succession – once by a few of his skating buddies, all of whom had been totally floored when he declined to run routines with them. Then Scott, materializing out of seemingly nowhere, had pulled him aside to remind him that the team was meeting downtown in an hour or so to pick out a birthday gift for Hank – and that if he were even two seconds late, his name wouldn’t be put on the card. And then one of his group of skating friends had caught up to him again, asking to borrow his knee pads and related safety gear – since he wasn’t going to be using them that day.

With each encounter, Evan’s irritation grew, and he felt the tingle just beneath his skin that usually preceded spike shooting. On any other day, when he had absolutely nothing to do but grab his books and literally spin his wheels all afternoon, he’d have been able to navigate the hallways uninterrupted. But it would have to be the one time that he was in a rush that everyone seemed to need something from him. He grit his teeth and pressed on, sure that if one more person stopped him, he’d shiskabob them.

As Evan approached the end of the hall, the crowds seemed to ease and he was able to breathe and move more easily. Relaxing a little, he made quick work of the hallway, striding steadily to his locker. The plan of action looped in his brain: grab the books he needed. Grab his board. Take off for Liberty Park and hope that foot traffic was light. Glancing at his watch, he grimaced, and lengthened his steps. Evan had watched Pietro fly out of history class looking less disheveled than the last time he’d seen him. So the speed demon was probably at the park at that very moment. The pleasure afforded by the thought of the silver-haired boy waiting around for him was tempered by the haughty words spoken the night before:

You don’t show, Daniels, deal’s off . . .

Evan had no doubt that Pietro wouldn’t wait indefinitely – boy had the attention span of a sand flea, after all – and there was a very good chance that he’d waited for about 5 minutes then given up. Evan held out hope, however, that Pietro would cut him some slack and wait around in the interest of good sportsmanship. Sure, the speed demon had never exactly been guided by that principle before, but there was always hope. Besides, Evan felt ready to explode. He’d thought about the note all day, taking it out several times to reread the words he’d already memorized. In class, he could barely keep his focus, and kept looking around, hoping for some clue as to who it might be. And as much as it rankled him that he was subjecting himself to one of Pietro’s games, it would all be worth it to solve the mystery and/or if it worked out. Especially if it worked out – which it could, Evan reasoned, despite the shaky start and Maximoff’s involvement.

  But first things first – getting to Liberty Park and submitting to the torture that was spending time with Pietro seemed the only way that he’d get any answers, so away he’d go. He shoved his hands in his pockets, fingertips brushing the exalted note. A smile warmed his features, and he drew the letter out, his eyes caressing the sunny paper as he continued down the hall. Turning a corner, he reached the end of the missive – down to that elusive, maddening XXXX, and he sighed, the corners of his mouth turning downward in a thoughtful frown. Who are you? He stared at the paper, the silent question echoing in his head. Where are you?

Evan looked up quickly, a little self-consciously, aware that whoever this was might be watching him right now just as he’d been watched earlier in the morning. The idea should have appealed to him, but a prickle of anxiety danced along his spine, and he breathed deeply. The way was clear, the hall was open, and finally, every barrier gone.

  He turned a corner, took one step, and then . . . stopped. Dead.

For a moment, Evan was a bit disoriented, vaguely aware that his mouth was open and his jaw slack. Was he in the right hallway? The right school? The right planet?

Evan blinked once, twice, three times - expecting the scene to change each time his lids snapped open. But it didn't. He was still in the same hallway, still staring at his locker and the unfamiliar girl standing in front of it – or, rather, beside it. She was half-turned toward him, her profile intermittently obscured by long, dark, hair. Brown hands were pressed against the slats of his locker, something fluttering between the fingers. A piece of paper. A piece of yellow paper. Evan leaned forward, his heart pounding in his ears.

Holy fuck. It’s . . . it’s  her. Evan edged closer, fascinated, as she continued her struggle at his locker. It’s her. It’s gotta be! Wow . . . finally!   He smiled goofily and his fingers curled around the snippet in his hand. If he could have, he would have kissed every putz who’d waylaid him – even Kurt – though the thought of fur in his mouth was not appealing. But nevertheless, he had them to thank for delaying him long enough to witness this . . . beautiful sight.

Evan moved cautiously, soundlessly down the hall, pondering his next move. Should he say something? Do something? On the one hand, he didn’t want to jump the gun and scare her off – this was someone too shy to talk to him face to face, after all. But then again, he felt he should make some move. It was by the purest of accidents that he’d stumbled across her; a more perfect opportunity to approach her might not present itself again. He wavered, weighing his options -- the one side of brain telling him to do the one thing, the other side advising the other . . .

And suddenly, the decision was taken out of his hands. She turned sharply, chocolate-colored strands whipping and settling around her shoulders, and her liquid gaze settled on him.

Everything became a bit hazy for a moment, and Evan saw the girl start to move. Somewhere in the recesses of his sluggish brain, a voice screamed at him to do something to stop her. He stepped forward a little, opened his mouth --

“Hi! I didn’t think you were still here.”

-- And closed it. Quickly. Blinking in surprise, Evan tried to process just what was wrong with the picture. She was looking at him evenly, giving him a thoroughly lovely smile, and didn’t seem the least bit startled, frightened or embarrassed. Not exactly what he would have expected from a girl too shy, apparently, to even sign her name on a scrap of paper.

“Oh, sorry . . .” She looked at his locker, at him, and then back at the locker. “Do you need to get in here?”

Evan walked hesitantly forward, still unsure as to what his course of action should be. Introducing himself would be unnecessary  – of course she knew who he was. In the same vein, he didn’t feel he should ask who she was. That would be . . . almost rude. And besides, looking at her now - taking in the slight figure, the hair - the dark eyes, he had the vague feeling that he’d seen her somewhere before.

“Evan?” The girl tilted her head, her expression slightly confused. “Is there something wrong?”

His brain unlocked, and his body jump-started itself again. “No!” he said loudly, startling them both. “Uh . . . no. I mean . . . nothing’s wrong. I  . . . uh . . .” He shuddered at the sound of his voice. You sound like a fucking retard! Say something cool! Something smooth! Say something . . .

A slightly coherent thought formed in his mind and he tossed it out like a life preserver.  “Um . . . you look familiar.”

Later, Evan would consider his words and realize that it wasn’t so much the wrong thing to say as it was a dumb thing to say. The hallway throngs aside, Bayville was still a pretty small school – definitely tiny compared to PS 104 – so there were very few faces that were completely foreign to him. But still, it was the only thing his brain offered up that didn’t sound like “Guhhhhhhh.”

“Well yeah . . .” she glanced at him sideways, her nose crinkled cutely. “I do sit behind you. . .” Mistaking Evan’s thunderstruck expression for one of incomprehension, her tone turned gentler. “In English? Mr. McAlevy’s class?”

“Oh . . . right!” Evan mentally slapped himself. English was one of the only classes in which he stayed remotely awake . . . how could he have not noticed someone like her? Well, she did say she sat in back of him, but still! No excuse! He would think that he’d recognize the possible girl-of-his-dreams. “It’s just that, um, you look . . . different.” He was aware of how lame it sounded, but he couldn’t seem to stop the stupidity from coming out of his mouth. “Uh . . . I mean . . .”

“Yeah, I cut my hair.” She ran a tentative hand over the loose, dark tendrils, and beamed at him. “I didn’t think anybody had noticed.”

A silent sigh of relief. Score one for the Spyke-Man. “It looks nice.” His confidence grew along with her smile, and he was searching for an appropriate follow-up, when his gaze dropped to the forgotten paper fluttering from her fingertips, the latest, no doubt, in a series of letters singing his praises. So she was smart as well as beautiful. This just kept getting better. “Uh . . . is that for me?”

For a minute, Evan thought that he’d said yet another stupid thing, because the girl gave him an odd look, but then followed his gaze downward and smiled sheepishly. “Oh this!” She gave the paper a little shake. “Yeah! Sorry, I totally forgot. Here.” She held the paper out toward him. “I thought you’d left, so I was going to just leave it in your locker, but I can’t figure out how to get it in there, so I guess it’s good that you were here, after all.”

Ah, denial. Evan resisted the urge to smirk. Like she hadn’t been slipping notes in there without a problem. But if she wanted to pretend, fine. He could play along. “Yeah . . . it was a . . . good thing.” He emphasized the last two words as he took the paper from her hands. His own fingers trembled a little and he studied the missive with eager eyes. There it was: the neat handwriting . . . his name written prominently atop the page . . . a few red marks . . . a . . . B-minus?

“It was stuck to the back of mine.” Her voice seemed far away as Evan stared at the object in his hands, no love note but his 500-word essay on Grapes of Wrath. A gummy-looking smudge right above the minus sign caught his attention. It looked a little like a grape jelly stain. “I tried to catch you after class, but you’d already left.”

“Thanks . . .” Evan continued to stare at the paper, which he realized, was not the tell-tale yellow at all, but only seemed so in the light. A keen sense of disappointment thrummed through him, but he wasn’t upset, really. She still could be the one. . . maybe she’d snagged his paper somehow so she’d have a ready excuse if ever she was discovered. But the “not quite right” vibes were beginning to return.

“Not a problem.” She shrugged lightly. “Well, guess I’ll see you around?”

He looked up. Maybe he was imagining things, but the way she said “around” seemed . . . insinuating.

“I hope so,” he said in his smoothest voice, and was rewarded with another wide smile just before she turned and walked away. He stared forlornly after her, aware that he hadn’t asked her name. It wouldn’t be hard to find out, though; he had friends who paid slightly more attention during class than he did. Maybe one of them could –

“Evan?” She whirled around suddenly and walked back toward him, a skittish smile playing on her lips.

“Yeah?” His heartbeat sped, and his palms began to sweat. The girl’s expression had changed from one of detached amusement to . . . something he couldn’t quite identify. And the tan cheeks were flushing a particularly interesting shade of red.

“Um . . . I was wondering . . .” She bit her lip and looked down, then up. “Well . . . um . . . you know . . . you’re friends with Kurt . . . Wagner. Aren’t you?”

Kurt? That was . . . unexpected. “Um . . . yeah. We’re tight. You know him?”

“Well, not really. I mean . . . sort of.” She ducked her head and giggled – giggled! – toying with a yarn bracelet around her wrist. “We have some classes together. Well one, anyway, though next semester, we might have more than one. And I know who he is, but I’m not sure he even knows I . . .” The girl trailed off, shaking her head ruefully and giggling again. “Sorry. I’m rambling. Anyway . . . when you see him, could you tell him that Amanda from math said . . . hi?”

“Amanda from math.” Evan nodded. Amanda. Amanda. Easy to remember.  “Said hi. Got it. No problem.”

“Thanks!” She was smiling so hard, Evan thought the corners of her mouth might meet at the back of her head. For a brief moment, he was thought the girl was going to hug him, but she then she was walking away again, stopping only to give him a slight wave goodbye. He watched her until she turned a corner and then sighed, fumbling his locker open with one hand. He glanced in, eyes seeking another slip of yellow paper. Finding none, he folded up the graded assignment, tossed it in, grabbed his skateboard and jacket and shut the door tightly. With his board secure beneath one arm, Evan looked at the morning’s letter again, his thumb running thoughtfully, almost reverently, over the words. Amanda. He smiled dreamily – she could be the one . . . but there was, for the moment anyway, only one way to be sure . . .

 

 ~*~

 

He’s not coming.

Pietro glanced at the field house clock just as he made the turn into his seventeenth lap. It was well past three-thirty, though the gathering clouds that sporadically covered the sun made it seem a little later. A cold wind whispered through the tops of the trees that ringed the small park. Pietro quavered a little when a gust hit his sweat-soaked shirt, chilling the damp skin beneath it. He forced himself to run slower, slower, slower still as he circled the track once more. Lap eighteen. And still no sign of Evan.

Not that he could really blame the blond for blowing him off. After his little performance at lunch time, Pietro wasn’t sure his rival would ever look at him again, let alone talk to him. Gritting his teeth, he dug in his heels and pounded up the length of the track, forcing his mind to clear. It was done. Wouldn’t do any good to dwell on it. So he wouldn’t. Not now, at least. Not here. Not while he was in his haven.

Calling it a haven, was, maybe a stretch, but not much of one. Pietro had discovered the place right after Lance had left. Needing to escape the oppressive gloom that settled around the house after the rock tumbler took off and seeking an outlet for his unresolved feelings toward Evan, he’d discovered the underused, overgrown parkland and began running there regularly. The ovalish track was cracked and worn, the bleachers were falling part, the weeds were waist high in some areas, and there was always a tall, old guy standing silent at the entrance wearing what looked to be a bathrobe, pointing in the general direction of New York City. Regardless, Pietro developed a liking for the place. He felt comfortable there. Secure. He was anonymous, unencumbered. Free.

For the most part, anyway. The place wasn’t exactly popular, but there were always people around, which meant he had to rein in his speed. That had been difficult at first – it was frustrating enough having to decelerate to a “normal” level in order to seem “normal” while doing the “normal” things everyone else did. After years of mandatory practice, he was used to it, able to bear it. But when he ran, it was different. It was the one time he could let go and just be himself – a rail thin, silver-haired kid who just happened to be able to move like the wind. . .

No . . . not like the wind; he was the wind – weightless, formless. Able to move everywhere, in all directions, at once. Unbounded and infinite. Powerful. Pure. That was him. That was who he was . . . what he was.

But not at Liberty Park, and the other people around was only part of the reason for it: the first time he’d run there, it was dark and deserted, and he’d quicksilvered around the track, nearly breaking his neck when during an uncharacteristic drag of one foot, he’d caught one of the cracks in the surface. Also, when his body was on fast-forward, his mind was, too – so zipping around would be at cross-purposes with his desire to give serious consideration to the thoughts bouncing around his overcrowded brain. It had taken some getting used to, this foreign concept of running slowly, but he’d managed to adjust. A fair handle on his control and a few layers of clothes that made him look like a clothes hamper in sneakers helped with that.

His clothes. Pietro looked down as he circled the track once more. He wore a baseball cap with the brim pulled down, board shorts that hung nearly to his heels, and three oversize T-shirts that clung to his sweat-soaked back and billowed out in the front. The large clothes emphasized his almost-unnatural thinness, and it was difficult for him to move in them, hence his affinity for attire that fit him like a suntan. But these gave him the drag he needed to move slowly. He’d changed into the things at school, the park having very sketchy locker-room facilities, and had gotten more than a few weird looks from the Bayville crowd. It was no more outrageous than some of the trendy, hip-hop, baggy stuff that certain people wore. Certain dark-skinned, blond people in particular.

Swerving around a pair of chatty, power-walking women, Pietro glanced up at the clock again. Nearly quarter of four. Eyes darted to the entrance where the bathrobe-wearing man was stationed. Still no Evan.

The speedster rounded into lap nineteen, breathing heavily through his mouth. His face was scarlet, and he knew it had nothing to do with the physical exertion. He’d been stood up. Great. Just wonderful. The perfect cap to a wonderful fucking day. But he could be philosophical about it. It had been a stupid idea to begin with, this competition nonsense. Better to have it end before it ever started and just forget about the whole thing.

  He winced, an image of shocked brown eyes flashing into his brain.  Yes, forget. That would be best. Too bad his mind wouldn't let him.

 

 @~~~#Flashback#~~~@

 

 “Do you want to see me naked?”

“Depends. Do you want me to break your fucking neck?”

“I'm serious, Lance.” The speedster did a little shimmy, his fingers hooking under the hem of his sweater. “You start talking or I start stripping. It's your choice.”

“Fuck off, Pietro.”

“Oooh, sorry, but that's another category entirely.” Pietro's voice was smug, and he grinned inwardly when Lance glared up at him. He was finally showing some signs of life. Pietro had discovered Lance sulking in a hallway not long after he and Todd went to find their feuding teammates. The speedster imagined that Todd was finding Fred a lot more forthcoming – for a good five minutes, Lance had not even acknowledged his presence, no matter how loud and fast Pietro had railed at him.

 So he decided more . . . drastic measures were in order. Hey, it had worked once before when Lance refused to divulge the location of the remote control and Pietro had been on a sugar high. He wasn’t anywhere near as wired at that moment as he had been then, but he needed to get some kind of response from the older boy. Fred’s sadness, Todd’s fear and his own mixed feelings made him pull out the stops. He considered it the ultimate example of “taking one for the team.”

 “Are you gonna tell me what's bothering you? Or is the entire school gonna see us out here like this? Think of the rumors . . .”

Silence. Searing glare. Pietro was unruffled.

“No? All right then, the shirt comes off.” the speedster pulled the garment over his head, waving it in front of Lance's face like a matador's cape. “Shall we go for the pants?” His hands strayed to his belt buckle, unclasping it. The trousers inched down the slim hips, gradually exposing his striped boxers, wiggling just inches from Lance’s face.

“What do you want?” The rock tumbler's voice was threaded with tension. “Can't you take a hint? I just wanna be left alone.”

Pietro halted in the midst of a gyration, the teasing expression fading fast.

“You're always alone,” he said softly, the cool breeze in the hallway raising the gooseflesh on his naked arms and chest. “We're supposed to be your fam - your friends. And you're treating us like shit.” He glowered at Lance, whose demeanor seemed to have changed from angry to apathetic. “Now you can either tell me what the hell your deal is, or I can let Freddy loose on you. Again.”

“Whatever. I told you, I don't want to talk, so stop wasting your breath.” He pressed a hand to the other boy’s abdomen, pushing him away in a bored motion. Lance looked up, past his friend, and did a double-take.  “And maybe save the striptease for somebody who'll appreciate it.” He grinned a little.

Pietro felt the anger welling in his chest, but it drained away at Lance's smile. The earthmover's eyes were fixed on a point somewhere down the hall, and Pietro shivered suddenly, pinpricks of fear radiating throughout his upper body. And it wasn't the cold.

He turned slowly to see what Lance was looking at and was met with the wide-eyed gaze of Evan, standing just a few feet away.

Pietro’s brain morphed into tapioca at that point. Dimly aware that he was standing shirtless, with his pants nearly down to his knees, his underwear showing, and practically straddling Lance’s face while the boy of his dreams looked on, Pietro made some attempt to do something more than stand with his eyes hanging out of his head. But Evan was already backing away, mumbling a startled phrase that sounded strangely like an apology, and quite soon he had disappeared from view.

Pietro pulled himself together at that moment, his whole body shaking. Fuck. FuckFuckFuck. Fuck!  He clutched at his pants, which were sliding farther down his legs. Still staring wildly up the hall where Evan had been only a few moments earlier, Pietro made some effort to move, though his pants were still unbuckled and his shirt was in a discarded heap somewhere out of sight.

He hadn’t taken two steps before he heard the chuckle. A low guffaw at his back that stopped him in his tracks. Lance’s voice. Words that froze the blood in his veins.

“Yeah, I’d go after him if I were you. Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

Pietro turned around quickly, mouth dropping open. Lance was standing up, a knowing smirk on his face, stretching leisurely just as the bell rang.

“Later.” Lance said in a bored tone, tossing something over his shoulder. Pietro flinched when his forgotten shirt hit him in square in the face, obscuring his vision just as Evan’s expression had clouded his brain.

 

@~~~#End Flashback#~~~@

 

At lap twenty-eight, Pietro felt the familiar ache in his knees that usually presaged the end of his little workout. As Quicksilver, he could have gone three times that distance without so much as breaking a sweat, but as slowly as he was moving, his whole body was sore and he was dripping in perspiration. As enervating as it was, however, he usually felt rejuvenated after his runs, like he’d just endured some grueling physical test and had emerged little worse for the wear. That day, though, he just felt tired. The Lance problem, compounded with the Evan issue and all the nonsense going on at home . . . it was just too much. He would need at least another hour on the track just to work through one of those problems in his mind – and he just didn’t have it in him that day.

  Another glance at the clock showed it was hard on four o’clock . Pietro slowed almost to a walk, using his sleeve to wipe away the sweat pouring into his eyes. After the episode in the hallway, Pietro had feared Evan might be put off their game, and he’d intended to leave another note in the boy’s locker to whet his appetite for the chase. Some random girl had been puttering around it, though, and he never got the chance to drop it in. It probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway, Pietro reasoned huffing down the straightaway in his final lap. He didn’t exactly have a foothold on the blond’s trust – and god only knew what he thought of him now.  Pietro could just imagine Evan telling all the details to the X-Losers, all of them laughing their guts out at his expense.

He thrust his hands in his pockets, the movement sending the large shorts even closer to the ground, and pulled out a square of yellow paper. It was the note he’d hastily scribbled in history class as he stared at the back of Evan’s head. Another one bites the dust.  Grimacing at it, he rounded, preparing to fling it away in the vague direction of Bathrobe Guy at the gates. But when he looked, the rangy man seemed to have gotten a little shorter. And stockier. And darker, too. And was wearing the most ridiculous polka-dot helmet . . .

Pietro nearly fell over, though he couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion or Evan’s sudden appearance. He had enough presence of mind, however, to stash the note. Swiping at the rivulets of sweat, he scrutinized his rival/crush, who, he noticed, was staring at him with only a slightly less-disturbed look than earlier in the afternoon. He was on his ever-present skateboard, rolling slowly toward the rusting railing that circled the running area.

Ignoring the throbbing in his legs, Pietro went over, his throat filled with heartbeat and his mind whirring full-speed ahead. This was  . . . not very good. Resigned to Evan’s not showing up, all of his practiced words had fled, and now that he was here, Pietro wasn’t sure what the heck he was going to say.

“Hey.” Evan was leaning over the rail, looking his rival up and down. “I didn’t even know that was you at first. What’s up with the clothes?” The blond seemed particularly interested in the speedster’s lower half. “Not really your style, is it, Quickie? Like the shorts though.”

“I come here to run.” Pietro removed his cap, pushing a handful of dripping hair out of his eyes. “But I can’t exactly cut loose.” He jerked his head in the direction of the people scattered along the track. “This stuff helps slow me down.”

“Oh. I get it.” But the confusion in his face signaled to Pietro that he didn’t get it at all. He could hear the unspoken questions. Slow down? Why the hell would you want to do that? He didn’t feel like explaining. Though it’d be a lot easier explaining that to Evan than telling the blond he loved him. A small comfort. He sighed irritably.

“Nice of you to stop by.” Pietro looked at the clock. “I’d thought you’d finally gotten a brain cell or two and decided to quit while you were ahead. Save yourself the humiliation.”

“I got hung up.” Evan glowered at him. “And if you didn’t think I was gonna come, why are you still here?”

Touché. Pietro took refuge in a scowl while he tried to think of a plausible answer to that one. Giving up, he decided on a version of the truth.

“Told you – I come here to run.” He looked around. The power-walking old biddies were there, doing more talking than walking, truthfully, and there were some people sitting in the grass near a smaller, second entrance to the park. They looked to be having a picnic of some sort. Other than that, they were alone. Alone. He and Evan. Something in that fact salved his fatigued muscles, flooded him with renewed strength. Made him feel more like himself again. . . even if a small part of him was scared witless. Okay, maybe a not-so-small part of him was scared witless. But he let that go for the moment.

When he turned back to Evan, he was smiling slightly and had a Quicksilver-worthy glint in his eye.

“Well you’re here now.” He folded his arms. “So are we doing this, or what?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Evan cast a doubtful glance around. “I hope there’s someplace to sit other than there.” He wrinkled his nose at the bleachers. “It doesn’t look too stable.”

“Don’t worry, Daniels. We won’t be sitting there.” Pietro smiled slightly. “We won’t be sitting at all.”

“Huh?”

“Think you can handle a few laps?” He indicated the track.

  “Um . . . maybe,” Evan replied after a pause. “But can you? You look pretty thrashed, man.”

Thrashed. Not exactly the impression he was going for, but he imagined his sweaty, disheveled state wasn’t up to par with usual immaculate look. That bothered him some, but he’d deal with it. Besides, he was used to thinking on his feet . . . something that gave him a definite advantage over Evan in their game.

“Looks can be deceiving, Daniels,” he said mildly. “We’re wasting time. Ditch the board, and let’s go.”

“Okay, okay,” the other boy groused. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Take your time.” His voice was patronizing. Pietro leaned across the rail, watching as Evan skated over to a comparatively steady section of the bleachers and rolled the board underneath it while placing his backpack and helmet atop an aluminum row. His jacket joined the helmet, and after a moment’s hesitation, Evan pulled his gray-and-burgundy sweatshirt over his head and laid it atop his jacket. He jogged back, his mouth set in annoyance.

“Okay?” He looked expectantly at his companion, bracing himself by his forearms as he pushed against the rail, stretching his calf muscles.

“I . . . guess.” Pietro went silent a moment, shaded eyes taking in the teen standing before him in just a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, sneakers, and a grim expression. Pietro stared wistfully at the tight shirt stretched over broad shoulders and a pair of arms ripening with muscles. If Evan’s body was great now, Pietro could only imagine what a few more years and much more maturity would do to it. Yes, he could imagine. And he probably would. Later. In bed. While doing other . . . stuff. But now . . .

“All right. Let’s get this started.” Evan vaulted over, landing nimbly on his feet. “Ready to go?”

  “Been ready,” Pietro replied shortly and gave his body a millisecond to adjust before they began their slow crawl around the track.

Click here for Chapter Eight