"So you're coming around to my view of things?" A teasing voice behind him, caused Evan to nearly hit his knee on the locker. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Daniels. At least you're being honest about your lack of brains."

Evan groaned slightly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Just the person he didn't need - or want - to see. He turned and was met with the ghostly pale face and superior smirk of Pietro Maximoff. "Hitting your locker and muttering to yourself in the middle of the hallway? His Royal Baldness must really be putting you through the wringer."

"Maximoff, I'm not in the mood." Evan gripped the strap of his backpack and started past him. Grinning, Pietro blocked his path. "Oh, what's your hurry, Daniels? The late bell won't ring for another four minutes. Plenty of time for you to make it, hmmm? Or are your motor skills going, too?"

"Get lost, Pietro." Evan grimaced, pushing past him. The last thing he needed was to engage in a battle of insults with his longtime enemy. He had revenge to plot, after all, and he outlined a plan of action as he rushed to class.

 Wagner is so going down. Hmmm . . . putting spiders in his bed again would be too easy . . . maybe I'll have some flowers delivered to him . . . and say they're from ~Kitty~ . . . nah . . . he'll see through that. Maybe I can get hold of that "special" shampoo he uses to detangle his fur, and --

He broke off, annoyed and a just a little surprised to see Pietro again standing in front of him, arms crossed defiantly. "'Get lost, Pietro?' That's it? That's your witty comeback? You're getting more Summers-like every day, Daniels. It's not healthy."

"What is your problem?" Evan's eyes glinted dangerously, and he could feel the sharp tip of one of his bone spikes pressing against his skin, threatening to make an appearance. He calmed himself down by degrees . . . no way was he going to let Maximoff get under his skin, so to speak. Not today. "Don't you have class or something?" he asked in a milder voice.

"Or something." Pietro shrugged nonchalantly. "But I always have time to talk to an . . . old friend."

"Good. I hope you find one." Evan tried to maneuver around the lithe boy, but the lightning-fast youth thwarted his every turn. "Dammit, Maximoff, I don't have time for your stupidity. Now move or I'll move you." He raised a fist to eye-level, a spike protruding dangerously from it. "You've got three seconds."

"Daniels, come off it. Put the pins away before you embarrass yourself." Pietro's expression was one of amusement tempered with impatience. "You know you can't . . . hmmm . . . what's that? Hall pass?" Sky-colored eyes honed in on the yellow paper clenched in Evan's fist, a dark eyebrow rose minutely.

"What's what?" He followed Pietro's gaze and he hastily thrust both hands behind his back when he realized what had caught the other boy's eye. "Huh? That? Uh . . . nothing. Just, um . . . nothing."

"Nothing, eh? Well, then, you won't mind letting me take a peek?" A gray blur whipped around Evan, stunning him into inaction. "Aha. Let's see what we have here--"

"No! Hey!" Evan reeled as a sharp wind brushed his hand and the silver- haired mutant stood some feet away, the yellow note in his hand. "Maximoff, I swear to God, I'm going to -"

". . . my new favorite color." Pietro's grin widened as he read the missive aloud, his eyes zipping across the paper. "Awwww . . . how sweeeeet. Someone has a thing for the Spyke-boy. Guess there's no accounting for tastes." The blue eyes sparkled mischievously.

"Shut up." Evan's fists clenched at his side. "Can you not be a total jerk for a change? Give it back!"

"Touchy," Pietro said, waggling a finger, "about something you said this was nothing. You act as if this was something you picked out of the trash."

"Well, I know trash when I see it," Evan returned with a cold stare. "And I'm looking at it right now."

He shook his head angrily and, deciding mixing it up with the speedy mutant would not be in his best interest, attempted once again to pass him. A hand darted out, snagging the hem of his sweater.

"Why so hostile, Daniels? You should be celebrating." Pietro waved the note in front of his eyes. "I mean, here you have actual proof that someone finds you something other than immature, silly . . . inferior . . . not often something like that comes along."

"Fuck off, Maximoff." Evan sighed as he heard the strident ring of the late bell. Great. In addition to Kurt's shenanigans and the aggravation that was Pietro Maximoff, dealing with Coach Tarrif's wrath could be added to his list of "reasons why today sucks."

"You're late." Pietro made a tsk-ing sound. "But then, so am I. Feel like cutting with me? There's a cool place near - hey --" He frowned mightily as Evan turned on his heel and resumed his walk down the hall. "Hey! Justwheredoyouthinkyou'regoing?"

"Away from you," Evan muttered, quickening his steps. One day, that asshole is going to push just a little too hard, and when he does, I'll-

A slight whooshing sound was heard, and once again the snow-haired teen was standing before him.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Pietro said brightly, flourished the letter with a mock concerned expression. "You wouldn't want to leave this declaration of looooove, would you? It'sjusttooadorableisn'tit? Maybeyou'llgetanotheronetomorrow. Excitinghuh?" He beamed expectantly at Evan, confident that his longtime rival could decipher his hyper-speak. "Isn't it? Rightrightright?

He knows. He knows it's all a scam. And maybe . . . maybe he's the one who did it.  Evan's jaw set hard as the thought crystallized in his head. Maybe it wasn't Kurt after all . . . just Maximoff and his Brotherhood idiots being assholes. Why else would he be so interested in someone liking me?

Evan leveled a steely gaze at his rival, wondering briefly how long Pietro would be able to maintain his smile with a spike rammed right down his throat. With great effort, he shook the thought away.

"I said it was trash," he said in a steady, firm tone. "So you can do with it what you want with it."

Pietro's smile faded. "I thought you said you wanted it back."

"I changed my mind." Evan held Pietro's gaze for a beat, watching in slight confusion as the smile on his enemy's face disappeared completely, and the ever-present swagger deflated a bit. "Toss it. Or not. Whatever . . . I don't care. Just get it and yourself out of my face."

Pietro started to speak, stopped, frowned, and gave the blond a hard glare. "You're a real piece of work, Daniels," he said at last, through clenched teeth. "You and the rest of the X-Jerks think you just own the fucking world don't you? Whoever wrote this," he said, brandishing the note again, "besides being totally blind, is also pretty stupid, too . . . wasting time on someone who's too idiotic to even realize that -" here he stopped, his frown deepening.

"Realize . . . what?" Evan frowned, too, baffled by the abrupt change in his rival's attitude. There was something odd about Pietro's expression. Something flickering deep in the cold, azure eyes that gave him pause.

"Realize that . . . that . . ." Pietro bit his lower lip, and hesitated a moment. "That youyouyou . . ." he halted again, running his hand wildly over his hair. "That you . . . I mean . . ."

Evan's eyebrows rose. Maximoff was acting highly bizarre . . . more so than usual, and his eyes had turned glassy and wild. "That I what? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Pietro glared at him a moment longer. "The letter -" He stopped again, seeming to take time to choose his words. He took a deep breath, and cast his eyes downward. "This letter . . . it's . . . I mean, I know you're dense, Daniels, but I would think that you're a few years away from out-and-out idiocy. Don't you think this letter could be special?  An indication that someone out there is interested in . . . you? I mean, didn't you read this?" Pietro, most improbably, stood relatively still while delivering this speech, staring hard at the boy opposite him. "Someone might be trying to tell you something - something pretty decent, it sounds like. You ever think about that?"

Evan's short, harsh laugh echoed through the deserted hallway, and visibly astonished his companion. Maximoff's being so obvious, trying to get a rise out of me over this. He's pissed that I'm not running around like "Ooooh somebody likes me!" so that he and his friends can get off laughing about how they "pulled one over on Spyke." How dumb does he think I am?

"The only thought that crossed my mind is that you're full of it, Maximoff," Evan said with a nonchalant shrug. "And whoever wrote that note is even more full of it." He noted Pietro's dark look with a degree of satisfaction. "Now, I don't know about you, but I've got class."

He brushed by Pietro, who seemed to be rooted the floor, unmoving, for some seconds, but the serious-faced youth recovered in time to grab Evan's arm as he passed.

"What the hell?" Evan squirmed in his grip, feeling his spikes again getting dangerously close to the surface. "Let go of me, Maximoff, or more than your ear's gonna be pierced."

Pietro scowled at his nemesis, and in a swift movement, pulled him close - so much so that Evan could see a tiny, dark mole  shaped somewhat like an apostrophe above the pale boy's left eyelid. Despite his annoyance, he gazed in fascination at the contrast of the brownish-black mole against Pietro's alabaster skin.   Geez . . . his skin is so white.  I didn't know a person could have that complexion and still be alive . . .

"You're an idiot," Pietro growled, tightening his hold, his lower lip trembling slightly. "And I--" He checked himself there, and there was a pause in which the two stared at each other -- Evan in annoyance, Pietro in barely contained anger, and something else Evan couldn't quite pin a name to, but was unnerving all the same. There was something about the way the  slate-blue eyes were flickering, something about the wobbling lower lip that reminded Evan of something - but he could remember what, exactly. The speedster's stare was unnerving, just like the rest of him, and Evan redoubled his efforts to get away, nearly falling on his rear when Pietro suddenly loosened his grip. 

"Never mind. Just . . . never mind." Pietro's voice held a note of resignation as he grabbed the boy again, spinning him around savagely in the opposite direction. "The gym is that way, genius."

Disoriented, and more than a little dizzy, Evan reeled a moment, flatfooted. Sonofabitch. He's right. Where the hell was I going?

"Whatever." Evan slung his backpack over his hook off the other teen's grip and he strode swiftly away. He knew, however, that he'd still be in for it with the coach. Even if he did have Pietro's speed, he wouldn't be able to get changed and ready in time for Coach Tarrif not to notice his absence.

Moron. Evan quickened his steps, half-expecting Pietro's silver-toped head to pop up in front of him at any time. I probably should've taken the note back . . . it'd be funny to show the others how "clever'' the Brotherhood's being these days. But I am so dead . Coach T. is gonna kill me for being late again . . . Four extra laps around the gym. Fuck. And I'm so freaking tired as it is . . . and . . . if someone really liked me, why wouldn't they just say something?

Evan turned a corner, droplets of sweat collecting on his upper lip. A rumble of voices and Coach Tarrif's shrill whistle wafted from the open gym door. But if someone really liked me, I'd know it . . I'd feel  it. And I don't. I don't. It's all a joke. A stupid prank. And - I'd know if it weren't, that's all. I'd know. I'd-

"Wait a minute." Evan stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes darted around, brows knitting in concentration. He cast a glance over his shoulder, his heart thudding hard. The hallway was empty.

"How the hell did Maximoff know I had gym this period?" he murmured with a slight frown.

~*~

Pietro, head downward, shuffled slowly - or what passed for slow with him - along the desolate hallway to his next class. He was super-late, he knew, but it didn't matter. Dr. Woosums, the decrepit chemistry teacher, came to expect no less from him. Besides, he was sick to death of watching her dentures slip out of place as she went over the elements of the periodic table. He was sick to death, really, of just about everything - Dr. Woosums, school in general . . .

It's trash. I don't care.

Evan. If only he could be sick of Evan. Then, life would be good. Then he could rest easy. Then he wouldn't have that incredible, acute pain that went so deep inside him -- not just to his heart, but into his very bones, too. If only he could be sick of Evan, maybe he'd be free of the emptiness and the nagging ache he felt every time locked eyes with the dark boy and saw distrust and hate shining back at him. If only he could be sick of Evan, he wouldn't care that the chocolate-skinned boy had totally blown off the note he'd spent a whole three seconds composing. Three seconds - he didn't even spend that long making his Quicksilver getup.

Three seconds - no small chunk of time in his world - but even so, it was a drop in the bucket compared with the hours, days, weeks, months years he'd spent memorizing every detail of the blond's face, every line of his body, the way he moved, the way he talked, even the way he maneuvered on the stupid skateboard. Years of study . . . of fruitless, frustrated longing . . . and it had all come to nothing. Well, not even that. The payout for his obsession didn't even scratch the surface of nothing. At least when he'd first fallen for Evan, they'd been close. Now they were avowed enemies, though Pietro had only a hazy recollection on how that had happened.

If only he could be sick of Evan. If only he could learn to hate Evan. If only he could convince himself that he didn't need Evan Daniels . . . that he didn't want Evan Daniels . . .

I don't care . . . I don't care . . . I don't care . . . It's trash . . . I don't care . . .

Thinking back on it, Pietro couldn't fathom what had possessed him to write the stupid note in the first place. He'd scoffed at the very idea, but somehow, in between yawns during Geometry, he scribbled what had been on his mind since he passed the blond in the hall earlier that day. His first thought had been to toss the missive - and, in fact, when he'd let it slip to Todd what he'd done, his younger teammate strongly advocated tearing up the letter into the smallest pieces possible. It was sound advice,  but some odd impulse had propelled Pietro into the hallway, to Evan's locker, and before he could talk sense into himself, the bit of paper was fluttering its way down to the bottom of the X-Man's locker. 

Pietro snapped back to reality the moment the paper had been shoved through the locker's slats, horror and exhilaration coursing through him. He'd sped away in a daze - half hoping the note would get buried among Daniels' junk, half hoping the boy would find it, and fully thankful that he'd had the presence of mind to leave the letter unsigned.

But it was all moot now. Pietro wiped wisps of hair out of his eyes. Didn't matter.  It had all gone for naught, just as he suspected it would in the first place. And now he was back to square one - and that was being optimistic.

I don't care . . .  don't care . . .  

The blond boy's words ran derisively through his head, and Pietro's forehead creased slightly.

"Well, fine." Pietro looked down at the little note, contemplating the gracefully written letters, the stark contrast of the black ink against the sun-colored paper. "Then I don't care, either."

He sighed softly. It was a lie; he knew it. He cared.  He cared before he could put a name to the feeling that had been taken hold of him virtually since the moment he and Evan met. He couldn't help but care. But it felt slightly good to pretend otherwise . . . even for a little while.

"Hey, yo. Don't you have class?"

Pietro, startled, looked up to see Todd Tolensky meandering down the hallway toward him. "I thought your optional period was fourth."

"It was." Pietro sighed as his fellow Brotherhood member drew nearer. "I've got Chem now. Thinking about skipping it."

"I wouldn't do that, yo. Lance'll be pissed if he finds out," the shaggy- haired youth cautioned. Pietro rolled his eyes. That was true . . . Lance Alvers, their "fearless" leader, who had only recently led himself out of the Brotherhood House for a brief stint as an X-Man, was more of a stickler and taskmaster about such boring things as being on time for classes, taking tests and actually doing the homework.

"Lance is pissed at everything these days," Pietro grumbled. "One more thing won't make much of a difference. Why aren't you in class, Toddie?"

"I am, but I'm on my way to the nurse--"

"What?" The taller youth leaned close, studying the younger mutant's face. Todd seemed a little paler than usual, and he was looking a little green around the mouth. "What's wrong?" Concern colored his words.

"Something I ate, I think." Todd made a face. "The tuna. Next time, I'ma tell Fred not to put so much mayo in it. That always screws my stomach up." Todd examined Pietro's serious expression. "You don't look so good yourself, yo. What's wrong?"

Pietro was quiet a moment. "I just had a run-in with one of the X-Geeks." His lips flattened into a thin, hard line.

"That is sick," Todd said with a grimace. "Who? Shades? Blue Boy? Miss Perfect?"

A pause. "Daniels." The words came in a low hiss.

Todd's eyes widened a bit. "Oh." He fell silent, as well. "So . . . uh . . . um . . . Daniels, huh?"

"Yup." Pietro turned his gaze to the floor, idly tracing a circle with the toe of his shoe. "Daniels," he repeated  softly, musingly, only slightly concerned when Todd's expression changed from slight confusion to sympathetic realization.

"So . . . did you, uh . . . do it?"

Pietro's smile was fleeting and bitter. "Yes." 

"Umm . . ." Todd seemed to grow considerably paler as he took in the slumped posture of his partner in arms . . . his friend. His brother. "So . . . did he, uh, get the message?"

The speedster looked up at Todd, his mouth quirked into a sardonic, mirthless half-grin, and he felt a pang of sadness when the wide-eyed, hopeful look fled from the sea-green eyes. Not your fault, Toddles. You warned me. You warned me . . . I should have listened . . .

"Oh yeah." Pietro opened his hand and revealed the rumpled note within. Todd stared silently when the note disappeared in Pietro's clenched fist. "He got the message all right."

Pivoting, he caught sight of a trashcan several feet away from where they both stood. Setting his feet as he'd done countless times on countless basketball courts, Pietro tossed the crumpled paper through the air, watching in detached amusement as the object sailed in a graceful arc and began its descent. Up, then down, down, down. Discarded. He smiled gently as the note disappeared in a flash of yellow  into the waste receptacle. Just like me. Down. And dumped . . . and still fucking crazy about him. Shit!

"That . . . was his answer." Pietro continued to stare at the trash can, only half-feeling Todd's gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, yo." The younger boy's voice was soft. "Did he . . . did he know it was -"

"Doesn't matter," Pietro said, squaring his shoulders, "what he thinks or what he knows or what he thinks he knows. 'Cause, see, he got the message." Pietro's stony, sorrowful gaze flitted down the hall in the direction of the gymnasium. "And so did I."