Pietro
had turned 14 stores inside out before he’d gotten his hands on wrapping paper
that had a skateboarding motif. He’d been able to do even better than that –
the paper he found had the likeness of a famous person on a skateboard embossed
on its glossy surface. Sure it was pink, and the famous person in question was
Barbie, but it was close enough. And wasn’t it the thought that counted?
Well,
no. Not in this case, anyway. There was, in fact, a very good chance that Evan would kill him – assuming, that is, that
he survived the mortification of having a locker covered in Barbie wrapping
paper and a matching pink bow. But what was love without a little humiliation
thrown in now and again? He and Evan had operated on that principle almost
their entire lives – why screw around with a formula that worked?
Pietro
stood in shadows, turning the parcel over in his hands, gazing at it with a
beatific smile. It was nice and peaceful (and clean!) in the hallways of
Bayville High just an hour and a half before the doors would open to the
multitudes. The floors were still damp with disinfectant, the smell of Pine Sol
and lemon Pledge commingling to create a heady, head-swimming scent that would
not have been out of place at a hospital or a morgue. Pietro looked at the wet
floors with distaste – to do this right, he was going to have to get on his
knees at some point -- he halted that train of thought with a smile,
remembering a conversation he’d had along those lines with Evan – and it’d be a
little difficult to explain damp spots on his knees to, well, anyone.
He
surveyed the area to be covered, nodding slightly. If he could do this really
fast – Quicksilver-plus speed, to say the least – he should be okay, but – the
speedster glanced around reflexively – he’d have to keep an eye and ear open
for the janitor or anyone else who might find it odd that there was a whirlwind
in the North Hallway. A whirlwind that left not destruction,
but pink Barbie paper, in its wake.
The
area of the speedster’s brain that was capable of rational, lucid thought was
advising him to forgo the decorating job and give Evan a fighting chance of
enjoying his fifteenth birthday. The rest of his brain, however, silenced the
sensible voice – he’d put waaaay too much time and
effort and energy into the preparations to back out now – besides, Evan had as
good as asked for it. Wasn’t he the one who whined about not being able to go
to the City to celebrate his birthday in style
(whatever that meant)? That there wasn’t a damn thing
decent to do in Bayville? That his 24-hour stay in the forefront of the
consciousnesses of his
friends’ and relatives would likely be spent in utter boredom. A boredom that
involved gifts and cards stuffed with money, but boredom, nonetheless.
So, yes. Evan may not have been consciously aware of it, but every line in his subtly muscled body
had cried out for what was about to transpire – a glimmer of excitement,
something that would get the whole school – or at least those who shared the
locker area with the blond – talking. Evan would thank him later, Pietro was
sure. Privately. Repeatedly.
The speedster’s calm grin turned carnivorous. It was time to begin.
He
wondered why he didn’t feel more tired – it had been well after two before he’d
gotten off the phone with Evan, who’d given Pietro every opportunity to tell
him that he’d made some sort of plans for the next day. The speedster kept a
resolute silence, deftly sidestepping Evan’s not-so-subtle questions (“So,
we’re getting together tomorrow, right?” “I’ve got dinner and cake and stuff at
the Mansion at 7 . . . but it’s not like we we’re going to be doing anything
that’d keep me out later, right? Right?”) Pietro almost laughed at the pout in the darker
teen’s voice when right before they’d wrapped up the call, Pietro offered a
half-hearted, “Oh yeah -- happy birthday.”
Poor Evan. After all these years, the dark blond still didn’t know how to read him. And
after all these years, Pietro was still tickled to use the boy’s weakness –
except now, it was going to be used to Evan’s
advantage, not his. He was aware, though that blond might not see it that way.
Stripping
off the plastic covering, Pietro shook out the wrapping paper, letting the
material flutter near to the ground in one solid sheet. Endless renditions of
Barbie, all suited up, and bending stiffly over her board, dotted the slick
paper, and Pietro smiled, reminding himself to save as much of the wrapping as
he could.
Pietro
whistled to himself as he switched into Quicksilver mode, cutting out a swath
that would cover the locker from top to bottom, with a generous hole cut out to
accommodate the lock. Tape was produced next, and as he tore of long strips of
the sticky material, he thought back to P.S. 104, where he’d first seen this
bizarre ritual of decorating a birthday person’s locker with wrapping paper. Sometimes
balloons or streams of crepe paper were added if the person in question was in
the top tier of the school’s popularity hierarchy. Only the preps and the Park
Slope cliques had done it, really – they were the only ones corny enough to
think of such a thing. Just about everyone else thought the whole thing was
stupid – the wrapping paper inevitably ended up in shreds by day’s end, and the
birthday person was left with a shredded-looking locker and a big mess to clean
up. But the practice continued, nonetheless.
The
jocks, though, had their own way of marking birthdays, and it, too, involved
lockers – and the copious use of those old hazing standbys, whipped and/or
shaving cream – and in a few special cases, dirty jockstraps. Pietro was never
so glad that he’d kept his day of birth a well-guarded secret as when he’d
witnessed four or five members of the basketball squad emptying can after can
of Reddi-Whip into the locker of their starting point
guard. All in the name of team unity and celebration, of course.
To the speedster’s knowledge, Evan had never gotten the cream treatment, but
since the mahogany-skinned teen was apparently suffering a bout of
homesickness, and since Pietro was in a rare nostalgic mood, well, maybe he
could remedy that as well. With some modifications.
With
typical Quicksilver flair, he put the paper in place, secured it with tape,
smoothed out any unruly corners and bulges, and placed the bow at a jaunty
angle right near the first row of Barbies. Three
seconds later, he stepped back, surveying his handiwork. It was like something
out of the PS 104 preps’ wet dreams. The swiftness of his movements hadn’t
hindered the quality of the job in the slightest; the locker was completely
swathed in the bright paper. Edges were straight and crisp, the bow was just
right, and the glossy surface gave off a subtle gleam that looked almost
otherworldly in the muted light of the hallway. The gaudy pattern and the color
of the paper made the narrow locker stand out amongst the sea of gray that
surrounded it, making it look like a glittering Christmas gift dropped in the
midst of more mundane packages.
“Daniels.
I am so good to you.” Pietro grinned,
running a gentle hand down the smooth surface, spinning the lock with his other
hand in a practiced motion. A half twist to the left,
a full spin to the right, and then a sloooow drag to
the center . . .
The
door gaped open, confined darkness yawning before him.
Pietro allowed himself a small smile at the ease of the entry – it had been a
wonderful thing to have wormed the combination out of Evan early on in the
relationship. Sure, he’d have been able to get in without it, but the
Quicksilver way had its downside -- possible prosecution chief among them. No
need to walk down that particular road
again.
Stooping
low, Pietro leaned into the dimness, moving and rearranging some of the blond’s personal effects and books to make a little bit
more room to maneuver. An extra shirt found its way to a higher shelf, textbooks that looked like they hadn’t been opened
that decade were shoved farther back. An unidentifiable black disk was taken
out, examined closely, and discarded in the nearest trashcan with alacrity. It
was some minutes of the shuffling before the speedster pronounced himself
satisfied with the space he’d created and moved to put things in place. The
speed demon smirked inwardly, positively twitching in anticipation at what was
to come.
From
the same bag that had held the wrapping paper, he pulled out a small white box,
Good ‘N’ Plenty Bakery stamped atop it in proud magenta print. Resting on his
haunches, he cracked open the little container and stared in. An errant lock of
hair fell into his face, obscuring his view momentarily of a miniature
chocolate cake, complete with shirred fondant and chocolate sprinkles. It
looked great – Lance hadn’t been kidding about this place. The brunet had been
had been the one who’d hipped him to the bakery’s existence (who learned about
the place via his bespectacled boyfriend, Pietro was sure), and so far, the
speedy mutant was impressed by what he saw – and smelled. Evan, chocoholic that
he was, would doubtless have a similar reaction. . .
when he got around to eating it, that
is. The dark, decadent treat might be a little hard to find once Pietro got finished
with the piece de resistance.
Which
brought him to the last item in the shopping bag – a spray can of decorative
cream – about the same consistency as whipped cream, but with much more staying
power, at least according to the pimply weirdo at the A & P. Just the sight
of the can brought a smile to the white-haired youth’s face. He’d watched
enough jocks to have been able to memorize their technique in this matter. In
just about every case, speed was an issue: the locker was yanked (or pried,
whatever) open, the offending cream was squirted in as quickly as possible. But
this . . . this was different, Pietro
acknowledged. This wasn’t going to be, couldn’t
be a rush job for a change. This he’d
have to finesse a little.
Arranging
the box in the dead center of the bottom of the locker, he took up his
‘weapon,’ smirking with the confidence of a man who’d just pulled a fast one –
Oooh, fast. He mentally slapped
himself. Dammit, he’d nearly forgotten the other
important thing!
Reaching
into his backpack, he fumbled around for a moment before his fingertips brushed
the desired object, and he yanked it free. In his grip was the one gift he
could give Evan on school property – at least without fear of being arrested or
beat into the ground by homophobic assholes. He ran a thumb over the DVD he
held – an extended version of Tony Hawk’s Skatepark Tour
2002 – complete with never-before-seen footage and some other junk that didn’t
mean a damn thing to Pietro, but would probably have the blond pissing his
pants.
The
speed demon gave a silent thanks to Summers, who’d
given him a hint as to what Evan was jonesing for
most. The disc was apparently a hot-seller around the country – which made
Pietro a little sad for the state of humanity in general – but he’d managed to
score one with little fuss. A visit to the local Tower, a sob story to a sweet,
but dense, salesgirl about a “sick friend who would really, really love to have
a copy.” A week and a few well-considered grins later, Pietro was holding the
coveted disc in one hand, and discarding the salesgirl’s phone number with the
other. He’d wondered if she had noticed that she’d neglected to ask him to pay for the item. Ah, well. All in all,
it had been a lot easier to find than the wrapping paper.
Turning
back to the locker, Pietro scanned the disc to make sure no price tags or other
unsightly stickers were attached, save for the yellow post-it he’d put there
himself. Satisfied, he stood it up between the back of the locker and the back
edge of the pastry box. There now. Everything was nice, neat and arranged.
Time for the finishing touch.
Scanning
the directions, Pietro’s hand was a blur as he shook the canister. After a few
seconds, satisfied that the contents within were as mixed up as they were going
to be, he discarded the safety ring, popped the top, and in an exploratory
measure, squirted a bit of the stuff onto his finger. A good-size dollop
covered the pad of his index finger, and he licked it clean, thoroughly pleased
at the taste. It was thicker than standard whipped cream, and a good bit more
sugary, too. Not bad. Not bad at all.
He’d chosen well.
Squirting
a bit more onto his fingertips, he tasted more of the sweet substance, making a
mental note to pick more of it up for . . . later. Once Evan saw this stuff in
action, he might want to renew his acquaintance with it in a more . . . private setting under quite . . .
different circumstances.
Sequestering
that thought for a moment, he focused on the job at hand. Holding the can at a
slight angle he depressed the button. With quick, but deliberate sweep of his
arm, the cream streamed out, hitting its target. Pietro grinned somewhat
maniacally as he worked, whistling a little as he got to the tail end of the
task, his heart pounding a little, his hand noting the decreasing weight of the
can as the substance flowed out of it.
He
closed the container, sticking another yellow post-it on top of the box. There.
It was done, and done well. He nodded in approval. Nice . . .
very nice. Messy, yes, but very cool, indeed. Once he got over the
initial shock and uncovered what lay beneath the sea of white, Pietro had no
doubt that Evan would be kissing his feet – or maybe something else - in thanks. There was, of course,
the off-chance that he’d attempt to rip his face off, but Pietro chose to think
of the positive. It was a nice late-fall day, he’d done something neat for his
boyfriend, and it was highly possible that he’d be suitably rewarded at a later
time.
And
there was Barbie! In pink! On a skateboard. Another chuckle. It just didn’t get any better than this.
Not by a long shot.
Pietro
blinked in pain when the subdued lighting in the hallway suddenly became a
flood of blinding fluorescence, and a meld of voices coming from the main
office down the hall. Dark-blue eyes narrowed – the teachers and other staff
were filtering in, and soon with them would come the floods of students. Quiet
time in the cavernous building was over.
With
a gentle push, he closed the door, listening for and hearing the subtle click
that indicated the locker was shut tight, locked and secure. He took a last
look at Skating Barbie, running gentle fingers down the lustrous paper. For a
moment, the pallid face became serious, thoughtful. Barbie smiled on.
“Happy birthday, Ev.”
He pressed his forehead to the door, feeling
the cool surface of the thin metal even beneath the delicate covering. Pulling
back, he smoothed the place where his forehead had been, and with a last
sardonic grin, gathered his bags and prepared to scout out a place to hang
while he waited for school to “officially” open.
~*~
It
would be a quick death. Painless – relatively so, anyway.
What
could he say? It was his birthday. He was in a charitable mood.
Evan
hadn’t bought for a minute Pietro’s Couldn’t-Care-Less-About-Your-Birthday
routine. Well, maybe he would have if
he hadn’t been able to get Scott to divulge information he’d gleaned on his
last, er, visit
to the Brotherhood home. In truth, the older teen hadn’t said much – just
mentioned that in recent days, Pietro peppered him with some very interesting questions, and had gotten
Lance to loosen his death grip on the keys to the Jeep long enough for the
speedster to run a few errands.
That
was all the blond needed to know. Those tidbits of information, coupled with
the ambiguous vagueness of Pietro’s words warned him to expect something big,
something out there, something that he was not going to forget for quite
awhile.
So
far, he was three for three.
Evan
ran an exploratory hand over his locker, caressing the cheap metal beneath the
garish pink paper. The dark-skinned teen only half-heard the snickers around
him, only-half-saw the stares – running the gamut from curious, to amused, to mrrr? – in reaction to the
The
bow was a bit much, he conceded, eyeing the floppy satiny loops, but then, that
too was a hallmark of Pietro. Everything was an extreme with him – which gave Evan pause for a moment
. . . it could be that there was more
to come. He glanced around the hallway, face flushing hot whenever he met the
amused glances of passersby. Rogue passed by, eyes wide at the sight. She
seemed about to comment, but thought better of it, becoming suddenly and
completely engrossed in something going on down the hall.
Laughter
and stares were the more common reaction, however, with pointing and
slack-jawed gaping thrown in for good measure. Evan hunched his shoulders,
sighing. Back at 104, he’d always thought the locker-decoration routine kind of
cool, in an I’d-Never-Do-That type of way. It was cool
to have friends who cared enough to do something
above and beyond the typical
store-bought-card-that-everyone-signed-at-the-last-minute routine. His buddies,
in fact, had never even gone that far: “Dude! Your birthday’s today? Sweeeeeeeeet! Now watch me stomp this 50-50 grind, man!”
was about as far as it had ever gone.
As
nice as he thought the sentiment was, however, he’d never had the desire to be
on the receiving end of such treatment. It was way too flashy, too in-your-face
for his taste – especially in a place like Bayville. Also, this seemed to be
something girls would appreciate
more, what with the pretty paper and the ribbons and all. Now he might be a
practicing pouf, but he was hardly girly
-- a fact he was sure his silvery boyfrieend would be happy to attest to – and
this sort of thing was mad embarrassing.
The
blond understood that was the point.
Pietro knew that putting this stuff
up on his locker was akin to placing a “Kick Me” sign on his back, singling him
out for ridicule and general degradation. Ah, Pietro. Evan knew the boy well
enough to know that this sort of treatment was standard Maximoff procedure for
lovers and enemies alike, though Evan had to admit having his locker tricked
out was much preferable to having it burglarized or vandalized.
The
ringing of the bell brought him out of his musings. Evan blinked in mild
surprise – apparently, he’d spent the better part of 15 minutes in a
pink-induced stupor, because he could have sworn that the start of homeroom was
quite a ways away. Ignoring the questioning glances of his locker neighbors,
who were now departing for various classes, the dark teen attacked his lock, a
feeling of sadness overtaking him suddenly. As at P.S. 104, assholes abounded
in Bayville High, and there was a good chance that when next he returned to his
locker, Barbie would be in shreds at the foot of it. For a moment, the blond
wavered, wondering if he should just take the paper down himself – Maximoff had
proven his point, he hadn’t forgotten
his birthday after all, everything was all good. And it might be considered an
act of Good Samaritism to spare anyone else the sight
of Barbie on a pink skateboard.
A
few more moments of indecision, then he resolutely decided to leave it be. For now. Dark fingers plucked at a corner of the wrapping,
hesitating. It had probably taken Pietro all of two seconds to put it up . . .
would take much longer to take it down without ripping it.
But
that wasn’t why he decided to leave it alone. Well, that wasn’t the only reason, anyway. The one area of his
brain that wasn’t wincing in pain at the spectacle was moved and a little
choked up by the gesture. He and Pietro hardly ever got mushy with each other –
it wasn’t really their style – so this was a surprise. While not necessarily a good one, it was heartfelt and genuine, that much was obvious. And that
knowledge made enduring the humiliation worth it. Besides, it reminded him of
home, and that was never a bad thing.
He
let his hand glide gently over the paper as he yanked his locker open,
realizing that in another five minutes, he’d be late to homeroom and in serious
danger of receiving attention. Maybe if he told Mrs. McGruder
it was his birthday . . . undoubtedly, she understood the concept – by the looks
of it, she’d had about 500 of them –
All thought ceased when the door swung outward, and he stared into
the depths of his locker. Pale shafts of incandescent light crisscrossed
the threshold, illuminating the dark space and the contents within.
Wow.
Now
this was . . . unexpected.
Evan
stooped quickly, almost falling into the narrow area in his haste. Bracing
himself against the side of the locker, he gazed in . . . a look of trepidation
transforming into quite a different expression altogether. Trembling fingers
removed a disc that was wedged between a curious-looking white box and the back
of his locker.
A
yellow post-it was stuck right above Bob Burnquist’s
head. His gaze burned into the red lettering on the note:
Enjoy. But, don’t ever blow me off to watch this
crap, unless it’s in the literal sense. P.
Holy. Hell. Skatepark Tour 2002?
Hawk’s Skatepark Tour 2002? That absolutely floored him;
more so than the . . . friendly little
note, which was . . . yes. But Skatepark
2002? How the hell did he know?
Pietro had made it quite clear that he tolerated rather than enjoyed Evan’s
skateboarding obsession, so the blond had never thought to mention that he’d
been driving himself and just about everyone within a 300 foot radius crazy by
bringing up how essential this disc was to his very existence. Glancing over
his shoulder at the empty stretch of hallway, he took the box out slowly, catching
his bottom lip between his teeth. Besides, he’d not thought Pietro would get him anything, knowing that the cash
flow in the Brotherhood household was more like a cash droplet – and this, man,
this was pretty unbelievable. And
keeping in mind that he’d walked into school to find his locker Barbieized, that was saying something.
Quite
aware that he was quite late for homeroom, and even more aware that he really
didn’t give a fuck, Evan balanced himself on his heels, ignoring the ache in
his thighs as he maintained his squatting position. There was more, much more,
apparently, to uncover. He reached for the white box, grinning a little. The blond’s stomach growled – he hadn’t been too hungry for his
“birthday French toast,” and now the delicious chocolate scent of that could hardly be contained by the thin
cardboard box was wreaking havoc on his senses. He spied another post-it on the
side of the box, ripping it off impatiently. Now what?
More red lettering. Less . . . dramatic
this time. Evan read:
Follow the instructions. Consider it a
practice run for tonight. Usual place. As soon as you can get away. And . . . you better save me a
piece.
What the? An eyebrow quirked, and the
blond spent a few seconds musing over the
. . . well, he guessed it was
a message. Whatever. He’d have plenty of opportunity
to analyze the white-haired teen and his bizarreness at a later date – on a
full stomach, hopefully. Mouth watering in anticipation, he made short work of
the tape that held the box shut and opened it quickly, looking with eager eyes
at the contents . . .
Looked
some more.
Swallowed hard.
Took another chocolate-infused breath, a slow smile of
comprehension overtaking the lower part of his face.
The
blond straightened up slowly, dimly aware that up and down the hall, doors were
closing, teachers were beginning their normal routines, and the school day was
starting. And there he was, a good
eight hours into his 15th birthday, standing in front of the most
ridiculous-looking locker in the place, grinning like an idiot, staring into a
box containing a small cake that had two words written in large, fluffy,
edible-looking white lettering.
Lick me.
*Fin*