I'm only happy when it rains
I'm only happy when it's complicated
And though I know you can't appreciate it
I'm only happy when it rains
You know I love it when the news is bad
Why it feels so good to feel so sad
I'm only happy when it rains

Thoughts jumbled together in Pietro's brain as he forced his tired eyes to remain open. The music thumped through his room, rattling the slightly cracked window, skipping in places where the disc had cracked. He remembered borrowing the Garbage CD from Tabitha as a direct counterattack to the unintelligible rap/country fusion music Fred had blasted through the house for the better part of two weeks. Fred got the message, but not before Lance had threatened ~both~ of them with death-by-falling-roof if they didn't stop their stupid music war. They'd listened, of course, and Pietro had tucked the CD away in his dusty closet just in case Fred decided to start the little battle up again. Tabitha had never asked for it back, and she wouldn't either, now. Three days after the Brotherhood confronted Lance about being in Xavier's camp, Boom Boom, too, had departed the house to parts unknown for a few days, leaving behind a few pairs of frilly underwear, a fake ID card, a bad taste in just about everyone's mouths, and one CD . . .

I only smile in the dark
My only comfort is the night gone black
I didn't accidentally tell you that
I'm only happy when it rains
You'll get the message by the time I'm through
When I complain about me and you
I'm only happy when it rains

Happy when it rains. Sky-colored eyes clouded over. What a fucking joke.


Pietro was tired.

Not just somewhat drowsy or feeling the dozy feeling that came with being bored, but honestly tired -- like he was ready to drop right where he was and stay still - no running, no talking, no nothing.  The plaintively sad music didn't improve his mood, either, but he couldn’t even muster up the strength to turn the radio off. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so drained. The thought discomfited him, and he'd attempted to find ways in which to get his energy level back up. Arriving home to an empty house -  the others were still at Bayville watching that week's basketball game - Pietro stood in the foyer for some moments, simply staring ahead before taking a big breath and becoming a whirl of white and wind. He speed-cleaned the house, moved on to laundry, then rearranged the sparse contents of the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets before removing the trash from every room in the house, the basement and the attic.

It all took him about twenty minutes. Though sweaty and shaky from such use – and, really, abuse – of his powers, he still looked for more to do. Still needed something else to keep him occupied.

It wasn't until he found himself hunting for a can of paint to touch up woodwork in the basement that he stopped his spree. Carefully putting the paint back where he'd found it, he'd gone up to his room - slowly - zombie-like, and sprawled out across his bed, not bothering to even take off his shoes. He lay there with his arms dangling off the edge of the bed, half-listening to the plaintive voice emanating from his CD player, and waited for sleep to come. Sleep. Yeah. That's what I need. Sleep'll take the edge off . . . take my mind off my troubles . . . off . . . him . . .

And sleep did come, descending on him like a dense fog. One second he was conscious of the reddening evening sky, nicely visible from his bedroom window. The next moment, there was darkness, and a rather interesting dream began. He remembered it vividly -- Mystique had been in it. She'd been angry as hell, screaming at him about Magneto having "wronged" her. Then she began smiling and winking purring that the two of them could give Magneto something to think about. It wasn't until Mystique's ever-present white dress fell to the floor that Pietro realized just what Mystique's plan of revenge entailed. Confronted with a totally nude (scary) and smiling (scarier) Mystique, Pietro had backed away, ready to turn on the jets and beat a path out of there.

The woman had seemed cognizant of Pietro's plans of flight, however, and then things got really, really strange.

This form does not please you? Very well. she'd said. I will choose another more . . . to your liking.

So she began to morph, melting and reassembling into shape after shape for what seemed like forever. And then, abruptly, she'd stopped changing and stood before him in her new "borrowed form." Pietro's eyes had widened as he took in the nude figure before him - brown skin, blond hair, dark eyes . . .

Evan.

This is what you want, young Quicksilver? You want to enjoy me in this form?

Evan's voice. Mystique with Evan's body and Evan's voice. Something inside Pietro told him to run, to run like hell, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. Couldn't talk. He could only stare. The shape shifter was smiling at him, and he trembled. Mystique's venom-like, daggers-drawn grin looked so out of place on Evan's face . . .

Come on, Quicksilver. This is what you've been waiting for. "Evan" held his arms out to the ashen-faced mutant. You want him, you know that you want him, and now is your chance to have him.

Pietro shuddered when the mahogany arms went around his neck. It's true, isn't it, she breathed against his neck. You want him . . . you want to belong to him . . .

The speedster could only groan as he attempted to disengage the shapeshifter's arms from his neck. Yes but. . . I want the real one. The real Evan, he'd tried to say. The real one. You're not him. You're. Not. Him. You'renotyou'renotyou'renot. You're . . . this . . . is . . . 

 Pietro's thoughts were clear, but everything else around him seemed to be in a hopeless muddle, and he couldn't understand why he couldn't say anything. Try as he might, he couldn't get more than a frightened squeak past his lips. Mystique-as-Evan seemed to take his relative silence for acquiescence, and warm hands slid under his T-shirts, strong fingers tracing circles on creamy flesh. Teasing. Pietro attempted flight once again, but was inexplicably unable to move, and rather more explicably unable to quell his arousal at the "boy's" touch. Sweat trickled down his forehead, pooling beneath his chin for an instant before dropping onto his T-shirt.

Just keep calm. It's not him. Not him. Nothimnothimnot . . . His eyes widened as he stood face-to-face with the mock-Spyke. Not him. It's notnotnot . . .

We will enjoy this. The older mutant murmured, pressing a kiss on his collarbone. Magnus has hurt us both in so many ways. He has taken so much from me and given nothing back in return. And as for you . . . well . . . he has deceived you in the cruelest way possible.

Huh? He'd wracked his brains for something significant - or, at the very least, coherent - to say, but his thoughts were promptly derailed when the shapeshifter sank to her knees, drawing him closer with one hand and unzipping his fly with the other. A hand breached the barrier of his boxers. His eyes went round with shock.

It's not him. Don't react. Don't get excited. Don't . . . uhm . . .

A mouth replaced the hand, and Pietro felt his knees start to give, but somehow he'd remained upright and erect - in many more ways than one.

No! Nononononono! This cannot be happening! His mind raced and his breath stuck in his throat like an errant bone. It's Mystique, dammit! Mystique! The last thing you want is her doing this to you!~

He looked down, ready to shove her away in disgust. But the blond hair stopped him. The chocolaty skin stopped him. The full lips - and how they moved expertly along his throbbing flesh - definitely stopped him.

Wow . . . He rocked unsteadily on his feet. Evan. Where'd you learn to use your tongue like that? Ooooh. No . . . wait . . . not Evan! Not Evan! The section of his brain that was still somewhat clear shouted the warning, but he chose to ignore it, enjoying the feel of the foreign mouth. No NOT HIM. NOT EVAN. Wake up you idiot! You're dreaming! And about Mystique, of all people! Mystique! YOU are getting excited about Mystique giving you HEAD!

He'd woken up then, heart racing and nearly bursting out of chest. The room was shrouded in darkness, stillness -- almost like a tomb. The quiet was broken only by the soft, emotional voice coming from the radio. He couldn't hear the song distinctly, however; his thoughts were drowning it out.

Evan. Can't stop thinking about him. Can't . . . or don't want to? Not sure. Not sure about anything anymore . . . Mystique . . . what did that mean, Magneto wronged me? He screwed all of us over. And she did, too.

 A more upbeat song had replaced the one he'd fallen asleep to, but it did nothing to lift him out of the doldrums as he ruminated on Mystique's words . . . which was much preferable to ruminating on her mouth. 

They left us with nothin' . . . made us fight against the X-Geeks . . . made it so that they hate us . . . so that I don't have a chance with him.

He shut his eyes. The melody and words emanating from the radio wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

The queerest of the queer
The strangest of the strange
The coldest of the cool
The lamest of the lame
The numbest of the dumb
I hate to see you here
You choke behind a smile
A fake behind the fear
The queerest of the queer

Pietro’s head jerked up sharply, and he looked over at the small CD player, eyes narrowing into cold, hard slits. "Damn . . . that is really not the song I wanna hear right now."

"No kidding, yo." A voice rejoined from the doorway. Todd's tongue shot out, flicking the switch into the "off" position. "What's with the girly music?"

"Todd?" Pietro half-turned, looking at his young teammate through heavy-lidded eyes. "What are you doing home so early?"

"It's not early . . . it's past five," Todd replied. "Me, Fred an' Tabby been home about an hour. I was just walking by, and I  . . . heard the music. Or whatever that is . . . "

"Ah." He shut his eyes. The last vestiges of the exhilaration and fear he'd felt during the dream were draining away, and he slowly came back to himself. "I was . . . having a bad dream."

"Yeah?" Todd's voice carried a hint of amusement. "Didn't look like it to me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well . . . you were doin' all this moaning." His mouth twitched at the corners. "And you were, you know, moving your hips around . . ." Here, he trailed off, a blush staining his cheeks.

"What? Moving? Moving how?" An icy feeling gripped the pit of the speedster’s stomach. "How?"

"I don't think I need to go there, yo." Todd tried to hide a grin at Pietro's dismayed look. "It's cool . . . the others are downstairs. I don't think they heard nothin'."

Pietro blanched. "What – what?" He spoke like a man in a daze, and no small part of him wondered if he were in the midst of yet another weird dream.

"Just forget it about it." Todd hopped on the bed. "I think we all had those type of dreams before."

About Mystique? God, if that's true, Why haven't we all run out of here screaming? "It really isn't what you think," he muttered, turning his attention to the wall. "It was a bad dream. Trust me."

"If you say so." Todd's eyes twinkled in the fading light of the room, but his face lost its teasing expression. "You missed a good game today. Bayville kicked ass."

"Mmmm." Pietro kicked at the blankets on his bed, remembering the way Mystique's eyes had glittered while she was pretending to be the ducky-skinned teen. It was a sultry, lusty look, "come hither" to the extreme - a look he would have killed to see on the face of the real Evan Daniels.

"Bayville won by 25 points," Todd continued. "Guess who was the high scorer?"

Pietro looked up. Todd glanced quickly into his friend's face, then away, smiling.

"Uh-huh." Pietro's voice was flat. So Evan mopped the floor with the competition. Not a new occurrence. The boy was good - always had been. Pietro had heard the blond might be named captain of the team. Captain, and Daniels was only a sophomore. The speedster would have been jealous if he weren't so busy thinking of ways to get him into bed.

"He asked about you." Todd said casually, smiling slightly at Pietro's shocked look. "Me, Lance and Fred saw him and Shades near the exit. I just had to give him props for the game. And then he looked at all of us . . . asked us where you were."

It was a few seconds before Pietro could get his mind around the idea that Evan would not only notice his absence at a Bayville High game, but would comment it on it, too. He'd just been too tired to attend. Too depressed. And Evan's very presence would have worked him to a desperate, immediate fever pitch that would have been hard to shake off. The white-haired boy just didn't feel like dealing with any of it . . . not that day.  "And . . . what did you say?"

Todd shrugged. "That you'd gone home. He looked . . . I dunno. He looked weird when I told him that. Disappointed. Like he didn't believe me - or maybe he didn't want to."

Pietro's wintry head bowed slightly,  pressing his chin to his chest as if he were attempting to squash the stab of hope in his chest that had manifested itself  in response to Todd's words.

 "Right. Daniels probably just wanted me there so I could watch him dominate the game. Now if I were playing . . . it'd be different."

"You mean you'd be able to stop drooling after him long enough to put the ball in play? Don't believe it, Speed." Todd cocked his shaggy head at Pietro's cutting glare. "Seriously, as fun as it is to hear you go on and on about Daniels - all right, so it's not that much fun, but it's good for a laugh . . ."

He ducked when Pietro threw a pillow at his head. "Kidding, Quickie! Damn! But like I was saying . . . it's fun to hear you talk about him and all, but don't you ever get tired of just talkin'? Don't you ever feel like actually doin' something?"

Pietro dropped his gaze, conscious that the terror he suddenly felt was likely evident in his face. "What?"

"Don't you . .  . ever think about telling him?" Todd's voice dropped and his manner became more serious. "You've been acting weird lately, and I know it's because of him. You're distant. You're quiet. You're moping around the house . . ."

The stricken expression didn't fade. "Um, Todd . . . as much as I'd love to be the object of ridicule of the X-Geeks and the entire school -"

"Hear me out." Todd put up a hand. "I think you're all depressed and mopey not because you like Evan, which, really is kinda depressing. I mean, come on - Daniels? You can do a lot better." Todd smiled innocently under Pietro's stare. "Uh, anyway, the problem isn't that you like him but that he doesn't have any clue that you like him. You're doing all this suffering, and nobody knows it but you and me. Maybe you should just, you know, kinda send up a flare. Maybe not flat-out tell him - yet - but just give him a tip - you know, on the hush -- that you dig him. That might make you feel better."

"Todd . . . no." Pietro sighed softly. "There's nothing discreet about a guy telling another guy that he's got the hots for him. Especially if the other guy has hated you for going on nine years and you're not sure if he's into other guys."

"Huh. Yeah . . . I guess not." Todd looked thoughtful. "But . . . you've got to have some idea, right? He's got to be giving off some vibes. I mean, you wouldn't like a guy who's not into guys at all, would you?"

"It's been known to happen," Pietro murmured, staring blankly at the now-silent CD player. "I have no idea about what Evan's into." The speedster had wondered, of course - dreamed, hoped, fantasized - but he didn't know one way or the other if it were even possible that Evan might be interested in guys in a level above platonic. But even if Evan were interested in guys, it wouldn't necessarily mean he'd be interested in him. But . . .

"But there's no way to know for sure."

Pietro looked up sharply. Todd had just finished his thought -- had the younger mutant somehow read his mind? But Todd wasn't looking particularly telepathic as he stared at the fading wallpaper in the room.

"No . . . there's no way to know for sure," Pietro said slowly, the memory of Mystique-as-Evan and her poison-tinged smile returning. "And there's no way I'm gonna say anything to him. So . . . it looks like I'll have to suffer in silence. Though it would be nice . . ." . . .To tell him. To have it all out in the open. Pietro ran a hand over his silvery hair. To not feel so tired all the time because I'm keeping all this in. It'd be nice to not feel like a jerk because I've gotta see him every day and not be able to kiss him, touch him . . . or even talk to him without it getting weird. Yeah . . . it'd be nice . . .

"Not in silence. You can talk to me, Quickie. You know that." Todd got up from the bed and stretched. "But this can't go on forever, you know? I mean, you either say something or let this go, right?"

Pietro was quiet, imagining that he could hear Mystique-as-Evan's voice in the stillness, the sultry whispers in his ear . Letting it go - letting go of his feelings for Evan, was not an option. Not ever.

But telling him how he felt was not the best of options, either. Pietro frowned. The proverbial rock and hard place . . . though the hard place was definitely not the one he would have preferred.

"You coming down any time soon? Dinner's almost ready." Todd jammed his hands in his back pockets. "It's spaghetti again - I'd better get down there before Fred starts burning the noodles." He looked at his snow-haired friend, who was lying silent and pale against the pillows. "Hey . . . you gonna be all right?"

I wish I knew. Pietro regarded his friend through listless, hooded blue eyes. "I think I smell smoke. Fred might have started without you."

"Fuck. And that's the last of the noodles. I'd better get down there before he messes up the corn. We'll be in real trouble then." Todd rushed toward the door.

"Todd." Pietro's voice reached the younger teen just as Todd's hand touched the doorknob. The younger boy turned around a question in his creased brows; the speedster hadn't really changed position, but his posture seemed different . . . straighter somehow, less helpless.

"Yeah?"

"I saw a flier at school . . . something about the lacrosse team selling singing Valentines to raise money for some trip . . ."

"Uh . . . yeah. Though the thought of that team singing is scary as hell. Maybe Kelly will pay them not to."

Pietro smirked. "Forget it. That's just the kind of warm and fuzzy thing Kelly drools over. But anyway . . . what if I sent something like that to Daniels? Anonymously, of course. Would that be the same as sending up a . . . flare?"

Todd considered a moment. "I . . . guess. But it's a little too corny, yo. I think that if you want him to know you like him, but you don't want to come out and tell him you like him, there's better ways to do it then have the lacrosse team sing to him."

"Like?"

"Well . . . you're the brilliant one." Todd grinned as he opened the door -- a grin that fell as acrid smoke poured into the room from the lower level of the house. "You'll think of something, I bet." He left then, rushing down the stairs to the source of the smoke.

Pietro sighed and sat up a little, his eyes darting around the room, flitting over heaps of dust, cracked plaster and the large crack winding across his bedroom window. The restless blue eyes took in the CD player - one of the few intact things in the room - and he studied it critically, almost as if he were seeing it for the first time, when something close to the little sound system caught his eye. He sat up a little more and leaned forward, trying to make it out. 

Pietro blinked slowly, realizing that what he was staring at was a notebook. A notepad, actually - one of the legal, yellow kind, pilfered long ago from the supply closet in Bayville High's front office. Pietro kept it close to the window, just in case he needed to press it into service to help keep some of the cold air from leaking through the crack in the window. It was lying innocently next to the CD player now. Staring at the paper, he recalled the simple love letter he'd found in his locker earlier that month that had been put there, apparently, by an awestruck freshman girl. Pietro had paid it little mind - the freshman girl was not and never would be the object of his desire, even if he were straight - but he remembered being flattered and somewhat touched by the missive. And impressed -- the girl had signed her name and everything. That took guts, laying it all out there like that. Didn't work, but it was as good a way as any to get on a person's mind and let him know he was admired . . .

The shadow of an idea began to form in the speedster's mind as he gazed at the pad, the yellow pages reminding Pietro of the lemony color of Evan's hair. The voice of Mystique as she'd sounded in his dream floated back to him like the soft refrain of a song.

Come on, Quicksilver. This is what you've been waiting for.

He stood up, walked over and picked up the notepad, turning it over and over in his hands for a moment as doubts paraded through his mind. This is silly. I'm no freshman girl. I'm Pietro. Love letters are so . . . junior high. Could he recognize my handwriting? What if someone sees me? This is stupid . . . why am I evening thinking about this. He gazed out the window, watching the sun make its bloody descent below the horizon, and seeing the first sparks of stars visible in a rapidly darkening sky. What the hell will I say anyway that will sound any more intelligent than singing lacrosse players? Could this  . . . could this work?

He wavered a little, standing quietly for about half a second. Voices - heated ones - reached him from the first floor. He cocked his head a moment listening to the low rumble of Fred's voice interspersed with the higher-pitched tone of Todd. There was a sudden shriek, and then a shudder that ran through the house. Pietro smiled wanly. Good. Lance's home. Let the fun begin.  

He raised his arms above his head, feeling the stretch through to his toes just as a crackling noise and a resounding boom indicated that Tabby was getting quite annoyed with whatever was going on. Fuck. I'd better get down there before Lance kills that little witch . . . not that I'd blame him . . . 

He straightened his clothes and did a cursory check in the mirror to make sure he did not look the part of a lovesick teen who had very nearly gotten off to a dream about a woman who scared the tar out of him. Those eyes. That mouth. The shapeshifter's voice . . .

You want to belong to him  . . .

He shuddered slightly, his gaze falling on the sun-colored paper in his hands. The eyes blue eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. Letters were stupid. . . and why he'd ever entertained the thought, he couldn't imagine. He was still shaken by the dream, no doubt. . .  and by the fatigue that still gripped him. Maybe he was just a little - a little- desperate, but not so very pathetic that he'd stoop to something so juvenile, so idiotic, so . . . potentially humiliating.

He threw the pad over his shoulder,  not bothering to see where it fell. It would be a sad, sorry day . . . one in which he just couldn't take any more, the speedster vowed zipping through the door, before he'd ever have occasion to use it. 

The paper lay on the bed, rustling in the wake of the teen's departure until the wind died down and the pages were stirred slightly by an inexplicable breeze that was as warm and gentle as the softest of sighs.

FIN