Disclaimer - Marvel owns X-Men and all related characters, not I. I make no profit from this piece. "Winner" was originally written for the Evoficathon on Livejournal, based on a request by emotionalyweird.

Lastly - this is rated R. It's a hard R, but still very much an R. No more, no less. And it's slash. Just to give you a last chance to go read some light-hearted fluff instead.

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Winner

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Pietro watches Evan openly during lunch, his eyes wide and unwavering. It's not really unusual to stare at the X-Freaks' table. Right now, Lance and Kitty are exchanging flirtatious glances, Fred is eying Jean sullenly, and Scott is glaring at the Brotherhood in general, as much as a guy always hidden by shades can.

It is Scott who first whispers something to Kurt, who then leans in close to Evan and nudges him. A look of confusion passes over his face, which turns to surprise when he meets Pietro's eyes. To hide his body's horrible, natural, mysterious impulse to blush, the silver-haired boy sneers and looks away, his cubic zirconium earring flashing in the sunlight.

Pietro's first clear, detailed memory is of his sister being ripped away from him. Tears coursing down her face, frantic screams, arms reaching out to him endlessly - endlessly - on and on forever. And he could not move, not his feet, not his eyes, couldn't even breathe. He could not bring himself to move even one step to save Wanda, and now he is spending the rest of his life making up for that weakness.

The memory is of losing. His twin, a bet, his mind, a nickel, it doesn't matter. Pietro hates to lose anything, so he doesn't allow it to happen very often. But there's someone, always in the sun, his sun, eclipsing him. Always winning, and never deserving it.

And then the bell rings, signaling the end of the lunch period. At the X-Men table, they start gathering the remains of their lunches to neatly throw away or recycle. The boys of the Brotherhood haven't had money for lunch for a long time, despite their sprawling house across town; they merely get up and stalk away in different directions.

It literally hurts to have to just walk, like everyone else. All of Pietro's cells are crying out in agony, begging him to run, but it's one step, two, another, another, just like everyone else. Blend in. Don't call attention to yourself until it's time, just like his father always preached. And he always listens to his father, even in this abandonment, with no money, no food, and no guidance.

He listens, listens, and even still, he does not win.

Evan has been in Pietro's memories since he was very small. In the first grade, they shared a cubby, filled with papers covered in gold stars for Pietro and red marks for Evan. And life was fine like that, at least between the two of them. They got along. But then one day, as their class stood outside for PE, the teacher held up a basketball.

The period after lunch is his English class. Pietro slips into a desk in the back of the room. And he tries to pay attention, he does. Really. But they're reading Jane Eyre, which he thinks is boring anyway, and all the students have to take a turn reading out loud, and they speak so slowly. The girl sitting next to him begins the third chapter, taking about a week to pronounce each clumsy word.

He turns his head and glances around the room, trying to find something, anything interesting to focus on. A few posters of scenes from Shakespeare on the walls. A Snickers wrapper on the floor near the trash can. One book in the bookcase laying on its side instead of standing vertical with the others. Not much to go on.

With a sigh, he flips through his copy of Jane Eyre. It's not as bad as it seems, and in a few minutes he's on the last page.

"Pietro, please pick up where Jenny left off."

He looks up quickly - not too quickly - and says, "Oh...where was that?"

"Weren't you paying attention?"

"Of course I was."

"Then...?"

"Well - "

"Never mind," she snaps. "Expect an F for the day, Mr. Maximoff."

His hands clench, he wants to scream. Another loss. Instead:

"Then I don't see the point in staying."

Moving fast - within reason - he's out of the room.

It wasn't that Evan was faster than Pietro - even as a child, his speed was hard to beat - so much as being so comfortable with the ball. Even with the small hands of a little boy, the basketballs fit his palm perfectly, and rolled from his fingertips with ease. The other children watched and chattered with excitement. Pietro stood in the back of the crowd and sulked.

The halls are empty, all the classroom doors are firmly closed. He hardly has to argue with himself before he gives in and runs - really runs - a flash of red sweater against the stark, heavy lockers.

He runs, and for the moment the world is passing at his own speed.

Every year, Evan made the school basketball team. So did Pietro. But there was a keen difference in being the star and being the scenery, and Pietro felt it at every practice, at every game. The sulking turned to something else.

How he ends up in the empty locker room, he doesn't know, but he's able to skid to an easy halt just before crashing into a wall. He takes a step back, feeling shaky from the sudden rush of endorphins.

"What're you doing here?"

Pietro frowns, staring at the blank wall. He knows the voice.

Evan Daniels.

He turns around, facing Evan in a fraction of a second.

"Free country, Daniels. Can't a guy hang out in the locker room without being interrogated?"

Confidence makes a stupid statement respectable. Works every time.

Every year, the coach had the same strategy - pass the ball to Evan. And so Pietro did. He stretched his arms forth, toward Daniels, and passed the ball. A dozen times, every game.

Evan is dressed in his baggy red and gray PE clothes. Scowling, he crosses his arms.

"Whatever, man. You don't have PE this period."

"I can do what I want, Ev. Thanks for the concern."

"Look, just back off and leave me alone, Maximoff. I don't want to have to deal with you."

"Deal with me - "

"And I saw you looking at me during lunch. What's your problem, Pietro?"

Evan's eye twitches, a movement so fast that it almost doesn't happen. Pietro catches it.

"What are you, a fag?"

Pietro's legs are fast, and so are his ears. He doesn't miss the uncertainty in Evan's voice, the slight change in pitch. Mr. Daniels sounds strangely defensive.

Pietro sneers.

"Well, jeez, Evan."

Confidence.

"When you put it that way..."

A step forward. Still dizzy from the run.

"Maybe!"

He moves too fast for Evan to react.

Every game, whether a win or a loss, the same thing - cheers upon cheers for Evan, hugs from the cheerleaders, pats on the back from the other guys on the team. No matter how well Pietro passed the ball, so quickly, at the most opportune moment, there was nothing for him but the empty bleacher seat where his father should have sat.

The kiss is hard and tight-lipped and soon way too long for Pietro's patience, but just before he pulls away, Evan starts to kiss him back.

Surprise, surprise. Maybe Evan is more interesting than anyone thought.

Every game the team won was still a loss to Pietro. If he couldn't be the winner, then he had to be the loser. There were no in betweens - it was an unadulterated no-win streak.

A mouth opens, a tongue slides in. It feels alive in Pietro's mouth, like a wriggling fish, so he pushes forward and takes control. Of the tongue, the kiss. Evan. Everything.

Evan was named MVP every season. Pietro grudgingly clapped with everyone else, then went back to practicing passing the ball.

His hands wandering, searching for something he can't name. Hesitantly, Evan follows his lead, until they're both gasping and reaching for more.

He practiced every day - pass the ball to Evan. Arms stretched out, passing the ball. He wondered how it would look, if things were reversed and it was Evan passing and Pietro glorying. In his mind, it looked right.

Pietro has him pressed against the gym lockers, the kiss growing sloppier, better. There's a small squeak every few seconds, annoying until he realizes that it's coming from Evan.

He nips at Evan's tongue and can taste blood. His hips surge forward.

Pass the ball.

Grinding, sucking, biting. Frantic pumping of hips, like birds that, falling through the air, know they must mate in seconds or risk slamming into the ground.

He can hear the big clock on the wall tick behind the sounds they're making.

Obey. Listen. Pass the ball.

There's another gasp from Evan, louder this time, and Pietro can feel his jolt. Then he too freezes, and suddenly there's wetness in his pants.

He was never going to succeed like that.

They let go of each other, shuddering. Pietro takes another step back and almost loses his balance before quickly recovering and regaining his composure. Evan leans against the wall of lockers, chest heaving, and reaches out his arms to him in an unconscious action.

He'll reach out forever.

Pietro smirks. Finally, finally.

"I win," he whispers, and then is only a gust in the schoolyard.

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