AN: Yes, I know it's been forever, and I'm sorry, really. RL ickiness and Evan's exile from the show sort of took the wind out of my sails. But thanks to a way-cool, way-awesome artist named Ranma, I'm feeling the Evietro love once more. If you haven't seen this guy's art – go to my Evietro site RIGHT NOW and check him out. ::huggles Ranma:: Thanks for all who inquired about this story. I do want to finish, it just might take awhile.

This chapter, of course, is for Ranma. Would not, could not have done it without you.

R/R if you please

~Eight~

Pietro let Evan set the pace, suspecting – correctly, as it turned out – that the blond would want to go a little faster than the punishingly sluggish trot to which Pietro had subjected himself. As they skirted the first curve and thundered down the straight path, Pietro was quiet, his mind turning over and discarding ways to open the contest. He knew he could stay silent until they got a few laps completed, and hope that the physical exertion would have worn Evan down a little by then. Or he could begin immediately, firing clues without pause and hope Evan became too confused to make head or tails of it all.

Still undecided on which track to take, Pietro decided to just wing it, keeping in the same no-prior-thought theme that the "challenge" had been built on. Sizing up his opponent in a series of furtive glances, the speedster thought Evan seemed distracted. There was something off in his body language that didn't exactly suggest he didn't want to be there, but indicated that his mind was somewhere else. More than the lack of real commentary – Pietro hadn't exactly expected a gabfest – there was an aloofness, a distancing, and every now and again, the hint of a smile. The body language was a little disconcerting, but it was that smile that gave the speed demon pause, and made him extremely nervous.

"This might work a little better if talking was involved." Pietro grumbled, his voice roughened with denied fatigue.

The blond shrugged, the dreamy smile becoming a little more pronounced. "Sorry. I was just thinking . . . ever hear of that, Quickie?"

"Obviously you haven't, Daniels, or we wouldn't be doing any of this."

Evan gave a dismissive snort, running the back of his hand across his forehead. "So how's your head, anyway?"

"My . . . head?" Pietro's voice was wary. Well that was . . .  random. He knew it was a little soon to expect their conversation to make any sense, but still –

"Yeah. From last night." Evan glanced at him, his expression one of curiosity tempered with concern. "You sure you're okay? You've seemed kind of . . . weird. Even for you."

Pietro studied Evan from the corner of his eye, his stomach clenching as it dawned on him what Evan might be talking about. FuckFuckFuck. "What's that supposed to mean?"

And a second later, his fears were confirmed in the form of Evan's halting, "Um . . . you know. At lunch today–"

Pietro briefly shut his eyes and allowed himself one last "Fuck!" before launching into defensive mode. "Look, Daniels. I don't know what you think you saw, but itwasn'twhatitlookedlike. There'snotanythinggoingon –"

He ceased all movement – from his mouth to his toes – when he suddenly realized that Evan wasn't beside him any more. He was, in fact, behind him. Almost the entire length of the track behind, and looking at him in stunned incredulity. Pietro looked down at his traitorous feet and kicked at the asphalt.

Fuck. The first time he'd ever lost his grip on his control – it would figure that it would happen while Evan was there. Pietro averted his eyes as he waited for Evan to catch up. I'm in deep, deep, deep sh—

"I thought you said wearing all that slowed you down," Evan fell back into step beside him. "You looked like a pile of laundry shot from a cannon."

Pietro pulled at the topmost shirt in disgust. All three garments were soaked through and weren't doing a thing at the moment except irritating him. "Forget it. Come on." He gritted his teeth, the hair at the base of his neck bristling. He had to keep calm, collected. Just be his usual five-hundred-steps-ahead self. He saw that as just about the only chance he had of getting through this ordeal with a shred of dignity and his brain intact.

"Anyway, what I was saying was that me and Lance were just fooling around –" He winced. That didn't sound quite right, either. "Joking around. It wasn't  anything . . . weird."

He darted a glance at Evan, waiting for his reaction the news. The blond wasn't looking at him, and what little he could see of his expression was blank. Pietro wondered if Evan hadn't heard him or was just ignoring him, and was about to repeat himself when Evan spoke.

"Oh . . . um, yeah." Evan blew out a breath as they passed beneath the face of the field house clock. "Uh . . . whatever. I didn't think . . ." Evan trailed off, and Pietro fought hard to keep his breathing normal waiting for the hammer to fall, for Evan to call him a sick twitch, or a pathetic idiot, or . . . or . . . the whatever the nonsensical skaterboy putdown of the moment was.

But, "Whatever," was Evan's profound comeback. "You and Alvers . . . what you get up to, it's not  . . . like . . . it's any of my . . . business."

"I know that," Pietro snapped, feeling suddenly disappointed. Far from sounding embarrassed, pissed, amused or hope-of-hopes, a little jealous, Evan merely sounded indifferent, as if finding adolescent mutant teen boys – one in a state of undress – in the halls of Bayville High was a common occurrence. That, and the way he said "whatever" made Pietro want to slap him repeatedly. "But if you've got ideas about telling any of your friends, I wouldn't waste my breath."

"Relax, Speedy. That's about the last thing I'd want to do." Evan's tone was suspiciously sincere. "Besides, I really don't think you're his type, man."

The voice was gently teasing, and Pietro glared at Evan's profile, marking a trembling of lips that threatened to bloom into a full-fledged smile. "Not his type? Like I'd ever go for him. Too much of a headache." Pietro hesitated a moment before saying, in as casual a tone as his breathless voice could form, "Besides, I kind of have a thing for blonds . . ."

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was steady breathing and the solid slap of rubber soles on concrete. In the silence, Pietro quickened his thought processes a little, wondering just how open he was prepared to be that day. Something – either the incident with Lance or being so near a sweaty, panting . . .

. . . Delectable, sexy, sumpt– Okay. I'm stopping now . . .

. . . running, half-dressed  Evan that was making him want to be reckless and carefree. He glanced over, trying to gauge the other teen's reaction to his words. Pietro was reasonably certain that Evan might miss the significance of the 'blond' remark, but he wondered if his rival would pick up on the slightly less oblique implication contained within his response – namely that he wasn't into Lance, but not necessarily because he was a guy. Pietro waited for a reaction.

And kept on waiting. Pietro braved a look to his right, vexed to see Evan giving his undivided attention to the fascinating row of dandelions that grew at the edge of the railing. The skater, Pietro noted, seemed strangely relaxed as they spun around the course, painting the ground with their footsteps, leaving a breadcrumb trail of sweatdrops.

"Right," the blond returned faintly. "Some advice, Maximoff – you and Alvers might wanna find a better place to . . .  joke around, next time. If somebody else other than me had seen you, you could really get jacked up, dude. At least I know how weird you can get sometimes." 

"Thanks for the concern. But that was a one-time only thing. Shoulda brought your camera."  The speedster smiled grimly as the power-walkers exited the track, and soon, the park. Now the field was truly clear. He picked up the pace a little. "What were you doing in the hall anyway? Got tired of listening to Shades in lecture mode? He was boring me from five tables away."

"Needed something from my locker. I ran out of moo juice, and I –"

"You keep milk in there? So that's what that smell is."  Pietro grinned and leaned close, sniffing audibly. "I was wondering . . ." 

"Screw you." They passed the main entrance to the park and soon left the starting line behind. First lap completed. "I was getting cash to buy more. It–"

"Still keeping your money in your locker?" Pietro's grin widened, and he ignored the cramp in his left calf. "Don't you learn?"

"Dunno, man." Evan spared him a knowing look. "Do you?"

Pietro's smirk became one-sided, and he squashed the onrush of memories from their former school and the events that led to Evan's, and ultimately his own, exile from the hallowed halls of PS 104. "Get over yourself, Daniels. Not everything in my life revolves around your locker. Sorry."

At that, Evan gave him The Disbelieving Stare. Pietro parried with the I'm Telling the Truth look, throwing in the You Can't Beat Me eyebrow-waggle for good measure. They swung round in a wide arc, several feet of distance separating them before the gap was closed a little, and they were side by side again, so close that Pietro could have reached out and traced designs in the sweat glistening on Evan's forearms. Resolutely, the speed demon kept his hands to himself.

"So, speaking of lockers, I heard you found something interesting in yours this morning," Pietro said, swerving to avoid a crushed beer can in his path. "Another letter?"

The speedster saw that smile spread across Evan's face again – dreamy, wistful, goofy. Unnerving. "Yeah," he panted. "This morning. I –" The smile made an abrupt departure. "Wait a minute – what do you know about it?"

"I have my ways." Pietro was smug as they cantered into the stretch for the second lap. "So, you hold on to this one, or ya gonna use it to line the bottom of Fuzzfuck's cage?"

"I have it." Evan was staring at him, slowing down now that he didn't have his eyes on the track. "I'm serious, Quickie. How did you know? Did she say something to you? "

She again. Pietro felt the blood pulsing in his veins and felt himself sliding closer to the shadowy line in his psyche that divided 'Pietro' and 'Quicksilver.' Taking a deep breath, he slowed down, counseling himself again to remain calm. He never thought this little arrangement would be, well, a walk in the park, so to speak, and he had to also be on guard for the possibility that Evan had, somehow, figured the whole thing out and was just baiting him now. 

"Yeah, sure. How else would I know?" Pietro muttered, his face toward the ground. "How else would I know?"

"Uh . . . right. I guess." The slight hesitation made the silver-haired teen look up sharply, and he glanced into the darker-skinned teen's face in time to see a flicker of . . . something light the dark eyes and the full lips wilt into a contemplative frown. Pietro studied the face avidly, and nearly howled in frustration when that flash of something deeper disappeared, replaced by a bland stare and an inane smile.

"It was cute. She was watching me board, this morning . . . before school. She was saying I looked cool."

"No taste and no life." Pietro pushed wet strands of hair out of his eyes. "Some people are beyond help."

"That's a pretty . . . messed up way to talk about . . . your friend," Evan panted. "Dissing her . . . like that . . ."

"Yeah, well, it's justified. If you ever find out who this is, I'm sure you'll agree." There was a stretch of silence as they curved around the far end of the track. "So anyway, ready to start?" He gave Evan a two-second window in which to voice any objections or reservations. "Okay, good. First clue –"

"Wait . . . wait . . ." Evan piped up in second three. "We need to clear something up first – last night . . . you were serious about being straight with me about all this?"

"I . . . am going to be as straight with you as I possibly can." Pietro framed the words sarcastically, expecting the double meaning to fly over his rival's head. A low chuckle from his companion, however, sent the blood rushing to the speedster's face, and Pietro gave a wary look to his right only to see Evan staring directly ahead, his expression, for the moment, unreadable. "I said I'd be honest, and I'm going to be, so stop stalling and let's get this started –"

"I know what you said. It's just that . . . um . . . I think . . . I think I know . . . who she is." Evan's sneakers made odd, squishing sounds each time they hit the concrete. "And I wanna be sure that if it is her, you're not gonna snow me . . . because it would mean . . . the game'll be over. And I . . . win."

Pietro said nothing for a few moments, torn between the urge to laugh and tear every strand of his hair out one by one. "Daniels, there is nobody – nobody ­– who wants this stupid challenge over faster than me. The time I'm wasting with you could be put to sososososososo much better use." Like, um, thinking about you. Dreaming about you. Fantasizing about you. Wishing I could be what you want. Pietro scowled and gave his shorts a vicious tug. They were sliding down his legs – of their own accord, this time. Yeah . . . there's more productive ways I could waste my time and drive myself crazy . . . and not have to be near you and listen to you talk about she and her. "So if you think you know who it is, out with it. I could use a good laugh."

"All right . . . I almost don't wanna say anything because I'm a little curious about the "clues," but . . ." There was a slight pause – for heightened dramatic effect most likely, Pietro thought with a roll of his eyes. "Is it Amanda?"

Though it pained him to admit it, even to himself, but he'd been genuinely curious to hear whom Evan would name. It would, Pietro reasoned, give him a slight insight into the inner-workings – such as they were – of Evan's mind, and it would give him an idea of what type of look tripped the blond's wire. When they'd been at PS 104, Evan hadn't exactly been a 'ladies man,' nor could Pietro remember the spike shooter ever dating or crushing on anyone in particular, so he had no precedent on which to go on that indicated Evan's tastes. Pietro held out hope that if Evan at least seemed open-minded in some respects – body type, hair color, eye color, race, etc – about the people he tended to be drawn to, maybe he'd be open to other possibilities, as well. Though just because one might like a person with green eyes and streaked hair, it didn't automatically indicate gay tendencies in a person, but still . . . Pietro figured he had had to have something to base his hopes on.

But one tiny detail made all that, for the moment, moot: He had no idea who the hell Evan was talking about.

"Amanda?" The thinner teen had half-expected Evan to name one of his X-Loser teammates – Kitty Pryde, maybe, or one of the newer recruits. There was a younger girl who apparently could become a moving lava lamp who seemed kind of hot – no pun intended. Pietro vaguely remembered Tabby saying something about being friends with this girl . . . Amy, was it? Amelia? Some 'A' name. "You're talking about the girl who can turn into a walking flamethrower?"

Evan looked adorably befuddled for a moment as they huffed into their next lap. "Oh, you . . . must mean . . .  Amara." He shook his head, swiping at the wetness on his cheeks. End of lap two, beginning of lap three. "Nah . . . I'm talking about Amanda. You know . . . uh . . . Amanda  . . . from math."

Oh right. That clears it up. Pietro shook off the numbing and disheartening realization that not only was Evan not reading between the lines of just about everything that had been said, written and/or done, but that his throwing out of this Amanda person's name seemed less of a guess and more like a desperate, flailing, "Oh pleasepleasepleaseplease let it be her!"

"Daniels, wanna make this easy on yourself, there's one thing you might wanna think about doing . . ."

"Uh . . . what's . . . that?"

"Use your brain. It doesn't hurt. Really." Pietro's friendly 'advice' had the air of a command, but Evan's cutting glare indicated that the speedster had put just enough of a derisive spin on his words to make them seem an offshoot of his usual sarcasm. "I'm not in your math class, so telling me she is, is about as useless as those suck-ass powers of yours."

"She's not . . . in mine, either. She's in . . . Kurt's . . . Aren't you in his . . . class, too?"

"Not when I can help it," Pietro muttered. "There's a billion better ways to waste my time – learning derivatives and functions don't even make the top 10 million."

As they raced down the straightaway, Pietro listened to Evan rasp for breath, and realized they had done a little more than four laps, albeit at a slightly slower clip than when they had started. A stealthy, assessing blue gaze noted the easy flex of Evan's calf muscles, the gentle ripple of Evan's forearms as they pumped in counterpoint to his strides, and the slight bounce to his steps. Despite the heavy breathing and the profuse sweating, Pietro could tell Evan wasn't too tired, and, likely, would not be for some time – or if he was, he'd never admit it. So much for wearing him down. Pietro focused his gaze on the crabgrass that flourished beneath a canopy of lindens, marveling at how Evan's closeness was not wreaking havoc on his senses as he thought it might. The speed demon chalked that up to frustration at the spike-shooter's continual obliviousness overriding the desire flared up whenever Evan looked his way.

"Anyway, I don't know anybody named Amanda, so the answer's no. Good thing I'm in a generous mood – I could count that as one of your guesses, but I won't."  Pietro smiled blithely. "I know, I know. I'm way too softhearted for my own good. What can I say? It's not nice to be cruel to the mentally handicapped."

Evan muttered something beneath his breath that Pietro was sure wasn't a compliment. "You're  . . . serious? It's . . . it's . . . not her?"

"Don't be pathetic, Spykey." They reached the beginning of the course again, and Pietro could hear Evan's breathing becoming noticeably labored. "Everybody knows that the average high school girl'll try to latch on to upperclassmen, not the lowest common denominator. Which, I guess, you are regardless, but you being a bottom-feeding frosh does not help."

"I thought you said . . . you didn't know . . . her . . ."

"I don't." Pietro's eyes narrowed. "But I know the type."

"Well . . . I saw her . . . in front of my locker . . . and I thought . . ." Evan's next few words degenerated into unintelligible mumbling, and Pietro inched a little closer in order to hear him better. "Never mind . . . I didn't really think it was . . . her . . . just . . . a thought."

"Daniels, you're hilarious. The last original thought you had you probably left swirling in the toilet bowl." Pietro suddenly remembered the dark-haired girl he'd seen at Evan's locker earlier that day. He hadn't had a chance to get a close look, but if memory served, Pietro was sure it was the same girl in his pre-calc class who stared at Kurt Wagner with glazed apple eyes and a goofy smile. Pietro smiled bitterly, sure that the girl would run faster than he could if she knew about Wagner's furry little secret – or Evan's spiky one. That's the type he goes for? Pietro wasn't conscious of a sense of jealousy as much as one of disappointment. That girl was so . . . ordinary. No sort of spark, nothing really to distinguish her from the legions of Bayville girls who were flower capris and charm bracelets.

Pietro held his breath for a moment. Two. Three. Then let it out slowly . . . slowly . . . slowly. "Daniels, wouldja do me a favor?"

The suspiciously demure tone made Evan falter a few steps. "What . . . what is it . . .?"

"See those broken bottles over there?" He nodded toward a pile of broken soda bottles that lay near the far end of the bleacher, glinting slickly in the fading sun. "Go and get me the big blue one . . . the one with the reeeeal jagged edge."

"What . . . for . . .?" Evan glanced at the pile, then at Pietro, his furrowed brow and the sweat snaking down his face making it seek as if he were trying to lift a heavy weight.

"'Cause . . . it looks just sharp enough to for me to slit my wrists with." Pietro's saccharine tone became as steely as rebar. "I'd ask for one of your spikes, but they'd probably just scratch me."

Evan's voice hardened to match. "Man . . . what is your problem?"

"You. You and your lack of perspective are my problem. Daniels, get real; you're a nobody in a place where all the somebodies aren't freaky little skateboard losers with bleached hair. You really think some vapid babe is going around wanting to play tongue-tag with you?" Pietro felt a fleeting remorse when he saw a flash of pain cross the dark face. But it was true, what he was saying. Bayville was nothing like New York City, where the individual ruled the day. Here, they measured normalcy with a goddamn yardstick – the one that tended to fall like a deity's judgment on those who fell short of the acceptability mark.

"I told you I'd be honest and fair, and you said you'd try to beat me. I'm doing you the courtesy of talking to you as if I thought you walk upright. So start trying. Even you can do better than this." Pietro was quiet a minute. "The person who's panting after you isn't some giggly type who'd give their glitter lipgloss to go to the senior prom with some football asshole. No." His voice became progressively lower, thoughtful. "This person . . . doesn't have a thing to gain by liking you – in fact, this person could get knocked down a few rungs on the Bayville social ladder if it ever got around that you're what trips this person's wire. But this person . . . doesn't give a damn about what anybody else says or thinks . . . except you . . . what you think and what you feel is the only thing . . . this person cares about." He gave a depreciating chuckle. "Keeps 'em up nights. Pathetic."

Evan said nothing for a few steps, then, "You're sure this . . . is  . . . a . . . a  . . . friend of . . . yours?"

Pietro raised a brow. He was expecting a response with a little more, well, kick to it. Maybe Evan was getting tired. "I said so, didn't I? Why?"

"You . . . just  . . . act like you can't stand . . . her . . ." Evan mopped sweat from his forehead. "The stuff . . . you . . . say . . ."

"I don't dislike this . . . person." Pietro mulled his next words before continuing. "I feel bad for 'em, actually – because I think liking you is gonna be one of the biggest mistakes this person ever makes."

"Well . . . who cases what you . . . think." Pietro looked over in time to catch the tail end of a fleeting smile. "You're not the  . . . one . . . who wants to  . . . date . . . me . . ."

It wasn't the least bit amusing – not at all, really, because, Pietro knew, Evan was being as serious as it was in him to be – and that, in and of itself was a tragic thing, a cause for gnashing of teeth and tearing of hair. But angst and melancholy was difficult to do while perspiring, so Pietro laughed instead, guffaws jolting his body like sobs, for one full turn around the track.

Only when he became lightheaded and felt as if he were going to pass out did Pietro calm himself, simultaneously aware of Evan's half-frightened, half-skeptical glance. "Do I even want to know what's so funny?"

Fairly sure that the answer to that was a resounding no, Pietro could only shake his head, uncertain in that moment of his ability to form sentences. After a happy moment during which oxygen was introduced to his brain cells again, Pietro said with more good humor than was appropriate, "And I thought this was going to be boring . . ." He grinned widely at Evan's skeptical glare. "Now do you want those clues or what?"

Evan glowered at him a moment more. "S'what we're here for . . ."

Pietro gave the barest of nods. Let the games begin then. "All right. Remember, you get one – one – follow-up question after every clue, and at the end of all of it, you get three shots at who the person is. Got it? Or do you need me to translate that into Dumbass?" Receiving no reply, Pietro watched Evan aim a thousand-mile stare straight ahead. "All right, fine. First: This is a person you see just about every day."

Evan's head whipped toward the white-haired teen. "I  . . . what? What's that . . . supposed to  . . . mean?"

"You cross paths with this person just about everrryyyyyday. Weekends excluded." Pietro lowered his head, a sly smile curving his lips. "Sometimes."

The blond's expression didn't change. "Maximoff . . . I thought you said . . . this . . . wasn't gonna be . . . a waste . . . of time."

 "It's a legitimate clue." Pietro whipped off his shirt and dabbed at his face before knotting the sleeves around his neck, letting the shirt billow behind him like a cape. "I tought you said Bayville wasn't that big a school. Figure it out. Who do you see everyday?"

"Lots of . . . people!" Evan spat the words out like a furball. "Can't you be . . . more specific . . .?"

"You get a follow-up question." Pietro was nonchalant, ignoring the scowl of the death Evan was aiming at him. "Ask one."

Evan was either rendered speechless by outrage or lost in thought, because he was quiet almost half-a-lap. The speedster ran easily, imagining he could hear the gears in Evan's brain whirring and clicking uselessly, like an empty revolver.

"Do I . . . know . . . this person? Like . . . if I saw . . . 'em . . . right now . . . right here . . . would I recognize . . . them . . ."

The question caught Pietro off guard for two reasons – the first was Evan's use of this person and they instead of the dreaded she. Pietro wasn't sure that meant anything of importance, however, since the blond had not indicated that he believed his admirer was anything but some twittering girl. But what also tipped the speedster over some was the question itself. It was . . . a good one. He'd been primed for Evan to blunder into a "See her where"-type query, in which case Pietro knew he could have given an accurate – and vague – answer without tipping his hand. But Evan's question – answered honestly – would eliminate a respectable chunk of the student body. Pietro knew Evan wasn't exactly a popular kid in Bayville, and his social circle, as it were, wasn't incredibly large.

"Not that I know every loser you talk to, but for what it's worth, the answer's yes. If this person were . . . with you right now," Pietro looked into the sweating face as he spoke, "you'd definitely recognize . . . who it was. And I'll tell you something else, just 'cause I don't want to have to deal with this later: It isn't anybody you live with . . . and it's not anybody on the basketball team."

Of all the reactions Pietro anticipated might greet that tidbit of information, Evan's stumbling over his own feet was not one of them. A pale hand shot out quick as lightning, and Pietro grabbed an arm to steady the younger teen. "Jesus, Daniels, lift your feet! This isn't ice-skating." Pietro raised a brow at Evan's pained expression, and noticed the sheen of perspiration dampening his forehead. "You're not getting tired are you? We've only gone a couple of miles."

The blond shook his head. "I'm  . . . okay . . ." He glanced at his arm, still caught in Pietro's grip. "You can . . . let me go . . . now."

Startled, Pietro removed his hand, flexing the fingers that had been wrapped firmly around Evan's biceps, marveling at the tingling sensation in his fingertips. "Anyway, there's your first clue. Someone you see –" He broke off when he noticed Evan giving him that same smacked-stupid look. "What now?"

"Uh . . . nothing . . . just . . . Why . . . would you say . . . it isn't someone on . . . the team." Evan drew a gasping breath. "Why . . . would  . . . it be?"

"Well, you see them every day, don't you?" Pietro felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "What are you complaining about? I'm helping you out. Be grateful."

"But . . . but . . . they . . . they . . . but . . . why . . .?"

Pietro turned to Evan and watched him struggle for breath and words, waiting for Evan to get find enough of both to express what Pietro was sure the blond was thinking. What? They're what? They're guys? Pietro's eyes dropped to Evan's trembling lower lip. And why would guys be any part of this? Come on . . . think about it  . . . ask me why I brought them up . . . come on . . . comeoncomeoncomeon . . .

Evan shook his head, his expression one of annoyed bewilderment, much like a person who had discovered cat piss at the foot of their bed and, in the midst of railing about it, remembered that they didn't own a cat. "Never mind, forget it. What's the next clue?"

Hmmm. You are no fucking fun, Daniels. Pietro tried not to let his irritation show on his face. "Next clue: This person is . . . taller than you are."

 "Yeah? Okay . . . um . . . How much . . . taller?"

"Maybe a couple of inches . . ." Pietro gazed down at the top of the blond head. "Though your hair's so high, it kind of skews the measurement."

". . . Yeah . . . I need a  . . . trim . . ." Evan patted the back of his head. "I was thinking . . . about . . . maybe growing it out . . . getting it . . . braided . . .  what do . . . you . . . think?"

 "Bleach and braids? That combo only works in the comics, Spykey." Picturing that look, Pietro was a little surprised that the idea didn't make him want to gauge his eyes out. "But I guess it wouldn't be the worst thing you could do to yourself."

"Uh . . . thanks . . . I think . . .don't think . . . I'll do it, though . . . too much work . . ." He sprinted a few steps ahead, falling back after a moment. "So . . . what's next . . . ?"

Pietro gave the next hint a little thought. He knew that so far, he was not giving Evan much to go on, while still keeping within the parameters of their agreement. Small school or not, Bayville was bursting at the seams with slightly tall people – several dozen with whom Pietro suspected Evan was on a first-name basis. Perhaps, he mused, it was time to get truly narrow the field a little. Noticing Evan continuing to caress his bleached locks, Pietro had a jolt of inspiration. "This person has . . . has . . . light hair."

"Light . . . hair . . .? Light?"

"Light. Like yours . . ." Casually removing the baseball cap, the speedster slowly combed the bill through his snowy hair. "Or mine."

Evan tilted his head slightly. "Like . . . blond?"

"Like blond?" As they sailed into another lap, Pietro wound his fingers in his hair, waving a few silver tendrils in Evan's direction. "Yeah . . . I guess you could say it's like blond . . ." But not really.

"Uh . . . short . . . or . . . long . . . ?"

"Erm, sh—  hey, wait a minute! You had your one question!" Pietro gave himself a mental slap. That was close. "You asked me if it was like blond, and I gave you an answer."

Evan's eyes went huge. "Aw man  . . . I just wanted . . . to understand what you . . . meant. . . I didn't know it would . . . count."

"I know it's easy for you to use ignorance as an excuse, Spykeboy, but it won't work here." Pietro smiled through Evan's sputtering attempt at a response. "Anyway, next – this person is  . . . older than you are."

This time, Evan didn't hesitate. "How much older?"

"A year, give or take a few moments." His stomach knotted at Evan's self-satisfied grin. Pietro imagined Evan thinking, Wow, an older chick. Score! "Don't get too excited, Daniels. Older doesn't necessarily mean smarter – if this doesn't prove that, I don't know what will."

"My auntie . . . says . . . girls mature . . . faster than  . . . guys . . . though . . ."

"Yeeeah, maybe, but believe me – that doesn't apply here," Pietro said dryly. "All right . . . last one – you have at least one class with  . . . this person."

"Which –" Evan began, and then checked himself sharply, growing quiet. A minute passed, and when the blond next spoke, it was in a measured, cautious voice. "Wait . . . a minute . . . if she's a  . . . year older . . . then she's probably a sophomore . . .  and I only have . . . two classes with . . . sophomores in 'em." He fell silent for another few strides. "So . . . if she is, then . . . she'd be in . . . Geosciences or . . . in . . . Euro . . .?"

Fuck! Stupidstupidstupid! Of all the time for him to get sense. Pietro berated himself for giving Evan such an opening. "Geosciences," Pietro muttered reluctantly. At least that class was fairly huge, with almost an equal number of sophomores and freshmen – and more girls than guys. Also, he'd given himself a temporary out by saying mystery person was in at least one of Evan's classes – Pietro was in both the classes the skater had with sophomores, but the blond didn't seem to consider that possibility. Pietro wasn't sure, however, how long that would last. If Evan went through all the likely candidates in Geo, he might stop to think that this person was also in European History with him, too – and there were only about eight people, guys and girls both, that fit the bill there.

"And there's your five." Pietro slowed to a more moderate jog, which Evan matched immediately. "Now you get your three guesses at who it is."

"Um . . . can I  . . . get back to you . . .?" Evan took slow, deep breaths, and hiked his shirt up just enough to wipe the sweat from his chin and expose enough mahogany skin to send Pietro into a near meltdown. "I don't know . . . too many girls in Geosciences . . . or names . . . or faces . . ."

"This isn't tic-tac-toe, Spykesnot. You can't pass." Pietro rubbed the bottom of his neck. "Give me your three now, or you lose the chance. Period."

"You're tryin' to psych me out, Maximoff, but it won't work." "I'll get it eventually. There's only so many girls in Geo."

"True. But we'll see how much good that does you." Pietro glanced around the park, frowning when he noticed a group of pot-bellied, wannabe runners trooping onto the field, all of them in matching mint polyester sweat-suits. Great. There goes the neighborhood. "You suuuuuuure you don't want to make at least one guess?

"Nah, that's okay. I wanna do this the smart way."

Pietro simply smiled in reply. Sometimes Evan gave him openings so easy that it became almost boring to take shots at him.

"That was some workout, man . . . more intense than coach and his wind sprints." Evan stretched his arms high above his head. "You do this every day?"

"Just about . . ." Pietro watched the group of newcomers advance from the far side of the park, each of them chatting easily with one another as they made their way to the wider part of the park and begin some sort of callisthenic-tai chi stretching exercises. They were a little too far away to really get a sense of what they were doing, but their presence was annoying. This was his unwinding place, and it was currently being defiled by slobs in pastels. Time to wrap this up. "Not all of us have stainless-steel playpens in our basement to vent our frustrations in."

"I don't know what Alvers told you, but there's nothing even funny about the Danger Room, Quickie. You wanna try it sometime, I'll spot you a few points – give you a head start. And if you don't get your face ripped off on the first run, then maybe I'll turn it all the way up to the candy-ass setting." Evan turned interested eyes onto his rival. "Venting your frustrations? Isn't this a little far to come just to blow off some steam?"

"Nothing's far for me," Pietro said tonelessly, staring down at his big toe poking through a tear in his sneakers. And it was true – for the most part. Though, he had to appreciate the irony that the only thing in the world that had ever appeared beyond his reach was currently barely an arm's length away. "Going slow . . . this is the about the only place anybody expects me to do that. It's a challenge . . . and it passes the time." He wondered at that – it seemed impossible, but moving slow seemed to make the time pass quicker – at least, it did while he was in the park.  Maybe it had something to do with it being his choice to move at a crawl, whereas every place else, he was forced to do so.

"Um . . . yeah . . . I guess that's a point . . ." Evan looked up at the field house clock, and did a double-take. "Holy shit, it's almost 4:30! Damn – I've gotta go, dude. I'm already late, for, uh, something –" The blond broke for the railing, springing over it to get to his stuff on the bleachers. Pietro followed him slowly, a bit put-out that their time together was coming to such an inauspicious end.

"Sorry to cut this short." Evan's voice was muffled as he pulled his hooded sweatshirt over his sweaty clothes and snapped on his skateboarding gear. "I totally lost track of time. Uh  . . . when do you want to do this again?"

"Tomorrow. Gotta keep this moving. There're other brick walls I need to bang my head against." Pietro forced his eyes away from Evan's ass as he bent to adjust his knee pads "Same time – after school."

"After school tomorrow? I can't, man. I have practice tomorrow, then I've gotta go straight home." Evan said with what sounded like genuine regret. "Can you get away during lunch or something? Maybe we could meet up somewhere. I think we'd probably be able to find someplace quiet to talk."

Though the thought of a quiet tête-à-tête alone – alone! – with Evan seemed, well, yummy, for lack of a better word, after the lunchtime scariness that was Fred raising his voice and Lance making the ground do a little jig, Pietro thought better of sneaking away from the Brotherhood table. Though Todd would probably cover for him, the speedster thought it just as well not to risk it.

"I've got a better idea. Get out on the court ten minutes before practice. We'll make it quick." Pietro smiled coyly. "And maybe I'll even keep my clothes on this time."

Evan looked confused for an instant, then grinned uncertainly when he took the speedster's meaning. "Uh . . . yeah. Might be a good idea not to get us both kicked out of school." He gave his rival a thoroughly friendly elbow nudge, hitting the still-sore spot on Pietro's arm, pulling back quickly at the speedster's wince.

"Damn, sorry, dude. I forgot that's where you got banged up. Oh yeah – here." Evan opened his backpack, and, rummaging in it for a few moments, took out a dark-blue T-shirt. "Almost forgot – I brought this for you."

Mouth hanging somewhere around his knees, Pietro simply . . . stared. If Evan had been holding out a severed hand, the speed demon doubted he'd be any more taken aback. "What . . . the hell is . . . that for?"

"Um . . . for yesterday. I told you I felt bad about what happened to your clothes." Evan place a foot on his skateboard, idly rolling it back and forth. "You wouldn't take money, so . . . here. It's kinda new. I only wore it a couple of times. It's yours if you want it."

Pietro took hold of the shirt as gingerly as if it were a lit firecracker. "Great going, Daniels. Your dorkitude has been confirmed. Not that I should be surprised . . . there's nothing like X-Geek guilt. You'd probably give me the shirt off your back if I wanted it."

"Nah, probably not. It's all sweaty. You wouldn't want that." Evan shouldered his bag, and pushed off, his wheels displacing dirt and gravel and bits of glass. "Anyway, see you tomorrow."

Pietro was quiet as he watched Evan leave, passing the recently returned Bathrobe Guy, rolling, it seemed, in the direction of downtown Bayville. He was tempted to follow the blond, and see just what appointment was so important that he'd get jumpy about being late for it. After a second, Pietro dismissed the urge – it was likely some boring X-Geek exercise – not worth the expending the shoe leather to sniff around and cause a little well-intentioned mayhem.

Bringing the shirt to his face, Pietro gingerly pressed his nose into the fabric and inhaled slowly. It seemed as if it had been freshly washed, detergent and hot air apparently having obliterated any Evan-essence it might have once contained. Still, Evan had worn it . . . and had given it to him – to him. Out of . . . guilt. That was  . . . odd. Pietro knew he could inspire in Evan a sense of rage . . . humiliation . . . inferiority, even. But guilt? Pietro didn't think steering Evan toward that particular emotion was in his repertoire. Strange at it was . . . it was also a little promising. Hmm . . . wonder what else I could make him feel . . . He grinned at the possibilities, noting that many of them would prompt guilt – especially in certain religious orders.

Quick as a flash, the shirt was folded and stowed in his backpack, sequestered from his own sweat-soaked clothing. His work was, for the time being, done – but Pietro was conscious of a pesky sense that something was off somewhere – that there was something just on the edge of his vision that with a little more introspection, he'd be able to figure out. The events of entire day, actually, deserved a lot of thought. But that would have to wait. The time had once again come for Pietro to leave his haven and slip back into the persona he knew – the life he knew. Time to become the wind again. And in less than a second, he was.