AN: I wrote this as a prelude to Admirer and forgot about it. Maybe it should've stayed forgotten? Let me know. And yes, I'm working on the next chap to Admirer as we speak. Reviews appreciated!

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, song lyrics aren't mine. Nothing belongs to me.

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 began a "busy binge." He started by speed-cleaning 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.~

~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 advanced toward him. Pietro attempted flight once again, but was inexplicably unable to move. 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's breath was warm and moist against his neck. ~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 ways you cannot even imagine.~

~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 shape shifter 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.

~Geez. And I thought ~I~ was fast. But 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 had raced. ~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 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 wronged ~all~ of us. And she did, too.~

He bit his lip hard. A more upbeat song replaced the one he'd fallen asleep to, but it didn't lift his mood. ~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 seven," Todd replied. "We've been home about two hours. I was thinking about waking you before you woke up yourself."

"Ah." He shut his eyes. The last vestiges of the exhilaration and fear he'd felt during the dream were draining away. "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 . . . Lance and Fred are downstairs watching TV. I don't think they heard nothin'."

Pietro blanched. "What – what  would there be to . . . hear?"

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

~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 low 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 black teen. It was a sultry, lusty look - one he would have killed to see on the face of the real Evan Daniels.

"We 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'd 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, offhandedly. The shorter mutant smiled 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 - he was that good. 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. "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. "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 shook his shaggy head slowly. "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 raised his eyes to meet Todd's, hoping that the terror he suddenly felt wasn't evident in his face. "~What~?"

"I just think that it might be good if you just come clean . . . y'know?" 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 . . ."

~If he thinks I'm out of it now, he'll love it when/if I tell Daniels that I'm crazy about him.~ "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 glare. "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, send up a flare. Maybe not flat-out tell him - yet - but just give him a tip - discreetly -- that you dig him. That'll make you feel better, I bet."

"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 been an enemy 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."

"It's been known to happen," Pietro said gravely, staring blankly and uselessly 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 romantic way. And 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, rather the brown-haired boy was staring 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 for a while yet. 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 drained 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 indefinitely, 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. 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 had in mind.

"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 eyed his friend with listless 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. Todd turned around; 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. "As much of a tightwad he is? Dream on. 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. 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. He blinked slowly, realizing that what he was seeing 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, 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? What the hell will I say anyway that will sound any more intelligent than singing lacrosse players?~

He wavered a little, standing quietly for about half a second. His eyes went wide after that, and he stood ramrod straight, looking as if he'd come to some great decision. And with a slight bounce to his step and a self-assured smile tugging at his lips, he began hunting around his room for a pen.


FIN


AN: And, of course, this is where "Admirer" begins. Ach. Anyway. Just thought I'd share. O.o Don't hit me, please.