(A/N: I admit, I should have spent this time working on Waaay Too Much Fuzzy Love, or Endless Tears. The idea for this one-shot wouldn't leave me alone...and admittedly I was really depressed when I wrote this...so I wasn't in the mood for either of my longer fics. Plus I have writer's block. So this will tide you all over 'til I get back to work on the more important things. Hopefully you like the this, though...reviews appreciated greatly! Oh, and for continuity's sake this is happening during "Joyride".)


It wasn't becoming of the hero to burst into loud racking sobs. Which left him at a quandary: To shut the door, or not to shut the door. That is the question.* To shut it and block out the sound of his tears would only bring friends. Friends he didn't want nor need. It would bring Kitty. Kitty, who's ever subtle motion set his heart racing. Kitty was the reason he was crying, or would be soon. And if she didn't appear then his tears would only come faster and stronger. That would mean she was with Lance.

He left the door a crack open and flopped on the bed, burying his head in the pillow. Lance. A villain if there ever was one. A most undeserving thief who'd so cruelly taken the heart of Katzchen and tossed it absently into his pocket like a cheap toy. Lance who'd never treat her properly, never give her the respect she deserved, never care for her. Never care for her like he would. Never.

He was the worst of the entire Brotherhood, his inner jerk seeping through ever pore. Yet she laughed when he did something rude or unruly. He was a rebel. The tough guy. He stood up to authority and gave it the finger. It and everyone that even looked at him wrong. Violence was the answer to every little offense, because words were beneath him. When in doubt smash. Was he not the proverbial evil-doer, who would take the heart of a fair damsel and corrupt it with his lust and cruelty? More than once he'd entertained the fantasy of drawing one of his many blades and cutting the knave down to size. Of course, he'd make sure Lance was armed as well. Rage wasn't cause to forget honor.

Tears were streaming down his face now, seeping into his fur and his pillow, both of which were now thoroughly sodden. He lay there, not bothering to sit up and wipe the salty liquid from his eyes rather than let it further soak the pillow he lay on. Instead he tossed the same thoughts over and over in his head. Why did she have to care for him? How could she care for him? Couldn't she see how little chivalry and honor the "rocktumbler" had? How little respect for anything other than himself?

No friends came, as he managed to restrain the more distinct noises that came with his heritage. It was quite a strain to do so, feeling as he did, but he did not want company. He wanted to think, to cry until his eyes had no more tears to give, and to finally drift off to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream.

Perhaps not the best choice of words. Had they not been speaking of death? He had no intention of self slaughter. Such was the way out of the coward and hopeless. He could cling to hope, no matter how desperate he was. There was hope in God, who would never abandon him. There was hope in home, in the warm smiling faces of his villagers that had raised him. There was hope all around him. He only wished his battered heart had was not so filled to the brim with woe. Then perhaps he could have let a bit of it in.

Of course, being unbidden and unwelcome to his room and the sight of his tears, soon people came seeking his company. Or more accurately, person. Scott stood in the doorway, taking in the scene of Kurt's blade filled room, which looked more like, had movie posters and comic books been about in such days, the medieval chambers of a valiant knight than the bedroom of a fuzzy, blue demon-elf.** Finally he made his presence known by clearing his throat loudly.

"Kurt...you okay?" he asked quietly, and form down the hall came the sound of Jean's footsteps. No doubt she'd heard his question and came to join in the "Help a Friend in Need" session. A session he most certainly didn't need.

"Ja. Ja. Ah...um...Bye!" Kurt said, stating the last word loudly and immediately 'porting up onto one of the flatter areas of the roof. It was a good place to seek solitude, considering that few of the people that would deem it necessary to follow him could get to it safely. A good place to turn troubling thoughts over in one's head again and again. Especially when the pondering was most assuredly fruitless. Such was the case this night.

Lance the rebel, how she cared for him. He felt like spitting, preferably upon something of value Lance owned. Wasn't it obvious why he couldn't compete? He was fuzzy, blue, and in all features resembled the spawn of Hell. Lance was a normal mutant. He didn't have blue fur that made him look lean and scrawny despite the well-muscled, perfectly honed acrobat's body underneath. He didn't have to brush his face, or have a tail that he couldn't let Kitty touch in fear of his body's reactions. He didn't have...a body to blame his love life's failings on.

Was it the body? Kitty was over the fear, wasn't she? Perhaps then it was the rebel attitude. Was that any less painful? He couldn't help having been born in the wrong millennium, where everything from his musical taste to his hobbies was strange. He was most certainly the only male in his school who would carefully hand select every rose in a bouquet to make sure it perfectly complimented the lady they were meant for. Alas, thus was the fate of the romantic, as love was replaced lust and the beauty and honor of the world by rank filth. Maybe he was being a little melodramatic, but he didn't care. It made sense, didn't it?

He'd perhaps succeeded in one part of his goal: He was now quite lacking in the way of tears, though his facial fur felt as if he'd danced about in the rain, gazing at the sky. Oddly enough, he missed the relief of his tears, the tangible, material representation of his grief. The Institute had already heard of how miserable hew as by now, for certain. They'd heard...so he'd let them truly hear. Forgetting his usual precautions against animalistic acts and noises, he through back his head and let loose a howl that in one burst of mournful sound expressed every tear he'd cried. Every tear he'd cried in her name.

They'd hear and they'd wonder what had happened to upset the happy-go-lucky elf. Probably one of them, Jean most likely, would come up and "visit". A visit that would undoubtably include the mention of "Are you okay?" and "What's wrong?". Ah, they all assumed it was such a simple question to answer, that his mind was set in stone, his thoughts pointing one way constantly. What would they do if he answered honestly one of these days, perhaps saying solemnly, "I'm in love with Katzchen, and I hate Lance's guts because not only does Kitty like him, but he's a complete and total monster. Plus she only likes him because he's normal looking and has a tough guy, rebel attitude, so I feel like there's no place for a swashbuckling lover like myself." No, he'd give whoever was sent after him the same half-answers and shut their words out like he always did until they left. Why wouldn't they just realize that when he made sure he was alone that he did not want to talk? He didn't need their words. They couldn't understand nightmares of being burned at the stake, or the aches of a lonely heart. Perhaps no one could understand.

Without a second thought, he raised his face to the sky and howled to the heavens, proclaiming all the injustices of the world.

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The majority of the X-Men stood puzzled near his room. Why had he ran away so suddenly? He was obviously depressed, so why not talk about it? After all, they knew they'd want to have a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen and understand their troubles.

"K-Man ran off again? Man, it's probably just Kurt stuff. You know how it goes. He'll come back and act like it never happened, happy as a clown. Why worry?" Evan said with exasperation plain in his voice. His words fit the thoughts of others. Kurt did run off a lot, secluding himself from others, as illogical as that seemed. And he always came back as chipper as could be. Evan was right. Why worry?

"I don't know...I think I'll go talk to him." Jean said thoughtfully, already heading towards Kurt's window to levitate herself out to look for him in his usual hiding place. Cyclops stopped her.

"Evan's right, Jean. Give Kurt some time to blow off steam. He'll be fine. If he was really upset he'd come to one of us and talk. We're fellow mutants and friends, after all. We may not be blue, but we know what it's like to feel unaccepted." Scott intoned, looking forcefully at her.

Jean half-nodded, but said solemnly, "I just can't help but feel like Kurt hurts a lot more than he lets on sometimes."

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So below the roof they scattered to the four winds, to bed and to late night homework, or in the case of the New Mutants to prepare for a joyride in an X-vehicle. Above the roof Kurt let out one last exhausted howl, and slumped, defeated, to the roof completely, stretching out across the flat surface rather uncomfortably. In seconds he was asleep, his wounded expression not passing from his face, and the woe in his heart not dulling in the rest of dreary sleep.


The End


(A/N: Now wasn't that just happy? Okay, so it wasn't. I personally hated how little of Kurt we saw in the whole "Lancitty" thing, especially in Joyride. The whole "Joyride" sub-plot was pointless. A plot with Kurt being love struck or protective would have been much more interesting. Anyway, reviews appreciated. Really.)


*The first of a few references to Hamlet. A really great tragedy. Perfect for quoting in such a depressing one-shot, no?


**So Kurt's room looks obscenely plain in Evo. Not in my fanfic universe, continuity be damned.