Disclaimer: Ah. So you've found yourself at my corner of the Alternate Universe, welcome.

A bird flew at my window.

A—bird—flew—at—my—window.

A bird flew at my window?

Words rushed out of his lips in a quick, soft whisper, a hand clutching the thin notebook paper, another twirling his blue gel pen absentmindedly.

A bird. Flew. At. My. Window.

Even when read in separation, his own sentence twisted in his tongue.

The fuck. That's the best you can come up with?

He sighed. The ball of crumbled sheet took its short trajectory path and landed on top of the pile of similarly rough paper balls building in the dust bin under the working desk.

Probably the best when Mr. Popular is around, blasting his stereos in the proximity of his supposedly peaceful sanctuary of a bedroom. He watched the wall separating his (not-so) personal (anymore) space from the obnoxious teenager throbbed to the beats of rap music and his mind.

He's just another one of those senior guys struggling through his last (thank God) year of English class before his liberation to university and science, the subject he longed most to pursue. (English, so to speak, as the subject he was least passionate for, turned out to be the one he had to work hard at. Genius that he was, he lacked the natural flow of words, his inner voice, as his teacher had told him.)

English Class—Poem. Due Wednesday.

He glanced at his own hasty scribbles on the neon yellow (the troublemaker had insisted on buying him for his birthday) post-it paper pasted on his calendar, sitting on the desk a few inches away from his left hand. Atop the calendar was his all-in-one alarm clock, complete with date, month, and year.

Tuesday. 11:00 pm. read the clock.

Hell. So he actually has to get up and put an end to this?

Now, or never.

He pushed himself away from the desk, got up, and walked to the room next to his. He rolled his eyes at the sign, "Stay the fuck out," hanging loosely in front of the door (privacy was a far cry from an option with his twin brother. He wondered where he missed out on the logic of shutting out blood relatives from personal space when (too many times he had lost count, not that he ever wanted to) girls were free to rumple his bedsheets.

(No, he heard everything.)

Ear shattering music beats had crossed the line, so he chose not to bother with knocking. He pushed the door open and called, "Tony! Damn it, shut. Down. The Music. People are trying to—"

His sentence left unfinished, he glanced around the room and noticed he was talking to the air. He bent down to the floor, snatching up a sheet of paper on which unmistakable, messy handwriting screamed at him to read.

Enjoy the music, bro. I'm out.

See you later.

Tony.

He gritted his teeth, the paper transformed into another rumpled ball in his fist. Tony. With Tony Stonem (yes, he adopted their British father's last name, and he his mother's, so what? If only last names were the sole distinction that allowed people to tell them apart.), you never know when 'later,' was. The word could have meant right this second, in the freaking morning, or a day later, whichever suited the suave asshole's fancy (because his twin brother was that similar to him).

It's his luck that Tony didn't end up to be his promiscuous twin sister or whatever. He did not wish to to waste his time or energy worrying about his 'other half.'

Hank McCoy turned off the switch of the stereo, internally laughing at Tony's efforts to rile him up (it did, just a bit…there was that time Tony tried it on their mother. She was not amused.) and walked back to his room. He sat himself down on his chair and inserted a Debussy CD into his own stereo, as he leaned back, arms crossed behind his head. Ah, now this was soothing, he thought as the tinkles of Clair de Lune filled the room, at least the music would calm me down.

Now, where was I?

A bird—

The words after disappeared, forgotten when his ears were alerted to the knocks on the window of the house opposite him. He looked up to meet Alex Summers's irresistible stare.

What was it tonight?

A breath caught in his throat.

The blonde smiled at him (great), as he held up a notepad with words scrawled across in blue ink, "You ok?"

That broke him.

The unexpected sincerity written in his lips' curl. Those cute blue eyes. Oh. Didn't he mention they never actually talked in school? But Alex had it all. Varsity football team captain (he scored the winning score last homecoming match), class president, not to mention the dream date of half (this wouldn't be an overstatement) the girls at the school (the other half? Pff. Tony's ticking them off his list one at a time, his present rate being that he went through two a week). Basically a position not remotely close to the King of the Nerds and Geeks Isle, which he suspected he currently held. Their lifestyle paths were parallel lines, and Hank realized he would have had a much easier time sweet-talking himself into forgetting his love for Alex if the badboy wasn't living next door to him. Popularity meant Alex could just overlook him, this insignificant nerdy scientist unconsciously falling into the classic one-sided relationship of doom, and continue with his made-for-yearbooks high school life, but (and he didn't know why or how) the school's king did not abandon his childhood best friend and still communicated with him via notepad most nights (when he wasn't out attending those parties).

And Hank's heart sometimes could not get over itself.

They'd been friends since he could remember and, between them, the word secret had no meaning.

He got out a notepad and scribbled in reply, "Yeah. You not going anywhere tonight?"

Alex shrugged. He turned another page of his notepad and wrote Hank the words, "Not yet."

A rush in his chest. Hank almost grinned, despite himself (You've got a poem to write, you know, said his subconscious) and was in the process of writing the 'to' in his, "Want to talk?" when he was alerted to shadowy movements at the opposite window out of a corner of his eye and looked up once more.

Alex wasn't alone.

A tall brunette (who had come into the room seconds ago) was whispering something in his ear. Alex turned around, pretended surprise, and laughed. The tips of their noses brushed before their lips followed suit. The kisses, starting off as light pecks, deepened, bodies melding into one. The blonde detached himself to draw the curtains close, as he winked at Hank, waving a hand to signal his silent "bye."

Alex wasn't alone.

Hank supposed the sharp pain at the bottom of his stomach wouldn't have affected him as much if the brunette was a girl, if he were someone else, someone who did not, other than having a hair color common to his, sport features exactly identical to him and share his blood but acted in no way like him.

He should have prepared himself for this (and 'this' wasn't his business anyway!). The rumor mills churned out the news that Alex Summers was dating again, but he least suspected the person closest to him.

Tony Stonem.

A/N: :D. What do you think?

Based on Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me," with a slight twist because it was just demanding that 'this' happens!

Will be a short multichapter,

and hee hee, Tony 3. I love you, even though you're so...you.

Thank you, as always, to my precious readers, reviewers, and anyone who's stopped by and/or clicked on this story. You don't know how much you mean to me,

Your ever humble fanfic writer :)

PS. I'm getting back to my other fic, Otherwise Known as Us, in between writing this. (Major, major writer's block happened before this period. It wasn't pretty.) Be on the lookout for upcoming updates! :)