Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ By Your Side ❯ By Your Side ( One-Shot )
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By: Manga-Chick 
If only you could see into me...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Angst / Shounen | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 12.18.2005 | Updated On: 12.18.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.1K | Visits: 1.3K | Status: Completed
If only you could see into me...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Angst / Shounen | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 12.18.2005 | Updated On: 12.18.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.1K | Visits: 1.3K | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: I do not own Static and other associated characters!...Not that he's in this fic. XD
Short little ditty...kinda a side fic AFTER ‘My Happy Ending’
Angsty...I am TRYING for goodness...but...ya'll know I suck. The words in bold are lyrics from Sade's "By Your Side", which this fic is aptly named for. XD
And mucho thanks to Emif! For...giving me info that I hoped I used correctly at the end...cuz...I suck...XD
“By Your Side”
When Richie walked into the house after a tense doctor’s visit, Francis right behind him, the first thing he saw was that the usual gang was there. Shiv and Jason were sitting on the couch, and Dominic had taken over on the overstuffed chair. He heard Francis mutter obscenities about the lock, which looked normal and worked fine, and didn’t feel enough emotion about it to really care about their sudden visit. But what struck him still in his steps was that Shiv kept eyeing a particular section of the living room. Richie stepped out of Francis’ way as the man headed into the kitchen.
Desperate for some sort of humor, Richie asked Shiv, “What’s wrong?”
Shiv gestured at the empty space near the sliding door and the back wall. “Just...it’s...well, it’s December...”
Jason groaned with the utmost exaggeration, head thrown back while Dominic sighed, shifting in his seat to rub the bridge of his nose. Richie saw all this, and was amused–apparently, Shiv had been at it, for awhile.
Amused, he asked, “Yeah...so?”
“Just...by now...there would have been decorations...a Christmas tree...garlands...bulbs, lights–the works. And...there isn’t...”
Richie felt saddened at the memory, glancing at Francis as the bigger man rummaged in the kitchen for something to eat. Since that day he’d caught Richie and Ivan together, things had been incredibly tense and uncomfortable. Richie hadn’t felt the mood to be festive.
He ducked his head, fiddling with his pharmacy bag that held new sleeping pills. “Well...just...I guess I forgot, Shiv. Sorry.”
“Well...shit. Two more weeks, eh? I mean...like we do anything for our place,” Shiv muttered. “And whenever this place has been dressed up, it felt...cool. Like, we’re part of things.”
Richie considered this, glancing apprehensively at Francis. “Well...if you want, the decorations are in the garage, near the back wall. You can–”
“That’s not cool! I mean, yeah right, me?!” Shiv then sighed, looking entirely down about the idea. “Well, I suppose I can bring a girl over to decorate...”
Repulsed by the idea, not liking it at all, Richie immediately said, “No! Don’t be bringing some girl over to decorate my house–!”
“It ain’t your house anyway,” Francis snapped from the kitchen, making everyone wince at the harsh sound. Richie paled, then shrugged. “You’re just a fuckin’ guest here.”
At the uncomfortable silence that followed, Richie avoided everyone’s eyes, but it didn’t matter–everyone had their attention elsewhere. His expression turned murderous at the humiliation he felt at the comment, but he kept quiet.
Richie then cleared his throat, starting to move toward the back hall. “Right. Fine. Shiv, do whatever you want. Decorations are in the garage.”
With that, he quickly retreated to his room. In the thick silence that followed, Shiv muttered as quietly as he could, “Harsh, Big Red...”
Francis shrugged. But his expression was troubled.
Shiv sighed again, looking over at the empty spot against the back wall. “Just...doesn’t feel like Christmas without this place all spruced up...”
Jason elbowed him with a strong expression of irritation on his face. “Just shut up already!”
Dominic shifted in his chair, shooting him an expression of his own. “Go downtown if you want decorations.”
Shiv shook his head, and pouted. Muttering, “Guess you really don’t know what ya got til it goes away, eh?”
Francis paused in making a sandwich, staring sightlessly at the contents before him.
That night, Richie stared out at the darkness of the backyard, bundled up in jackets and blankets, watching the snow fall. He could hear the others inside–but the mood felt tense and somber rather than the usual mess of noise and activity. Since that day, he’d avoided much contact with the others, threading carefully on thin ice. Feeling alone and depressed, he’d taken to depending on pills and cigarettes. He was enjoying one now, the ember bright in the darkness.
He did miss the holiday decorating, the cheer–every year since they’d moved in, he’d decorate the house according to season and holiday. Most of the former Bang Babies hadn’t the opportunity of celebrating Christmas, but he’d learned that they’d come to secretly enjoy the decorations that he’d put up.
He would do it all, mainly because Francis lost his temper, and didn’t have the patience to hang lights and festive. He also thought that it was, in a sense, ‘gay’. Richie enjoyed it because he liked the results afterward. But the one thing that they worked on together was finding the tree. It had given them a sense of grounding their relationship–of looking and agreeing on something as mundane as a Christmas tree.
Now, they barely spoke. They avoided each other. The Holiday season this year didn’t seem or feel so festive. Just unbearably depressing.
He inhaled slowly, feeling light headed and nauseated, but he didn’t want to feel depressed. The sickness helped him think beyond that.
He wondered if things would ever change. If Francis would ever want to rekindle what they had. In all honesty, Richie didn’t want anybody else. He wasn’t interested in any of that. He leaned his forehead into his palm, covering his eyes. He wanted what they had. He wanted things to be fixed. He felt the tears building again, and gave a tired sigh.
He finished his cigarette, flicking it over the railing, then stood. He headed back inside, avoiding the others. Retreating to his room, he unbundled himself from his jackets and blankets, and sat at the edge of his bed, staring at his shoes.
Things were slowly coming back into place. He was able to operate almost as normally as he had before he hit his head that day. He didn’t forget as much, nor did he have many troubles in things that he had after that day. His doctor was satisfied at his progress, but had warned that Richie would still experience trouble from time to time, without ever really knowing it.
Sensing another sleepless night, he popped a couple of pills, then curled atop of his bed sheets, staring at the wall. He waited impatiently for the pills to take effect, listening to the faint noises of the men in the living room. He felt lonely in that instant–since that day, he’d made as little contact as he could with them. Avoided Ivan completely. He hadn’t seen the man since that day. Nor spoke to him, and Francis was very limited in contact with him, as well.
But he had gotten used to the chaos and hubbub of activity that the others were known for, and to be excluded from it left him feeling more than depressed. He hadn’t really realized what he’d had with them until he took voluntary leave away from them. He and Shiv hadn’t exchanged mean looks or obligatory fighting words. It seemed that Shiv was sheepish about the entire thing, and struggled to treat both him and Francis similarly.
He waited impatiently for the pills to work as he continued staring at the wall.
Meanwhile, Francis, Shiv and Freddie stared at the neatly labeled plastic tubs that lined the back wall of the garage. They were stacked so that each was easily accessible, and only three rows high. Francis had grown tired of Shiv’s bitching about the lack of Christmas decorations.
“This is bullshit,” he muttered, grabbing the appropriate tub. Opening it, the three stared down at the neat bundles of lights, boxes of ornaments, stockings, garland in multiple colors, and plastic bags full of other items.
“Ugh, what do I do with this?” Shiv whined, picking up a light bundle, eyeing it with a frown. “I’m just gonna bring a girl over, k? They, like, love this sorta thing. They like it when guys are all helpless.”
“Whatever.” Francis used his foot to push the open tub into his direction. “You’re so hard up about it.”
Shiv stared down at the tub for a few moments, then looked up at him with some sadness, Freddie bending to grab the lid and fit it on top. “It’s really over for you guys, huh?”
Francis considered that, shrugging when he didn’t find anything to say.
Shiv sighed, grabbing the tub and lugging it into the house, Freddie following with a sheepish expression in Francis’ direction. Francis looked at the empty space in the wall of plastic tubs, the gap obvious and large within the stacked neatness. Somehow, it fit the feeling that lurked constantly at the back of his thoughts.
He wandered back into the house, heading over to Richie’s room. Knocking, he waited for an answer, then walked in anyway. Richie was asleep, and Francis stared down at him for a few moments, Shiv’s words ringing through his head.
He glanced around the room with a sort of lost expression, noting that the small television atop of a small stand near the closet was playing some Discovery channel wonder, that his clean clothes were folded neatly atop of his dresser. Everything was immaculate in other senses, but it didn’t hold any of the personality that Richie was known for. Francis then eyed the nightstand that held a simple touch lamp, the bottle of sleeping pills nearby, along with a glass of water. Richie had stopped taking pain killers a long time ago, but sometimes, Francis had to wonder whenever he saw the blond’s vacant expression. He then eyed the box of cigs with distaste, of which sat near the lamp with the lighter spilling out neatly. He wondered if Richie had developed the taste for cigarettes because of Ivan. At that, he narrowed his eyes, and left the room.
That night, he stared up at the darkened ceiling, unable to sleep. The room was slightly chilly, the brightness of the snow outside lighting the room with a sort of ghostly effect. In the winter, the pair of them had always cuddled close, and while it had been annoying to wake up with Richie chasing his body warmth all over the king sized bed or having him sprawl over him, Francis realized how much he missed it. During the early years of their marriage, when bills were too high and money too sparse, they had kept each other warm in such ways. They had taken care of each other.
He felt cheated in that this was all lost. What had happened to those days?
Since that day in the kitchen, he’d had trouble sleeping. His anger had dimmed since then–responsibilities and life took over, forcing him to think of other things, but some things had remained. He had to take responsibility for what he’d did to Richie–the acts of violence had left the blond with a Traumatic Brain Injury and bruises that had lasted for weeks. It had felt that his entire personality and demeanor had changed, as well. Richie was often angry and resentful, or incredibly depressed and defeated. He started arguments or fell into stubborn bouts of silence, doing everything mechanically.
Francis wanted him to move out during the initial first two months–but at the same time, he felt responsibility to take care of what he’d done, and managed to cope. There were many times when he found himself parked in the small parking area of the divorce lawyer he’d talked to a few times, but he could never manage to bring himself to actually go through with it.
His reluctance both irritated him and made him question himself.
He then remembered that Richie was sleeping atop of his blankets when he’d checked in on him earlier. Francis found himself moving before actually thinking about what he was doing. He got up from bed, and padded quietly toward the other bedroom. Walking in, he shut off the bedside lamp and the television set, then looked over to see that Richie was still sleeping in the same position he was when Francis first looked in. He removed the scruffy shoes, then pulled a throw blanket up from the foot of the bed, pulling it over his form.
He then stared down at him in silence, feeling a giant ache in his chest when he listened to Richie breathe quietly. It had taken some getting used to to being unable to hear that sound next to him at nights. Francis wanted to reach out and touch him–but he held himself back, hating what had happened to separate them.
Quietly, he left the room, and headed back to bed, for another sleepless night.
That next morning, Francis was cooking breakfast for himself when Richie staggered in, looking drugged and sluggish as he approached him.
“I’m going to my parents’ house for the rest of the month,” he then said, his voice thick with sleep. “Just so you don’t have to bother with me, anymore.”
Francis looked at him, then shrugged.
Richie waited for him to say something, then looked away with an expression of annoyed defeat, fiddling with a cigarette and walking out of the kitchen. Francis looked after him, then stared down at his cooked food, trying to imagine a Christmas without Richie. He glanced back at the living room and the lack of decorations, hearing the sliding door open and shut as the blond went outside.
Richie left that afternoon for some rehabilitation in regaining his motor skills, hearing praises of satisfaction from his specialist, and was more than gratified in that he would be able to depend on himself once more. Francis wouldn’t have to drive him places, nor take care of him when he couldn’t do a particular thing. He’d hated that, and he knew Francis resented it even more, wanting nothing more than to divorce him and cut ties.
He had hoped that things would be fixed–but he’d grown used that Francis resented having to take care of him rather than wanting to fix things between them. He’d grown resentful of himself and of the older man, and grew to depend on other things to cope with the overwhelming depression. Cigarettes, his sleeping pills, and illegal/forged prescriptions for painkillers such as Vicoden.
He just wanted it to end, but he recognized that he couldn’t leave Francis permanently. There was still some hope left lingering deep within.
He returned later that night to meet his father in a half hour, and when he walked in, hearing the taxi leave the curb, he saw that the living room was covered with decorations. Garlands decorated the entertainment center, the tree was set up and fixed with a brilliant mixture of colors and lights, and the stockings were taped to the high shelves of the bookcases. He felt a deep ache of pain as he saw this, his tradition taken over by someone he didn’t even know. It hurt, and he felt himself grow nauseated by the bright cheer. Bile touched his throat, and he clasped a hand over his mouth, hurrying toward the bathroom.
He vomited into the toilet, holding onto it tightly. After awhile, he leaned against the lid, slumping to the floor, hanging onto the commode. He stared at the tub sightlessly, feeling more lost and depressed than ever, trying to picture a Christmas without Francis. It felt horribly depressing in that they wouldn’t be exchanging gifts, or celebrating the holiday together, like they had before in the past. Since he’d gotten with Francis, he’d always wanted to make sure that the redhead’s Christmas was something actual and pleasant, since he hadn’t that chance while he was a Bang Baby, or even before, with his family, who didn’t take the holiday very seriously due to their own situations.
Francis had always been happy about it all, wanting that sense of normalism, and had always appreciated the lengths Richie had gone to ensure that celebration.
But this year was different. They wouldn’t even be in the same house for this month.
He flushed the toilet, ignoring the deep ache in his chest as he rose from the floor. He brushed his teeth, feeling detached and shaky, wanting something to cover and disguise his pain. He then walked into his room, rummaging through his suitcase for his hidden bottle of Vicoden. He hurriedly shoved two into his mouth, swallowing some water from the glass nearby. He re-hid his bottle of pills, then slumped onto the bed, falling back first against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.
His face was masked with a sort of gruff admittance, figuring that he should be getting used to the separation, by now. He hated the holidays. He hated the cheer, and the fake and forced sense of rules that the holiday commanded.
He covered his face with his hands, and wondered when he was ever going to bring himself to move on.
“It’s that bad, huh?”
Richie startled, sitting up with a surprised look at Francis, who was lingering within his doorway. Blinking away the beginning haze of spacey detachment the pills provided him with, he looked at the redhead cluelessly, having no idea what he was talking about. For a moment, he wondered if Francis had saw him take the painkillers.
Francis then gave a half gesture toward the front, Richie realizing what he meant.
“You...you did that?” he asked, gesturing towards the living room.
“...Yeah.” Francis looked uncomfortable about it, and now that Richie noticed, he saw pine needles on his shirt, the irritated etches of strain at the corners of his mouth.
Richie then stared at him in silence, then forced himself to smile. He couldn’t picture Francis doing all of it, but the image he did manage to receive was humorous.
“No, it’s not bad at all,” he then said, answering his earlier question. “I...just felt...sick. I’m sorry.”
Francis shrugged, then looked at his packed suitcases and bag–the very same things Richie had packed earlier, when he’d tried to leave him after the incident with Tyson. He then looked back at the blond, with really nothing to say.
Richie fiddled with picking at the cuticles on his worn nails. “It looks great, actually. You did a good job. Better than I could have done.”
Francis looked at him again, unsure if that was sarcasm, or genuine. Richie met his gaze, and the pair looked at each other quietly.
Finally, the redhead shifted, crossing his arms. “You leaving tonight?”
Richie nodded, forcing his hands under his knees. “Yeah. Dad’s picking me up around seven thirty.”
Francis nodded stiffly. An uncomfortable silence fell, with both having nothing more to say. Finally, Francis moved away from the doorway, to start heading toward his bedroom.
Richie looked up, then moved after him when a surge of desperation hit him. “Francis, wait.”
Francis stopped in the middle of the hall, then looked at him. His expressions were never open as they were before that day–Richie missed seeing him relaxed and content. But his own expressions were just as closed and sullen.
Looking at him, Richie felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him. To feel the solid form of his frame, to be able to be next to him for some assurance of security and comfort. But the gap would always be there as long as Francis wanted it to be. He couldn’t touch him, and that hurt.
He was growing satisfied the more the pills continued to take over his sense of clarity.
He shoved his hands into his back pockets to keep himself from reaching out to him. He gave a strained smile that he didn’t really feel. “H-have a good Christmas. I...I’m going to miss you.”
Francis looked at him, his brow furrowing as he searched those pale, strained features for some hint of sarcasm. The silence was intense and uncomfortable, and Richie’s smile slipped away, replaced by his usual sullen expression once he realized that Francis wasn’t going to say anything.
But the redhead nodded stiffly, then turned away to continue toward his room, Richie staring after him with some dispassion. He turned away at hearing the door close, and walked back into his room. With some growing detachment that made the world seem off-kilter, he grabbed his packed suitcases and duffle bag, and headed into the living room. He set them down near the door, then walked with unsteady steps toward the overstuffed chair. He slumped into it with an expression of gratification, resting his hands atop of his stomach.
Staring at the entertainment center that had cracked his head due to the force Francis had thrown him with, he numbly reflected that the trajectory path he’d taken should have fractured his skull; should have left him with more of an impact than he’d had. Instead, he recalled with some startling clarity that one of his heels had caught the carpet, slowing him just slightly enough to earn him a smaller impact. He’d had troubles with his motor functions, with memory and processing, but he’d recovered.
He was staring off at the collection of DVDs, listing off all the actors and directors of each film as he came to a title when he realized Francis was approaching him. He cursed inwardly in that he was completely drugged and detached from the world, that he wouldn’t be facing Francis with lucidity and steady comprehension. He had hid his habit so far from the man–knowing that it was just more fuel for Francis to use against him, to sneer and resent him. But he relied on them to take the pain of emotional distress from him.
In that sense, he negotiated that Francis deserved it–he was the one that drove Richie into this mess. He should not complain.
Francis paused by the chair, studying his features–Richie knew that Francis knew something was up. It was hard to hide the results of his use because he could just feel the effects displayed on his face.
Instead, Francis said nothing. He gave a sort of small shuffle, then lifted his hand, extending it to Richie. Richie stared at it cluelessly, unsure of what it meant. What he was supposed to do. Finally, with a sort of hesitant action, he took his hand. It felt almost new, to touch him–to feel the strength of his fingers curl around his, the way he seemed to radiate warmth. To feel familiarity in his contact that made his skin tingle.
Francis, with a creased brow, pulled him from the chair. His fingers curled with added security with Richie’s, his thumb giving his knuckles a slight scrape with the pad. “Your fingers are so thin, babe,” he muttered, the first endearment he’d spoken since that day.
Richie felt his eyes tear up, stinging as a surge of emotions swept through him. He bit his bottom lip with determination, struggling not to let them loose, feeling as if a dam had broken. His throat felt tight, constricting even as a lump worked its way with an annoying persistence toward the center of his being.
He struggled to retain his sense of balance, even as he felt himself sway lightly due to the dizzying effects of both the drug and the unexpected actions of tenderness. Francis’ fingers tightened on his hand, keeping him steady, his narrow eyes watching him even as Richie looked down to try and keep the redhead from seeing his eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, gruffly.
Richie struggled not to answer right away, because he felt his voice would break. But he managed to compose himself, nodding. “Yeah. Just...you...haven’t touched me in so long...”
Francis recognized that, feeling the same things. He had to look away, searching his own feelings for the confliction that he felt and the comfort that he himself felt in that Richie was letting him touch him. He had thought that the blond wouldn’t want his hands near him–not after what Francis had done to him.
To know that Richie had been longing for his touch despite it all worked some intense sensation through him.
You think I’d leave your side baby?
You know me better than that
His thumb automatically searched for the wedding band that normally graced the blond’s ring finger–but he remembered that he’d taken back all the jewelry that he’d given his husband soon after the revealed affair. That he’d sold the earrings and pawned the wedding band, along with his. Because he’d felt that they wouldn’t need them, and he didn’t want Richie having his. A selfish request that had left him feeling numb afterward, cursing his impulsiveness.
You think I’d leave down when your down on your knees?
I wouldn’t do that
“I didn’t think you wanted me to touch you,” he admitted quietly.
Richie was silent for a few moments, but he shrugged. His own fingers curled around Francis’ with a hold surprisingly firm for his current physical state. He then forced himself to look him in the eye, struggling to repress the urge to draw closer to him, hesitant to ask and move for more.
At the same time, he was consciously aware of the fact that he knew personally of this man’s strength and frenzied physical fury, making standing near him a sort of complex internal struggle. He would never forget knowing that, nor could he totally forgive him for what happened. He still had conflicts of acceptance.
But this...this was an extended offer, he felt.
I’ll do you right when your wrong
And that hope deep within him warmed slightly.
Even as he was growing used to this feeling, Francis gave him an awkward look, his mouth strained with tension–then he was pulling Richie close to him, holding him with a stiff sort of awkwardness that Richie compared to the first time the redhead had hugged him. Richie tensed with a sort of disbelieving sensation, then relaxed into the embrace, curling his arms around Francis’ strong frame, inhaling sharply of his closeness and scent, feeling Francis doing the same to him.
If only you could see into me
oh, when your cold
I’ll be there to hold you tight to me
They held each other tightly, both feeling a little awkward, but both feeling a sense of relief in that the other was allowing this brief moment.
Francis drew his hands over Richie’s back, his fingers spread and his palm caressing the familiar form, inhaling deeply of the mixed scents that he was both familiar and unfamiliar with. Richie’s hair tickled his face, his ear, and his skin smelled of his musk. Closing his eyes, he felt Richie hold him just as tightly, his fingers curling into the material of his shirt.
It took a few minutes for Francis to draw enough composure to say gruffly, “Be careful. Have a good Christmas with your family.”
Recognizing that Francis was letting him go, unsure of where this direction would lead, Richie closed his eyes tightly, hearing himself give a sharp intake of breath, feeling his limbs go numb. He felt tears sting at his eyelids, but resentment filled him. He let go of Francis, pulling away with an almost angry air.
When your on the outside baby and you can’t get in
I will show you, your so much better than you know
When your lost, when your alone and you can’t get back again
I will find you darling I’ll bring you home
Thankfully, at that moment, he heard the approaching sounds of his father walking up the porch, and didn’t bother looking at Francis as he turned to his suitcases. Francis watched him walk away with a sense of knowing that he’d done something wrong. And that left him feeling resentful, as well. It had taken a lot to take that first step, and now he was being punished for it.
If you want to cry
I am here to dry your eyes
and in no time you’ll be fine
But instead of saying anything negative, hearing Sean knock purposefully on the door, he said quietly, “I still love you.”
Richie paused in gathering his things, hearing his father curse outside due to the cold. He licked his lips nervously, hearing those words, and feeling them settle at the pit of his stomach. In an odd source of conflicted action, he recognized how joyous he felt at hearing them. But also so resentful in that he didn’t believe it.
He looked back at him, feeling his brow furrow. Francis crossed his arms, then, giving him a level look.
“But I still don’t like you.”
At hearing that, Richie felt the corner of his mouth lift. He looked away to pick up his suitcase, adjusting the strap of his duffle bag. He vaguely wondered if his father would notice his detached mood.
“That’s okay...I feel the same way,” he muttered.
Francis stared at him for a few moments, then his lips curled slightly. He then shook his head, moving over to him. From the dining room chair nearby, he grabbed his thick Gap sweater shirt and jacket. With some rough movements, he pulled the duffle and suitcases from Richie, and pulled the sweater shirt on over his head. He then negotiated his heavy winter coat onto his thinner frame, Richie watching him with a sense of amusement and conflicted nostalgia.
Francis looked at him, then cast him an expression of exhausted annoyance, zipping up the front.
You think I’d leave your side baby
You know me better than that
You think I’d leave you down when your down on your knees
I wouldn’t do that
“I wasn’t aware that I had a relapse and can’t do things myself,” Richie muttered, straightening the thick material to pull his duffle bag back over his shoulder.
“...I don’t agree with it, but...in the inside pocket, there’s three packs of your cigarettes in there. And...something that I couldn’t bring myself to give you in person.”
I’ll do you right when your wrong
Richie stared at him in silence, indeed feeling the weight of things within that pocket through the layer of Gap material. Francis straightened to look at him, Sean knocking much more louder and persistently on the front door. The redhead rubbed his chin with a sense of nervousness, then looked at Richie once more.
“Be careful,” he then uttered again, turning away from him.
If only you could see into me
Richie looked after him, blinking heavily, then looked away as he reached for the door. He opened it, Sean giving him an expression of irritation as he gestured at the snow that was falling outside of the porch overhang. He walked in to take the other suitcase from him, casting Francis a hateful expression that made the redhead look away with a sort of amused superiority.
Sean walked out, Richie moving slowly after him. But he paused, looking back at Francis, seeing that the redhead was watching him leave. He then moved from the door, and hurried sluggishly to him. He kissed his cheek, hugging him with one arm, then left without saying anything.
Oh when your cold
I’ll be there
On the car ride home, while Sean spoke things that were blurred due to the illegal medication, Richie opened the large jacket, and rummaged through the inside pocket. He found the new packs of cigarettes, keeping them hidden from Sean, then felt the hard edge of a box.
Glancing at his father, he withdrew the small item, and in the darkness, saw that it was a velvet box that usually contained jewelry. While surprised and a little shamed at receiving the gift, he was also enlightened by it.
It was hope.
To hold you tight to me
Something that softened the edges of resentment.
He opened it carefully, keeping it hidden from Sean’s view.
Inside was a thin, white gold chain with a pendent in similar plating in the form of a clover. He gave a wiry smile, touching the small pendent with his finger tip. The chain was short enough to hide within the collar of his shirt, but not long enough to dangle loosely. It was a little feminine, but he immediately liked it. He wondered if Francis knew the true reason behind it–that according to the ancient Gaels, it was a symbol of birth, life and death. Or if the redhead had just given it to him as a sort of indication of celebrating his ethnic background. All in all, he found it an endearing gesture, something that made him realize just how much he’d loved that aspect of Francis.
Oh when your alone
He shut the box when he realized Sean was looking over at him, and gave him a careless smile.
For the rest of the car ride to his parents' house, he felt enlightened that things were looking better than what they were this morning.
I’ll be there by your side baby
Short little ditty...kinda a side fic AFTER ‘My Happy Ending’
Angsty...I am TRYING for goodness...but...ya'll know I suck. The words in bold are lyrics from Sade's "By Your Side", which this fic is aptly named for. XD
And mucho thanks to Emif! For...giving me info that I hoped I used correctly at the end...cuz...I suck...XD
“By Your Side”
When Richie walked into the house after a tense doctor’s visit, Francis right behind him, the first thing he saw was that the usual gang was there. Shiv and Jason were sitting on the couch, and Dominic had taken over on the overstuffed chair. He heard Francis mutter obscenities about the lock, which looked normal and worked fine, and didn’t feel enough emotion about it to really care about their sudden visit. But what struck him still in his steps was that Shiv kept eyeing a particular section of the living room. Richie stepped out of Francis’ way as the man headed into the kitchen.
Desperate for some sort of humor, Richie asked Shiv, “What’s wrong?”
Shiv gestured at the empty space near the sliding door and the back wall. “Just...it’s...well, it’s December...”
Jason groaned with the utmost exaggeration, head thrown back while Dominic sighed, shifting in his seat to rub the bridge of his nose. Richie saw all this, and was amused–apparently, Shiv had been at it, for awhile.
Amused, he asked, “Yeah...so?”
“Just...by now...there would have been decorations...a Christmas tree...garlands...bulbs, lights–the works. And...there isn’t...”
Richie felt saddened at the memory, glancing at Francis as the bigger man rummaged in the kitchen for something to eat. Since that day he’d caught Richie and Ivan together, things had been incredibly tense and uncomfortable. Richie hadn’t felt the mood to be festive.
He ducked his head, fiddling with his pharmacy bag that held new sleeping pills. “Well...just...I guess I forgot, Shiv. Sorry.”
“Well...shit. Two more weeks, eh? I mean...like we do anything for our place,” Shiv muttered. “And whenever this place has been dressed up, it felt...cool. Like, we’re part of things.”
Richie considered this, glancing apprehensively at Francis. “Well...if you want, the decorations are in the garage, near the back wall. You can–”
“That’s not cool! I mean, yeah right, me?!” Shiv then sighed, looking entirely down about the idea. “Well, I suppose I can bring a girl over to decorate...”
Repulsed by the idea, not liking it at all, Richie immediately said, “No! Don’t be bringing some girl over to decorate my house–!”
“It ain’t your house anyway,” Francis snapped from the kitchen, making everyone wince at the harsh sound. Richie paled, then shrugged. “You’re just a fuckin’ guest here.”
At the uncomfortable silence that followed, Richie avoided everyone’s eyes, but it didn’t matter–everyone had their attention elsewhere. His expression turned murderous at the humiliation he felt at the comment, but he kept quiet.
Richie then cleared his throat, starting to move toward the back hall. “Right. Fine. Shiv, do whatever you want. Decorations are in the garage.”
With that, he quickly retreated to his room. In the thick silence that followed, Shiv muttered as quietly as he could, “Harsh, Big Red...”
Francis shrugged. But his expression was troubled.
Shiv sighed again, looking over at the empty spot against the back wall. “Just...doesn’t feel like Christmas without this place all spruced up...”
Jason elbowed him with a strong expression of irritation on his face. “Just shut up already!”
Dominic shifted in his chair, shooting him an expression of his own. “Go downtown if you want decorations.”
Shiv shook his head, and pouted. Muttering, “Guess you really don’t know what ya got til it goes away, eh?”
Francis paused in making a sandwich, staring sightlessly at the contents before him.
That night, Richie stared out at the darkness of the backyard, bundled up in jackets and blankets, watching the snow fall. He could hear the others inside–but the mood felt tense and somber rather than the usual mess of noise and activity. Since that day, he’d avoided much contact with the others, threading carefully on thin ice. Feeling alone and depressed, he’d taken to depending on pills and cigarettes. He was enjoying one now, the ember bright in the darkness.
He did miss the holiday decorating, the cheer–every year since they’d moved in, he’d decorate the house according to season and holiday. Most of the former Bang Babies hadn’t the opportunity of celebrating Christmas, but he’d learned that they’d come to secretly enjoy the decorations that he’d put up.
He would do it all, mainly because Francis lost his temper, and didn’t have the patience to hang lights and festive. He also thought that it was, in a sense, ‘gay’. Richie enjoyed it because he liked the results afterward. But the one thing that they worked on together was finding the tree. It had given them a sense of grounding their relationship–of looking and agreeing on something as mundane as a Christmas tree.
Now, they barely spoke. They avoided each other. The Holiday season this year didn’t seem or feel so festive. Just unbearably depressing.
He inhaled slowly, feeling light headed and nauseated, but he didn’t want to feel depressed. The sickness helped him think beyond that.
He wondered if things would ever change. If Francis would ever want to rekindle what they had. In all honesty, Richie didn’t want anybody else. He wasn’t interested in any of that. He leaned his forehead into his palm, covering his eyes. He wanted what they had. He wanted things to be fixed. He felt the tears building again, and gave a tired sigh.
He finished his cigarette, flicking it over the railing, then stood. He headed back inside, avoiding the others. Retreating to his room, he unbundled himself from his jackets and blankets, and sat at the edge of his bed, staring at his shoes.
Things were slowly coming back into place. He was able to operate almost as normally as he had before he hit his head that day. He didn’t forget as much, nor did he have many troubles in things that he had after that day. His doctor was satisfied at his progress, but had warned that Richie would still experience trouble from time to time, without ever really knowing it.
Sensing another sleepless night, he popped a couple of pills, then curled atop of his bed sheets, staring at the wall. He waited impatiently for the pills to take effect, listening to the faint noises of the men in the living room. He felt lonely in that instant–since that day, he’d made as little contact as he could with them. Avoided Ivan completely. He hadn’t seen the man since that day. Nor spoke to him, and Francis was very limited in contact with him, as well.
But he had gotten used to the chaos and hubbub of activity that the others were known for, and to be excluded from it left him feeling more than depressed. He hadn’t really realized what he’d had with them until he took voluntary leave away from them. He and Shiv hadn’t exchanged mean looks or obligatory fighting words. It seemed that Shiv was sheepish about the entire thing, and struggled to treat both him and Francis similarly.
He waited impatiently for the pills to work as he continued staring at the wall.
Meanwhile, Francis, Shiv and Freddie stared at the neatly labeled plastic tubs that lined the back wall of the garage. They were stacked so that each was easily accessible, and only three rows high. Francis had grown tired of Shiv’s bitching about the lack of Christmas decorations.
“This is bullshit,” he muttered, grabbing the appropriate tub. Opening it, the three stared down at the neat bundles of lights, boxes of ornaments, stockings, garland in multiple colors, and plastic bags full of other items.
“Ugh, what do I do with this?” Shiv whined, picking up a light bundle, eyeing it with a frown. “I’m just gonna bring a girl over, k? They, like, love this sorta thing. They like it when guys are all helpless.”
“Whatever.” Francis used his foot to push the open tub into his direction. “You’re so hard up about it.”
Shiv stared down at the tub for a few moments, then looked up at him with some sadness, Freddie bending to grab the lid and fit it on top. “It’s really over for you guys, huh?”
Francis considered that, shrugging when he didn’t find anything to say.
Shiv sighed, grabbing the tub and lugging it into the house, Freddie following with a sheepish expression in Francis’ direction. Francis looked at the empty space in the wall of plastic tubs, the gap obvious and large within the stacked neatness. Somehow, it fit the feeling that lurked constantly at the back of his thoughts.
He wandered back into the house, heading over to Richie’s room. Knocking, he waited for an answer, then walked in anyway. Richie was asleep, and Francis stared down at him for a few moments, Shiv’s words ringing through his head.
He glanced around the room with a sort of lost expression, noting that the small television atop of a small stand near the closet was playing some Discovery channel wonder, that his clean clothes were folded neatly atop of his dresser. Everything was immaculate in other senses, but it didn’t hold any of the personality that Richie was known for. Francis then eyed the nightstand that held a simple touch lamp, the bottle of sleeping pills nearby, along with a glass of water. Richie had stopped taking pain killers a long time ago, but sometimes, Francis had to wonder whenever he saw the blond’s vacant expression. He then eyed the box of cigs with distaste, of which sat near the lamp with the lighter spilling out neatly. He wondered if Richie had developed the taste for cigarettes because of Ivan. At that, he narrowed his eyes, and left the room.
That night, he stared up at the darkened ceiling, unable to sleep. The room was slightly chilly, the brightness of the snow outside lighting the room with a sort of ghostly effect. In the winter, the pair of them had always cuddled close, and while it had been annoying to wake up with Richie chasing his body warmth all over the king sized bed or having him sprawl over him, Francis realized how much he missed it. During the early years of their marriage, when bills were too high and money too sparse, they had kept each other warm in such ways. They had taken care of each other.
He felt cheated in that this was all lost. What had happened to those days?
Since that day in the kitchen, he’d had trouble sleeping. His anger had dimmed since then–responsibilities and life took over, forcing him to think of other things, but some things had remained. He had to take responsibility for what he’d did to Richie–the acts of violence had left the blond with a Traumatic Brain Injury and bruises that had lasted for weeks. It had felt that his entire personality and demeanor had changed, as well. Richie was often angry and resentful, or incredibly depressed and defeated. He started arguments or fell into stubborn bouts of silence, doing everything mechanically.
Francis wanted him to move out during the initial first two months–but at the same time, he felt responsibility to take care of what he’d done, and managed to cope. There were many times when he found himself parked in the small parking area of the divorce lawyer he’d talked to a few times, but he could never manage to bring himself to actually go through with it.
His reluctance both irritated him and made him question himself.
He then remembered that Richie was sleeping atop of his blankets when he’d checked in on him earlier. Francis found himself moving before actually thinking about what he was doing. He got up from bed, and padded quietly toward the other bedroom. Walking in, he shut off the bedside lamp and the television set, then looked over to see that Richie was still sleeping in the same position he was when Francis first looked in. He removed the scruffy shoes, then pulled a throw blanket up from the foot of the bed, pulling it over his form.
He then stared down at him in silence, feeling a giant ache in his chest when he listened to Richie breathe quietly. It had taken some getting used to to being unable to hear that sound next to him at nights. Francis wanted to reach out and touch him–but he held himself back, hating what had happened to separate them.
Quietly, he left the room, and headed back to bed, for another sleepless night.
That next morning, Francis was cooking breakfast for himself when Richie staggered in, looking drugged and sluggish as he approached him.
“I’m going to my parents’ house for the rest of the month,” he then said, his voice thick with sleep. “Just so you don’t have to bother with me, anymore.”
Francis looked at him, then shrugged.
Richie waited for him to say something, then looked away with an expression of annoyed defeat, fiddling with a cigarette and walking out of the kitchen. Francis looked after him, then stared down at his cooked food, trying to imagine a Christmas without Richie. He glanced back at the living room and the lack of decorations, hearing the sliding door open and shut as the blond went outside.
Richie left that afternoon for some rehabilitation in regaining his motor skills, hearing praises of satisfaction from his specialist, and was more than gratified in that he would be able to depend on himself once more. Francis wouldn’t have to drive him places, nor take care of him when he couldn’t do a particular thing. He’d hated that, and he knew Francis resented it even more, wanting nothing more than to divorce him and cut ties.
He had hoped that things would be fixed–but he’d grown used that Francis resented having to take care of him rather than wanting to fix things between them. He’d grown resentful of himself and of the older man, and grew to depend on other things to cope with the overwhelming depression. Cigarettes, his sleeping pills, and illegal/forged prescriptions for painkillers such as Vicoden.
He just wanted it to end, but he recognized that he couldn’t leave Francis permanently. There was still some hope left lingering deep within.
He returned later that night to meet his father in a half hour, and when he walked in, hearing the taxi leave the curb, he saw that the living room was covered with decorations. Garlands decorated the entertainment center, the tree was set up and fixed with a brilliant mixture of colors and lights, and the stockings were taped to the high shelves of the bookcases. He felt a deep ache of pain as he saw this, his tradition taken over by someone he didn’t even know. It hurt, and he felt himself grow nauseated by the bright cheer. Bile touched his throat, and he clasped a hand over his mouth, hurrying toward the bathroom.
He vomited into the toilet, holding onto it tightly. After awhile, he leaned against the lid, slumping to the floor, hanging onto the commode. He stared at the tub sightlessly, feeling more lost and depressed than ever, trying to picture a Christmas without Francis. It felt horribly depressing in that they wouldn’t be exchanging gifts, or celebrating the holiday together, like they had before in the past. Since he’d gotten with Francis, he’d always wanted to make sure that the redhead’s Christmas was something actual and pleasant, since he hadn’t that chance while he was a Bang Baby, or even before, with his family, who didn’t take the holiday very seriously due to their own situations.
Francis had always been happy about it all, wanting that sense of normalism, and had always appreciated the lengths Richie had gone to ensure that celebration.
But this year was different. They wouldn’t even be in the same house for this month.
He flushed the toilet, ignoring the deep ache in his chest as he rose from the floor. He brushed his teeth, feeling detached and shaky, wanting something to cover and disguise his pain. He then walked into his room, rummaging through his suitcase for his hidden bottle of Vicoden. He hurriedly shoved two into his mouth, swallowing some water from the glass nearby. He re-hid his bottle of pills, then slumped onto the bed, falling back first against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.
His face was masked with a sort of gruff admittance, figuring that he should be getting used to the separation, by now. He hated the holidays. He hated the cheer, and the fake and forced sense of rules that the holiday commanded.
He covered his face with his hands, and wondered when he was ever going to bring himself to move on.
“It’s that bad, huh?”
Richie startled, sitting up with a surprised look at Francis, who was lingering within his doorway. Blinking away the beginning haze of spacey detachment the pills provided him with, he looked at the redhead cluelessly, having no idea what he was talking about. For a moment, he wondered if Francis had saw him take the painkillers.
Francis then gave a half gesture toward the front, Richie realizing what he meant.
“You...you did that?” he asked, gesturing towards the living room.
“...Yeah.” Francis looked uncomfortable about it, and now that Richie noticed, he saw pine needles on his shirt, the irritated etches of strain at the corners of his mouth.
Richie then stared at him in silence, then forced himself to smile. He couldn’t picture Francis doing all of it, but the image he did manage to receive was humorous.
“No, it’s not bad at all,” he then said, answering his earlier question. “I...just felt...sick. I’m sorry.”
Francis shrugged, then looked at his packed suitcases and bag–the very same things Richie had packed earlier, when he’d tried to leave him after the incident with Tyson. He then looked back at the blond, with really nothing to say.
Richie fiddled with picking at the cuticles on his worn nails. “It looks great, actually. You did a good job. Better than I could have done.”
Francis looked at him again, unsure if that was sarcasm, or genuine. Richie met his gaze, and the pair looked at each other quietly.
Finally, the redhead shifted, crossing his arms. “You leaving tonight?”
Richie nodded, forcing his hands under his knees. “Yeah. Dad’s picking me up around seven thirty.”
Francis nodded stiffly. An uncomfortable silence fell, with both having nothing more to say. Finally, Francis moved away from the doorway, to start heading toward his bedroom.
Richie looked up, then moved after him when a surge of desperation hit him. “Francis, wait.”
Francis stopped in the middle of the hall, then looked at him. His expressions were never open as they were before that day–Richie missed seeing him relaxed and content. But his own expressions were just as closed and sullen.
Looking at him, Richie felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him. To feel the solid form of his frame, to be able to be next to him for some assurance of security and comfort. But the gap would always be there as long as Francis wanted it to be. He couldn’t touch him, and that hurt.
He was growing satisfied the more the pills continued to take over his sense of clarity.
He shoved his hands into his back pockets to keep himself from reaching out to him. He gave a strained smile that he didn’t really feel. “H-have a good Christmas. I...I’m going to miss you.”
Francis looked at him, his brow furrowing as he searched those pale, strained features for some hint of sarcasm. The silence was intense and uncomfortable, and Richie’s smile slipped away, replaced by his usual sullen expression once he realized that Francis wasn’t going to say anything.
But the redhead nodded stiffly, then turned away to continue toward his room, Richie staring after him with some dispassion. He turned away at hearing the door close, and walked back into his room. With some growing detachment that made the world seem off-kilter, he grabbed his packed suitcases and duffle bag, and headed into the living room. He set them down near the door, then walked with unsteady steps toward the overstuffed chair. He slumped into it with an expression of gratification, resting his hands atop of his stomach.
Staring at the entertainment center that had cracked his head due to the force Francis had thrown him with, he numbly reflected that the trajectory path he’d taken should have fractured his skull; should have left him with more of an impact than he’d had. Instead, he recalled with some startling clarity that one of his heels had caught the carpet, slowing him just slightly enough to earn him a smaller impact. He’d had troubles with his motor functions, with memory and processing, but he’d recovered.
He was staring off at the collection of DVDs, listing off all the actors and directors of each film as he came to a title when he realized Francis was approaching him. He cursed inwardly in that he was completely drugged and detached from the world, that he wouldn’t be facing Francis with lucidity and steady comprehension. He had hid his habit so far from the man–knowing that it was just more fuel for Francis to use against him, to sneer and resent him. But he relied on them to take the pain of emotional distress from him.
In that sense, he negotiated that Francis deserved it–he was the one that drove Richie into this mess. He should not complain.
Francis paused by the chair, studying his features–Richie knew that Francis knew something was up. It was hard to hide the results of his use because he could just feel the effects displayed on his face.
Instead, Francis said nothing. He gave a sort of small shuffle, then lifted his hand, extending it to Richie. Richie stared at it cluelessly, unsure of what it meant. What he was supposed to do. Finally, with a sort of hesitant action, he took his hand. It felt almost new, to touch him–to feel the strength of his fingers curl around his, the way he seemed to radiate warmth. To feel familiarity in his contact that made his skin tingle.
Francis, with a creased brow, pulled him from the chair. His fingers curled with added security with Richie’s, his thumb giving his knuckles a slight scrape with the pad. “Your fingers are so thin, babe,” he muttered, the first endearment he’d spoken since that day.
Richie felt his eyes tear up, stinging as a surge of emotions swept through him. He bit his bottom lip with determination, struggling not to let them loose, feeling as if a dam had broken. His throat felt tight, constricting even as a lump worked its way with an annoying persistence toward the center of his being.
He struggled to retain his sense of balance, even as he felt himself sway lightly due to the dizzying effects of both the drug and the unexpected actions of tenderness. Francis’ fingers tightened on his hand, keeping him steady, his narrow eyes watching him even as Richie looked down to try and keep the redhead from seeing his eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, gruffly.
Richie struggled not to answer right away, because he felt his voice would break. But he managed to compose himself, nodding. “Yeah. Just...you...haven’t touched me in so long...”
Francis recognized that, feeling the same things. He had to look away, searching his own feelings for the confliction that he felt and the comfort that he himself felt in that Richie was letting him touch him. He had thought that the blond wouldn’t want his hands near him–not after what Francis had done to him.
To know that Richie had been longing for his touch despite it all worked some intense sensation through him.
You think I’d leave your side baby?
You know me better than that
His thumb automatically searched for the wedding band that normally graced the blond’s ring finger–but he remembered that he’d taken back all the jewelry that he’d given his husband soon after the revealed affair. That he’d sold the earrings and pawned the wedding band, along with his. Because he’d felt that they wouldn’t need them, and he didn’t want Richie having his. A selfish request that had left him feeling numb afterward, cursing his impulsiveness.
You think I’d leave down when your down on your knees?
I wouldn’t do that
“I didn’t think you wanted me to touch you,” he admitted quietly.
Richie was silent for a few moments, but he shrugged. His own fingers curled around Francis’ with a hold surprisingly firm for his current physical state. He then forced himself to look him in the eye, struggling to repress the urge to draw closer to him, hesitant to ask and move for more.
At the same time, he was consciously aware of the fact that he knew personally of this man’s strength and frenzied physical fury, making standing near him a sort of complex internal struggle. He would never forget knowing that, nor could he totally forgive him for what happened. He still had conflicts of acceptance.
But this...this was an extended offer, he felt.
I’ll do you right when your wrong
And that hope deep within him warmed slightly.
Even as he was growing used to this feeling, Francis gave him an awkward look, his mouth strained with tension–then he was pulling Richie close to him, holding him with a stiff sort of awkwardness that Richie compared to the first time the redhead had hugged him. Richie tensed with a sort of disbelieving sensation, then relaxed into the embrace, curling his arms around Francis’ strong frame, inhaling sharply of his closeness and scent, feeling Francis doing the same to him.
If only you could see into me
oh, when your cold
I’ll be there to hold you tight to me
They held each other tightly, both feeling a little awkward, but both feeling a sense of relief in that the other was allowing this brief moment.
Francis drew his hands over Richie’s back, his fingers spread and his palm caressing the familiar form, inhaling deeply of the mixed scents that he was both familiar and unfamiliar with. Richie’s hair tickled his face, his ear, and his skin smelled of his musk. Closing his eyes, he felt Richie hold him just as tightly, his fingers curling into the material of his shirt.
It took a few minutes for Francis to draw enough composure to say gruffly, “Be careful. Have a good Christmas with your family.”
Recognizing that Francis was letting him go, unsure of where this direction would lead, Richie closed his eyes tightly, hearing himself give a sharp intake of breath, feeling his limbs go numb. He felt tears sting at his eyelids, but resentment filled him. He let go of Francis, pulling away with an almost angry air.
When your on the outside baby and you can’t get in
I will show you, your so much better than you know
When your lost, when your alone and you can’t get back again
I will find you darling I’ll bring you home
Thankfully, at that moment, he heard the approaching sounds of his father walking up the porch, and didn’t bother looking at Francis as he turned to his suitcases. Francis watched him walk away with a sense of knowing that he’d done something wrong. And that left him feeling resentful, as well. It had taken a lot to take that first step, and now he was being punished for it.
If you want to cry
I am here to dry your eyes
and in no time you’ll be fine
But instead of saying anything negative, hearing Sean knock purposefully on the door, he said quietly, “I still love you.”
Richie paused in gathering his things, hearing his father curse outside due to the cold. He licked his lips nervously, hearing those words, and feeling them settle at the pit of his stomach. In an odd source of conflicted action, he recognized how joyous he felt at hearing them. But also so resentful in that he didn’t believe it.
He looked back at him, feeling his brow furrow. Francis crossed his arms, then, giving him a level look.
“But I still don’t like you.”
At hearing that, Richie felt the corner of his mouth lift. He looked away to pick up his suitcase, adjusting the strap of his duffle bag. He vaguely wondered if his father would notice his detached mood.
“That’s okay...I feel the same way,” he muttered.
Francis stared at him for a few moments, then his lips curled slightly. He then shook his head, moving over to him. From the dining room chair nearby, he grabbed his thick Gap sweater shirt and jacket. With some rough movements, he pulled the duffle and suitcases from Richie, and pulled the sweater shirt on over his head. He then negotiated his heavy winter coat onto his thinner frame, Richie watching him with a sense of amusement and conflicted nostalgia.
Francis looked at him, then cast him an expression of exhausted annoyance, zipping up the front.
You think I’d leave your side baby
You know me better than that
You think I’d leave you down when your down on your knees
I wouldn’t do that
“I wasn’t aware that I had a relapse and can’t do things myself,” Richie muttered, straightening the thick material to pull his duffle bag back over his shoulder.
“...I don’t agree with it, but...in the inside pocket, there’s three packs of your cigarettes in there. And...something that I couldn’t bring myself to give you in person.”
I’ll do you right when your wrong
Richie stared at him in silence, indeed feeling the weight of things within that pocket through the layer of Gap material. Francis straightened to look at him, Sean knocking much more louder and persistently on the front door. The redhead rubbed his chin with a sense of nervousness, then looked at Richie once more.
“Be careful,” he then uttered again, turning away from him.
If only you could see into me
Richie looked after him, blinking heavily, then looked away as he reached for the door. He opened it, Sean giving him an expression of irritation as he gestured at the snow that was falling outside of the porch overhang. He walked in to take the other suitcase from him, casting Francis a hateful expression that made the redhead look away with a sort of amused superiority.
Sean walked out, Richie moving slowly after him. But he paused, looking back at Francis, seeing that the redhead was watching him leave. He then moved from the door, and hurried sluggishly to him. He kissed his cheek, hugging him with one arm, then left without saying anything.
Oh when your cold
I’ll be there
On the car ride home, while Sean spoke things that were blurred due to the illegal medication, Richie opened the large jacket, and rummaged through the inside pocket. He found the new packs of cigarettes, keeping them hidden from Sean, then felt the hard edge of a box.
Glancing at his father, he withdrew the small item, and in the darkness, saw that it was a velvet box that usually contained jewelry. While surprised and a little shamed at receiving the gift, he was also enlightened by it.
It was hope.
To hold you tight to me
Something that softened the edges of resentment.
He opened it carefully, keeping it hidden from Sean’s view.
Inside was a thin, white gold chain with a pendent in similar plating in the form of a clover. He gave a wiry smile, touching the small pendent with his finger tip. The chain was short enough to hide within the collar of his shirt, but not long enough to dangle loosely. It was a little feminine, but he immediately liked it. He wondered if Francis knew the true reason behind it–that according to the ancient Gaels, it was a symbol of birth, life and death. Or if the redhead had just given it to him as a sort of indication of celebrating his ethnic background. All in all, he found it an endearing gesture, something that made him realize just how much he’d loved that aspect of Francis.
Oh when your alone
He shut the box when he realized Sean was looking over at him, and gave him a careless smile.
For the rest of the car ride to his parents' house, he felt enlightened that things were looking better than what they were this morning.
I’ll be there by your side baby