Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ My Happy Ending ❯ You Were (Everything) That I Wanted ( Chapter 5 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Things happen for a reason...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.20.2005 | Updated On: 10.25.2005 | Pages: 6 | Words: 9.5K | Visits: 503 | Status: Completed
Things happen for a reason...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.20.2005 | Updated On: 10.25.2005 | Pages: 6 | Words: 9.5K | Visits: 503 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC OR ANY OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARAS!!
Warning: Some violence ahead, along with a small lemon.
Chapter Five:
You Were Everything Everything That I Wanted
I guess I just like the attention, was the conclusion Richie came up with as he sat next to his husband, one leg hooked over his knee, his arm curled lightly around his broad back. He’d been staring off into space as Francis laughed and hammed it up with Shiv and the others–Freddie, Dominic and Jason, formerly known as Boom. The television screen displayed random and flashy glimpses of music videos set to a skater flick, and no one was really paying attention to it unless someone took a crashing dive. Mostly, the conversation was about who scored with whom, who did what embarrassing thing to be crowned Dingleberry King. Raunchy male talk, really.
Ivan hadn’t come around for the past two days, and that made Richie smirk. But at the same time, he felt apprehension, doubt; messing around with Ivan was about the same as messing around with Francis, but on a more difficult level. He wasn’t sure what it was that had him pushing at Ivan in that manner.
Just got caught up in the moment, he figured with a light shrug. He reviewed those few minutes with a critical eye, feeling his face heat as he recalled what he himself had done. Once he’d known that Ivan’s full attention was on him, his dark eyes taking in what Richie was giving out, the blond had automatically flipped to flirt mode. To see what he could get away with.
After so many years of not having the attention of others, of being viewed as a nerd and a loser, he found himself striving to take all the attention that he got now.
Almost a year of being with Francis had given him the playful confidence that he used to garner from those that looked at him with interest. Add to that Francis’ lack of attention as of lately, and he felt almost desperate for anything that would make him feel desired in the same way that he had when things were good between them.
In the end, it had gone to his head, he would admit. He liked all that attention. He liked seeing what he could get away with, and what he could do to others to keep their attention.
Look but no touch, he thought with another one of those sly grins, pulling his leg off of Francis’ knee, only to have it caught and repositioned right back to where it was. It wasn’t cheating...he wasn’t kissing them, or planning to have sex with any. Just...exploring territory without touching. And if he felt it was going to far, that’s when he chose to make an exit.
He was content with Francis; but lack of attention left him feeling unwanted. To have others looking at him, wanting him and eyeing him with their obvious lusty, wanting needs, gave him an ego boost and a pressing need for more. He’d learned all the body language, words, and touches on his own skin that pulled in an admirer, but also learned how to keep them at arm’s width. Playing with Ivan in this manner was a definite no-no.
He bit his lower lip with regret. He’d gone too far in that aspect. He’d performed a taboo, stepped into dangerous territory. What would happen if Ivan told Francis what he’d done? But Ivan was just as guilty...just as at fault. He was the one that started watching him, when he’d performed a very innocent action. Well...an innocent action that turned into something deliberate.
If Francis found out what he did...he wondered if his possessive, controlling and certainly jealous attitude would up a few notches. If he would even care...or if his infamous temper would ignite, and they would fight. He didn’t like to fight with him over such things; it made him feel awkward, took him back to his former ‘loser, nerdy’ self; a someone that had taken a bite out of something he hadn’t had and wanted more...but had to pay the consequences in doing so. He didn’t like feeling that way, and Francis certainly knew how to do it. He also half-feared what Francis would do; in all considering terms, Ivan was a brother to him. Because of their link, they were closer than any mere ‘friends’. Francis would throw a shitfit. Who knew where that could lead?
Francis had hit him once; but Richie couldn’t remember why. He’d remembered feeling shocked and ashamed, but had learned that he didn’t want that happening again. Francis had apologized, and he’d been downright pitiful in begging for forgiveness for his action. It had been smoothed over, until it didn’t resemble anything big or momentous. Just another fight that they’d endured as a couple. But Richie knew he didn’t want that happening again.
As he contemplated his actions, regretting them with a heavy sense of foreboding and shame, the others burst into laughter once more, startling him. Focusing on the here and now, Richie watched as Shiv mimicked a skater’s movements on television screen, giving commentary as he did so. He had to shake his head as he straightened in his seat, bringing his arm up to rest his hand on the hard muscles of his husband’s back. The living room erupted with more laughter and a loud crash of sound as Shiv ‘crashed’, the skater on-screen screaming in agony over a broken arm.
The phone rang, and Richie got up from his seat, feeling an affectionate touch on his ass from Francis as he did so. He reached out for the handset on the wall, and plugged his other ear as the living room erupted into loud laughter and shouts once more.
He answered it with a louder than normal greeting over the noises, moving away from the area to try and hear whom was on the other line.
“Is Francis there?” a female asked, almost demanding.
Instantly, Richie scowled, shaking his head before giving a verbal answer.
“Look, I really really need to talk to him. I got this number from a friend of mine, and I’ve been trying to talk to him the last few days. This is really important.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but he’s not here,” he said icily, even as he cringed at the loud bellow that resulted from his husband as Shiv tackled him, Ferret screaming about dirt.
“...I can hear him in the back ground,” the woman said in the same tone. “I know that’s him. I need to talk to him, please! It’s really really important!”
“I can take a message for him,” Richie offered, but not in a very friendly tone.
“Look...please...just...I need to talk to him,” she continued, but her voice broke at the end, and Richie rolled his eyes at the sniffle that he heard next. “It’s really important and I’ve been trying to track him down, and I’ve been calling the number he gave me, but he’s not answering, and–please. Please, please, please let me talk to him.”
‘Number he gave her’? Richie was shooting Francis a furious look, even as logic told him that perhaps this wasn’t personal; maybe it involved work. But if it did...wouldn’t she be trying to call him at work? But logic wasn’t always right; this woman had too much emotion running, here, and he didn’t like it at all. Something tickled across the back of his neck, and Francis caught the furious expression on his face.
“Well, I’ll tell him that,” Richie then said nastily, hanging up before he could hear anymore. He felt the shift of weight on the floor, and turned to see Francis walking over with a confused expression. Without really thinking, Richie hurled the phone at him angrily. “PIG!”
“What the fuck–?” Francis exclaimed, ducking rather than trying to deflect the dangerous object. Richie shot him one last look, and stomped off to their bedroom.
He locked the door as he steamed, hearing Shiv cackle about PMSing wives. Pacing angrily within the small space between the bed and the entrance toward the bathroom, Richie fumed as he tried to decipher that conversation. He heard the doorknob turn and catch at the lock, the frustrated protests it gave as Francis pushed at it, but turned his back to the door.
The emotion in the woman’s voice was enough for Richie to know that something wasn’t right. Was she the one he was going out to meet? The one that required cologne and constant touch-ups in the bathroom? What did she look like? Did she make him happy in all things considered?
His fingers balled into fists, and he growled low as he heard Francis leave the door, saying something that was out of his earshot. He wanted to rip the man to pieces!
He couldn’t stand knowing that Francis made all these plans to go out, took all this time and effort for someone other than him. Hurt, rage and insecurity hit him at all the same moment, and it took all he had to remain standing, even as his knees seemed to knock violently against each other. He ran his hands over his hair, giving a pained grunt as he tried to keep his eyes from watering. He slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of their bed, reaching up to remove his glasses and wipe at his eyes.
He wasn’t sure how long later, but he heard the front door slam, shaking that side of the wall. He felt his insides freeze with some heartache, and contemplated leaving the house for the night. To regain what steps he’d lost from that phone call.
But he jumped with considerable surprise as the door resisted the heavy banging Francis put on it, and he looked over with a scared jump, half expecting to see the door being broken inward. The frame protested instantly, cracking as Francis threatened to break it down if he didn’t open it.
Scowling, Richie took his time in getting up from the bed, hating what he had to face because Francis wanted to mess around on him. The door was once again subjected to heavy banging, and something did break, wood pieces falling to the carpeted floor as the top half of the door bent inward. With a grimace, Richie unlocked the door and jumped out of the way as Francis shoved the door in, a dark look on his face.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he mustered between gritted teeth, advancing on his husband immediately. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Having your bitches calling here isn’t really nice of you,” Richie snapped snidely, backing away from him. “Can’t you keep them on your cellphone?”
“Goddamn you, Rich. Goddamn you. I don’t know what goes on in that stupid head of yours, but whatever it is, it isn’t what you think.”
“Oh yeah? Some bitch calls here, crying because she can’t reach you, and–”
Francis gave an angered shout, arms raising, making Richie flinch instantly as he thought they were directed at him. “You and your stupid conclusions! You think I’m fuckin’ everyone, don’t you? You think I’ve got all these chicks hidden away somewhere, and when one calls, you get all stupid about it! Knock it off, Richard!”
“I can’t help but think that way when you go out without me, all the time! When you go out and I have to stay here! When you go to places that you won’t let me go!”
“Goddamn you, Richard. Goddamn you–that was fuckin’ Theresa on the phone. You know Theresa?”
“...No. How am I supposed to know all your–?”
“You KNOW who she is! Theresa Lozada? She was Talon, you fucking idiot. Her man beat her up the other night, and she lost her fucking baby. You and your fucking jealousy. Get the fuck over it.”
Richie felt instantly contrite, lowering his head in shame as he looked away from the fury on his husband’s face.
Drawing a hand over his features, Francis then gave an angered shake of his head, turning away from him. He grabbed a light jacket from the closet, and shot Richie another furious look before leaving the bedroom. Immediately wanting to soothe things over, wanting to apologize, Richie hurried after him.
“Where are you going?” he asked as Francis grabbed the keys from the kitchen counter.
“Out. To find Ivan. Stay here.”
“NO. I want to go with you.”
“STAY HERE!”
“No! Please...please, let me go with you. Are you going to her? Let me at least apologize to her for my behavior,” Richie begged, grabbing a hold of his arm. Francis gave him a disgusted look, but pulled him along as they left the house.
They climbed into their respective seats in the Suzuki Grand Vitera, the second vehicle they had bought together, their first real purchase. Their other vehicle, a dark blue Hyundai, was a second hand vehicle they had bought off a friend. Francis was on his cell, tracking down his ‘brother’, Richie sitting in contrite silence, hands fisted in his lap. He was inwardly cursing his insecurity, his rapid rush to come to conclusions as he thought over what Francis had just said about Theresa. He felt so evil for behaving the way he had over the phone; recalled the desperation and agony in her voice. Had thought that it was just emotions for Francis, things that he felt only he should feel.
It ate up his stomach and gnawed at his insides as he continued to think about this, everything else just fading away. He had to fix the situation, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it. Apologies went only so far.
They pulled up to small hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and Francis left the vehicle. Getting out, Richie left the passenger seat and moved into the back, to sit on Francis’ side–then changed his mind. He shifted to sit behind the passenger side seat, so that he wouldn’t have to look at Ivan, feeling his gut clench at the impending encounter. He hadn’t had an idea why Francis was looking for Ivan, and while he felt vague about it, he wasn’t going to do anything about it. He merely sat quiet and still as the two climbed in, Francis explaining what he’d been told.
Ivan smelled of his cigarettes and that cologne. It made Richie’s gut twist violently.
“Eustacio?” Ivan repeated, a low tinge to his tone that made Richie look up from his lap. “...He fucked her up?”
“Yeah. Said she had to go to the hospital after the miscarriage, and they started asking questions.”
“...You know where she lives?”
“Yeah. That’s where we’re going, right?”
Ivan grunted. Richie looked from one to the other, eyebrows furrowing together with mild confusion. While he sensed the impending anger from both about the situation, he felt touched that these two men would band together to go and comfort the woman they’d grown close to while they were Bang Babies. It had seemed that all former Bang Babies were loyal to each other, despite their differences while they had their powers. That had been a very positive thing.
He sat in silence as the two quietly discussed Theresa’s situation.
When they pulled up to the complex, Shiv and the others were there. Richie felt apprehensive as he watched Francis and Ivan get out, leaving him in darkness and silence as they met up with the purple haired man. He took a deep breath and climbed out, warily keeping to himself as he watched the small group head up to an open doorway nearby.
Ivan looked around the small place, noting the lack of excess comforts. The television set was small, the selection of DVDs large, the only lamp lighting the room flickering slightly. There was a large crack in the vase, and the cover was bent around the edge. There were a couple of girls, barely young women, sitting nearby. He recognized them as Theresa’s cousins, Stacy and Miranda. He saw Theresa herself walking out from the kitchen, and he felt his jaw tighten upon seeing her face.
Both eyes were blackened, the swelling receding, leaving her eyes small and narrow. One corner of her mouth was busted, angry and darkened with color. There was another bruise, uneven and multi-colored along the left side of her jaw. She was missing a large patch of hair just above her right ear. Her very state was vulnerable, and she gave off an uncustomary appearance of being fragile, delicate.
He wasn’t used to that, but he also wasn’t used to seeing her battered, as well.
She glanced from Francis to him, her eyes lingering just slightly enough to drop briefly in humiliation.
He wanted to kill the man for doing this to her, and had already resolved to do so if he ever got his hands on him. Vicious hatred warmed his blood, and his fingers curled at his sides. But he had to make a physical force of movement to relax them. To not give any outward signs of his feelings.
“Fuck,” he heard Francis hiss between his teeth, and could immediately sense his fury. It was comforting to know that he felt the same way. He saw the woman as a valued friend; always had. Ivan had to fight his own feelings just to make sure that Francis didn’t figure out the truth. “You okay? You okay, now? Why they let you out so early?”
“It’s all right,” she grumbled, but there was a hint of weakness in her voice as gentle hands touched her chin, goading her into looking upward so they could examine the injuries. She turned her head sharply, pushing his hand away.
“That’ll heal. It’s nothing. But...t-thank y-you,” her voice suddenly broke, and one trembling hand rose, to muffle the flurry of incoming sobs that sent her thin shoulders shaking. Francis immediately pulled her close, an arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other around her back. She clutched his shirt, pressing her face into his chest, and tried hard to keep from completely breaking down.
Ivan stared with darkening silence, his eyes never leaving Theresa as Francis glanced around anxiously.
“Where is he, Theresa?” he asked. “Where’d he go?”
“He was here, earlier.” She pulled her face from him, wiping savagely at her eyes, wincing with the pain. “He left when he heard you guys were coming over.”
“Fucking pussy....that fucking pussy...Shiv! Go find him!”
Shiv and the others were already moving as Theresa shook her head, pushing him away.
“YOU GET YOUR ASS RIGHT BACK OVER HERE!” she bellowed, the purple-haired Asian stopping in mid-step. Obediently, he turned and came back, but the others were long gone. She looked at Francis and Ivan with a half hearted glare, shaking her head. “Don’t go do that. You’re still on parole!”
“Fuck that shit, Theresa! Look at what he did to you!” Shiv exclaimed, pointing out her visible injuries, looking just as angry as Francis and Ivan did.
“I know, but–!”
“Look at this shit! We’re not going to let this shit continue! Fucking pussy, we’re not going to just fuckin’ stand by and let him do this! He’s gonna get it!” Francis snarled, fists balling at his sides, his face taking on that customary look reserved for his fury.
Ivan gave her a cool, sweeping glance. “He going to leave you alone?”
It took a few moments for her to reign in her composure once more. She looked at him, wishing she wasn’t so beat up, wishing she could stand there proudly and not look like a wreck.
“He always comes back,” she said on a tired sigh. Her eyes dropped once more, to focus on a point beyond him. Her shoulders slumped wearily. “And I always let him come back.”
Ivan said nothing, looking away to study the pictures that were framed in five dollar bargains on the wall. Theresa felt that small part of her break as he turned away from her, and that shame increased. She wanted to hit Francis for bringing him...but at the same time, she recognized that part of herself that was very thankful. It had been awhile since she had seen Ivan Evans.
“He probably won’t come back when we’re here,” Ivan said, looking about the small apartment. Wondered why Theresa had lowered herself to live with a loser.
“Then we plant someone here,” Francis snapped. “Hang around til he comes back.”
“Don’t...” Theresa said on a weary sigh, shaking her head, her fingers slipping over her eyes. She rubbed tenderly at her eyebrows, and then wiped her nose with the inside of her wrist. “Please... don’t. I just...I just wanted...someone...”
“I wish you would have called us sooner,” Francis murmured to her, pulling her close once more. Theresa found comfort in burying her face against him, her arms slipping around his muscular width and clinging with nothing more to say.
Ivan continued to look in the other direction, his eyes scanning the faded couch and the expressions of the quiet girls that watched everything with shadowed eyes. Shiv shifted from foot to foot, looking around anxiously, hands in his pockets. He caught a glance of the silent blond outside, standing against the Vitera.
“You know we’ll come out and help you out, Theresa...you know that. We’re gonna take care of this problem, and you called us because that’s what you wanted. You know we watch out for each other. You know this. We’re not going to stand by and let this shit happen to you,” he heard Francis tell her, his voice uncharacteristically low, his arms around her in a protective embrace. He heard Theresa’s muffled protest, followed with a violent hiccup.
His jaw clenched, the muscle working as he considered Eustacio’s demise. Already working out the kinks in his plan to have the man taken care of, so that he’d never lift a fist again to Theresa.
Shiv looked over at him, lifting an eyebrow with inquiry. Ivan looked at him, then nodded with confirmation, Shiv grinning as he left the apartment to stand outside, then quietly sneak away to search the complex for the man in question. Turning around, Ivan looked beyond Francis’ shoulder; so he wouldn’t have to see Theresa so vulnerable in her clinging, in her beaten state.
“Where does he go to relax?” he asked casually.
Theresa wiped her eyes, letting go of Francis to look at him. Guiltily, they dropped to take in the carpet. “He has friends on the north side. He’s close with some guys from the ‘hood there. I only know a few.”
“He has a vehicle?”
“A...a late model Ford Taurus. Granny car. But it’s black, and he fixed the muffler.”
“What’s this guy look like, anyway?” Francis wondered aloud, turning from her to examine the photos.
Theresa didn’t have to point out the ones where she’d taken them with Eustacio. A tall man, he kept his head shaven, and wore a mustache and goatee. He was clad in flannels and long shorts, and had a tattooed teardrop below his left eye.
“Typical spic–OW!” he exclaimed as Theresa pinched him hard. “What? He is!”
“Don’t be that way, Francis. If it comes down to that, you’re just a typical cut-out for white trash tryin’ too hard!”
“...Ouch.”
Ivan had already seen the picture, already memorizing Eustacio’s features. “Where’s he usually go after something like this?”
“This doesn’t happen all the time!” she spat. “Just...he got mad....because he thought I was cheating on him. I didn’t! I didn’t, and...he lost it. Thought the baby was someone else’s...I could have killed him, but I...dammit, I couldn’t!”
Ivan glanced at her, noting her shame as she realized how unconvincing she sounded. She lowered her head, turned away from him.
“I couldn’t...”
“We can find him,” Francis said, looking at him. “Got all night. Got all day.”
“Please don’t do anything crazy,” Theresa interjected, looking at them both. “Don’t...just...I...I don’t want him killed. I don’t want him killed, all right? He just...he just needs to stop hitting me. He just needs to know his place.”
“Fuck that bullshit,” Ivan muttered, shaking his head. “That’s all? Just have him fucked up, and you’ll let him come back?”
“...You don’t understand, Ivan. I love him,” Theresa said quietly, shame registering across her features. “I love him. He takes care of me.”
“He beats you up!”
“But he loves me. And he doesn’t know how to control himself, sometimes.”
Ivan stared at her in disgust, then turned away, walking out of there before he felt the need to explode. Francis stared after him for a few moments, then looked down at her, seeing her eyes water. He was unsure of how to touch this situation; was unsure of what was really being said, of what feelings were struggling to keep from surfacing.
She looked up at him, an expression of contempt crossing her features. “He’ll never get it. He’ll never get what it’s like to love and care for another person.”
“...Don’t say that...”
“He won’t, Francis! He won’t! He hasn’t learned, he never will!”
Francis looked away with an expression of discomfort, Theresa darting another glance after Ivan as he stepped outside, lighting up. He knew Ivan was agitated; could feel it in the rush of icy-cold in his chest. With a sort of expression reserved for the uncertain, he shrugged.
“Maybe he’ll change his mind one day,” he said quietly.
“When it’s too late,” she murmured, shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around herself, presenting her back to the man once more. “When it’s too late, and even then...he still won’t know.”
Richie looked up from the pavement as he caught the scent of Ivan’s cigarette. He looked over at the black man that was at his most sullen, staring off into the distance while he walked down the sidewalk. He glanced into the apartment, to see Theresa and Francis talking to each other quietly.
He felt love for his husband almost overwhelm him, then. To know that he was so caring for those that were close to him, to know that he would automatically reach out to comfort those that were in need of it, made him so proud and so fortunate. Even if Francis were awkward at it, or said the wrong thing while searching for the right thing, he tried. And Richie felt that love even as he continued to feel shame for his own actions.
He glanced down the sidewalk to see Ivan leaning against the building wall, nearly out of sight, taking cover in the shadows there. While he worked up the courage to go in, to apologize for his actions over the phone, Richie exhaled heavily, bumping his head against the back window as he leaned against the vehicle.
He heard something shift on the pavement, and looked over to see a tall man, with Hispanic features, staring with some apprehension at the apartment. Watching him for a few moments, he began to realize that this was probably the man in question. He took in the height, the shaven head, the mustache and the goatee. He had never seen Eustacio, but his behavior was suspicious. Either he was covering for Eustacio, or this was actually him.
Richie watched him as he pulled a hood over his head, his steps growing faster as he sought to walk past the place. With a fluid movement, he stepped around the vehicle, to avoid being seen as the tall man walked on by, his eyes trained on the apartment.
“Looking for something?” Richie heard himself say. His inner self seemed to cringe and utter ‘D’oh!’ at the same time as the man whirled, looking at him in surprise.
“Returning to the scene of the crime?”
For a moment, the man kept walking. But he stopped altogether as Richie continued staring at him. He recognized the wide, dilated pupils, the way he constantly licked his lips. With all the work he’d done as Gear, he and Static had run into their fair share of drug-users, and this one resembled all those nameless faces.
He wished he knew how to keep himself quiet and not speak at the most inappropriate times.
“What you say?” he asked, but Richie noted how he kept his voice down. He felt his lips curl into a smirk as he relaxed against the Vitera. “Huh? What’d you say?”
“It must make you feel like a real big man to hit a woman, huh?” he asked. “Did it make you feel better? Knowing she’s smaller than you? Did it make you feel good?”
The man’s dark eyes burned with growing hatred then, and he turned, raising a finger. “You don’t fuckin’ know me. Don’t you be coming around here and talking shit that way, you little cocksuck. You wanna run your mouth? Bring it. And we’ll see how we can answer your questions.”
“Who’s ‘we’? I see only you, sir. There’s no one but you threatening me.”
“You wanna talk shit, get over here. Get over here and talk shit.”
“Why are you threatening me with a whisper? Afraid of being found out?”
“I ain’t fraid of anybody.”
“Then why are you running away?”
“I ain’t runnin’ from nobody.”
“Why do you look so scared?”
“Man, fuck you. I ain’t scared of nobody!”
“Okay, Mr. Fearless, have it your way.” Richie shrugged, crossing his arms as he relaxed once more against the Vitera.
“You don’t fuckin’ know me!”
“No...I don’t. My bad. I must have mistaken you for another statistic.”
“...What? You just insult me?”
Richie barked out laughter, shaking his head. He looked up in time to duck the fist that landed squarely on the back window, sliding off with a screech of sound as Richie moved away in startled reaction.
“Jesus! I was just kidding!” he exclaimed as the man lunged at him, eager to rip him apart. He found himself entangled within heavy, muscular limbs as Eustacio connected, both of them flying off their feet. Eustacio grabbed his shirt, half-hearted punches falling as Richie maneuvered within the limited space to avoid them. His glasses were flung somewhere away from his face at this moment, but he cared only for the threat that was overtaking him.
He reached up, his fingers digging into his throat, pressing hard on the windpipe. At the momentary give, he bucked Eustacio off, and clawed to his feet, making a move toward the apartment, his husband’s name on his lips. The man tackled him back to the pavement, getting the upper hand as he sat on his back. Richie found himself with a mouthful of gravel, but he twisted violently, lashing out with both arms and legs to get the crazed man off of him.
“Teach you how I treat bitches, cocksuck!” he cried shrilly, fist made. Richie didn’t hesitate as he managed to free an arm, ramming his elbow into his crotch, then grabbing his shirt to force him off, tossing him aside. Eustacio grabbed him, lunging over the pavement to do so, Richie scrambling to get a better kicking advantage as the large man fumbled for something around his waistline. At seeing the gun, a heady dose of disbelief and alarm shot through him, and he looked up at the man in shock.
Reflexes had him jerking just as Eustacio pulled the trigger, the loud blast ringing throughout the neighborhood, causing dogs to bark and for some kids to scream off in the distance. At such close range, Richie went deaf in one ear, and he felt the heat trail that had been left near his upper left shoulder.
Eustacio panicked as he quickly climbed to his feet, lunging toward the complex to make a getaway–but never expecting one hundred and sixty pounds of flying man slamming into him, knocking Richie over once more, entangled in the foray that ensued as Shiv held Eustacio down, screaming for Ivan at the same time.
Instantly, before he could climb to his feet, there were nearly eight men on the single one, Eustacio screaming out with fury and drug-hazed frustration. Richie found himself being yanked out of the foray and shoved aside, stumbling against the Vitera.
Theresa was there, screaming to be heard as she tried to enter the mad mess. Richie didn’t think anything of it as he reached out, grabbing her and hauling her back. Eustacio screamed threats and promises as he was beaten mercilessly by these eight men, Theresa screaming herself hoarse as she struggled to escape Richie to save him.
A car pulled up, jerking to a stop, and Theresa began sobbing hysterically as Eustacio was forced up from the ground, bloodied and nearly broken, forced into the backseat of the car. Ivan and Francis were at the front, and the car sped off without either of them settling. Theresa sank limply to the ground, crying hysterically as Richie gaped after the car in disbelief. Those that had been left behind caught their breaths, glancing around uncomfortably as neighbors began peering out their windows cautiously.
Shiv wiped his forehead, looking torn as he helped Theresa from the ground, and helped her back into her apartment.
Uncomfortably, unsure of what to do, Richie examined his left shoulder, and searched for his glasses. Finding them miraculously untouched and undamaged underneath the Vitera, he picked them up and put them on, brushing off his clothes as he saw the others leave, as quietly as they had shown up.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
It took nearly three hours for Eustacio to finally calm down. To realize that he was without an advantage, here. Panting heavily, he spit out a tooth that had finally lost purchase, staring down at his own blood spilt on the concrete floor. His arms were shaking considerably, and his high was letting him go. His bloodied knuckles were raw, but his fingers trembled as he curled them inward, hissing as his sides constricted with pain.
He lifted his eyes to look at the clean pair of K-Swisses that stepped in his view, and lifted his head with a contemptuous glare. He knew Ivan Evans. Knew Francis Stone, Jason Derrick, and Dominic Belzer. All of them were former Bang Babies, all of them reputed to continue to hold onto their reps as bad-asses, as occasional trouble-makers.
They were the ones that were closely documented, closely watched over, their previous crimes turning them into demi-celebrities due to their times serve after the first Big Bang. He just had no idea what they wanted to do with him, and had a vague idea that perhaps Theresa knew a friend of a friend, or something. This was her way of getting back at him, and he kept in mind how he was going to teach her a lesson when they let him go.
His anger warmed his blood, caused his temperature to spike as he blew his bloodied nose, foregoing any measures of covering it. As bloody mucus splattered over the mess on the concrete, he waited for Ivan to say something. His face was drawn with something sinister, malevolent, and Eustacio lost a little of his bravado as those dark eyes seemed to glare into his soul.
The others were silent, letting Ivan speak. Letting him take over. The emptiness of the garage, located somewhere in Jason’s neighborhood, seemed to embrace his heavy breathing, amplifying it as his nerves locked. He wanted to scream, to rage, but those three men would just knock him down again. He was getting tired of Francis’ fists to his face, of Jason’s crushing throws, of Dominic’s painful way of grinding his bones against unmovable surface. All of them looked as if they were enjoying themselves, almost predatory as they waited anxiously for him to make a move.
Ivan had been the only one to refrain from hitting him. Merely standing back and watching, mocking Eustacio with his hooded eyes and dismissing all actions as he waited for the man to wear down from both his drug high and his determination to stand up against them
“You hit Theresa?” Ivan asked, his voice quiet, but harsh with its hard edged quality. It was an obvious question, and Eustacio gave him a sarcastic shake of his head.
“No, bitch, her mom did!” he snapped, pulling himself up to his knees. Jason was there, at some unseen signal, to knock his size thirteen boot into the back of his head. The impact felt as if his skull had somehow lost grip with his neck, and Eustacio fell forward, panting as he struggled to keep himself from falling flat against the concrete.
Ivan used his shoe to push Eustacio back onto his knees, and the Hispanic heard Jason’s chuckle, the swish of his cargo pants as he positioned himself and kicked him again. This time, Eustacio saw gray and black spots, and a loud thunder caused all other sound to drown out. By the time he could see more than blurring spots in his vision, Dominic was pulling him up from the floor by his ear, gripping painfully with those strong fingers of his.
You hit Theresa?” Ivan asked again, almost bored, if not for the menacing expression on his face.
Eustacio took his time to reconsider his retort. He glanced from one face to the other, noted how sore his ribs were. How painful it was to breathe deeply.
“She fucked up,” he sputtered. “Fuckin’ around with another man while I was away. Baby weren’t mine! I wasn’t about to take care of some busta’s kid! I ain’t like that!”
“So you blasted her around a few times?” Ivan asked, casually as he reached out to pull Francis back, the redhead eager to rip into Eustacio. “Did it make you feel good?”
“Fuck yeah!” Eustacio barked, his arm raising to try and deflect the hard kick Jason sent his way. It took a few more connections until he found himself on his back, bleeding once more from the nose, just faintly aware of his surroundings.
Ivan considered his bloodied appearance, frowning as Eustacio panted heavily, sputtering speckles of blood from his busted lips.
“Did it make you feel good?” he asked again. This time, Eustacio kept quiet. His good eye focused blearily on them, almost rolling into the back of his head. Ivan struck out before that could happen, and the jolt was enough to sharpen his senses. “Didn’t your momma ever teach you to never hit girls, boy? Or did your daddy do that to her?”
“Fuck...fuck them bitches...”
“I don’t like his tone,” Ivan muttered, turning away, letting Francis have him.
The redhead gleefully cracked his knuckles, grinning as he stepped forward. Ivan listened to the cracks of flesh against flesh, the violent noises of Eustacio grunting with each hit, the force of his fart as Francis hit him in the stomach. Amid the laughter, Eustacio tried to crawl away, arms held up in deflection, Dominic pinning him down by his shoulders and Francis raining continuous hits over his face and chest. There was a sharp snap as cartilage separated, and Eustacio gave a frightened howl as he covered his face.
Finally, Ivan cleared his throat, and Francis stopped, rising with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“You realize that Theresa and I go way back,” Ivan said. “What happens to her, I take personally. The fact that you disregard her safety, and her well-being gets me a little pissed off.”
“...I can get you all fuckin’ sent to prison! Sent back there, get you all off the streets!” Eustacio howled, but he was slurring his words. His eyes kept swirling, focusing and losing focus as his arms swept drunkenly before him. Deflecting imaginary hits. He was unrecognizable underneath all the blood that he’d lost from his nose, mouth, and busted eyebrow. “You ain’t nothing...nothing...”
Ivan frowned at him. Looked with some annoyance at Francis, who shrugged. “We got all night,” he drawled, hands sliding into his pockets as he stared down at the battered man with an expression of disgust. “Call up some more guys. See how many ribs we can break. See what he looks like with his legs twisted around his head.”
“Got somethin’,” Dominic muttered, leaving his position. He returned moments later with a an axe, Francis taking it from him with a grin. Eustacio stared at them, wild-eyed, head swaying with drunken notice.
Ivan took the axe from Francis, making the redhead protest as the black man gestured at Jason and Dominic. The two knelt, and Eustacio started to struggle, but was hampered by his injuries and from the draining of his own strength as his wrists were pulled from his body, pinned to the floor. He stared up at Ivan with terror, watching as Ivan settled himself between his legs, and raised the axe, the sharpened point aimed away from Eustacio.
He screamed himself hoarse as the blunt back of the axe connected with his ribs, a resounding symphony of cracks splitting the air. He screamed noiselessly as it connected with his hip, and passed out when his knee was destroyed with a single hit.
By the time he was forcefully awakened, cold water splashed over his busted features, his entire body had slipped into the beginning stages of shock. With his drug still running weakly through his system it kept him from fully acknowledging the pain right yet. Blearily, he stared up at the four faces that watched him curiously, one of them breaking out into a wide, cheery grin.
“He awake! He lives!” Dominic announced, his Jamaican accent pronounced with his glee.
Broken, Eustacio wept. He didn’t care, at this point, what happened next. He just wanted it to stop.
Ivan bent close, calm and collected, smoking one of his cigarettes with a casual air.
He shook his head at the display of snot that flecked his busted lips, the bloodied, matted eyebrows, the features that were almost hidden behind that dried mask of red.
“You touch her again, boy, and I’ll make sure you’re finished off slowly,” he said quietly. “I’m letting you live. This time. You’re going to go back to her, and you’re going to apologize.”
“WHAT?” Francis shouted in outrage, stepping around so that he could speak to Ivan directly. “Fuckin’ kill him off! He fucked her up! You’re gonna fuckin’ let him go?”
“You’ll go back to her and apologize. And you’ll treat her better,” Ivan continued, as if he’d never heard Francis speak.
“FUCK!” the redhead exploded, furiously turning away and stomping off.
“Is that clear?”
Eustacio wasn’t clear headed enough to fully respond, but he understand what was being said. The only answer he could give in confirmation was a faint nod, his eyes rolling toward the back of his head, and righting once more.
Ivan straightened from the floor with a disgusted scowl. “Let’s load him up. Take him back.”
“You’re for real letting him go back to her?” Jason repeated, in the same tone Francis had used earlier. “C’mon, man! Just finish him off! We can–!”
“Load. Him. Up,” Ivan repeated, not looking at either. “He won’t touch her again.”
“Ivan–!”
One glare had Jason clamping his mouth shut, Dominic frowning as he looked down at the bloodied mess before him. The pair exchanged looks, and amidst grumbles and complaints, turned to prepare Jason’s car for the transportation.
Ivan stared off into the darkness, his jaw clenched, forehead furrowed with his own agitation. As he listened to Eustacio’s troubled breathing, to the way he coughed blood and the way his body seemed to crackle at the broken joints, he hated himself for ever meeting Theresa Lozada.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
It was nearly four a.m. when Richie felt the gentle shake of his shoulder, prodding him awake. He lifted heavy eyelids slowly, seeing Francis standing there, giving him a curious look. The apartment was dark, and he’d fallen asleep with his head propped on his folded arms at the three legged dinner table. Theresa had fallen asleep on the couch, her battered features propped gently with a faded throw pillow. The other two girls had taken up temporary beds before her, timid guards in matching sleeping bags. Shiv had taken over the hall, head in his arms and snoring in rhythmic symphony with the nearby wall clock.
The lamp was turned on, and Theresa was gently roused by Dominic, the girls shifting with confused drowsiness in their sleeping bags.
“You okay?” Francis whispered, a gentle hand sweeping over Richie’s head, fingers entangling briefly before smoothing over his shoulders.
Richie caught his bearings, glancing around himself in slight confusion, pausing when he realized he was looking at Eustacio. Jason was holding him, supporting him with his bulk and strength, a look of disgust on his face.
Richie had only seen glimpses of this man’s face during their scuffle, but he definitely didn’t recognize him now. The man’s face had been beaten so that his features were unrecognizable. Dried blood caked over his hoodie, and his clothes were dirtied and battered. One leg seemed to dangle with painful direction. He looked pitifully defeated as he stood there, Ivan standing at his side.
Unsure of what was going on, Richie looked at Francis, accepting the hand that was held out to him. Steadying himself against his husband, Richie was surprised when his husband kissed him gently, in front of everyone. He was embarrassed, pulling away slightly at the uncommon show of affection, but accepting the kiss with an answering swipe of his own. Rough, familiar fingers ensnared his, and Richie could feel the rawness of his knuckles, the heat and the throb of well used fists.
Unconsciously, his own fingers swiped over the slightly swollen points, turning to see why the man had been brought back here, confused as he looked at everyone for an explanation.
Theresa blinked sleep heavy eyes, and focused immediately on her beaten man. For a moment, her features, almost as battered as his, screwed up with a collapse. But she steadied herself as she rose from the couch, Eustacio watching her as he stood calmly, and quietly, despite his shocking injuries.
Theresa looked over at Ivan, her face unreadable for a few moments. Ivan turned away and left the apartment, leaving her to look back at Eustacio once more.
Richie watched the large man let go of Jason, to clumsily fall to the floor in an awkward position, one leg stretched to an unnatural direction. He could see that his ear had been ripped, that he had dirt imprints and gravel all over his back and on his neck. He couldn’t look away as Theresa faced him, her face still unreadable as Eustacio gave a heaving sob.
“I’m sorry!” he cried into the carpet, his voice hoarse and forced between pained pants. “I’m so sorry! Please....please forgive me...please! I’ll never do it again....never...”
It was at that moment when Richie felt Francis’ fingers interlacing with his, pulling him along behind him to leave. Unable to look away, Richie watched Theresa fall to her knees, and embrace Eustacio, soothing him with Spanish spoken words of love and forgiveness.
Confused, he simply closed the door behind him so that they could have privacy.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
As soon as they walked into their silent, dark house, Francis pulled him along to their bedroom, and Richie dreaded what was going to be said, or done. Once the door closed behind him, though, Francis turned and attacked him, kissing him with a sort of desperation that Richie couldn’t fathom. He took the kisses, being pinned against the door with no way to move, feeling his husband’s hands yank at his jeans. Realizing where this was going, going along almost thoughtlessly, Richie helped him with his jeans. He shoved his pants and boxers down his legs, kicking his own off.
He barely had enough time to throw his glasses off before he was tossed almost carelessly onto the bed, and he laid pliant on his stomach when he heard the removal of the worn tube of lube from underneath the bed. He remembered that that was a tube with limited product, and waited for him to rummage for the other one, the new one. He didn’t hear the rummaging, through, but he didn’t dare protest as he heard the application.
He gave a start as he felt the familiar width and heat of his husband’s penis, the head prodding at his unstretched entrance. Francis was only half-hard, stretched enough to sink into him, and his fingers aided in penetrating as he guided himself into his husband’s body.
The rough penetration had Richie protesting with shocked denial, gritting his teeth as Francis shoved himself with uncharacteristic anger into his body. He fisted his hands within the comforter as Francis pushed in to the hilt, then, without any other regard for comforts, started to pump with almost savage force, grunting with each movement he made. He shifted forward, only to shove his forearm against Richie’s mouth until the blond opened it, forcing that muscled limb in so that he could bite down on it. Richie complied with the action, biting down hard, struggling to accept, growling against his skin as he strove to take it, even as pain ripped at him and made his stomach tighten with dread and fear.
The mattress protested the violent actions with muffled squeaks and repeated thumping against the wall. Richie grit his teeth as he tasted blood, spreading his thighs, feeling the deepened penetration. He turned his head, to muffle his cries into Francis’ arm, holding tightly onto the comforter as he waited for the storm to pass. He felt split from the inside, the area being rubbed raw, but he let his husband have his way, to take out the rest of his raw emotions in this manner.
His hips pumping violently, his balls smacking against Richie’s, Francis gripped his hip tightly with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut as he strove to abandon all the pent up anger and helpless fury that he still felt swirling inside of him.
When at last he climaxed, the action feeling more mechanical than pleasurable, he leaned over his husband’s trembling back, sweat dripping from his forehead. He caught his breath, focused much of his weight into his thighs to keep him upright, and strove to calm down. He dropped his forehead against Richie’s back, closing his eyes as he fought for control.
Images of what had been done that night, of what had taken place flashed before him, and he soon found that storm passing. He began focusing on the steady beat of Richie’s heart, his quiet, even breathing, and straightened. He pulled himself out of Richie with a slick, wet sound, and turned him around. Looking down at his husband’s splotchy face, the way turbulent hazel eyes focused on him with caring concern, he felt suddenly drained. He laid over him, his heavy weight causing Richie’s breath to leave him before he settled against his side, his arms wrapping around his lithe form and pulling him close.
“Don’t ever let me do that to you,” Francis whispered against his forehead, his fingers brushing desperately over his shoulders, through his hair, over his sides, straightening his shirt. And he struggled to hold every part of him, to somehow try and absorb him as he fought against those troubling images he’d witnessed tonight. Kept seeing how Theresa, battered and broken, staring at her abusive boyfriend with love. How Ivan struggled to hide his feelings, keeping a promise that he didn’t want to accept.
“Don’t ever let me do that to you. Don’t ever accept me if I lost it. Don’t ever let me back if I lose it.”
Amidst these harshly whispered words, Richie wondered how much of Francis was talking to him. He didn’t answer, because he couldn’t promise anything like that.
He struggled to reach out and hold him, to stroke and reassure him, but Francis was holding onto him too tightly, pinning his arms to his sides. He had to lay there, to be revered and treasured, to be stroked and held tightly, as if nothing more mattered.
“I love you, Francis,” he whispered back, despite the burning, raw feeling that seemed to throb in waves from his ass.
“Not like that, Rich. Never like that....”
Warning: Some violence ahead, along with a small lemon.
Chapter Five:
You Were Everything Everything That I Wanted
I guess I just like the attention, was the conclusion Richie came up with as he sat next to his husband, one leg hooked over his knee, his arm curled lightly around his broad back. He’d been staring off into space as Francis laughed and hammed it up with Shiv and the others–Freddie, Dominic and Jason, formerly known as Boom. The television screen displayed random and flashy glimpses of music videos set to a skater flick, and no one was really paying attention to it unless someone took a crashing dive. Mostly, the conversation was about who scored with whom, who did what embarrassing thing to be crowned Dingleberry King. Raunchy male talk, really.
Ivan hadn’t come around for the past two days, and that made Richie smirk. But at the same time, he felt apprehension, doubt; messing around with Ivan was about the same as messing around with Francis, but on a more difficult level. He wasn’t sure what it was that had him pushing at Ivan in that manner.
Just got caught up in the moment, he figured with a light shrug. He reviewed those few minutes with a critical eye, feeling his face heat as he recalled what he himself had done. Once he’d known that Ivan’s full attention was on him, his dark eyes taking in what Richie was giving out, the blond had automatically flipped to flirt mode. To see what he could get away with.
After so many years of not having the attention of others, of being viewed as a nerd and a loser, he found himself striving to take all the attention that he got now.
Almost a year of being with Francis had given him the playful confidence that he used to garner from those that looked at him with interest. Add to that Francis’ lack of attention as of lately, and he felt almost desperate for anything that would make him feel desired in the same way that he had when things were good between them.
In the end, it had gone to his head, he would admit. He liked all that attention. He liked seeing what he could get away with, and what he could do to others to keep their attention.
Look but no touch, he thought with another one of those sly grins, pulling his leg off of Francis’ knee, only to have it caught and repositioned right back to where it was. It wasn’t cheating...he wasn’t kissing them, or planning to have sex with any. Just...exploring territory without touching. And if he felt it was going to far, that’s when he chose to make an exit.
He was content with Francis; but lack of attention left him feeling unwanted. To have others looking at him, wanting him and eyeing him with their obvious lusty, wanting needs, gave him an ego boost and a pressing need for more. He’d learned all the body language, words, and touches on his own skin that pulled in an admirer, but also learned how to keep them at arm’s width. Playing with Ivan in this manner was a definite no-no.
He bit his lower lip with regret. He’d gone too far in that aspect. He’d performed a taboo, stepped into dangerous territory. What would happen if Ivan told Francis what he’d done? But Ivan was just as guilty...just as at fault. He was the one that started watching him, when he’d performed a very innocent action. Well...an innocent action that turned into something deliberate.
If Francis found out what he did...he wondered if his possessive, controlling and certainly jealous attitude would up a few notches. If he would even care...or if his infamous temper would ignite, and they would fight. He didn’t like to fight with him over such things; it made him feel awkward, took him back to his former ‘loser, nerdy’ self; a someone that had taken a bite out of something he hadn’t had and wanted more...but had to pay the consequences in doing so. He didn’t like feeling that way, and Francis certainly knew how to do it. He also half-feared what Francis would do; in all considering terms, Ivan was a brother to him. Because of their link, they were closer than any mere ‘friends’. Francis would throw a shitfit. Who knew where that could lead?
Francis had hit him once; but Richie couldn’t remember why. He’d remembered feeling shocked and ashamed, but had learned that he didn’t want that happening again. Francis had apologized, and he’d been downright pitiful in begging for forgiveness for his action. It had been smoothed over, until it didn’t resemble anything big or momentous. Just another fight that they’d endured as a couple. But Richie knew he didn’t want that happening again.
As he contemplated his actions, regretting them with a heavy sense of foreboding and shame, the others burst into laughter once more, startling him. Focusing on the here and now, Richie watched as Shiv mimicked a skater’s movements on television screen, giving commentary as he did so. He had to shake his head as he straightened in his seat, bringing his arm up to rest his hand on the hard muscles of his husband’s back. The living room erupted with more laughter and a loud crash of sound as Shiv ‘crashed’, the skater on-screen screaming in agony over a broken arm.
The phone rang, and Richie got up from his seat, feeling an affectionate touch on his ass from Francis as he did so. He reached out for the handset on the wall, and plugged his other ear as the living room erupted into loud laughter and shouts once more.
He answered it with a louder than normal greeting over the noises, moving away from the area to try and hear whom was on the other line.
“Is Francis there?” a female asked, almost demanding.
Instantly, Richie scowled, shaking his head before giving a verbal answer.
“Look, I really really need to talk to him. I got this number from a friend of mine, and I’ve been trying to talk to him the last few days. This is really important.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but he’s not here,” he said icily, even as he cringed at the loud bellow that resulted from his husband as Shiv tackled him, Ferret screaming about dirt.
“...I can hear him in the back ground,” the woman said in the same tone. “I know that’s him. I need to talk to him, please! It’s really really important!”
“I can take a message for him,” Richie offered, but not in a very friendly tone.
“Look...please...just...I need to talk to him,” she continued, but her voice broke at the end, and Richie rolled his eyes at the sniffle that he heard next. “It’s really important and I’ve been trying to track him down, and I’ve been calling the number he gave me, but he’s not answering, and–please. Please, please, please let me talk to him.”
‘Number he gave her’? Richie was shooting Francis a furious look, even as logic told him that perhaps this wasn’t personal; maybe it involved work. But if it did...wouldn’t she be trying to call him at work? But logic wasn’t always right; this woman had too much emotion running, here, and he didn’t like it at all. Something tickled across the back of his neck, and Francis caught the furious expression on his face.
“Well, I’ll tell him that,” Richie then said nastily, hanging up before he could hear anymore. He felt the shift of weight on the floor, and turned to see Francis walking over with a confused expression. Without really thinking, Richie hurled the phone at him angrily. “PIG!”
“What the fuck–?” Francis exclaimed, ducking rather than trying to deflect the dangerous object. Richie shot him one last look, and stomped off to their bedroom.
He locked the door as he steamed, hearing Shiv cackle about PMSing wives. Pacing angrily within the small space between the bed and the entrance toward the bathroom, Richie fumed as he tried to decipher that conversation. He heard the doorknob turn and catch at the lock, the frustrated protests it gave as Francis pushed at it, but turned his back to the door.
The emotion in the woman’s voice was enough for Richie to know that something wasn’t right. Was she the one he was going out to meet? The one that required cologne and constant touch-ups in the bathroom? What did she look like? Did she make him happy in all things considered?
His fingers balled into fists, and he growled low as he heard Francis leave the door, saying something that was out of his earshot. He wanted to rip the man to pieces!
He couldn’t stand knowing that Francis made all these plans to go out, took all this time and effort for someone other than him. Hurt, rage and insecurity hit him at all the same moment, and it took all he had to remain standing, even as his knees seemed to knock violently against each other. He ran his hands over his hair, giving a pained grunt as he tried to keep his eyes from watering. He slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of their bed, reaching up to remove his glasses and wipe at his eyes.
He wasn’t sure how long later, but he heard the front door slam, shaking that side of the wall. He felt his insides freeze with some heartache, and contemplated leaving the house for the night. To regain what steps he’d lost from that phone call.
But he jumped with considerable surprise as the door resisted the heavy banging Francis put on it, and he looked over with a scared jump, half expecting to see the door being broken inward. The frame protested instantly, cracking as Francis threatened to break it down if he didn’t open it.
Scowling, Richie took his time in getting up from the bed, hating what he had to face because Francis wanted to mess around on him. The door was once again subjected to heavy banging, and something did break, wood pieces falling to the carpeted floor as the top half of the door bent inward. With a grimace, Richie unlocked the door and jumped out of the way as Francis shoved the door in, a dark look on his face.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he mustered between gritted teeth, advancing on his husband immediately. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Having your bitches calling here isn’t really nice of you,” Richie snapped snidely, backing away from him. “Can’t you keep them on your cellphone?”
“Goddamn you, Rich. Goddamn you. I don’t know what goes on in that stupid head of yours, but whatever it is, it isn’t what you think.”
“Oh yeah? Some bitch calls here, crying because she can’t reach you, and–”
Francis gave an angered shout, arms raising, making Richie flinch instantly as he thought they were directed at him. “You and your stupid conclusions! You think I’m fuckin’ everyone, don’t you? You think I’ve got all these chicks hidden away somewhere, and when one calls, you get all stupid about it! Knock it off, Richard!”
“I can’t help but think that way when you go out without me, all the time! When you go out and I have to stay here! When you go to places that you won’t let me go!”
“Goddamn you, Richard. Goddamn you–that was fuckin’ Theresa on the phone. You know Theresa?”
“...No. How am I supposed to know all your–?”
“You KNOW who she is! Theresa Lozada? She was Talon, you fucking idiot. Her man beat her up the other night, and she lost her fucking baby. You and your fucking jealousy. Get the fuck over it.”
Richie felt instantly contrite, lowering his head in shame as he looked away from the fury on his husband’s face.
Drawing a hand over his features, Francis then gave an angered shake of his head, turning away from him. He grabbed a light jacket from the closet, and shot Richie another furious look before leaving the bedroom. Immediately wanting to soothe things over, wanting to apologize, Richie hurried after him.
“Where are you going?” he asked as Francis grabbed the keys from the kitchen counter.
“Out. To find Ivan. Stay here.”
“NO. I want to go with you.”
“STAY HERE!”
“No! Please...please, let me go with you. Are you going to her? Let me at least apologize to her for my behavior,” Richie begged, grabbing a hold of his arm. Francis gave him a disgusted look, but pulled him along as they left the house.
They climbed into their respective seats in the Suzuki Grand Vitera, the second vehicle they had bought together, their first real purchase. Their other vehicle, a dark blue Hyundai, was a second hand vehicle they had bought off a friend. Francis was on his cell, tracking down his ‘brother’, Richie sitting in contrite silence, hands fisted in his lap. He was inwardly cursing his insecurity, his rapid rush to come to conclusions as he thought over what Francis had just said about Theresa. He felt so evil for behaving the way he had over the phone; recalled the desperation and agony in her voice. Had thought that it was just emotions for Francis, things that he felt only he should feel.
It ate up his stomach and gnawed at his insides as he continued to think about this, everything else just fading away. He had to fix the situation, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it. Apologies went only so far.
They pulled up to small hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and Francis left the vehicle. Getting out, Richie left the passenger seat and moved into the back, to sit on Francis’ side–then changed his mind. He shifted to sit behind the passenger side seat, so that he wouldn’t have to look at Ivan, feeling his gut clench at the impending encounter. He hadn’t had an idea why Francis was looking for Ivan, and while he felt vague about it, he wasn’t going to do anything about it. He merely sat quiet and still as the two climbed in, Francis explaining what he’d been told.
Ivan smelled of his cigarettes and that cologne. It made Richie’s gut twist violently.
“Eustacio?” Ivan repeated, a low tinge to his tone that made Richie look up from his lap. “...He fucked her up?”
“Yeah. Said she had to go to the hospital after the miscarriage, and they started asking questions.”
“...You know where she lives?”
“Yeah. That’s where we’re going, right?”
Ivan grunted. Richie looked from one to the other, eyebrows furrowing together with mild confusion. While he sensed the impending anger from both about the situation, he felt touched that these two men would band together to go and comfort the woman they’d grown close to while they were Bang Babies. It had seemed that all former Bang Babies were loyal to each other, despite their differences while they had their powers. That had been a very positive thing.
He sat in silence as the two quietly discussed Theresa’s situation.
When they pulled up to the complex, Shiv and the others were there. Richie felt apprehensive as he watched Francis and Ivan get out, leaving him in darkness and silence as they met up with the purple haired man. He took a deep breath and climbed out, warily keeping to himself as he watched the small group head up to an open doorway nearby.
Ivan looked around the small place, noting the lack of excess comforts. The television set was small, the selection of DVDs large, the only lamp lighting the room flickering slightly. There was a large crack in the vase, and the cover was bent around the edge. There were a couple of girls, barely young women, sitting nearby. He recognized them as Theresa’s cousins, Stacy and Miranda. He saw Theresa herself walking out from the kitchen, and he felt his jaw tighten upon seeing her face.
Both eyes were blackened, the swelling receding, leaving her eyes small and narrow. One corner of her mouth was busted, angry and darkened with color. There was another bruise, uneven and multi-colored along the left side of her jaw. She was missing a large patch of hair just above her right ear. Her very state was vulnerable, and she gave off an uncustomary appearance of being fragile, delicate.
He wasn’t used to that, but he also wasn’t used to seeing her battered, as well.
She glanced from Francis to him, her eyes lingering just slightly enough to drop briefly in humiliation.
He wanted to kill the man for doing this to her, and had already resolved to do so if he ever got his hands on him. Vicious hatred warmed his blood, and his fingers curled at his sides. But he had to make a physical force of movement to relax them. To not give any outward signs of his feelings.
“Fuck,” he heard Francis hiss between his teeth, and could immediately sense his fury. It was comforting to know that he felt the same way. He saw the woman as a valued friend; always had. Ivan had to fight his own feelings just to make sure that Francis didn’t figure out the truth. “You okay? You okay, now? Why they let you out so early?”
“It’s all right,” she grumbled, but there was a hint of weakness in her voice as gentle hands touched her chin, goading her into looking upward so they could examine the injuries. She turned her head sharply, pushing his hand away.
“That’ll heal. It’s nothing. But...t-thank y-you,” her voice suddenly broke, and one trembling hand rose, to muffle the flurry of incoming sobs that sent her thin shoulders shaking. Francis immediately pulled her close, an arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other around her back. She clutched his shirt, pressing her face into his chest, and tried hard to keep from completely breaking down.
Ivan stared with darkening silence, his eyes never leaving Theresa as Francis glanced around anxiously.
“Where is he, Theresa?” he asked. “Where’d he go?”
“He was here, earlier.” She pulled her face from him, wiping savagely at her eyes, wincing with the pain. “He left when he heard you guys were coming over.”
“Fucking pussy....that fucking pussy...Shiv! Go find him!”
Shiv and the others were already moving as Theresa shook her head, pushing him away.
“YOU GET YOUR ASS RIGHT BACK OVER HERE!” she bellowed, the purple-haired Asian stopping in mid-step. Obediently, he turned and came back, but the others were long gone. She looked at Francis and Ivan with a half hearted glare, shaking her head. “Don’t go do that. You’re still on parole!”
“Fuck that shit, Theresa! Look at what he did to you!” Shiv exclaimed, pointing out her visible injuries, looking just as angry as Francis and Ivan did.
“I know, but–!”
“Look at this shit! We’re not going to let this shit continue! Fucking pussy, we’re not going to just fuckin’ stand by and let him do this! He’s gonna get it!” Francis snarled, fists balling at his sides, his face taking on that customary look reserved for his fury.
Ivan gave her a cool, sweeping glance. “He going to leave you alone?”
It took a few moments for her to reign in her composure once more. She looked at him, wishing she wasn’t so beat up, wishing she could stand there proudly and not look like a wreck.
“He always comes back,” she said on a tired sigh. Her eyes dropped once more, to focus on a point beyond him. Her shoulders slumped wearily. “And I always let him come back.”
Ivan said nothing, looking away to study the pictures that were framed in five dollar bargains on the wall. Theresa felt that small part of her break as he turned away from her, and that shame increased. She wanted to hit Francis for bringing him...but at the same time, she recognized that part of herself that was very thankful. It had been awhile since she had seen Ivan Evans.
“He probably won’t come back when we’re here,” Ivan said, looking about the small apartment. Wondered why Theresa had lowered herself to live with a loser.
“Then we plant someone here,” Francis snapped. “Hang around til he comes back.”
“Don’t...” Theresa said on a weary sigh, shaking her head, her fingers slipping over her eyes. She rubbed tenderly at her eyebrows, and then wiped her nose with the inside of her wrist. “Please... don’t. I just...I just wanted...someone...”
“I wish you would have called us sooner,” Francis murmured to her, pulling her close once more. Theresa found comfort in burying her face against him, her arms slipping around his muscular width and clinging with nothing more to say.
Ivan continued to look in the other direction, his eyes scanning the faded couch and the expressions of the quiet girls that watched everything with shadowed eyes. Shiv shifted from foot to foot, looking around anxiously, hands in his pockets. He caught a glance of the silent blond outside, standing against the Vitera.
“You know we’ll come out and help you out, Theresa...you know that. We’re gonna take care of this problem, and you called us because that’s what you wanted. You know we watch out for each other. You know this. We’re not going to stand by and let this shit happen to you,” he heard Francis tell her, his voice uncharacteristically low, his arms around her in a protective embrace. He heard Theresa’s muffled protest, followed with a violent hiccup.
His jaw clenched, the muscle working as he considered Eustacio’s demise. Already working out the kinks in his plan to have the man taken care of, so that he’d never lift a fist again to Theresa.
Shiv looked over at him, lifting an eyebrow with inquiry. Ivan looked at him, then nodded with confirmation, Shiv grinning as he left the apartment to stand outside, then quietly sneak away to search the complex for the man in question. Turning around, Ivan looked beyond Francis’ shoulder; so he wouldn’t have to see Theresa so vulnerable in her clinging, in her beaten state.
“Where does he go to relax?” he asked casually.
Theresa wiped her eyes, letting go of Francis to look at him. Guiltily, they dropped to take in the carpet. “He has friends on the north side. He’s close with some guys from the ‘hood there. I only know a few.”
“He has a vehicle?”
“A...a late model Ford Taurus. Granny car. But it’s black, and he fixed the muffler.”
“What’s this guy look like, anyway?” Francis wondered aloud, turning from her to examine the photos.
Theresa didn’t have to point out the ones where she’d taken them with Eustacio. A tall man, he kept his head shaven, and wore a mustache and goatee. He was clad in flannels and long shorts, and had a tattooed teardrop below his left eye.
“Typical spic–OW!” he exclaimed as Theresa pinched him hard. “What? He is!”
“Don’t be that way, Francis. If it comes down to that, you’re just a typical cut-out for white trash tryin’ too hard!”
“...Ouch.”
Ivan had already seen the picture, already memorizing Eustacio’s features. “Where’s he usually go after something like this?”
“This doesn’t happen all the time!” she spat. “Just...he got mad....because he thought I was cheating on him. I didn’t! I didn’t, and...he lost it. Thought the baby was someone else’s...I could have killed him, but I...dammit, I couldn’t!”
Ivan glanced at her, noting her shame as she realized how unconvincing she sounded. She lowered her head, turned away from him.
“I couldn’t...”
“We can find him,” Francis said, looking at him. “Got all night. Got all day.”
“Please don’t do anything crazy,” Theresa interjected, looking at them both. “Don’t...just...I...I don’t want him killed. I don’t want him killed, all right? He just...he just needs to stop hitting me. He just needs to know his place.”
“Fuck that bullshit,” Ivan muttered, shaking his head. “That’s all? Just have him fucked up, and you’ll let him come back?”
“...You don’t understand, Ivan. I love him,” Theresa said quietly, shame registering across her features. “I love him. He takes care of me.”
“He beats you up!”
“But he loves me. And he doesn’t know how to control himself, sometimes.”
Ivan stared at her in disgust, then turned away, walking out of there before he felt the need to explode. Francis stared after him for a few moments, then looked down at her, seeing her eyes water. He was unsure of how to touch this situation; was unsure of what was really being said, of what feelings were struggling to keep from surfacing.
She looked up at him, an expression of contempt crossing her features. “He’ll never get it. He’ll never get what it’s like to love and care for another person.”
“...Don’t say that...”
“He won’t, Francis! He won’t! He hasn’t learned, he never will!”
Francis looked away with an expression of discomfort, Theresa darting another glance after Ivan as he stepped outside, lighting up. He knew Ivan was agitated; could feel it in the rush of icy-cold in his chest. With a sort of expression reserved for the uncertain, he shrugged.
“Maybe he’ll change his mind one day,” he said quietly.
“When it’s too late,” she murmured, shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around herself, presenting her back to the man once more. “When it’s too late, and even then...he still won’t know.”
Richie looked up from the pavement as he caught the scent of Ivan’s cigarette. He looked over at the black man that was at his most sullen, staring off into the distance while he walked down the sidewalk. He glanced into the apartment, to see Theresa and Francis talking to each other quietly.
He felt love for his husband almost overwhelm him, then. To know that he was so caring for those that were close to him, to know that he would automatically reach out to comfort those that were in need of it, made him so proud and so fortunate. Even if Francis were awkward at it, or said the wrong thing while searching for the right thing, he tried. And Richie felt that love even as he continued to feel shame for his own actions.
He glanced down the sidewalk to see Ivan leaning against the building wall, nearly out of sight, taking cover in the shadows there. While he worked up the courage to go in, to apologize for his actions over the phone, Richie exhaled heavily, bumping his head against the back window as he leaned against the vehicle.
He heard something shift on the pavement, and looked over to see a tall man, with Hispanic features, staring with some apprehension at the apartment. Watching him for a few moments, he began to realize that this was probably the man in question. He took in the height, the shaven head, the mustache and the goatee. He had never seen Eustacio, but his behavior was suspicious. Either he was covering for Eustacio, or this was actually him.
Richie watched him as he pulled a hood over his head, his steps growing faster as he sought to walk past the place. With a fluid movement, he stepped around the vehicle, to avoid being seen as the tall man walked on by, his eyes trained on the apartment.
“Looking for something?” Richie heard himself say. His inner self seemed to cringe and utter ‘D’oh!’ at the same time as the man whirled, looking at him in surprise.
“Returning to the scene of the crime?”
For a moment, the man kept walking. But he stopped altogether as Richie continued staring at him. He recognized the wide, dilated pupils, the way he constantly licked his lips. With all the work he’d done as Gear, he and Static had run into their fair share of drug-users, and this one resembled all those nameless faces.
He wished he knew how to keep himself quiet and not speak at the most inappropriate times.
“What you say?” he asked, but Richie noted how he kept his voice down. He felt his lips curl into a smirk as he relaxed against the Vitera. “Huh? What’d you say?”
“It must make you feel like a real big man to hit a woman, huh?” he asked. “Did it make you feel better? Knowing she’s smaller than you? Did it make you feel good?”
The man’s dark eyes burned with growing hatred then, and he turned, raising a finger. “You don’t fuckin’ know me. Don’t you be coming around here and talking shit that way, you little cocksuck. You wanna run your mouth? Bring it. And we’ll see how we can answer your questions.”
“Who’s ‘we’? I see only you, sir. There’s no one but you threatening me.”
“You wanna talk shit, get over here. Get over here and talk shit.”
“Why are you threatening me with a whisper? Afraid of being found out?”
“I ain’t fraid of anybody.”
“Then why are you running away?”
“I ain’t runnin’ from nobody.”
“Why do you look so scared?”
“Man, fuck you. I ain’t scared of nobody!”
“Okay, Mr. Fearless, have it your way.” Richie shrugged, crossing his arms as he relaxed once more against the Vitera.
“You don’t fuckin’ know me!”
“No...I don’t. My bad. I must have mistaken you for another statistic.”
“...What? You just insult me?”
Richie barked out laughter, shaking his head. He looked up in time to duck the fist that landed squarely on the back window, sliding off with a screech of sound as Richie moved away in startled reaction.
“Jesus! I was just kidding!” he exclaimed as the man lunged at him, eager to rip him apart. He found himself entangled within heavy, muscular limbs as Eustacio connected, both of them flying off their feet. Eustacio grabbed his shirt, half-hearted punches falling as Richie maneuvered within the limited space to avoid them. His glasses were flung somewhere away from his face at this moment, but he cared only for the threat that was overtaking him.
He reached up, his fingers digging into his throat, pressing hard on the windpipe. At the momentary give, he bucked Eustacio off, and clawed to his feet, making a move toward the apartment, his husband’s name on his lips. The man tackled him back to the pavement, getting the upper hand as he sat on his back. Richie found himself with a mouthful of gravel, but he twisted violently, lashing out with both arms and legs to get the crazed man off of him.
“Teach you how I treat bitches, cocksuck!” he cried shrilly, fist made. Richie didn’t hesitate as he managed to free an arm, ramming his elbow into his crotch, then grabbing his shirt to force him off, tossing him aside. Eustacio grabbed him, lunging over the pavement to do so, Richie scrambling to get a better kicking advantage as the large man fumbled for something around his waistline. At seeing the gun, a heady dose of disbelief and alarm shot through him, and he looked up at the man in shock.
Reflexes had him jerking just as Eustacio pulled the trigger, the loud blast ringing throughout the neighborhood, causing dogs to bark and for some kids to scream off in the distance. At such close range, Richie went deaf in one ear, and he felt the heat trail that had been left near his upper left shoulder.
Eustacio panicked as he quickly climbed to his feet, lunging toward the complex to make a getaway–but never expecting one hundred and sixty pounds of flying man slamming into him, knocking Richie over once more, entangled in the foray that ensued as Shiv held Eustacio down, screaming for Ivan at the same time.
Instantly, before he could climb to his feet, there were nearly eight men on the single one, Eustacio screaming out with fury and drug-hazed frustration. Richie found himself being yanked out of the foray and shoved aside, stumbling against the Vitera.
Theresa was there, screaming to be heard as she tried to enter the mad mess. Richie didn’t think anything of it as he reached out, grabbing her and hauling her back. Eustacio screamed threats and promises as he was beaten mercilessly by these eight men, Theresa screaming herself hoarse as she struggled to escape Richie to save him.
A car pulled up, jerking to a stop, and Theresa began sobbing hysterically as Eustacio was forced up from the ground, bloodied and nearly broken, forced into the backseat of the car. Ivan and Francis were at the front, and the car sped off without either of them settling. Theresa sank limply to the ground, crying hysterically as Richie gaped after the car in disbelief. Those that had been left behind caught their breaths, glancing around uncomfortably as neighbors began peering out their windows cautiously.
Shiv wiped his forehead, looking torn as he helped Theresa from the ground, and helped her back into her apartment.
Uncomfortably, unsure of what to do, Richie examined his left shoulder, and searched for his glasses. Finding them miraculously untouched and undamaged underneath the Vitera, he picked them up and put them on, brushing off his clothes as he saw the others leave, as quietly as they had shown up.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
It took nearly three hours for Eustacio to finally calm down. To realize that he was without an advantage, here. Panting heavily, he spit out a tooth that had finally lost purchase, staring down at his own blood spilt on the concrete floor. His arms were shaking considerably, and his high was letting him go. His bloodied knuckles were raw, but his fingers trembled as he curled them inward, hissing as his sides constricted with pain.
He lifted his eyes to look at the clean pair of K-Swisses that stepped in his view, and lifted his head with a contemptuous glare. He knew Ivan Evans. Knew Francis Stone, Jason Derrick, and Dominic Belzer. All of them were former Bang Babies, all of them reputed to continue to hold onto their reps as bad-asses, as occasional trouble-makers.
They were the ones that were closely documented, closely watched over, their previous crimes turning them into demi-celebrities due to their times serve after the first Big Bang. He just had no idea what they wanted to do with him, and had a vague idea that perhaps Theresa knew a friend of a friend, or something. This was her way of getting back at him, and he kept in mind how he was going to teach her a lesson when they let him go.
His anger warmed his blood, caused his temperature to spike as he blew his bloodied nose, foregoing any measures of covering it. As bloody mucus splattered over the mess on the concrete, he waited for Ivan to say something. His face was drawn with something sinister, malevolent, and Eustacio lost a little of his bravado as those dark eyes seemed to glare into his soul.
The others were silent, letting Ivan speak. Letting him take over. The emptiness of the garage, located somewhere in Jason’s neighborhood, seemed to embrace his heavy breathing, amplifying it as his nerves locked. He wanted to scream, to rage, but those three men would just knock him down again. He was getting tired of Francis’ fists to his face, of Jason’s crushing throws, of Dominic’s painful way of grinding his bones against unmovable surface. All of them looked as if they were enjoying themselves, almost predatory as they waited anxiously for him to make a move.
Ivan had been the only one to refrain from hitting him. Merely standing back and watching, mocking Eustacio with his hooded eyes and dismissing all actions as he waited for the man to wear down from both his drug high and his determination to stand up against them
“You hit Theresa?” Ivan asked, his voice quiet, but harsh with its hard edged quality. It was an obvious question, and Eustacio gave him a sarcastic shake of his head.
“No, bitch, her mom did!” he snapped, pulling himself up to his knees. Jason was there, at some unseen signal, to knock his size thirteen boot into the back of his head. The impact felt as if his skull had somehow lost grip with his neck, and Eustacio fell forward, panting as he struggled to keep himself from falling flat against the concrete.
Ivan used his shoe to push Eustacio back onto his knees, and the Hispanic heard Jason’s chuckle, the swish of his cargo pants as he positioned himself and kicked him again. This time, Eustacio saw gray and black spots, and a loud thunder caused all other sound to drown out. By the time he could see more than blurring spots in his vision, Dominic was pulling him up from the floor by his ear, gripping painfully with those strong fingers of his.
You hit Theresa?” Ivan asked again, almost bored, if not for the menacing expression on his face.
Eustacio took his time to reconsider his retort. He glanced from one face to the other, noted how sore his ribs were. How painful it was to breathe deeply.
“She fucked up,” he sputtered. “Fuckin’ around with another man while I was away. Baby weren’t mine! I wasn’t about to take care of some busta’s kid! I ain’t like that!”
“So you blasted her around a few times?” Ivan asked, casually as he reached out to pull Francis back, the redhead eager to rip into Eustacio. “Did it make you feel good?”
“Fuck yeah!” Eustacio barked, his arm raising to try and deflect the hard kick Jason sent his way. It took a few more connections until he found himself on his back, bleeding once more from the nose, just faintly aware of his surroundings.
Ivan considered his bloodied appearance, frowning as Eustacio panted heavily, sputtering speckles of blood from his busted lips.
“Did it make you feel good?” he asked again. This time, Eustacio kept quiet. His good eye focused blearily on them, almost rolling into the back of his head. Ivan struck out before that could happen, and the jolt was enough to sharpen his senses. “Didn’t your momma ever teach you to never hit girls, boy? Or did your daddy do that to her?”
“Fuck...fuck them bitches...”
“I don’t like his tone,” Ivan muttered, turning away, letting Francis have him.
The redhead gleefully cracked his knuckles, grinning as he stepped forward. Ivan listened to the cracks of flesh against flesh, the violent noises of Eustacio grunting with each hit, the force of his fart as Francis hit him in the stomach. Amid the laughter, Eustacio tried to crawl away, arms held up in deflection, Dominic pinning him down by his shoulders and Francis raining continuous hits over his face and chest. There was a sharp snap as cartilage separated, and Eustacio gave a frightened howl as he covered his face.
Finally, Ivan cleared his throat, and Francis stopped, rising with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“You realize that Theresa and I go way back,” Ivan said. “What happens to her, I take personally. The fact that you disregard her safety, and her well-being gets me a little pissed off.”
“...I can get you all fuckin’ sent to prison! Sent back there, get you all off the streets!” Eustacio howled, but he was slurring his words. His eyes kept swirling, focusing and losing focus as his arms swept drunkenly before him. Deflecting imaginary hits. He was unrecognizable underneath all the blood that he’d lost from his nose, mouth, and busted eyebrow. “You ain’t nothing...nothing...”
Ivan frowned at him. Looked with some annoyance at Francis, who shrugged. “We got all night,” he drawled, hands sliding into his pockets as he stared down at the battered man with an expression of disgust. “Call up some more guys. See how many ribs we can break. See what he looks like with his legs twisted around his head.”
“Got somethin’,” Dominic muttered, leaving his position. He returned moments later with a an axe, Francis taking it from him with a grin. Eustacio stared at them, wild-eyed, head swaying with drunken notice.
Ivan took the axe from Francis, making the redhead protest as the black man gestured at Jason and Dominic. The two knelt, and Eustacio started to struggle, but was hampered by his injuries and from the draining of his own strength as his wrists were pulled from his body, pinned to the floor. He stared up at Ivan with terror, watching as Ivan settled himself between his legs, and raised the axe, the sharpened point aimed away from Eustacio.
He screamed himself hoarse as the blunt back of the axe connected with his ribs, a resounding symphony of cracks splitting the air. He screamed noiselessly as it connected with his hip, and passed out when his knee was destroyed with a single hit.
By the time he was forcefully awakened, cold water splashed over his busted features, his entire body had slipped into the beginning stages of shock. With his drug still running weakly through his system it kept him from fully acknowledging the pain right yet. Blearily, he stared up at the four faces that watched him curiously, one of them breaking out into a wide, cheery grin.
“He awake! He lives!” Dominic announced, his Jamaican accent pronounced with his glee.
Broken, Eustacio wept. He didn’t care, at this point, what happened next. He just wanted it to stop.
Ivan bent close, calm and collected, smoking one of his cigarettes with a casual air.
He shook his head at the display of snot that flecked his busted lips, the bloodied, matted eyebrows, the features that were almost hidden behind that dried mask of red.
“You touch her again, boy, and I’ll make sure you’re finished off slowly,” he said quietly. “I’m letting you live. This time. You’re going to go back to her, and you’re going to apologize.”
“WHAT?” Francis shouted in outrage, stepping around so that he could speak to Ivan directly. “Fuckin’ kill him off! He fucked her up! You’re gonna fuckin’ let him go?”
“You’ll go back to her and apologize. And you’ll treat her better,” Ivan continued, as if he’d never heard Francis speak.
“FUCK!” the redhead exploded, furiously turning away and stomping off.
“Is that clear?”
Eustacio wasn’t clear headed enough to fully respond, but he understand what was being said. The only answer he could give in confirmation was a faint nod, his eyes rolling toward the back of his head, and righting once more.
Ivan straightened from the floor with a disgusted scowl. “Let’s load him up. Take him back.”
“You’re for real letting him go back to her?” Jason repeated, in the same tone Francis had used earlier. “C’mon, man! Just finish him off! We can–!”
“Load. Him. Up,” Ivan repeated, not looking at either. “He won’t touch her again.”
“Ivan–!”
One glare had Jason clamping his mouth shut, Dominic frowning as he looked down at the bloodied mess before him. The pair exchanged looks, and amidst grumbles and complaints, turned to prepare Jason’s car for the transportation.
Ivan stared off into the darkness, his jaw clenched, forehead furrowed with his own agitation. As he listened to Eustacio’s troubled breathing, to the way he coughed blood and the way his body seemed to crackle at the broken joints, he hated himself for ever meeting Theresa Lozada.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
It was nearly four a.m. when Richie felt the gentle shake of his shoulder, prodding him awake. He lifted heavy eyelids slowly, seeing Francis standing there, giving him a curious look. The apartment was dark, and he’d fallen asleep with his head propped on his folded arms at the three legged dinner table. Theresa had fallen asleep on the couch, her battered features propped gently with a faded throw pillow. The other two girls had taken up temporary beds before her, timid guards in matching sleeping bags. Shiv had taken over the hall, head in his arms and snoring in rhythmic symphony with the nearby wall clock.
The lamp was turned on, and Theresa was gently roused by Dominic, the girls shifting with confused drowsiness in their sleeping bags.
“You okay?” Francis whispered, a gentle hand sweeping over Richie’s head, fingers entangling briefly before smoothing over his shoulders.
Richie caught his bearings, glancing around himself in slight confusion, pausing when he realized he was looking at Eustacio. Jason was holding him, supporting him with his bulk and strength, a look of disgust on his face.
Richie had only seen glimpses of this man’s face during their scuffle, but he definitely didn’t recognize him now. The man’s face had been beaten so that his features were unrecognizable. Dried blood caked over his hoodie, and his clothes were dirtied and battered. One leg seemed to dangle with painful direction. He looked pitifully defeated as he stood there, Ivan standing at his side.
Unsure of what was going on, Richie looked at Francis, accepting the hand that was held out to him. Steadying himself against his husband, Richie was surprised when his husband kissed him gently, in front of everyone. He was embarrassed, pulling away slightly at the uncommon show of affection, but accepting the kiss with an answering swipe of his own. Rough, familiar fingers ensnared his, and Richie could feel the rawness of his knuckles, the heat and the throb of well used fists.
Unconsciously, his own fingers swiped over the slightly swollen points, turning to see why the man had been brought back here, confused as he looked at everyone for an explanation.
Theresa blinked sleep heavy eyes, and focused immediately on her beaten man. For a moment, her features, almost as battered as his, screwed up with a collapse. But she steadied herself as she rose from the couch, Eustacio watching her as he stood calmly, and quietly, despite his shocking injuries.
Theresa looked over at Ivan, her face unreadable for a few moments. Ivan turned away and left the apartment, leaving her to look back at Eustacio once more.
Richie watched the large man let go of Jason, to clumsily fall to the floor in an awkward position, one leg stretched to an unnatural direction. He could see that his ear had been ripped, that he had dirt imprints and gravel all over his back and on his neck. He couldn’t look away as Theresa faced him, her face still unreadable as Eustacio gave a heaving sob.
“I’m sorry!” he cried into the carpet, his voice hoarse and forced between pained pants. “I’m so sorry! Please....please forgive me...please! I’ll never do it again....never...”
It was at that moment when Richie felt Francis’ fingers interlacing with his, pulling him along behind him to leave. Unable to look away, Richie watched Theresa fall to her knees, and embrace Eustacio, soothing him with Spanish spoken words of love and forgiveness.
Confused, he simply closed the door behind him so that they could have privacy.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
As soon as they walked into their silent, dark house, Francis pulled him along to their bedroom, and Richie dreaded what was going to be said, or done. Once the door closed behind him, though, Francis turned and attacked him, kissing him with a sort of desperation that Richie couldn’t fathom. He took the kisses, being pinned against the door with no way to move, feeling his husband’s hands yank at his jeans. Realizing where this was going, going along almost thoughtlessly, Richie helped him with his jeans. He shoved his pants and boxers down his legs, kicking his own off.
He barely had enough time to throw his glasses off before he was tossed almost carelessly onto the bed, and he laid pliant on his stomach when he heard the removal of the worn tube of lube from underneath the bed. He remembered that that was a tube with limited product, and waited for him to rummage for the other one, the new one. He didn’t hear the rummaging, through, but he didn’t dare protest as he heard the application.
He gave a start as he felt the familiar width and heat of his husband’s penis, the head prodding at his unstretched entrance. Francis was only half-hard, stretched enough to sink into him, and his fingers aided in penetrating as he guided himself into his husband’s body.
The rough penetration had Richie protesting with shocked denial, gritting his teeth as Francis shoved himself with uncharacteristic anger into his body. He fisted his hands within the comforter as Francis pushed in to the hilt, then, without any other regard for comforts, started to pump with almost savage force, grunting with each movement he made. He shifted forward, only to shove his forearm against Richie’s mouth until the blond opened it, forcing that muscled limb in so that he could bite down on it. Richie complied with the action, biting down hard, struggling to accept, growling against his skin as he strove to take it, even as pain ripped at him and made his stomach tighten with dread and fear.
The mattress protested the violent actions with muffled squeaks and repeated thumping against the wall. Richie grit his teeth as he tasted blood, spreading his thighs, feeling the deepened penetration. He turned his head, to muffle his cries into Francis’ arm, holding tightly onto the comforter as he waited for the storm to pass. He felt split from the inside, the area being rubbed raw, but he let his husband have his way, to take out the rest of his raw emotions in this manner.
His hips pumping violently, his balls smacking against Richie’s, Francis gripped his hip tightly with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut as he strove to abandon all the pent up anger and helpless fury that he still felt swirling inside of him.
When at last he climaxed, the action feeling more mechanical than pleasurable, he leaned over his husband’s trembling back, sweat dripping from his forehead. He caught his breath, focused much of his weight into his thighs to keep him upright, and strove to calm down. He dropped his forehead against Richie’s back, closing his eyes as he fought for control.
Images of what had been done that night, of what had taken place flashed before him, and he soon found that storm passing. He began focusing on the steady beat of Richie’s heart, his quiet, even breathing, and straightened. He pulled himself out of Richie with a slick, wet sound, and turned him around. Looking down at his husband’s splotchy face, the way turbulent hazel eyes focused on him with caring concern, he felt suddenly drained. He laid over him, his heavy weight causing Richie’s breath to leave him before he settled against his side, his arms wrapping around his lithe form and pulling him close.
“Don’t ever let me do that to you,” Francis whispered against his forehead, his fingers brushing desperately over his shoulders, through his hair, over his sides, straightening his shirt. And he struggled to hold every part of him, to somehow try and absorb him as he fought against those troubling images he’d witnessed tonight. Kept seeing how Theresa, battered and broken, staring at her abusive boyfriend with love. How Ivan struggled to hide his feelings, keeping a promise that he didn’t want to accept.
“Don’t ever let me do that to you. Don’t ever accept me if I lost it. Don’t ever let me back if I lose it.”
Amidst these harshly whispered words, Richie wondered how much of Francis was talking to him. He didn’t answer, because he couldn’t promise anything like that.
He struggled to reach out and hold him, to stroke and reassure him, but Francis was holding onto him too tightly, pinning his arms to his sides. He had to lay there, to be revered and treasured, to be stroked and held tightly, as if nothing more mattered.
“I love you, Francis,” he whispered back, despite the burning, raw feeling that seemed to throb in waves from his ass.
“Not like that, Rich. Never like that....”