Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ My Happy Ending ❯ Thanks For Watching As I Fall... ( Chapter 21 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
...hopefully things will get better...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.12.2005 | Pages: 7 | Words: 9.2K | Visits: 418 | Status: Completed
...hopefully things will get better...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.12.2005 | Pages: 7 | Words: 9.2K | Visits: 418 | Status: Completed
Disclaimers Apply Here: Manga-Chick does NOT own any part of Static Shock...no matter what she thinks.
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A/N: YAY! I’m finished! But...as you read...you’ll notice that...I have left room for another story. (Grimaces) See, this is the mistake I make. I make a story, and somehow end up with more. Lots of things are unsolved (groan) and it is entirely too long. But...what the hell, eh? Thanks so much for reading it! Sorry if it turned out dark and depressing...(sad face). But if I do end up writing the next, I GUARANTEE you, it’ll be much...happier...! For a, er, 'happier' fic, check out my newest attempt...Fun With Puppets!
Way mucho thanks for my reviewers and those that let me know what ya thought via other efforts.
Shampoo: Yay! Thanks for all your energetic comments and enthusiasm for my fics. Honestly, you made ME enthusiastic about them! XD
I'm_Alive: Erm...sorry...this ending just makes it all worse...sorrah. (emails apology penguin) But thank you so much for all your comments!
A/N PS:...also...there was much expressed interest in Danny...since I couldn’t really get into him in this one, maybe in the next! (Smiley face) I love writing psychos! (Grinning face)
Chapter Twenty-One:
Thanks For Watching As I Fall...
The enclosed pit was located within the depths of a waterline warehouse, and was murky with sweat, smoke, and the accompaniment of many bodies. The snapping and growling of dogs nearly overrode the noises coming from the men that cheered on their pets. Amidst the pained howls and yips of a single dog, there were the obvious cheers and gripes of a lost bet. Dogs were separated by force and sticks, and pulled away from the scene.
Near the center of the ‘ring’, Rudy laughed heartily as he took the winning bets from Gabe, noting that their dog would have to be put down later. The pair of them were counting out the cash when the rising shouts of ‘Static!’ penetrated the air.
Instantly, the scene was in chaos as men scrambled over each other, trying to gather their pets and stash in their haste to escape the scene.
Not bothering to round up the animals they had brought, Rudy and Gabe joined the chaos, making their way hastily toward the back of the warehouse, where they’d already planned a quick escape route away from the warehouse should they be busted during the dog fights.
The night was light and airy, and the pair were silent as they made their way through the shadows. They could hear the surprised shouts and curses amid Static’s activity–the occasional blasts of electricity, the garbled cries of those being captured and reined in by his powers...
Rudy looked up quickly when he heard heavy panting from his left, looking over to see Danny bounding through the shadows after them. He flashed him a grin, glad that he’d gotten out before facing off with the metahuman. Danny shot him an unreadable expression with his single eye, bounding easily through the obstacles in his course in an effort to stay in the shadows.
Suddenly, he gave a sharp growl, darting before them. Both of the men emitted surprised shouts when Static appeared suddenly from around the corner of a fenced-in parking lot, grinning with determination.
“Well, well, well!” he shouted happily, keeping aloft as he veered before the two, his powers lighting up the area around them. “Two of the men I wanted to see on my Criminal Wish List...”
“Ah, man, we didn’t do anything!” Gabe cried, Rudy sneering at the dark boy. “We’re just out for a fuckin’ jog, man!”
“You guys sure are dressed funny for a jog...and are out in a weird place for it,” Static replied, noting their denims, large shirts and Timberland boots.
“Yeah, well, we’re weirdos, okay? Leave us the fuck alone!” Rudy snapped, starting off. But Static was once again in his face, hands glowing with bright light. “What, man?”
“You’re Rudy...I heard you got a special guy working for you, man,” Static growled, trying to imagine this punk stealing into the house of his loved ones to threaten his children. The man’s face had a cocky expression to it that was irritating, sending his blood into a boil. He forced himself to glance around. “One Daniel Trujillo...otherwise known as ‘Danny’. Say, where’s he at, man? Heard he and my partner had a fling of some sorts back in the day!”
“He ain’t gay!” Rudy snapped automatically. “Where the fuck is that fag, anyway?”
“None o’ yo business. So where is he? An’ my partner don’t lie...”
“Your partner’s a fuckin’ bestiality whore!”
Static laughed. “He’s a loveable one, at that! Heh! Say, did you know that your pet can change at will? Where are ya, Danny? Here, boy! Here, Danny-danny boy! Come, boy! I gots some treats for ya!”
Amid the noise of tongue on palate, Danny lunged at Static from the shadows, snarling fiercely. As soon as this happened, both men were on the run.
Static threw up his shield quick, whistling as the metahuman sprung away, bounding off into the shadows once more. He blinked, then zoomed after him, noting that the two men were racing off down the street. He gave an annoyed growl underneath his breath, zipping after them instead, for they were an easier catch. He held his hands out, forcing a painful charge though both of them. Both men spasmed at the charge that moved through their bodies, and dropped abruptly to the pavement.
“You two ain’t goin’ no where,” he muttered, then flinging them into the nearest wall.
As soon as they were settled, shouting fierce curses at him in both Spanish and English, Static turned and zipped off. He searched through the shadows, and all available hiding spots, but he was unable to locate Danny. It had seemed that the metahuman made a quick escape into the night, which both enraged him in that his family was in danger, and that the man was wretched in that aspect.
Static felt as if he didn’t even have a chance in catching him–even with Gear’s help, for the pair of them had searched for Danny many times before. But it was almost pathetic in that attitude. Danny was supposed to be loyal and respectful toward Rudy, his ‘savior’–but he’d abandoned him at the first chance he’d gotten.
Static wasn’t aware of the elaborate plans Rudy Sedano had for his best friend and his husband, but he had managed to put him away, that night. Rudy and Gabe were entered into the system and into jail, glaring with hostility into the camera for their mug shots. But they wouldn't stay there, very long.
When Virgil returned home that night to brag about what he’d accomplished, he’d discovered that Richie wasn’t answering his cell phone, nor their home phone. He didn’t think too much of it–he merely sent an email to him, announcing that he’d put two of the Sedanos into jail.
But Danny was another story.
Virgil, alerted to the threat to his family, managed to convince Frieda to carry a taser and apply for a gun permit, and Shenice was notified of the threat. The woman was mad as hell at Virgil for losing him, but at least the woman was aware of the threat. He knew of some of Richie's earlier inventions that would help with the situation, and rummaged through the Gas Station for them, for something for Frieda. With Frieda being alone, Virgil convinced her to wear a panic button that reacted to the sensitivity of animal hearing–Richie had designed it awhile ago, and Virgil was convinced that it would work with a werewolf. Activating it would send
Danny into pained frenzy with his canine hearing, enabling Frieda to work quick with her taser or gun.
Frieda still didn’t know he was Static–but she knew he was practically another lightning pole for trouble as well. Virgil knew that he’d have to confess to Frieda someday of his second identity–but he was going to stall for as long as possible.
Virgil often wondered if his children would have their genes mutated to enable them with powers. With Shenice, it was guaranteed, but she had convinced her parents to stay away from Oscar until he displayed some signs of mutation–she didn’t want Oscar going through all the testing and science that she’d gone through as a child, and fiercely protected him in that effort.
All in all, it was wonderful with his complicated family. He had two children that he loved and adored. He felt as if he had everything going for him.
Everything...was bliss...
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He ignored the stares that were sent his way, the way the pair of policemen milled about after they had taken their initial report. He was trying not to be so nervous–trying very hard to stay calm. But he could feel all their accusing eyes on him as he sat sullenly in the chair beside Richie’s hospital bed. Francis hung his head into his hands, struggling to breathe normally and keep his thoughts in order. He was still numb over all that had happened, detached in that he couldn’t truly focus on the situation.
He still wasn’t sure what he’d told the ambulance drivers when they’d arrived–still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to keep the police at bay.
But so far, they hadn’t arrested him–not for the vicious beating of his own husband. He still couldn’t bring himself to look over, lingering words of concussion and Daniel Trujillo filtering in through his own inner thoughts. Richie hadn’t wakened at all at home–which was why Francis called for an ambulance, but in the moments during the emergency room examination, still pretty out of it, he’d muttered Daniel’s name when asked what had happened to him. There were other things that Richie had given during that time that didn’t coincide with this–the fact that he was asking if Virgil had his kids yet, if his father was going to be okay (Sean had had a heart attack a year before) told the examining doctors that he wasn’t quite ready to give out what he knew over his condition.
Francis knew he’d sputtered something–the police had talked to him, but he honestly couldn’t remember what he’d told them.
He could still feel their accusing eyes on him. They suspected–but he wasn’t going to give.
He had to know who Daniel Trujillo was–the name was currently being investigated by a plainclothes officer, who’d assured him that she’d investigate right away, but he had to wonder, with a sinking feeling, if that was the name of another man Richie had been messing around with.
In the quiet room, he had to wonder what else was being kept from him.
The most embarrassing thing that he had to answer and witness was one of the doctors asking if they’d had sex this morning–he had to answer that they hadn’t, making the whole room uncomfortable and tense at that moment, already suspecting rape. For a few moments, he’d felt that burning in his chest and stomach, those wretched feelings of having Richie’s infidelity broadcast to the world. He had to remove himself, then, to get away from the rising feelings of fury.
Now, when all was taken care of, and he had only the activity of the bustling emergency room to concentrate on. He was still numb–still detached.
He shut his eyes, feeling weary and intensely weak–he had phone calls to make, especially to Richie’s parents, but he couldn’t do it until he figured things out. He had to do something. He had to turn himself in, or keep up the charade. He wanted to figure things out quickly, to move as fast as possible to solve this situation. But there was a part of him that couldn’t until Richie was coherent enough to recognize a solution to the problem.
If Richie had lost his memory to this, Francis couldn’t leave him. He wanted to–he felt so much anger and ire towards him that he knew he couldn’t stand a single minute interacting with him. But the guilt in that made him feel entirely inadequate and useless, and he hated feeling that way.
If Richie was coherent enough to want to press charges and start the ball in divorce proceedings, that was fine with Francis. He didn’t think he could love him, anymore. Not after this. Sleeping with Ivan and carrying on whatever Richie had going with him was a major sort of agitation to Francis.
Remembering that he still had yet to talk to Ivan, Francis lifted his head, his eyes darkening as he wondered how that situation was going to be dealt with.
The DNA that had been sent to Forensics would be identified with Ivan’s–and a lot of mud slinging would ensue, because Ivan would have to answer when called upon.
Francis wondered what he would say–what he would do. He felt intense hatred for the man, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He could go on and destroy Ivan the same way he’d done to his husband, but that would implicate him in the crime–and beating up Ivan wouldn’t beat down the attitude the black man had.
Francis didn’t know what to do–he buried his head into his hands and thought about what was going to happen. He would go back to jail with so much anger inside of him–hating them both so much that Ivan would eventually retain his feelings and hate Richie.
He remembered telling Richie that, if he should ever hurt him the way Eustacio had with Theresa, to never love him ‘like that’. At this moment, he didn’t want Richie to love him at all. He didn’t want to have anything to do with him. He wanted to detach and separate all that he’d ever known of the man and move on. To ignore that this had ever happened–this happiness and insanity of security and trust. He didn’t have that, anymore.
He wanted to leave the hospital, to get away from it all.
But at the same time, he couldn’t–he felt responsibility for his husband, and he just couldn’t muster up the strength to leave.
He just didn’t know what to do.
He looked over at Richie now, covering his mouth as his throat filled with bile–not from the visible injuries, but from the way this man’s face had contorted with pleasure while having Ivan’s dick up inside of him. He couldn’t see beyond that–how was he supposed to move on? How was he supposed to accept that?
The finality in his feelings felt heavy. He turned away, presenting his back to him, staring sightlessly at the meager curtain that separated them from another patient. Entwining his fingers together, he wondered how this was going to be fixed. If it should be. If it even could–with the way he was feeling, he didn’t think it’d ever be fixed.
He heard shifting behind him–he glanced over his shoulder, to see Richie blink his eyes open with a sense of heaviness caused by drugs or confusion. Francis looked away.
He heard him shifting about, the muttered exclamations in the discovery of his injuries. Feeling all his muscles tighten and grow heavy, Francis forced himself to look over. Richie looked over at him in confusion, until his eyes darkened with understanding and fright. Shifting nearby made him look away from Francis quickly, looking at the single uniformed policeman that had noticed his awakening.
“You coherent, man?” he asked Richie with a sort of impatient tone, taking out his notepad and pen. “You able to identify the person, or persons that did this to you?”
Richie stared at him in silence, his eyes darting toward Francis with unease. Francis turned in his seat, looking at him steadily–waiting for him to give the information needed. Dark lashes blinked repeatedly, until Richie looked back at the policeman, tightly shaking his head.
“N-no. I...I don’t remember.”
“Nothing? Can you tell me who you were with before the attack?”
Richie stared at the impatient expression, feeling Francis’ eyes on him, with all the warmth of anger in his look.
Something made Francis talk– “You can’t deny shit, Rich. They found someone’s jizz up your fuckin’ ass,” he muttered, angrily running his fingers through his hair.
Richie looked at him, his face paling significantly. His eyes filled and brightened with tears as he turned back to the policeman, blinking them loose as he answered quietly, “Ivan Evans.”
The man made a note of it, his face expressing his surprise and disgust at the revealed information. Francis couldn’t look away from the tears that were soaking the collar of Richie’s hospital issued gown, the way they dribbled down his bruised skin, over the bandaged cuts that had been made from his wedding band. He sullenly wondered why Richie would pull this act, and felt even more anger at him for breaking so obviously.
“Did he do this to you? To...shut you up about it?”
“...No. It...it was consensual.”
Pen moved over paper, and the middle-aged man gave Francis a steady look. “Did your husband do it?”
“Ah, what the fuck–?” Francis started, reddening, but shooting the man a dirty look. He had to hide his shaking hands as he interlaced his fingers, looking as if he were struggling to keep his temper reined.
“...No. I...I don’t remember. But...neither were involved. They...they weren’t there.”
Francis wanted to speak up–wanted to confess all. He felt that urge to do so, but the thought of being in jail made it easier to suppress. He looked away, looking down at his shaking hands as his knuckles whitened, and his fingers started to turn color with the grip he had on them.
The man rolled his eyes, but he jotted that information down, as well. With an impatient sigh, he shifted his cap. “Look...you know the person, right? There wasn’t any sign of forced entry into your home, and neighbors reported seeing two out of the five vehicles parked there leave around eight. Another left around eight twenty. So you obviously knew the person, to let them in. You gonna press charges, or not? I’ve got other sob stories out there to deal with...”
Richie looked over at Francis, who looked away from him. He looked over at the policeman with a slight shake of his head.
“No.”
With that, the middle aged man finished his notes, and closed his book. He gave the pair a look, then turned to confer with his partner. Then, the pair of them walked away, one of them muttering about how gay domestic issues were as tedious and annoying as hetero married couples’.
Richie looked over at Francis, saying nothing for a few moments, the redhead looking away from him. More tears steadily joined the rest, the excited bustle of ER activity continuing on through their silence.
“I–I’m sorry,” Richie whispered, wishing for Francis to look at him. He merely saw those broad shoulders tighten, a muscle working in that firm jaw line. “Francis? I’m sorry...”
Francis swallowed tightly, trying to suppress his emerging anger. He pressed his fingertips against his lips, rubbing his thumb along his jaw line. He could still feel Richie’s eyes on him–could still feel his anger, hear his words from that one night, asking Richie not to love him.
“Francis...?”
He really wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t want to go home and have to return to the home they’d shared. To the room they shared, to see all the things they had obtained together. He didn’t want to see the obviousness of their togetherness when things hadn’t been ‘together’ for awhile.
“Francis?”
Francis fiddled with the wide wedding band on his ring finger–he wanted to rip it off and hurl it away from him. Wanted to rant and rage over the end of things. He wanted Richie to be punished, to suffer the loss of what they had. He wanted a divorce–to separate from him legally and completely. But even as he thought those wants, distractions of his own infidelities managed to filter in. How he started sleeping with women when sex with Richie started to grow boring, and he wanted something new. How he’d started coming home only to leave again, disappearing all weekend and coming home late Monday to his husband. He had his own mistakes that contributed to the problem. Richie wasn't the only one to blame, but Francis felt that he'd made the worst mistake in fucking with someone so close to them both.
“...Francis...please...”
Was it all his fault to begin with? But Richie had lost interest, too. Which was why he started going out on his own, and when those rumors of him flirting with other men began arising, Francis had kept it at the back of his head–and used that excuse to continue doing what he was doing. It wasn’t just his fault–it was Richie’s, too. There had been a lot of love and security both of them found in each other; they had endured a lot to be together. They had been close in every aspect. They had found comfort in each other; security; usefulness.
“...please...”
But in the end...was it all worth it? Was it worth wading through all these troubles for something that was dying?
He dropped his head, then slipped off the stool. He didn’t say anything as he walked out from the room closed off by curtains, to find coffee.
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Ivan sipped casually on his coffee, staring off into the distance. All of Francis’ emotions were conflicting, roiling–his anger was extremely hot and his feelings of betrayal were just as thick.
In all truths, Ivan didn’t know what to say. Or do. He had felt that loss of control Francis exhibited when he was very riled, almost similar to that night when he’d caught Tyson and Richie flirting in the kitchen, but this anger felt different. It wasn’t laced with insecurity and embarrassment–it was more sad and defeated.
Pathetic, really.
All the deep pillars of sadness and defeat was something Ivan was familiar with, himself. He’d experienced the same things when Adam turned away from him. When Theresa pulled away.
So, in a sense of understanding, he knew what Francis was going through.
And, in a way, Ivan felt guilty. He didn’t want to, but he felt guilty over just...leaving. Letting Richie take it all. He figured that the fall-out was bad. Francis had exhibited enough anger to let Ivan know he’d lost control more than once.
He set his coffee aside, and took out a fresh pack of Marlboros, tapping the top of the box against his palm. Dakota was quiet out, tonight, and their apartment was even more silent. Shiv was out on a date, and Dominic was engrossed with something of his own in his room. Ivan had to wonder how things were going to work, now. Would Francis even risk letting his husband around him? Would he watch them both like a hawk, now? Or perhaps he’d just give up everything and divorce the man.
Ivan hoped that it was the latter.
He had no ties to Richie–he only experienced what he had through Francis, and with the way Francis was feeling now, it appeared that he wouldn’t have that trouble anymore. He was gratified at that. He had hated and resented being the ‘tagalong’.
He had just finished off his first cig when he heard Dominic open the door from the apartment. Ivan tensed, shaking out another cigarette as he tried to examine Francis’ feelings. From the subdued way Dominic was speaking, it was apparent that Francis was still angry. But Ivan had to scrunch his brow with thought–he couldn’t feel that anger, anymore.
He had some relief in that he couldn’t feel his emotions–it seemed promising. It was about time Francis learned to hide what he was feeling.
The sliding door opened, and Ivan forced himself to stay where he was. He wasn’t afraid of Francis–but he knew he didn’t stand a chance against him if the redhead decided to throw a few punches at him. Size made all the difference, and he knew Francis knew how to use it.
He could feel that venomous stare on him, and glanced over his shoulder at the big man behind him.
He didn’t have anything to say, really. He figured he’d let Francis have at it.
He turned to face him, smoking casually–struggling to keep his indifference in place.
“I put him in the fuckin’ hospital,” Francis growled low, his features darkened and accusing. Ivan merely blinked, dashing ashes over the railing. “I put him in the hospital. I fucked him up. And you just stand there, doing nothin’.”
Ivan shrugged a shoulder. “That’s your business.”
“You’re a part of it!”
“...He offered. I took.”
The rage that filtered through Ivan made him wince, and Francis reached out to shove him hard. Ivan caught himself quickly, dropping his cig. He prepared for the next action, his fists curling, but Francis didn’t even bother to attack.
Instead, he looked away, moving away from him to stand at the other side of the balcony. Ivan watched him tremble, the way his hands curled and relaxed at his sides.
Still unsure of what to expect, Ivan straightened, to lean against the railing with an indifferent air. He made a slight gesture with his hands. “So, what’cha gonna do, man? Huh? Send me the same way? I don’t fuckin’ care. Just a bitch, anyway.”
“Why him? Huh? Why him? You ain’t–you ain’t fuckin’ gay.”
“...Told you. He offered. I took.”
“But why you? You hate each other!”
“Yeah...but...was all just head games. That’s all. Fuckin’ head trip.”
Francis stared at him for a considerable measure of time. Saying nothing.
Angrily, then, he whipped his head to the side, and began rubbing his face with agitation. Ivan had to wonder why he wasn’t behaving in the manner that he’d been expecting. Francis reacted with violence when confronted with an issue that called for it, but he didn’t seem to want to attack.
“I fuckin’ hate you both,” Francis then muttered, almost too low for Ivan to hear. The sounds of someone’s bass from across the complex seemed louder than his words.
Despite it all, Ivan felt his relief in that things between the two seemed defeated and broken.
“Man, sittin’ there...having them...look at him, an’ shit? Knowin’ that I did it all, that I put him that way? I just felt...like...I always felt guilty for hitting him the first time. Because when I did it, I hit him because he wanted to see other people. We weren’t doin’ good that time, but...but when he said that, I just...hit him. And I always regretted it. Cuz I didn’t want to lose him. But...but lookin’ at him now, I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel any guilt for doin' that.”
Ivan stared out at the skyline of Dakota–he could see the building that his brother worked in to make music. Vaguely wondered what they were having for dinner.
“And you know what the fucked-up thing about it all, is?” Francis turned to look back at him, glaring at him with utter contempt and hate. “Is that I have to choose. An’ that I have to choose you. Because of our fuckin’ link. You’re gonna always be there. He ain’t. Do you know what the fuck that does to me?”
Ivan could care less, but he saw the point. He looked down at his clean K Swisses and toed lightly at the scuffed mat underfoot.
Francis ran his hand over his face with agitation, then through his hair. “I don’t want nothing to fuckin’ do with you, an’ there’s really nothin’ to do about it. I can’t kill you. You can’t kill me. I would much rather have that than...than anything. But I can’t.”
Ivan looked at him steadily, clearing his throat. Wishing for another cigarette. But he didn’t look away, even as Francis hit the railing angrily, growling low. When the redhead turned to face him, Ivan tensed, ready to move, but all Francis did was say, “Don’t come around. Don’t even fuckin’ talk to me. Don’t...don’t even talk to him.”
Ivan shrugged again. “No skin off my back. Ain’t nothin’...”
Francis stared at him, seemingly never blinking. “Above it all, you had no feelings for him, huh? Just...just fucking.”
“Yeah. How obvious do I gotta be?”
Francis said nothing. Ivan met that stare, giving all his indifference and disregard for the situation with a simple look.
Saying nothing more, Francis shook his head, turned, and left the balcony. Ivan watched him leave, then turned to grab another cigarette. Ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking as he lit it, he listened to the front door slam shut behind the redhead’s leave, and concentrated on the task at hand.
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Nearly two weeks later, Virgil unloaded himself from his car, beaming proudly. His shirt reeked of baby spit-up, and he was pretty sure that green stain on his jeans wasn’t just from dinner, but from a diaper out of control. In a way, he felt disgusted by wearing such stains, but at the same time–he was dedicated enough to his children in that he’d wear what they put on him–just as the mothers did.
He walked up the front walkway, and knocked insistently at the door. He was ready to go out, having the night off from his children, and wanted to have some fun. Richie’s cellphone had been disconnected, making him wonder if Francis was punishing him for something or another to take that privilege away. He’d only managed to speak to Richie a few times over the house phone, but their conversations had been very brief–Richie always seemed occupied.
When the door opened, Francis looking out with an irritated expression, Virgil walked right in. Immediately, Francis scowled, shutting the door behind him and looking at him questioningly.
“Been tryin’ to get a hold of Richie, man,” Virgil said, looking around the house. It looked as if Richie had done more redecorating and had managed to fit in a small dining room set near the bar style counter. It was currently set and Francis had left him to attend to matters in the kitchen. Uncomfortably, Virgil looked around for his friend.
“So...is he here?” he asked.
“Yeah. But...he’s gonna eat, first,” Francis muttered, making a couple of plates.
It was the first time that Virgil ever recalled the pair eating something that wasn’t take-out or from boxes. It looked as if Francis had spent some time with a cookbook to whip up something that looked like grilled chicken, vegetables and a side dish of potatoes. Virgil was amazed, and he ambled over, looking at the creation.
“Didn’t know you could cook!” Virgil exclaimed, inhaling deeply of the seasoned grub.
“...Yeah.” Francis looked momentarily embarrassed as he finished making both plates. He then frowned as he set aside salt and pepper. “Rich! You done?!”
“Where’s he at, man?” Virgil then asked.
Francis gave him a careful, considering look. Then shrugged a shoulder. “Guest room.”
Virgil thanked him, and walked on over to the hall, spying that the light was on in the mentioned room. He walked in with a greeting on his lips, then paused. Looking at the room, it was obvious that Richie had moved into here. His personal effects were everywhere, the bed looking as if it had been slept in very recently. Near the bed was a small night stand that held a touch lamp, a large cup of water, and some medication. An alarming amount of it.
And his best friend was currently sitting on the floor, looking dumbfounded at his shoes.
Virgil wasn’t sure what to think, unsure of what to say as he looked down at Richie with uncomfortable action. He figured that the two were fighting, again. He shrugged at that.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” he asked jovially, watching as Richie looked up at him with surprise.
“Oh, hey, Virgil Hawkins,” he answered with a strained smile, lowering his shoe. “What are you doing here?”
Virgil didn’t know what to say, unused to his full name being used by his best friend. The whole greeting seemed rehearsed, strained–forced. He stared at Richie in silence. “Uh...well...I’ve been trying to call you...but your phone don’t seem to be working.”
Richie sighed, shrugging. It looked as if he’d showered just a few minutes ago, and Virgil watched him as he fiddled with the velcro on his shoes. It took a moment to realize that his socks were pulled on backwards–the heels resting atop of his feet. Virgil lifted an eyebrow. Pointing, he stated quietly, “You having an off day, man? Your socks...they....they’re kinda backward.”
Richie looked down at them, then frowned thoughtfully. He pulled off his socks, and Virgil watched with immense confusion as he turned them inside out and then pulled them back on. He looked at his friend again, having nothing to say as Richie continued to play with his shoes once more.
He figured his friend was just acting eccentric. Having one of those days where his thoughts were forcing him to behave in ways beyond normality. He shrugged it off.
“So...uh...wanna head out, tonight?” he asked, blinking repeatedly as Richie played with the velcro straps of his shoes. To Virgil, it honestly seemed that the blond had no idea what to do with them. The expression on his face was truly puzzled.
“To where?” Richie asked curiously, looking up at him, setting his shoes aside.
“I dunno. Hit the clubs, first, then...then maybe the clubs...? I’m ready to party-hearty, man! Get my groove on!”
“... ‘Hit the clubs’...?”
“...Yeah. I mean...hoppin’. Club hoppin’. How’s that sound? Or your man got you on a leash, again?”
This time, Virgil didn’t bother to hide his expression as Richie continued to look puzzled at him. The blond then shrugged again. “Nah, I don’t feel like it, Virgil. I’m just going to stay in with Francis, tonight. He and I have been having these really bad troubles, and he’s been really mad at me, lately.”
Virgil blinked. Then looked taken back. “So...you guys are...having troubles? All the more so to go out, man. It didn’t seem to bother you, before.”
“No, I can’t do that, Virgil. I’m on bad enough terms with him as it is. That’s why I moved in here. He doesn’t want to touch me, anymore. He found out that I was sleeping with Ivan–”
“YOU WHAT?!”
“–and he doesn’t have very much patience for me, anymore. So I kind of want to just...stay in. Try to fix things.”
“Rich, you slept with–?”
“You done yet?”
Virgil jumped nearly a foot high as Francis’ disgusted tone rang nearby, the older man moving to stand in the doorway, abruptly pushing him to the side. Richie looked up at him, then gestured helplessly at his shoes.
With another annoyed expression, Francis walked over to him, then crouched, angrily taking his shoe away from him, then noting the socks with extreme agitation.
“Jesus fucking Christ...”
“I’m sorry...I just...I forgot...”
Virgil watched Francis correct the mistake, then pushed his shoes on and tied the straps down tightly, standing up just as quickly. “Food’s gettin’ cold,” he then muttered, leaving the room, making Virgil bristle at his attitude.
He looked back at Richie, then moved over to help him up. It was a little startling to realize how thin his fingers seemed when he accepted the action. He had to look closely at his friend. “You lose some weight?”
“I dunno. I haven’t had much of an appetite, lately. I’ve got to go now, Virgil. I have to eat. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Virgil reached out, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him back. He stared at Richie for a few seconds, the startled blond looking at him in the same action.
“You okay, man?” Virgil then asked. “You’re acting so strange.”
“Oh...I don’t know.”
“And you’re talking like...like...I don’t know. What’s wrong with you? What are you taking?” He moved over to examine the bottles. Painkillers, sleeping pills...instructions to take every stated interval with food and water. He held out a painkiller. “Why you taking these? What’s wrong with you?”
“Oh...” Richie took the bottle, reading the instructions, then passed it back. “For pain. You know... because it hurts.”
“What hurts?”
“My head...I hurt myself a few weeks ago. My head...I’ve been having troubles with it. I don’t know. The doctor says that I can’t go back to work. That I can’t drive. Something about, that, my motor skills and things will be...interrupted. Only for a little while. But...sometimes, it hurts, and I can’t sleep. So...so I take that.”
“When did this happen?”
“Francis and I had a really big fight. I hurt it, then.”
Virgil stared at him for a few moments, then glanced over his shoulder. He lowered his voice, speaking urgently, “Did he do that to you?”
Richie stared at him for a few moments, then shook his head tightly. “I deserved it. You know? Like, like when you said that I was asking for it? So...so Joe was right. Cuz....cuz I deserved it. I was destroying other peoples’ minds with my...my....shit. What’s the word...? That thing you play....like...”
Virgil stared at him with measurable shock, then realized that Richie was serious about it. There wasn’t any considerable amount of maturity to his words–as if he were a child, in a manner of speaking. There was something incredibly chilling about it, the way he revealed the truth of the problem so blatantly.
“Rich...” Before he could continue, both of them winced at Francis’ bellow for him to come out and eat.
“I’ve got to go, Virgil. I don’t want him angry at me, anymore.”
“Richie...” Virgil stopped him, holding onto his arm. “Maybe you should come out with me. You want to go see your parents?”
Richie gave him an annoyed expression, pulling his arm from his grip. “Why are you talking to me like that? All slow, enunciating everything like that? Yeah, I hurt my head–but that didn’t make me stupid.”
“I’m sorry. All right? Just...just maybe, you should come out with me, tonight.”
“...No. No, I don’t want to. I’m just going to stay in. Besides, I get dizzy a lot. And a little nauseated. I wouldn’t be very much fun at the clubs. I don’t want to drag you down, Virgil. Go ahead and have some fun.”
“...What happened really, man?”
“Nothing. I hit my head. Um, the doctor...said that it was...traumatic? Enough for some...juggling to occur. So...it’ll take a little while to heal. Mild, he said. It’s nothing. Francis’ insurance covers it. Actually, I had to quit my job because I didn’t have the time required to leave it. So...so he’s providing for me. Virgil, stop being overprotective, ‘k? He’s doing the best he can. I don’t want to ruin things any further. He’s taking care of me, because I obviously don’t know what I’m doing. I couldn’t even put on my shoes!” Richie added with a dull laugh. “I’m going to eat, now. Or, at least, try.”
He leaned close, holding up a hand to whisper, “He doesn’t cook very well. It’s all so bland.”
He giggled, then hurried out from the room, Virgil staring after him in immense confusion.
Virgil looked around the room once more–noting that the computer had collected some dust, that the closet was full of his personal effects. Realizing it now, he recalled that the diamonds studs that Richie wore were missing; the wedding band, as well. He realized that they had troubles–it had been obvious. But he couldn’t remember a time when Richie had moved into the guest room as he had now.
With a slow exhale, Virgil left the room, moving awkwardly out into the front. He looked over at them as they sat at the dinner table; Francis glared and looked obviously put-out as he ate, flashing Richie those looks whenever a question was asked or an action was needed. The strain and tension between them was uncomfortably thick.
Virgil shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, clearing his throat thickly. He noticed with a quick glance that Francis’ wedding band was missing, as well. It made him feel extremely distressed, knowing that his best friend was having problems, and he’d been too involved with his own life to even really notice what was happening.
“So...my best friend’s kinda outta whack,” he said, inwardly wincing.
Francis gave him an annoyed look. “Yeah. Hit his head. Fuckin’...he’s all stupid, now.”
“I’m not stupid, Francis,” Richie muttered. He looked over at Virgil. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“...Is there something I’m missing, here?” Virgil then asked, looking at Francis pointedly, watching the big man eat quietly, eyeing him with some irritation. “I mean...damn. How’d he hit his head, man?”
“Virgil–! Goddamn, just go away!” Richie spat angrily, dropping his fork. “Don’t be coming over here and starting things that aren’t of your concern!”
“Virgil,” Francis began quietly, wiping his mouth and setting his napkin aside. “We’re having dinner. You may have noticed that there are some changes–but that’s none of your fucking business. Can you please leave? NOW?”
Virgil blinked–he and Francis never had a good relationship, but he noted the strain in the older man’s voice as he spoke. The way it seemed he was struggling to maintain a sense of civil standing with him. It was an even bigger strain than it had been.
He cast Richie a look, and noted with some disgruntled irritation that he was staying out of it–staring sullenly at his plate, pushing food about with his fork. It didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere, so Virgil sighed and grabbed his car keys from his jeans pocket.
“Look...sorry...I...hopefully things will get better.”
With that, Virgil nodded at them, then left the house, slamming the door a little too hard.
Francis looked down, then across the table at Richie, who was still focused on his plate. Leaning forward to rest his chin into his hand, his fingers curling over his lips and nose, he stared at the blond bowed head and felt his head ache with painful tension.
Amid the silence within the house, Richie playing with his food listlessly, Francis took a deep breath, straightening away from the table.
He stared down at his food, half eaten and discarded due to the seasoning he’d flavored it with. It seemed since the hospital visit that Richie had lost some of his taste buds, and thought everything bland and dull. Francis had tried to make things more interesting to eat, but he wasn’t much of a cook.
Feeling overwhelmed, he rubbed his face tiredly.
“I don’t want to do this, anymore,” he muttered, his voice breaking the silence.
Richie looked up from his plate, eyebrows lifting. “Do...do what?”
Francis gestured at the table, at both of them. “This...us. I can’t...it’s hard for me to come home, everyday. I can’t stand to touch you. I can’t stand to look at you. I can’t stand knowing that I go into that kitchen every day, where I’d...where I’d caught you two. I can’t stand...having to...having to take care of you over everything. The doc said it was all temporary, but...it’s like...I can’t.”
Richie stared down at his plate in silence, hearing those words, understanding what they meant. What the heavy tone meant. He really couldn’t answer–his throat felt tight. But he understood why Francis felt the way he did–he had spent days being angry over himself and for Francis’ hypocritical reactions, but that was blamed on his injury’s aftereffects.
He felt tired, as well. Of being helpless, of forgetting the smallest of things, of having troubles in everyday, normal things. He knew he should be angry at Francis–hate him. Divorce him. Do what it took to make his own life miserable. Francis was the reason why he’d received his TBI–he was the reason why Richie felt such ways every day.
But every time he thought of it that way, he just wanted to cry.
Hearing Francis speak now made his eyes tear up. He dropped his fork, and rubbed at his eyes, hating his weakness.
“...But you did this to me,” he said quietly, hearing his voice shake. “You did this, you take care of it. I don’t like being helpless, and having to depend on you, either! I don’t like coming home to this place, and realizing how much I lost over what I did! I don’t like it, either! Stop being the victim. You contributed, too...”
Francis stared at him silently, folding his hands before him, elbows on table. He couldn’t take the sight of Richie being so sad–but he had to speak what he felt.
“I...I want a divorce. I can’t...I can’t feel that I can trust you, anymore.” Anxiously, his hands moved through his hair, then clasped the limp strands while Richie wiped at his eyes and kept his face averted. “But...I...I won’t apply for it until...you get better, I guess, but I dunno. Just...maybe for now...a separation? You can still live here, just...I don’t want to....keep up the charade. Of...of pretending to be happy when we ain’t.”
Richie kept his head down, feeling all his emotions welling up deep within.
“You cheated, too. You think I felt happy knowing I had to compete with both sexes for your attention?”
“Jesus Christ, it wasn’t even like that...”
“You slept with women! You started this! If you’d just...just stayed home, and...and paid attention to me like you used to...made me feel like I was worth it, I wouldn’t’ve–”
“‘I, I, I’–it’s all about you, huh? Always about you! Always spending my money, always bitching about this and that–! I got tired of you, too!”
“It isn’t just me! How do you think I felt, having to touch you, knowing you touched and fucked with women?! And you’re such a fucking control freak–! You were basically free to do whatever, and I couldn’t–! With all the accusations, I should’ve done this a long time ago! We’re not even with the things that we did!”
“Ah, cry about it. That’s all you do, lately. Fuckin’ cry about it.”
“...I can’t be the only one hurting about it, Francis. I know I broke your heart–and I’m sorry. I wish that I could fix things. I wish I hadn’t done what I did, but I did–! The only thing I can do now, is try to fix–”
“I don’t want nothin’ fixed. I just...want it all...to end.” Francis hung his head into his hands, elbows on the table.
“Can’t...can’t we just...just let...why do we have to go that far? Can’t we just...fix it?”
“...I don’t want to fix something that’s just going to break, again.”
“...It won’t. I...I learned my lesson. I learned my lesson...”
“I don’t want to, anymore, Rich. I don’t want to...”
Richie grabbed his napkin, to wipe angrily at his tears as Francis continued to speak softly to him. He heard the tones of guilt, of remorse and sorrow–knew that Francis truly felt those despite the obvious. It was at that moment Joe’s words came back to him suddenly, and he couldn’t stop the escaping hysterical giggle as he rose from the table.
He had to catch onto the chair to keep his balance as things slid dangerously around him, Francis looking up with concern.
“I guess curses do exist. Good night.”
Francis watched him leave the room, heading toward his room with a low murmur, the door slamming shut a moment later. Puzzled, Francis sat at the dining room table and thought long and hard about what he was doing. What he planned on doing.
Later that night, not hearing anything from the other room, Francis checked in on him. He was a little scared, afraid of what he’d find once he opened that door, but Richie was asleep, his features slack with intense, drugged slumber. There were obvious tear tracks on his cheeks.
Quietly, Francis swept up the medication that sat on the night stand, checked the dates they were issued, and the quantity that was given for Richie to take. After that, he spent time counting out each bottle, finding that Richie was consistent with each one–that none had been taken in excess, or forgotten.
He closed them tightly, casting a look down at the sleeping blond. With an expression of intense remorse, he took the bottles and quietly left the room.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
A/N: YAY! I’m finished! But...as you read...you’ll notice that...I have left room for another story. (Grimaces) See, this is the mistake I make. I make a story, and somehow end up with more. Lots of things are unsolved (groan) and it is entirely too long. But...what the hell, eh? Thanks so much for reading it! Sorry if it turned out dark and depressing...(sad face). But if I do end up writing the next, I GUARANTEE you, it’ll be much...happier...! For a, er, 'happier' fic, check out my newest attempt...Fun With Puppets!
Way mucho thanks for my reviewers and those that let me know what ya thought via other efforts.
Shampoo: Yay! Thanks for all your energetic comments and enthusiasm for my fics. Honestly, you made ME enthusiastic about them! XD
I'm_Alive: Erm...sorry...this ending just makes it all worse...sorrah. (emails apology penguin) But thank you so much for all your comments!
A/N PS:...also...there was much expressed interest in Danny...since I couldn’t really get into him in this one, maybe in the next! (Smiley face) I love writing psychos! (Grinning face)
Chapter Twenty-One:
Thanks For Watching As I Fall...
The enclosed pit was located within the depths of a waterline warehouse, and was murky with sweat, smoke, and the accompaniment of many bodies. The snapping and growling of dogs nearly overrode the noises coming from the men that cheered on their pets. Amidst the pained howls and yips of a single dog, there were the obvious cheers and gripes of a lost bet. Dogs were separated by force and sticks, and pulled away from the scene.
Near the center of the ‘ring’, Rudy laughed heartily as he took the winning bets from Gabe, noting that their dog would have to be put down later. The pair of them were counting out the cash when the rising shouts of ‘Static!’ penetrated the air.
Instantly, the scene was in chaos as men scrambled over each other, trying to gather their pets and stash in their haste to escape the scene.
Not bothering to round up the animals they had brought, Rudy and Gabe joined the chaos, making their way hastily toward the back of the warehouse, where they’d already planned a quick escape route away from the warehouse should they be busted during the dog fights.
The night was light and airy, and the pair were silent as they made their way through the shadows. They could hear the surprised shouts and curses amid Static’s activity–the occasional blasts of electricity, the garbled cries of those being captured and reined in by his powers...
Rudy looked up quickly when he heard heavy panting from his left, looking over to see Danny bounding through the shadows after them. He flashed him a grin, glad that he’d gotten out before facing off with the metahuman. Danny shot him an unreadable expression with his single eye, bounding easily through the obstacles in his course in an effort to stay in the shadows.
Suddenly, he gave a sharp growl, darting before them. Both of the men emitted surprised shouts when Static appeared suddenly from around the corner of a fenced-in parking lot, grinning with determination.
“Well, well, well!” he shouted happily, keeping aloft as he veered before the two, his powers lighting up the area around them. “Two of the men I wanted to see on my Criminal Wish List...”
“Ah, man, we didn’t do anything!” Gabe cried, Rudy sneering at the dark boy. “We’re just out for a fuckin’ jog, man!”
“You guys sure are dressed funny for a jog...and are out in a weird place for it,” Static replied, noting their denims, large shirts and Timberland boots.
“Yeah, well, we’re weirdos, okay? Leave us the fuck alone!” Rudy snapped, starting off. But Static was once again in his face, hands glowing with bright light. “What, man?”
“You’re Rudy...I heard you got a special guy working for you, man,” Static growled, trying to imagine this punk stealing into the house of his loved ones to threaten his children. The man’s face had a cocky expression to it that was irritating, sending his blood into a boil. He forced himself to glance around. “One Daniel Trujillo...otherwise known as ‘Danny’. Say, where’s he at, man? Heard he and my partner had a fling of some sorts back in the day!”
“He ain’t gay!” Rudy snapped automatically. “Where the fuck is that fag, anyway?”
“None o’ yo business. So where is he? An’ my partner don’t lie...”
“Your partner’s a fuckin’ bestiality whore!”
Static laughed. “He’s a loveable one, at that! Heh! Say, did you know that your pet can change at will? Where are ya, Danny? Here, boy! Here, Danny-danny boy! Come, boy! I gots some treats for ya!”
Amid the noise of tongue on palate, Danny lunged at Static from the shadows, snarling fiercely. As soon as this happened, both men were on the run.
Static threw up his shield quick, whistling as the metahuman sprung away, bounding off into the shadows once more. He blinked, then zoomed after him, noting that the two men were racing off down the street. He gave an annoyed growl underneath his breath, zipping after them instead, for they were an easier catch. He held his hands out, forcing a painful charge though both of them. Both men spasmed at the charge that moved through their bodies, and dropped abruptly to the pavement.
“You two ain’t goin’ no where,” he muttered, then flinging them into the nearest wall.
As soon as they were settled, shouting fierce curses at him in both Spanish and English, Static turned and zipped off. He searched through the shadows, and all available hiding spots, but he was unable to locate Danny. It had seemed that the metahuman made a quick escape into the night, which both enraged him in that his family was in danger, and that the man was wretched in that aspect.
Static felt as if he didn’t even have a chance in catching him–even with Gear’s help, for the pair of them had searched for Danny many times before. But it was almost pathetic in that attitude. Danny was supposed to be loyal and respectful toward Rudy, his ‘savior’–but he’d abandoned him at the first chance he’d gotten.
Static wasn’t aware of the elaborate plans Rudy Sedano had for his best friend and his husband, but he had managed to put him away, that night. Rudy and Gabe were entered into the system and into jail, glaring with hostility into the camera for their mug shots. But they wouldn't stay there, very long.
When Virgil returned home that night to brag about what he’d accomplished, he’d discovered that Richie wasn’t answering his cell phone, nor their home phone. He didn’t think too much of it–he merely sent an email to him, announcing that he’d put two of the Sedanos into jail.
But Danny was another story.
Virgil, alerted to the threat to his family, managed to convince Frieda to carry a taser and apply for a gun permit, and Shenice was notified of the threat. The woman was mad as hell at Virgil for losing him, but at least the woman was aware of the threat. He knew of some of Richie's earlier inventions that would help with the situation, and rummaged through the Gas Station for them, for something for Frieda. With Frieda being alone, Virgil convinced her to wear a panic button that reacted to the sensitivity of animal hearing–Richie had designed it awhile ago, and Virgil was convinced that it would work with a werewolf. Activating it would send
Danny into pained frenzy with his canine hearing, enabling Frieda to work quick with her taser or gun.
Frieda still didn’t know he was Static–but she knew he was practically another lightning pole for trouble as well. Virgil knew that he’d have to confess to Frieda someday of his second identity–but he was going to stall for as long as possible.
Virgil often wondered if his children would have their genes mutated to enable them with powers. With Shenice, it was guaranteed, but she had convinced her parents to stay away from Oscar until he displayed some signs of mutation–she didn’t want Oscar going through all the testing and science that she’d gone through as a child, and fiercely protected him in that effort.
All in all, it was wonderful with his complicated family. He had two children that he loved and adored. He felt as if he had everything going for him.
Everything...was bliss...
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
He ignored the stares that were sent his way, the way the pair of policemen milled about after they had taken their initial report. He was trying not to be so nervous–trying very hard to stay calm. But he could feel all their accusing eyes on him as he sat sullenly in the chair beside Richie’s hospital bed. Francis hung his head into his hands, struggling to breathe normally and keep his thoughts in order. He was still numb over all that had happened, detached in that he couldn’t truly focus on the situation.
He still wasn’t sure what he’d told the ambulance drivers when they’d arrived–still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to keep the police at bay.
But so far, they hadn’t arrested him–not for the vicious beating of his own husband. He still couldn’t bring himself to look over, lingering words of concussion and Daniel Trujillo filtering in through his own inner thoughts. Richie hadn’t wakened at all at home–which was why Francis called for an ambulance, but in the moments during the emergency room examination, still pretty out of it, he’d muttered Daniel’s name when asked what had happened to him. There were other things that Richie had given during that time that didn’t coincide with this–the fact that he was asking if Virgil had his kids yet, if his father was going to be okay (Sean had had a heart attack a year before) told the examining doctors that he wasn’t quite ready to give out what he knew over his condition.
Francis knew he’d sputtered something–the police had talked to him, but he honestly couldn’t remember what he’d told them.
He could still feel their accusing eyes on him. They suspected–but he wasn’t going to give.
He had to know who Daniel Trujillo was–the name was currently being investigated by a plainclothes officer, who’d assured him that she’d investigate right away, but he had to wonder, with a sinking feeling, if that was the name of another man Richie had been messing around with.
In the quiet room, he had to wonder what else was being kept from him.
The most embarrassing thing that he had to answer and witness was one of the doctors asking if they’d had sex this morning–he had to answer that they hadn’t, making the whole room uncomfortable and tense at that moment, already suspecting rape. For a few moments, he’d felt that burning in his chest and stomach, those wretched feelings of having Richie’s infidelity broadcast to the world. He had to remove himself, then, to get away from the rising feelings of fury.
Now, when all was taken care of, and he had only the activity of the bustling emergency room to concentrate on. He was still numb–still detached.
He shut his eyes, feeling weary and intensely weak–he had phone calls to make, especially to Richie’s parents, but he couldn’t do it until he figured things out. He had to do something. He had to turn himself in, or keep up the charade. He wanted to figure things out quickly, to move as fast as possible to solve this situation. But there was a part of him that couldn’t until Richie was coherent enough to recognize a solution to the problem.
If Richie had lost his memory to this, Francis couldn’t leave him. He wanted to–he felt so much anger and ire towards him that he knew he couldn’t stand a single minute interacting with him. But the guilt in that made him feel entirely inadequate and useless, and he hated feeling that way.
If Richie was coherent enough to want to press charges and start the ball in divorce proceedings, that was fine with Francis. He didn’t think he could love him, anymore. Not after this. Sleeping with Ivan and carrying on whatever Richie had going with him was a major sort of agitation to Francis.
Remembering that he still had yet to talk to Ivan, Francis lifted his head, his eyes darkening as he wondered how that situation was going to be dealt with.
The DNA that had been sent to Forensics would be identified with Ivan’s–and a lot of mud slinging would ensue, because Ivan would have to answer when called upon.
Francis wondered what he would say–what he would do. He felt intense hatred for the man, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He could go on and destroy Ivan the same way he’d done to his husband, but that would implicate him in the crime–and beating up Ivan wouldn’t beat down the attitude the black man had.
Francis didn’t know what to do–he buried his head into his hands and thought about what was going to happen. He would go back to jail with so much anger inside of him–hating them both so much that Ivan would eventually retain his feelings and hate Richie.
He remembered telling Richie that, if he should ever hurt him the way Eustacio had with Theresa, to never love him ‘like that’. At this moment, he didn’t want Richie to love him at all. He didn’t want to have anything to do with him. He wanted to detach and separate all that he’d ever known of the man and move on. To ignore that this had ever happened–this happiness and insanity of security and trust. He didn’t have that, anymore.
He wanted to leave the hospital, to get away from it all.
But at the same time, he couldn’t–he felt responsibility for his husband, and he just couldn’t muster up the strength to leave.
He just didn’t know what to do.
He looked over at Richie now, covering his mouth as his throat filled with bile–not from the visible injuries, but from the way this man’s face had contorted with pleasure while having Ivan’s dick up inside of him. He couldn’t see beyond that–how was he supposed to move on? How was he supposed to accept that?
The finality in his feelings felt heavy. He turned away, presenting his back to him, staring sightlessly at the meager curtain that separated them from another patient. Entwining his fingers together, he wondered how this was going to be fixed. If it should be. If it even could–with the way he was feeling, he didn’t think it’d ever be fixed.
He heard shifting behind him–he glanced over his shoulder, to see Richie blink his eyes open with a sense of heaviness caused by drugs or confusion. Francis looked away.
He heard him shifting about, the muttered exclamations in the discovery of his injuries. Feeling all his muscles tighten and grow heavy, Francis forced himself to look over. Richie looked over at him in confusion, until his eyes darkened with understanding and fright. Shifting nearby made him look away from Francis quickly, looking at the single uniformed policeman that had noticed his awakening.
“You coherent, man?” he asked Richie with a sort of impatient tone, taking out his notepad and pen. “You able to identify the person, or persons that did this to you?”
Richie stared at him in silence, his eyes darting toward Francis with unease. Francis turned in his seat, looking at him steadily–waiting for him to give the information needed. Dark lashes blinked repeatedly, until Richie looked back at the policeman, tightly shaking his head.
“N-no. I...I don’t remember.”
“Nothing? Can you tell me who you were with before the attack?”
Richie stared at the impatient expression, feeling Francis’ eyes on him, with all the warmth of anger in his look.
Something made Francis talk– “You can’t deny shit, Rich. They found someone’s jizz up your fuckin’ ass,” he muttered, angrily running his fingers through his hair.
Richie looked at him, his face paling significantly. His eyes filled and brightened with tears as he turned back to the policeman, blinking them loose as he answered quietly, “Ivan Evans.”
The man made a note of it, his face expressing his surprise and disgust at the revealed information. Francis couldn’t look away from the tears that were soaking the collar of Richie’s hospital issued gown, the way they dribbled down his bruised skin, over the bandaged cuts that had been made from his wedding band. He sullenly wondered why Richie would pull this act, and felt even more anger at him for breaking so obviously.
“Did he do this to you? To...shut you up about it?”
“...No. It...it was consensual.”
Pen moved over paper, and the middle-aged man gave Francis a steady look. “Did your husband do it?”
“Ah, what the fuck–?” Francis started, reddening, but shooting the man a dirty look. He had to hide his shaking hands as he interlaced his fingers, looking as if he were struggling to keep his temper reined.
“...No. I...I don’t remember. But...neither were involved. They...they weren’t there.”
Francis wanted to speak up–wanted to confess all. He felt that urge to do so, but the thought of being in jail made it easier to suppress. He looked away, looking down at his shaking hands as his knuckles whitened, and his fingers started to turn color with the grip he had on them.
The man rolled his eyes, but he jotted that information down, as well. With an impatient sigh, he shifted his cap. “Look...you know the person, right? There wasn’t any sign of forced entry into your home, and neighbors reported seeing two out of the five vehicles parked there leave around eight. Another left around eight twenty. So you obviously knew the person, to let them in. You gonna press charges, or not? I’ve got other sob stories out there to deal with...”
Richie looked over at Francis, who looked away from him. He looked over at the policeman with a slight shake of his head.
“No.”
With that, the middle aged man finished his notes, and closed his book. He gave the pair a look, then turned to confer with his partner. Then, the pair of them walked away, one of them muttering about how gay domestic issues were as tedious and annoying as hetero married couples’.
Richie looked over at Francis, saying nothing for a few moments, the redhead looking away from him. More tears steadily joined the rest, the excited bustle of ER activity continuing on through their silence.
“I–I’m sorry,” Richie whispered, wishing for Francis to look at him. He merely saw those broad shoulders tighten, a muscle working in that firm jaw line. “Francis? I’m sorry...”
Francis swallowed tightly, trying to suppress his emerging anger. He pressed his fingertips against his lips, rubbing his thumb along his jaw line. He could still feel Richie’s eyes on him–could still feel his anger, hear his words from that one night, asking Richie not to love him.
“Francis...?”
He really wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t want to go home and have to return to the home they’d shared. To the room they shared, to see all the things they had obtained together. He didn’t want to see the obviousness of their togetherness when things hadn’t been ‘together’ for awhile.
“Francis?”
Francis fiddled with the wide wedding band on his ring finger–he wanted to rip it off and hurl it away from him. Wanted to rant and rage over the end of things. He wanted Richie to be punished, to suffer the loss of what they had. He wanted a divorce–to separate from him legally and completely. But even as he thought those wants, distractions of his own infidelities managed to filter in. How he started sleeping with women when sex with Richie started to grow boring, and he wanted something new. How he’d started coming home only to leave again, disappearing all weekend and coming home late Monday to his husband. He had his own mistakes that contributed to the problem. Richie wasn't the only one to blame, but Francis felt that he'd made the worst mistake in fucking with someone so close to them both.
“...Francis...please...”
Was it all his fault to begin with? But Richie had lost interest, too. Which was why he started going out on his own, and when those rumors of him flirting with other men began arising, Francis had kept it at the back of his head–and used that excuse to continue doing what he was doing. It wasn’t just his fault–it was Richie’s, too. There had been a lot of love and security both of them found in each other; they had endured a lot to be together. They had been close in every aspect. They had found comfort in each other; security; usefulness.
“...please...”
But in the end...was it all worth it? Was it worth wading through all these troubles for something that was dying?
He dropped his head, then slipped off the stool. He didn’t say anything as he walked out from the room closed off by curtains, to find coffee.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Ivan sipped casually on his coffee, staring off into the distance. All of Francis’ emotions were conflicting, roiling–his anger was extremely hot and his feelings of betrayal were just as thick.
In all truths, Ivan didn’t know what to say. Or do. He had felt that loss of control Francis exhibited when he was very riled, almost similar to that night when he’d caught Tyson and Richie flirting in the kitchen, but this anger felt different. It wasn’t laced with insecurity and embarrassment–it was more sad and defeated.
Pathetic, really.
All the deep pillars of sadness and defeat was something Ivan was familiar with, himself. He’d experienced the same things when Adam turned away from him. When Theresa pulled away.
So, in a sense of understanding, he knew what Francis was going through.
And, in a way, Ivan felt guilty. He didn’t want to, but he felt guilty over just...leaving. Letting Richie take it all. He figured that the fall-out was bad. Francis had exhibited enough anger to let Ivan know he’d lost control more than once.
He set his coffee aside, and took out a fresh pack of Marlboros, tapping the top of the box against his palm. Dakota was quiet out, tonight, and their apartment was even more silent. Shiv was out on a date, and Dominic was engrossed with something of his own in his room. Ivan had to wonder how things were going to work, now. Would Francis even risk letting his husband around him? Would he watch them both like a hawk, now? Or perhaps he’d just give up everything and divorce the man.
Ivan hoped that it was the latter.
He had no ties to Richie–he only experienced what he had through Francis, and with the way Francis was feeling now, it appeared that he wouldn’t have that trouble anymore. He was gratified at that. He had hated and resented being the ‘tagalong’.
He had just finished off his first cig when he heard Dominic open the door from the apartment. Ivan tensed, shaking out another cigarette as he tried to examine Francis’ feelings. From the subdued way Dominic was speaking, it was apparent that Francis was still angry. But Ivan had to scrunch his brow with thought–he couldn’t feel that anger, anymore.
He had some relief in that he couldn’t feel his emotions–it seemed promising. It was about time Francis learned to hide what he was feeling.
The sliding door opened, and Ivan forced himself to stay where he was. He wasn’t afraid of Francis–but he knew he didn’t stand a chance against him if the redhead decided to throw a few punches at him. Size made all the difference, and he knew Francis knew how to use it.
He could feel that venomous stare on him, and glanced over his shoulder at the big man behind him.
He didn’t have anything to say, really. He figured he’d let Francis have at it.
He turned to face him, smoking casually–struggling to keep his indifference in place.
“I put him in the fuckin’ hospital,” Francis growled low, his features darkened and accusing. Ivan merely blinked, dashing ashes over the railing. “I put him in the hospital. I fucked him up. And you just stand there, doing nothin’.”
Ivan shrugged a shoulder. “That’s your business.”
“You’re a part of it!”
“...He offered. I took.”
The rage that filtered through Ivan made him wince, and Francis reached out to shove him hard. Ivan caught himself quickly, dropping his cig. He prepared for the next action, his fists curling, but Francis didn’t even bother to attack.
Instead, he looked away, moving away from him to stand at the other side of the balcony. Ivan watched him tremble, the way his hands curled and relaxed at his sides.
Still unsure of what to expect, Ivan straightened, to lean against the railing with an indifferent air. He made a slight gesture with his hands. “So, what’cha gonna do, man? Huh? Send me the same way? I don’t fuckin’ care. Just a bitch, anyway.”
“Why him? Huh? Why him? You ain’t–you ain’t fuckin’ gay.”
“...Told you. He offered. I took.”
“But why you? You hate each other!”
“Yeah...but...was all just head games. That’s all. Fuckin’ head trip.”
Francis stared at him for a considerable measure of time. Saying nothing.
Angrily, then, he whipped his head to the side, and began rubbing his face with agitation. Ivan had to wonder why he wasn’t behaving in the manner that he’d been expecting. Francis reacted with violence when confronted with an issue that called for it, but he didn’t seem to want to attack.
“I fuckin’ hate you both,” Francis then muttered, almost too low for Ivan to hear. The sounds of someone’s bass from across the complex seemed louder than his words.
Despite it all, Ivan felt his relief in that things between the two seemed defeated and broken.
“Man, sittin’ there...having them...look at him, an’ shit? Knowin’ that I did it all, that I put him that way? I just felt...like...I always felt guilty for hitting him the first time. Because when I did it, I hit him because he wanted to see other people. We weren’t doin’ good that time, but...but when he said that, I just...hit him. And I always regretted it. Cuz I didn’t want to lose him. But...but lookin’ at him now, I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel any guilt for doin' that.”
Ivan stared out at the skyline of Dakota–he could see the building that his brother worked in to make music. Vaguely wondered what they were having for dinner.
“And you know what the fucked-up thing about it all, is?” Francis turned to look back at him, glaring at him with utter contempt and hate. “Is that I have to choose. An’ that I have to choose you. Because of our fuckin’ link. You’re gonna always be there. He ain’t. Do you know what the fuck that does to me?”
Ivan could care less, but he saw the point. He looked down at his clean K Swisses and toed lightly at the scuffed mat underfoot.
Francis ran his hand over his face with agitation, then through his hair. “I don’t want nothing to fuckin’ do with you, an’ there’s really nothin’ to do about it. I can’t kill you. You can’t kill me. I would much rather have that than...than anything. But I can’t.”
Ivan looked at him steadily, clearing his throat. Wishing for another cigarette. But he didn’t look away, even as Francis hit the railing angrily, growling low. When the redhead turned to face him, Ivan tensed, ready to move, but all Francis did was say, “Don’t come around. Don’t even fuckin’ talk to me. Don’t...don’t even talk to him.”
Ivan shrugged again. “No skin off my back. Ain’t nothin’...”
Francis stared at him, seemingly never blinking. “Above it all, you had no feelings for him, huh? Just...just fucking.”
“Yeah. How obvious do I gotta be?”
Francis said nothing. Ivan met that stare, giving all his indifference and disregard for the situation with a simple look.
Saying nothing more, Francis shook his head, turned, and left the balcony. Ivan watched him leave, then turned to grab another cigarette. Ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking as he lit it, he listened to the front door slam shut behind the redhead’s leave, and concentrated on the task at hand.
SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.SS.
Nearly two weeks later, Virgil unloaded himself from his car, beaming proudly. His shirt reeked of baby spit-up, and he was pretty sure that green stain on his jeans wasn’t just from dinner, but from a diaper out of control. In a way, he felt disgusted by wearing such stains, but at the same time–he was dedicated enough to his children in that he’d wear what they put on him–just as the mothers did.
He walked up the front walkway, and knocked insistently at the door. He was ready to go out, having the night off from his children, and wanted to have some fun. Richie’s cellphone had been disconnected, making him wonder if Francis was punishing him for something or another to take that privilege away. He’d only managed to speak to Richie a few times over the house phone, but their conversations had been very brief–Richie always seemed occupied.
When the door opened, Francis looking out with an irritated expression, Virgil walked right in. Immediately, Francis scowled, shutting the door behind him and looking at him questioningly.
“Been tryin’ to get a hold of Richie, man,” Virgil said, looking around the house. It looked as if Richie had done more redecorating and had managed to fit in a small dining room set near the bar style counter. It was currently set and Francis had left him to attend to matters in the kitchen. Uncomfortably, Virgil looked around for his friend.
“So...is he here?” he asked.
“Yeah. But...he’s gonna eat, first,” Francis muttered, making a couple of plates.
It was the first time that Virgil ever recalled the pair eating something that wasn’t take-out or from boxes. It looked as if Francis had spent some time with a cookbook to whip up something that looked like grilled chicken, vegetables and a side dish of potatoes. Virgil was amazed, and he ambled over, looking at the creation.
“Didn’t know you could cook!” Virgil exclaimed, inhaling deeply of the seasoned grub.
“...Yeah.” Francis looked momentarily embarrassed as he finished making both plates. He then frowned as he set aside salt and pepper. “Rich! You done?!”
“Where’s he at, man?” Virgil then asked.
Francis gave him a careful, considering look. Then shrugged a shoulder. “Guest room.”
Virgil thanked him, and walked on over to the hall, spying that the light was on in the mentioned room. He walked in with a greeting on his lips, then paused. Looking at the room, it was obvious that Richie had moved into here. His personal effects were everywhere, the bed looking as if it had been slept in very recently. Near the bed was a small night stand that held a touch lamp, a large cup of water, and some medication. An alarming amount of it.
And his best friend was currently sitting on the floor, looking dumbfounded at his shoes.
Virgil wasn’t sure what to think, unsure of what to say as he looked down at Richie with uncomfortable action. He figured that the two were fighting, again. He shrugged at that.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” he asked jovially, watching as Richie looked up at him with surprise.
“Oh, hey, Virgil Hawkins,” he answered with a strained smile, lowering his shoe. “What are you doing here?”
Virgil didn’t know what to say, unused to his full name being used by his best friend. The whole greeting seemed rehearsed, strained–forced. He stared at Richie in silence. “Uh...well...I’ve been trying to call you...but your phone don’t seem to be working.”
Richie sighed, shrugging. It looked as if he’d showered just a few minutes ago, and Virgil watched him as he fiddled with the velcro on his shoes. It took a moment to realize that his socks were pulled on backwards–the heels resting atop of his feet. Virgil lifted an eyebrow. Pointing, he stated quietly, “You having an off day, man? Your socks...they....they’re kinda backward.”
Richie looked down at them, then frowned thoughtfully. He pulled off his socks, and Virgil watched with immense confusion as he turned them inside out and then pulled them back on. He looked at his friend again, having nothing to say as Richie continued to play with his shoes once more.
He figured his friend was just acting eccentric. Having one of those days where his thoughts were forcing him to behave in ways beyond normality. He shrugged it off.
“So...uh...wanna head out, tonight?” he asked, blinking repeatedly as Richie played with the velcro straps of his shoes. To Virgil, it honestly seemed that the blond had no idea what to do with them. The expression on his face was truly puzzled.
“To where?” Richie asked curiously, looking up at him, setting his shoes aside.
“I dunno. Hit the clubs, first, then...then maybe the clubs...? I’m ready to party-hearty, man! Get my groove on!”
“... ‘Hit the clubs’...?”
“...Yeah. I mean...hoppin’. Club hoppin’. How’s that sound? Or your man got you on a leash, again?”
This time, Virgil didn’t bother to hide his expression as Richie continued to look puzzled at him. The blond then shrugged again. “Nah, I don’t feel like it, Virgil. I’m just going to stay in with Francis, tonight. He and I have been having these really bad troubles, and he’s been really mad at me, lately.”
Virgil blinked. Then looked taken back. “So...you guys are...having troubles? All the more so to go out, man. It didn’t seem to bother you, before.”
“No, I can’t do that, Virgil. I’m on bad enough terms with him as it is. That’s why I moved in here. He doesn’t want to touch me, anymore. He found out that I was sleeping with Ivan–”
“YOU WHAT?!”
“–and he doesn’t have very much patience for me, anymore. So I kind of want to just...stay in. Try to fix things.”
“Rich, you slept with–?”
“You done yet?”
Virgil jumped nearly a foot high as Francis’ disgusted tone rang nearby, the older man moving to stand in the doorway, abruptly pushing him to the side. Richie looked up at him, then gestured helplessly at his shoes.
With another annoyed expression, Francis walked over to him, then crouched, angrily taking his shoe away from him, then noting the socks with extreme agitation.
“Jesus fucking Christ...”
“I’m sorry...I just...I forgot...”
Virgil watched Francis correct the mistake, then pushed his shoes on and tied the straps down tightly, standing up just as quickly. “Food’s gettin’ cold,” he then muttered, leaving the room, making Virgil bristle at his attitude.
He looked back at Richie, then moved over to help him up. It was a little startling to realize how thin his fingers seemed when he accepted the action. He had to look closely at his friend. “You lose some weight?”
“I dunno. I haven’t had much of an appetite, lately. I’ve got to go now, Virgil. I have to eat. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Virgil reached out, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him back. He stared at Richie for a few seconds, the startled blond looking at him in the same action.
“You okay, man?” Virgil then asked. “You’re acting so strange.”
“Oh...I don’t know.”
“And you’re talking like...like...I don’t know. What’s wrong with you? What are you taking?” He moved over to examine the bottles. Painkillers, sleeping pills...instructions to take every stated interval with food and water. He held out a painkiller. “Why you taking these? What’s wrong with you?”
“Oh...” Richie took the bottle, reading the instructions, then passed it back. “For pain. You know... because it hurts.”
“What hurts?”
“My head...I hurt myself a few weeks ago. My head...I’ve been having troubles with it. I don’t know. The doctor says that I can’t go back to work. That I can’t drive. Something about, that, my motor skills and things will be...interrupted. Only for a little while. But...sometimes, it hurts, and I can’t sleep. So...so I take that.”
“When did this happen?”
“Francis and I had a really big fight. I hurt it, then.”
Virgil stared at him for a few moments, then glanced over his shoulder. He lowered his voice, speaking urgently, “Did he do that to you?”
Richie stared at him for a few moments, then shook his head tightly. “I deserved it. You know? Like, like when you said that I was asking for it? So...so Joe was right. Cuz....cuz I deserved it. I was destroying other peoples’ minds with my...my....shit. What’s the word...? That thing you play....like...”
Virgil stared at him with measurable shock, then realized that Richie was serious about it. There wasn’t any considerable amount of maturity to his words–as if he were a child, in a manner of speaking. There was something incredibly chilling about it, the way he revealed the truth of the problem so blatantly.
“Rich...” Before he could continue, both of them winced at Francis’ bellow for him to come out and eat.
“I’ve got to go, Virgil. I don’t want him angry at me, anymore.”
“Richie...” Virgil stopped him, holding onto his arm. “Maybe you should come out with me. You want to go see your parents?”
Richie gave him an annoyed expression, pulling his arm from his grip. “Why are you talking to me like that? All slow, enunciating everything like that? Yeah, I hurt my head–but that didn’t make me stupid.”
“I’m sorry. All right? Just...just maybe, you should come out with me, tonight.”
“...No. No, I don’t want to. I’m just going to stay in. Besides, I get dizzy a lot. And a little nauseated. I wouldn’t be very much fun at the clubs. I don’t want to drag you down, Virgil. Go ahead and have some fun.”
“...What happened really, man?”
“Nothing. I hit my head. Um, the doctor...said that it was...traumatic? Enough for some...juggling to occur. So...it’ll take a little while to heal. Mild, he said. It’s nothing. Francis’ insurance covers it. Actually, I had to quit my job because I didn’t have the time required to leave it. So...so he’s providing for me. Virgil, stop being overprotective, ‘k? He’s doing the best he can. I don’t want to ruin things any further. He’s taking care of me, because I obviously don’t know what I’m doing. I couldn’t even put on my shoes!” Richie added with a dull laugh. “I’m going to eat, now. Or, at least, try.”
He leaned close, holding up a hand to whisper, “He doesn’t cook very well. It’s all so bland.”
He giggled, then hurried out from the room, Virgil staring after him in immense confusion.
Virgil looked around the room once more–noting that the computer had collected some dust, that the closet was full of his personal effects. Realizing it now, he recalled that the diamonds studs that Richie wore were missing; the wedding band, as well. He realized that they had troubles–it had been obvious. But he couldn’t remember a time when Richie had moved into the guest room as he had now.
With a slow exhale, Virgil left the room, moving awkwardly out into the front. He looked over at them as they sat at the dinner table; Francis glared and looked obviously put-out as he ate, flashing Richie those looks whenever a question was asked or an action was needed. The strain and tension between them was uncomfortably thick.
Virgil shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, clearing his throat thickly. He noticed with a quick glance that Francis’ wedding band was missing, as well. It made him feel extremely distressed, knowing that his best friend was having problems, and he’d been too involved with his own life to even really notice what was happening.
“So...my best friend’s kinda outta whack,” he said, inwardly wincing.
Francis gave him an annoyed look. “Yeah. Hit his head. Fuckin’...he’s all stupid, now.”
“I’m not stupid, Francis,” Richie muttered. He looked over at Virgil. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“...Is there something I’m missing, here?” Virgil then asked, looking at Francis pointedly, watching the big man eat quietly, eyeing him with some irritation. “I mean...damn. How’d he hit his head, man?”
“Virgil–! Goddamn, just go away!” Richie spat angrily, dropping his fork. “Don’t be coming over here and starting things that aren’t of your concern!”
“Virgil,” Francis began quietly, wiping his mouth and setting his napkin aside. “We’re having dinner. You may have noticed that there are some changes–but that’s none of your fucking business. Can you please leave? NOW?”
Virgil blinked–he and Francis never had a good relationship, but he noted the strain in the older man’s voice as he spoke. The way it seemed he was struggling to maintain a sense of civil standing with him. It was an even bigger strain than it had been.
He cast Richie a look, and noted with some disgruntled irritation that he was staying out of it–staring sullenly at his plate, pushing food about with his fork. It didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere, so Virgil sighed and grabbed his car keys from his jeans pocket.
“Look...sorry...I...hopefully things will get better.”
With that, Virgil nodded at them, then left the house, slamming the door a little too hard.
Francis looked down, then across the table at Richie, who was still focused on his plate. Leaning forward to rest his chin into his hand, his fingers curling over his lips and nose, he stared at the blond bowed head and felt his head ache with painful tension.
Amid the silence within the house, Richie playing with his food listlessly, Francis took a deep breath, straightening away from the table.
He stared down at his food, half eaten and discarded due to the seasoning he’d flavored it with. It seemed since the hospital visit that Richie had lost some of his taste buds, and thought everything bland and dull. Francis had tried to make things more interesting to eat, but he wasn’t much of a cook.
Feeling overwhelmed, he rubbed his face tiredly.
“I don’t want to do this, anymore,” he muttered, his voice breaking the silence.
Richie looked up from his plate, eyebrows lifting. “Do...do what?”
Francis gestured at the table, at both of them. “This...us. I can’t...it’s hard for me to come home, everyday. I can’t stand to touch you. I can’t stand to look at you. I can’t stand knowing that I go into that kitchen every day, where I’d...where I’d caught you two. I can’t stand...having to...having to take care of you over everything. The doc said it was all temporary, but...it’s like...I can’t.”
Richie stared down at his plate in silence, hearing those words, understanding what they meant. What the heavy tone meant. He really couldn’t answer–his throat felt tight. But he understood why Francis felt the way he did–he had spent days being angry over himself and for Francis’ hypocritical reactions, but that was blamed on his injury’s aftereffects.
He felt tired, as well. Of being helpless, of forgetting the smallest of things, of having troubles in everyday, normal things. He knew he should be angry at Francis–hate him. Divorce him. Do what it took to make his own life miserable. Francis was the reason why he’d received his TBI–he was the reason why Richie felt such ways every day.
But every time he thought of it that way, he just wanted to cry.
Hearing Francis speak now made his eyes tear up. He dropped his fork, and rubbed at his eyes, hating his weakness.
“...But you did this to me,” he said quietly, hearing his voice shake. “You did this, you take care of it. I don’t like being helpless, and having to depend on you, either! I don’t like coming home to this place, and realizing how much I lost over what I did! I don’t like it, either! Stop being the victim. You contributed, too...”
Francis stared at him silently, folding his hands before him, elbows on table. He couldn’t take the sight of Richie being so sad–but he had to speak what he felt.
“I...I want a divorce. I can’t...I can’t feel that I can trust you, anymore.” Anxiously, his hands moved through his hair, then clasped the limp strands while Richie wiped at his eyes and kept his face averted. “But...I...I won’t apply for it until...you get better, I guess, but I dunno. Just...maybe for now...a separation? You can still live here, just...I don’t want to....keep up the charade. Of...of pretending to be happy when we ain’t.”
Richie kept his head down, feeling all his emotions welling up deep within.
“You cheated, too. You think I felt happy knowing I had to compete with both sexes for your attention?”
“Jesus Christ, it wasn’t even like that...”
“You slept with women! You started this! If you’d just...just stayed home, and...and paid attention to me like you used to...made me feel like I was worth it, I wouldn’t’ve–”
“‘I, I, I’–it’s all about you, huh? Always about you! Always spending my money, always bitching about this and that–! I got tired of you, too!”
“It isn’t just me! How do you think I felt, having to touch you, knowing you touched and fucked with women?! And you’re such a fucking control freak–! You were basically free to do whatever, and I couldn’t–! With all the accusations, I should’ve done this a long time ago! We’re not even with the things that we did!”
“Ah, cry about it. That’s all you do, lately. Fuckin’ cry about it.”
“...I can’t be the only one hurting about it, Francis. I know I broke your heart–and I’m sorry. I wish that I could fix things. I wish I hadn’t done what I did, but I did–! The only thing I can do now, is try to fix–”
“I don’t want nothin’ fixed. I just...want it all...to end.” Francis hung his head into his hands, elbows on the table.
“Can’t...can’t we just...just let...why do we have to go that far? Can’t we just...fix it?”
“...I don’t want to fix something that’s just going to break, again.”
“...It won’t. I...I learned my lesson. I learned my lesson...”
“I don’t want to, anymore, Rich. I don’t want to...”
Richie grabbed his napkin, to wipe angrily at his tears as Francis continued to speak softly to him. He heard the tones of guilt, of remorse and sorrow–knew that Francis truly felt those despite the obvious. It was at that moment Joe’s words came back to him suddenly, and he couldn’t stop the escaping hysterical giggle as he rose from the table.
He had to catch onto the chair to keep his balance as things slid dangerously around him, Francis looking up with concern.
“I guess curses do exist. Good night.”
Francis watched him leave the room, heading toward his room with a low murmur, the door slamming shut a moment later. Puzzled, Francis sat at the dining room table and thought long and hard about what he was doing. What he planned on doing.
Later that night, not hearing anything from the other room, Francis checked in on him. He was a little scared, afraid of what he’d find once he opened that door, but Richie was asleep, his features slack with intense, drugged slumber. There were obvious tear tracks on his cheeks.
Quietly, Francis swept up the medication that sat on the night stand, checked the dates they were issued, and the quantity that was given for Richie to take. After that, he spent time counting out each bottle, finding that Richie was consistent with each one–that none had been taken in excess, or forgotten.
He closed them tightly, casting a look down at the sleeping blond. With an expression of intense remorse, he took the bottles and quietly left the room.