Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Seventeen ( Chapter 17 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Virgil disagrees with his decision.
Lime in sight...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.8K | Visits: 493 | Status: Completed
Virgil disagrees with his decision.
Lime in sight...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.8K | Visits: 493 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Seventeen
The pair of them stared, quietly, at the bags of trash that lined the front porch. It was nearly ten o’clock at night, and Hotstreak had parked his newly acquired car down the street, in clear view of the two story house. Richie had insisted that he go home, to check out the situation with his family, sure that last night had been a mistake caused by too much alcohol. Upon seeing some pieces of furniture that had once been set up in his room, he realized, with a dreadfully heavy feeling, just how serious his father had been. He wasn’t sure how to take the situation as he continued to stare out at the bags that he instinctively knew contained things from his bedroom.
“I guess he really means it,” he muttered, looking away. “I can’t take all that stuff with me. I guess it’s not that important...”
“You just gonna leave it all there?”
“I am not lugging around bags and bags of–I don’t need it, I guess. But...I need my school stuff. And maybe some more clothes...I can’t believe he’s actually serious about this...”
Hotstreak shrugged. He looked away from it all and glanced over at him, shifting in his seat. Seeing Richie’s destroyed expression made him uncomfortable, and he fiddled uselessly with the radio.
The Toyota Camry was still in good working order, and had been properly maintained throughout its ten years within ownership. The seller had sold it to him for two thousand dollars, a reasonable price for a well kept car. Glad to have a vehicle, Hotstreak hadn’t cared about the light brown color or the fraying leather seats. As long as he was able to drive it, it was okay.
Settling upon a hip-hop station, he glanced at Richie again. Then leaned back in his seat, chewing at his thumbnail.
“Least ya don’t have to fuck around with that dick,” he said with another shrug. “He ain’t gonna bother you, no more.”
“Yeah...I guess I should look at it that way,” Richie muttered, finally tearing his eyes away to stare at his hands. His fingers were curled loosely, shadows cast over them from the darkness outside. He felt depressed as he realized that he wasn’t able to come home–being thrust from the nest so abruptly left him feeling unbalanced. How could he take it so lightly?
“‘Sat it, then? Cuz–”
“I need to get my school bag...do you see it anywhere?”
“...Black one? It might be that one next to the trash can.”
Richie sighed heavily, unlatching his seatbelt. Hand on the door handle, he squinted as he surveyed what he could from the car, and finally got out. Over the cheery chime of the door opening, he said, “I’m going to go get it. And some of my clothes. I guess I don’t need anything else...”
Hotstreak crossed his arms as Richie shut the door and hurried down the sidewalk, crossing the street to get to his house. Watching him, Hotstreak frowned.
Richie hadn’t made it to school, that day. Rather, the pair of them slept until it was well past noon.
The rest of the day was spent acquiring his ‘new’ car; for Richie to get his homework from the teachers still remaining at Dakota Union; and for that movie to be seen. Hotstreak admitted that he saw better, but what made the experience much more enjoyable was that he got to have Richie right next to him all that entire time. Usually, when he came to the movies–having to sneak in, of course, as he did tonight–he’d be one of the troublemakers that tossed full containers of soda into an enraptured movie audience; to hitting on chicks that sat together despite the obvious action on screen; but today, he actually sat down and watched the movie from beginning to end.
After the movie, on a high that one had when spending time with someone they really enjoyed being with, they’d went and hit a grocery store for more food.
Buying more sandwich things and some extras, Hotstreak was pleased to find out how much fun it was being with Richie and making choices for both of them. It had made him uneasy, realizing he couldn’t think only of himself, but he found it pleasant. He was more than embarrassed of himself, actually, if he thought about it. So he distracted himself by being bossy–and being bossed right back. He caught himself thinking how similar his banter with Richie was that of flirting with Maria; that made him apprehensive.
Hotstreak eyed the front porch suspiciously–it was dark out there, save for the single street lamp at the corner, lighting enough of the area to see the individual bags.
When he’d left home, he had nothing more than a trash bag full of clothes and a backpack of inconsequential things. He’d slept on the streets and on an occasional friends’ couch. He’d been homeless for a good amount of time until he learned how to make the big money and get himself a small studio apartment. If Richie didn’t have him, Hotstreak had no doubt that he would have been at the Hawkins’...so it wasn’t as if the boy didn’t have anywhere else to go.
But he narrowed his eyes in thought–if he hadn’t approached the blond last year, he doubted any of this would have started. Richie would have stayed in the closet, Hotstreak never would have known about him in this close, intimate manner, and the two would never have been together. He had been the catalyst to Richie’s present standing; somehow, he didn’t feel as proud as he would have.
Once Richie began shuffling through the bags, he looked down at the magazine the blond had been reading–he had no idea what the magazine boasted of, but he was curious as to why Usher was featured so many times...he personally didn’t like the singer, and didn’t care for his genre of music.
He picked up the magazine and flipped through it, only to oogle some Louis Vuitton models.
“Does this make me bi?” he wondered aloud. He loved women–their bodies, their voices, their everything; but he loved a male.
Confusion, confusion...it was enough to make him want a cigarette. Pulling one out, he lit it and finished thumbing through the magazine, grouching aloud about Usher’s well toned chest and abs. When he looked up to see if Richie was still there, he was a little startled to see that the blond wasn’t anywhere in sight. He tossed the magazine aside as he grumbled around his cigarette. All the bags were still upon the porch–his school bag was sitting on the front steps. He wondered where he could have gone as he killed the cancer stick and flung that out the window.
He was going to get out of the car and go search for him when Richie emerged from behind the house, rushing along as he stuffed something into the back of his jeans. He grabbed an armful of clothes and his school bag, and hurried back to the car.
“Where’d you go?” Hotstreak asked curiously, avoiding the bag as it was flung into the back seat.
“My mom heard me digging through that stuff,” Richie muttered, settling into the seat after tossing his clothing over his bag. He strapped on his seat belt as Hotstreak started the car. Richie reached behind him, pulling out a security envelope. He opened it to find a wad of bills stuck within. “She gave me this money. I feel bad for taking it. But I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”
As Hotstreak wondered if he were being insulted, Richie hastened to add, “I should be providing for myself. To help you. If I’m going to be staying with you, I want to chip in. I want to help out.”
“It ain’t like I’m poor...” Hotstreak felt a tingle of nervousness as he began to realize that Richie was staying with him. Having the blond with him twenty-four/seven? He wasn’t sure if he were ecstatic or scared. They hadn’t been together for very long–hell, if he thought about it, they spent more time apart and trying NOT to care about the other than they were together.
This was just another new situation that made him more anxious.
“I know, but...I...don’t want to be dependent. I should have gotten a job a long time ago...but with all my schoolwork a-and Gear activities...I just didn’t have the time.” Richie sighed, picking up his magazine and then rolling it. He began tapping it against his knee with a lost expression. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“A job?” Hotstreak repeated skeptically. “I can’t drive you everywhere.”
“I know. I can figure out how to use the bus from the area...that’s not hard. Dakota has a transit system for obvious reasons...I think, tomorrow, after school, I’m going to look for a part time job. And figure out what to do from there.”
A job, Hotstreak thought carefully, wrinkling his brow as they left the neighborhood. Funny thing was, he could see Richie in a fast food restaurant. He could see him working as a clerk at some retail shop. Or a bored cashier–but the fact that the blond was so eager to delve into such things made him feel restless. It was time spent away from him.
He felt exasperated at himself for feeling all these conflicting emotions.
Richie then looked at him, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank you for taking me there. I know you didn’t want to...but I want you to know that I appreciate it.”
“Yeah...”
“...were you looking at my magazine?”
“I was looking at the chicks!” he exclaimed in defense.
“I was just asking...there’s ashes on this page. Francis, here. We need gas.”
“I don’t need your momma’s money! I got my own! And I say when we need gas! ...And we need gas right now,” he muttered, looking for a gas station. He found one, and pulled in, taking the pump furthest from the others as to not draw any attention to himself or his companion. As it were, the station was empty, and the single worker was engrossed with some celebrity gossip mag. “And why the hell do you call me ‘Francis’ all the time when ya know I hate it?”
“You’ve never objected, before. Besides, it’s easier to say. I’m too lazy to say your cognomen.”
“‘Cogno–’? What the fuck–?”
“Never mind. Here.”
“I don’t want your money–! Fine. But I’m buyin’ a beer.”
Richie snatched the twenty back with a snarl, hitting him in the shoulder. Hotstreak gave him a startled look at the unexpected punch. “No ALCOHOL! I had that fucking bumper thisclose to my damn face!”
“Aw, what the–Ow. OW! GODDAMN YOU! NO FUCKIN’ BITING!” Hotstreak roared as he tossed his arm up, throwing Richie’s teeth off his flesh. He shoved the younger male against the door, but Richie straightened to grip his sleeve within one hand.
“No. ALCOHOL. Or I’ll make you sorry.”
“How?”
“Just...no alcohol. Please.”
“I really don’t see any motivation for me not–OW!” he shouted again, as teeth once more gripped the fleshy expanse of his arm. He opened the door and climbed out with a snarl.
“NO ALCOHOL,” Richie repeated, throwing an empty can of soda after him. “And I was ASKING, and I said ‘please’! I wasn’t bossing you AROUND!”
Hotstreak slammed the car door shut, the entire car shaking with the action. He turned to walk, stumbled over that thrown can, and had to grab onto the car to keep from hitting the ground. From inside the Camry, he heard Richie bellow, “SEE? DRUNK ALREADY!”
Muttering, he headed into the gas station to pay for his gas. Richie grinned in victory, then sighed, turning to look out the window. He couldn’t believe his father had been serious.
Maybe he wasn’t, he thought. Maybe he’d followed through with his drunken binge and set everything out last night. Maybe I can still go back...I should just wait for a few days, then try again.
It wasn’t as if he were eager and desperate for more of the harshness he’d been given by his father over the years...just the unknown made him apprehensive. He’d spent countless nights at Virgil’s just to get away, but he always had a home to come back to. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t understand himself. Like Hotstreak said, at least he didn’t have to deal with his father’s bullshit, anymore.
He should look at it that way.
OooooooooooO
He told Virgil what had happened that next day at school. Virgil listened quietly, then with disbelief clear on his face, he exclaimed, “So you’re staying with Hotstreak?”
“Sshh!” Richie hissed, glancing around him apprehensively. His cheeks turned red as he looked down at his textbook for Anatomy. “Yeah...I mean...I guess I don’t mind...but he said I could stay with him.”
“No. No! No no no no no!” Virgil repeated, giving his best friend an incredulous look.
The pair were sitting outside, at the small table that they’d frequented when they had wanted to be alone. Both were freezing in the below twenty temperature, but neither wanted to risk being overheard. Bundled up as they were in various sweaters, jackets, scarves and beanies, the pair were very uncomfortable as they spoke.
“Richie! You’re supposed to be a brain! Maybe that cure for your advanced genius dummed you down too much! Are you even thinking?”
Richie scowled at him, but he had to wonder if he’d somehow performed that feat in his own cure.
“First off, Richard, he is a wanted man. The whole city is looking for him! He has Wanted posters up in the fucking school! Or do you just ignore that? Second, that is a cri-min-nal! He’s wanted because of his violence on the streets! He’s wanted because he’s a fuckin’ gangbanger! He deals cocaine and meth! He does cocaine and meth! Have you forgotten that? An’ if the guy gets pissed, ain’t nobody safe when he decides to dish it out! Richie! Don’t you shake your head at me! THINK! Think, God damn it!”
Virgil reached out and gripped his best friend’s shoulders, shaking him slightly to punctuate his next round of words. “The guy didn’t. Pass. Tenth. Grade. He dropped out of high school; he deals DRUGS; he steals; he vandalizes; he beats up random old ladies because they ‘looked at him funny’. Do you remember that? Huh? When me an’ you came up on that old lady?”
“Virgil, let go of me!” Richie knocked his hands away, giving him an exasperated look. But he couldn’t take the petulant expression Virgil was giving him, so he looked away, feeling awkward as he acknowledged all these things.
Virgil reached out, gripping his jacket so that Richie had to look up at him. “He. Has. No. Future. He ain’t goin’ anywhere, except to prison. Either prison, or someone’s gonna get lucky, an’ he goes into the ground. Like Theresa. You have a future, Richie! You’ve got all these things going for you–! Why you wanna throw it all away for some loser?”
“God, Virgil...you make it so difficult for me, sometimes,” Richie muttered, not wanting to meet his eyes. Virgil was right...and he knew this. Hotstreak was all that he said and more–but he couldn’t deny his feelings. He couldn’t deny what they had. “Besides, I just said I needed a place to say... I didn’t say I was, like, marrying him, or something...”
“I don’t want my best friend goin’ that same route!” Virgil exclaimed, giving Richie a desperate expression. “You have it all! Yeah, your parents suck–but you can get into any college in the world an’ excel in every program and placement they dish out to you! You can make weapons from scratch! You can figure out, to the number, what it takes to get to the furthest star without even trying. An’ you wanna drop it all just to live with some guy that–”
“I can’t deny what I feel for him, Virgil!” Richie snapped at him, not wanting to hear anymore. Rather, he wanted to place his hands over his ears; to walk away; but with every burning word Virgil flung at him, he knew it was true. His mind was already racing to agree with everything his best friend said; but his emotions were conflicting. He could only really focus on how good he felt being with Hotstreak; how safe, secure and happy he was just being near him.
And it hurt. He knew Virgil was right. He just didn’t want to listen to him.
“But it’s just wrong, Richie!” Virgil hissed, gesturing empathically. “Why can’t you see that? He’s gonna pull you down with him! I know you want to please people–! You do it all the time! What if he wants you to do this an’ that, an’ ya know you feel uncomfortable with it, but you do it just to please him? He’s gonna fuck you over, Richie! An’ you won’t see it until it’s too late!”
Richie stared off at the school behind Virgil, reaching up to rub his arms as he absorbed his friend’s words. All he could think about was how caring Hotstreak was to him. How awkward, at times, he was in trying to express his affections. How, in terms of the life experienced and the streets, he guided Richie along with his own knowledge rather than the clear, straight-forward terms that Richie himself was comfortable with.
A small smile graced his lips as he thought how, last night, Hotstreak had made room in his limited space for his clothes. Small things–seemingly inconsequential things...he knew how much Hotstreak cared for him. He couldn’t think of anything that the older male could do to him to make him regret anything.
Virgil gave a long, drawn out growl as he realized he was getting no where with his friend. His gloved hands reached up to wipe down his face, drawing over his features with aggravation. He wanted Richie to understand what he was doing–but it was apparent that the blond was too far gone in his own feelings to realize what was going to happen to him.
Richie shifted his eyes to Virgil, taking in his clearly exhibited exasperation. He felt that there was nothing more to say–he was adamant about his feelings. The subject should be dropped.
It seemed that ever since Virgil began growing exhausted with his Static activities, he had grown into a completely different person. Still snappish–still sensitive–still immediately reactive in defense measures against those that he felt were attacking him, or not following him.
A pang registered inside of him as his father came to mind. It made him want to draw away; but Virgil was his best friend. He didn’t want to continue thinking of him in that manner. He was convinced that Virgil was still himself somewhere behind that depleted shell–he just had to be patient.
He dropped his gaze to the snow underfoot. Clearing his throat, he said, “So...I’m looking for a part-time job.”
“So you can support him legally?” Virgil automatically snapped, sullenly looking away from him.
“I figure since I’m not going to be Gear anymore, I should continue to do something a little more productive,” Richie said over the argumentative words. He lifted his eyebrows. “Any suggestions?”
Virgil recognized the truce–and it made him feel immensely guilty for his actions. He felt his shoulders slump–weighed by his exhaustion of his own actions and outbursts.
“The mall?” he suggested in a heavy tone. “I don’t know...a hardware store? Fast food? Burger Fool was okay to start out, with.”
“I think I look ridiculous enough without the hat,” Richie said with a faint smile, thinking of the jester’s hat that he’d have to wear.
“Yeah...true...Richie, I just don’t think that–”
“Something that can give me more than six dollars an hour...that should help out,” Richie added in a rush, to avoid any other discussion.
Virgil stared up at the clouded sky, recognizing the ominous warning of more snow. He sighed heavily. He reached out, slinging his arm around Richie’s shoulders–feeling awkward at the height difference.
“Just...if you need a place to say, pops won’t mind you living with us,” he said with a grunt, kicking at the snow. “Let’s go inside. I think all my children are freezing.”
“‘Children’? Oh. Right.”
OooooooooooO
Richie watched as Hotstreak shuffled through worn pages of a Composition notebook. He wasn’t sure what it was the older male was doing, but the meta had been very involved in his activities ever since he’d come back from acquiring applications from various places in the general area. He’d gotten a bus pass to pay for transportation to and from school, and had mapped out routes he could take to get to the motel. He’d noticed that he felt a lot less tense than when he had staying at home. No phone calls, no looking out the window to seeing strange cars parked out front, no fathers that took words and looks the wrong way–he felt more peaceful than he had before the attack.
He’d kept an eye out for the guys that leaned out of their vehicles to shout at him, and took careful precaution as he took back alleys and residential by-ways just to creep up to the motel. He didn’t want Ebon’s crew knowing where he was staying, and who he was with.
He tapped his pen against the various applications, feeling awkward and childish as he did so. He didn’t have a job history, and no real references; he figured he could use his teachers at school, and the Hawkins’.
But he was a little wary with approaching them–after taking Virgil’s tirade, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to take Roberts’ or Sharon’s add-ons in the same way. He knew that they were just looking out for him–that they cared for him. He just didn’t want to feel as if he were being attacked all the time by defending his relationship with Hotstreak. They didn’t know he was gay (to his knowledge, actually) and he wasn’t ready to come out to them quite yet. He had an inkling of hope in that Virgil had told them what was going on just so he wouldn’t have to. Lying to Robert felt as bad as lying to Virgil.
He took in Hotstreak’s concentrating expression, and watched as he diligently wrote something down in the notebook. He was intensely curious as to what the older male was doing–he wondered if he were keeping a journal...other possibilities came to mind, but he liked the idea of a journal much better.
He finished filling out the apps, and slid off the bed, rummaging through his school bag for some homework to complete. Just because he was living somewhere else didn’t mean he should slack off on his schoolwork. Virgil’s words came to mind, reminding him of the older male’s lack of continued education and situation.
Glancing over at Hotstreak, he wondered just how much of a problem it would be. If Richie could just keep working, doing what he had to to continue on with his life, and let Hotstreak do his own, then there should be no problem.
Logic told him that perhaps he should make other plans; back-up plans. But he didn’t want to listen to logic–logic would keep him away from Hotstreak. He knew that staying with the male, making choices to be with him would lead him to places he’d never ventured into, before. He was both cautious and yet curious about that aspect.
He knew he wasn’t into drugs, or alcohol, or partying–but Hotstreak was all those and more. He didn’t think that just because he was with Richie that he would stop all of that. That was unrealistic. But how much time would it take for Hotstreak to get over this ‘honeymoon’ attitude and return to being himself again? Would Richie have to take nights of him being drunk, of using, of violence the same way he had with his father’s drunken binges?
That thought twisted away from him, and, like he had wanted to do with Virgil earlier, he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and not pay any attention to it. He was going to take it as it was going right now.
He spread his things out on the floor, and laid down on his stomach, flipping open a text. Printing out the problems he had to solve in Advanced Calculus, he concentrated on writing out how he’d acquired the answer–which was a daunting task because while he knew the answer, he had to prove to the teacher how he’d gone about it.
“I did it, cuz...I was just tryin’ to make fun of you.”
Richie blinked, confused out of his math-solving thoughts as Hotstreak’s clear, even voice interrupted him. He glanced over his shoulder at the meta that used the small table. He couldn’t see his face, so he raised himself on his elbows to peer over the table at him.
“Huh?”
Hotstreak flicked his eyes in his direction, and there was a flush of color on his cheeks. He shrugged.
“You asked what made me kiss you. That one time.”
Richie felt a smile curl at the corner of his lips. “I asked that a long time ago. You didn’t have to answer.”
Hotstreak shrugged again. “Came outta no where, I guess.”
He wasn’t going to admit that while Richie was lying there, doing his homework, he’d been staring at his ass and remembering things. He stared down at his plans for the drugs, and tried to focus on that. But his handwriting had shifted into unidentifiable squiggles, and no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t focus in on it. Richie had very worn and weathered jeans–they were a couple of sizes too big, but he could still see the curves of the blond’s backside in them.
Richie rose from the floor, and walked over to him. Hotstreak glanced at him, then shut his notebook so that the blond wouldn’t see his plans–he had figured what Richie didn’t know couldn’t get him into trouble. That was his way of protecting the younger meta.
Richie pulled the other chair up close so that he could tip his head against Hotstreak’s shoulder, their thighs pressed together. He reached up to sling an arm across his back, fingers idly plucking at the older male’s shirt sleeve on the opposite side. He turned so that he could look up at his face, his cheek pressed tight against muscle.
“Why?” he asked, curious. “I mean, you could have gone about it any other way...you know...stuffing my head into the toilet–graffiti on my locker–”
“I dunno.” Hotstreak honestly didn’t know what truly prompted him. It had bothered him to think that perhaps, on a faint inkling of newfound wonder, he’d been pursuing the blond for some time. Why the constant visits to his room? The constant pressure in school? Sure, he’d told himself that it was to keep Richie from snitching on him over a gang fight that started the entire thing, but had that truly been the only reason? “I really don’t. Just...at the time...it made sense.”
“You did it, twice.”
“Yeah.” It was embarrassing to think about it. One kiss, given to make fun of Richie’s sexuality, had turned into two. Hotstreak could remember those astonished feelings he’d had upon that first kiss–how they’d prompted him to take another.
To this day, he hadn’t regretted either.
He licked his own lips, as if to somehow taste their first kisses upon memory.
Richie pulled away, his arm dropping around the back of Hotstreak’s chair. He surveyed the crumpled wads of paper on the table, and wondered what the contents were. He felt Hotstreak shift beside him, his heavier body shifting against his.
“It’s weird, huh?” Hotstreak asked, turning in his seat so that one leg was behind Richie’s chair, the other moving underneath the leg closest to him so that he had it propped onto his knees. Richie shifted to curl his arm around his waist, leaning his face into his shoulder. Feeling utterly content, he forgot what was being said as he breathed in deep of the older male.
Natural body scent, cigarettes...something faint, sweet–Richie felt his muscles tense, but he had no idea why.
“Y’know...that we’re...like this. Sometimes, when I think about it, I get all weirded out. It still, like, astonishes me.”
“Like how?” Richie asked, lazily running a finger over the broadness of Hotstreak’s chest. There was a moment in which he suddenly felt suffocated–he had to pull his head back to take a deep breath. Something whispered along the back of his neck, making him feel oddly agitated.
There wasn’t a reason to feel this way; he ignored it, resettling his head against Hotstreak’s shoulder.
“I dunno. I can’t describe it. It’s just...weird.” Hotstreak blinked, then, as if he were trying to pierce it together right at that moment. He looked down at his companion, seeing the way Richie had practically settled himself into his lap.
He was heavier than the girls Hotstreak had messed around with. Anatomically different, of course. Completely not his type...but Richie fit him. He gave Hotstreak everything that the redhead lacked throughout his life. And he inspired Hotstreak to give what he hadn’t to others.
He still felt uncomfortable about it–but the more Richie continued to look up at him with that adoring expression on his geeky face, the more Hotstreak felt inspired in that he was doing the right thing–for once.
He removed Richie’s glasses from his face, taking in the slowly flushing features as the blond realized his intentions. He liked the way those dark brown eyes glazed with hunger, the way those easy-to-smile lips fell open with a slight suction of breath. Somehow, Richie made these actions much more alluring than any of the girls Hotstreak had been with. Richie wasn’t with him just because he was power and corruption and easy access to drugs–he was with him because he genuinely liked him. Because he liked him for him.
He molded his lips against Richie’s, enjoying the pliancy, the way he smelled. He felt that familiar tingle of excitement he always felt upon kissing the blond; the way his stomach shifted with giddiness; the way the hairs of his soul patch brushed against the smoothness of Richie’s skin. He felt Richie touch him, bringing their faces closer, his fingers brushing over his cheek to slide through his hair–it always excited him to know that Richie wanted him to be close. That he felt the same way towards Hotstreak as Hotstreak felt toward him.
He drew back, but not before planting another kiss on those sweet, agreeable lips. Richie would never be a girl to him, but he wasn’t his equal, either. It was strange that way–he didn’t feel as if he could distinguish that feeling.
Richie’s arms went around his neck, and he was shaking his head, giving a verbal negative to Hotstreak’s pulling back. The older male let the younger kiss him, taking control over the moment, straightening to have a better vantage point at which he could better taste him.
A few minutes of tasting his unique flavor and having his hormones rise to attention had Hotstreak making the decision to rise from his chair, taking Richie with him. He guessed that the blond was around a hundred and forty–quite acceptable for someone his size. It still made him feel off in that he was enjoying the body of a male, and not a female–but at least, in this instance, he had a pretty good advantage in knowing what to do with a male. If he knew his own body well enough, then he pretty much knew what felt good and what didn’t.
While females demanded more intensive measures in terms of sensitivity, psychic prowess and polite ignorance of various areas, this male gave him straight forward knowledge of what was good and what wasn’t.
Though, it was still touch and learn–it wasn’t as if they had constant chances of being physical all the time. The fact that he’d only had sex with him only four times still made his mind whirl. And the fact that they still couldn’t frustrated him not only physically, but emotionally and mentally as well. There had been something very satisfying and gratifying in being physically connected with a person that made him feel the way he did.
He took Richie over to the bed, and laid him down with a satisfied growl, already anticipating some light petting and more kissing. He laid over him, nuzzling his neck, tasting flesh, feeling Richie’s hands over his back and sides.
He swept aside the pile of papers that were lying nearby, and kicked off his shoes. Getting comfortable atop of the younger meta (another plus of messing around with another male, was that he didn’t feel as if he were crushing the body underneath him), he used his knees to make room for himself between his legs. Settling with another satisfied sigh, he captured Richie’s wandering hands and interlaced his fingers with his. He pushed them up to the sides of his head, pinning them to the mattress, making him vulnerable to his roaming lips.
Richie shifted underneath him with a compliant sigh of his own, his thighs closing briefly on his–he tugged at his hands, but Hotstreak held them still, wanting to explore without interference. He closed his eyes, feeling utterly at ease as he felt lips over his throat, at teeth that scraped lightly over his collarbone–he wanted to reach out and feel, but every time he moved to do so, Hotstreak’s fingers would tighten over his, refusing him that luxury.
He figured it would be okay. He would just lay back and enjoy the lazy kisses and feel of the heavy body on top of his. He shifted his hips, and suddenly felt light headed.
He opened his eyes to focus on the ceiling, breathing in deep to recapture a sense of balance. He focused in on the water stained tile, on the indeterminable shapes that were made within the uneven patterns. He shifted again, tugging at his hands–but feeling them forcefully restrained once more.
Okay...so Hotstreak wanted no interruptions while he explored...he wanted to be in control, and that was why he was holding onto his hands. It wasn’t anything–he did the same thing that very first night of being intimate. Richie hadn’t minded then–he was just focused on keeping quiet so that his parents couldn’t hear their son being ravished in his room by a metahuman they read about daily in newspapers.
It had felt good then–it felt good now. He liked that Hotstreak took control and didn’t expect him to impress with his sad lack of experience in this area–less effort on his part. All he had to do was enjoy what was being given.
So why was he feeling so lightheaded? And receiving panic jolts the more he tugged to have his hands released? It felt as if he were being disconnected from the moment–even as he felt Hotstreak’s lips on his throat, gently teething his skin, licking over nips–Richie could feel his stomach turning with each action. The older male had done the same thing the night before–had left marks on his stomach, even. And Richie hadn’t felt this way at all.
What was different?
He breathed in deep, and recognized the rising feeling of being suffocated, so he shifted again, trying to tell without words that he was feeling smushed. As he breathed in, he smelled that same scent again–and his throat tightened. He swallowed, repeatedly, to get that lump to go away. But as he breathed in through his nostrils in an attempt to balance his oxygen flow, he smelled sweat and sweet thickness–and found himself unable to breathe anymore.
He tilted his head up, opening his mouth to suck in air–but his muscles seemed to have locked. Every one of them. No matter how many times he commanded, he couldn’t get his body to listen to him. He was slowly starting to panic, and he had no idea why.
He felt lips on his shoulder, felt hair against his cheek–and abruptly remembered how Ebon’s cornrows felt against his flesh. Scratchy, thick, wiry–he hadn’t focused on their density, just on the way the black man’s teeth had gripped his tender flesh, sucking hard enough to break skin and leave grotesque marks that lasted for days. There had been actual teeth imprints on his thighs and stomach.
He jerked his head aside, blinking–he forcefully tugged at his hands, but felt Hotstreak shift over him once more, his hips pressed against his, his lips moving down over his shirt.
Richie couldn’t speak, and couldn’t get that lump in his throat to go away. Every one of his muscles were betraying him in not moving, not acting upon his command, and he was getting terrified with every passing second. An inner voice told him he was acting foolishly–he was with someone he loved. He did this last night! What was so different then?
The smells, he realized. The smells were different.
As he sucked in breath once more, he could smell that thick sweetness, and he felt bile lace his throat. Marijuana, he realized. Hotstreak must have smoked some earlier that day, and the smell clung to him.
Ebon had smelled of marijuana...of weed, sweat and something utterly foul–his malevolence, most likely. The way someone could smell fear, he was able to smell that evil. It was wretched, thick, and it had made him feel suffocated.
He could still feel the gravel on his bare skin, could feel the way those hands gripped his limbs, crushing bone against bone in his wrists–Ebon was thin and lanky, but his weight had crushed against Richie when he’d laid over him. His pelvic bones had cracked against his at one point–he was unconscious during the act itself, but not leading up to before. His hands were restrained–he was pinned down. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop anything. All he was able to do was scream and cry out, and even then, those were ignored.
His throat was tight, and he couldn’t eke out any sound. That night, he’d screamed and screamed until Ebon had knocked him unconscious. Why couldn’t he call out? Make Hotstreak stop? His entire body was locked tight–every muscle was strained in its tensed state.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t see.
He could only feel the way Ebon had settled over him, his warmth pressed against his. Could feel the black man’s breath against his skin as he kissed his neck and then sucked his flesh between his teeth. The pain had been immediate–he’d been dazed from the first punch, but he was still able to feel this. He’d tried to call out, but his mouth had been covered by Ebon’s shoulder and his shirt. He could still taste the material–his tongue could recall the cold of the weather and the warmth of his flesh from underneath the shirt.
His ears were ringing, as they did with the first punch. His jaw ached. He’d felt the first two knuckles scraping against his cheek with the second hit. Ghost touches upon his face. His blood was running like ice water throughout his entire body, and he could feel his legs being touched. He wanted to scream, to close them–but all he could do was breathe in that sweet scent and remember. Ebon had looked down at him, then, smirking. Enjoying his reaction. Enjoying his tears and cries and anguish–
He registered the first crack of pain; it allowed him to scream then, his hands flailing outward, scraping the air as he tried to stop the next onslaught of punches that he knew was coming. His hands were knocked aside, and he was restrained again. Blind, deaf, he screamed again, trying to kick at Ebon, to get him off of him. But his legs were pinned down as well, and his next scream was muffled by material. At this point, his body refused to move despite the restraints–it had locked up with fear once more. He could only scream, his breathing hitching, and then he was sobbing with abandon into the material that muffled the sounds.
He registered the loss of the material, and felt the next crack of pain–and as his eyes lost focus of Ebon’s smirking face, taking in Hotstreak’s panicked one, he realized that he wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t on the rooftop–he was in a motel room with thin walls, with a very scared meta that didn’t know what he did wrong.
He couldn’t breathe in deep enough–oxygen wasn’t coming fast enough. He felt his eyes roll up into his head, and it felt as if his muscles finally realized what they were doing wrong, and released the gripping tension the way rubberbands snapped under extreme pressure. He was tilting, tilting–and finding himself being propped, hearing his name being called over and over again.
Panic...desperation...fear...
He felt violated all over again. He felt shame and disgust, and overwhelming anger that threatened to erode all that made him him. He wanted to destroy things in his helpless violence, to somehow disconnect himself from what tore him apart. The memories were just as strong as they were during the actual process of acquiring them.
And with this remembrance came the tears. He cried unabashedly, not caring what he looked like, what sounds he made as he groped blindly for some sort of reassurance.
He’d thought he was doing okay–he thought he had been able to put most of it behind him. But all it took was a simple smell to unravel the memories, and everything had tumbled back into place.
OooooooooooO
Hotstreak stared silently out the window, listening to the outside traffic. His hand was shaking as he cradled the cigarette between his index and middle finger, and as he brought it to his lips, he felt his stomach churn violently. He sucked the smoke in wrong, and coughed to clear his pipes. But he couldn’t seem to clear his throat, and felt that violent lurch once more. He barely made it to the bathroom, throwing up as soon as his knees hit the toilet edge.
For a few minutes, he stood over the toilet, hands on his knees, and tried to settle his thoughts. But every time he closed his eyes, he kept seeing how fear had twisted Richie’s features into someone unrecognizable; how his five foot eight frame locked up with almost superhuman strength, fueled by tension and terror; he could still hear his screams.
He had no idea what had happened that night–he’d only seen the after effects.
He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to treat him, now. He didn’t think that a month’s time was enough to make Richie normal all over again, but he thought that Richie had it under control. He had just been so different from the last time, that Hotstreak had thought things were okay. But they weren’t. And he was reminded of it, tonight.
He still didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Richie hadn’t been able to tell him, curled up into a sobbing mass of pain. Hotstreak had been scared–he hadn’t known what to say. He left the room, heading outside into the cold to get away from it.
Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, but he just hadn’t a clue on what he should have done. All he knew was that things were going fine until he realized just how stiff Richie had been underneath him. And when he’d tried talking to him, Richie hadn’t responded. It was almost as if he were looking at a zombie, or something of equal standing.
The blond’s eyes were open, and there was clear life behind them–but he was looking at something far away, something unseen. When no amount of calling his name or even shaking him broke that spell, Hotstreak had resorted to a slap on his cheek. That was when Richie had freaked out, kicking and screaming, fighting off his hands.
Hotstreak had panicked–he wanted to keep from getting hurt, and for the other to keep from hurting himself. But in the end, he realized he’d made it worse by restraining him.
He had never heard Richie scream like that. Or react in that way.
It had scared him.
He didn’t know what to do.
He still didn’t.
So he’d left. He took a walk down the sidewalk to calm himself. To somehow clear his head. But in the end, when he was forced to go back, he still had no clue of what to say or do to the other. He thought that because he made things worse, Richie was going to avoid him. To think differently of him, to see him as an enemy.
But he must have walked further than he thought, because by the time he’d quietly come back into the room, Richie had fallen asleep. All the lights were on, bathing the small room with the fluorescent yellow glow that only made the shadows darker and the room more gritty. He’d looked down at the sleeping figure on the bed, hearing the harsh hiccups and seeing the occasional jolt caused by anxiety, and did nothing. He’d picked up his pack of cigs and smoked them–one after another as he tried to clear his thoughts. That was probably why he’d gotten sick. He didn’t know how many he’d smoked.
He flushed the toilet, and cleaned his mouth out with sink water. Standing there for awhile, staring down at the running water, he was aware that his arms were shaking. They felt weak, all of a sudden. He kept hearing those screams.
It seriously bothered him, in that he contributed to this mess. He wanted to get away from it. It was too intense. He hadn’t dealt with a situation like this, before–what could he say to someone like Richie, who experienced that sort of torture?
‘Man up’? Don’t be a baby? Only girls have nightmares?
He didn’t know what to do!
And he felt better if he got rid of the bother, so he resolved himself to go. He didn’t want to hurt Richie like that again. Not when he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Somehow, he might make it worse by sticking around.
Maybe he just needed to go for a drive–go relax with some friends. He’d go out, see what they were doing, and maybe figure out what to do when he came back.
But he was reluctant to leave. Because he knew Richie would get the wrong idea. He didn’t want that to happen, but he didn’t want what had just happened go, either. And it had. And now he had to deal with it.
He turned the water off, and stepped out from the bathroom. Looking over at Richie’s sleeping form, he wanted to reach out and touch him. But he kept himself from doing so.
He tossed on a hooded sweater that he’d found on the floor, along with his jacket. Grabbing his keys, he quietly left the room.
Chapter Seventeen
The pair of them stared, quietly, at the bags of trash that lined the front porch. It was nearly ten o’clock at night, and Hotstreak had parked his newly acquired car down the street, in clear view of the two story house. Richie had insisted that he go home, to check out the situation with his family, sure that last night had been a mistake caused by too much alcohol. Upon seeing some pieces of furniture that had once been set up in his room, he realized, with a dreadfully heavy feeling, just how serious his father had been. He wasn’t sure how to take the situation as he continued to stare out at the bags that he instinctively knew contained things from his bedroom.
“I guess he really means it,” he muttered, looking away. “I can’t take all that stuff with me. I guess it’s not that important...”
“You just gonna leave it all there?”
“I am not lugging around bags and bags of–I don’t need it, I guess. But...I need my school stuff. And maybe some more clothes...I can’t believe he’s actually serious about this...”
Hotstreak shrugged. He looked away from it all and glanced over at him, shifting in his seat. Seeing Richie’s destroyed expression made him uncomfortable, and he fiddled uselessly with the radio.
The Toyota Camry was still in good working order, and had been properly maintained throughout its ten years within ownership. The seller had sold it to him for two thousand dollars, a reasonable price for a well kept car. Glad to have a vehicle, Hotstreak hadn’t cared about the light brown color or the fraying leather seats. As long as he was able to drive it, it was okay.
Settling upon a hip-hop station, he glanced at Richie again. Then leaned back in his seat, chewing at his thumbnail.
“Least ya don’t have to fuck around with that dick,” he said with another shrug. “He ain’t gonna bother you, no more.”
“Yeah...I guess I should look at it that way,” Richie muttered, finally tearing his eyes away to stare at his hands. His fingers were curled loosely, shadows cast over them from the darkness outside. He felt depressed as he realized that he wasn’t able to come home–being thrust from the nest so abruptly left him feeling unbalanced. How could he take it so lightly?
“‘Sat it, then? Cuz–”
“I need to get my school bag...do you see it anywhere?”
“...Black one? It might be that one next to the trash can.”
Richie sighed heavily, unlatching his seatbelt. Hand on the door handle, he squinted as he surveyed what he could from the car, and finally got out. Over the cheery chime of the door opening, he said, “I’m going to go get it. And some of my clothes. I guess I don’t need anything else...”
Hotstreak crossed his arms as Richie shut the door and hurried down the sidewalk, crossing the street to get to his house. Watching him, Hotstreak frowned.
Richie hadn’t made it to school, that day. Rather, the pair of them slept until it was well past noon.
The rest of the day was spent acquiring his ‘new’ car; for Richie to get his homework from the teachers still remaining at Dakota Union; and for that movie to be seen. Hotstreak admitted that he saw better, but what made the experience much more enjoyable was that he got to have Richie right next to him all that entire time. Usually, when he came to the movies–having to sneak in, of course, as he did tonight–he’d be one of the troublemakers that tossed full containers of soda into an enraptured movie audience; to hitting on chicks that sat together despite the obvious action on screen; but today, he actually sat down and watched the movie from beginning to end.
After the movie, on a high that one had when spending time with someone they really enjoyed being with, they’d went and hit a grocery store for more food.
Buying more sandwich things and some extras, Hotstreak was pleased to find out how much fun it was being with Richie and making choices for both of them. It had made him uneasy, realizing he couldn’t think only of himself, but he found it pleasant. He was more than embarrassed of himself, actually, if he thought about it. So he distracted himself by being bossy–and being bossed right back. He caught himself thinking how similar his banter with Richie was that of flirting with Maria; that made him apprehensive.
Hotstreak eyed the front porch suspiciously–it was dark out there, save for the single street lamp at the corner, lighting enough of the area to see the individual bags.
When he’d left home, he had nothing more than a trash bag full of clothes and a backpack of inconsequential things. He’d slept on the streets and on an occasional friends’ couch. He’d been homeless for a good amount of time until he learned how to make the big money and get himself a small studio apartment. If Richie didn’t have him, Hotstreak had no doubt that he would have been at the Hawkins’...so it wasn’t as if the boy didn’t have anywhere else to go.
But he narrowed his eyes in thought–if he hadn’t approached the blond last year, he doubted any of this would have started. Richie would have stayed in the closet, Hotstreak never would have known about him in this close, intimate manner, and the two would never have been together. He had been the catalyst to Richie’s present standing; somehow, he didn’t feel as proud as he would have.
Once Richie began shuffling through the bags, he looked down at the magazine the blond had been reading–he had no idea what the magazine boasted of, but he was curious as to why Usher was featured so many times...he personally didn’t like the singer, and didn’t care for his genre of music.
He picked up the magazine and flipped through it, only to oogle some Louis Vuitton models.
“Does this make me bi?” he wondered aloud. He loved women–their bodies, their voices, their everything; but he loved a male.
Confusion, confusion...it was enough to make him want a cigarette. Pulling one out, he lit it and finished thumbing through the magazine, grouching aloud about Usher’s well toned chest and abs. When he looked up to see if Richie was still there, he was a little startled to see that the blond wasn’t anywhere in sight. He tossed the magazine aside as he grumbled around his cigarette. All the bags were still upon the porch–his school bag was sitting on the front steps. He wondered where he could have gone as he killed the cancer stick and flung that out the window.
He was going to get out of the car and go search for him when Richie emerged from behind the house, rushing along as he stuffed something into the back of his jeans. He grabbed an armful of clothes and his school bag, and hurried back to the car.
“Where’d you go?” Hotstreak asked curiously, avoiding the bag as it was flung into the back seat.
“My mom heard me digging through that stuff,” Richie muttered, settling into the seat after tossing his clothing over his bag. He strapped on his seat belt as Hotstreak started the car. Richie reached behind him, pulling out a security envelope. He opened it to find a wad of bills stuck within. “She gave me this money. I feel bad for taking it. But I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”
As Hotstreak wondered if he were being insulted, Richie hastened to add, “I should be providing for myself. To help you. If I’m going to be staying with you, I want to chip in. I want to help out.”
“It ain’t like I’m poor...” Hotstreak felt a tingle of nervousness as he began to realize that Richie was staying with him. Having the blond with him twenty-four/seven? He wasn’t sure if he were ecstatic or scared. They hadn’t been together for very long–hell, if he thought about it, they spent more time apart and trying NOT to care about the other than they were together.
This was just another new situation that made him more anxious.
“I know, but...I...don’t want to be dependent. I should have gotten a job a long time ago...but with all my schoolwork a-and Gear activities...I just didn’t have the time.” Richie sighed, picking up his magazine and then rolling it. He began tapping it against his knee with a lost expression. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“A job?” Hotstreak repeated skeptically. “I can’t drive you everywhere.”
“I know. I can figure out how to use the bus from the area...that’s not hard. Dakota has a transit system for obvious reasons...I think, tomorrow, after school, I’m going to look for a part time job. And figure out what to do from there.”
A job, Hotstreak thought carefully, wrinkling his brow as they left the neighborhood. Funny thing was, he could see Richie in a fast food restaurant. He could see him working as a clerk at some retail shop. Or a bored cashier–but the fact that the blond was so eager to delve into such things made him feel restless. It was time spent away from him.
He felt exasperated at himself for feeling all these conflicting emotions.
Richie then looked at him, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank you for taking me there. I know you didn’t want to...but I want you to know that I appreciate it.”
“Yeah...”
“...were you looking at my magazine?”
“I was looking at the chicks!” he exclaimed in defense.
“I was just asking...there’s ashes on this page. Francis, here. We need gas.”
“I don’t need your momma’s money! I got my own! And I say when we need gas! ...And we need gas right now,” he muttered, looking for a gas station. He found one, and pulled in, taking the pump furthest from the others as to not draw any attention to himself or his companion. As it were, the station was empty, and the single worker was engrossed with some celebrity gossip mag. “And why the hell do you call me ‘Francis’ all the time when ya know I hate it?”
“You’ve never objected, before. Besides, it’s easier to say. I’m too lazy to say your cognomen.”
“‘Cogno–’? What the fuck–?”
“Never mind. Here.”
“I don’t want your money–! Fine. But I’m buyin’ a beer.”
Richie snatched the twenty back with a snarl, hitting him in the shoulder. Hotstreak gave him a startled look at the unexpected punch. “No ALCOHOL! I had that fucking bumper thisclose to my damn face!”
“Aw, what the–Ow. OW! GODDAMN YOU! NO FUCKIN’ BITING!” Hotstreak roared as he tossed his arm up, throwing Richie’s teeth off his flesh. He shoved the younger male against the door, but Richie straightened to grip his sleeve within one hand.
“No. ALCOHOL. Or I’ll make you sorry.”
“How?”
“Just...no alcohol. Please.”
“I really don’t see any motivation for me not–OW!” he shouted again, as teeth once more gripped the fleshy expanse of his arm. He opened the door and climbed out with a snarl.
“NO ALCOHOL,” Richie repeated, throwing an empty can of soda after him. “And I was ASKING, and I said ‘please’! I wasn’t bossing you AROUND!”
Hotstreak slammed the car door shut, the entire car shaking with the action. He turned to walk, stumbled over that thrown can, and had to grab onto the car to keep from hitting the ground. From inside the Camry, he heard Richie bellow, “SEE? DRUNK ALREADY!”
Muttering, he headed into the gas station to pay for his gas. Richie grinned in victory, then sighed, turning to look out the window. He couldn’t believe his father had been serious.
Maybe he wasn’t, he thought. Maybe he’d followed through with his drunken binge and set everything out last night. Maybe I can still go back...I should just wait for a few days, then try again.
It wasn’t as if he were eager and desperate for more of the harshness he’d been given by his father over the years...just the unknown made him apprehensive. He’d spent countless nights at Virgil’s just to get away, but he always had a home to come back to. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t understand himself. Like Hotstreak said, at least he didn’t have to deal with his father’s bullshit, anymore.
He should look at it that way.
OooooooooooO
He told Virgil what had happened that next day at school. Virgil listened quietly, then with disbelief clear on his face, he exclaimed, “So you’re staying with Hotstreak?”
“Sshh!” Richie hissed, glancing around him apprehensively. His cheeks turned red as he looked down at his textbook for Anatomy. “Yeah...I mean...I guess I don’t mind...but he said I could stay with him.”
“No. No! No no no no no!” Virgil repeated, giving his best friend an incredulous look.
The pair were sitting outside, at the small table that they’d frequented when they had wanted to be alone. Both were freezing in the below twenty temperature, but neither wanted to risk being overheard. Bundled up as they were in various sweaters, jackets, scarves and beanies, the pair were very uncomfortable as they spoke.
“Richie! You’re supposed to be a brain! Maybe that cure for your advanced genius dummed you down too much! Are you even thinking?”
Richie scowled at him, but he had to wonder if he’d somehow performed that feat in his own cure.
“First off, Richard, he is a wanted man. The whole city is looking for him! He has Wanted posters up in the fucking school! Or do you just ignore that? Second, that is a cri-min-nal! He’s wanted because of his violence on the streets! He’s wanted because he’s a fuckin’ gangbanger! He deals cocaine and meth! He does cocaine and meth! Have you forgotten that? An’ if the guy gets pissed, ain’t nobody safe when he decides to dish it out! Richie! Don’t you shake your head at me! THINK! Think, God damn it!”
Virgil reached out and gripped his best friend’s shoulders, shaking him slightly to punctuate his next round of words. “The guy didn’t. Pass. Tenth. Grade. He dropped out of high school; he deals DRUGS; he steals; he vandalizes; he beats up random old ladies because they ‘looked at him funny’. Do you remember that? Huh? When me an’ you came up on that old lady?”
“Virgil, let go of me!” Richie knocked his hands away, giving him an exasperated look. But he couldn’t take the petulant expression Virgil was giving him, so he looked away, feeling awkward as he acknowledged all these things.
Virgil reached out, gripping his jacket so that Richie had to look up at him. “He. Has. No. Future. He ain’t goin’ anywhere, except to prison. Either prison, or someone’s gonna get lucky, an’ he goes into the ground. Like Theresa. You have a future, Richie! You’ve got all these things going for you–! Why you wanna throw it all away for some loser?”
“God, Virgil...you make it so difficult for me, sometimes,” Richie muttered, not wanting to meet his eyes. Virgil was right...and he knew this. Hotstreak was all that he said and more–but he couldn’t deny his feelings. He couldn’t deny what they had. “Besides, I just said I needed a place to say... I didn’t say I was, like, marrying him, or something...”
“I don’t want my best friend goin’ that same route!” Virgil exclaimed, giving Richie a desperate expression. “You have it all! Yeah, your parents suck–but you can get into any college in the world an’ excel in every program and placement they dish out to you! You can make weapons from scratch! You can figure out, to the number, what it takes to get to the furthest star without even trying. An’ you wanna drop it all just to live with some guy that–”
“I can’t deny what I feel for him, Virgil!” Richie snapped at him, not wanting to hear anymore. Rather, he wanted to place his hands over his ears; to walk away; but with every burning word Virgil flung at him, he knew it was true. His mind was already racing to agree with everything his best friend said; but his emotions were conflicting. He could only really focus on how good he felt being with Hotstreak; how safe, secure and happy he was just being near him.
And it hurt. He knew Virgil was right. He just didn’t want to listen to him.
“But it’s just wrong, Richie!” Virgil hissed, gesturing empathically. “Why can’t you see that? He’s gonna pull you down with him! I know you want to please people–! You do it all the time! What if he wants you to do this an’ that, an’ ya know you feel uncomfortable with it, but you do it just to please him? He’s gonna fuck you over, Richie! An’ you won’t see it until it’s too late!”
Richie stared off at the school behind Virgil, reaching up to rub his arms as he absorbed his friend’s words. All he could think about was how caring Hotstreak was to him. How awkward, at times, he was in trying to express his affections. How, in terms of the life experienced and the streets, he guided Richie along with his own knowledge rather than the clear, straight-forward terms that Richie himself was comfortable with.
A small smile graced his lips as he thought how, last night, Hotstreak had made room in his limited space for his clothes. Small things–seemingly inconsequential things...he knew how much Hotstreak cared for him. He couldn’t think of anything that the older male could do to him to make him regret anything.
Virgil gave a long, drawn out growl as he realized he was getting no where with his friend. His gloved hands reached up to wipe down his face, drawing over his features with aggravation. He wanted Richie to understand what he was doing–but it was apparent that the blond was too far gone in his own feelings to realize what was going to happen to him.
Richie shifted his eyes to Virgil, taking in his clearly exhibited exasperation. He felt that there was nothing more to say–he was adamant about his feelings. The subject should be dropped.
It seemed that ever since Virgil began growing exhausted with his Static activities, he had grown into a completely different person. Still snappish–still sensitive–still immediately reactive in defense measures against those that he felt were attacking him, or not following him.
A pang registered inside of him as his father came to mind. It made him want to draw away; but Virgil was his best friend. He didn’t want to continue thinking of him in that manner. He was convinced that Virgil was still himself somewhere behind that depleted shell–he just had to be patient.
He dropped his gaze to the snow underfoot. Clearing his throat, he said, “So...I’m looking for a part-time job.”
“So you can support him legally?” Virgil automatically snapped, sullenly looking away from him.
“I figure since I’m not going to be Gear anymore, I should continue to do something a little more productive,” Richie said over the argumentative words. He lifted his eyebrows. “Any suggestions?”
Virgil recognized the truce–and it made him feel immensely guilty for his actions. He felt his shoulders slump–weighed by his exhaustion of his own actions and outbursts.
“The mall?” he suggested in a heavy tone. “I don’t know...a hardware store? Fast food? Burger Fool was okay to start out, with.”
“I think I look ridiculous enough without the hat,” Richie said with a faint smile, thinking of the jester’s hat that he’d have to wear.
“Yeah...true...Richie, I just don’t think that–”
“Something that can give me more than six dollars an hour...that should help out,” Richie added in a rush, to avoid any other discussion.
Virgil stared up at the clouded sky, recognizing the ominous warning of more snow. He sighed heavily. He reached out, slinging his arm around Richie’s shoulders–feeling awkward at the height difference.
“Just...if you need a place to say, pops won’t mind you living with us,” he said with a grunt, kicking at the snow. “Let’s go inside. I think all my children are freezing.”
“‘Children’? Oh. Right.”
OooooooooooO
Richie watched as Hotstreak shuffled through worn pages of a Composition notebook. He wasn’t sure what it was the older male was doing, but the meta had been very involved in his activities ever since he’d come back from acquiring applications from various places in the general area. He’d gotten a bus pass to pay for transportation to and from school, and had mapped out routes he could take to get to the motel. He’d noticed that he felt a lot less tense than when he had staying at home. No phone calls, no looking out the window to seeing strange cars parked out front, no fathers that took words and looks the wrong way–he felt more peaceful than he had before the attack.
He’d kept an eye out for the guys that leaned out of their vehicles to shout at him, and took careful precaution as he took back alleys and residential by-ways just to creep up to the motel. He didn’t want Ebon’s crew knowing where he was staying, and who he was with.
He tapped his pen against the various applications, feeling awkward and childish as he did so. He didn’t have a job history, and no real references; he figured he could use his teachers at school, and the Hawkins’.
But he was a little wary with approaching them–after taking Virgil’s tirade, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to take Roberts’ or Sharon’s add-ons in the same way. He knew that they were just looking out for him–that they cared for him. He just didn’t want to feel as if he were being attacked all the time by defending his relationship with Hotstreak. They didn’t know he was gay (to his knowledge, actually) and he wasn’t ready to come out to them quite yet. He had an inkling of hope in that Virgil had told them what was going on just so he wouldn’t have to. Lying to Robert felt as bad as lying to Virgil.
He took in Hotstreak’s concentrating expression, and watched as he diligently wrote something down in the notebook. He was intensely curious as to what the older male was doing–he wondered if he were keeping a journal...other possibilities came to mind, but he liked the idea of a journal much better.
He finished filling out the apps, and slid off the bed, rummaging through his school bag for some homework to complete. Just because he was living somewhere else didn’t mean he should slack off on his schoolwork. Virgil’s words came to mind, reminding him of the older male’s lack of continued education and situation.
Glancing over at Hotstreak, he wondered just how much of a problem it would be. If Richie could just keep working, doing what he had to to continue on with his life, and let Hotstreak do his own, then there should be no problem.
Logic told him that perhaps he should make other plans; back-up plans. But he didn’t want to listen to logic–logic would keep him away from Hotstreak. He knew that staying with the male, making choices to be with him would lead him to places he’d never ventured into, before. He was both cautious and yet curious about that aspect.
He knew he wasn’t into drugs, or alcohol, or partying–but Hotstreak was all those and more. He didn’t think that just because he was with Richie that he would stop all of that. That was unrealistic. But how much time would it take for Hotstreak to get over this ‘honeymoon’ attitude and return to being himself again? Would Richie have to take nights of him being drunk, of using, of violence the same way he had with his father’s drunken binges?
That thought twisted away from him, and, like he had wanted to do with Virgil earlier, he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and not pay any attention to it. He was going to take it as it was going right now.
He spread his things out on the floor, and laid down on his stomach, flipping open a text. Printing out the problems he had to solve in Advanced Calculus, he concentrated on writing out how he’d acquired the answer–which was a daunting task because while he knew the answer, he had to prove to the teacher how he’d gone about it.
“I did it, cuz...I was just tryin’ to make fun of you.”
Richie blinked, confused out of his math-solving thoughts as Hotstreak’s clear, even voice interrupted him. He glanced over his shoulder at the meta that used the small table. He couldn’t see his face, so he raised himself on his elbows to peer over the table at him.
“Huh?”
Hotstreak flicked his eyes in his direction, and there was a flush of color on his cheeks. He shrugged.
“You asked what made me kiss you. That one time.”
Richie felt a smile curl at the corner of his lips. “I asked that a long time ago. You didn’t have to answer.”
Hotstreak shrugged again. “Came outta no where, I guess.”
He wasn’t going to admit that while Richie was lying there, doing his homework, he’d been staring at his ass and remembering things. He stared down at his plans for the drugs, and tried to focus on that. But his handwriting had shifted into unidentifiable squiggles, and no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t focus in on it. Richie had very worn and weathered jeans–they were a couple of sizes too big, but he could still see the curves of the blond’s backside in them.
Richie rose from the floor, and walked over to him. Hotstreak glanced at him, then shut his notebook so that the blond wouldn’t see his plans–he had figured what Richie didn’t know couldn’t get him into trouble. That was his way of protecting the younger meta.
Richie pulled the other chair up close so that he could tip his head against Hotstreak’s shoulder, their thighs pressed together. He reached up to sling an arm across his back, fingers idly plucking at the older male’s shirt sleeve on the opposite side. He turned so that he could look up at his face, his cheek pressed tight against muscle.
“Why?” he asked, curious. “I mean, you could have gone about it any other way...you know...stuffing my head into the toilet–graffiti on my locker–”
“I dunno.” Hotstreak honestly didn’t know what truly prompted him. It had bothered him to think that perhaps, on a faint inkling of newfound wonder, he’d been pursuing the blond for some time. Why the constant visits to his room? The constant pressure in school? Sure, he’d told himself that it was to keep Richie from snitching on him over a gang fight that started the entire thing, but had that truly been the only reason? “I really don’t. Just...at the time...it made sense.”
“You did it, twice.”
“Yeah.” It was embarrassing to think about it. One kiss, given to make fun of Richie’s sexuality, had turned into two. Hotstreak could remember those astonished feelings he’d had upon that first kiss–how they’d prompted him to take another.
To this day, he hadn’t regretted either.
He licked his own lips, as if to somehow taste their first kisses upon memory.
Richie pulled away, his arm dropping around the back of Hotstreak’s chair. He surveyed the crumpled wads of paper on the table, and wondered what the contents were. He felt Hotstreak shift beside him, his heavier body shifting against his.
“It’s weird, huh?” Hotstreak asked, turning in his seat so that one leg was behind Richie’s chair, the other moving underneath the leg closest to him so that he had it propped onto his knees. Richie shifted to curl his arm around his waist, leaning his face into his shoulder. Feeling utterly content, he forgot what was being said as he breathed in deep of the older male.
Natural body scent, cigarettes...something faint, sweet–Richie felt his muscles tense, but he had no idea why.
“Y’know...that we’re...like this. Sometimes, when I think about it, I get all weirded out. It still, like, astonishes me.”
“Like how?” Richie asked, lazily running a finger over the broadness of Hotstreak’s chest. There was a moment in which he suddenly felt suffocated–he had to pull his head back to take a deep breath. Something whispered along the back of his neck, making him feel oddly agitated.
There wasn’t a reason to feel this way; he ignored it, resettling his head against Hotstreak’s shoulder.
“I dunno. I can’t describe it. It’s just...weird.” Hotstreak blinked, then, as if he were trying to pierce it together right at that moment. He looked down at his companion, seeing the way Richie had practically settled himself into his lap.
He was heavier than the girls Hotstreak had messed around with. Anatomically different, of course. Completely not his type...but Richie fit him. He gave Hotstreak everything that the redhead lacked throughout his life. And he inspired Hotstreak to give what he hadn’t to others.
He still felt uncomfortable about it–but the more Richie continued to look up at him with that adoring expression on his geeky face, the more Hotstreak felt inspired in that he was doing the right thing–for once.
He removed Richie’s glasses from his face, taking in the slowly flushing features as the blond realized his intentions. He liked the way those dark brown eyes glazed with hunger, the way those easy-to-smile lips fell open with a slight suction of breath. Somehow, Richie made these actions much more alluring than any of the girls Hotstreak had been with. Richie wasn’t with him just because he was power and corruption and easy access to drugs–he was with him because he genuinely liked him. Because he liked him for him.
He molded his lips against Richie’s, enjoying the pliancy, the way he smelled. He felt that familiar tingle of excitement he always felt upon kissing the blond; the way his stomach shifted with giddiness; the way the hairs of his soul patch brushed against the smoothness of Richie’s skin. He felt Richie touch him, bringing their faces closer, his fingers brushing over his cheek to slide through his hair–it always excited him to know that Richie wanted him to be close. That he felt the same way towards Hotstreak as Hotstreak felt toward him.
He drew back, but not before planting another kiss on those sweet, agreeable lips. Richie would never be a girl to him, but he wasn’t his equal, either. It was strange that way–he didn’t feel as if he could distinguish that feeling.
Richie’s arms went around his neck, and he was shaking his head, giving a verbal negative to Hotstreak’s pulling back. The older male let the younger kiss him, taking control over the moment, straightening to have a better vantage point at which he could better taste him.
A few minutes of tasting his unique flavor and having his hormones rise to attention had Hotstreak making the decision to rise from his chair, taking Richie with him. He guessed that the blond was around a hundred and forty–quite acceptable for someone his size. It still made him feel off in that he was enjoying the body of a male, and not a female–but at least, in this instance, he had a pretty good advantage in knowing what to do with a male. If he knew his own body well enough, then he pretty much knew what felt good and what didn’t.
While females demanded more intensive measures in terms of sensitivity, psychic prowess and polite ignorance of various areas, this male gave him straight forward knowledge of what was good and what wasn’t.
Though, it was still touch and learn–it wasn’t as if they had constant chances of being physical all the time. The fact that he’d only had sex with him only four times still made his mind whirl. And the fact that they still couldn’t frustrated him not only physically, but emotionally and mentally as well. There had been something very satisfying and gratifying in being physically connected with a person that made him feel the way he did.
He took Richie over to the bed, and laid him down with a satisfied growl, already anticipating some light petting and more kissing. He laid over him, nuzzling his neck, tasting flesh, feeling Richie’s hands over his back and sides.
He swept aside the pile of papers that were lying nearby, and kicked off his shoes. Getting comfortable atop of the younger meta (another plus of messing around with another male, was that he didn’t feel as if he were crushing the body underneath him), he used his knees to make room for himself between his legs. Settling with another satisfied sigh, he captured Richie’s wandering hands and interlaced his fingers with his. He pushed them up to the sides of his head, pinning them to the mattress, making him vulnerable to his roaming lips.
Richie shifted underneath him with a compliant sigh of his own, his thighs closing briefly on his–he tugged at his hands, but Hotstreak held them still, wanting to explore without interference. He closed his eyes, feeling utterly at ease as he felt lips over his throat, at teeth that scraped lightly over his collarbone–he wanted to reach out and feel, but every time he moved to do so, Hotstreak’s fingers would tighten over his, refusing him that luxury.
He figured it would be okay. He would just lay back and enjoy the lazy kisses and feel of the heavy body on top of his. He shifted his hips, and suddenly felt light headed.
He opened his eyes to focus on the ceiling, breathing in deep to recapture a sense of balance. He focused in on the water stained tile, on the indeterminable shapes that were made within the uneven patterns. He shifted again, tugging at his hands–but feeling them forcefully restrained once more.
Okay...so Hotstreak wanted no interruptions while he explored...he wanted to be in control, and that was why he was holding onto his hands. It wasn’t anything–he did the same thing that very first night of being intimate. Richie hadn’t minded then–he was just focused on keeping quiet so that his parents couldn’t hear their son being ravished in his room by a metahuman they read about daily in newspapers.
It had felt good then–it felt good now. He liked that Hotstreak took control and didn’t expect him to impress with his sad lack of experience in this area–less effort on his part. All he had to do was enjoy what was being given.
So why was he feeling so lightheaded? And receiving panic jolts the more he tugged to have his hands released? It felt as if he were being disconnected from the moment–even as he felt Hotstreak’s lips on his throat, gently teething his skin, licking over nips–Richie could feel his stomach turning with each action. The older male had done the same thing the night before–had left marks on his stomach, even. And Richie hadn’t felt this way at all.
What was different?
He breathed in deep, and recognized the rising feeling of being suffocated, so he shifted again, trying to tell without words that he was feeling smushed. As he breathed in, he smelled that same scent again–and his throat tightened. He swallowed, repeatedly, to get that lump to go away. But as he breathed in through his nostrils in an attempt to balance his oxygen flow, he smelled sweat and sweet thickness–and found himself unable to breathe anymore.
He tilted his head up, opening his mouth to suck in air–but his muscles seemed to have locked. Every one of them. No matter how many times he commanded, he couldn’t get his body to listen to him. He was slowly starting to panic, and he had no idea why.
He felt lips on his shoulder, felt hair against his cheek–and abruptly remembered how Ebon’s cornrows felt against his flesh. Scratchy, thick, wiry–he hadn’t focused on their density, just on the way the black man’s teeth had gripped his tender flesh, sucking hard enough to break skin and leave grotesque marks that lasted for days. There had been actual teeth imprints on his thighs and stomach.
He jerked his head aside, blinking–he forcefully tugged at his hands, but felt Hotstreak shift over him once more, his hips pressed against his, his lips moving down over his shirt.
Richie couldn’t speak, and couldn’t get that lump in his throat to go away. Every one of his muscles were betraying him in not moving, not acting upon his command, and he was getting terrified with every passing second. An inner voice told him he was acting foolishly–he was with someone he loved. He did this last night! What was so different then?
The smells, he realized. The smells were different.
As he sucked in breath once more, he could smell that thick sweetness, and he felt bile lace his throat. Marijuana, he realized. Hotstreak must have smoked some earlier that day, and the smell clung to him.
Ebon had smelled of marijuana...of weed, sweat and something utterly foul–his malevolence, most likely. The way someone could smell fear, he was able to smell that evil. It was wretched, thick, and it had made him feel suffocated.
He could still feel the gravel on his bare skin, could feel the way those hands gripped his limbs, crushing bone against bone in his wrists–Ebon was thin and lanky, but his weight had crushed against Richie when he’d laid over him. His pelvic bones had cracked against his at one point–he was unconscious during the act itself, but not leading up to before. His hands were restrained–he was pinned down. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop anything. All he was able to do was scream and cry out, and even then, those were ignored.
His throat was tight, and he couldn’t eke out any sound. That night, he’d screamed and screamed until Ebon had knocked him unconscious. Why couldn’t he call out? Make Hotstreak stop? His entire body was locked tight–every muscle was strained in its tensed state.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t see.
He could only feel the way Ebon had settled over him, his warmth pressed against his. Could feel the black man’s breath against his skin as he kissed his neck and then sucked his flesh between his teeth. The pain had been immediate–he’d been dazed from the first punch, but he was still able to feel this. He’d tried to call out, but his mouth had been covered by Ebon’s shoulder and his shirt. He could still taste the material–his tongue could recall the cold of the weather and the warmth of his flesh from underneath the shirt.
His ears were ringing, as they did with the first punch. His jaw ached. He’d felt the first two knuckles scraping against his cheek with the second hit. Ghost touches upon his face. His blood was running like ice water throughout his entire body, and he could feel his legs being touched. He wanted to scream, to close them–but all he could do was breathe in that sweet scent and remember. Ebon had looked down at him, then, smirking. Enjoying his reaction. Enjoying his tears and cries and anguish–
He registered the first crack of pain; it allowed him to scream then, his hands flailing outward, scraping the air as he tried to stop the next onslaught of punches that he knew was coming. His hands were knocked aside, and he was restrained again. Blind, deaf, he screamed again, trying to kick at Ebon, to get him off of him. But his legs were pinned down as well, and his next scream was muffled by material. At this point, his body refused to move despite the restraints–it had locked up with fear once more. He could only scream, his breathing hitching, and then he was sobbing with abandon into the material that muffled the sounds.
He registered the loss of the material, and felt the next crack of pain–and as his eyes lost focus of Ebon’s smirking face, taking in Hotstreak’s panicked one, he realized that he wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t on the rooftop–he was in a motel room with thin walls, with a very scared meta that didn’t know what he did wrong.
He couldn’t breathe in deep enough–oxygen wasn’t coming fast enough. He felt his eyes roll up into his head, and it felt as if his muscles finally realized what they were doing wrong, and released the gripping tension the way rubberbands snapped under extreme pressure. He was tilting, tilting–and finding himself being propped, hearing his name being called over and over again.
Panic...desperation...fear...
He felt violated all over again. He felt shame and disgust, and overwhelming anger that threatened to erode all that made him him. He wanted to destroy things in his helpless violence, to somehow disconnect himself from what tore him apart. The memories were just as strong as they were during the actual process of acquiring them.
And with this remembrance came the tears. He cried unabashedly, not caring what he looked like, what sounds he made as he groped blindly for some sort of reassurance.
He’d thought he was doing okay–he thought he had been able to put most of it behind him. But all it took was a simple smell to unravel the memories, and everything had tumbled back into place.
OooooooooooO
Hotstreak stared silently out the window, listening to the outside traffic. His hand was shaking as he cradled the cigarette between his index and middle finger, and as he brought it to his lips, he felt his stomach churn violently. He sucked the smoke in wrong, and coughed to clear his pipes. But he couldn’t seem to clear his throat, and felt that violent lurch once more. He barely made it to the bathroom, throwing up as soon as his knees hit the toilet edge.
For a few minutes, he stood over the toilet, hands on his knees, and tried to settle his thoughts. But every time he closed his eyes, he kept seeing how fear had twisted Richie’s features into someone unrecognizable; how his five foot eight frame locked up with almost superhuman strength, fueled by tension and terror; he could still hear his screams.
He had no idea what had happened that night–he’d only seen the after effects.
He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to treat him, now. He didn’t think that a month’s time was enough to make Richie normal all over again, but he thought that Richie had it under control. He had just been so different from the last time, that Hotstreak had thought things were okay. But they weren’t. And he was reminded of it, tonight.
He still didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Richie hadn’t been able to tell him, curled up into a sobbing mass of pain. Hotstreak had been scared–he hadn’t known what to say. He left the room, heading outside into the cold to get away from it.
Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, but he just hadn’t a clue on what he should have done. All he knew was that things were going fine until he realized just how stiff Richie had been underneath him. And when he’d tried talking to him, Richie hadn’t responded. It was almost as if he were looking at a zombie, or something of equal standing.
The blond’s eyes were open, and there was clear life behind them–but he was looking at something far away, something unseen. When no amount of calling his name or even shaking him broke that spell, Hotstreak had resorted to a slap on his cheek. That was when Richie had freaked out, kicking and screaming, fighting off his hands.
Hotstreak had panicked–he wanted to keep from getting hurt, and for the other to keep from hurting himself. But in the end, he realized he’d made it worse by restraining him.
He had never heard Richie scream like that. Or react in that way.
It had scared him.
He didn’t know what to do.
He still didn’t.
So he’d left. He took a walk down the sidewalk to calm himself. To somehow clear his head. But in the end, when he was forced to go back, he still had no clue of what to say or do to the other. He thought that because he made things worse, Richie was going to avoid him. To think differently of him, to see him as an enemy.
But he must have walked further than he thought, because by the time he’d quietly come back into the room, Richie had fallen asleep. All the lights were on, bathing the small room with the fluorescent yellow glow that only made the shadows darker and the room more gritty. He’d looked down at the sleeping figure on the bed, hearing the harsh hiccups and seeing the occasional jolt caused by anxiety, and did nothing. He’d picked up his pack of cigs and smoked them–one after another as he tried to clear his thoughts. That was probably why he’d gotten sick. He didn’t know how many he’d smoked.
He flushed the toilet, and cleaned his mouth out with sink water. Standing there for awhile, staring down at the running water, he was aware that his arms were shaking. They felt weak, all of a sudden. He kept hearing those screams.
It seriously bothered him, in that he contributed to this mess. He wanted to get away from it. It was too intense. He hadn’t dealt with a situation like this, before–what could he say to someone like Richie, who experienced that sort of torture?
‘Man up’? Don’t be a baby? Only girls have nightmares?
He didn’t know what to do!
And he felt better if he got rid of the bother, so he resolved himself to go. He didn’t want to hurt Richie like that again. Not when he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Somehow, he might make it worse by sticking around.
Maybe he just needed to go for a drive–go relax with some friends. He’d go out, see what they were doing, and maybe figure out what to do when he came back.
But he was reluctant to leave. Because he knew Richie would get the wrong idea. He didn’t want that to happen, but he didn’t want what had just happened go, either. And it had. And now he had to deal with it.
He turned the water off, and stepped out from the bathroom. Looking over at Richie’s sleeping form, he wanted to reach out and touch him. But he kept himself from doing so.
He tossed on a hooded sweater that he’d found on the floor, along with his jacket. Grabbing his keys, he quietly left the room.