Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Eighteen ( Chapter 18 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Things are understood and forgiven
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 5.1K | Visits: 474 | Status: Completed
Things are understood and forgiven
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 5.1K | Visits: 474 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Eighteen
Ivan Evans, AKA Ebon, had been determined fit enough to stand trial for multiple murder charges; accompanying others included malicious mischief, illegal use of controlled substances, drug trafficking, a couple of rape charges, and multiple counts of battery and assault. His lawyer, a Dakota native with a sparkling record of winning his higher profile cases, stood to argue his defense and have many of these charges lowered to lesser degrees. In any event, Ivan was slated to stay off the streets of Dakota for a good while.
As the public staked their protests and argumentative opinions outside the courthouse, Ivan relaxed in his cell. Ever diligent and on his best behavior, he didn’t complain when the guards handcuffed him roughly and he was served cold meals. He didn’t protest as he was drilled for information on his networks and crew members, or even show any remorse or guilt as he faced his victims in court.
He merely made plans, and communicated with his crew members through one of his guards. Ivan was patient when he wanted to be–he knew he had the situation under control.
As D and V worked his networks and re-directed lines, he waited.
The ensuing trial was somewhat of a sensation–he was featured in the news daily. Snitches and rats came out from their hidey-holes throughout Dakota–every one of them were eager to sell a story or two about Ebon’s doings within the city.
But the man had power in high places; corrupt policemen ‘misplaced’ various information. Victims’ accounts and reports were suddenly ‘not there’. Evidence was ‘accidently’ thrown into incinerators. City councilmen, members of the police department, and specific city workers worked their influences, paid for with money made from the drugs that continued trafficking their way through the streets of Dakota. Sales of weaponry and associated items were ignored. Those that had been so willing and eager to talk began to take trips out of the city–never to return.
The city was quietly in chaos–but the citizens were too blind by the pretense of Ebon’s holding to notice.
OooooooooooO
When Richie woke up that next morning, seeing that Hotstreak had left, he’d felt entirely depressed. Mortified. Shamed–he’d scared off his companion. He knew that he had. And he couldn’t tell if he were disappointed from Hotstreak leaving him, or relieved in that he didn’t have to face the older meta. To add to the flashback’s intensity, his feelings over Hotstreak’s absence left him feeling entirely vulnerable and defenseless.
The clock told him that school was already halfway through its morning hours. And while he knew that he was technically safe from Ebon, his body felt as if it had been violated all over again. His muscles ached; his jaw ached; the area around his right eye throbbed with that pain associated with impact; if it weren’t for the lack of injuries (save for the one that was still in the process of fully healing), he would have thought he’d physically experienced it all over again.
Feeling hopeless, depressed and alone, he’d simply curled back up and went to sleep.
He waited for Hotstreak to come back. During the moments he forced himself to wake up, he thought of what he’d say to the meta to make him feel as if it wasn’t his fault. That it was his, Richie’s, for reacting the way he had. He wanted to make it up to the guy–but he didn’t know how. Or what to do.
A day of waiting stretched to four. Richie skipped school, anxiously waiting for Hotstreak to come back. With no word or sign of him, he started to feel rejected. What if it was over? What if Hotstreak felt that he couldn’t do this anymore, and was just waiting for him to leave? Cowardly and bastardly of him to do so, and Richie couldn’t help but feel angry over it. Angry and hurt.
And that’s what prompted him to finally leave the bed after almost a week’s worth of self-loathing and hatred for himself.
It was odd this way–now that Hotstreak was gone, he was able to think. He could operate dependently from the meta; he understood that Francis Stone could only provide so much. In a way, that line of thinking helped him get over his growing hurt from the older meta’s absence; Hotstreak wasn’t a counselor. He wasn’t skilled in this sort of drama. He was only human–and humans, once confronted with something entirely out of their comfort zone, most often backed away. He had already seen what Hotstreak was capable of when it came to him–he felt that the meta had already proved his love with the hospital-scene, and all the small things in between.
It would be up to Richie to smooth things over–after all, he felt that since he’d started this entire episode in the first place, he should be the one to fix it.
So, that next Monday, he finally gathered the strength he needed to overcome his problems, worries and frustrations and headed back to school.
Virgil had been frantic, of course. With Richie not having a phone, ignoring his Shock Vox and not bothering to contact him, Virgil had assumed the very worst and took out his furious concern on his friend the moment he saw the blond hurrying up to the school’s front walk. Richie wasn’t going to blame him for his own irresponsibility, and took the tirade sheepishly, offering no excuse or story to make Virgil feel better.
Cursing angrily, pointing out that Richie was failing to see what was being done to him, Virgil had expressed how hurt he himself felt over his friend’s recent changes, how they weren’t as close as they were before. That Francis Stone was changing him and he wished for the power to make Richie see this.
Richie ignored the anger, of course–he felt it was all right for Virgil to express himself, anyway. He knew that Virgil cared for him, but he didn’t want to hear that spiel about how bad an influence Hotstreak was on him. So he did as he normally did and directed Virgil’s attention from him, asking him if Daisy looked a little chubbier than she had before. Thereby thrusting Virgil’s attention off of him and directing it to the possibility that perhaps Daisy wasn’t being truthful about her birth control.
Richie found Thom Harrison’s number in one of Hotstreak’s jackets, borrowing the garment just to feel close to him as he did with his hooded sweater. While he gathered his courage to give the counselor a call, he turned in his job applications, and had interviews set up the next week.
He then restocked on food and supplies with the last of the money Ebon had left behind. It didn’t help that his hunger had him eating anything he couldn’t afford. Junk food from the vending machines, the limited supplies in the motel room–his need for some form of comfort had Virgil commenting once more on his eating habits.
But he learned that it was difficult not having a vehicle, and he refused to ask Virgil for help, knowing that he’d have to hear his tirade on Hotstreak’s actions and what it all actually meant. As he lugged their dirty laundry in multiple plastic bags to the nearest Laundromat five blocks away, he realized that his father had been right–real life sucked.
Without a job, he didn’t have money to buy the basics. Without a vehicle, he was limited in what he was able to do. And with rent due, with groceries needed, to budget and plan with what he had left of Ebon’s money–he felt steadily overwhelmed by what existed beyond the comfort and reassurance of his parents’ house. He fought the urge to go back home, battling bouts of homesickness and depression. He kept telling himself that living with the constant tension his father slapped on him day to day was something he really didn’t need.
One week slipped into the next, and he pushed himself to keep moving–to stop pining over the things that were trying desperately to pull him down. He managed to score a part-time job at a truck-washing travel-stop center, which paid an agreeable amount of money weekly. He lucked out with that aspect. And when he’d finally called Thom and scheduled an appointment, he felt much of that pressure release him.
Though the motel manager was miffed that rent hadn’t been paid in the past two weeks, and that Hotstreak was allowing someone to live with him without notifying him, Richie had managed to convince him to allow him to pay for both of them, and the two weeks’ rent, out of his first paycheck. He realized that it was going to be difficult, having money only to spend it as soon as he got it.
Dad was right, he thought, staring at the pay stub of his first check.
“...Live the real life. Find out what it means to have a job, to work hard, to pay your own way!...”
Those words were clear as the night they’d been spoken, and he numbly wadded up the pay stub, a determined expression fitting over his face. Yes, things were hard–but at least he didn’t have Sean Foley all over him, and Ebon was still in jail. At least he had THAT to make him happy.
Meeting with Thom had been hard–the first session had him confessing his background, his current situation, everything but his superhero activities–Thom was patient and kind, and he didn’t force his influence on Richie. He let the blond talk. After that session, Richie had expected to feel that slippery sense of unease, knowing that he had to delve into what was messing him up. But he didn’t feel any of that. In fact, he felt rather relieved–he knew it was the right choice, to find help for psychological trauma; it was just getting it out of his system to some stranger and admitting his own weaknesses and doubts that left him feeling less than a man.
But Thom hadn’t made him feel that way at all. He scheduled another session that same week, and by the time Richie was through relating a general summarization of the attack, he’d felt a giant weight lifted off his chest. Speaking about it had made him feel less violated; in a way, acknowledging what had happened from beginning to end, and realizing that while he hadn’t any power to stop what had happened, he did have the power to keep it from totally ravaging his life.
He thought about his flashback in the room with Hotstreak; and wondered if he really wanted to go through life being unable to receive or express physical expression in that sense. He still felt raw about the attack–counting the days, it had been nearly two months this Saturday.
He still felt apprehensive about the dark (he didn’t want to think about the utility bill that he knew was coming from having a light on all the time), and the very thought of smelling weed on his lover’s skin still made his skin crawl. But he wanted to be fixed. He wanted to feel as he did before the attack.
Thom had assured him that as time passed, he’d feel a little better. He’d learn to feel more control over himself. But it took time. He had to be patient. More therapy would also prevail, and Richie had fretted about the bill for that. But Thom was quick to let him know that that would be taken care of, and had asked who his doctor was that night he was treated at County General. Upon learning that Montoya had been his doctor, Thom gleefully praised her, and assured him that due to his medical records and treatment, he had the proof he needed to bill the Victims of Crime center to pay for his counseling sessions.
The two sessions had given Richie a little more confidence, and he was sure to work future appointments into his schedule. He hadn’t regretted making the call, and he now wondered why he’d been so anxious before.
Then, over three weeks since that night, Richie woke up to find Hotstreak lying next to him; reeking of alcohol and wearing clothes he’d never seen before. He was upset in that he hadn’t heard the guy come into the room, and conflicting emotions kept him from lashing out at the slumbering lug. So he spent a few precious minutes staring angrily at his sleeping face.
In doing so, he thought of the things the meta had done for him; supporting him, taking him in, dealing with his aftereffects, the hospital scene, trying to keep him from those that wanted to hurt him; in a way, he knew he could forgive Hotstreak for all the wrongs that he did. His mind ran over the reasons why–the male was going out of his comfort zones for him. In his own ways, the meta needed him, and Richie knew he could give him what he was looking for. Both of them were lost souls in their own standing, and he figured that they needed each other, to balance each other out. That was reason enough.
Hotstreak also cared for him in ways his father hadn’t–which was a startling comparison, and something that made Richie feel a little ill. He hadn’t been aware that he’d been looking for a father figure; but he’d found someone that shared some of his father’s traits, and had made up for all that his father hadn’t.
He felt little shame upon realizing that. But he understood that when people looked for a companion, they either chose resembling figures of either of their parents, or found someone that carried their characteristics–positive or negative.
Consciously realizing this made him feel weird; but intensely focused on that he’d been searching for approval from his father. When he hadn’t found it in Sean, he found someone that would. Hotstreak gave him that; he knew the meta sincerely cared for him.
He’d just been at a loss of what to do that night.
Richie could forgive him easily if he thought that way.
Whether it was for good or bad, he knew he could forgive the older meta for all the things that he did. Many questions ran through his head, but none were vocalized as he stared at that face.
He just knew that he loved him, and wanted to make things better.
He went to school, thinking nothing more than what he was going to say to Hotstreak when he got home. Virgil was used to Richie’s mind wandering and his attention focused elsewhere, so he didn’t take it too personally when he found himself being ignored.
By the time Richie’s shift ended at eleven-thirty that night, he had planned out what he was going to say without throwing a fit, and proving to the older meta that he had ‘feminine influences’. Men didn’t freak out and resort to throwing things and screaming maniacally over their partners’ misdeeds and failures. No matter that his father had done that to him and his mother; he did not want to partake in that sort of behavior.
OooooooooooO
Hotstreak had kept himself busy during that same length in time.
He hadn’t expected to be away that long–a day or two at most. Not a month. It wasn’t supposed to be that way.
For two days, he hung out with his friends. There had been plenty of weed to help him overcome his own inner torments, and he sheepishly helped Sam Esposito repair his den. When another friend mentioned that his girl was ready to kick him out, Hotstreak helped him move all his belongings from one end of town to another.
Another mentioned that he was having trouble with his car–three days were spent taking apart the thing to discover that an evil ex had disconnected the U-joint from its holster and had switched the alternator from a brand new model to a used one that had been cleaned thoroughly to avoid suspicion.
Since he was running out of money, he participated in a few robberies on the outskirts of Dakota. Nothing flashy–though, handling a gun and hiding behind a ski mask had been awkward, as he hadn’t armed himself in this fashion for quite awhile.
But the thrill of getting away with a crime had been exciting, as it always had and he had money to spend.
Things like this continued to pop up, and the more he kept his distance from Richie, the more he thought about things. He avoided him mainly because the longer he stayed away, the more he felt shamed of himself.
He still didn’t know what he did wrong; he still didn’t know how to address it, but knew that it had to be. Sam’s den was restored, they followed through with their plans on pilfering Ebon’s continued networks of drugs, mercantile was advertised and sold, friends were in need...
He knew that what he was doing was wrong. And felt guilt over it. Men liked to avoid things that made them uncomfortable, and he was just as human as the rest of them.
It wasn’t as if he completely avoided Richie–no, he had found out that Richie was still attending school. He had told himself that he’d approach him after school one day–had even waited a full hour before Dakota Union even let out, practicing his apology and other things that he felt needed to be said. But instead, he ended up not approaching him. He’d seen that he was with Virgil and a few of their friends, and ended up following at a distance. To gather that courage once more.
But that failed.
The next day proved just as fruitless.
Finally, he ended up just stalking the teen–sure that he’d get the balls one day to go up to him and talk to him. He found out that Richie was working; that he was seeing Thom. He’d been proud that Richie was taking care of himself, that he took the initiative to keep going rather than tossing up his hands and crying out for failure.
Hotstreak had always known that Richie was a strong person–he had known that, and it had been one of his favorite attributes of the teen. Richie wasn’t the type to simply curl up and cry about how unfair the world was to him, and behave loosely like so many other people Hotstreak knew. Even when he was living at home, he’d come to school all smiles and cheer, with no indication of what he was hiding underneath his baggy clothes. He didn’t let that bring him down–and it was apparent that this wasn’t going to bring him down as well.
Certainly much stronger than he’d ever be. Hotstreak had long ago accepted that he was a coward that ran from problems rather than faced them. He could only admire his loved one’s strength from afar and continue to hate himself for his cowardice.
As much as this road took, he didn’t spend every waking hour documenting what Richie did without him. He had his own commitments and ordeals to sort through.
One of his first mistakes in leaving Richie was committed two days after that night–he had no excuse for it, really. No one to blame but himself. When he woke up next to Maria, knowing full well what he did, he’d felt guilt and disgrace. As well as a sense of satisfaction and victory in that he’d slept with a woman that others could only dream over. But, mostly, he felt guilt and that sense of exasperation commonplace with making impulsive decisions.
He’d once told Sam that the reason why he didn’t mess around with Maria was because he knew she’d expect a commitment. He had known, from the way she behaved, that she’d take a simple act as seriously as a woman would with a ring upon her finger. To him, it’d merely been Pity-Me-Sex because he’d been depressed over Richie. To her, it was something more.
She didn’t let him forget it, either, and he’d momentarily panicked upon remembering that she had provided the condom. He’d always used his own supply–he had learned his lesson in that aspect a long time ago, and he’d been careful ever since. But not that night. He couldn’t remember his reasoning in accepting her offer. Must have been the alcohol.
It took awhile for Maria to get that he didn’t want anything more to do with her. But he made it clear with snubs, avoidance and constant ignoring of her general presence. He thought she got the point when he’d given her phone back–finally–and she had proved that glass lamps over heads didn’t shatter the way they should have, like on the movies. She had thrown a fit, similar to the one last year when she discovered that he was having a ‘thing’ with Richie. Curiously, it had been just as hard to manage as it had been then. Female rages were something way beyond his grasp. Tears just made it worse.
After that, he had decided to drown all his problems with alcohol.
He had no idea what sent him back to the motel room. He had preferred to be sober and at least more knowledgeable of the situation. But when he woke up that morning, blinking away sleep heavy eyes, he’d felt a mixture of things; shame, guilt, remorse...happiness, eagerness, excitement...
He had wondered if Richie would take him back. Had fretted that the blond wouldn’t be able to rely on him. He prepared himself for a fit; prepared his arguments and prepared to stand-by his decisions, and he would assert himself and the blond would have no say in bossing him around and holding him on a leash.
But...as most plans go...especially with him, nothing worked the way that it should have.
Richie came back to the room that night, tired and cold, and Hotstreak had prepared himself to prove his points. But the blond had simply eyed him across from across the room...and said nothing. In some ways, Hotstreak felt like a child, sometimes. With Richie, he wasn’t sure what to say or do, because he had that much power over him. He would make a mistake and instantly await punishment, like a child from a parent.
He’d wondered if they had one of those crazy Jerry Springer-things going on–each of them depending on the other for things they missed out on with their parents. He was able to comprehend that much.
But then, none of it mattered–because then Richie looked at him straight in the eyes, and asked him, quietly, if he were okay.
Which was confusing–there was nothing the matter with him.
But he gave his answer with a puzzled voice, and Richie merely smiled.
Hotstreak had always known that he was able to come to the blond...he had known it since that first night. Richie had opened up the door to him, making the meta defenseless and suddenly realizing that he wasn’t as invulnerable as he thought. Richie was his catalyst into things he’d never delved into, before. In a way, he felt just as safe, secure and reassured as Richie did with him. As opposite as they were, they balanced the other out with their own forms of needs.
Once he realized he was being forgiven, Hotstreak stared down at Richie in silence–and wondered how he’d ever live without him. There was no soul as forgiving and understanding as he was–he’d never find this with anybody else.
Closing the distance between them, he curled his arms around the blond, feeling his arms twist around him; the two held each other in silence, quietly reassuring themselves with touch, that the other was here to stay.
It was an odd sense of understanding–neither had to speak out loud what they wanted to say. There was just no need.
OooooooooooO
Lathering the soap within his hands, Richie stared up at the older meta with an uncertain expression. He wasn’t sure how long the hot water was going to last, but neither had any desire to rush through the shower. He didn’t feel self-conscious or doubt of his body image, standing in the shower with his lover; in a way, it was oddly comfortable and natural. There was no doubt of the sexual attraction between them both; it was just a matter of being respectful of just how much Richie was able to handle.
He wanted to say that he was okay–that enough time should have passed for his body to have healed to have intercourse. But nagging doubts prevented a full reassurance of that aspect. And instinct had never failed him, before.
Quietly, he soaped up the other’s body, marveling in the formation of muscle, skin and of overall structure. He knew almost every inch of his body; and found it just as beautiful and wonderful as he found it the first time upon exploring it. He felt Hotstreak’s hands slip through his hair, pushing the strands from his face, his eyes intensely taking in his features. Looking away from the various scars, freckles and general characteristics that made him male, Richie looked up at him, and smiled reassuringly.
Because he could sense the older meta’s need for approval and constant quest for assurances, he let the redhead know without words that he could give it easily. Without question.
Lips met, and water slicked bodies pressed tightly against each other, molding together in a way that fit with their differences in height. The physical expression of their previous worries and reassurances were given, expressed with caressing touches and appreciative hands. None of them were saints, and it wasn’t unusual to feel their bodies’ instinctive reaction to stimulus.
But Richie wanted to assure him in that he slightly damaged–not dead. As he felt warm, strong flesh come to life in his hand, he held Hotstreak close and brought him to completion with that simple act. Nothing big, or flashy–but an act of giving. The water turned too cold to continue to stand in, but after they dried off, Hotstreak provided the same thing.
Long after Richie fell asleep, Hotstreak stared down at the peaceful features, his head propped up on his palm, and his other hand lightly running over the hairs on Richie’s arm. He stared down at that sleeping face and felt his chest tighten; for his mind to almost snap in amazement over how much he felt for the guy. He’d been scared, before–uncertain, a little ashamed, a little new; but he was as certain of his love for him as he was confident with his powers.
It was obvious–all of it. How much they needed each other. How much they depended on each other. That Richie was willing to forgive him and provide him with what he needed made him realize that he shouldn’t hold back on his feelings. He was confident that no one had what they had; that what they had was special. No one could communicate the way they could with just a look; a gesture; theirs was truly special. He was convinced of that, and more.
He was being selfish, he realized. Selfish and inconsiderate. By holding back, he was denying Richie’s own needs. He was used to taking and taking without consideration to others’ needs.
But this one person...this one person knew him and accepted him...why continue to deny?
He reached up to smooth shaggy blond hair from peaceful features, and felt faint traces of stubble under his fingers. And, for once, he wasn’t disgusted in that he loved another male. For once he didn’t feel that odd curl in his belly, that denial that made him uneasy.
He could accept it, now.
And it made him feel odd as he kissed Richie’s nose, feeling it all surge throughout every cell of his body.
“I love you, Rich,” he whispered to the sleeping blond, and was happy that he did.
Saying it just made it much more perfect. He’d have to say it more.
Chapter Eighteen
Ivan Evans, AKA Ebon, had been determined fit enough to stand trial for multiple murder charges; accompanying others included malicious mischief, illegal use of controlled substances, drug trafficking, a couple of rape charges, and multiple counts of battery and assault. His lawyer, a Dakota native with a sparkling record of winning his higher profile cases, stood to argue his defense and have many of these charges lowered to lesser degrees. In any event, Ivan was slated to stay off the streets of Dakota for a good while.
As the public staked their protests and argumentative opinions outside the courthouse, Ivan relaxed in his cell. Ever diligent and on his best behavior, he didn’t complain when the guards handcuffed him roughly and he was served cold meals. He didn’t protest as he was drilled for information on his networks and crew members, or even show any remorse or guilt as he faced his victims in court.
He merely made plans, and communicated with his crew members through one of his guards. Ivan was patient when he wanted to be–he knew he had the situation under control.
As D and V worked his networks and re-directed lines, he waited.
The ensuing trial was somewhat of a sensation–he was featured in the news daily. Snitches and rats came out from their hidey-holes throughout Dakota–every one of them were eager to sell a story or two about Ebon’s doings within the city.
But the man had power in high places; corrupt policemen ‘misplaced’ various information. Victims’ accounts and reports were suddenly ‘not there’. Evidence was ‘accidently’ thrown into incinerators. City councilmen, members of the police department, and specific city workers worked their influences, paid for with money made from the drugs that continued trafficking their way through the streets of Dakota. Sales of weaponry and associated items were ignored. Those that had been so willing and eager to talk began to take trips out of the city–never to return.
The city was quietly in chaos–but the citizens were too blind by the pretense of Ebon’s holding to notice.
OooooooooooO
When Richie woke up that next morning, seeing that Hotstreak had left, he’d felt entirely depressed. Mortified. Shamed–he’d scared off his companion. He knew that he had. And he couldn’t tell if he were disappointed from Hotstreak leaving him, or relieved in that he didn’t have to face the older meta. To add to the flashback’s intensity, his feelings over Hotstreak’s absence left him feeling entirely vulnerable and defenseless.
The clock told him that school was already halfway through its morning hours. And while he knew that he was technically safe from Ebon, his body felt as if it had been violated all over again. His muscles ached; his jaw ached; the area around his right eye throbbed with that pain associated with impact; if it weren’t for the lack of injuries (save for the one that was still in the process of fully healing), he would have thought he’d physically experienced it all over again.
Feeling hopeless, depressed and alone, he’d simply curled back up and went to sleep.
He waited for Hotstreak to come back. During the moments he forced himself to wake up, he thought of what he’d say to the meta to make him feel as if it wasn’t his fault. That it was his, Richie’s, for reacting the way he had. He wanted to make it up to the guy–but he didn’t know how. Or what to do.
A day of waiting stretched to four. Richie skipped school, anxiously waiting for Hotstreak to come back. With no word or sign of him, he started to feel rejected. What if it was over? What if Hotstreak felt that he couldn’t do this anymore, and was just waiting for him to leave? Cowardly and bastardly of him to do so, and Richie couldn’t help but feel angry over it. Angry and hurt.
And that’s what prompted him to finally leave the bed after almost a week’s worth of self-loathing and hatred for himself.
It was odd this way–now that Hotstreak was gone, he was able to think. He could operate dependently from the meta; he understood that Francis Stone could only provide so much. In a way, that line of thinking helped him get over his growing hurt from the older meta’s absence; Hotstreak wasn’t a counselor. He wasn’t skilled in this sort of drama. He was only human–and humans, once confronted with something entirely out of their comfort zone, most often backed away. He had already seen what Hotstreak was capable of when it came to him–he felt that the meta had already proved his love with the hospital-scene, and all the small things in between.
It would be up to Richie to smooth things over–after all, he felt that since he’d started this entire episode in the first place, he should be the one to fix it.
So, that next Monday, he finally gathered the strength he needed to overcome his problems, worries and frustrations and headed back to school.
Virgil had been frantic, of course. With Richie not having a phone, ignoring his Shock Vox and not bothering to contact him, Virgil had assumed the very worst and took out his furious concern on his friend the moment he saw the blond hurrying up to the school’s front walk. Richie wasn’t going to blame him for his own irresponsibility, and took the tirade sheepishly, offering no excuse or story to make Virgil feel better.
Cursing angrily, pointing out that Richie was failing to see what was being done to him, Virgil had expressed how hurt he himself felt over his friend’s recent changes, how they weren’t as close as they were before. That Francis Stone was changing him and he wished for the power to make Richie see this.
Richie ignored the anger, of course–he felt it was all right for Virgil to express himself, anyway. He knew that Virgil cared for him, but he didn’t want to hear that spiel about how bad an influence Hotstreak was on him. So he did as he normally did and directed Virgil’s attention from him, asking him if Daisy looked a little chubbier than she had before. Thereby thrusting Virgil’s attention off of him and directing it to the possibility that perhaps Daisy wasn’t being truthful about her birth control.
Richie found Thom Harrison’s number in one of Hotstreak’s jackets, borrowing the garment just to feel close to him as he did with his hooded sweater. While he gathered his courage to give the counselor a call, he turned in his job applications, and had interviews set up the next week.
He then restocked on food and supplies with the last of the money Ebon had left behind. It didn’t help that his hunger had him eating anything he couldn’t afford. Junk food from the vending machines, the limited supplies in the motel room–his need for some form of comfort had Virgil commenting once more on his eating habits.
But he learned that it was difficult not having a vehicle, and he refused to ask Virgil for help, knowing that he’d have to hear his tirade on Hotstreak’s actions and what it all actually meant. As he lugged their dirty laundry in multiple plastic bags to the nearest Laundromat five blocks away, he realized that his father had been right–real life sucked.
Without a job, he didn’t have money to buy the basics. Without a vehicle, he was limited in what he was able to do. And with rent due, with groceries needed, to budget and plan with what he had left of Ebon’s money–he felt steadily overwhelmed by what existed beyond the comfort and reassurance of his parents’ house. He fought the urge to go back home, battling bouts of homesickness and depression. He kept telling himself that living with the constant tension his father slapped on him day to day was something he really didn’t need.
One week slipped into the next, and he pushed himself to keep moving–to stop pining over the things that were trying desperately to pull him down. He managed to score a part-time job at a truck-washing travel-stop center, which paid an agreeable amount of money weekly. He lucked out with that aspect. And when he’d finally called Thom and scheduled an appointment, he felt much of that pressure release him.
Though the motel manager was miffed that rent hadn’t been paid in the past two weeks, and that Hotstreak was allowing someone to live with him without notifying him, Richie had managed to convince him to allow him to pay for both of them, and the two weeks’ rent, out of his first paycheck. He realized that it was going to be difficult, having money only to spend it as soon as he got it.
Dad was right, he thought, staring at the pay stub of his first check.
“...Live the real life. Find out what it means to have a job, to work hard, to pay your own way!...”
Those words were clear as the night they’d been spoken, and he numbly wadded up the pay stub, a determined expression fitting over his face. Yes, things were hard–but at least he didn’t have Sean Foley all over him, and Ebon was still in jail. At least he had THAT to make him happy.
Meeting with Thom had been hard–the first session had him confessing his background, his current situation, everything but his superhero activities–Thom was patient and kind, and he didn’t force his influence on Richie. He let the blond talk. After that session, Richie had expected to feel that slippery sense of unease, knowing that he had to delve into what was messing him up. But he didn’t feel any of that. In fact, he felt rather relieved–he knew it was the right choice, to find help for psychological trauma; it was just getting it out of his system to some stranger and admitting his own weaknesses and doubts that left him feeling less than a man.
But Thom hadn’t made him feel that way at all. He scheduled another session that same week, and by the time Richie was through relating a general summarization of the attack, he’d felt a giant weight lifted off his chest. Speaking about it had made him feel less violated; in a way, acknowledging what had happened from beginning to end, and realizing that while he hadn’t any power to stop what had happened, he did have the power to keep it from totally ravaging his life.
He thought about his flashback in the room with Hotstreak; and wondered if he really wanted to go through life being unable to receive or express physical expression in that sense. He still felt raw about the attack–counting the days, it had been nearly two months this Saturday.
He still felt apprehensive about the dark (he didn’t want to think about the utility bill that he knew was coming from having a light on all the time), and the very thought of smelling weed on his lover’s skin still made his skin crawl. But he wanted to be fixed. He wanted to feel as he did before the attack.
Thom had assured him that as time passed, he’d feel a little better. He’d learn to feel more control over himself. But it took time. He had to be patient. More therapy would also prevail, and Richie had fretted about the bill for that. But Thom was quick to let him know that that would be taken care of, and had asked who his doctor was that night he was treated at County General. Upon learning that Montoya had been his doctor, Thom gleefully praised her, and assured him that due to his medical records and treatment, he had the proof he needed to bill the Victims of Crime center to pay for his counseling sessions.
The two sessions had given Richie a little more confidence, and he was sure to work future appointments into his schedule. He hadn’t regretted making the call, and he now wondered why he’d been so anxious before.
Then, over three weeks since that night, Richie woke up to find Hotstreak lying next to him; reeking of alcohol and wearing clothes he’d never seen before. He was upset in that he hadn’t heard the guy come into the room, and conflicting emotions kept him from lashing out at the slumbering lug. So he spent a few precious minutes staring angrily at his sleeping face.
In doing so, he thought of the things the meta had done for him; supporting him, taking him in, dealing with his aftereffects, the hospital scene, trying to keep him from those that wanted to hurt him; in a way, he knew he could forgive Hotstreak for all the wrongs that he did. His mind ran over the reasons why–the male was going out of his comfort zones for him. In his own ways, the meta needed him, and Richie knew he could give him what he was looking for. Both of them were lost souls in their own standing, and he figured that they needed each other, to balance each other out. That was reason enough.
Hotstreak also cared for him in ways his father hadn’t–which was a startling comparison, and something that made Richie feel a little ill. He hadn’t been aware that he’d been looking for a father figure; but he’d found someone that shared some of his father’s traits, and had made up for all that his father hadn’t.
He felt little shame upon realizing that. But he understood that when people looked for a companion, they either chose resembling figures of either of their parents, or found someone that carried their characteristics–positive or negative.
Consciously realizing this made him feel weird; but intensely focused on that he’d been searching for approval from his father. When he hadn’t found it in Sean, he found someone that would. Hotstreak gave him that; he knew the meta sincerely cared for him.
He’d just been at a loss of what to do that night.
Richie could forgive him easily if he thought that way.
Whether it was for good or bad, he knew he could forgive the older meta for all the things that he did. Many questions ran through his head, but none were vocalized as he stared at that face.
He just knew that he loved him, and wanted to make things better.
He went to school, thinking nothing more than what he was going to say to Hotstreak when he got home. Virgil was used to Richie’s mind wandering and his attention focused elsewhere, so he didn’t take it too personally when he found himself being ignored.
By the time Richie’s shift ended at eleven-thirty that night, he had planned out what he was going to say without throwing a fit, and proving to the older meta that he had ‘feminine influences’. Men didn’t freak out and resort to throwing things and screaming maniacally over their partners’ misdeeds and failures. No matter that his father had done that to him and his mother; he did not want to partake in that sort of behavior.
OooooooooooO
Hotstreak had kept himself busy during that same length in time.
He hadn’t expected to be away that long–a day or two at most. Not a month. It wasn’t supposed to be that way.
For two days, he hung out with his friends. There had been plenty of weed to help him overcome his own inner torments, and he sheepishly helped Sam Esposito repair his den. When another friend mentioned that his girl was ready to kick him out, Hotstreak helped him move all his belongings from one end of town to another.
Another mentioned that he was having trouble with his car–three days were spent taking apart the thing to discover that an evil ex had disconnected the U-joint from its holster and had switched the alternator from a brand new model to a used one that had been cleaned thoroughly to avoid suspicion.
Since he was running out of money, he participated in a few robberies on the outskirts of Dakota. Nothing flashy–though, handling a gun and hiding behind a ski mask had been awkward, as he hadn’t armed himself in this fashion for quite awhile.
But the thrill of getting away with a crime had been exciting, as it always had and he had money to spend.
Things like this continued to pop up, and the more he kept his distance from Richie, the more he thought about things. He avoided him mainly because the longer he stayed away, the more he felt shamed of himself.
He still didn’t know what he did wrong; he still didn’t know how to address it, but knew that it had to be. Sam’s den was restored, they followed through with their plans on pilfering Ebon’s continued networks of drugs, mercantile was advertised and sold, friends were in need...
He knew that what he was doing was wrong. And felt guilt over it. Men liked to avoid things that made them uncomfortable, and he was just as human as the rest of them.
It wasn’t as if he completely avoided Richie–no, he had found out that Richie was still attending school. He had told himself that he’d approach him after school one day–had even waited a full hour before Dakota Union even let out, practicing his apology and other things that he felt needed to be said. But instead, he ended up not approaching him. He’d seen that he was with Virgil and a few of their friends, and ended up following at a distance. To gather that courage once more.
But that failed.
The next day proved just as fruitless.
Finally, he ended up just stalking the teen–sure that he’d get the balls one day to go up to him and talk to him. He found out that Richie was working; that he was seeing Thom. He’d been proud that Richie was taking care of himself, that he took the initiative to keep going rather than tossing up his hands and crying out for failure.
Hotstreak had always known that Richie was a strong person–he had known that, and it had been one of his favorite attributes of the teen. Richie wasn’t the type to simply curl up and cry about how unfair the world was to him, and behave loosely like so many other people Hotstreak knew. Even when he was living at home, he’d come to school all smiles and cheer, with no indication of what he was hiding underneath his baggy clothes. He didn’t let that bring him down–and it was apparent that this wasn’t going to bring him down as well.
Certainly much stronger than he’d ever be. Hotstreak had long ago accepted that he was a coward that ran from problems rather than faced them. He could only admire his loved one’s strength from afar and continue to hate himself for his cowardice.
As much as this road took, he didn’t spend every waking hour documenting what Richie did without him. He had his own commitments and ordeals to sort through.
One of his first mistakes in leaving Richie was committed two days after that night–he had no excuse for it, really. No one to blame but himself. When he woke up next to Maria, knowing full well what he did, he’d felt guilt and disgrace. As well as a sense of satisfaction and victory in that he’d slept with a woman that others could only dream over. But, mostly, he felt guilt and that sense of exasperation commonplace with making impulsive decisions.
He’d once told Sam that the reason why he didn’t mess around with Maria was because he knew she’d expect a commitment. He had known, from the way she behaved, that she’d take a simple act as seriously as a woman would with a ring upon her finger. To him, it’d merely been Pity-Me-Sex because he’d been depressed over Richie. To her, it was something more.
She didn’t let him forget it, either, and he’d momentarily panicked upon remembering that she had provided the condom. He’d always used his own supply–he had learned his lesson in that aspect a long time ago, and he’d been careful ever since. But not that night. He couldn’t remember his reasoning in accepting her offer. Must have been the alcohol.
It took awhile for Maria to get that he didn’t want anything more to do with her. But he made it clear with snubs, avoidance and constant ignoring of her general presence. He thought she got the point when he’d given her phone back–finally–and she had proved that glass lamps over heads didn’t shatter the way they should have, like on the movies. She had thrown a fit, similar to the one last year when she discovered that he was having a ‘thing’ with Richie. Curiously, it had been just as hard to manage as it had been then. Female rages were something way beyond his grasp. Tears just made it worse.
After that, he had decided to drown all his problems with alcohol.
He had no idea what sent him back to the motel room. He had preferred to be sober and at least more knowledgeable of the situation. But when he woke up that morning, blinking away sleep heavy eyes, he’d felt a mixture of things; shame, guilt, remorse...happiness, eagerness, excitement...
He had wondered if Richie would take him back. Had fretted that the blond wouldn’t be able to rely on him. He prepared himself for a fit; prepared his arguments and prepared to stand-by his decisions, and he would assert himself and the blond would have no say in bossing him around and holding him on a leash.
But...as most plans go...especially with him, nothing worked the way that it should have.
Richie came back to the room that night, tired and cold, and Hotstreak had prepared himself to prove his points. But the blond had simply eyed him across from across the room...and said nothing. In some ways, Hotstreak felt like a child, sometimes. With Richie, he wasn’t sure what to say or do, because he had that much power over him. He would make a mistake and instantly await punishment, like a child from a parent.
He’d wondered if they had one of those crazy Jerry Springer-things going on–each of them depending on the other for things they missed out on with their parents. He was able to comprehend that much.
But then, none of it mattered–because then Richie looked at him straight in the eyes, and asked him, quietly, if he were okay.
Which was confusing–there was nothing the matter with him.
But he gave his answer with a puzzled voice, and Richie merely smiled.
Hotstreak had always known that he was able to come to the blond...he had known it since that first night. Richie had opened up the door to him, making the meta defenseless and suddenly realizing that he wasn’t as invulnerable as he thought. Richie was his catalyst into things he’d never delved into, before. In a way, he felt just as safe, secure and reassured as Richie did with him. As opposite as they were, they balanced the other out with their own forms of needs.
Once he realized he was being forgiven, Hotstreak stared down at Richie in silence–and wondered how he’d ever live without him. There was no soul as forgiving and understanding as he was–he’d never find this with anybody else.
Closing the distance between them, he curled his arms around the blond, feeling his arms twist around him; the two held each other in silence, quietly reassuring themselves with touch, that the other was here to stay.
It was an odd sense of understanding–neither had to speak out loud what they wanted to say. There was just no need.
OooooooooooO
Lathering the soap within his hands, Richie stared up at the older meta with an uncertain expression. He wasn’t sure how long the hot water was going to last, but neither had any desire to rush through the shower. He didn’t feel self-conscious or doubt of his body image, standing in the shower with his lover; in a way, it was oddly comfortable and natural. There was no doubt of the sexual attraction between them both; it was just a matter of being respectful of just how much Richie was able to handle.
He wanted to say that he was okay–that enough time should have passed for his body to have healed to have intercourse. But nagging doubts prevented a full reassurance of that aspect. And instinct had never failed him, before.
Quietly, he soaped up the other’s body, marveling in the formation of muscle, skin and of overall structure. He knew almost every inch of his body; and found it just as beautiful and wonderful as he found it the first time upon exploring it. He felt Hotstreak’s hands slip through his hair, pushing the strands from his face, his eyes intensely taking in his features. Looking away from the various scars, freckles and general characteristics that made him male, Richie looked up at him, and smiled reassuringly.
Because he could sense the older meta’s need for approval and constant quest for assurances, he let the redhead know without words that he could give it easily. Without question.
Lips met, and water slicked bodies pressed tightly against each other, molding together in a way that fit with their differences in height. The physical expression of their previous worries and reassurances were given, expressed with caressing touches and appreciative hands. None of them were saints, and it wasn’t unusual to feel their bodies’ instinctive reaction to stimulus.
But Richie wanted to assure him in that he slightly damaged–not dead. As he felt warm, strong flesh come to life in his hand, he held Hotstreak close and brought him to completion with that simple act. Nothing big, or flashy–but an act of giving. The water turned too cold to continue to stand in, but after they dried off, Hotstreak provided the same thing.
Long after Richie fell asleep, Hotstreak stared down at the peaceful features, his head propped up on his palm, and his other hand lightly running over the hairs on Richie’s arm. He stared down at that sleeping face and felt his chest tighten; for his mind to almost snap in amazement over how much he felt for the guy. He’d been scared, before–uncertain, a little ashamed, a little new; but he was as certain of his love for him as he was confident with his powers.
It was obvious–all of it. How much they needed each other. How much they depended on each other. That Richie was willing to forgive him and provide him with what he needed made him realize that he shouldn’t hold back on his feelings. He was confident that no one had what they had; that what they had was special. No one could communicate the way they could with just a look; a gesture; theirs was truly special. He was convinced of that, and more.
He was being selfish, he realized. Selfish and inconsiderate. By holding back, he was denying Richie’s own needs. He was used to taking and taking without consideration to others’ needs.
But this one person...this one person knew him and accepted him...why continue to deny?
He reached up to smooth shaggy blond hair from peaceful features, and felt faint traces of stubble under his fingers. And, for once, he wasn’t disgusted in that he loved another male. For once he didn’t feel that odd curl in his belly, that denial that made him uneasy.
He could accept it, now.
And it made him feel odd as he kissed Richie’s nose, feeling it all surge throughout every cell of his body.
“I love you, Rich,” he whispered to the sleeping blond, and was happy that he did.
Saying it just made it much more perfect. He’d have to say it more.