Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Twenty ( Chapter 20 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
The two have a fight
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 5 | Words: 5.9K | Visits: 469 | Status: Completed
The two have a fight
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 5 | Words: 5.9K | Visits: 469 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Twenty
Shiv gave a sightless glance at the photo that was being passed around. He passed it to S, who looked at it, and gave a balking noise.
“You’re shittin’ me,” she muttered, the first words Shiv had truly ever hear her speak. She held the photo up, examining it closely, unsure if she was truly seeing right.
She took in the sight of disheveled blond hair, of the oval shaped glasses, the goofy smile–the school photo was detailed enough, but she couldn’t believe that this guy–only a few years older than her–made the big bad Ivan Evans crazy with lust. Personally, she’d expected an impossibly beautiful boy; not some geek with eye problems. She was disappointed and amused at the same time.
“Watch the language, honey,” D cooed from across the room, where he was busy inputting information on his laptop, V standing next to him.
S looked at Shiv, her eyes narrowed as she handed the photo back. Shiv looked back at the photo. Taken earlier that year, it had found its way into Ivan’s hands.
He really didn’t want to be touching it–who knew what Ivan did with it while looking at it?
Suppressing the urge to express his discomfort, he handed the photo back down the line. Ivan was seated nearby, his eyes hooded with thought as he re-acquainted himself with a rolled blunt. The thick smell of weed made the air hazy and heavy, and Shiv was trying not to breathe in so much. But he could already feel the light headed feeling associated with the drug, his entire system wanting to shut down for sleep.
“This guy...is...that guy?” D was asking, looking at the information he’d brought up concerning Gear. Most of the info he had came from newspapers and police compiling of the teenage superhero. But he noted with curiosity that the guy had dropped out of superheroing over four months ago...which made things more interesting. When Ivan had given them the information of the teen being able to construct the mutation needed to return him to his Bang Baby form, he had been a little wary.
There were a lot of conflicting measures in this aspect concerning the teen–for one thing, the information they’d gathered on Richard Foley was a little disconcerting; a single child from a two parent household, who excelled in academics, didn’t participate much in afterschool activities; but was one half of a superhero duo. It was entertaining and interesting, at best. It told him that Richard Foley was more than they thought.
He didn’t know of Ivan’s obsession with the boy; but the reason for the black man wanting him was valid. After they were through with the cure, it was easy to put the boy away and blame it on the street violence of Dakota. They were fully capable of leaving no traces behind.
Of course, the Static factor was handled. Random violence...random person...D figured Static would never suspect.
Shiv lowered his head, staring at the floor as low murmurs went through the room. They had planned on visiting the Foley family, tonight. Just a simple visit. Nothing flashy–it was known that Richie had black friends, so it wouldn’t be a problem. But he felt extremely wary of the situation–as he glanced at Ivan, noting the pleased features and faraway expression, he felt something wrench deep inside. He knew that Ivan was planning on things than getting Richie to do the cure for him–he’d known him long enough to know that when he left the jail, he was always anxious, filled with pent-up aggression that he used for sexual release. Violent sexual release. Ivan had once confessed to saying that he couldn’t ‘get it up’ for someone willing.
Shiv had remembered thinking how sad it was, but he didn’t think that, now.
Ivan locked eyes with him, and lifted a hairless brow in query. Unsure of what to say, Shiv swallowed and looked away, feeling his gut overturn with what laid in their future. He could feel his fingers trembling, and he could still recall those violent images from that rooftop four months ago. He didn’t want to do that again; didn’t want to participate in something that had left a gaping scar within him. As his thoughts worked, wheels turning and twisting, he wasn’t aware that he was being plotted against, as well.
OooooooooooO
Richie was staring off to space as he listened to Hotstreak speak excitedly over a newly acquired cell phone. He wasn’t sure of the contents of the conversation, as he’d learned to filter out what he didn’t want to hear and what he could hear, but he was pretty sure that it involved another heist of significant proportion. He sighed lightly, resting his chin upon his palm on the small table. Homework spread before him, he had been in the process of actually starting it, but his thoughts kept drifting off to last night’s conversation.
Well, one couldn’t exactly feel calm and safe upon knowing your boyfriend wanted to kill you when he went down, he thought, this train of thinking entirely sarcastic. It was something that made him wholly ill, and he felt isolated in that he couldn’t bring this subject up with anyone.
It would all lead in the same direction every time–“You knew who you were dealing with when you decided he was the love of your life”; “What did you expect–? For him to completely change when he fell for you?”; “Did you honestly think that things would change in his aspect of thinking?”; or, his favorite, “I told you, so.”
He flicked his eyes in Hotstreak’s direction, seeing that he had that notebook out and was writing things down. How to go about bringing this up? To say that he didn’t want to die–he didn’t want the pair of them dying. He was convinced that Hotstreak could have a lighter sentence if he just gave up the names and operations that he worked. He was also pretty sure that lack of any real guidance in his life had led him to where he was, today, and the court system could take that into consideration.
Perhaps they would feel sympathy–and it was this sort of thinking that made him feel very exasperated with himself. He dropped his forehead into his hand and shook his head from side to side. ‘Sympathy’–Hotstreak had been in juvie so many times before the Big Bang, and had a record that stretched longer than the length of the room. No one would feel sympathy for him. Just a great sense of relief in that he was finally off the streets.
He just wished there was another way that Hotstreak could feel comfortable with that didn’t involve death. There just had to be a better way!
The cell phone was dropped onto the table, and Richie jumped with surprise, looking up at the older meta.
“You hungry?” Hotstreak asked, almost suspiciously.
Richie thought of the five sandwiches he’d had earlier. But how his stomach growled at the question.
Hotstreak took the answer with some satisfaction, and gestured at his books. “Put those away. We’ll take ‘em with us. You can finish it later.”
Half an hour later, they were walking over to a Burger Fool, the Camry parked on a side street three blocks down.
I miss mom’s home cooking! Richie thought with a forlorn expression, feeling uneasy with the amount of greasy foods he’d been eating over the past two months.
Sandwiches were plain and ordinary, and one tired of them instantly. They didn’t have a kitchenette in the room, and neither could cook, anyway. Which was why he truly enjoyed eating over at the Hawkins’ every little while.
He was pinching his side, wincing at what he found and figuring upon a fifteen pound weight gain as they walked into the restaurant. Since it was mid-afternoon, and winter had long since switched to spring, both of them weren’t as bundled up as they were used to. Hotstreak wore a backwards baseball hat and a light jacket, while he was stuck with his messy hair and one of the few hoodies he’d managed to salvage from his parents’ in what seemed so long ago.
He thought it was strange that Hotstreak was preferring to walk into the restaurant, so used to drive-thrus and incognito ordering just to keep the workers from panicking, but he understood why when, after they had ordered, a group of young men wearing red and black clothing approached the older meta.
Richie sighed, turning to walk away so he wouldn’t hear the exchange when Hotstreak gripped his arm and held him in place. He was given questioning looks from the other boys, but the older meta ignored it. Richie found interest out the window, not wanting to look at them or give any attention to the exchange that he knew was going to happen. As he did so, he watched a group of boys struggle to open the trunk of a late model Lancer. When they finally got it open, they were unloading black bags swiftly, tossing them into the open back end of a nearby Blazer.
He closed his eyes and counted to ten.
“You got it all?” Hotstreak asked the acne-troubled youth before him.
“‘Bout as much as we could fuckin’ carry!”
“How much?”
“I say around ten thousand. We didn’t get that much–they was all over the place. But we got what we could, man. You lookin’?”
“Yeah, I’m lookin’.”
“Say, around twenty to twenty-five...to make it even.”
“That ain’t even–!”
“Listen up, sucka, that’s just the way it is. ‘Sides, there’s all this shit talk about Ebon bein’ back on the streets–!”
“That bitch is in prison!”
“Yeah, they say that, too. But there’s this guy on the west side that swears he saw ‘im.”
Hotstreak scoffed at that, Richie feeling uneasy at the thought. There was no way Ivan Evans could have escaped prison–he was human. It would take extreme actions of headlining proportion to break him out of there. And so far, he hadn’t heard anything. Well...it wasn’t as if he were as afraid of him as he’d been over four months ago.
If he had to face him today, he wouldn’t break down. He had grown stronger since then.
The boys unloading the Lancer kept giving the restaurant wild, expectant looks. They finished their job, slammed the trunk shut, and were scurrying toward the Blazer, loading up.
“Ain’t no way, man. An’ that price is too high.”
“You ain’t got it, you ain’t gettin’ it!”
“Oh, yeah? Okay, then,” Hotstreak then said with a shrug. “Be seein’ ya.”
Immediately, the boys were leery. “T-that’s it?” the first boy asked, eyebrows raising.
“I ain’t gonna wait it out. You ain’t gonna sell, you ain’t gonna sell. Oh...order’s up.”
As they walked over to retrieve the hastily made combination meals, Richie sneaked a look over his shoulder at the boys as they hurried out from the restaurant. He saw the Blazer speeding out from the parking lot, loud laughter ringing out as rubber burned against the asphalt.
“Oh, you’re sneaky,” he muttered, taking his drink and bag.
“Lil’ boys these days,” Hotstreak scoffed, shaking his head. “Too busy talkin’. They ain’t gonna figure it out til they try an’ get in that shit.”
“I didn’t want to be involved,” Richie growled, pausing in mid-step to kick out at his ankles. Hotstreak stumbled into the door, nearly losing his drink and meal in the process. They walked out from the restaurant, see the car full of boys driving off nonchalantly. “Don’t get me involved! Hello? I used to bust your stupid ass back in the day?”
Hotstreak merely laughed. “That was back in th’ day, Rich. You ain’t doin’ it, now.”
“Francis, seriously. I don’t want to know what you’re doing, or–or any of that. Cuz it makes me feel obligated to tell Virgil–”
“You’d snitch me out?” Hotstreak exclaimed, giving him an incredulous look.
“I would feel like I had to!” Richie repeated. “Don’t make me do this!”
“I only brought ya along, Rich, cuz I didn’t want ya all cooped up in that room. You been doin’ that, lately, an’ it ain’t right.”
“I...have not–”
“I heard your daddy’s been askin’ about you. Askin’ around places...” Hotstreak looked at him closely, raising his eyebrows as Richie gave him a confused look. “Some of these guys that hang out at the homeless centers, the ones under the bridge near Main? They been sayin’ that some big guy was asking about you. Flashin’ your picture, sayin’ all this bullshit about wantin’ ya to come back home–”
Richie made an uncomfortable noise, looking away as he sipped at his drink. His father was going to such measures to look for him? Similar to that time he’d run away from home? It was probably just for show. He wondered what Robert had told him, to have Sean searching the streets for him. Panicked briefly at the thought of his father finding out where they were staying.
“You ain’t wantin’ to go home, right?”
“Nah...not really. No. I’m fine right where I am.”
“Good,” Hotstreak then murmured in satisfaction, digging through his bag. He then scowled, making a growling noise as he withdrew his half covered hamburger. “I said no fuckin’ cheese! Goddamn brats–!”
Richie slapped his own bag against his chest. “Same thing, without cheese. Stop your bitchin’.”
“Oh...lemme see this...What you wanna do now, Richie-Rich? Wanna hit up a movie? Somethin’?”
“Let’s go to the park. We’ll eat there, then figure out what to do, okay? And anymore references to that stupid cartoon, and I’m going to have your balls.”
“...Actually, that’s not a bad idea–”
“With the tip of my shoe.”
“...okay, okay.”
Richie grinned at him, feeling his cheeks heat briefly.
They had begun having intercourse again–the first few times had been hard, conflicting. While he knew he’d been ready for it, and there had been plenty of therapy to help him along, there had been some moments where he’d had to stop, smothered by the smells, feeling and the frustration of not being able to let go. But his lover had been kind to him–exceedingly so. With small bouts of his own frustration and anger at the situation, Hotstreak had been understanding, leaving Richie feeling even more grateful for him.
They had eventually settled into a comfortable rhythm with physical affection–the blond could expect nightly bouts that often left them both satisfied and fulfilled, and he’d grown used to the older male’s eagerness and stamina for more. In a way, he felt just as dependent on the sex as he did.
It brought them closer, enabled them a connection that couldn’t be touched with mere words alone. Plus, it felt damn awesome. He’d always enjoyed their physical expressions before; he didn’t mind being marked and ravished, and didn’t mind the nightly needs. In a way, his own hunger for the meta matched his.
Last night, though, after the drive home and due to those chilling words, he just hadn’t been into it as he had been before. And he knew his lover had sensed it; it was in the way Hotstreak had kept himself distanced while moving against him; the older meta liked holding him close, liked touching and being touched, but last night–he’d simply held back on those and was mechanical in his actions. Richie had felt bad, but how else was he supposed to enjoy it when he knew what he did?
They settled down at a table within a nearby park, and Richie ate in silence. He wasn’t hungry; overstuffed and certainly eating out of boredom and stress, but he took his time in finishing off the greasy fries and eyeing the cheesy burger with uncertainty. By the time Hotstreak had finished off his own meal and started in on his, the street lamps were coming on, and night was falling. Since they were sitting at an obscure table, nearly hidden within neatly groomed trees and hedges, Richie left his seat to sit next to Hotstreak, wrapping his arms around his waist.
He nuzzled the older meta’s neck, noting that he’d left a hickey there from the night before. Since it was fading, he decided to reapply color, and busied himself with doing so.
“Rich...quit that...I need to tell you something.”
The blond pulled back to look at him, not liking the tone Hotstreak was using with him. Feeling a little apprehensive in that he was going to hear something he wasn’t going to like, he waited. Hotstreak wiped his hands and mouth with a napkin, then started gathering up the trash, stuffing it into one bag.
“Kinda...the reason why I was gettin’ ya outta the place is that...er...well...it’s bein’ raided,” Hotstreak said with a grimace.
Richie felt himself pale, automatically thinking of his school books. His clothes. His wallet underneath the mattress. Clues that would give his identification away.
“Sorry, man. We had to get out of there quick. I kinda fucked up in that aspect. But I had the manager get your shit. The stuff on the table, and–what?”
“My wallet was in there. My work stuff. Francis,” Richie groaned, sinking against the table, feeling as if the carpet had been yanked from underneath him.
He kept hearing “I told you so” ringing throughout his head.
“I got your wallet, babe. Here. But everything else...well, can’t help that. I gotta friend on the police force, an’ he called ta let me know...I just wanted to get out of there really quick.”
Staring with forlorn exhaustion at the table top, Richie took his wallet and wondered what he was going to do next. What they were going to do.
This is how it’s going to be, he realized. The longer I stay with him, this is what life’s going to consist of. Being on the run constantly. Having to lie and cheat...to hide and hurry...
He had never imagined himself ever living this way–if someone had told him he would have been, he would have laughed. Who would have guessed that he, Richie Foley, was going to live the life of a deviant? Geeky, good boy and terribly unfit with breaking the law Richard Foley...yet, here he was, living with a known criminal, getting his rocks off with known criminal, and trying to pretend that love will keep them afloat.
He felt Hotstreak’s hand move under his jaw, forcing him to look up at him.
“We’ll be okay, Rich,” he said huskily. “We’ll be okay. I’ve got us another place to go. I’ve got things situated, already. We’ll be fine.”
“‘Fine’?” Richie repeated, jerking his chin out of his touch. “We’ll be just ‘fine’? Is this what we have to do all the time? Run from place to place? Survive by lying and cheating and stealing? And selling what shouldn’t be sold?”
Hotstreak sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know you knew the risks. I didn’t put a gun to your head, Rich. You knew who I was when ya got wit’ me.”
In agitation at hearing those words, coming from an unexpected source, caused Richie to fly from his seat. “Don’t say that!” he shouted. “I expected to hear that from someone else! Not from you! And, yes, I knew the risks! And you didn’t put anything to my head! I just thought that–that–God, I’m so retarded...”
Richie sat back down, shoulders slumping. He stared up at the sky, feeling at a loss to what to do. His comfort level wanted him to turn around and go to Virgil. At least with the Hawkins’, they were stable. Reliable.
He closed his eyes. He felt so....lost.
Those voices kept singing “I told you so!” over and over and over...
“Rich...it’ll be okay. It’s all handled–!”
“It’s not handled!” Richie shouted at him. “It’s not! I–I knew that there would be risks, that–that things would be–but never to this extent! I never imagined myself living this way, an’ now that I am–? I feel like I can’t adjust to it! I’ve never done this, before! I was always the good boy! I can’t ever imagine myself continuing to do this!”
Hotstreak stared at him quietly, then gave him an exasperated look. “Don’t cry around to me about it, then.”
“There isn’t anybody else I can ‘cry around about it’ to!” Richie hissed at him. “I can’t talk to V about it! You know how he is! Who else am I going to talk to? You’re the only person I have!”
“Then fuckin’ deal with it! That’s just how it is!”
“How can I ‘deal with it’ when I’ve never been–I–can’t do this, Francis!”
Hotstreak pined him with an intense stare, Richie trying to collect his thoughts to further express his concerns of the matter. Shifting in his seat to face the blond, Hotstreak asked, with a raised eyebrow, “Can’t do what?”
“This!” Richie gestured at him. At the park. “I don’t want to live on the lam. I don’t want to live knowing that at any moment, someone will come storming into our home an–and hurting us both because of your–things, or law enforcement–!”
“So, whatcha doin’, Rich? You sayin’ you don’t want to be with me, anymore? Is that what this is leadin’ to?” Hotstreak asked, rising from his seat, his voice taking on a growl.
Richie stared up at him for several moments, recognizing that Hotstreak had gone on the offensive. He started to shake his head, but he hesitated. He looked away, not wanting to admit the rising feelings of acknowledgment of his words. He wanted to be with him–there was no doubt. But if this was how their life was going to continue to be–then how could he continue to be happy with it?
“You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you an’ yer stupid crybaby tendencies, then. I did my best in tryin’ ta make sure you were all comfortable an’ shit, an’ you cry around about how much you can’t deal wit’ it! I don’t have to listen to this garbage! I did a lot for you! Fuckin’ go back home to your lame-ass parents an’ get off my back about it!” Hotstreak snarled, grabbing his empty cup and hurling it at him.
Richie ducked, but looked up with a growl of his own. He grabbed his own cup and hurled it at him, catching him square in the face with the action. “Don’t you throw things at me! I came to you because you didn’t treat me like that!”
“Prissy princess poo thinks she got some backbone–!”
“DON’T CALL ME A GIRL! You’re ALWAYS CALLING ME A FUCKING GIRL!”
“Cuz ya are! Always fuckin’ cryin’ around ‘bout some shit, whinin’, cryin’–you ain’t proved you a man, yet!”
“Well then, in that case– Transvestite fucker!”
“WHAT?”
“YOU HEARD ME! I’m obviously female to you, but I KNOW I’m male–! You wanna go that route, then fuckin’ go that route!”
“God, you always had a mouth that needed to be slapped! No wonder your daddy was always hittin’ you!”
“Go–to–Hell–trailer trash bastard!” Richie shouted, throwing their trash at him. Hotstreak swept his arms up to cover his face, then snarled, lunging at him. They tumbled to the ground, Richie hitting him furiously, trying to get him off.
“Don’t you call me that, Rich, you fuckin’ prick! I ain’t no fuckin’ trash!”
“Eat this, sucker!”
Hotstreak gave a garbled noise of agitation as Richie stuffed grass and dirt into his face, forcing the meta to let go of him. He was up and running, blindly, unsure of where to go when he was bodily tackled into one of the trees, knocking the wind out of him. Blinking stars away, he groped for a hand hold against the meta, looking to punch his way out when Hotstreak was yanked forcefully away him, startling the pair of them.
“Don’t you touch him!” Static snarled, emitting sparks of electricity that sent Richie’s hair spiking in various directions. “Don’t you fuckin’ ever touch him that way!”
“What th’ fuck?”
“Rich, you okay?”
“I’m fine–! What are you doing here?”
Static gave him a confused look as Richie moved away from him, straightening his hoodie. He cast a glance over at Hotstreak, seeing the meta eyeing him with an uncertain expression.
“I was just...patrollin’...I heard you yellin’...”
“It’s okay, V–Static. We’re just...talking.”
“‘Talking’?” Static repeated incredulously, looking from one to the other. Saw the set jaw, the sullen expression on Hotstreak’s face and the strained one on Richie’s. “It didn’t look like you two were just ‘talking’. It looked like you were–!”
“Man, it ain’t any of your business what we’re doing!” Hotstreak then snapped at him. “We were just talkin’!”
“It wasn’t TALKING that I SAW!” Static snapped at both of them. “If your definition of talking means throwing Rich around, then I gotta different version of breakin’ shit up!”
Hotstreak looked over at Richie, who was giving them both an anxious glance. He moved to take a step closer to the blond, but Static set himself between them, hands flashing to life with his power. Richie immediately reached out, shaking his head.
“It’s all right, V. Just...we said things that we shouldn’t have,” he said, giving Hotstreak a scowl. “And we’re just working things out.”
Static turned his back to Hotstreak, spearing Richie with a glare. “I SAW what I SAW. If you think makin’ excuses for this sad pitiful excuse of a human–!”
“Fuck you, Hawkins, you fuckin’ dick! You don’t know shit! ‘sides, you’ve been with him long enough–! You know he’s got a temper on him, too!”
“I KNOW that it takes A LOT for him to blow UP!” Static roared, whirling to face him.
“Get outta my face, Static. Don’t you get all up in my face–!”
“Don’t you ever pull that shit on him EVER AGAIN! I should kick your ass, you fuckin’ white–!”
“GUYS, KNOCK IT OFF!” Richie finally bellowed, shoving himself between them. He faced Static, giving a slight frown as he glanced over his shoulder at Hotstreak, who was ready to attack. The smell of smoke and the feel of heated air made him wince as he then whispered, “Is it all right if I stay with you, tonight? I mean...just to...”
“Yeah. Yeah, man, no problem.”
Static glared at Hotstreak from over his shoulder as Richie turned to face him, fiddling with his glasses.
“Francis, I’m going with him, all right? I think we need to calm down a little–get some space–”
The expression on Hotstreak’s face was murderous as he glanced from him to Static, who was just waiting for him to make the wrong move. As it was, he was growing noticeably more furious as he glared down at Richie.
“So you’re just goin’ to walk away?” he snapped. “You’re just goin’ ta leave this? Like it is?”
“We can’t work things out if we’re both willing to come to blows over it!” Richie insisted.
“That’s fuckin’ bullshit, Rich! What the fuck–? You suddenly fuckin’ gettin’ all pansy over tough shit?”
“I didn’t say that! I’m just saying that the smartest thing to do is to cool off! And I’m not some stupid pansy!”
“Fuck that bullshit. I thought you were more than ‘nat, yet, th’ minute he comes around, you all pansy. You can’t handle shit? You can’t handle that I ain’t all catering to your fuckin’ needs? Well, fuck you! Fuck you!”
“Stop getting so angry, Francis,” Richie muttered, crossing his arms, suddenly feeling cold. Hotstreak had confessed to him over a year ago about how he'd felt when his mother left him. The way the redhead was acting suddenly reminded him of that, wondering if Hotstreak were taking his leaving with Virgil the same way his mother left. He didn't want that misunderstanding. “I care about you, alot–but if we keep doing this–just standing here yelling at each other...we’re not going to get anywhere...”
“Whatever. Fuck you, Rich. Run off when it gets tough. I thought you were tougher than ‘nat, an’ ya ain’t. You just another puss. Fuckin’ woman.”
Richie felt his face darken with fury, and he leapt at the older meta, shoving him back. He felt Static grab his hoodie, yanking him back as Hotstreak recovered and leapt at him. The pair of them wrapped their hands within the material of the others’ shirt as Static grunted, struggling to keep himself between them.
He had to use a jolt of his powers to get them to let go, causing them both to stumble away.
“Who the hell thought it was a bright fuckin’ idea to have an Irishman an’ a fuckin’ hothead get together?” he exclaimed. “Ya’ll gonna wreck shit up with this shit!”
“Fuck you, Francis! You’re nothin’ but a fucking dick, anyway!”
“You weren’t complainin’ last night!”
“HAH! That’s cuz I didn’t want to–!”
“ENOUGH!” Static finally roared, powers flaring briefly. “GEEZ! Let’s go, Rich. An’ as for you–! You’d better not cause shit because of this!”
“Fuck you, nigger. I hope you rot, Rich. I thought you were better than that. I thought you could handle. I was there for you! I was always there for you! An’ here, you run off like a lil’ bitch when it gets tough on my end! Well, fuck you! You an’ your stupid monkey!”
“YOU AND YOUR STUPID MOUTH–!” Static growled, wanting to attack at the barrage of insults.
“Yeah, well, that’s your end. Just because I don’t want to–!”
“That’s it, let’s go,” Static snapped, flicking his disc onto the ground and energizing it, grabbing Richie’s sweater. But the blond shrugged off his hand and continued yelling at the older meta.
“If you can’t understand why I need to take a break, then you’re obviously deluded! Maybe having time away will do you some good! THINK about things!”
“You used me, you fuckin’ prick!”
“I didn’t use you! I have never used you!”
“...Whatever. Fuck you. Go to hell.”
“NO, YOU fuck you! Let go of me, Virgil, Goddammit!” Richie then cursed as Static wrapped an arm around his waist and lifted off the ground.
Hotstreak watched them leave, then angrily wiped a hand over his face, removing bits of grass and dirt. Feeling his fury flare as Richie left with Static, he felt that same damning anger tremble throughout his limbs, his teeth grinding furiously. The thought of Richie leaving him because of some simple problems–! Well, it didn’t handle very well with him.
He had spent too much time, devoted so much of his feelings and his thoughts toward the blond, that to have him leave with his best friend when it all got tough left him feeling betrayed and inadequate. He’d spent hours with Richie, helping him overcome the rape and the conflicts after–for him to run away with Virgil seized his insides with rage.
His fists flared with power, and he let out a drawn growl. His anger was too hot to calm, think rationally, to realize that Richie was right–that perhaps cooling down would help them both think clearer. As it were, that rational part of his brain was overcast by his anger. He turned and began stalking toward the streets, looking to vent.
Chapter Twenty
Shiv gave a sightless glance at the photo that was being passed around. He passed it to S, who looked at it, and gave a balking noise.
“You’re shittin’ me,” she muttered, the first words Shiv had truly ever hear her speak. She held the photo up, examining it closely, unsure if she was truly seeing right.
She took in the sight of disheveled blond hair, of the oval shaped glasses, the goofy smile–the school photo was detailed enough, but she couldn’t believe that this guy–only a few years older than her–made the big bad Ivan Evans crazy with lust. Personally, she’d expected an impossibly beautiful boy; not some geek with eye problems. She was disappointed and amused at the same time.
“Watch the language, honey,” D cooed from across the room, where he was busy inputting information on his laptop, V standing next to him.
S looked at Shiv, her eyes narrowed as she handed the photo back. Shiv looked back at the photo. Taken earlier that year, it had found its way into Ivan’s hands.
He really didn’t want to be touching it–who knew what Ivan did with it while looking at it?
Suppressing the urge to express his discomfort, he handed the photo back down the line. Ivan was seated nearby, his eyes hooded with thought as he re-acquainted himself with a rolled blunt. The thick smell of weed made the air hazy and heavy, and Shiv was trying not to breathe in so much. But he could already feel the light headed feeling associated with the drug, his entire system wanting to shut down for sleep.
“This guy...is...that guy?” D was asking, looking at the information he’d brought up concerning Gear. Most of the info he had came from newspapers and police compiling of the teenage superhero. But he noted with curiosity that the guy had dropped out of superheroing over four months ago...which made things more interesting. When Ivan had given them the information of the teen being able to construct the mutation needed to return him to his Bang Baby form, he had been a little wary.
There were a lot of conflicting measures in this aspect concerning the teen–for one thing, the information they’d gathered on Richard Foley was a little disconcerting; a single child from a two parent household, who excelled in academics, didn’t participate much in afterschool activities; but was one half of a superhero duo. It was entertaining and interesting, at best. It told him that Richard Foley was more than they thought.
He didn’t know of Ivan’s obsession with the boy; but the reason for the black man wanting him was valid. After they were through with the cure, it was easy to put the boy away and blame it on the street violence of Dakota. They were fully capable of leaving no traces behind.
Of course, the Static factor was handled. Random violence...random person...D figured Static would never suspect.
Shiv lowered his head, staring at the floor as low murmurs went through the room. They had planned on visiting the Foley family, tonight. Just a simple visit. Nothing flashy–it was known that Richie had black friends, so it wouldn’t be a problem. But he felt extremely wary of the situation–as he glanced at Ivan, noting the pleased features and faraway expression, he felt something wrench deep inside. He knew that Ivan was planning on things than getting Richie to do the cure for him–he’d known him long enough to know that when he left the jail, he was always anxious, filled with pent-up aggression that he used for sexual release. Violent sexual release. Ivan had once confessed to saying that he couldn’t ‘get it up’ for someone willing.
Shiv had remembered thinking how sad it was, but he didn’t think that, now.
Ivan locked eyes with him, and lifted a hairless brow in query. Unsure of what to say, Shiv swallowed and looked away, feeling his gut overturn with what laid in their future. He could feel his fingers trembling, and he could still recall those violent images from that rooftop four months ago. He didn’t want to do that again; didn’t want to participate in something that had left a gaping scar within him. As his thoughts worked, wheels turning and twisting, he wasn’t aware that he was being plotted against, as well.
OooooooooooO
Richie was staring off to space as he listened to Hotstreak speak excitedly over a newly acquired cell phone. He wasn’t sure of the contents of the conversation, as he’d learned to filter out what he didn’t want to hear and what he could hear, but he was pretty sure that it involved another heist of significant proportion. He sighed lightly, resting his chin upon his palm on the small table. Homework spread before him, he had been in the process of actually starting it, but his thoughts kept drifting off to last night’s conversation.
Well, one couldn’t exactly feel calm and safe upon knowing your boyfriend wanted to kill you when he went down, he thought, this train of thinking entirely sarcastic. It was something that made him wholly ill, and he felt isolated in that he couldn’t bring this subject up with anyone.
It would all lead in the same direction every time–“You knew who you were dealing with when you decided he was the love of your life”; “What did you expect–? For him to completely change when he fell for you?”; “Did you honestly think that things would change in his aspect of thinking?”; or, his favorite, “I told you, so.”
He flicked his eyes in Hotstreak’s direction, seeing that he had that notebook out and was writing things down. How to go about bringing this up? To say that he didn’t want to die–he didn’t want the pair of them dying. He was convinced that Hotstreak could have a lighter sentence if he just gave up the names and operations that he worked. He was also pretty sure that lack of any real guidance in his life had led him to where he was, today, and the court system could take that into consideration.
Perhaps they would feel sympathy–and it was this sort of thinking that made him feel very exasperated with himself. He dropped his forehead into his hand and shook his head from side to side. ‘Sympathy’–Hotstreak had been in juvie so many times before the Big Bang, and had a record that stretched longer than the length of the room. No one would feel sympathy for him. Just a great sense of relief in that he was finally off the streets.
He just wished there was another way that Hotstreak could feel comfortable with that didn’t involve death. There just had to be a better way!
The cell phone was dropped onto the table, and Richie jumped with surprise, looking up at the older meta.
“You hungry?” Hotstreak asked, almost suspiciously.
Richie thought of the five sandwiches he’d had earlier. But how his stomach growled at the question.
Hotstreak took the answer with some satisfaction, and gestured at his books. “Put those away. We’ll take ‘em with us. You can finish it later.”
Half an hour later, they were walking over to a Burger Fool, the Camry parked on a side street three blocks down.
I miss mom’s home cooking! Richie thought with a forlorn expression, feeling uneasy with the amount of greasy foods he’d been eating over the past two months.
Sandwiches were plain and ordinary, and one tired of them instantly. They didn’t have a kitchenette in the room, and neither could cook, anyway. Which was why he truly enjoyed eating over at the Hawkins’ every little while.
He was pinching his side, wincing at what he found and figuring upon a fifteen pound weight gain as they walked into the restaurant. Since it was mid-afternoon, and winter had long since switched to spring, both of them weren’t as bundled up as they were used to. Hotstreak wore a backwards baseball hat and a light jacket, while he was stuck with his messy hair and one of the few hoodies he’d managed to salvage from his parents’ in what seemed so long ago.
He thought it was strange that Hotstreak was preferring to walk into the restaurant, so used to drive-thrus and incognito ordering just to keep the workers from panicking, but he understood why when, after they had ordered, a group of young men wearing red and black clothing approached the older meta.
Richie sighed, turning to walk away so he wouldn’t hear the exchange when Hotstreak gripped his arm and held him in place. He was given questioning looks from the other boys, but the older meta ignored it. Richie found interest out the window, not wanting to look at them or give any attention to the exchange that he knew was going to happen. As he did so, he watched a group of boys struggle to open the trunk of a late model Lancer. When they finally got it open, they were unloading black bags swiftly, tossing them into the open back end of a nearby Blazer.
He closed his eyes and counted to ten.
“You got it all?” Hotstreak asked the acne-troubled youth before him.
“‘Bout as much as we could fuckin’ carry!”
“How much?”
“I say around ten thousand. We didn’t get that much–they was all over the place. But we got what we could, man. You lookin’?”
“Yeah, I’m lookin’.”
“Say, around twenty to twenty-five...to make it even.”
“That ain’t even–!”
“Listen up, sucka, that’s just the way it is. ‘Sides, there’s all this shit talk about Ebon bein’ back on the streets–!”
“That bitch is in prison!”
“Yeah, they say that, too. But there’s this guy on the west side that swears he saw ‘im.”
Hotstreak scoffed at that, Richie feeling uneasy at the thought. There was no way Ivan Evans could have escaped prison–he was human. It would take extreme actions of headlining proportion to break him out of there. And so far, he hadn’t heard anything. Well...it wasn’t as if he were as afraid of him as he’d been over four months ago.
If he had to face him today, he wouldn’t break down. He had grown stronger since then.
The boys unloading the Lancer kept giving the restaurant wild, expectant looks. They finished their job, slammed the trunk shut, and were scurrying toward the Blazer, loading up.
“Ain’t no way, man. An’ that price is too high.”
“You ain’t got it, you ain’t gettin’ it!”
“Oh, yeah? Okay, then,” Hotstreak then said with a shrug. “Be seein’ ya.”
Immediately, the boys were leery. “T-that’s it?” the first boy asked, eyebrows raising.
“I ain’t gonna wait it out. You ain’t gonna sell, you ain’t gonna sell. Oh...order’s up.”
As they walked over to retrieve the hastily made combination meals, Richie sneaked a look over his shoulder at the boys as they hurried out from the restaurant. He saw the Blazer speeding out from the parking lot, loud laughter ringing out as rubber burned against the asphalt.
“Oh, you’re sneaky,” he muttered, taking his drink and bag.
“Lil’ boys these days,” Hotstreak scoffed, shaking his head. “Too busy talkin’. They ain’t gonna figure it out til they try an’ get in that shit.”
“I didn’t want to be involved,” Richie growled, pausing in mid-step to kick out at his ankles. Hotstreak stumbled into the door, nearly losing his drink and meal in the process. They walked out from the restaurant, see the car full of boys driving off nonchalantly. “Don’t get me involved! Hello? I used to bust your stupid ass back in the day?”
Hotstreak merely laughed. “That was back in th’ day, Rich. You ain’t doin’ it, now.”
“Francis, seriously. I don’t want to know what you’re doing, or–or any of that. Cuz it makes me feel obligated to tell Virgil–”
“You’d snitch me out?” Hotstreak exclaimed, giving him an incredulous look.
“I would feel like I had to!” Richie repeated. “Don’t make me do this!”
“I only brought ya along, Rich, cuz I didn’t want ya all cooped up in that room. You been doin’ that, lately, an’ it ain’t right.”
“I...have not–”
“I heard your daddy’s been askin’ about you. Askin’ around places...” Hotstreak looked at him closely, raising his eyebrows as Richie gave him a confused look. “Some of these guys that hang out at the homeless centers, the ones under the bridge near Main? They been sayin’ that some big guy was asking about you. Flashin’ your picture, sayin’ all this bullshit about wantin’ ya to come back home–”
Richie made an uncomfortable noise, looking away as he sipped at his drink. His father was going to such measures to look for him? Similar to that time he’d run away from home? It was probably just for show. He wondered what Robert had told him, to have Sean searching the streets for him. Panicked briefly at the thought of his father finding out where they were staying.
“You ain’t wantin’ to go home, right?”
“Nah...not really. No. I’m fine right where I am.”
“Good,” Hotstreak then murmured in satisfaction, digging through his bag. He then scowled, making a growling noise as he withdrew his half covered hamburger. “I said no fuckin’ cheese! Goddamn brats–!”
Richie slapped his own bag against his chest. “Same thing, without cheese. Stop your bitchin’.”
“Oh...lemme see this...What you wanna do now, Richie-Rich? Wanna hit up a movie? Somethin’?”
“Let’s go to the park. We’ll eat there, then figure out what to do, okay? And anymore references to that stupid cartoon, and I’m going to have your balls.”
“...Actually, that’s not a bad idea–”
“With the tip of my shoe.”
“...okay, okay.”
Richie grinned at him, feeling his cheeks heat briefly.
They had begun having intercourse again–the first few times had been hard, conflicting. While he knew he’d been ready for it, and there had been plenty of therapy to help him along, there had been some moments where he’d had to stop, smothered by the smells, feeling and the frustration of not being able to let go. But his lover had been kind to him–exceedingly so. With small bouts of his own frustration and anger at the situation, Hotstreak had been understanding, leaving Richie feeling even more grateful for him.
They had eventually settled into a comfortable rhythm with physical affection–the blond could expect nightly bouts that often left them both satisfied and fulfilled, and he’d grown used to the older male’s eagerness and stamina for more. In a way, he felt just as dependent on the sex as he did.
It brought them closer, enabled them a connection that couldn’t be touched with mere words alone. Plus, it felt damn awesome. He’d always enjoyed their physical expressions before; he didn’t mind being marked and ravished, and didn’t mind the nightly needs. In a way, his own hunger for the meta matched his.
Last night, though, after the drive home and due to those chilling words, he just hadn’t been into it as he had been before. And he knew his lover had sensed it; it was in the way Hotstreak had kept himself distanced while moving against him; the older meta liked holding him close, liked touching and being touched, but last night–he’d simply held back on those and was mechanical in his actions. Richie had felt bad, but how else was he supposed to enjoy it when he knew what he did?
They settled down at a table within a nearby park, and Richie ate in silence. He wasn’t hungry; overstuffed and certainly eating out of boredom and stress, but he took his time in finishing off the greasy fries and eyeing the cheesy burger with uncertainty. By the time Hotstreak had finished off his own meal and started in on his, the street lamps were coming on, and night was falling. Since they were sitting at an obscure table, nearly hidden within neatly groomed trees and hedges, Richie left his seat to sit next to Hotstreak, wrapping his arms around his waist.
He nuzzled the older meta’s neck, noting that he’d left a hickey there from the night before. Since it was fading, he decided to reapply color, and busied himself with doing so.
“Rich...quit that...I need to tell you something.”
The blond pulled back to look at him, not liking the tone Hotstreak was using with him. Feeling a little apprehensive in that he was going to hear something he wasn’t going to like, he waited. Hotstreak wiped his hands and mouth with a napkin, then started gathering up the trash, stuffing it into one bag.
“Kinda...the reason why I was gettin’ ya outta the place is that...er...well...it’s bein’ raided,” Hotstreak said with a grimace.
Richie felt himself pale, automatically thinking of his school books. His clothes. His wallet underneath the mattress. Clues that would give his identification away.
“Sorry, man. We had to get out of there quick. I kinda fucked up in that aspect. But I had the manager get your shit. The stuff on the table, and–what?”
“My wallet was in there. My work stuff. Francis,” Richie groaned, sinking against the table, feeling as if the carpet had been yanked from underneath him.
He kept hearing “I told you so” ringing throughout his head.
“I got your wallet, babe. Here. But everything else...well, can’t help that. I gotta friend on the police force, an’ he called ta let me know...I just wanted to get out of there really quick.”
Staring with forlorn exhaustion at the table top, Richie took his wallet and wondered what he was going to do next. What they were going to do.
This is how it’s going to be, he realized. The longer I stay with him, this is what life’s going to consist of. Being on the run constantly. Having to lie and cheat...to hide and hurry...
He had never imagined himself ever living this way–if someone had told him he would have been, he would have laughed. Who would have guessed that he, Richie Foley, was going to live the life of a deviant? Geeky, good boy and terribly unfit with breaking the law Richard Foley...yet, here he was, living with a known criminal, getting his rocks off with known criminal, and trying to pretend that love will keep them afloat.
He felt Hotstreak’s hand move under his jaw, forcing him to look up at him.
“We’ll be okay, Rich,” he said huskily. “We’ll be okay. I’ve got us another place to go. I’ve got things situated, already. We’ll be fine.”
“‘Fine’?” Richie repeated, jerking his chin out of his touch. “We’ll be just ‘fine’? Is this what we have to do all the time? Run from place to place? Survive by lying and cheating and stealing? And selling what shouldn’t be sold?”
Hotstreak sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know you knew the risks. I didn’t put a gun to your head, Rich. You knew who I was when ya got wit’ me.”
In agitation at hearing those words, coming from an unexpected source, caused Richie to fly from his seat. “Don’t say that!” he shouted. “I expected to hear that from someone else! Not from you! And, yes, I knew the risks! And you didn’t put anything to my head! I just thought that–that–God, I’m so retarded...”
Richie sat back down, shoulders slumping. He stared up at the sky, feeling at a loss to what to do. His comfort level wanted him to turn around and go to Virgil. At least with the Hawkins’, they were stable. Reliable.
He closed his eyes. He felt so....lost.
Those voices kept singing “I told you so!” over and over and over...
“Rich...it’ll be okay. It’s all handled–!”
“It’s not handled!” Richie shouted at him. “It’s not! I–I knew that there would be risks, that–that things would be–but never to this extent! I never imagined myself living this way, an’ now that I am–? I feel like I can’t adjust to it! I’ve never done this, before! I was always the good boy! I can’t ever imagine myself continuing to do this!”
Hotstreak stared at him quietly, then gave him an exasperated look. “Don’t cry around to me about it, then.”
“There isn’t anybody else I can ‘cry around about it’ to!” Richie hissed at him. “I can’t talk to V about it! You know how he is! Who else am I going to talk to? You’re the only person I have!”
“Then fuckin’ deal with it! That’s just how it is!”
“How can I ‘deal with it’ when I’ve never been–I–can’t do this, Francis!”
Hotstreak pined him with an intense stare, Richie trying to collect his thoughts to further express his concerns of the matter. Shifting in his seat to face the blond, Hotstreak asked, with a raised eyebrow, “Can’t do what?”
“This!” Richie gestured at him. At the park. “I don’t want to live on the lam. I don’t want to live knowing that at any moment, someone will come storming into our home an–and hurting us both because of your–things, or law enforcement–!”
“So, whatcha doin’, Rich? You sayin’ you don’t want to be with me, anymore? Is that what this is leadin’ to?” Hotstreak asked, rising from his seat, his voice taking on a growl.
Richie stared up at him for several moments, recognizing that Hotstreak had gone on the offensive. He started to shake his head, but he hesitated. He looked away, not wanting to admit the rising feelings of acknowledgment of his words. He wanted to be with him–there was no doubt. But if this was how their life was going to continue to be–then how could he continue to be happy with it?
“You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you an’ yer stupid crybaby tendencies, then. I did my best in tryin’ ta make sure you were all comfortable an’ shit, an’ you cry around about how much you can’t deal wit’ it! I don’t have to listen to this garbage! I did a lot for you! Fuckin’ go back home to your lame-ass parents an’ get off my back about it!” Hotstreak snarled, grabbing his empty cup and hurling it at him.
Richie ducked, but looked up with a growl of his own. He grabbed his own cup and hurled it at him, catching him square in the face with the action. “Don’t you throw things at me! I came to you because you didn’t treat me like that!”
“Prissy princess poo thinks she got some backbone–!”
“DON’T CALL ME A GIRL! You’re ALWAYS CALLING ME A FUCKING GIRL!”
“Cuz ya are! Always fuckin’ cryin’ around ‘bout some shit, whinin’, cryin’–you ain’t proved you a man, yet!”
“Well then, in that case– Transvestite fucker!”
“WHAT?”
“YOU HEARD ME! I’m obviously female to you, but I KNOW I’m male–! You wanna go that route, then fuckin’ go that route!”
“God, you always had a mouth that needed to be slapped! No wonder your daddy was always hittin’ you!”
“Go–to–Hell–trailer trash bastard!” Richie shouted, throwing their trash at him. Hotstreak swept his arms up to cover his face, then snarled, lunging at him. They tumbled to the ground, Richie hitting him furiously, trying to get him off.
“Don’t you call me that, Rich, you fuckin’ prick! I ain’t no fuckin’ trash!”
“Eat this, sucker!”
Hotstreak gave a garbled noise of agitation as Richie stuffed grass and dirt into his face, forcing the meta to let go of him. He was up and running, blindly, unsure of where to go when he was bodily tackled into one of the trees, knocking the wind out of him. Blinking stars away, he groped for a hand hold against the meta, looking to punch his way out when Hotstreak was yanked forcefully away him, startling the pair of them.
“Don’t you touch him!” Static snarled, emitting sparks of electricity that sent Richie’s hair spiking in various directions. “Don’t you fuckin’ ever touch him that way!”
“What th’ fuck?”
“Rich, you okay?”
“I’m fine–! What are you doing here?”
Static gave him a confused look as Richie moved away from him, straightening his hoodie. He cast a glance over at Hotstreak, seeing the meta eyeing him with an uncertain expression.
“I was just...patrollin’...I heard you yellin’...”
“It’s okay, V–Static. We’re just...talking.”
“‘Talking’?” Static repeated incredulously, looking from one to the other. Saw the set jaw, the sullen expression on Hotstreak’s face and the strained one on Richie’s. “It didn’t look like you two were just ‘talking’. It looked like you were–!”
“Man, it ain’t any of your business what we’re doing!” Hotstreak then snapped at him. “We were just talkin’!”
“It wasn’t TALKING that I SAW!” Static snapped at both of them. “If your definition of talking means throwing Rich around, then I gotta different version of breakin’ shit up!”
Hotstreak looked over at Richie, who was giving them both an anxious glance. He moved to take a step closer to the blond, but Static set himself between them, hands flashing to life with his power. Richie immediately reached out, shaking his head.
“It’s all right, V. Just...we said things that we shouldn’t have,” he said, giving Hotstreak a scowl. “And we’re just working things out.”
Static turned his back to Hotstreak, spearing Richie with a glare. “I SAW what I SAW. If you think makin’ excuses for this sad pitiful excuse of a human–!”
“Fuck you, Hawkins, you fuckin’ dick! You don’t know shit! ‘sides, you’ve been with him long enough–! You know he’s got a temper on him, too!”
“I KNOW that it takes A LOT for him to blow UP!” Static roared, whirling to face him.
“Get outta my face, Static. Don’t you get all up in my face–!”
“Don’t you ever pull that shit on him EVER AGAIN! I should kick your ass, you fuckin’ white–!”
“GUYS, KNOCK IT OFF!” Richie finally bellowed, shoving himself between them. He faced Static, giving a slight frown as he glanced over his shoulder at Hotstreak, who was ready to attack. The smell of smoke and the feel of heated air made him wince as he then whispered, “Is it all right if I stay with you, tonight? I mean...just to...”
“Yeah. Yeah, man, no problem.”
Static glared at Hotstreak from over his shoulder as Richie turned to face him, fiddling with his glasses.
“Francis, I’m going with him, all right? I think we need to calm down a little–get some space–”
The expression on Hotstreak’s face was murderous as he glanced from him to Static, who was just waiting for him to make the wrong move. As it was, he was growing noticeably more furious as he glared down at Richie.
“So you’re just goin’ to walk away?” he snapped. “You’re just goin’ ta leave this? Like it is?”
“We can’t work things out if we’re both willing to come to blows over it!” Richie insisted.
“That’s fuckin’ bullshit, Rich! What the fuck–? You suddenly fuckin’ gettin’ all pansy over tough shit?”
“I didn’t say that! I’m just saying that the smartest thing to do is to cool off! And I’m not some stupid pansy!”
“Fuck that bullshit. I thought you were more than ‘nat, yet, th’ minute he comes around, you all pansy. You can’t handle shit? You can’t handle that I ain’t all catering to your fuckin’ needs? Well, fuck you! Fuck you!”
“Stop getting so angry, Francis,” Richie muttered, crossing his arms, suddenly feeling cold. Hotstreak had confessed to him over a year ago about how he'd felt when his mother left him. The way the redhead was acting suddenly reminded him of that, wondering if Hotstreak were taking his leaving with Virgil the same way his mother left. He didn't want that misunderstanding. “I care about you, alot–but if we keep doing this–just standing here yelling at each other...we’re not going to get anywhere...”
“Whatever. Fuck you, Rich. Run off when it gets tough. I thought you were tougher than ‘nat, an’ ya ain’t. You just another puss. Fuckin’ woman.”
Richie felt his face darken with fury, and he leapt at the older meta, shoving him back. He felt Static grab his hoodie, yanking him back as Hotstreak recovered and leapt at him. The pair of them wrapped their hands within the material of the others’ shirt as Static grunted, struggling to keep himself between them.
He had to use a jolt of his powers to get them to let go, causing them both to stumble away.
“Who the hell thought it was a bright fuckin’ idea to have an Irishman an’ a fuckin’ hothead get together?” he exclaimed. “Ya’ll gonna wreck shit up with this shit!”
“Fuck you, Francis! You’re nothin’ but a fucking dick, anyway!”
“You weren’t complainin’ last night!”
“HAH! That’s cuz I didn’t want to–!”
“ENOUGH!” Static finally roared, powers flaring briefly. “GEEZ! Let’s go, Rich. An’ as for you–! You’d better not cause shit because of this!”
“Fuck you, nigger. I hope you rot, Rich. I thought you were better than that. I thought you could handle. I was there for you! I was always there for you! An’ here, you run off like a lil’ bitch when it gets tough on my end! Well, fuck you! You an’ your stupid monkey!”
“YOU AND YOUR STUPID MOUTH–!” Static growled, wanting to attack at the barrage of insults.
“Yeah, well, that’s your end. Just because I don’t want to–!”
“That’s it, let’s go,” Static snapped, flicking his disc onto the ground and energizing it, grabbing Richie’s sweater. But the blond shrugged off his hand and continued yelling at the older meta.
“If you can’t understand why I need to take a break, then you’re obviously deluded! Maybe having time away will do you some good! THINK about things!”
“You used me, you fuckin’ prick!”
“I didn’t use you! I have never used you!”
“...Whatever. Fuck you. Go to hell.”
“NO, YOU fuck you! Let go of me, Virgil, Goddammit!” Richie then cursed as Static wrapped an arm around his waist and lifted off the ground.
Hotstreak watched them leave, then angrily wiped a hand over his face, removing bits of grass and dirt. Feeling his fury flare as Richie left with Static, he felt that same damning anger tremble throughout his limbs, his teeth grinding furiously. The thought of Richie leaving him because of some simple problems–! Well, it didn’t handle very well with him.
He had spent too much time, devoted so much of his feelings and his thoughts toward the blond, that to have him leave with his best friend when it all got tough left him feeling betrayed and inadequate. He’d spent hours with Richie, helping him overcome the rape and the conflicts after–for him to run away with Virgil seized his insides with rage.
His fists flared with power, and he let out a drawn growl. His anger was too hot to calm, think rationally, to realize that Richie was right–that perhaps cooling down would help them both think clearer. As it were, that rational part of his brain was overcast by his anger. He turned and began stalking toward the streets, looking to vent.