Pure White

PG-13

A/N: Considering that I was going through a bleak moment when I wrote this.. please, don't expect it to be anything better than unpleasant on the emotions. I read it over and, yes, it made me momentarily sad.

Then, having said that, and if you decide to read, I hope you enjoy it, or at least can understand it. I have a tendency to heighten my own writing abilities when I'm immensely depressed. Basically, I used a lot of big words off the top of my head. Might give you headache, kind of thing.

With the immense knowledge bestowed upon Richie Fowley was, as well, the obvious power that came with it. Should the need arise, he was quick to out-wit any opponent, whilst Virgil was also quick in his physical punishments. They were the perfect match of brains and brawn. No villainous creature stood too good a chance when faced with their super hero personas—Static and Gear.

Naturally, one would think, upon first glancing, that the two were perfectly happy, perfectly rich in knowing they were helping the needy like so many others could not or would not. One could assume the glorified, golden, falsity of what is known for all heroes, that in they are endowed with kindness and grace from other beings around them. They have their own little world, and are of a higher ability than all others. They are dense to things such as pain or hurt, as such one might think.

However, for Richie Fowley, with the knowledge and power and phenomenal achievements came the inevitable. He'd been, through the rape of his thoughts by the once-innocent knowledge of sciences, stripped of his religion, and all things that fell into such a category.

Richie was never one to worry on family or friends—truly a saint, but somehow he wished he wasn't—so thus he kept his emotions carefully hidden and covered and buried deep, deep, down inside the cavity of his brain. There, he imagined, the intricate whorls of his gray matter would swallow his darkness and discontinue any festering that might have occurred otherwise.

His fears were never easily hidden, however. Death was a high and mighty noose that Richie could sense tickling under his chin. His business—the risky business that only super heroes endure—would surely result in his early demise, having shortened his life span or ending it quickly and painlessly on the battlefield. And, of course, the loneliness that welled in his heart and spilled out through his eyes was ever-present. Who could imagine dying cold and alone? Who should deserve such a death, such a nasty good-bye to all? His indignant, still-pubescent, side would argue that it was unjust on his part, and that, should he die soon, it should be resting in the arms of a close, dear, friend or soulmate. Neither of which he'd had at that moment, but something he needed to look into.

The truly disconcerting fear that reigned high and heavy in his brain was the notion that he'd ever have feelings for anyone but his partner—Virgil. And the very fact that his friend could be so ignorant to human emotion sent him spinning at such a dizzying rate down into a well of blood-red black. In the very depth, the very pit, of his heart, he knew that there had to be -something- between them to fuel his own desires. But his more sensible, and more powerful, mind would interject that just because -he- was gay didn't mean that Virgil was as well. No matter that they grew up together, or that Virgil was a quintessential nerdy pansy, and not to mention that Virgil had yet to lay hands on a female body and had been more apt in spending his moments freely with Richie—no, no matter to all of that.

Static had always been Virgil's exception to case. Static was nearly the opposite Virgil now, having a strong, cool, demeanor and the confidence in knowing that he was most powerful, most witty (with Richie at his side) above all others. Richie had seen Static flirt with his damsels in distress, maybe even catch a phone number or address, although whether he followed up with said items was an enigma.

Static was, in and of himself, not Virgil. Likewise, Virgil was not Static besides his need to don a costume to cover his identity.

At times Richie would long for nothing more than to spend the rest of his life cradled in the heat and comfort of Virgil's arms—a place he'd been enough times to remember, but not nearly enough to prove any theory; indeed he'd figured Virgil's reactions as that was now common-law to decision-making—but there was no deity he could send his wish spiraling mindlessly to.

The irony in his mind was that he wanted to know all, and yet he wanted to still idly believe that there was some greater being watching over them all. He thought about the universe, about the possibility of the sun's implosion in five billion years—well after his death, to be sure, but a fact that proved more potent in making one depressed than the ideals of endlessness. Could God ever truly be a factor if, indeed, all is made up of simple energy? If we're nothing more than waves of power how could some ethereal creature make us from his likeness? How could a hell exist if all that lies in the center of the Earth is a large mass of metal surrounded by molten rock? How could a heaven envelope the world when all that hangs above us is the imminent death of the o-zone layer and precipitation? How can we possibly be worth anything if our sun is but a star that's closer to us than any other, while those others are nothing but re-runs to a show that's more likely than not going off the air in a couple years?

While he pondered things down to his very purpose, his life, his world, began to decay and crumble around him. The walls were merely thin membrane, and beyond it lay desolation, loneliness beyond compare, and a finale of a death that left him rotting in some grave that his own eyes will never see.

Here, he was alone. In these boundaries of insanity he was merely the on-looker to a slaughter that defied anything man had or would ever see.

From his vantage point, he could see the end to all and all it was and ever will be is endless white. Blinding white.

All he wanted was to forget.

His need for deleting the knowledge from his mind came as a need for Virgil, stronger now more than ever it had been. Virgil was ever the kind and gracious creature when Richie made his advances, and he only stopped when Richie's hands began to roam the expanses of his body.

Virgil had always seen himself as, maybe, curious but never full-on -gay-. He'd always had an inkling that Richie was, however, but it didn't bother him or make him like the blond any stronger.

The minute he pushed his friend away tears sprung in his baby blue eyes, and he buried his face in Virgil's chest. Virgil could never remember seeing this side of Richie, seeing his eyes tear was quite the shock, as well as the neediness in his tone when next he spoke. "Please, just make the pain go away.. make my brain stop. I just want it to stop!"

He was upset with himself at this instance, because they were closer than lovers tended to be and here Richie was revealing a weakness Virgil had never known. What could he say but 'how?'-a question that was responded zealously with another kiss.

Virgil would later reminisce that their love-making had been so tragically beautiful, and more likely the most erotic moment his life would ever witness. In all honesty, Virgil knew that he was -not- homosexual, and had anyone else pushed this on him besides Richie they would be rejected. He'd muse on the delicate femininity of Richie's body, the way his moods fluctuated at times.. Maybe that was what made the moment so great. Maybe.

As for Richie, he decided that Virgil was a welcome distraction from his brain. When deep in a pleasure state of mind his thought process slowed down and eventually stopped leaving him with minimalistic thoughts and reactions: touch here, kiss this, use your tongue, moan...

And the wicked penetration, the way he'd spread like a blooming flower, and just for Virgil.

When it was over the world still felt as desolate and useless as it had before. He still felt no greater purpose and he had yet to reveal the truth behind his sudden courage to come to Virgil. What could be said, in the instance that he spoke? What could Virgil speak to lessen the massive damage to his person?

Nothing had changed and he reasoned nothing ever would. His system had already been fried, the damage could not be repaired.

Eventually, he thought, he'd lose sight of everything and go blind from the blankness of it all.