A/N: I told myself that I'd wait until all of these were finished... but I can never keep promises like that to myself. I get too excited. XD
So here's a new story for you... and a new category for me. I've never written Static before; I used to watch it all the time as a kid, and it came back for a while on random channels, and now that it's on Disney XD and I can record the episodes to watch them again, I've become re-obsessed. And I found a new shounen-ai (boy-love) pairing to adore: Virichie~!
Inspired by: emif(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/In-the-Summertime-20507773
.:Magenta Labels Embarrassment:.
It's times like these that Richie regrets not applying sun block. He's grateful that, unlike his close-minded father, he doesn't burn. But what he does get, much like his mother, are random collections of pigments known to everyone else on the beach as 'freckles'.
By the end of the day, he's covered in them. Sprinkled across his nose, dotting his shoulders, adorning his arms, and mapping his shoulder blades. Wherever the sun hits, another spouts. Some as dark as chocolate, others as light as a redhead's hair. It depends on the sun exposure. Nonetheless, each and every little dot is annoying as hell.
And his best friend loves to make them all the more annoying.
"Heh heh, nice beauty marks, Rich."
"Shove it, Virg." He hates that term; it makes the teeny specks sound repulsively girly. Which is Virgil's intent, no doubt.
"Hey, I wonder if we can count them all!" the mocha-skinned teen jokes as the entire Hawkins family (plus Richie) piles into the car to ride home. He lands in the car seat beside the nerdy boy and throws his seatbelt on, the lock clicking into place beside Richie's hand.
He reaches over to poke one on his wrist. "One."
"Don't even start, V-man," Richie warns, his eyes contracting in irritation over the rim of his glasses.
"Two," Virgil continues as he jabs at one on the junction between Richie's forearm and bicep. "Three," he continues quickly with another prod, this time touching a freckle on his friend's should. "Four, five, six!" The part-time superhero goes on, purposely ignoring the evident threat in Richie's eyes as he lightly taps the paler boy's cheek, neck, and collar bone.
A steady rise in heat swarms Richie's face and scorches his ears. For a passing moment, he's grateful that Sharon and Mr. Hawkins are too busy packing up the car full of their beach gear to witness the exposure of his inner embarrassment at Virgil's touch.
"I mean it, Virgil, don't."
"Why not? It's funny trying to count them all! You have so many," the other replies as he gives a curt laugh. He touches three on the visible skin of Richie's thigh, just below where his still-damp swimming trunks end. "Seven, eight, nine."
The blond bats the dark fingers away, and to hide the increase of magenta, he brings his opposite hand up to adjust his glasses from their sweat-slipping position on the bridge of his nose.
Virgil seems to find this amusing. Smirking slightly, he dives in and touches as many as he can see. He uses as many fingers as possible, and rattles off the numbers as he tickles Richie's sides and arms. "Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen!"
Richie's laughing wholeheartedly now, his weaker hands trying to push his best friend away, but to no avail. He blubbers the word 'stop,' a few times as well, and finally, after reaching twenty-nine, Virgil pulls away.
"You jerk," the blond grumbles with a soft smile as he lifts his glasses to wipe a tear from his eye.
Virgil flashes Richie his infamous Static-Shock-just-owned-you grin. "I still have a lot more to count, you know."
His flush never waning, and somehow managing to only grow stronger, Richie replaces his glasses and unbuckles himself. "In that case, I'm sitting in back where you can't reach me."
"Aw, and how is that fun?" Virgil whines with mock complaint. Meanwhile, his friend is moving to the back of the vehicle.
"For you? It's not. But man, it sure is fun for me to watch you pout the rest of the way home."
"I'm not going to pout," the mocha-skinned teen sniffs in protest as he faces forward and crosses his arms over his white t-shirt.
"Sure you're not," the other replies sarcastically. He buckles himself into the middle back seat.
Virgil suddenly turns around to face him, a know-it-all smile plastered on his face. "You're right, Rich. I'm not gonna pout about you switching seats in the same way that that's not a blush on your face, but sunburn instead."
Richie's eyes widen for a minute as he turns from a fading pink and back into a radiant magenta. He runs a hand through his hair as he glances out the window, part of him wondering of Virgil knows about his crush on his best friend. Hopefully not.
Satisfied with the reaction he spurred, Virgil turns back around and greets his older sister as she hops into the passenger's seat. "Heya Sharon, are we ready to go?"
With the loud slam of the car door, his father sticks his keys into the ignition. He answers his son question before his daughter does. "Yes, we are. So let's get moving; I don't want to get into the height of traffic."
With one glace through the mirror, Sharon frowns in confusion. "Why are you sitting all the way back there, Richie?"
Virgil decides to steal the answer much like how his father had seconds ago. "He doesn't like his freckles counted," he states with a chuckle, as if this explains everything.
The blond boy snorts, thankful that his blush is finally gone. "What he means is: I don't like my personal space invaded for stupid reasons."
Sharon clearly still feels out of the loop, but she shrugs it off with a tilt of her head and the placing of her sunglasses. "Whatever you say."
