Title: Unreal Author: Athena2693
Pairing: Virgil/Richie (kinda)
Warnings: Um, angst Rating: Probably a soft R, for swearing, if not a PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Not real. If they were real, I'd have kidnapped them by now.
A/N: I sat down at 5 am, started writing, and somehow this came out. It's set when the boys are, well, not boys, because they're like 35.
He should be happy.
He had every right to be happy.
He was rich (no pun intended). He was a genius. He was head of his own research company. He was even famous.
So, as usual, he was spending his Saturday night in his vast, dramatically furnished flat, drinking himself into oblivion.
Whatever worked.
Richie Foley hadn't quite grown into his ideal self at thirty-two. He had never expected to become a Richard Foley. Nevertheless a Mr. Richard Foley. But, he admitted to himself, glancing down at his reflection glowing in the overly-polished wood bar, he looked like a Mr. Richard Foley. He didn't look thirty-two. He looked forty-two. Maybe he should get contacts.
He poured himself another shot of whiskey and slid off the leather stool, still holding the glass bottle in his hand. He had never been able to hold his liquor as a kid, but in the last ten years or so had become almost immune to it. Wouldn't be long before his liver started going bad. He swigged from the bottle, holding the thin neck in a vice grip. No concern there. It was his company's brand of glass. A brilliant idea of his own after the first four years of alcoholism…break proof glass for hard liquor. Drunks really shouldn't have breakable glasses on hand. He left the full shot glass on the bar and walked across the room, opening an almost invisible door in the wall open with a bitter "Wide-Open Whore." He'd been especially resentful when he'd changed the password to that.
He hated the small, secret room, hidden like an unwanted child in his fucking perfect existence. He hated it because he used to understand it, used to love it, used to crave it. And now he hated it. Hypocrisy. A born again Christian. A democrat who went republican. Et cetera et cetera. In a word, a switch from love to hate. But he had a reason for going back here tonight. A new clipping, to add to his ever-growing collection. The scrapbook for the year sat on the pedestal, like some hated Bible, an unholy book. The other books were tucked away in the huge filing cabinets, all of them full to bursting with articles and pictures and other hated memorabilia. The last article took up the rest of the page displayed before him, so he turned the crisp, heavy page, and fitted the newest article between the paper and plastic. He tinkered with it almost lovingly, centering it perfectly in the middle, so that all the margins were the same. And he carefully smoothed the plastic back over the article. The headline with big and black and was put there specifically to fill him with spite and malice.
STATIC SEEN WITH NEW SIDEKICK, WILL THIS ONE LAST?
Probably not. He had been the first, but not the last. What was this, the seventh one? That's all he had ever been, his sidekick. He was weaker. He was wimpier. Sometimes, he was even stupider. Too disillusioned with his own brilliant ideas to see what was in front of him. He'd get into his own ideas of magic and the Chaos Theory and infinite futures and Static would just tell him it was a fucking cigar so get over it. He had grounded him. But Static was the one who could fly.
His old beanbag chair lay in one corner, gathering dust, obviously sewn on one side where the seam had split. That had happened when he was seventeen. He had been lying on it, staring at the ceiling, hands behind his head, speculating about the universe. Full of ideas and wisdom, almost finding the reason for existence, and Virgil had covered him, ceasing the pointless babbling with his taste and feel and smell. They had taken it to the bed after they had heard the beanbag pop like bubble wrap. Lying beneath him, panting, his fingers in Virgil's hair, and his lips on Virgil's throat, he decided that was the reason for existence.
Could he had been any more pathetic? A fucking drooling drama queen excuse of a teenager who still believed in love.
He lay back on the neglected beanbag, and for a moment, he swore he could still smell Virgil's skin and cologne on it. Then it faded. Then…it got stronger? His eyes had drifted shut for a moment. When he opened them, a tall figure stood over him. The bottle of whiskey had fallen from his fingers and now lay at the man's feet, pooling around his sleek Italian boots. They were probably free. Who wouldn't want to have a superhero wearing their merchandise?
"Hello, Mr. Foley."
"Hello Static, what a pleasant surprise. A moment ago, you were rather small and flat, now you look almost three-dimensional. Of course, we both know that's just an illusion." The blond man struggled to stand up, but the room seemed to be moving, so he gave in and lay back on the beanbag, glaring at the daunting figure with dark eyes. "Happy New Years, by the way. You're a bit late for the midnight kiss. Remember the last time we did that? Oh, there's a picture, over there, somewhere."
He waved to the left-hand wall, but the picture was almost impossible to miss, since it was by far the largest picture in the room, at three feet by five feet. Some locals in Dakota had begun selling the posters after the newspapers had been plastered with the picture.
They had been eighteen. A week before, Virgil had promised, with giggles and drunken caresses, that he would kiss Richie at midnight, no matter what. They would be at Frieda's party, and they would both be going off to college soon, so did it really matter who they outed themselves too? They hadn't planned to have to take down Hotstreak on New Years. They had barely made it. Hotstreak had been lying on the ground, unconscious, waiting for the authorities to arrive. Static and Gear were flying close together about fifteen feet up, and around them, a crowd had been assembled. Not because they wanted to see him fight, but because it was eleven fifty-nine and they were in the town square. Gear had looked at Static and smiled as the people counted down.
Five.
Static flew over to Gear.
Four.
Gear stepped onto the floating surface with Static, turning off his jets.
Three.
Static wrapped Gear in his arms, steadying him.
Two.
The taller teen wetted his lips, gracing Gear with a silly smile. Gear wasn't sure if Static was going to kiss him…or lick him.
One.
Static pulled him close, lifted one hand, and in one flashing moment balloons fell, camera lights flashed, electricity shot from his finger tips, raining over the two boys, Hotstreak, and the crowd below, and their lips met.
Now, Static didn't even look at the picture. He didn't want to see what they had once been, and he knew what was over there. The man was just trying to hurt him.
"Still hiding away in your shrine to me?"
"Some Churches are filled with paintings of demons, doesn't make them Satanists," the man replied cynically. "What do you want?"
"I haven't talked to you in awhile. I just wanted-"
"To make sure I didn't tell you little secret," the blond cut in, "Don't worry, Static, I won't tell anybody that the great Static Shock is the pansy-boy cock-sucking Virgil Hawkins from Dakota."
"Richie, I-"
"Richie? Who's Richie? I don't see any Richies here."
"Mr. Foley."
"What?"
"Have you taken your medicine lately?"
"What do you care?"
"Well, um," the superhero coughed to himself, trying to appear calm and subdued and offhand. "As the most important drug creationist in Dakota, er, the world, actually, yes, it is important for you to stay on top, isn't it? After all, the strand is becoming stronger, and if we don't have new drugs-"
"I have the cure almost completely finished, don't worry. If I die a month from now, you wouldn't need any more suppression boosters, because the cure will be entirely complete. Go ahead and tell the entire world and lest the fags shall engage in sodomy until Armageddon."
"Would you care if I ever came back again?"
"No. I'd prefer so, actually. Who needs an overgrown man in pajamas flying through his windows, driving up his heat bill? Did I ever ask you to come?"
Static just sighed, looking down at the floor at the shell of his best friend. He was miserable, sickly, too thin. He wasn't like he had seen in that possible future. He didn't have to be sickly. He didn't have to give in to AIDS. If Ri…Mr. Foley just took the boosters like he did, he'd be as healthy as any individual on the street. He had always been pale, but he was now more gray than white. The other future must've been the future where Static had made the other choice. The future where he hadn't given in to hormones and hadn't had sweaty, unprotected sex with Jason Prince behind the bleachers at the university. Maybe in the other future, Gear had stayed and went to Dakota Community College instead of attending Harvard.
"I'm sorry."
"For what this time? Fucking around behind my back or giving me an STD? You're apologized hundreds of times already, get over it. It doesn't change anything."
"I know that." Static turned around, swallowing with some difficulty. He wouldn't allow himself to feel anything in front of this bitter, hateful person. He wasn't Richie. He hadn't been in a decade.
He could cry in front of Richie.
He turned off the light switch by the secret, knowing Mr. Foley was probably going to pass out in his secret room again. It wasn't the first time, by far. He stopped in the doorway, though he didn't turn around to look at him. He couldn't. The shadows would just…
"I know it doesn't change anything. So I won't say I'm sorry, about cheating, or the AIDS." He paused. "I guess I'm just sorry that our love wasn't real."
"Go away."
"Goodbye, Richie."
"Mr. Foley."
"Mr. Foley," he agreed. His footsteps could be heard on the hardwood floor as the superhero left, taking his entrance out the eighth-story window.