They hadn't talked much about it. Partly because the week had been tremendously busy—even more than usual, between the FBI's requests, and Static and Gear's impromptu leave of absence the week before. Partly because they were leaving it alone, not picking at the wound to let it heal.
Besides, if Richie wasn't going to bring it up, Virgil certainly wouldn't. None of his business anyway. Like he said, he didn't care what—who—turned Richie on, but it took a little work to wrap his brain around it, that a guy could go hard looking at another guy who wasn't Brad Pitt. Maybe not normal, because there was no way Richie could be called normal by any definition. But okay, because Richie was such an awesome guy, so this had to be, too. But that didn't mean Virgil was at all curious about the exact details of being homosexual.
Except for the part where he totally, totally was.
"So, uh, what's your type? Of guy, I mean?" he finally asked, casually, cautiously. And, "So can you always, you know, tell, if another guy is?" And, "So the reason you wouldn't give me the password to your porn is 'cuz it's all, er, that kind of stuff?" And, "So am I, uh, you know? Hot?"
And Richie answered, very shortly, "Tell you later," and "I wish," and "Yeah, pretty much," and "V, I really don't want to talk about this, okay?"
"Okay," he said instantly, because it was Richie's right, after all.
Except it bothered him. Usually he and Richie would talk about anything and everything; they'd never had topics that were out-of-bounds before, except when one of them got too obsessed with a game or a movie and the other would insist on a moratorium out of exasperated boredom. And of course they talked about sex. They were teenage boys.
Though when Virgil thought about it now, whenever conversation had turned to the latest actress or centerfold, Richie tended to go quiet, letting Virgil do most of the talking. Maybe all of it. And he'd never been clear about what girls at school he liked, had shrugged off any suggestions of a date with a quick joke. The girls who had asked him out—Virgil knew of a couple at least; it had to be the glasses—he had politely put off.
Maybe Sharon had a point, with the not being blind thing.
He was seeing now, though. And as far as he could see, Richie was the same guy he had always known, same glasses, same hair, still into comics and scifi, still easy-going and easily distracted and wildly funny. And smarter than any human had any right to be, of course. Not that Virgil bought into stereotypes anyway, his dad never would stand for that, but it was nevertheless reassuring that Richie showed no signs of being about to bust out in leather and lace and showtunes.
But Richie didn't want to talk about it. And that threw off their rhythm, that natural give-and-take that they'd effortlessly maintained since they'd first met in grade school. Virgil couldn't help but think about this new angle to his friend. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it drove the superhero up a wall. Gradually Virgil found himself running out of things to say that wouldn't lead to It, sooner or later. Which meant for the first time ever, he was finding himself with nothing to talk about with Richie.
And Richie, who usually could be counted on to fill Virgil's occasional silences, was way too quiet. Maybe he didn't have as much to say anymore, or maybe he was also concerned about bringing up anything that might lead to It.
So they kept getting quieter, not the easy calm of two friends who don't need words, but an uncomfortable silence that was, in its way, as bad as when they had deliberately stopped talking to each other. Until one day, Virgil realized that other than their discussions with the FBI agents, he hadn't exchanged more than a single-word greeting and farewell with his best friend.
And that sucked. And he wasn't going to stand for it, especially not when Richie had to hate it as much as he did.
As Static he had become used to tackling problems directly. Maybe too directly sometimes, but then again maybe a shock to the system was what their friendship needed now. An outright fight would be better than this wasting peace. "So why don't you want to talk about it?"
They were sitting side by side on the brick rim of an apartment complex rooftop, across the street from the penthouse the Bureau agents had given a fifty-percent-chance of being targeted tonight. The other three most likely possibilities were being watched by the police. Since the agents' predictions had been accurate with a ten percent margin of error the last three nights—an impressively accurate model, given the inconsistency of the crimes, Gear had stated—Static and Gear had decided to go along with the stake-out.
So far, however, they hadn't spotted so much as a creeping rat on the opposite rooftop. But Richie must have had other things on his mind than their lookout, because he was distracted enough to answer, "Talk about what?" without glancing over.
Then he sat up straighter, and Virgil could almost feel the sudden tension in his body, like a subtle current. "Oh. You mean, about that. About me."
"Yeah. Or no, not about you, just the gay thing in general. Why you so tight about it?"
"Why you riding me?" He didn't sound angry, though. "I thought—you said you didn't have a problem with it, V." Less like he was gearing up for a fight and more like he was looking for an escape route, a fox hole to dive into and hide.
And Virgil didn't want that. Not for one of them to run again. "I don't have a problem with it, I swear. But right now it's feeling like I'm trying to ignore a ten-foot-tall meta mutating into a dinosaur right in the middle of the room, you know, bro? Like, I'm not trying to offend you. And I get that you don't want me to know, but I still want to."
"Know what?"
"You know. What it's like. In general, and for you, too."
"Why?" Richie asked. "If you don't care."
"I didn't say I don't care," Virgil corrected. "I care." Richie's head started to turn away and Virgil elbowed him in the ribs, hard. "Don't be an idiot. Not like that, dammit. I care because you're my friend, and I'm trying to understand this."
"It's not that I don't want you to know," Richie said. "It's just...I want to be your friend. Your partner. Like I was before. Not your gay buddy."
"My what? How's that? I mean, you are—"
"I'm gay, yeah. But—okay, V, how'd you like to be my black friend?"
He put just enough spin on the words, a contemptuous twist probably learned from his father, that Virgil couldn't help but react, recoiling a second before blinking and nodding. "Ah. It's not about being politically correct, right? Or being a token. Richie—"
"I know you wouldn't do that to me, V. I know you wouldn't, but then you were asking those questions, and I—I don't want to tell people I'm gay, it's not that I'm ashamed of it, but it sounds like I'm pretending to be something, when inside I just feel like I always have. When I realized I was becoming a metahuman, and my brain had really changed—that felt like something. Like I was really different. But being gay, that really only says what I like, it's not who I am. Except—when you found out, when I told you, and I thought...it was different, then. I felt it then. And I don't want to again, not like that. Not with you."
"You won't have to," Virgil said. "You're who you've always been. My best friend. That's not changing, I ain't gonna let it. It's just—I want to know who my best friend is. Not just that he's some gay guy. I'm used to not knowing what's going on inside that crazy brain of yours, but I thought I had a handle on what was happening here," and he poked his finger into Richie's chest, the left side below the ribs, where his heart beat under the reinforced contours of his suit. "And now I find I didn't have a clue about that either, and it...kinda scares me. Like I don't know you at all, when I thought I had you down pretty good."
"Shit, Virgil." Richie's voice stuck and he turned his head away again. This time Virgil didn't try to stop him, as he flipped up his helmet's visor, brushed his hand over his face like he might be wiping away sweat. "You do. Know me. Better than anyone."
His computer chirped a response to a muttered question, and Richie took off his helmet, ran his fingers through his hair. Sweat stuck the short spikes up at peculiar angles. Dropping the helmet on his lap, he sat back, leaning on his arms. "Backpack still doesn't detect any motion across the way. Looks like we're gonna be here for a while. So...what do you want to know?"
"For real?"
"For real. Anything. Shoot."
"So." Virgil said. "Um. Er. ...Have you talked about this much?"
"Nope." Richie shook his head. "Like I said, I haven't told anyone except you, and your dad."
"So why did you tell him, anyway? And when was that?"
"Just a couple months ago. And because...I figured I had to start somewhere. I knew a couple kids at the center were out, so I figured he could deal with it. And he's always been square with me. Sometimes I wish he really were my...anyway, he was totally cool with it. Didn't give me so much as a weird look."
"Yeah, well..." Virgil ducked his head, a little ashamed. "That's my pops." Who would probably be plenty disappointed with him if he ever heard what had happened between them. Even if it had been a misunderstanding.
Richie misinterpreted his look. "V, your dad wanted me to tell you. That was the one thing he got on my case about. And I'm sorry I didn't listen to him sooner..."
"S'okay, Rich." Virgil reached across to sling an arm over his friend's shoulders. "Don't sweat it."
He could feel Richie slowly relax, the tense set of his shoulders loosening as he leaned in a little. It was, Virgil realized, the first real contact they'd had since Richie had dropped that bombshell, other than poking with a finger or bumping fists. Well, it had been hot. Still, he was relieved to find that it didn't feel weird or awkward, just the same easy companionship as always. He'd always been a physical guy, and sometimes he thought he might have gotten moreso after becoming Static, like he needed to ground himself.
Not that he'd had any reason to worry. It wasn't like Richie was going to be copping a feel. They were best friends, close as brothers. It would be weirder than that brief time he'd thought he had a crush on Frieda. Besides, other than gender he probably wasn't even Richie's type.
"So, Virgil," Richie interrupted his musing by elbowing him teasingly in the ribs, "what other burning questions about gaiety have been frying you? You gotta have some good ones. Give."
"Well..."
"C'mon. There's no such thing as a stupid question."
"What about a question that will get my ass kicked?"
Richie considered. "I promise not to kick too hard. Oh, just say it, V. Now I'm dying to know."
"Uh...so...which one are you, when you...like, in bed?"
"Huh?"
"Are you on, you know, top? Or do you usually...I mean...uh..."
"Oh." The ambient streetlight was enough for Virgil to see Richie's face turn florescent pink. "I...uh...I don't know."
"You don't—"
"Jesus, V, I'm a virgin as much as you are."
"I—I am not! I—uh—Daisy and I—"
Richie just eyed him. The blush receded to just his ears, and his gaze was so steadily fixed that Virgil finally ducked out of range, laughing, "Okay, fine, you got me. But almost, man! Third base at least." He nodded decidedly. "But you, you haven't done anything at all...?"
"Not nothing," and the blush was promptly back. "Just...not all the way."
"When? With who...?"
"Last semester, with Whittaker. We—he'd heard of this place, this club downtown that's open to underage kids some weeknights. We went together mostly 'cuz we didn't want to go alone, but a place like that...we ended up fooling around a little. But Gil graduated anyway, he's going to Dakota U, and he's met a junior there—"
"Ah, so—wait, Gil? Gilbert Whittaker?"
Richie nodded.
"The quarterback Whittaker? 200-pounds-of-pure-attitude Whittaker the Undertaker?" Virgil frowned. "Didn't you tutor him a couple times in pre-cal? And then he kept calling you Egghead."
"Well, er...yeah..." Richie's blush became a full-force magenta that clashed with the green of his costume.
Virgil smacked his forehead. "Oh, man, don't tell me, that was, like, some kinda petname? Were those tutoring gigs really study sessions, or—" He held up two pairs of fingers to frame quotes, "'study sessions'?"
"No, the tutoring was real. At least, he needed it. But the second time after school he told me about that place—he guessed about me, Gil's good at calling them."
"So he asked you for pre-cal help on purpose? To ask you out?"
"I dunno. He thought I was. Uh. Cute."
"Cute." Imagining Richie as cute wasn't that difficult. He had that friendly, open face, and the brightness of his mind shone in his eyes; they were the same kind of things that Virgil found appealing in girls. Imagining a big buff super-jock like Whittaker thinking such a thing was a little trickier.
"He likes blonds. Or glasses. Or maybe it's the brains, the guy he's seeing now is a biochemistry student at Dakota U, wants to be brain surgeon."
A super-jock who liked boys. Who liked boys like Richie...had they kissed? With tongue? Had someone's hand gone down someone's jeans—whose jeans? How do two guys actually make out? "So you guys aren't going out anymore?" Virgil asked.
"I don't know if we were ever going out, really," Richie said. "The stuff we did, we both knew it was just for fun. But yeah, he's pretty serious with this guy now. Last I talked to him, he was even thinking of coming out completely, except he's going to be on the team at Dakota U and he's not sure how that'll go."
"Man. And I thought Whittaker was doing half the cheerleaders." The guy had to have five inches on Richie, at least. Richie would practically look like a girl next to him, except Richie didn't look at all like a girl, even when he wasn't showing off his biceps in his costume. All guy, the way he dressed and talked.
"Yeah, the cheerleaders were all covering for him, they thought it was cute. They all knew about him, though the team didn't."
Not quite as uber-masculine as Whittaker, but still all guy, and just how far had they gone anyway? "Whittaker—geeze!" Virgil shook his head. "Unbelievable."
"V, you don't...knowing me and Gil did anything together, you don't have a problem with it?"
"A problem with it? Oh yeah, I got a problem. Richie, I am gonna kill you."
"Eh?"
"All this fantastic gossip and I wasn't in on any of it! And now Whittaker's graduated, it doesn't do any good!"
"Okay, now I am gonna kick your ass." Grinning, Richie raised a fist in mock threat, but before he could give Virgil a shove Backpack beeped softly. Grabbing his helmet from his lap, Richie crammed it back on his head as Virgil shot to his feet, scanning the opposite rooftop. "What? You detecting motion?"
"No!" Richie activated the rockets in his heels, kicking off into the rooftop in an explosive burst, heading away from their targeted building. Virgil scrambled onto his disk to zoom after him as Richie called back over his shoulder, "It's a police report, there's been another burglary, not at any of the places being watched!"
"What? Shit!" The two heroes burned a bright trail through the night sky.
In the end they got there too late; the police were at the scene, and the burglars had already fled, taking with them some quarter of a million in jewelry. After an hour and a half of fruitless searching for any trace of the thieves, they called it a night. "You think they could be Bang Babies?" Virgil remarked, as they made their way home. "Vanishing without a trace like that."
Richie shrugged. "Maybe, but you'd think someone would've seen something, if they were. The guards and owners who've been knocked out haven't noticed anything weird."
"Maybe we should just forget this. I mean, they're crooks, yeah, but not that many people have been getting hurt, and those FBI guys seem on top of it."
"Yeah," Richie said, "and I'm getting as frustrated as you, bro, with these crooks showing us up like this. But we did promise our help."
"I know, but there's gotta be better things to do with our time than sit on buildings all night."
Richie laughed. "Actually my social calendar's pretty empty."
"I was thinking more like sleeping. But what, no hot date tomorrow?"
He meant it mostly as a joke, and Richie answered it mostly as a joke, "Not tomorrow, or the day after that. Or the year." He sighed in exaggerated self pity, or something else. "Told you, V, I'm not seeing anyone now."
"Ah, well," Virgil said, "when I get a girlfriend I'll make sure she's got a hot brother."
"In other words, I should look into a computer dating service or something, if I want any hope of getting some action?"
"Harsh, man!"
"We'll get these crooks soon," Richie said, before they parted for the night. "We're almost onto them, I'm sure of it. Let's give it another week. Static always gets his man, right?"
"Static and Gear, always—right on!"
But it wasn't the burglars occupying Virgil's thoughts as he crawled into bed, whatever those crooks were up to. Instead he found himself picturing Gilbert Whittaker, the brawny, good-looking quarterback standing next to Richie. Looming over him, tall and broad-shouldered, auburn hair and handsome tanned face; was that what Richie liked? Whittaker, putting those big arms around him, and Richie—would have been grinning, that happily absorbed smile he got when concentrating on something he was enjoying, like a new comic or a particularly tricky mathematical equation.
Virgil had told Richie he didn't have a problem with it. He hadn't been lying. Why should he? It wasn't his business anyway, and while it had lasted Richie had been happy enough with it, the way he had been talking. Whatever it was that they had had. Whatever they had done.
Virgil had a good imagination, and it wasn't something he found innately gross, the idea of two guys getting it on. Sex was sex, and sex was hot, and he'd had his share of odd dreams about more than girls. It was part of being a teenager, all those overactive hormones. He didn't really want to imagine this, though. Too weird, when it was his best friend.
Richie had kissed him, they must have gone at least that far. Whittaker would have taken off Richie's glasses, and his eyes looked bigger without them, clear bright hazel, even if he was virtually blind without his specs. Whittaker would have cupped his face, pale cheek against his tanned hand, and Richie would have pressed into it, would have closed his eyes and leaned forward with his lips opening, just a little.
Richie and Whittaker, with their mouths mashed together, and Whittaker's big hands feeling Richie up, touching him, wherever he liked to be touched, his back, and his butt, that particular spot under his ribs where he was especially ticklish, and why the hell was he thinking about this? Why wasn't he just asleep; he was tired enough to be.
And Richie wasn't seeing Whittaker anymore anyway. Wasn't seeing anyone now.
Not all the way. Just a little making out; it wasn't like Virgil didn't see guys making out every school day in the high school corridors, even if usually it was with girls. Even if Richie was his friend, it couldn't be any weirder than Sharon making out with Adam; he'd accidentally stumbled across that a couple times, which was a couple times more than he would have preferred.
Richie deserved to have someone making him happy. Even joking around, Virgil hadn't missed the slight loneliness in his friend's tone. The same frustration he'd felt himself—it would be difficult to manage a girlfriend and still be Static, he'd had a hard enough time juggling regular friends, but a guy couldn't help but want a relationship all the same, sometimes.
Someday. And it would be one damned lucky guy, who got someone as awesome as Richie for a boyfriend.
Virgil fell asleep wondering who that guy might be.
A week and many dreams later, he shot awake realizing he knew.
He closed his eyes, the images from the dream still lingering behind his lids, the feel still on his lips when he touched them. Flopping back on his bed, he covered his face with his pillow to block out the rising sunlight. Wondering if it was some secret rule that a superhero's life had to be this complicated. "Ah, hell...Richie..."
to be continued...
