Chapter 4: Something Wrong


Richie spent an hour getting ready in the bathroom; washing and drying his hair, combing it to the left, combing it to the right, spiking it, tousling it, and finally settling on a half-combed, half-tousled version of his usual hairdo. He struck a pose in front of the mirror and gave his best come-hither expression to his reflection, which consisted of hardening his jaw, squinting his eyes just a tiny bit, pouting his lips, and trying his best not to flare his nostrils and wiggle his ears while the orchestrating the complicated choreography of his facial muscles.

He was mildly surprised when he opened the bathroom door and saw Virgil sitting on his bookcase, dressed in his tux and smelling of too much cologne. Actually, mildly surprised was too mild an expression—Richie almost dropped the towel around his waist.

"Sorry to appear out of nowhere," Virgil grinned. Richie shook his head, gathering his wits and reaching into his closet, fishing out the tux. "Sharon made me get ready two hours ago so I 'wouldn't be late.' I had all this time to kill so I figure I'd come and help you get ready." He hopped off the bookcase. "Your mom let me in, by the way."

"There's not a lot that I need help with," Richie rolled his eyes.

"You'll be thanking your lucky stars that I was here to whisk your rental tux to safety when your house blows sky high."

Richie's eyes widened.

"Dude, I'm totally kidding." Virgil flashed his pearly whites.

"Better be," he muttered under his breath. "If my dad finds out you rigged explosives to our gas pipe, you're never going to see the light of day."

"Yeah, because I haven't dealt with some of the baddest Bang Babies in town," Virgil retorted.

Richie shrugged. "My dad could kick Ebon's ass if he put his head to it."

"And as well all know, he's been there, done that. And is that how you're doing your hair?" Virgil leaned in closely, meeting Richie's gaze head on, unfazed.

Richie leaned back a fraction. "Something wrong?"

"I dunno," Virgil took a step back, a hand on his chin. "It seems really… cool. I didn't know you had it in you, dude."

"I don't know what you could possibly be implying," Richie said lightly, "but you'd better quit while you're ahead."

"No offense intended," Virgil pouted. "I mean, I wish I could do something with my dreads instead of this—" he tugged at an errant lock. "But at least I washed my hair for the first time in weeks!"

Richie made a face as he shrugged on his undershirt, but composed his face as he popped out of the neckline. "That's really pleasant. I'll be sure to let Daisy know all about it."

"A sister knows how the weave works." Virgil was still busy inspecting his dreadlocks with a critical eye. "You take this out, I'd have a full on 'fro, man. I mean, a fro is a fro, but what was hot in the seventies doesn't exactly ring a chord with the ladies these days."

"How many times do I have to tell you that the nest on your head channels Bob Marley in an era and neighborhood that doesn't celebrate Rastafarianism?"

Virgil affected a hurt expression. "Are you telling me my hair is irrelevant?"

"It's unique and very you and don't let the bullies at school make fun of you for it," Richie sighed. "Now turn around. The Gear needs to put some pants on."

Virgil smirked and headed over to Richie's laptop. "Nothin' I haven't seen before, 'Gear.' I'm going to check my e-mail if it's okay with you."

"Whatever." Richie dropped the towel with more bravado than he actually felt, pulling on a pair of briefs and then the tuxedo pants in hurried motions.

He'd gotten over the initial shock of seeing Virgil in that creamy off-white tuxedo the other day, although he imagined that the flush on Daisy's face would last until the next year, a flush that only intensified when Daisy announced a few days later that she had found a dress that matched Virgil's in its aesthetic. Calm down, he'd wanted to tell her. You're not even having a baby and you're practically glowing. Of course, out of deference to the fact that the lady was his best friend's prom date, Richie had let basic etiquette stem the flow of sarcasm from his lips and had practiced posing unaffectedly in the mirror.

Speaking of which… "Virg, how do you do that pose?"

"What now?" Virgil twisted around.

"That casual, nonchalant, hand-in-the-pockets-just-walked-in-from-the-matinee pose." Richie shrugged on the tuxedo shirt, reveling in the feel of the cool, crisp cotton on his skin. "The one you've obviously been practicing since junior year for this very occasion."

Virgil laughed loudly, but the blush on his cheeks and his refusal to meet Richie's gaze betrayed him. "I could teach you, but I'd have to charge." Virgil intoned airily. "Trade secret. You see, while everybody else stands around awkwardly for the group photo, I've been practicing my posing. It comes in handy as a superhero, too—you gotta know your angles for the front page."

"Mmhm," Richie smirked, watching Virgil grow more and more flustered. "You're only a few steps away from being a superhero-slash-supermodel at this rate. Oh wait, Bruce Wayne has already been there, done that."

"Appearing on the cover of Fortune and Forbes does not make you a supermodel, it just makes you a cover boy. In the meantime, I have modeled my tux for not only you, but Daisy, and soon all of our friends." Virgil stuck out his tongue and swung himself back around, shoulders slumping visibly. "What, a guy can't want to look good for his prom photo?"

Richie's fingers did up his tie on autopilot, while Richie's eyes settled on the back of Virgil's neck and his brain thought yes, he does look good. And you know it.

He choked back the thought. "It's not your wedding day, buddy. Save the 'angles' for the Dakota Daily. Now," he snapped his fingers at Virgil, who turned around on the swivel chair attentively. "Am I good to go?"

In the second that Virgil's eyes flickered up and down his suddenly hot-wired self, Richie could have sworn he saw something in the other boy's eyes that betrayed a certain light, a certain appreciation. His breath caught in his throat and he cursed himself inwardly, before he remembered that he hadn't done anything wrong, that Virgil hadn't done anything wrong, and that nothing was freaking wrong with any of this, damn it.

"Looks right to me," Virgil smiled enigmatically.

Richie blinked a few times before he stammered out a thanks, making his smile as innocent as it could be.

They had to wait almost half an hour for Thomas Kim to show up at Frieda's house, where they had planned to exchange corsages, boutonnieres, and take group pictures. Unfortunately, the poor kid was almost in tears—his father saying something about how he'd be grounded forever if he went to this ceremony of western debauchery, and finally letting him go on the condition that Thomas call home every fifteen minutes to update his parents on the so-called "bacchanalia."

His date was one of the "cool" kids who went against social protocol and asked Thomas out at the last minute. Thomas, who couldn't believe his good luck, had responded to her invitation with tears, a few self-loathing tantrums, and an invitation to play first-person shooter video games.

And apparently he was topping off his displays of affection with a corsage the size of Montana, which irked Madelyn to no end.

"That thing is disgusting," Madelyn sneered sotto voce, while Richie slid the corsage onto her wrist. He'd opted for a simple white rose wreathed in baby's breath, if only because he'd been starved for other ideas. "It looks like she slashed her wrists, her arteries vomited tulips the color of bruises, and a time-space wormhole opened up right in that area so all of that crap is stuck in suspended animation around her arm."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Time portals? Wormholes?" He chuckled. "You'd better not let anybody else hear you. You might be mistaken for a scifi junkie." Madelyn raised an eyebrow. "Imagine how that would ruin your street cred."

She cast him a long-suffering look and held up his boutonniere with a leery eye. "You start spreading rumors, Foley, and I start sticking this in places where the sun doesn't shine."

As she leaned in to pin the boutonniere on his lapel, Richie whispered in her ear, "but I agree with you. About the corsage. And the wormholes."

She looked up, almost alarmed. Richie was almost afraid he'd get stabbed (except once again, he had done nothing wrong) until she started laughing, a noisome, grating sound that brought everyone's eyes to them. Richie waved sheepishly and cleared his throat. "Nothing to see, folks. Madelyn here just had an aneurism, is all. Back to your respective pinnings!"

"God, Foley, you're such a nerd." Madelyn finished and stepped back to admire her handiwork. The white rose rested peacefully on his lapel, floating on a sprig of baby's breath. "But maybe you're not so bad after all. Just keep my night interesting and maybe I won't make your prom a living hell."

Richie's gaze settled on Virgil and Daisy, who were laughing at something or another, looking a little too matchy-matchy in their formalwear for Richie's tastes. Suddenly filled with a spirit of competitiveness, Richie grinned briefly at Madelyn, who only looked expectantly back at him.

It was a half an hour ride downtown. Richie and Virgil had agreed beforehand that if any Bang Baby shenanigans were to happen tonight, they would defer to Adam and the DPD on all counts and would only intervene if he paged them. Richie kept his fingers crossed mentally, praying that the recent incident with the invisible Bang Baby would keep mutant activity at bay for a little while—and to tell the truth, he and Static hadn't been up to much crime fighting in the last few weeks. It could have been the heat wave that was making everybody a little more lazy than usual (Bang Babies included), though Richie vaguely recalled some scientific study that proved increased heat's positive influence on aggression.

Richie rode shotgun with Madelyn, while Virgil, Daisy, and Thomas (unfortunately separated from his date, for now) sat in the back. Halfway through the ride Thomas dialed home to update his father on his whereabouts and the rest of them had to look out the window and pretend that they weren't paying attention to his conversation.

"Thanks again for the ride, Madelyn," Virgil said somewhat out of the blue. Richie smirked—his friend was predictably trying to diffuse the tension in the car.

"Yeah, thanks so much," Daisy chimed in. Richie had to admire their efforts to extend the olive branch, and it seemed as though Madelyn was warming up.

"Whatever," she said, in a tone much more mellow than her usual high-pitched sneer. "You guys will just owe me one later."

They arrived at the front of the hotel with plenty of time to spare and spent the next half an hour or so taking pictures and mingling around the refreshments, all of them shying away from the near-empty dance floor with varying degrees of reluctance. The dance hall was decorated gaudily—just about everything sparkled or glimmered with some kind of glued-on glitter, but Richie had to hand it to the student council for their dedication and their perseverance to the "1001 Nights" theme—curtains draped around the pillow-furnished rest areas gave the illusion of a separate lounge, every table had hummus and pita, and the DJ was spinning a track that featured something with a sitar.

"Richie!" Madelyn's voice cut through the backlogging of his mind. "Cut it out and get with the program. Let's go dance."

"I, uh—" Richie looked at the dance floor, which had a few people congregating at the edges, teens shoving each other playfully toward the center. When did everybody move out towards the dance floor? He'd been feeling good about eating pita and hummus all night. "I… have to go to the bathroom."

Madelyn rolled her eyes and took a seat at one of the tables, fishing out a pita chip. "Lame, Foley. I'm giving you five minutes."

Dancing shouldn't be a hard thing, really, Richie reasoned with himself. It was a socially appropriate and acceptable way to express emotions in a ritualistic setting. Dance, from the French danser. Trust the French to come up with the word. But now he had to dance with the girl, actually take part in all of that—it wasn't just an objective study at this point. Sure, he might have a brain with the synaptic connections of a supercomputer, but he still hadn't given enough thought about the connection between girls, dancing, and prom.

"You're going to need to unzip if you're going to do your business."

Richie refrained from jumping ten feet into the air, but only barely. "Damn it, Virgil. Make some noise when you come in the room so you don't catch people by surprise!"

Virgil lined himself in front of the urinal next to Richie and unzipped. "I'm usually all about announcing who's in town, but I thought I'd let my alterego take a break tonight."

"Ha ha." Richie turned around and headed to the sinks; for some reason he didn't want to stand next to a pissing Virgil, even if it had never fazed him before. For some reason the tuxes just made everything so much more… formal. And it just didn't seem right to stand next to someone taking a whiz when they looked like they were going to get married.

"So what are you in here for?" Virgil zipped up and flushed; Richie tried not to do the same. Flush, that is. In his face. That is, turn red.

"Awkward," he said. The word summed up everything.

"Good move on your part. They're playing a slow song out there. You should have seen the look on Daisy's face, she was about to jump on this like a fat boy on cake."

Richie rolled his eyes. "Gee, I never thought you'd miss a chance to sweep a lady off her feet."

Virgil was adjusting his tie in the mirror, blithely ignoring Richie's sarcasm. "It's too soon, you know? You've got to give it a few songs before you jump into the eye contact, the hands on the shoulder, the sensual—" he thrust his hips forward— "bump and grind."

Richie buried his face in his hands. "You don't think Madelyn's expecting me to get hot and heavy with her? A little bit of awkward middle-school, three-feet-of-space-in-between dancing I can handle, like the last time I was at one of these things. You know, I should have been practicing months in advance."

Virgil took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. "Listen to me. Guy-dancing isn't complicated—it's the girls who have to the sexy, wiggly moves. Just go with the music and don't think about it too much. Like so." Virgil swayed in time with the music that came in dimly through the bathroom door. "Just bend your knees a little bit."

"Like this?"

"No, no—" Virgil's hands came down on his arms, held them firmly. "Don't move your shoulders up and down like that, relax them. You're not trying to do the wave with your body. Elbows bent at ninety degrees, hands in loose fists."

"What do I do with my feet?"

"Just keep them planted."

Richie planted and looked up, stoic.

"Well—you're not a tree. You can move around a little bit. Keep it casual. Just shuffle."

So Richie kept his arms bent at ninety degrees, his hands in loose fists, relaxed his shoulders, and shuffled in time with the muffled music, copying Virgil's movements across from him.

"Excellent work, grasshopper." Virgil looked like a proud father, for all that Richie could see. "And the number one rule to remember for the novice dancer is to look like you don't care."

"I can keep it nonchalant," Richie grinned. "Cavalier, even."

"Perfect." Virgil was beaming. "You'll do great."

Richie was inaugurated onto the dance floor by a number of spirited techno pop pieces, which thankfully focused on propelling oneself into a frenetic up-and-down motion and required minimal body contact between him and Madelyn. By the time the DJ had switched to hip hop tracks, Richie was ready to breach the six-inch gap between Madelyn and himself and ease his way into a cavalier and nonchalant state of being.

His moves, so to speak, were far from great, but at least he wasn't a disaster. Richie cast a glance around, surveying the scene. There were still people hanging out at the edge of the dance floor, hesitant to make their way into the fray. A crowd was gathered a around a breakdancer and a furiously grinding couple doing things that Richie was pretty sure were against regulations for a high school event, and two girls locking lips for the benefit of the jocks and other exuberant male audience members. Thomas was doing something awfully complicated with his shoulders and his knees, looking like a discombobulated tidal wave, much to the dismay of his date, who was slowly inching away in an attempt to dissociate herself from him. Virgil, a few feet away in the crowd, looked like he was trying to contain his laughter.

They made eye contact for just a moment and Richie was about to wave, or smile, or something, before Daisy moved in front of Virgil and looped her arms around his shoulders.

He was glad, of course, that Virgil was having a good time. He was a bit jealous that Virgil was so free with himself, that he didn't have the same hang-ups that Richie did, with this whole dancing thing. After all, if there was one thing Virgil lacked that other teenagers had, it was a debilitating self-consciousness. At this point in their high school careers, Virgil was comfortable enough with himself—in both of his forms—that come battlefield or dancefloor, he'd still have the same confidence, the same easiness about him. Richie was envious, in a way, of Virgil's freedom—the way Virgil let Daisy put her hands on him, the way they leaned into each other, the way they were looking at each other with half-lidded eyes—

Richie shook his hand and turned back to Madelyn. Who had been watching him the whole time. Richie blanched.

"Geez, Foley," she muttered, and he had to strain to hear her over the music. "If you were going to be such an absent date I might as well have just come by myself." Her words held no barb—she looked almost genuinely disappointed.

Richie was filled with an abrupt emotion, suddenly—was it anger?—and reached out to grab her hips, pulling her close to him as the next song came on. He was suddenly filled with a confidence that hadn't been there before, a sureness cascading through his body that seemed to have come out of nowhere. He was channeling the music, a vessel of motion and emotion, and concentrated on the feel of the music echoing loudly within his chest and the feel of Madelyn pressed up against him. She registered surprise, stiff at first, but then settled easily into the flow of things, running her hands up and down his arms and grinding sensuously on him, her lips slightly parted and forehead damp with sweat.

The song ended, and they stood still for a moment as the tempo changed and the DJ switched songs to something cheesy and upbeat—some remix of a kid's song. Madelyn tore herself almost immediately away.

"I didn't mean for you to get all up close and personal," she snapped, still breathing hard, avoiding his eyes.

Richie felt himself growing embarrassed, but fought the urge to apologize. "You weren't complaining before."

Madelyn fumed for a second, visibly struggling with what she wanted to say. "Oh, forget it. I'm impressed you had it in you." She laughed, a little forced. "Let's take a break and sit down—I'll see you at the table? I'm just going to head to the bathroom really quick."

"Sure," Richie said, feeling himself relax. "Oh—Madelyn—" She turned around expectantly. "I mean… you weren't uncomfortable, were you? I'm sorry if—"

"It's okay." Her smile was brighter now. "I'll be right back."

He stood on the edge of the dance floor, still a little shaky from what had just happened. What had gotten into him? For once, he'd just wanted to get close to—somebody, something. He'd liked the feeling of Madelyn up against him, the friction between their bodies, the way she'd looked when she was breathing hard, her chest rising up and down and her hands grasping at his shoulders. Out of control. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Out of control. Was that all it was—?

Somebody bumped him hard from behind, and he would have fallen flat on his face had not two hands reached out to steady him.

"Watch where you're--" He turned around and saw Virgil. "Oh, it's you."

The other boy was looking at him with an inscrutable expression—or perhaps it was the dim lighting. Richie couldn't quite place it.

"Taking a break?" Virgil asked.

"Yeah, just," Richie shrugged. "Waiting for Madelyn to get back from the bathroom."

"Yeah, I—" Virgil shrugged too, for no apparent reason. "Daisy just went, too. Girls."

"Hope they're not talking about what bad dancers we are," Richie forced a chuckle. "Or I mean, me, that is. You're not too bad. I mean." He sucked in a breath, wondering why his thoughts were all jumbled. "How's it going with Daisy?"

"It's all right." Virgil sounded a bit distant. "I don't know, I just don't think I can—" And then he said something that was interrupted by a sudden blast of music.

"What?" Richie raised his voice, but Virgil was already stepping back and shaking his head.

"Never mind." Virgil raised a hand, haltingly, as if to place it on Richie's shoulder. It came to rest behind the other boy's neck, thumb brushing briefly over Richie's jaw. "You doing okay?"

Richie blinked a few times, avoiding Virgil's eyes and trying not to lean into his touch. There was something wrong here. The dim lighting, the pounding music, his body feeling electric and damp with sweat and slightly shaking, still, he couldn't make an objective observation of what was happening. No, he couldn't quite place it. "Yeah, I—"

Their eyes met briefly, Virgil's a faint glimmer in the darkness. No, Richie could not read the situation at all. Couldn't save himself.

"Your date's back." Virgil smiled and released his grip, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Hey, Madelyn."

"Boys," she looked slightly more composed, her hair fixed and sweat wiped off her forehead. She looked at Richie, slightly inquisitive and almost predatory, protective. "I've got Thomas and a few of the others who want to head out after the dance is over. I was thinking, my place?" She looked self-conscious for a split second before it was masked by a veneer of self-assurance and the regular Madelyn haughtiness. "That is, if you baby boys don't have curfews."

Virgil raised an eyebrow. "That's hospitable of you." He glanced sidelong at Richie. "My dad is cool with it—he knows it's a special night. I don't know about your parents, Rich—"

"I'll just tell them I'm staying at your place," Richie blurted out. It seemed crucial to him to see where this night would lead, to stretch it out as long as possible, to follow through. He loosened his tie, suddenly imbued with a new sense of urgency. "After all, what could happen?"

Notes

I'm so happy that this story is so well-received! I especially want to thank everybody who took the time to say a few words of encouragement. If you like the story or have any concrit, I'd love to hear from you; please keep the feedback coming, I thrive off it. ;) As for what's going to happen next time... let's just say that things start getting a little more complicated for our heroes. Until next time!

Cheers,

radishface