Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re sure your dad’s okay with this?” Ricky was looking down at the well tailored navy tuxedo. It was so soft on his skin, easily the fanciest thing he’d ever worn. He adjusted the lavender tie to a more comfortable position.

“My dad is gonna drop us off at the venue but he can’t take you back home is that alright? Sorry he’s working the night shift” skeeter relaxed ruffling her (also) lavender dress. “Oh right. Rich I’m just gonna grab my coat and get my dad”

Skeeter walked off through the well decorated home. Fancy wallpaper, mahogany stairs, lavish antiques. He couldn’t believe she was such a rich kid. Though the house seemed somewhat bare; likely due to Heather’s indirect filching.

“You’re my daughters date right” a soured voice trailed out from the living room. That must be Skeeter’s mother…

“Uh. Yeah, yeah! I’m Richard, just call me Ricky” he stumbled his words in a strange charismatic fashion, per usual. His grin shifted when the woman appeared from the doorway.

She looked rather frail; sunken eyes and lips chapped with lipstick. Her face shifted no further. Just crossed her pale arms and turned back.

“I’m just happy she’s back to normal, that girl has tarnished my reputation for what she did.” She uttered wryly, Disappearing back into the living room with no further explanation. Awkward silence.

“Ah, don’t worry about that- Skeet Skeet is in safe hands” Ricky replied, wriggling his long fingers. Clearly unaware of the rhetorical statement.

The embarrassment subsided as Mr. Malark came through the hallway, Skeeter following. Unlocking the front door and gesturing to Skeeter to leave first.

“You look great you two, may I get a quick picture?” The ample bodied man said through a nervous smile. He lingered in the hallway.

“C’mon dad… you know I don’t like photos” She said awkwardly, knocking her fingers against her hips in a stimming motion.

“Well what about your friend over here? You two should at least capture this nice memory, you never know it may stay for years to come” he encouraged.

It was a shame: Skeeter had mentioned that her dad was a passionate photographer in the past. Little did he know.

“Oh come on, it wouldn’t hurt.” Ricky nudged at Skeeter’s shoulder. Accidentally prodding a little too hard.

“Ow” she let out a subdued yelp. Hesitated before reluctantly nodding.

They wrapped their arms around each others shoulders, standing in the doorway. Mr. Malark smiled and clicked.

The Polaroid was ready soon later and then they could finally move.

The car was cramped for Ricky. Roof low, seats close. He began to light his cigarette. There was silence in the car. Just the faint smell of lingering ash and smoke.

The two of them arrived at the venue shortly after, Ricky waved goodbye to their ’chauffeur’. And they crept up the stars to the hall.
Their school had been extra bougie this year, renting out some popular swing band for the night.

There were balloons, themed backdrops for pictures, crepe paper decor. All looked to fancy for Ricky’s liking. Probably something Lola would drag Brookie to. There was some cheap buffet and some punch. Seems like school could care less about the budget of the food.

Many perfect couples dancing, slowly and softly. He wondered if Brookie was there yet-

“Hey, I was hoping you’d come.” Ben remarked kindly.
His voice was charming, his hair was slicked back a little with some fancy gel. Wearing a brown waistcoat, looked old, maybe from his dad? A red bow tie… wow.

“Ricky” Skeeter elbowed him.

“Oh right-!” Ricky shot back, “yeah- you look great man! Never thought I’d see you change your hair” he giggled.

Ben had long since lost his calm, warm expression. Was something bothering him? He was waiting for something. Ricky must’ve been daydreaming or something.

“Why didn’t you say you got a girlfriend?” Ben said passive aggressively. Was he jealous?

“Ah well, I didn’t really think it’d be a big deal right?” Ricky muttered somewhat nervously “well, we’re not together. Skeet Skeet is just my jolly partner” he tried to smile again.

“Ben?” That all too familiar voice protruded, snagging Ben’s vest back onto the dance floor. Lola’s voice was muted out by the music but it had completely busted Ricky’s mood once again.

“I knew this would be a bad idea” Skeeter uttered, disappointed. “I’m gonna go smoke outside this whole gig is lame.”

“Bad idea- c’mon it’s only just started?” He whined. “Besides Brookie’s gonna wonder where I am”.

“Keep telling yourself that” she mocked, trailing away.

————

“Ben?” Lola said sweetly, she always was kind. Maybe going up to Ricky was a bad idea, especially since he had a date. It was weird though since when was he into Skeeter? It’s not like he had a problem with her or anything but it was just unexpected-

“Hey are you even listening?” She voiced, more sternly.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah.” He replied faintly, still trying to drift out of his trace. “I just didn’t get that much sleep last night.”

“Let’s have some fun, don’t ruin our night by bringing that grease-muck into things.” She spun him round: intertwining their hands. A kiss left on his cheek. But, it felt revolting. Gross. No.

He had told himself he’d put on his best face for Ri- Lola tonight, he just had to pretend. He was good at pretending? When wasn’t he? It would be fine.

But

Why? Why did he suddenly feel so moody? Why did he want to shout? Why did being around Lola never fix things? There must be something wrong with him.

He danced, monotone. Expressionless, looking through Lola’s eyes. His attention drifting at any point. Exasperation entering his inner thoughts. His lack of interest would be evident to anyone passing by. Just not Lola.

He forced his eyes back to her face, attempting a smile. She leaned her head into his shoulder calmly. That was supposed to be soothing.

Nothing. He felt nothing. Did he not love her?

“Do you want me to get us some drinks?” Lola inquired, curiously.

“That would be good Lola.” His attention peaking through the window of the venue

Ricky. Ricky and his new ‘not girlfriend’ girlfriend sharing a smoke together.

Something about it just.

“BEN” Lola announced, raising her voice. “Please, please just talk to me. What’s wrong?” She begged.

“I’m sorry Lola, I just need some air” he replied apologetically but almost bluntly. His voice was trembling, eyes still wavering. He began to move, striding towards the male bathroom. By the time the hall door shut he was running desperately.

He was panting, leaning over his crumpled body. Heaving himself into the cubicle beside him. Opening the adjacent door. Sitting on the cold linoleum floor, out of breath. cupping his hands, head facing down.

How could he be so cold, to his girlfriend, to Lola. What had gotten into him.

Hell, did he even- love her?

His eyes widened. It all made sense, he didn’t love Lola he loved-

“Brookie? Ben ’you in here?” Ricky bellowed, thick accent in full force. He could hear Ricky pacing around the bathroom flicking around.

“I can see ya you know” Piercing blue eyes leaned through the cubicle gap, hissing a soft whisper.

Ben rose from his disoriented position, unlocking the stall. “Don’t you wanna hang with your new girlfriend?” Ben teased half joking.

“Don’t you?” Ricky questioned, dead serious.

“No. Not really.” Ben slurred, his eyes looking back at the linoleum, ashamed. “I…“ he hesitated. “I don’t even think I love her.”

“And, she’s too sweet to realise. To understand- I’m a shitty person, I’ve been leading her on and I didn’t even realise” he was struggling not to choke on his tumbling words.

Ricky clutched his shoulders and wrapped his arms around Ben’s person. Hugging him as he sobbed uncontrollably.

“You know what’s bad” Ben choked, smiling instead “I feel better than I have ever felt with Lola-” chuckling now “By some mystery girl writing love poems to me.”

Ricky’s grip loosed ever so slightly, though still present.

“It's weird, cause- I don’t know other girls other than Donna and Lola…” his expression slowly transformed into one of confusion and faltered realisation. “Come to think of it, they seem to know me so well? But-“

———-

“Can I tell you something worse” Ricky muttered, caution filling his body. A twinge of regret seeping through.

“Here” Ricky whispered nervously.

A note, a poem, a love poem.

“Is this supposed to be proof checked for your new girlfriend shitbird?” Ben hummed, joking.

“You got one of those famous poems on you - nut job?” Ricky quizzed, his face still away from Ben’s in the cautious embrace.

——

Wait… What?

Oh. Oh.

And suddenly. It all made sense : all those kind gestures, the promise ring, the tenderness, the poetry.

He spun Ricky around, looking at him. His face. Eye to eye. Pale skin, soft as a baby’s ass, smooth as plastic. Eyes, piercing euphoric blues. Dark eyelashes, eyebrows. His lips, sweet and pink. His hair, glossy and smooth, dark and pristine. His dimples…

——

Beautiful forest green eyes, looming back. Like those of this mother’s, comforting and hospitable. His face was beautifully sculpted, like an art piece. His cheeks, a rosy pink. Hair shiny and untangled, a handsome deep brown.

——

Their eyes latched onto each other once more.

Ben’s heart was beating out of his chest, ready to explode

What was happening, why did his mind not know how to respond?

Ricky’s breath was hitched and fragmented, struggling to keep his composure.

His throat was so so tense, his brain full of fog. Just.

Ben.

Leaning, anticipating, expecting.

Their mouths met, desperate, instinctive and lucid. Crashing against each other longingly. Cupping the face of one another, not pulling away. Everything felt calm, content.

CLICK.

Clapping. The two of them turned.

That vulgar face, blonde hair, smug expression.

Heather.

“Who woulda thought?!” She giggled holding the Polaroid up to her face. “Richard collins is one of the big 4 faggots of the school! Bravo.”

“Well I’m gonna have great fun showing the school this gold!” She giggled, skipping out of the restroom. Laughing maniacally.

Ricky and Ben were voiceless. Faces cold. There was no escaping this, whatever this was.

——
Ricky reached for the inside of the suit pocket where he hid a flask of liquor, downing half of its contents.

Ben snatched it off Of him and downed the rest before running out after heather. Desperately trying to save face from Lola at the very least. Meanwhile Ricky stood still, throat dry.

Rumours spread like wildfire.
It didn’t matter if no one saw that photo, heather saw it.

His father would find out. And when he did, Ricky was a good as dead.

Chapter Text

Ricky hummed, slow.

Rubbing his eyes, trying to come back to his senses. He had to find Skeeter. They had to leave.

Well? Maybe- maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he could steal the photo off Heather and they could get off easy?

Ricky knew, deep down, that that wasn’t possible. Wouldn’t ever be the case, that whatever Heather saw - she would let people know about it.

He pushed those thoughts aside, desperate.

He was going to stop her, he had to.

Frantically he bolted out of the vacant bathroom; unmoored, disoriented. Grilling with a mix of trepidation and seething, brewing anger.

But.

He was too late; Heather was already climbing her way to the top of the stage in the cramped, dim hall.

The stage where the prom king and queen would be selected and announced. With a small microphone in the centre.

But Ricky couldn’t movement. He’d blended himself into the crowd, silent. He remained dread-laced, his gut twisting and turning, writhing.

Heather sneered, her face contemptuous and dripping with cruelty as she spotted him in the crowd; engulfed by bashful laughter and half artificially drunk teenagers. Who shared looks, it was the excitement people didn’t admit to. The type that sticks in your throat after the damage is done.

Any lingering shame was drowned out by the ruffling of tuxes and dresses, sweat and perfume, the noise. It didn’t matter, these people were hungry. Everyone knew Heather was unrelenting and vile but they couldn’t help their interest as she got ready to announce her news.

After all, they all knew she had something up her sleeve. Something that would surely haunt the unlucky victim, for life. She was going to say something, or show something that was going to last. To leave a sore mark in their skin, shriveled and irreversible.

Inescapable and torturous.

They only waited, containing their shameful glee.

“Sorry to interrupt” Heather uttered wryly, sly. Her voice seething with vulgarity. Wiping her hair away from her face. Her slick smirk beginning to bleed through the dance floor.
“I had this great idea” she said, mockery seeping from her mouth.

She tilted her head, every movement deliberate, her demeanour dripping with wicked calculation, polished and venomous. She didn’t rush; she savored the silence, the stares, the collective breath held hostage in their throats.

“I just thought it would be nice to remind ourselves of what amazing peers and classmates we have.” Her voice dripped with derision, eyes flicking down to her chipped red nails as she thumbed the edge of her palm, like she had all the time in the world. Then snapping her gaze back to her little audience.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” She revelled with excitement. “I’m sure you would, right?” Heather chuckled, her voice still ever-taunting.

Beside him, Ricky was taken out of his trace momentarily.

Bobby was next to him. Odd. Because he didn’t expect him to go. The guy was usually too absorbed in heightening his ego and proving his nonchalance to go to cheesy prom dances.

Either way, his face was solid, full of disdain and anger.

Ricky heard him let out a disgruntled sigh followed by Bobby's infuriated tone.
“What that fuck is that bitch planning now.” He gritted, the words crunching over his tongue.

From what Ricky had gathered, Heather and Bobby had some kind of hateful banter with one another. However this was not that.
No. He was genuinely indignant, ballistic, livid.

It was confusing.

His attention shifted back to himself. Ricky wanted to vomit, all of this was far too overwhelming. Heather was some kind of witch; she knew what she was doing. He still couldn’t move an inch; his body was mindless and stationary.

Though his thoughts were jittery, disorganised and boundless.

His head ached profusely, he wished she’d just let it out already.

So this torment would end, so he could be liberated from the impending scrutiny and threat.

He knew he couldn’t be bound to this, even if it wasn’t a photo people would still hear rumours. They’d cower and abuse it.

Their reputations - both Ricky’s and Ben’s - would be tarnished, permanently.

His eyes widened at the thought.

He hadn’t stomached what they’d done. Skeeter had warned him, and yet he was too engulfed by lust to care.

His face was pale as chalk and colourless.

His fingers twitched and trembled.

“Alright then. Guess I’ll get on with it huh” Heather continued insidiously. Retrieving the Polaroid from her pocket.

Ricky’s throat tensed. He grabbed it, trying to soothe himself. It was an old mechanism he used when he got too emotional in front of his dad. To repress whatever tears or panic.

Stuart beamed, unaware of her sarcasm. “Heather, I never thought I’d see you use the camera my dad bought you!” He stammered happily “You seemed so disinterested at first” he finished, shyly.

Little did he know.

Heather and her fucking camera.

“Oh… it’s great! I just love how you bought the most expensive one!” She expressed trying to hide her greed - her lips curling into something too sweet, too practiced. “It’s just… you know, the perfect gift, Stuart. So thoughtful of you.”
Her tone returned back to its original stace prior to Stuart’s interruption. She batted her hand up and down before looking right at Ricky.

“I got some great photos of tonight”

He swallowed, hard.

Heather was too busy teasing everyone to realise a figure furiously trudging up to the stage.

Ben.

He was saved, if Ben destroyed that stupid camera, everything would be fine! If he got rid of the picture, everything would be okay-

Who was he kidding, Heather was there to ruin them no matter what.

“Oh- here we are! One of the stars himself! Wow” she taunted.

“Give that back Heather.” he spat, his voice scrambled. Shouting now “You have no right to paparazzi people like THIS“ he shrilled attempting to snatch the photo. “I can’t BELIEVE YOU!”

“Not so fast? You really can’t? Oh that’s a shame” Heather quickly dropped her façade.

Along with

“Didn’t you like your photoshoot, Brookes?” Jumping down from the stage but not before dropping the photo on the ground. For all eyes to see.

The photograph fluttered, innocently.

It was like the whole room went silent, only the soft crunch of the paper hitting the ground.

A plop sort of noise.

——

Ben froze. He couldn’t think. Maybe if he didn’t, he could act as if none of this happened. That the moment would just disappear. He could just sink into the ground and turn into a floorboard.

At some point his mind drifted and body started moving on its own. Like a machine. Like some machine that was out of place, falling to bits. The one they neglected in the workplace. The one no one wanted to use.

He felt lightheaded, faint. But that didn’t stop him mechanically staggering off the stage while eyes watched him intently.

The room was quiet. Ben liked quiet. But this wasn’t comforting nor safe. It was exposed, dire, gasping for air.

In his peripheral vision he eyed the first people peering down at the Polaroid. He could care less about that now. Whatever freedom he had a few minutes ago, a brief sense of hope.

Gone.

His privacy: revealed, stripped, in the nude. He felt bare.

Just like all those years prior.

Why even bother anymore?

If all life was going to deal him was the back-hand, why should he try?

——

Ricky.

Where the hell is he?!

Skeeter panicked, already knowing that whatever schemes and tricks Heather had pulled had involved Ricky as well.

Her breath hitching as her shoes flopped against the floor. Tight. Everything: her skin, her clothes, her thoughts.

She clenched her fists against her sides instinctively, batting them against her thigh. Her nails digging into her palms, rolling them up and down to attempt to calm herself.

Swerving herself astray from some sequin wearing, peal earring bearing, feather laden girls in a clustered group. All huddled together; peering around as they gossiped with dismay.

Where is he?!

It reeked of cheap cologne and mixed perfumes, the sweat of the dances and dust from the poorly cleaned space.

She felt as if she were going to choke from the heavy air, bringing a hand to her mouth, then back to her sides.

Tides of petrified and disgusted randoms divided across the room. Some looked back as they did so. Whispers and rumours, murmured assumptions and subdued harsh claims echoed throughout.

Skeeter still attempted to navigate the carnage, her heart beating ever faster. Pushing past to make her way to the diversion. Cutting her way through the dense crowd like a razor-blade.

Her eyes darted around the dim hall that had grown virtually silent, with only the presence of hushed whispers.

Ricky… Ricky!

There he was. In the centre.

Frozen in place, skin as pale as a ghost, dull. His eyes were latched open, like a statue. People giving him shocked and disgusted stares from all around the room. Avoiding him like he had some kind of venereal disease. He had a radius of around 3m from any passer by.

His shoulders, collapsed and defeated. Fingers hanging like dead mice, limp; twitching ever so slightly. Only his Adam’s apple slowly bobbing as he gulped.
Skeeter increased her speed hurrying over. Then pulling at his shoulders frantically.

His body moved, but only with her perfusive shake. Averting her gaze, in some kind of fugue-haze. His face remained unresponsive and blank. It was clear he was in some kind of dissociative state and unable to process.

He hadn’t changed his expression at all, his face lingered; monotone and dry.
Stuck.

——

The chill of the midnight breeze batted against the bare skin on Ricky’s face, like knives it persisted. His fingers were shoved in the pocket of the tuxedo and yet they still breathed ice.

What was he to do now?

There was no way in hell he was going back home to his dad’s apartment, not tonight.

Safe to say he’ll never be showing his face in the vicinity of Brookie’s house either. He’d made it on good terms with Mrs Brookes purely by luck and look where it had gotten him.

Ricky began to become aware of his surroundings once again. He was in a slump, knees level to his head, sat down on some rooftop somewhere.

He was hopeless.

He didn’t fall asleep or anything but must’ve been sat there for at least 2 hours by now. Just there barely.

Footsteps.

He turned, looking up from his knees. Rubbing at his eyes.

Skeeter appeared from the rickity metal staircase; she brought with her a warmer jacket and a mug. Wandering over, solemnly.

Sitting herself down, cross legged, Handing him the mug and jacket. Both of them were too stunned to say a thing. The mug was burning at his palms. It was scorching, tingling in his hands. But strangely comforting.

Eventually Ricky spotted a fragment of rubble nearby, in the midst of the stones and gravel. Setting the mug down on the ground. Picking up the debris, tossing it in his palm. Face still emotionally devoid though dishevelled.

Skeeter peered over, exhausted but slightly perplexed.

He fidgeted with it, throwing it up and down one more time before violently grimacing; flinging the rock off of the roof, aiming at some faraway window. Letting out an irritated grunt.

——

It was the fastest Ben had ever run: cutting through the crowd with urgency and absolute discomposure.

Weaving through their judgemental streams, blocking them out.

Eyes only and forever focused on the exit, fixated and mortified, he bolted.
What was he to do?

The photo was already doing the rounds.

He was soft, overripe, like something that had been handled too roughly too many times.

His stomach felt like a pit of agony, boiling and bubbling. Overflowing like how a small pot with too much liquid would. A pot that no-one would dare touch. Too dirty, vile.

The noise in the venue wasn’t loud.

Though, he was the talk of the room. Ever present chatter and commotion muffled, restless. Slandered and ridiculed. All directed at him, at Ricky.

This was fate. Up against your will.

He had eyes on the door. He charged for it through unimaginable force, petrified.

Through the thick and thin.

He had his hand on the pushable door. Sliding it desperately open clumsily. He propelled probably his whole body weight at the exit.

He will wait until.

Twisting and turning his body both ways, clueless where to go. He just continued running. Running forever. Running until he couldn’t feel his legs.

You give yourself to him.

Finally, out of breath he clung himself to a damaged brick wall. The texture of the brick gritting at his palms.

Batting his hands aggressively, squinting his eyes tightly shut. Wrinkling his nose, clenching his teeth. His face in a contorted grimace.

To any passerby he looked like a vagrant of the night. Pressed against the cold brick, trying to hold himself together. No support other than the wall and his teeth.

Tears began to well from his sharp eyes. Flooding off of his face, like juice, sticky. His skin, peeling off onto the sidewalk with shame, his core colapsed outwards.
He looked like a bruised fruit rolling down a hill. Cracked, pulpy.

That’s all he was, a bruised fruit who got exposed. A fruit no one wanted to touch, wrinkled, too much of a mess.

That’s all he’ll ever be.

Chapter Text

The two of them sat silently; still perched on the worn rooftop of some building. There was an ache to say something but nothing would come out, like when you lose your voice, only this time it was intentional. 

Skeeter sipped at her (now lukewarm) coffee cup. Leaning her head down, a grimace forming on her face. She gently tapped at the ground, brushing her fingertips along its rough surface, contemplating what she was about to do. 

Usually she’d wait, wait until she knew she was ready. 

But what if that day never came?

Ricky, though she had only known him a couple months, had her trust. Sometimes she didn’t know how to feel about that. After Emily, she felt as if she could trust no one. On the outside he’d be the last person she’d come to. To talk to at least. But he needed someone right now, desperately. 

It wasn’t like she could talk to her parents about it either. After all, any mention of Emily would surely send her mother into a spiral. Her dad didn’t support her exactly, but he stayed somewhat neutral, tried to forget it happened. Made it worse in a way. 

Even after going to an institution, Emily would never leave her mind. She wouldn’t allow that. 

Skeeter only chose to stay because she knew that would be what Emily would have wanted. Even if it wasn’t necessarily so clear cut on Skeeter’s end. 

She reached her hand into her coat pocket. Hesitating but building up her courage.

She slowly pulled out a locket, rolling it in her palm. 

She knocked at Ricky’s shoulder; the two hadn’t spoken since she’d practically dragged him out of the venue. He was conscious, sure but he wasn’t awake, per-se. He was shell shocked, eyes wide and expression numb. 

A mess. 

Just like she had been. 

“Here” she muttered softly, barely audible. 

Ricky’s expression faltered ever so slightly, a twinge of nervousness seeping through his miserable demeanour. 

Gently, he thumbed the silver locket, slowly croaking it open, it gave a soft click with the added pressure. 

He observed quietly. There was an old photo of Emily and a lock of her red hair inside. It was well kept, not a speck of dust in sight. 

He turned to face her, still voiceless but sympathetic, startled. 

“She’s gone.” She croaked, her voice slightly hoarse. Letting out a soft gulp.

 “and she won’t come back, -she can’t.” She whispered, looking upwards trying to stop herself from releasing tears.“I don’t want, -I don’t want you to do that… because of tonight. Not like her.” 

Skeeter looked at him, her mouth slightly agape. 

“Heather pulled a similar stunt on her and I” She muttered, pausing to allow herself to breathe. “Emily couldn’t take it.” 

“Next I saw, she had made it to the headlines of the paper…” she couldn’t control it now. Her pitch increasing, voice wobbly. “She had poisoned herself with the carbon monoxide fumes from her heater.” 

“The police had taken her photo. Just like Heather had.” Her fingers dipping more rampantly into the gravel. Her mouth trembling and eyes welling up with stinging tears held back over years. 

Ricky shuffled over and wrapped his hands around her shuddering shoulders. 

As he hugged her, tears started to creak from his eyes as well. 

“I’m sorry Skeet Skeet.” he stifled. Slowly drawing himself away. “I need to leave. Screw this shit.” 

Disoriented, dazed and confused: Skeeter crumpled her words like trying to write on a tissue, “Wha- what, where are you going.” 

“I don’t know yet, just anywhere out this fuckin’ dump.” He chuckled, though his tone screamed urgency. 

“Look, Ricky, I get it. It was like this with Emily as well, but please can we just at least talk about it?” She pleaded, her voice still hoarse. 

This time, Ricky didn’t put on a persona. He spouted, still shaken up from this whole thing. “Well what the hell is there to talk about? -huh?!” 

Skeeter went silent. 

“Cause last time I checked” he started counting on his fingers sarcastically “oh right- EVERYONE saw that photo. Everyone at that stupid dance.” 

He lifted himself back up, quickly; patting any stray dirt from his clothes. He looked her dead in the eye, though his face remained conflicted. “You do realise Heather blackmailing you is not the same as being publicly humiliated in front of everyone?!” 

“Seriously?” She peeved, her face still wet from tears. “Ricky just calm down. Leaving now will only make things worse. Just stay here, we don’t have to talk or anything.” 

“I’m not gonna go sit idly by, drinking some ‘hot’ cocoa in a blanket when everyone and their mother is talking about me. My name is gonna be everywhere.” 

“So- so what? You’re gonna get yourself drunk and start boxing random people?” Skeeter exasperated, scoffing somewhat. “Tell me you realise how fucking stupid that sounds?!“ 

“Sounds like a plan to me. Look- I don’t care. Alright. I already look stupid as is. It will relieve some stress alright? Now lay off my ass, you hardly know me.” Ricky finished bitterly. 

“Well good luck then, I suppose no-one knows you now.” Skeeter scathed, tottery. 

Angered stomps echoed from the rooftop, drifting into the distance and the black of the night. 

Just like that, he was gone. He ditched the roof. 

_________

Streets were virtually empty at this time of night, only the buzz of subdued traffic was evident through the roads. 

Ben trailed along blocks, he just kept walking.

Among trash infested, poorly maintained alleyways. 

Across small bridges, that screeched in a way that poisoned his ears. Ben always hated loud sounds. 

He continued walking, not knowing where. 

Until. 

There it was. The Brooklyn bridge. 

He always found it so fascinating, in the past his mother would take him and Donna on the way to see their father’s memorial. However she had since turned cold and avoided conversation about him. 

He thought of his father, if his dad had been here, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe he would’ve been happier. 

His shoes scratched at the pavement as they stumbled. 

He looked back at the infamous structure of the bridge; tonight it could only remind him of those thoughts 2 years ago. It was haunting. Familiar. 

The bridge where he was to die. 

_________

He would feel shame for dismissing Skeeter. For going directly against her. But Ricky was in no place to listen to anyone.

Or at least the one person he wanted to talk to, he couldn’t.

He ejected her advice and stomped down the tangled metal staircase. 

His body scratched against the worn rails. Eventually, he found himself winding down unfamiliar roads. 

Gravitating towards a liquor store.

Skeeter’s words echoed through his mind : “So- so what? You’re gonna get yourself drunk and start boxing random people?” 

He hummed for a second, biting his lower lip inside his mouth. 

He didn’t have time to listen to her. 

Pushing away any regret, he swung open the door. It was late but also prom night, luckily there wasn’t a groan. 

That would just make everything worse after all. 

Being found out, singled out. 

Striding through the doorway and letting his feet ride the floor. He perused the iles, pretending to be a good customer so the man behind the counter wouldn’t draw his attention to him. 

Stay fixed on your god damn newspaper. 

He scanned his surroundings, hesitating. 

No. No he was going to do this. 

Swiftly, Ricky grabbed a bottle of whisky from the cluttered shelves, slipping it under his rugged blazer. Clenching onto his sides so it wouldn’t clank or fall.

It had been a long time since Ricky had stolen alcohol. Thanks to Ben he’d been on his best behaviour. Frequently they joked, how he didn’t live up to his greaser reputation. Why couldn’t they joke like men and women? 

His expression turned solemn, contemplating his acts. 

Tonight was probably one of the worst nights he’d endured. It would stay like that, like a permanent scar. Like all those years ago, faint but still striking. 

The night his mother and sister died, at his hands. 

Ricky squinted his eyes and rubbed two of his fingers against his forehead in shame, trying to snap his thoughts to rest. 

Then, he walked out of the store, as though nothing even happened.

Not before pulling at the push door at least. The clank of Whisky against the bodyweight, not falling but evident. 

It didn’t matter. 

The noise of the cashier was drowned over Ricky’s empty but rapid thoughts. Twisting off the cap of the bottle and taking a slug of the stolen whisky as he blundered. He stumbled, unsteady, down the watching streets. 

It was desolate, but everywhere he turned it felt as if someone would jump out at him, looking for a fight, knowing who he was. 

But nothing came, no one came.

As time went by, the more he drank, the more the thoughts fuzzied. A quiet relief. But so too did the awareness of his surroundings. 

The clear shadows became subdued and muted, blobs of scattered pigment.  

The chartered boulevards smelt old, damp from the rain. Unpleasant, Ricky caught a whiff of excessive tobacco and ash. Drink. Uncomfortably familiar. 

He paused, darting his eyes round the drear of the night. 

The buildings morphed into subtle resemblance of fake normalcy. Twisted and churning back into their correct positions beneath the dim lamplight. 

This was his street. 

Stomach churning, throat tightening, mouth wavering. 

Ricky dropped the bottle of booze onto the pavement. He couldn’t feel anything, only the release of glass in his struggling hand. He was limp and numb.

Not here. 

Not now.

Drag of cigarette smoke increasing in prominence, dripping from the encroaching alleyway, as did an infamous figure. 

And the reeking stench of alcohol.

The man limped, too, holding a bottle of heinous liquor. His eyes flying to Ricky’s forlorn face as he took a sip under wasted discretion. He knew.

He knew who he was. 

For two who looked almost identical, Ricky and his father couldn’t be more astragended, dissimilar. 

Rotten and unforgiving punches under vulgar words. Each smack harder than the other, fisted and furious, rugged. 

Ricky couldn’t hear, his breath catching and coughing. Spluttering then seaping with crimson pour. Choking soon. Ricky let his wobbly arms twinge into a fisted punch in retaliation. Desperate and vigorous. 

Square to the nose, Ricky aimed, eyes fluttering with fatigue. The man collapsed back, bringing his bloodied palms to his face with exhaustion and venom. 

Ricky picked himself up, jolting with magnitude and escapism; shattered and shaken, contorted and smashed. 

Driven by pure survival instinct, he ran with pumping limbs, hurtling himself into the void of the night. 

Blurred landscapes froze as he saw one landmark, stood out of the mush, its structure bold and grand. 

Suddenly it hit him. 

His mouth, bitter from alcohol, mentalic from blood lay agape as he gazed. 

There he was. 

Ben

Sat down by the dark waters, dipped fingertips in a hopeless motion. His face bleak, eyes studying the river. His body curled in a slump, drooping like a raisin.

As Ricky approached, Ben hesitantly turned. 

Then he gawked in horror. 

He stood up frantically from his stationary position. Running over to Ricky, his face littered with concern.

“Ricky?! Wha- What the hell happened to your face?” he whispered, terrified. Ben’s face as pale as Casper, eyes wide with apprehension. 

Ricky let his body crumple into the other boy's arms in exhaustion, blood still leaking from open wounds, exposed. He was wobbly and shaken, suit stained with red, dusted with dirt and grime. Freezing.

Ben hauled him up to his face, nuzzling their foreheads together. 

_________

Bold stenches of alcohol reached Ben’s nostrils as he held Ricky’s limp, half awake body. 

“Are you drunk?” Ben sighed, unimpressed, relaxing slightly. “You reek of whisky” 

“Ma...ybe” Ricky drawled, slurring his words absentmindedly. “Just a lit…tle- ow” He gargled, voice sharp but soft. “Keeps my mind off it.” Sniggered Ricky. 

“Jesus.” He lifted Ricky down to the side of the water, holding his back steadily and gentle. 

Ricky let his head flop into Ben’s shoulder as they sat. It felt so natural, it always did. Ricky held Ben's free hand, gently despite his wounds. He squeezed it in reciprociation. 

“We’re screwed.” Ben uttered after a while of comfortable silence.  

“Yeah- Yeah we sure are.” He turned to face Ben, his face delicate and mellow. Eyes fluttering slowly. “But. If I was go-nna be… screwed, I’d want to be screwed with you.” He winked, giving a slight cheeky smile. 

Ben elbowed him back, though smiled softly. 

“Shut up shitbird.”