A/N: There's no use denying it any longer, the secret is out: Red Mist will always be my twisted, bratty sweetheart! I think he's enormously fun to write about and I couldn't help myself any longer: here's a fic of Chris trying to be a good boy for once, but failing miserably because, well, you can't really cheat Fate. Things are as they are, despite all the twists and turns.

Also, there's the slash.

I divided this massive thing into four parts, a new one to be posted roughly every 7 days as I get through beta-ing them all.

I hope you guys enjoy it despite my awkward sense of humor! If you have the time, please leave a review. I'm not Shyamalan, I actually care to know when and where I'm fucking things up.

"Cause and Consequence"

~ I ~

PART ONE

~ I ~

"I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference."

- Robert Frost

~ I ~

He had been in one of those contemplative phases for a while. Shit could go down around him time and time again and his reactions were passive, to say the least. He would stand, stare and just walk away. Walk away so he could judge every last one of them in the solitude of his bedroom, without fearing getting jumped for what he thought was right.

He had a bunch of grand ideas, Chris did. It had not always been that way, once upon a glorious time he had lived under the impression that "compliance" was the way to go- and, really? It had been the way to go, and it could still be for anyone who didn't value or aspire to things like free will and still believed they could trust fate.

Which, by the way, you can't.

As soon as he passed the Cursed Years, which range from when you are 12 years old until you turn 17, something inside him clicked and suddenly he found himself seeing all things around him in a different light.

His profound relationship with his bodyguards didn't seem like such fun anymore, in fact, it smelled of loneliness. The way Mother appeared always to be so pleased with him even when he was wrong hinted on an ever growing distance between them, thus no Magic-8-Ball was needed to verify that all the goddamn signs pointed to rejection. Worst of all, his father shunning him out of all the "serious stuff" felt and awful lot like disappointment and a blatant lack of faith to boot.

The world had always seemed so awfully simple and perfect. Chris' world, as it was, used to suffice, even if it only consisted of reading comic books, bragging, masturbating and over indulging in things he didn't care much about but that mattered so terribly to other people, that he wanted to prove he could have them whereas they couldn't- also known as, an intricate, pompous way of saying he bragged some more.

Then, he turned 17 years old. At first it only seemed like the first step or, more specifically, the bridge that connected being a kid and being 18-fucking-years-old. It wasn't, therefore, much of big deal in Chris' mind until it actually went down.

He saw things more clearly, but he couldn't perfectly process them yet. He saw rejection, loneliness, disappointment, detachment and a whole ordeal of things he would rather have differently, but there seemed to be no way out of those emotional shackles. Chris felt literally tied down to all the stuff that was wrong in his life because, at the end of the day, he was still underage and therefore eyed as a lame ass teenager who could not possibly accomplish anything on his own.

He was, in blander terms, screwed.

At first he tried to convince himself that he was already a grown up and that the way to go was to convince everyone else of such an obvious, irrefutable fact. It couldn't be difficult, he assumed, to show people the truth since it was, well, true.

Chris had been 17 years old for a week and he had been mulling over the universe and humanity for all those long 7 days when an opportunity to impose his new found manliness presented itself.

On that day both his mother and his father were out. Gertrude, their cook, had the brilliant idea of asking one of Chris' man servants what was to be that evening's choice of meal.

"Lotho!" Chris loudly cleared his throat, a clearly unnecessary gesture, for his ominous entrance in the room, hands behind his back and single cocked eyebrow, should suffice to get attention.

Lotho and Gertrude remained deep in conversation regarding peas and the atrocious prices of carrots those days. Chris stepped forward and stood nearly between the two of them, clearing his throat one more time.

"Lotho! I shall deal with this," Chris said with very well cocked eyebrows. His efforts had seemed to do the trick in keeping Lotho silent. "For an entree we shall have a salad of assorted greens with a dressing of caramelized pecans and balsamic vinegar, followed by a first course of a duck and quail whole-grain pie seasoned with a paste of poivre rose and basil, plus a side of grilled vegetables, such as, but not limited to, fava beans, baby carrots and sliced aubergines," he explained with a great deal of gesturing for effect. "For dessert, we would like that delicious créme brulée drenched in fragrant lavender extract I have heard so much about."

Gertrude eyed Lotho for some time and then she turned her attention back to Chris.

"Yeaaah," she said, "I don't think you can even mix duck and quail."

Chris inhaled and exhaled. Everything was going to be all right, he would get his way, eventually. He just had to explain, very calmly, the truth of how things were going to be run from that moment on.

"Now you listen here, you stupid bitch!" was how Chris begun his speech.

As it turned out, life was terribly unfair and truth proved to be extremely hard to prove, more so than a blatant lie. Chris realized that perhaps he still had alittlebit – if not only a couple of specks – of teenager in him. After all, no grown man he knew hid in his bedroom to cry their pretty brown eyes out when their father came home and scowled at them for making the freaking cook resign!

Chris' grown up, 17 year old mind told him he had every right to be upset about having his authority undermined and he should probably look for monetary compensations from his father for all psychological damage suffered. That much was perfectly obvious!

But still, convincing people of his maturity was hard, yet he would not allow himself to give up. His whole existence would be focused on making that point.

It was for that reason and with that goal in mind that Chris had embraced the gift of being 17 and knowing things in order to learn how to use that knowledge to his advantage, meanwhile dealing with the still crazed, hormone-driven emotions of a 17 year old.

Therefore, contemplative it was! A mouth tightly shut, as Chris had learned, could do wonders for his manliness. After all, if he didn't voice his thoughts there would be no one to contest them, with no one to contest them he would never have his ego and his drive killed by some moron who clearly didn't know better.

However, there were times when he had to speak up. Most of those times he ended up regretting he had done so, but the occasions when he did hit the mark made up for all previous humiliation.

Chris' plan to bring in Kick-Ass turned about to be one of those rare occasions.

"That," said his father, bringing Chris' notes closer to the light, "Might actually work. Very, ah, ingenious, son. I suppose."

Chris grinned. "I know," said he, "But thanks anyway."

Truth was, Chris had nothing against Kick-Ass except the fact he had been supposedly meddling in his father's business which, for one, Chris didn't care that much about anyway. If anything, Chris had felt his stomach turning flip-flops when he heard about Kick-Ass in the news, mostly because the fanboy in him wanted to break out and scream at how awesome the whole situation was, but somehow, at the same time, he was also totally jealous.

The irony was that Chris, standing there and savoring the glint in his father's eyes and wrongfully assuming they meant approval of some sort, was actually the closest to his old teenager self he had been in months. Like a child, Chris still believed he had something to prove to his dad.

Torn between rooting for a guy he knew nothing about and wanting to beat him to a pulp for being so inept a hero, Chris only required a tiny final nudge to pick his side: naturally, he was going to please daddy dearest.

Yet, truth was, Frank D'Amico didn't give a shit about costumed heroes and he thought they were such an immense joke that perhaps only another clown would be able to bring them down.

What Frank did not count on, however, was fate.

It was not by chance that Chris had decided to ensnare Kick-Ass by himself, as it was also not simply by chance that the moment Chris laid eyes on that scrawny geek who liked to call himself a super-hero, he knew there was something there. He could feel it in his guts when he met someone who was about to become relevant in his life, for better or for worse.

~ I ~

~ I ~

"We can run, but we can't hide," said Kick-Ass at length. "I guess."

Kick-Ass, who had always seemed to Chris to be a little on the slow side, remained in silence for the longest time, staring at his hands resting on his lap anxiously. Did he expect Chris to answer? When they stopped at a red light, Chris decided to break the tension.

"Look, I'm no good at that sort of talk," he said. "I'm a practical kind of guy, I can't help it."

"Well, but it's not like, philosophy or anything like that. It's just fate," Kick-Ass insisted. "You've got to at least believe in fate!"

"So what if I don't?" Chris exclaimed. "Also, shut up. You're not smart enough to talk about that stuff and have me listen and give a shit."

Kick-Ass looked flustered and turned his attention back to his fidgety hands. Chris hid a sneer of satisfaction, he liked to see the guy suffer a little bit.

"Sorry, I was only trying to make conversation," said Kick-Ass.

"Yeah, and you clearly suck at it!" Chris grinned as an idea dawned on him. "Allow me to demonstrate how we bond here in the Mist Mobile."

Chris began lowering the window on Kick-Ass' side, exposing him to a neighboring muscle car with two mean looking men in the front seats. They had the windows down and music blasting from their speakers.

"Fuck you, Red Mist. Windows up, windows up," Kick-Ass begged between gritted teeth as he tried press every button in his sight.

"Your attempts are futile!" Chris declared in an ominously deep voice, waving at the controls to his left. "Today, window control! Tomorrow, safety locking your door!"

Kick-Ass was about to protest when he felt eyes on him and turned slowly around to the two men glaring menacingly at him. He forced a smile and said, "H-Hey, what's up guys!"

"No, that was so lame!" Chris groaned, slapping him on the arm.

Kick-Ass spun around violently and desperately. "I can't do fierce right now!" he cried.

"Okay, settle down, Tyra." Chris grabbed him by the shoulders and forced Kick-Ass to turn around. "Repeat after me–"

"Yo, what, is, up?" Kick-Ass shouted in a an almost mechanical voice. The dudes glared at him some more. "That, is, a, nice, big – oh fuck, I can't say that! Okay, fine." Kick-Ass sighed and let the words spill monotonously out of his mouth, "That's a nice piece of junk you pussies got there. There, I said it. We're two dead freaks in costumes."

The guys began spilling unintelligible profanity.

"I think," said Chris, loud enough to be heard over their shouting, "That those hand gestures mean they're challenging us."

"Yep, there are the guns," Kick-Ass added mildly. "I've never been in a street race. Have you?"

The desperate-for-reassurance look in Kick-Ass' eyes sent a shiver down Chris' spine. Apparently, he liked it even better when Kick-Ass suffered a lot.

"Sure, all the time," Chris said with dismissive wave of his hand.

"Really?"

"Nope," Chris grinned, lifting his index finger for effect, "First time, like, ever."

Christ shifted to first gear and at the sudden green light stepped hard on the gas pedal. The wheels briefly spun in place, making the loud, distinctive sound of a show-off, then the car suddenly charged forward. Kick-Ass panicked in his seat as if looking for something to grab on to and only sort of calmed down when he found it.

What followed was such an intense mixture of adrenaline with pure, terrible fear that neither Chris nor Kick-Ass ever knew for sure what had went down in matters of maneuvers. All they remembered was Chris laughing like a maniac and keeping his foot tight on the gas, and Kick-Ass latching on to Chris' right arm and screaming like a little girl.

That was, until–

"Old lady with a shopping bag and three cats on leashes!" screamed Kick-Ass.

Chris swerved right violently, sending the Mist Mobile over the sidewalk and into a grassy park.

"Lake! And some ducks for whatever reason!" was Kick-Ass' following desperate input.

Chris swerved left and hit the brakes as hard as the could. The car spun round and came to a full stop.

Both boys were left breathing heavily for a few immobile, silent minutes, until Chris broke the silence.

"That was awesome! I'm such a Vin Diesel kind of guy!" he shouted.

"Awesome? I thought I was going to die!" Kick-Ass shouted back. "I hate you so much right now, you fucking asshole!"

Chris sneered. "And to think I was gonna ask if you wanted to be my Paul Walker," said he disapprovingly. "You're not even a Michelle Rodriguez, 'cause you're such a giant pussy!"

"Shut up, you're such an idiot!" Kick-Ass exclaimed.

"Michelle Rodriguez totally has more balls than you," Chris added at length. "That's not saying much, though, since Michelle has more balls than a lot of people and you've got less balls than– "

Chris fell silent suddenly. He felt something was wrong with that picture, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what. There was some slight discomfort bothering him, like a warmth filling him inside that was enough to make him sweat a bit. Perhaps it was all the rush of street racing? He definitely needed to get his heart checked after that, heart disease ran in the family.

Then it hit him.

Chris looked down at how he was sitting with his right leg almost entirely off the seat and the yellow gloved hands that were clutching his right hand and his upper arm as well. Kick-Ass looked down the same way and when he looked up their eyes met.

"Why?" Chris managed to splutter out, though the words sounded distant and not at all coming from his mouth..

"I thought I was going to die," said Kick-Ass, like he didn't understand the action (or the explanation) himself.

"Okay, I'd better stop calling you Michelle Rodriguez right now," said Chris as tactfully as he could at the moment (therefore not at all) and pulled his arm away.

Silence fell once more, only to be broken by Kick-Ass. At first it was just a contained chuckled, but soon it became a full fledged laugh. Chris smiled and soon enough followed suit, feeling completely ridiculous yet also finally swept off his feet by everything that had just went down. He had never crashed a car, nor so much as raced one. As his father's son he had expected that excitement would happen once he grew up, but he had grown up and there was no adrenaline in sight –– apart from what had just happened, and still his father had very little to do with it.

The laughter slowly receded and the distant sound of an ambulance became distinguishable. Chris cursed under his breath and sped off.

"That was fun," Kick-Ass said eventually. "I'm sorry for saying I hate you, man. I don't, y'know."

"And I'm sorry for calling you a pussy, like, three times," Chris said, grinning. "Though I still think you are a pussy."

"Fuck you, Red Mist."

And so it just so happened that Chris noticed he also liked it tremendously when Kick-Ass didn't suffer.

That surely complicated matters.

~ I ~

~ I ~

The D'Amico family dealt with things objectively. Frank did not beat around the bush, he went straight to business when he had to and he was damn good at it, otherwise he would not be the boss. He had a way of dealing with people that commanded immediate respect, and then he was just as able to recede to a relaxed state in a snap.

No wonder the air in Frank's office felt tension laden.

"I don't get it, son, am I not making myself clear enough?" Frank exclaimed, spinning in his chair to face Chris, and he didn't look happy. "Bring, him, in."

"I told you before, dad, I think he's just a geek. I don't see how he can have anything to do with what's been going on, so I need to investigate further," said Chris still in his costume from the evening, the paint around his eyes smeared.

Frank sighed and looked even more dissatisfied. "The longer you wait, the deeper the shit will become." Frank paused. "Get it done, and get it done fast, or I'll pull the plug on this whole shebang."

He had his finger pointed at his son. He had never pointed a finger at Chris before, like he did to his thugs.

"Don't worry, dad, I'll get it done," said Chris, trying to sound enthusiastic. "T-Trust me."

"That's my boy," said Frank, letting slip a smile. "I believe in you."

He didn't. Chris knew he didn't.

Chris got up and exited the room, feeling drained from a night of make believe crime fighting and big responsibilities.

Worse yet, he was beginning to think he might not be able to handle the situation as well as he had thought he could. And it was all Kick-Ass' fault.

~ I ~

~ I ~

"Look," said Chris, "I'm beginning to think we should sift through our mission requests a little better, 'cause I don't feel very comfortable right now."

Kick-Ass, who was a couple of yards behind him, rushed to catch up.

"You think? Really?" he asked sarcastically. "I feel just peachy. But–– I guess you could use a little help."

"Whatever gave you thatimpression, man?" Chris faked a smile. " Maybe it's because I'm being owned by a fucking German Shepherd? But that's just a fucking guess."

Chris didn't have much more to argue about, since it had been his idea from the start to take the dog mission. He had been working alongside Kick-Ass for a few weeks now and it had not been all fun and games. As soon as he took to being a hero, Chris realized it wasn't as easy as he had expected it to be. Truth was, he was just as inept as he had judged Kick-Ass before.

Jobs didn't come easy, thankfully, so they were just walking around in costumes most of the time. But when they did get plausible missions online, Chris was always presented with a serious issue: since he had been playing the cool and superior hero from the start, he couldn't simply give away the truth. Instead, he picked ridiculously easy missions.

The German Shepherd tried to break into a violent trot when Chris fell to his knees and tugged tightly at the leash, pulling it against his chest and keeping the dog in place. Kick-Ass knelt down on one knee beside Chris to help hold the German Shepherd, his dog, a cuddly Pomeranian, in tow.

"I told you I wanted the Pomeranian," Chris gasped in a strained voice as he got back onto his feet.

"I don't know, shouldn't you be stronger than this, Red Mist?" Kick-Ass asked, getting up as well, leash tight in his grasp.

"Shut up. I'm plenty strong," Chris said. "Now help me get this stupid dog to his stupid owner before I break its neck."

Kick-Ass scoffed. "Yeah, like you could break anything's neck."

Chris let go of the leash violently. He didn't like being made fun of when he wasn't feeling too hot. No one had the right to mock Chris D'Amico and he liked to make a point out of that.

"Fine! You take the damn dog yourself, Stallone!" Chris exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "You're the hero, aren't you? Go walk your dogs, then!"

He had to go away. The only thing he had to gain from standing there any longer was Kick-Ass' animosity. Chris seriously didn't need anyone else hating him at that point, especially not that asshole.

As soon as he felt Kick-Ass was hurrying his way, Chris walked faster than his strained right leg could stand; it hurt like a bitch and he kept going anyway. He felt his cheeks were hot from having just thrown a pretty pathetic tantrum, but he was so angry he didn't care about acting foolish anymore.

"Red Mist!" Kick-Ass called and rushed after him anyway. It wasn't hard catching up to Chris, busted leg and all. "Wait just a second. Red Mist! Oh, c'mon!"

Chris tried running and his leg hurt so badly it felt like it was trying to kill him from the inside out. He kept going despite the pain. However, Kick-Ass wasn't even following him any longer.

"Fuck you, you pussy!" Kick-Ass shouted.

Chris stopped dead on his tracks. What did he just say?

"You're just a stupid, spoiled brat," Kick-Ass continued, "And you're always calling me on my shit but you never let me call you on yours. I have been trying to be less of a pussy these days. The least you could do, your majesty, is return the favor and stop acting like a little princess."

Chris spun around and walked towards Kick-Ass, fists clenched. He didn't let anyone but dad call him names and tell him truths. There was a first time for everything, though, and in that case Chris loathed that he agreed with everything.

It didn't make him any less pissed off.

Perhaps he should have, but Chris didn't think twice before landing a leathery, metal encrusted punch square to Kick-Ass' jaw.

"I know I can be an overly critical asshole," he said acidly, "But I'm so awesome I've earned that."

Kick-Ass spat a mouthful of blood on the pavement.

"Sure, whatever you say," he said, wiping the blood off his chin before pulling a baton and hitting Chris in the stomach.

Chris doubled over in pain for an instant and then, driven by raw fury, jumped Kick-Ass hard enough to make him stumble backwards on a pile of metal trash cans, Chris on top of him still furiously pounding at anything in his way.

Meanwhile, the Pomeranian and the German Shepherd didn't even bother to stick around. They looked at each other, rolled their doggy eyes and walked away from that primitive sight.

"I swear I'm gonna get that stupid fucking stick and beat you to death with it!" Chris screamed, landing a hit in his ribs.

"It's called a baton and I'd love to see you try!" Kick-Ass screamed back, holding the baton horizontally with both hands against Chris' throat to push him away.

Chris gasped for air and bit as many of Kick-Ass' gloved fingers as he could hard enough to draw blood, which made him scream and let the baton go long enough for Chris to snatch it.

"For Sparta!" Chris shouted as he brought the baton down towards Kick-Ass' family jewels.

Then, the world began spinning. Chris had the vague impression he had been kicked in the crotch, but he couldn't tell because he was curling in fetal position on the pavement calling for his daddy. His vision was blurred entirely and he could only hear someone calling his name from very far away.

The ground was cold on his face and he could taste the saltiness of blood in his mouth. He ran his tongue through his teeth, counting them one by one; they were all there, thankfully. The pain that had spread to his legs and torso indicated they were all still there, though Chris couldn't say the same about his balls.

"Red Mist! Red Mist" he heard a familiar voice call.

"D-Dad?" Chris stuttered as his vision began returning to him. "I'm dying, dad."

"No, you're not," Kick-Ass said.

Chris blinked twice and realized he could at last see more clearly, even if the pain still made him incapable of feeling much bellow the waist. Kick-Ass had Chris propped up in his arms and head tucked against his chest.

"Kick-Ass?" Chris called.

"Of course it's me. I'm so, so sorry, that was low," he said.

"Ugh. In your defense, I was just going for the same move, plus I hate children anyways," Chris assured him, breaking free of his grasp to sit up on his own. "Hurts like a bitch. I should try that one more often."

"C'mon, I'll take you home or something," Kick-Ass said, getting to his feet and offering Chris his hand. "Can you get up? Need me to help you?"

Chris blinked rapidly again. He was probably imagining things, but he wondered, just in case, if someone was really deliberately acting concerned about him. Strangely enough, someone was and it felt wrong and weird and horribly delightful. But, at the same time, he felt oddly compelled to take that hand.

Kick-Ass chose for him, forcibly grabbing Chris' right hand and pulling him to his feet.

"Man, you look like crap," Chris commented with a sneer. "Look at that, busted up your lip pretty bad, that much I can see. And you're a little hunched up –– I'll bet that was a punch in the ribs."

"You're a dick, did you know that? If I didn't feel awful right now I'd kick your ass some more," Kick-Ass said with a light shove that was enough to almost knock down poor beat up Chris. Kick-Ass rushed to grab him by the shoulders to try and steady him. "Did I already say how sorry I am?"

"Yeah, but you can ease your conscience some more if you do me the favor of letting me know of all the bruises you'll wake up to tomorrow," Chris said sweetly. "I'd love to hear about that."

And he meant it. What was it with him and the delirious desire to see Kick-Ass beat to a pulp? He didn't even mean it in a destructive way. He just wanted to see him bleed a little bit, was that a crime?

"Will that shut you up?"

"About what happened here today, yes."

"Done!" Kick-Ass said, shaking hands with Chris.

Chris grinned. To think he had been the one to begin that whole shitstorm. Kick-Ass really was pretty slow.

"But only 'cause you're a friend," Kick-Ass added.

Chris' world, in turn, crumbled down. A friend? What the fuck? Kick-Ass should learn when to shut up and let Chris feel like he had won. Mom did that all the time.

"Excuse you?" Chris exclaimed before he could control himself.

"Hmm, yeah," said Kick-Ass hesitantly. "I thought – I mean, it is okay to call you that, right? Just because we're partners doesn't mean we aren't friends, like– Unless you don't– "

"No, no," Chris interrupted. "We're friends. We are friends. Right?"

He didn't have any real ones prior to that moment; it felt surprisingly good.

"Right," Kick-Ass said with an embarrassed half smile. "I'm Dave."

Chris' eyes widened. Dave? He stared at Dave with an inquisitive, single-raised-eyebrow look.

"We're going down that route now? First name basis and all?" he asked suspiciously.

"I-I assumed it wouldn't hurt," Dave said, looking away.

"Hey," Chris called with a snap of his fingers. Kick-Ass turned his attention back at Red Mist. "I'm Chris."

Dave smiled. "Nice to meet you, Chris," said he, extra-polite.

"Nice to meet you too, Dave," Chris returned the courtesy. "Though that's a really crappy name."

"Oh, 'cause Christopher is so fucking manly!" Dave shot back.

"Why, yes it is! And it's a name suitable for nobility, unlike freakin' David!"

"That's so not true."

It hit Chris that they had been standing in the middle of the sidewalk for a while, it was out of sheer luck no one had saw them. Once back to reality, he noticed something amiss. He glanced all around before coming at last to his senses.

Oh, shit.

"The dogs are gone, by the way," Kick-Ass said, pointing out the obvious.

"Oh, are you sure, Davey? They might have just gone for a cup of coffee or some shit. God, you're useless!" Chris exclaimed, shaking his head. "Let's go grab the Mist Mobile and look for them before the old hag who hired us trashes us to the press!"

~ I ~

~ I ~

"Where is he, Chris? God, you're useless!" Frank hit the writing desk with a clenched fist. "What did I buy you all that crap for, huh? For you walk around Manhattan in leather pants looking like a freak?"

Chris swallowed hard. He had always assumed he looked awesome in the leather pants.

"I'm sorry, dad. It's just – he's not the one," said he. "Kick-Ass is just a comic book geek, I've told you before. And I didn't meet any of the others so far!"

"Jesus, son, how long is this going to take? It's been 2 months of this shit." Frank massaged his forehead slowly like he did when he was trying to hold back. "You're not leaving me with an awful lot of options here, you know."

"I know, dad. Just one more month, one last try, I swear!" Chris said, pulling his mask off.

Frank analyzed his son from head to toe. "One more month, and then I'll pull the plug," he said at last.

"I won't let you down, dad," Chris said ominously before leaving the room.

Frank didn't believe in that, neither did Chris, but they were both used to lying.

Chris was tremendously tired and thought that perhaps he wouldn't so much as make it to the bathroom. He stripped out of his Red Mist costume and tossed it aside. Chris lay down on his bed, hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling blankly, musing at just how screwed he actually was.

Very screwed, he concluded.

It was no use playing his demise over and over in his head, or trying to imagine the thousands of ways his father could punish him, Chris assumed. There were good things happening to him at that point, he didn't want to think of anything but. There was no need to be an adult all the time, he should have the right to savor the ambiguity of being 17 every once in a while.

However, the moment his thoughts drifted to Dave they also trailed to a swarm of other thoughts that made him inevitably restless. He had made a friend, but his friend didn't know Chris had been conspiring against him from the start. Then there was Chris' dad, who had no idea his son had never enjoyed the company of anyone else prior to Dave, the fucking enemy of all people.

If dad found out, Chris was deader than dead. If Dave found out, he was just going to be alone again. Loneliness was surely better than death. Chris' felt a knot in his throat. His dad mattered to him, but the immeasurable emptiness in the pit of his stomach at the thought of never talking to Dave again was quite worrisome.

He would never have thought of allowing himself to disappoint his father, but, recently––

"Fuck, Dave," Chris muttered, stuffing his head on the pillow like he wanted to disappear. "Fuck."

It was going to be a long, long night.

~ I ~

~ See you guys on part 02! ~

Disclaimer: I don't own "Kick-Ass" and I get no money out of my fanfiction writing... thank Heavens, or I suspect I'd be very poor and hungry.