being super ain't easy | the losers club

thunderbolt and lightning

Victor Criss lays in his small single bed with his hands crossed behind his head and a thin sheet tucked around him.

The smell of cigarettes slowly fades from his bedroom due to his window being open.

It's midnight and he's wide awake with only one qualm in his mind.

Where the fuck did that little shit Richie go?

It sounds ridiculus to say that he dissapeared into thin air... but he fucking dissappeared into thin air.

Vic rolls over and grabs another cigarette, sighing heavily.

Hello to another long ass night.

Where did he go?

✨

Ben Hanscom stands in front of his mirror, holding a tube of toothpaste in his palm held out in front of him. His eyes jutted to the doorknob in the mirror's reflection, double checking that it is locked so that he isn't interrupted. It is.

He doesn't want to lose control like Bev, and Rich, and Stan. Not him. Not Benny boy.

He takes one deep breath and focuses his energy like he has done so many times before. An icy, tingly sensation creeps from his core and outwards, like ice shards, wrapping tightly around his rib cage and spreading outwards.

The tips of his fingers fade into a blazing blue color, then into pure invisibility.

Next, the wrist. Then, the whole arm was gone.

When Ben was first learning how to control his abilities when they were all young and new, he would break everything down into parts, kind of like spelling out words. In his opinion, it is one of the best ways to practice. He used to lay in bed and hold his hand up in front of his face, making one finger vanish at a time. He did it so often that it became a habit of his, where he often puts his hands in his pockets and does it at a tick of his.

Ben looked up at the mirror and nothing stared back at him. He had vanished. All that remained was the single tube of toothpaste in his hand, but seemed to hover in the air of his bathroom. He smiled to himself.

You have control. Now, don't lose it.

He allowed himself to fade back into vision, his body emitting a blue light before it appears completely again. He sets his toothpaste tube back onto the counter and unlocks the door. He walks down the hallway with light feet, careful not to wake his mother who is asleep in the living room. Family Feud plays on the TV.

Ben makes it back to his room and shuts the door behind him. He slips his track sweatshirt over his head and peels his socks from his feet, kicking them to his pile of laundry.

In the past few months, the track team has really been the biggest part in allowing him to hone in on his sense of control. Breath control, thought control, and pacing. It had also helped majorly with his self image. Being heavier didn't really bother him. What did bother him though, was those who treated him differently because of it. He felt as though he had something to prove. So Ben does what Ben can do best, he takes control of the situation.

He happily jumps into bed and finds himself dozing off with the color of Beverly's hair in his mind.

✨

Mister Chesterson loved to torture his students. The day after a big test, he would walk about the room, a smug grin painted on his face, holding the thick stack of tests that would break your finger if it were to come crashing down on your hand. It honestly felt as though he got off on it.