Twenty.

"Blessed is the influence of one true loving soul on another."
~Victor Hugo~

They say that peer pressure is a strong force; "friends" (note the imaginary air quotes around the word) can manipulate "friends" to drink, or smoke, or do drugs, or streak across a football game, or join a gang, or any number of things. But a majority of the human race forgets the imprint people make on one another in their lives, their personalities, their souls.

If you spend enough time with someone, you start to pick up their speech patterns, or hand gestures, or phrases. But part of this influence can burrow deeper than that; it can affect your mind, causing you to think like them, or deeper still in your heart, causing you to feel like them.

You'll begin finishing their sentences, or saying the same words along with them. You'll begin crying when they cry, even if you are across the city from them. Above all else, if they truly love you from the bottom of their soul, you will begin returning their feelings to the same extent that they provide toward you.

Knowing this as if it were common knowledge, Virgil sucks in air as sharply as a brand new vacuum cleaner through a narrow hose and prepares himself to confront his friend. But he won't use words; worse are overdone, and in the end, meaningless. Instead, he'll use actions, and knows that if Richie is as in tune with him as he thinks, then the message with be put aptly across.

"Hey, Rich," the mocha teen greets. He peers over Richie's shoulder, his chin hovering close enough to Richie's neck to feel his body heat. "Whatcha workin' on?"

"Something that will make lasers shoot out of my wristwatch. Why? Is there somethin' on your mind, V?" the blond replies swiftly, casually, simply. Too much so, in fact; it's as though he's unnerved by the close proximity of their faces.

Virgil leans away. "Yeah, there is, actually. Mind taking a short break?"

"Sure. I always have time for a little heart-to-heart chat. What's up?" he asks as he cleans his glasses on his white undershirt, the one beneath his new red-and-orange argyle sweater vest.

He rubs his hands together. His tongue darts out to lick his dry lips. This is it; he can't chicken out now. All he has to do is step forward and make his move… He only hopes that his breath doesn't smell nasty.

Slowly, cautiously (since he has the crazy notion that Richie will backhand him or something outrageous), the electric eighteen-year-old superhero brought his face close to the blond's, and covered Richie's parted lips with his own as he closes his eyes. There is a muffled squeak of surprise, and then Richie's mouth his moving, matching the movements made by Virgil. It's amazing, really; he never saw himself doing something like this to his best friend and gizmo-oriented partner. But it's pleasant in a unique way, so Virgil keeps going, mindful of their combined need to breathe.

When they separate, Richie is shocked beyond belief, but by the glimmer in his eyes, extremely joyful. He gets what Virgil is not-so-subtly hinting about, and he couldn't be more eager to respond.

"I'm glad you feel the same way, bro. I was gonna go insane if you didn't acknowledge it sooner or later."

"And by 'it', I assume you mean your influence on me?" But he doesn't need to ask or see the nod he gets to know the answer.