The music was blasting his ears into deafness. He couldn't hear anything besides the bass. It might've been his heart. It might've been his blood pressure boiling through the roof. It might've been his anger.

Anger.

It was blinding, sickening anger.

Victor didn't' look human; he was a rag doll held up by someone. James wasn't sure why he wasn't moving, why he wasn't stepping in. His brain was shouting at him to intervene. To grab that punk off and kick him in the teeth. Very hard. His body wasn't listening. He couldn't remember how many drinks he had.

The man took out a pill from his pocket and shoved it down Victor's throat. He poured more alcohol along with it. Vodka was dripping down Victor's neck.

Finally, James took the first step in. Then the second. He grabbed the man by the hair and threw him on the floor. Victor's body fell like dead weight.

He could see the guy now. He was a stranger, not even one of his classmates. He was far too old for that. He kicked him in the stomach. The hell with never hit a man when he's down. He hit him again, his mind was murky as it was, and the fury did nothing to help him.

He wasn't sure how many times he hit him. He didn't care. Anger had suffocated his rationality. Then he remembered the pill and Victor and turned around. He rushed to his side and forced him into a sitting position, leaning him against the wall.

James forged his mouth open and shoved his fingers down his throat.

"Throw it up!"

And Victor did. James had to hold him so that he wouldn't choke. The pill came out, along with a copious amount of alcohol. He picked him up and kicked the fucker in the stomach one last time before leaving.

"James! James!" Oliver ran to his side. "What the fuck?"

"Listen." James felt dizzy and a little sick himself. "Did you drink?"

"No," Oliver said. "Just soda."

"Go grab someone's keys. Tell them we gotta take Victor out of here. Tell them we're going to the hospital." Oliver's eyes went big. He didn't ask more questions, for now. James was grateful for that.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! You idiot! You moron! You…" He shut his eyes, trying to think. "You imbecile!" Victor wasn't moving. In the back of James's head, there was a lingering thought that he might get an asthma attack and suffocate. He was sedated enough for that to happen.

Oliver returned to the keys. James stopped for a second to tell the bouncer looking guy at the entrance about the incident. A quick version of it. Then he got in the backseat, trying to keep Victor in a somewhat sitting position.

"Are we taking him to a hospital?" Oliver asked, starting the car. James was in the back, holding Victor. He wanted to make sure he wasn't going to die. Victor's head was on his shoulder.

There was one thing seeing him drunk out of his mind in their room; it was something different seeing him like this in the back of a car.

He was disheveled. There were bruises on his chest and neck, and the sight of them made him sick. Those were fresh, just blooming into purple and red marks. The lower ones, the ones he could see on his stomach, the ones that seemed to curl around his waist – James didn't want to push the fabric away and look – were already yellowing, healing. Those, James realized, were not new.

"James!"

"Sorry. I'm sorry." He shook his head. "If we go to the hospital, we might get expelled for underage drinking." He took a deep breath. "We'll be fine, just drive us back…"

It felt endless. The trees and the road and the silence. The radio was off. He could feel Oliver's anxiety. He couldn't feel Victor moving. He had to keep checking to see if he was breathing. His head was hurting from the inside. There was a constant whistling in his ears. 

He dropped Victor on his bed and took off his shoes before covering him with a blanket. "He threw up a lot, back at the warehouse," James said. "I think that he should be ok after he sleeps it off…"

Oliver's eyes were big, round, like a deer who saw fireworks for the first time. He was kneeling next to Victor, holding his hand on his forehead. He moved it on his cheek and then on his neck, before leaving it right on his head.

"James, this is serious. This is assault," he said. "What are we going to do?"

"Us?" James frowned, the question itself was out of the realm of possibilities. "We are not going to do jack shit," he said. "Nada, do you understand? The only reason Victor is here, and not locked up in some dark room with a rapist, is because we dragged him out of there. He is not our job. Fuck, he's not even our friend."

Oliver looked back at Victor, his fingers moving gently through his hair. "I think we should at least get some water," he said.

"Fine," James said. "And that's final. Whatever he chooses to do after this, I'm not getting involved. It's not my job."

Oliver nodded, reluctantly, but not even Oliver could change his mind.

Oliver was the one who made the trip to the vending machine and got a bottle of water. He left it on Victor's nightstand. "Come here," James said. lifting the blanket. "Please?"

Oliver joined him in bed and snuggled next to him. Oliver should've been his roommate, instead of that walking disaster. He kissed his forehead.

"I still didn't get a kiss," James said. Oliver laughed into his chest.

"You still want one?" he asked, looking up. James' eyes fell on Oliver's lips again and nodded. Fuck yeah, he wanted a kiss. He wanted more than a kiss, but he was too tired to initiate anything.

"Ok," Oliver said. "I mean, you beat up a potential rapist. If that's not heroic, I don't know what is." He smiled and kissed James. It was soft and warm and everything that he had hoped for.

James managed to get a couple of hours of sleep before he had to crawl to his first class of the day. It was, thank the heavens, math. He was good at that. Oliver was asleep, his head resting on his shoulder. His hair was a puffy mane, and he was drooling. He didn't mind. He glanced over at Victor's bed. The light was beaming through the cracks of the closed curtains, a slash of gold over his pale, sleeping face. He was breathing softly, his arm dangling inches from the papers tossed on the floor. He was alive.

"Oliver," he said, his fingers moving gently over his back. Oliver stirred a little and opened his eyes.

"Ugh." Oliver sighed from the deepness of his soul and buried his head into the crook of his neck. "I don't wanna," he said.

"Come on, I really can't get kicked out," James said, and Oliver kissed his neck. His hand went over his chest, over his navel, and over his groin. He felt Oliver's chuckle, hot on his skin.

"Ok," Oliver said, his hand sliding right into his pants. James' blood rushed right away from his brain. It was early morning, he was still half asleep, and he was not one to turn down a handjob.

"I guess I'll be late." James chuckled.

"Pray he doesn't cock-block you again." Oliver laughed. 

Later, at lunch, they were sitting at the cafeteria table. James still refused to be seen in that burgundy uniform, despite the constant threat of being sent to detention over it. Oliver was eating onion soup, but he didn't want to admit that all the alcohol he drank the night before left him slightly hungover and unable to keep anything down. Coffee was welcomed, though.

"I returned the keys to the guy," he said. "I don't know his name. The one whose car we took last night."

"Oh, I forgot about that," James said. "Did he say anything?"

Oliver shrugged. "He said we shouldn't worry too much about Victor; at this point, he's more alcohol than blood."

James rolled his eyes. "Great friends, he has."

"Well, at least he had you," Oliver said. "Are you sure you're not gonna eat?"

"I'd rather not. Maybe later.

They went to their afternoon classes. James ignored all the calls he got from his mother. He ignored his father's text. He didn't even answer when his brother tried reaching him. He could hear their voices in their head each time their names appear on his phone. It would start sweet, "how are you?" and "how's school?" and by the end of it, they were going to be caught in a screaming match. The only reason he was there and not in a military school was that his parents went to the same university as the dean, and James' grades were good enough to fake a last-minute scholarship. It turned out you don't need to have money flooding out of your ass to be able to go around the rules.

His classes stretched throughout the day. He met Oliver during his breaks, to get small kisses and hugs. Oliver's way of shoving affection matched his; it was all touching and kissing and being physically close.

"Hey, let's go to town, maybe Saturday? Oliver said. "But like, normally. With the bus. We can do something fun."

"A date?" James grinned. "Are you asking me on a date?"

Oliver smiled and shrugged. "Only if you want to go. If you don't, I'm just joking."

"I do." James smiled.

"Then it's a date," Oliver said.

He went back to his dorm. Unfortunately for him, he had papers to write. Even sadder, they were about the things he couldn't stand – literature. He dreaded it, but he had to get a decent grade, at least.

Victor was still sleeping, still in the same position. He checked to see if he was breathing before he continued to ignore him. He wrote his papers, stole a bag of chips from Victor's stash, and started his work. At least he could bullshit his way through his essays.

He kept glancing at Victor. Why wasn't he moving? It's been hours. It's been a whole day.

Victor woke up the next morning. Early. Very early, enough to make James angry. "What the fuck are you doing?" James had to cough a few times, to get his voice to sound normal. Victor didn't answer. He grabbed a bag of chips and was struggling to open it.

He eventually did it and started eating on the floor. He didn't seem even remotely aware that there another person there.

"What are you doing?" James asked again.

"Please stop asking questions when the answer is obvious. It's redundant." He licked his fingers. "Redundant means…"

"I know what redundant means." James cut him off.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Victor smiled, stretching his legs in front of him. "Did you scare the poor boy off?"

James got out of bed and lifted him off the floor by the arms, a little too aggressive. 

Victor's still sleepy face snapped into shock. He twisted himself out of the grip before James had the chance to let him go.

Just as quickly, Victor was on the other side of the room.

"Don't. Touch. Me." He punctuated each word. "Do you understand?" He was angry this time, not the mild irritation that he had previously displayed when James poked his bubble. James wanted to answer in his usual manner but stopped. This didn't feel like one of their other little arguments. James could see Victor's veins bulging up on his neck.

"Ok," he said, instead of throwing a snarky remark. He even lifted his palms, showing surrender. "Ok. I'm not. I won't."

Victor closed the distance between them. He was close now. Close and angry. "What is your problem?"

"My problem?"

"Your problem." 

There was something wild in his eyes. His hair was messy, his clothes weren't wrinkled, and James found himself thinking this was hot. He didn't want to, but he had his kinks, and one of them was arrogant guys on their last straw.

"You're always in my space," he said. "Always around. Always poking me. Why? What do you want?" Victor took another step forward; James took a step back. "Come on, big guy, tough guy, did you swallow your words?"

"I think you're still not sober," James said. He felt the wall behind him. "And I did you a favor, you know?" James continued. He didn't like being pushed around.

"Oh, you did?"

"Yeah. Do you know you got drugged? You know you almost got molested?"

Victor snorted. Then he laughed. It was a low, humorless laugh. He licked his lips and looked up at James. "So?"

"What?" James.

"So what?" Victor said louder. He placed his palms on James's neck, and he did his best not to flinch. They were cold. "Are you jealous?"

"What?" James felt stupid for asking this again, but he couldn't help it. He had no idea what was happening. Victor moved closer. He could see his face, his dark circles, and chapped lips, his gunmetal eyes. He could smell the vodka on his breath.

"Are you jealous?" He smiled. It was a cold smile. His hands traveled over Jame's chest.

"Why the fuck would I be jealous?! Are you out of your mind! A man was about to fuck you!"

Victor shrugged. "I wouldn't have known." He grabbed him by the belt and tugged him closer. "Would you rather have been in his place?" He asked. His voice, his radio voice, his beautiful voice, went right to his groin.

"What!?"

"Oh, come on." Victor kept that smile on his face. His hands were very close to his dick. "You're not shy. Just say it."

James grabbed his wrists and moved them away. "You're certainly not sober yet."

Victor looked at his hands. "I thought I told you not to touch me."

"That's a two-way street," James said.

"Ah, I see, you like it only when the guy is so drunk he can't stand." Victor kneeled and looked up. The white of his eyes was red, which only made the gray stand out more. His lids were purple with a lack of sleep. He leaned his face closer to his bellybutton. 

"Like this?" 

James had to push him away. He couldn't deny that Victor, with all his flaws, was gorgeous. But he wasn't stable. Nothing about this whole encounter screamed mentally stable. 

He pulled him on his feet. He was tall but slimmer than him. He would've had no problems restraining him.

"Knock it off," he said.

"You're touching me again." Victor grinned. "You just can't keep your hands to yourself! Just admit it." 

"Stop it," James said again. He was getting angry. He was feeling a lot of things he couldn't place. "Go to bed."

"Stay out of my life," he said. "Why do you care who gets to fuck me?"

"You have a twisted way of seeing things," James said, feeling a headache forming in his temples. "I saved you, and you're a little shit."

"Yeah?" Victor tilted his head. "You could try minding your own business. You shouldn't care about who gets to fuck me as long as it's not you."