The Victorious [BxBxB] ✓

The Sweet And Bitter

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..."