*Trigger warning for abuse*

There was a man in their room. He was an older man, probably in his forties. James could see him through the cracked door. He noticed him before he had the change to step in. That man was fucking Victor. James closed the door and took a step back.

It wasn't his issue. Victor had made it clear that he should stay away and mind his own business. He was going to do just that.

He texted Oliver, asking him if he wanted to hang out. He couldn't stay in his room now. Oliver answered a moment.

I'm starting to believe we're developing a codependent relationship.

Is that a no?

Don't be stupid, come to my room. And bring snacks.

A month later, that man returned. This time, he also heard his voice. It was guttural, deep, like someone who smoked a lot during his youth.

"You look just like your mother; you know that?"

"Yes," Victor answered. It was his usual tone, but it was hollow.

"Too bad she married your father," the man said. "Talentless prick that he was."

"Well…" Victor said, some of his tone coming back. "He was unarguably good at making money."

The man laughed. "It's more satisfying when you get the money for free."

It was the third time he saw that man that James' realized something was completely off. He could hear him through the closed door. "Come on," he said, "Keep your arms up."

He heard the sound of something. He wasn't sure what it was. "Up, Victor." The man said. He sounded so calm, and yet it made James' hair stick up on his arms. "Up!"

"Good boy," he said. "Now get down on your knees. Good boy. God, you look just like your mother. Too bad, she's a drunken whore." He laughed. "Well, I guess there's, isn't much difference there, right? Don't talk."

James felt a knot in his stomach. He wasn't sure if he could crack the door a little and peer inside. He got lucky the first time, but the door might squeal. And he didn't know whose fury he might have to endure after.

"Too bad." The man said. "That she picked your dad over me. But hey, look at where we are now. She's a depressive alcoholic, and your dad's dead. Open your mouth. Atta boy."

He stood there, almost glued to the door. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was wrong. Utterly wrong. He was so caught up in his head that he almost missed his cue to hide. He went behind the vending machine and waited until the man was gone.

He had left the door open. Victor was on the side of his bed. He didn't look well. He was holding his head between his knees, breathing loudly. James could hear the struggle each time he inhaled.

"You're ok." Victor wrapped his arms around himself. "You're ok, you're fine, you're ok. Everything is ok." James watched him and felt a pang of guilt in his chest. The way he was repeating those words made them sound like a practiced mantra. 

Victor lifted his legs on the bed and hugged his knees. "You're fine." His voice was a little steadier now. "It's fine." He muttered again and straightened his back. He fixed his hair and rubbed his face.

James watched him rub his shoulder. He watched him get up from the bed and walk into the bathroom. Victor kept saying that he's ok. But everything else screamed otherwise.

James didn't return to his room for the next two nights.

He didn't expect Victor to be there when he came back. But there he was, on his side of the room reading in bed. He lifted his eyes from his book when James walked in.

"Look who's back," he said, before returning to his reading.

"I was at Oliver's," James said. He wasn't sure how he should talk to Victor now.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me." Victor turned the page.

"Do you care why I didn't come back?"

Victor sighed and looked over his book. "No, but I feel like you're going to tell me. Let me give you my full attention. Don't let the fact that I was doing something hinder you." He placed the book on the bed and got into a sitting position.

James was a little irritated. "Because of that man."

Victor's mouth dropped.

"Who was that?" James asked, and he watched Victor's expression melt into a complete panic. This was certainly something he shouldn't have known about.

Victor gasped a mouthful of air. He got out of bed.

"What man?" It sounded like a dry heave.

"That man that fucked you." Probably not the best choice of words, James realized while watching him. Victor was having trouble breathing. He was doing his best, trying to push the air into his lungs.

He stood up; there was no composure left in his body. It was all chaos, chaos from the way his eyes drifted everywhere to his struggle to breathe.

James felt it himself - whatever that was - inside his gut, a hand that was clenching his stomach into a fist.

"Victor, breathe. Who was that man?" He wanted to take a step towards him, but it seemed like a horrible idea. Victor seemed more likely to jump out the window than allow him to come anywhere near him.

Victor shook his head. "No." His breaths were shallow, fast. "No, no."

"Hey." James tried to keep his voice leveled, kind, calm. He never liked all that much Victor, but this Victor was different. With each second that passed, Victor was crumbling. Victor was suffocating.

"Hey," James said again. Victor's eyes glued to him, eyes wide two full moons. He took a step back and hit his desk. The stack of thick, old books he had there fell over. That freaked him out too. He moved away from the desk, circling James. He wanted to run towards the door.

"Victor."

Victor was wheezing. He rushed towards the exit. James stretched his arm and wrapped it around his waist, pulling him back. Victor couldn't scream, but the sound that came out of him broke James' heart.

He didn't struggle. He dropped like a bag of rocks. James kneeled next to him. Victor was covering his face and head. He was coughing.

James took out the inhaler from Victor's pocket. "Here, come here." He pulled Victor's arm off of his head. This whole thing felt like peeling off a man's last piece of armor. It felt indecent and obscene. But Victor needed it.

"Here." He held the inhaler next to his mouth and pressed it once Victor's lips were around it. Victor grabbed onto his wrist. There was desperation in the way he grabbed him—Hard, hard enough to turn the tips of his fingers white.

"Don't' hit me," Victor said.

"Don't be an idiot," James said. "I'm not going to hit you." He wanted to ask that question again. Who was that man? He felt like asking that now, would send him into hysterics.

"What do you want?" Victor asked. "Why? Why did you have to come? Why now? You shouldn't have come."

James didn't know if he should hug him. He didn't know what to tell him, how to make him feel better. He didn't know jack shit about Victor.

James grabbed his arms and turned Victor towards him.

"Hey," he said again. "Look at me." And Victor did. He wasn't crying, but his eyes were red. He had lost all of his sharpness. He was just a kid now. Young and scared.

"Do you want him to swallow his teeth?"

He didn't know how to be emotionally available for him, but he could kick someone in the face. He was very talented at kicking people.

Victor started crying.