Set Into Motion

I'm desperately trying to get a stubborn stain out of my shirt when Vic enters the room.

I mean, I don't turn to see, but I know it's Vic, because I lock the door each and every time he or I leave, and he's the only one who has a key.

"Hey, Jacko," he says, now standing over me. I'm sitting on the floor with this stupid t-shirt, scrubbing furiously with a soapy rag. "Dude, I don't think that's gonna work."
"I-I mean, it's still pretty fresh, shouldn't it?"
"I dunno. Maybe. If not, just buy another. There are a billion too-bright blue t-shirts in the world."

I roll my eyes because that's not even the point, I just want the stain out. I don't respond and continue scrubbing, and Vic lets me go on for a good minute or two before moving my hand and examining the stain himself. It's faded somewhat, thank God, but it's not enough. There's still remnants of an incredibly large splatter on the chest, which he shakes his head at before setting it back down.

"Where'd this come from?"
"A drug dealer who was so sure he was gonna get this dorky little teenager to shoot up."

Vic snorts, patting my shoulder before dropping onto his bed. He says, "He was seriously gonna try and shoot up right there?"
"He had the fuckin' tie and needle and everything. He said it may hurt for a minute, but it'll all be worth it when you're flying high. Then I just went to town because shit, how rude, thinking I'm an idiot just because I'm a kid."
"Aw, he hurt your feelings, Jacky?"

I flip him off and go back to the shirt, which I know deep in the back of my mind will never truly be saved, so I give up with a groan and whip the washrag across the room. It hits the wall with a thud, staining it with water and suds. I've had enough of this fucking shirt, too, so I ball it up and throw it in the trash before tying the trash bag up and getting a new one.

"I guess he did," Vic adds to his earlier teasing, sticking his tongue out, as well.
"Shut the fuck up. You're awfully giddy, anyway, who got the sunshine in your veins?"
"This super cute boy walked into me earlier, right? And now we're going to dinner."

I don't really know how to feel about this. Vic's dates almost always end in two ways: him getting hurt, or him killing the other guy. And I don't want him to get hurt.

"Oh. That's nice."
"Sound more excited, I got your ass a date!"
"What?"

Vic nods, a smile too wide for me not to know what the hell he's talking about. I'm pretty sure he said that he and the guy he walked into are going to dinner. Now where the hell does this involve me?

"The guy I walked into has a friend, so we're double dating."
"Vic, you don't even know these people."
"Are you, of all people, worried about fucking stranger danger?"

Before I can say anything, Vic is off the bed and gripping my collar tight in his fists. He smirks at me and says, "Jacko, people like us are the reason stranger danger exists."

He's not wrong, but I shove him off anyway. He laughs because I push him hard enough to make him hit my bed, and he purposely starts fucking up the covers, which he knows that I hate. He untucks them and knocks a pillow on the floor and messes up the sheet and I pounce on him, pinning him to the mattress.

"Would you cut that shit out?" I growl in his ear, smirking myself. This is how we play. I think we're a little weird.
"Wowee, and you haven't even taken me out yet? You're eager."

Knowing that he's referring to my position on the bed, I get up and brush myself off, though I'm never quite sure just what I'm trying to wipe away when I do that. Vic is aware that it's not a joke or a diss on him in any way, so he never says anything about it anymore.

"What'd you use to take that asshole out? Stab him with his own syringe? You shoulda stabbed him with his own syringe."
"That would've been a lot more ironic and interesting and all, but no. I was too pissed, I wasn't seeing straight, I stabbed and stabbed until you couldn't tell who the fuck he was."
"Lemme guess, then you spent fifteen hours cleaning up after yourself."

I shrug, because he knows me. "Everything but the blood I couldn't get off the concrete."
"Jesus Christ, Jack, one of these days your little need for clean is gonna get you caught, or even worse, killed. You can't linger back and make sure shit's in place."

It's just how I am. I have to. I don't tell Vic that, however, because he is well aware and there's no point in constantly repeating myself. Instead, I wave my hand towards the dresser, his half of it, to be specific. The drawer he uses to hide his weapons is wide open, which is one of the many careless things Vic tends to do. His leaving shit everywhere can get us arrested or killed, fucking hell, is that what he wants?

"Your murder tools are on display," I scoff, flopping down on my bed. My stomach growls when it hits the mattress, which reminds that between the furious cleaning of my blades and that fucking shirt, I forgot to eat. Well. If what Vic is planning on is any good, then I guess I'm going to dinner - with a complete stranger, might I add - soon enough.
"No one's been in here but you, it's okay."

He still covers the weapons with a couple of notebooks and closes the drawer, though.

"So, who're these lovely strangers that we're going to dinner with?"
"Alright, well, the one that bumped into me is named Kellin. An inch or so taller than me, big and wide blue green eyes, tattoos, black hair that reaches his shoulders, kinda on the scrawny side, good arms. Next one. Friend. Alex. Carmel hair, brown eyes, two front teeth more prominent than the rest, a tattoo of some sort of flower on his hand, taller than Kellin and myself, probably about your height, long legs, a little muscle in the arm, slim."

Vic analyzes each and every detail. I think it's so he knows who to come back for, that's what I say, but with him, I can never be too sure. I love Vic, he's my brother, but he's an incredible wild card sometimes, and when he shifts and switches it kind of bugs the shit out of me. I appreciate consistency.

One thing I can always depend on, though, is the detail.

"They sound good. Are they attractive? Nice features, but do they all come together well?"
"They do. Those boys, lemme tell ya, Jack, they're fucking hot. They're, like, unreal. I may just get greedy and keep them both to myself."

He winks and I just took over, bury my face on my pillow. Underneath lies a switchblade, just in case I need easy access to something dangerous in the dead of night.

My stomach growls again and I groan, the noise muffled by my pillow, which feels fucking fantastic, by the way. Vic laughs at my hunger pains and says, "Dude, we're not meeting them until ten. It's, like, two. Go get something to eat, 'cause you sound like you're dying."
"I do not."
"You do, it's like a wild dog or something going crazy in there."
"Fuck off, Vic. But come with me. 'Cause I don't wanna go by myself."

He laughs at me again, but he gets up, anyway. He takes a snapback off of the dresser, twisting it backwards and scruffing up my own hair. I smack his hand away as we head out of the door.



We're at a McDonalds near the campus, the sun too high in the sky for my tastes. Vic jumps up and sits on the counter, and for some reason, no one tells him to get the hell off. I can't fathom why, but I pull him off and say, "Keep your ass off the food counter. Jesus Christ."

He pays me no mind, turning back around to stare at the menu with shining eyes that are probably bigger than his stomach. I wouldn't be surprised if he ordered way more than he can eat, because he does it all the time, and dumps everything he doesn't eat today either in the refrigerator or on my lap.

That's why I order so little most of the time. I've got Vic.

Just as he goes to hop up on the counter again, the cashier gives us some attention, asking if we're ready and what we want and how we're doing, which for Vic seems to be the gateway to an unnecessary bashing session of a professor I don't have. Four minutes of hate later, Vic has ordered for the both of us. Sure enough, he has enough for at least two people, maybe three, for himself and I have a little less than the average amount, because I'm a bit dependent on him.

When we take our food and our leave, we run into some jackass that I haven't seen before, and judging by the blank stare on Vic's face, neither has he. He's busy blocking our way while trying to be a flashy prick, attempting to impress his little friends.

"Uh, excuse me," Vic says in a huff, no doubt wanting this douche on a skateboard to move. I just glare him down.
"What?" he snaps, turning to fully face us.
"Can you move? You're blocking the whole sidewalk and if we try and walk around you we run into your fuckin' posse or the brick wall of another building. So move. Please."
"Who the fuck are you? Jesus, go around."
"I clearly just explained you, fuckwit, why we can't go around."

The guy scowls at us, snaps and calls us, "Fucking faggots!", pops his skateboard up and hits me in the leg, staining my jeans with dirt, and then Vic sort of flips his shit, which really doesn't surprise me much at all. He pushes his food into my hands and I'm still focused on the dark brown on my light gray pants. It's getting on my nerves. I want it off. I want it off now.

Vic shoves the guy up against a wall, twists his bulky arm behind his back and doesn't stop when he yelps, "Okay, okay!" He twists higher and holds tighter and the guy is close to tears, his skateboard abandoned and his friends in shock. No one jumps in to help, though. What assholes. How dependable, how loyal.

I just want to get the dirt off of me, but I can't because I'm holding our food. Fuck.

Vic doesn't stop until he hears a pop. He drops the guy, then, no longer interested in wasting his time as the guy full-on bawls from the pain. Vic doesn't even look back, just takes his stuff from me and says, "C'mon, let's get the hell outta here."

I nod, stepping over the long-forgotten skateboard, feeling as though the dirt is seeping through my clothes and touching my skin, so I run back, leaving Vic behind. I don't think he really minds, though, because he's probably locking in each and every detail that surrounds us.

Chances are, he's probably coming back to kill that guy, or at the very least, terrify him.



"Oh, the guys we're meeting tonight, I told them to dress up. So of course we have to dress up."
"I hope you know the only tie I had got stained with blood, so if that's what you were expecting, then whoops."
"Just look nice, asshole."

It hasn't been too long since Vic messed up that kid's arm and we got back to our dorm. I got the dirt out of my jeans, but I threw the jeans in the dirty clothes anyway. It just didn't feel right. I'm in sweatpants and a t-shirt now, and Vic takes the opportunity to point at me and say, "Anything but that should be okay."

I flip him off and stare down at the book I'm not reading. I say, "I still don't see how we're going to dinner with strangers."

Vic's response to that is, "Your morals are all kinda fucked up."

Which isn't exactly a lie.

I think back to the guy I killed earlier today. He offered me drugs, the tie and syringe, whole deal. I took his life. In doing so, I kept anyone else from being sucked into the hell that I've witnessed drugs bring. I'm the better person. I've done right. I know I have. Sure, I've taken lives away, but I've saved so many more just today alone.

With that, I sip at my drink and watch Vic begin to fumble through the closet. He throws a black button-up, one I haven't worn in forever, at my face, and black jeans. I can easily dress myself, but I guess him doing this saves me the hassle.

"There ya go. Now you're gonna look hot for our hot dates."
"Thank you, my personal stylist."
"You're welcome. Now about that hair. You should let me do something with it. Bleach it, like you did in high school."
"Alright, we're done now, fuck off."

Vic whines and climbs off of his bed, this time pouncing on me instead of the other way around like earlier. He's laughing, straddling me and threading his fingers through the part of my hair that's sticking up courtesy of a generous amount of hairspray. He says, "It'd be nice, Jack, c'mon. Lemme do it."
"Vic. You can hardly straighten your own hair."

He sticks his tongue out, using his free hand to tug lightly on his bone-straight brown locks. It took him a good amount of time with my flat irons to get his hair to that point. I don't even think my own hair is that straight. No, it isn't.

"I did damn good with this."
"And you burnt your ear three times, now fuck off. You're not bleaching pieces of my hair."
"Why? You'd look great."

I try to push him off of me, but he just shakes his head and bounces on my stomach, which is not okay because I just ate not too long ago and he's making me nauseous. I groan, push at his chest and mumble, "I'm gonna fucking throw up all over you if you don't get off."
"Aw, upset tummy, Jacko?"

My glare gets him off quick, even though he's muttering something about me being a prick while he does so. Whatever. He's a nutcase, I'm the sane man. I think. We even each other out.

Sort of.

I close my eyes, feeling incredibly tired all of a sudden. Probably the food. Vic notices my lack of movement and I hear him laugh lightly.

"Sleepy?"
"Mmfuck off."
"Yeah, yeah, I will. I gotta do something, anyway. I'll be back later."

Just before he opens the door, I say, "Don't get caught."



I wake up from my nap three hours later to find Vic snoring on the carpet, curled up and huddled in my hoodie, which he always wears because it's way too big for him and he likes it. Keeps him warmer, he says. I rub my eyes and crawl to the foot of the bed to see him better.

He's clutching the handle of his knife in his hand, the bloodstained blade resting on a piece of paper towel. He knows how much I hate blood in the carpet, anything in the carpet. The various bleach stains should be enough evidence.

I get up and shake him lightly, knowing how much of an ass Vic can be if you wake him up too roughly. He stirs and eventually stretches out and yawns, keeping his eyes closed.

"Who'd you just kill?" I ask, feeling as though I already know.
"Skater boy."
"You should've told me, I wanted in. He got my pants dirty."
"Sorry, buddy. I'll tell you next time."

Then Vic is snoring again and I'm stuck wondering about this dinner date. I wonder if these guys are dicks. I wonder if these guys are sweethearts. I wonder if we'll be able to click. I wonder if the night will end with Vic and I dumping their bodies in the nearest dumpster.

Five hours until I find out.