Victim to Villain

Hey! So this is going to be a two-shot. Part 2 should be posted sometime this week.

Warning: This fic is going to be quite dark and depressing, dealing with issues such as violence, abuse, suicidal thoughts, and other joyful things of that nature. Read at your own risk. I don't want people to be triggered because of this story.

—

Part 1 - Victim

Well, it looks like I’m crying again.

It’s not much of a surprise, really, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell. It does. I should be used to the pain, the terrors, the negative emotions that never seem to leave me alone…but I’m not. So here I go again, letting the tears stream down my face.

I’m lying in a dark alley in the city, where I usually sleep. I’ve just woken up from yet another nightmare, one of punches to the jaw and kicks to the ribs, one of harsh words spit out between cracked lips. It’s even worse because these are not just nightmares, but memories, and they’re memories of most of my life, not just one event. They’re memories of every single person who has touched me, and it has never been in a good way. Every moment of contact that has been made has left a scar, if not on my body, then on my heart, on my soul, on my very fucking being.

I can’t even comfort myself with the thought that I’m okay now, because I’m not. I’m living on the streets, alone, where anyone could find me and hurt me. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. So I just cry, sitting up against the wall and hugging my legs to my chest.

Kellin Quinn, says a voice in my head, you deserve every single one of these tears. You deserve the nightmares. You deserve what they all did to you.

As if I don’t already know that.

My heart starts to pound when I hear footsteps coming my way, and I cover my mouth with my hands to stifle some of the sobs. My fear quickly subsides, though, when a thought occurs to me: This person could kill me.

It’s a thought that has been dancing around in my mind for a while, but I’ve always been too afraid to act on it. I don’t know what it is that I’m afraid of, because it certainly isn’t death. Maybe it’s the possibility that I’ll fail, that I’ll just end up bringing myself more pain in the process of trying to end it. But for all I know, this person could be a serial killer, out looking for a new victim. A serial killer wouldn’t fail. I’ve already been a victim to everything else out there, so why not add “murder” to the list?

So instead of running, I stay in the same position, still crying steadily and not even bothering to wipe the tears away. Maybe this person will take the hint and put me out of my misery.

When he gets closer, I can confirm that, yes, the person is a “he”, as far as I can tell. He’s lean but not bony, with darker-looking skin and long, messy hair. He seems to be somewhere around my age, which means that he’s a teenager, and unfortunately, he’s not as scary and murderous-looking as I hoped he would be. He does see me, though, and that makes him stop right in his tracks.

For a moment, we both just stare at each other, and I can’t help but hope that he’ll take out a gun and put it to my head, pull the trigger and blow my brains out. But he doesn’t. He just…stares. It kind of makes me feel uncomfortable, like he’s judging my worth. I thought it was obvious that I’m not worth anything. He shouldn’t have to take so long to figure that out.

"Hey," the guy says finally, his voice somehow soft and rough at the same time. "You okay?"

I take a deep, shaky breath. I don’t have the energy to reply with some sarcastic comment, like Well, what does it look like? So I just say, “No.”

The guy stares at me for a little while longer. I can’t read any of his emotions—though none of them seem to resemble anger, which is the only emotion I’m used to seeing—so I have no idea what he’s thinking. After what feels like forever, though, he sits down next to me.

I’m not quite sure how to react to that, so I just slightly shift away from him, burying my face in my knees. I feel the guy’s hand lightly touch my shoulder, and automatically, I let out a whimper, shrinking even farther into myself. “Please don’t hurt me,” I plead without thinking. I don’t want to be hurt. I want to be dead.

The guy takes his hand away immediately, and when I lift my head up to look at him, I notice that he’s put a little bit of space between us, as if to make sure that no part of him is touching me. He’s looking at me sympathetically, I think, as if he might understand. What a strange thought, someone understanding.

"I’m Vic," the guy says. "I’m not going to hurt you."

What’s even stranger is that I find myself believing him.

I nod slowly, and it’s only now that I start to wipe away some of my tears. “I-I’m Kellin,” I stutter, my voice uneven.

"Kellin?" Vic repeats, sending me a questioning look, as if asking whether or not he got it right.

I just nod. “Uh-huh.”

He nods back, studying me. I don’t know what he’s doing that for, but his eyes don’t seem as harsh as the eyes of most of the people I’ve met out here. His eyes look dark and sweet, like chocolate. They don’t look like the eyes of a bad person. I don’t normally meet people who aren’t bad, though, so maybe those soft brown eyes are just deceptive.

"Do you live out here?" he asks. "Like, on the streets? Or do you have a home?"

I shake my head. “I live out here. No home,” I say, and then I wonder why I’m even speaking to him. With most other people, I’d have run away by now. I never would’ve answered questions like these.

"Me too," Vic replies. After a few more moments’ pause, he slowly asks, "So…why were you…?"

I bite my lip, not wanting to relive what made the tears spring up in the first place. “I had a dream. About people.”

He must think I’m so dumb and incompetent, with the way I’m speaking. I don’t want to elaborate any further, though, so I just leave my explanation at that.

"People?" he repeats, nodding slowly. "Good people? Bad people?"

I cringe as an image flashes through my head, an image of a hand coming down on my face. I flinch at the moment when it would’ve hit me, if it were real. “Bad people,” I confirm. Then, just so he won’t pry any more, I add, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Vic just nods, looking like he wants to do something but knows that he shouldn’t. “So,” he he says thoughtfully. “What’s your favorite color?”

I narrow my eyes, my tears slowing down a little. “My—my favorite color?” What does that have to do with anything?

"Yeah." He shrugs. "I don’t know, I was just trying to find something that wasn’t too depressing."

I look away. “I don’t think I have one. But color doesn’t really matter anyways.”

"It does if you’re not white," Vic mutters. He frowns at that, seeming to have some split-second battle with himself, before shaking his head as if to clear it. "Never mind. I think I’m gonna try to get some sleep." He rubs his eye, looking up at the still-black sky. "You?"

I bite my lip. “I guess I’ll try.”

His eyes flutter closed, and only a few seconds later, I can visibly see him relax against the wall as he falls asleep—he must’ve been really tired. It takes a bit longer for me, but before I know it, I’m following in his footsteps. I’m about to fall out of consciousness when I hear him stir, and then he reaches out and puts an arm around me, pulling me closer and letting me rest my head on his shoulder. My body tenses up, because at first I think he’s going to snap my neck or something, but he just holds me, and it’s a sensation so unfamiliar that I don’t know what to make of it. It’s human contact. It’s supposed to hurt…right? That’s all we seem to do—hurt each other.

But this doesn’t hurt, and after a few seconds, it doesn’t scare me that much, either. His touches are light and calm and comforting, and somehow I know it right then, right as I’m dancing between sleep and wakefulness: I can trust him. If nothing else, that’s something I think I can count on.

—

I don’t have any nightmares, and when I wake up the next morning, I find Vic already awake and still with me, both of us in the same position we were in last night. “Not to be rude,” I say slowly, sitting up and shifting a little, “but…why are you still here?”

He shrugs. “If you want me to leave, I will. I guess I just thought…I don’t know. Maybe we could be allies, so we don’t have to survive on our own.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. I can go if you want me t—”

"I don’t want you to," I interrupt, surprising not only him, but myself as well.

Vic just nods. “Okay.” And that’s that.

The day is mostly spent roaming around the city and scavenging for food. This is what I normally do, but somehow it doesn’t feel as pathetic and lonely as it usually does. It’s like he and I are in this together, like he’s on my side, and that’s not something I think I’ve ever felt before. Everyone else that I’ve met has been so against me from the very beginning. I’ve got the scars to prove it.

And the whole day, we talk. We talk about so many different things that I normally never think about because I’m too busy worrying about where I’m going to get food, where I’m going to sleep, and who’s going to cross my path. Vic seems to take those worries away, or at least lessen them. It’s not necessarily that he’s all happy and cheerful (he isn’t, really); it’s just that he talks easily and about things that aren’t too difficult to talk about. It’s like last night—like he already knows how sensitive I can be to certain things, so he keeps the conversation relatively light and casual. It’s almost like we’re not two dirty, homeless street kids looking for a place to stay.

At the end of the day, not long after the sun has set completely, we find what feels like a jackpot: a small abandoned building at the edge of the city, where almost no one ever steps foot. Some of it looks like it’s been burned down, but it’s still intact for the most part. The best part is that when we step inside, we’re not attacked by someone who might’ve already been staying there. It doesn’t really look inhabited, either, though Vic and I decide to stay awake a bit later just in case we have to run from someone who might come back.

We end up sleeping on the floor a few feet away from each other. I haven’t slept easily for most of my life, so of course I stay awake a bit longer than he does, though I notice that he’s awake for a while, too. I’ve been slightly more optimistic today, so I almost don’t expect the nightmares to come tonight. Almost. But I know better than that.

There’s darkness and pain as I’m knocked to the ground, a looming figure standing over me that smells of ashtrays, and a combination of drugs. I try to push myself back up to my feet, but that results only in being knocked down again, more violent this time. Of course. I know better than to fight back. It lasts longer when I fight back.

I can see faint flashes of light, but it’s not enough for me to be able to tell who this person is. I’ve had so many people beat me that I can’t even keep them straight anymore, and they’ve all had that same fucking scent.

It doesn’t matter who it is, though. What matters is that I can taste blood in my mouth, can feel it dripping down into my eyes. What matters is that the person takes their cigarette and presses it into my skin, burning me and making me cry out. What matters is that when the person calls me a stupid, worthless fag, I believe it. What matters is that this has happened to me more times than I could ever count, that these memories are so deeply ingrained in me that they haunt me in my subconscious almost every single night.

"Hey. Wake up. Hey. Kellin!"

I hear the voice, but it’s not until my actual name is spoken that I find myself being dragged out into wakefulness—no one ever calls me by my name, just “fag” or something of the sort. I’m shaking and crying once again, my breathing fast and my lips moving without my consent: “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t, please…”

The voice makes some soft hushing noises, and I realize that that voice belongs to Vic. He’s running his fingers through my hair, his free hand holding onto mine as my mantra changes: “I want to die, I want to die…I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Vic doesn’t comment on those words; in fact, he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps doing what he’s doing, comforting me until I calm down and am able to form a more coherent sentence. His hands are rough and calloused, but they handle me with such tenderness and compassion.

"I had a nightmare," I say finally, taking a deep breath. "Again."

He changes his position, lying down next to me so that we’re at eye level. “That’s okay,” he says softly. “I get ‘em, too.”

"You do?" I ask. That’s surprising—he always seems so strong.

He nods, flashing me a sad smile. “You think you’re the only one who’s fucked up around here?”

And it’s those words that make me realize something. They make me realize that he’s been hurt, too—that he’s been sad, that he’s been angry, and that maybe he still is. They make me realize that behind everything else, there are scars on his heart, too, just like there are on mine. They make me realize that he really does understand, and that thought takes my breath away.

"You’re the first person I’ve ever met," I find myself saying. "The first person who…y’know, understands.”

"Funny," Vic replies, "because I could say the same about you."

—

From that moment on, we enter a sort of partnership. We spend the days with each other, talk to each other, trust each other. It feels so incredible, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I’d lost hope in finding happiness, in finding someone who wouldn’t mistreat me. I’d come to believe that there was no such thing as loyalty or friendship or compassion, that it was all just some crazy lie created to keep us alive, to keep us chasing after something that doesn’t exist.

"What are you thinking about?" Vic asks me one night as I’m sitting against the wall, staring off into space. He’s been lying down, trying to get to sleep, but now he’s sitting up, across from me. It’s been a couple of weeks, I think, since we first met, though I can hardly keep track of the days anymore.

"Just…us," I reply. "It still feels so unreal. Like it’s too good to be true."

"I know what you mean," he says, nodding. After a short pause, he adds, "Do you have any idea how close I was to doing it?"

"Doing what?" I think I already know what he means, though.

"Killing myself," he says simply, looking away. "That night…if I hadn’t seen you, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. I was walking down that alley because it was on the way to one of the tallest buildings in the city. And if I hadn’t seen you and stopped, I would’ve gone to the roof of that building, and, well…"

"Why did you want to do that?" I blurt, and he gives me a surprised look. Neither of us have ever talked much about these things, and we’ve never really asked each other, either. It’s just been a silent agreement, that we don’t talk about it. The mutual understanding has been enough. There have been a few nights where our roles were reversed and I had to wake Vic up from a nightmare, but we never talk much about those, either. It’s all just seemed a bit private. Now, though, I want to know the cause of his suicidal thoughts. I want to know everything about him.

"For probably the same reason that you want to," he says after a long pause. "I didn’t want to feel the pain anymore. But now…it hurts a little bit less. Because now I have hope that things can change for the better, even when you’ve hit rock bottom."

I smile at that—it feels so fucking good to smile. “Yeah,” I agree. “It can.” For a moment, we’re just staring at each other, but then, in a more serious tone, I add, “Thank you. For…for keeping yourself alive.” I narrow my eyes in confusion. “Why did you do that, anyways? Keep yourself alive? You could’ve done it after I fell asleep. You could’ve just left for that building. But you didn’t. You stayed.”

"I wanted to make sure you’d be okay," he explains. "That’s what made me stay alive. I saw something in you—potential—and I decided that I wanted to help you so you didn’t waste it. I kind of felt like a hypocrite, but I didn’t really care. I just felt like there was a good person behind all those tears. And then, well, I guess I kind of…I formed an attachment to you." He shrugs. "And I don’t regret it."

It’s so amazing to me, how he’s admitting all this. It makes me feel like we’re really close, like he can trust me with his secrets and I can trust him with mine. I like it. I like him.

Vic moves closer to me so that we’re facing the same direction, his back now against the wall as he sits next to me. “I want to tell you what fucked me up,” he says slowly, cautiously, deliberately, his gaze locking with mine. “I want…I want you to know how I ended up like this, if you’ll tell me the same thing.”

My heart starts beating faster at that, but I nod anyways. “Okay.”

And then he tells me everything.

Well, he leaves out quite a few details, but he tells me enough that I understand. He tells me about how his father hit them—him, his mother, and his brother Mike. He tells me about how his dad went too far one night killed his mom, which led to him and Mike finding sanctuary at their grandparents’ house. He tells me about how he and Mike got beat up at school by a bunch of racist kids, which explains what he responded when I stated that color doesn’t matter. “We weren’t even fully Hispanic!” he says angrily. “My mom was Irish, for God’s sake. But, I mean, it’s not like they knew that. Or that they would’ve cared either way.”

He tells me about how his grandparents both died of old age while he and Mike were still in high school, leaving them with nowhere to go, so they took to the streets. He tells me about how Mike got killed in cold blood by a gang. He tells me about how one of the other members took a liking to him afterward, so they took him in, and he agreed only because he needed somewhere to go. He tells me about how that one member gradually broke down his barriers, how he was starting to think that maybe things weren’t all bad when his life turned to shit once again.

He tells me about how that relationship turned abusive, how that gang member liked to beat him and bruise him just so he could kiss it all better. He tells me about how he might not have gotten out of it if the guy hadn’t been killed in a feud with another gang. He tells me about how that experience was what made him completely lose whatever faith in the world that he may have had left.

I barely notice the tears quietly making their way down my face yet again as he finishes up the story of his life. There’s an ache in my chest from hearing about all the shit that the universe has thrown at him. He’s the best person I’ve ever met—which isn’t much of an achievement, since I’ve met very few people who are even half-decent, but still—and here he is, talking about the hell that he’s been put through.

And then it’s my turn, so—again, leaving out a few details—I do the same thing.

I tell him about how even the way I was created is fucked, a product of forced conception from an innocent fifteen-year-old girl. I tell him about how I was given to a family that didn’t want me, how I was beaten because of it. I tell him about how I was constantly sent from one house to another, and in the shithole that I lived in, they were all the same: drug addicts and dealers and abusers, leaving me bleeding on the floor. I tell him about how the kids at school beat me up, too, just for the sheer enjoyment of causing pain to someone smaller than them. I tell him about how they all—the people at home and the people at school—called me more or less the same thing: a stupid, worthless fag who does nothing but fuck up.

I tell him about how, since I always lived with addicts and dealers, I got ahold of some of their drugs in order to drown out the pain. I tell him about how they’d beat me even more when they found out, but I’d already gotten myself hooked, so I kept doing it, and it turned into a vicious cycle. I tell him about how when I was finally able to run away, I couldn’t use those drugs anymore because I had nothing to supply them, so I had to stop and deal with the withdrawal. I tell him about how I’ve been attacked by gangs since I escaped to the streets, how because of that, I never stopped living in fear.

I tell him about how I was trying to make it until I turned eighteen, but I ran away early because of the person I’d been with, who had fucked me up beyond repair, even more than any of the others, and I couldn’t deal with that for one more day. I tell him about how I tried to kill myself while I was living there, how the guy found me slitting my wrists in the bathroom and forced me to stop before I got too far.

When I say this, Vic takes hold of one of my wrists, and sure enough, the scars still remain. He runs his fingers softly across them, looking so…sad.

Neither of us say anything after I’m done talking. We just sit in silence as we fall asleep, my head on his shoulder, and just as I’m about to drift off, I’m pretty sure that I feel him give me a kiss on the cheek.

—

I think I’m feeling something for Vic.

I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s something, something that might be just a little bit more than friendship. I don’t want to say that I’m in love with him, or even that I have a crush on him, because I don’t know what either of those things feels like. But here’s what I do know: I know that I am not opposed to his light, comforting touches. I know that I feel connected to him—even more so after leaving everything out in the open—and I want it to last forever. I know that when we lock eyes, it seems to fill my stomach with butterflies (but in a good way), seems to lift me up so that I feel like I’m walking on air. I know that I smile whenever I think of that little kiss. I know that I can’t picture this with anyone else; I want my head on only his shoulder, want only his lips to brush against my cheek again. I want only him.

And I’m not sure what to make of that.

"What’s got you all smiley?" Vic teases, snapping me out of my thoughts. We’re sitting down in the alley next to the building we’ve claimed, just talking about things. We’ve hung out here before, so it’s not as sinister as it might’ve been otherwise, especially not since it’s the middle of the day.

"Uh, nothing," I reply, embarrassed.

"It’s okay," Vic says, smiling back at me. "It’s cute."

"Cute?" I repeat, perking up a little bit more. "You think I’m cute?"

"What? When did I say that?" Vic stutters, his face turning a soft shade of red. "I didn’t—no. Who’s cute? You’re not. Wait, I didn’t mean—I mean, you are, but—I didn’t mean to—I—what?”

I can’t help but giggle (yes, fucking giggle). I don’t know what he’s trying to say, but I think he’s even more embarrassed than I am.

Neither of us say anything for a few moments. Vic is staring at me now, a strange look on his face as his gaze drifts slightly downward from my eyes, to…my lips?

Before I have time to react, he leans forward and kisses me tenderly. It only lasts a few seconds, and when he pulls away, his eyes are wide, as if he’s afraid that he’s ruined things between us.

But my heart is soaring, my lips already missing his. “Do that again,” I breathe.

And so he does it again.

The butterflies in my stomach are going crazy as he reaches up and touches my cheek. The kiss stays sweet and innocent for a little but soon shifts to something a bit more passionate, a kiss of pent-up longing and new feelings waiting to be explored. Vic switches his position so that he’s on top of me, his legs spread out on either side of me, as if to keep me in place. He sighs into my mouth, possibly the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, and gently pushes me up against the wall.

It’s all good and well until he grabs me by the wrists and pins them to the wall, too; it makes me think of a completely different moment, and I gasp, my eyes flying open and my heart beating fast. “Wait!”

He must be able to sense my panic, because he stops kissing me immediately and lets go of my wrists, instead resting his hands on the wall on either side of my head. For a few seconds, we just stare at each other, and then, softly, as if sharing a secret, he asks, “Are you a virgin?”

The question seems completely random, especially since I don’t think either of us were planning on having sex just now, but I know what he’s really trying to ask.

"No," I answer, my voice cracking. I shake my head. "No. I’m not."

I don’t have to say anything else. I don’t have to further explain why the last guy I lived with was so much worse than the others, why he fucked me up even more than anyone else. It’s written—I can tell—all over my face.

Vic climbs off of me, returning to his original position next to me. “I’m sorry,” he says, careful not to touch any part of me, just like the night we met. “Really, I am. I should’ve known. I just got so carried away and I—”

I quiet his words with a kiss of my own. “It’s not your fault,” I say, taking his hand and intertwining our fingers. I flash him a small smile, pushing any dark thoughts away. “I still like kissing you.”

His expression lights up. “So…what does this mean?” he asks. “For us?”

I shrug, suddenly feeling shy. “I don’t know. What does it usually mean when two people feel things for each other and like to kiss each other?”

"Well, in our case, I guess that means we could be boyfriends," he suggests, kissing me on the cheek. "You know, if you want to."

My heart beats faster at that, but it’s in a good way, an excited way. “I want to,” I tell him. “I’ve never felt this before, but I want to.”

"Boyfriends it is, then," he declares, grinning widely. Then our lips meet again, and we are just two fucked up street kids kissing in an alley, and things are actually pretty okay.

—

My relationship with Vic is a fairly simple one. In reality, not much has changed between us, since we were already so open with each other even before he became my boyfriend. Now, though, it feels like we can both be really, truly open about everything instead of having to hide our growing feelings for each other. Plus, the kissing is nice; actually, it’s better than that—it’s fucking great, one of the best things I have ever experienced.

We’re both careful with each other, too, wary of each other’s sensitivity as we run our fingers across each other’s bodies. It gets less scary over time, for both of us, I think. We’re learning how to touch and be touched, and how to feel fearless when we do it.

There’s also more affection. It gets cold at night sometimes, but even when it isn’t, we tend to snuggle on the floor, Vic’s arms around my waist and my back against his chest. He found an old, tattered blanket recently, so when it’s cold, we wrap it around ourselves as a makeshift sleeping bag, and when it’s warmer, we just sleep on it.

It’s one of those warmer nights, so that’s what we’re doing right now, but I make sure my body is still pressed right up against his. I like hearing his soft breathing in my ear as he sleeps. I like the little things that he does unknowingly, like the way he snores ever-so-slightly or the way that he draws random invisible designs on my skin with his fingers.

Outside, I hear footsteps, and my heart starts beating faster. I snuggle closer to Vic, hoping they’ll fade away, but they don’t. They stop, right next to the building.

Please go away, I plead silently. Please go away. Please don’t hurt us.

"We know you’re in there," a gruff voice says, and I nearly stop breathing. "Come out here and there won’t be any problems."

Who the hell are these people, and what do they want from us? My instincts tell me to hide, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do that. Seeing no other choice but to go outside and figure out what’s going on without violence, I crawl out of Vic’s arms—he automatically pulls me closer to him, and I hate pushing him away—and stand up, taking a few hesitant steps forward.

"Think they’re sleeping and can’t hear us?" asks a different voice, but then I exit the building and turn into the alley, where I find the sources of the footsteps and voices. "Oh," the guy says. "Guess not."

There are three of them, all big and imposing. Fear settles itself into my bones—I’ve never been a very good fighter, and I’ve been commissioned to think that if I even try, it’ll just backfire. Now I kind of want to wake Vic up in the hopes that he’ll protect me, but I don’t want to bring him into this. I just want to settle whatever’s happening and go back to sleep.

"Uh, y-yeah, I’m awake," I stutter. "What do you—what do you want?"

The guys exchange glances, and then the biggest one steps forward. “Where’s your friend?” he demands menacingly, and I can tell by his voice that he’s the first one who spoke.

"I, u-um…I don’t know what you’re—what you’re talking about." The lie feels so obvious, burning in my throat. "I live alone."

"Bullshit," the second guy says. "We saw you with him earlier today."

"That must’ve been s-someone else. I told you, I don’t know what you’re—" I cut myself off when the first guy gives me a death glare. It’s no use pretending. I let out a shaky sigh. "What do you want with him?"

"We just want to chat," says the second guy. "We’ve got some things to discuss."

"And we can do it the easy way or the hard way," the first guy—the leader, probably—adds.

I highly doubt their intentions are as innocent as they claim them to be. Stubbornly, I find myself shaking my head, thinking only of protecting Vic. It scares the hell out of me, but I force myself to look the leader in the eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you speak with him.”

At those words, a fist connects with my face.

The panic that ensues feels older than life itself, running rampant through my body like it’s been waiting for its moment to break free. I duck down automatically, wincing at the pain, and that’s when I hear shuffling from inside. “Vic, no!” I shout, but it’s too late.

He skids around the corner like my knight in shining armor, but I think we both know that that’s not true—unless he can negotiate with these guys, he doesn’t stand a chance against them, and neither do I.

"Get the fuck away from him!" he yells, grabbing my arms and dragging me away, placing himself in front of me. I can hear his breath catch in his throat when he gets a glimpse of my attackers—he knows them from somewhere.

"Oh, hey there, Vic," the second guy says, fake-smiling. "Long time no see."

Then the guys are on him, too, grabbing him as he tries in vain to fight back. I step forward, about to join the fray in a desperate attempt to save him, when the third guy—who still hasn’t spoken—takes ahold of me and slams me roughly against the wall. There’s a loud cracking sound and a splitting pain in my head, and I let out a short, high-pitched cry. I want to move, but even after he’s let go of me, I find myself sliding down onto the ground, the world spinning, my vision blurring, blood dripping into my eyes. “V-Vic,” I gasp out.

"Kellin!" Vic replies, and then, among the sounds of fighting, I hear some sort of vehicle pulling up.

"Our ride’s here!" the second guy proclaims. I force my eyes open and try to stand up, but my body doesn’t seem to be cooperating with me.

"Kellin!" Vic repeats, his voice louder and starting to crack in what sounds like fear. "Kellin!”

I pull myself to my feet, my eyes widening when I see Vic, who is bruised, bloody, and about to be dragged into the back of an old car. The leader opens one of the doors and shoves him in like he’s nothing, but just before that, Vic looks at me with pain and terror in his expression, mouthing the words I love you.

"I’ll—I’ll get help!" I scream as the world starts to close in around me. "I’ll find you somehow! Vic!”

There are tears streaming down my face. This can’t be the end. He can’t just be taken away from me like that, taken away by dangerous people to God-knows-where. As the guys all hop in and drive away, I take a few hopeless steps forward, falling to my knees.

"Someone help!" I call out, knowing it’s no use—nobody’s ever shown sympathy for a pathetic street kid like me. "Someone help me, please!”

I’m working myself up, hyperventilating, but I don’t care. He’s gone. He’s gone and I have to find him, but I don’t know how.

I love you. Those are words neither of us ever spoke before, but I know it’s true. He loves me. I didn’t think it was possible.

"I love you, too," I say softly, though I know he can’t hear me. The image of Vic’s bloodstained body injects itself into my veins, burns itself into my brain, and that’s the last thing I know before I pass out.