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Being back in the stinking apartment hadn’t been his idea at first… not from the sensibly working side of his brain. He couldn’t hear it now, telling him earlier just to stay where he felt safe – next to Robert, warm and flush against him in the darkness of his room.
    Climbing up the fire escape’s rusted railed stairs was easy. Unlocking the window hatch with his small pocket knife took seconds. But smelling the scented alcohol through the apartment, seeing the blood on the floor and soaked through his smoke-stained, frail sponge mattress – that was the hard part. The sheet that was supposed to cover it was ripped off and covered the floor in ribbons. Yellow stained wall paper hung limply in a stale breeze floating through the open window.
    Vincent shook his head angrily; the only reason he had left it open was for swift escape, a way out. His father always kept every way out locked. And when he was locked out himself, that’s when the drinking started. He hated that he had to take an extra precaution when it came to his own damn father.
    Vincent had been sure that his old man had been passed out from nine bottles of Boone’s Farm on the stained, flower-patterned couch that was set against the far wall in the living room – but he was stuck in the hall way floor, a bottle of Blue Hawaiian had been spilled on the nasty, sticky grey carpet.
    Vincent tried his hardest not to gag when he smelled the man. Tripping over and down the hallway, the sane part of his brain was trying to figure out why he was here. All he could think about was the alcohol stashed it the kitchen. His heel hurt like a bitch, and a strong buzz would definitely take off the blaring pain.
    When he reached the greasy, dark cabinets the squeaking of the hinges elicited a groan from down the hallway. Maybe his father wasn’t as drunk as he had thought…
    Boone’s Farm was all he could see. The bottles of Strawberry Margarita and Mango Grove almost fell into his arms. A couple Snow Creek Berry busted in a bright splash on the mold tinted linoleum. The smell of an open Apple Blossom was spreading across the small kitchen. Behind all these, Vincent knew there were much stronger drinks – several different brands of Vodka were spread in his arms.
    He was careful about spilling anything across his tight grey shirt… Robert was going to kill him. Words that he was sure he would hear the twenty-one year old say were blurry in his head, You should’ve asked me! You dumbass! Why did you do that?! I –
    Robert and the still thinking side of his head were silenced when the murmuring figure of an overweight, lazy-eyed Mr. Takashi leaned against one of the walls in the short hallway.
    “Vince, zat chew?! Come here Vin –” The forty-eight year old man tried to motion to his son, failed when his knees buckled and he fell face-first in the floor. In his stupor, he held tightly onto the Blue Hawaiian bottle as if it were the last bottle of alcohol he would ever have.
    Wide-eyed, Vincent rushed past the busted television that sat drunkenly sideways on a small stool before his father tripped over it in effort to catch his son. He had gotten the chain lock that kept the door from opening, but it was only as far as he got.
    The sound of a sickening smack was echoing in the room. Breaking glass was slowly crunching in his ears, the sound too loud to be normal. Plastic bits were flying at his face, and Vincent couldn’t make sense out of the pop-corned ceiling, or if it was really the nasty orange shag carpet beneath his face – or the warmth of his own tanned hand.
    Pain was crawling sluggishly up his right side, the one that wasn’t pressed up against something hard and paneled. The wall met his face and an empty beer bottle smashed into his left thigh. Something roughly firm was planted on his forearm, bending his arm behind him. The gruff, grating sound of a drunk was yelling at him when it was nothing more than a meager whisper.
    Vincent had lost the grip of reality the working side of his head had held onto for so long – what his father was doing didn’t make sense, the words he was saying were garbled. The sweet stench of Vodka was splattered across his tight grey shirt and he realized he wanted it there after all. Half-asleep, half-awake words were being spat from his lips but he had no control over them.
    The three busted, broken ribs he knew he received from a small wooden stool were doing all the talking. “Goddamn you! You mother fucking monster! I’m going to kill you for this!” The bright pain that flared in his side fired the dormant part of his mind that willed only instinct and impulse.
    An elbow jerked away from the wall, and the adrenaline in his head couldn’t keep track of which side was what and how up was down… but he realized that it took only seconds to grab several random bottles – of Vodka, Strawberry Hill, and Snow Creek, half a bottle of JD’s next to the door – the Boone’s Farm Blue out of his father’s hand, and fly out the door over the side of the balcony that fronted the shady apartment complex. On his back, he landed on the hood of a pickup with only swearwords to accompany the pain that flowered, red and aching, over his shoulders and lower back.
    He sucked in a few breaths like a dying, suffocating fish and haphazardly threw a clear bottle at his father still standing thoughtlessly in the doorway. The door slammed before the bottle met the red chipped paint in a whir of breaking glass. The wine was flowing down onto the sidewalk that lined the first floor, and Vincent stood under it until all of the alcohol had covered him.
    A few minutes passed before Vincent realized that his long black slacks were silky on his bare feet, the pavement rough on them. The deep gash that grazed the soaked edges screamed in agony as the alcohol burned through the tightened dried scab that held back the blood. Leaning over and cracking it open he let the blood flow from his torn heel. He cussed as the pain lit his ankle and managed to walk to the edge of the parking lot and up the road a little.
    Smelling like cheap, sour Vodka, Vincent carefully limped and huffed across the train track that ran parallel to the road, toward downtown with blood following behind him and the taste of Blue Hawaiian Boone’s Farm wine chapped on his lips.

Robert Curtis was one mad son of a bitch.
    Oh, he was furious, and Derek had just hit it home, “I – no! I don’t know where the hell he is! You didn’t hear him get up?!” Why the hell didn’t anyone know where Vincent Dumbass Takashi was?!
    “Move out of the damn way!” He pushed Derek against the wall with his forearm and muttered an apology down the hall as he almost flew down the stairs in a frizz of long hair and worry. “Where is he?!” The slam of the car-door quieted the sound of the engine. Backing out of the short driveway he recklessly turned out onto the road, sped around the one curve and onto the main highway. Over the speed limit he rushed until the old apartment complexes came up to meet him.
    The mildewed brick was disgusting against the bleached sky. The car bounced over the track that led to the shitty half of the town. Rolling down the window, Robert saw no sign of Vincent. Quietly, the car growled past the apartment that he had remembered. 73 hailed him from twenty feet away in a nasty unclean gold sheen. Something wet had been poured on the door, or at least that was what Robert had figured until he noticed the broken remnants of a bottle rolled against the rusty twisted green railing.
    The scratched label told him it was a Boone’s Farm bottle. “Shit.”
    Vincent was nowhere near his father’s place, and driving around the town for three hours showed up nothing. He killed the engine quietly when the car was put in park. Shoving the keys into his baggy pants pocket, Robert quietly moved up the steps and through the dark kitchen. Dammit, he wasn’t going to sleep tonight until he had Vincent safely beside him.
    A shout and a loud banging sounded over his head, and with more than a couple cusswords hanging on his lips, he ran up the stairs. “Derek?”
    “No! I am not going anywhere! Geroffme, goddammit!” He could barely hear the voice, but it sounded more like Derek than anyone. Robert moved swiftly up the stairs and stood with his hand on the doorknob, trying to decide whether or not to walk in or not. “Derek…”
    Vincent’s voice forced him into the room. And he was struck immediately by the sound of Derek, practically praising him. “Thank god damn you’re here! He needs s’to go to the hospital. Shit man, it’s s’hard to deal with hizzass drunk as a mother fucker can get, had a whole bottle uff Vodka and two Boone’s Farmers. All to his-elf! Didn’t even mother fuckin’ share! Shit –”
    If it hadn’t been for relief, Robert would have laughed at the way Derek was stupidly shaking his head – as if water was stuck in his ears – and not to mention his choice of words. He was surprised the headache wasn’t getting to his younger brother, but he was sure a headache was definitely gonna bother Vincent… he had more than a few things to say.
    With a swift nod toward the door, Vincent walked toward him with a defiant spark in his dark eyes, and suddenly, gently, he settled his right hand on the soft black shirt Robert wore. Through the fabric he could feel the heat spreading across his shoulder. With a slight smile settling on his lips, he walked down the hallway, two doors and across with Vincent uncharacteristically close.
    It was when the door shut, that he grasped Vincent’s upper arms and held him gently against the cool wood. “Where were you?” His leaned carefully down until his lips were just centimeters from Vincent’s.
    “Robert, please –” When there was no response against his lips, Robert leaned back and studied the eighteen year old through the darkness.
    “What happened?” The words were hurried. “Are you okay, Vincent?” When they slipped out of his mouth and onto the warm, sweat-soaked skin beneath his lips, Robert pressed a little closer. He wanted to protect the other from anything – and that anything definitely included the son of a bitch that had been torturing him for sixteen years. “Vince –”
    “Ugh,” Vincent flinched completely under his hands.
    “Answer me!” Robert said firmly. He pulled himself back, planted his hands on the door, over both of Vincent’s shoulders, and looked down at the floor. “Please.” Carefully, Robert nudged Vincent toward the bed, let him settle onto the comforter, and slowly held his hands wide across the eighteen year old’s back. Spreading gently out, he massaged each muscle until he felt Vincent push against him in pain. “What did he hit you with?” Softly, he whispered.
    Robert knew who did it – knew that the bastard had hurt his Vincent again… And this time he was going to get even, an overdue sixteen years even. He let his fingertips move strictly against the soft fabric of the thin shirt Vincent wore – it was even tighter, stickier, when he let his tongue sluggishly roll over the subtle taste of Vodka. “Mmm,” Vincent barely leaned into him and Robert could tell he was in pain, could feel how rigid he became, how tense.
    “A stool.”
    “What?” Robert stopped, leaned back and studied Vincent’s face silently.
    Opening his eyes, the eighteen year old blinked slowly once and whispered, “A glass bottle in the thigh. A small old blue stool. He hit me in the ribs. And I jumped –” Vincent hissed lowly when Robert brushed his right side lightly, “Yeah, right there.”
    “You’re going to the hospital –” Instantly Vincent’s hands came up, “Yes, I’m taking you right now –”
    “No. No, I’m not. I can’t. My dad will look up the records. He’ll fucking kill me. I’m not kidding. He’ll ask who brought me, what the car looked like, who you are…” he reeled with anticipation. “No.” Shaking his head, he threw his head down on Robert’s pillow. “No,” groaning, he thrust his hand against Robert’s chest.
    Shaking his head, the twenty one year old cautiously picked up Vincent, whispering in his ear, “You’re hurt, Vincent. And you sure as hell can’t walk. I know you’re having trouble breathing. Please. Please, I won’t let him get near you. If he so much as thinks about it –” He couldn’t think about it. He had every intention of killing the old man. But Robert knew that something as drastic as that would get them nowhere… and only hurt Vincent more.
    “Mmm.” Robert felt the warmth of the murmur warm on his chest, but couldn’t understand what he had said. By the time he had reached Derek’s pickup, Vincent was almost limply asleep.
    “I know it hurts. You can’t hide it by sleeping, Vincent…” He muttered when he started the engine. The hospital was an hour away. And he had thought the tank was almost empty, but once the engine roared to life the dials fell into place; it luckily moved barely, brightly above the half-a-tank mark. “Good, dammit.”
    Vincent had moved down onto the seat in a sort of crunched, odd looking position. He lay on his left side – the one Robert knew didn’t house the bruised, most likely broken ribs. He hated admitting it, but Robert knew. Vincent’s head was resting in his lap, with his eyes closed – lightly he had managed to sneak his hand up along the thick fabric of the pants Robert wore until he let his hand stroke freely along the loose material.
    “Vince –” Gulping down a lump that carved pain in his throat, he felt Vincent’s hand tug away at the button that was hiding underneath the shirt he wore. Somehow it was manageable for him to lay on his flat stomach, rest his chin and look up at the twenty one year old with amusement glowing in his eyes, and – he was managing the tight waistband of the boxers he wore… Robert thrust in surprise at the firmness Vincent used.
    Tripps, why in the hell did I wear these… He never stopped wondering, but didn’t quite blame the pants. They were notoriously known for their “accessibility” – and accessibility was the right damn word. Vincent thoughtfully was stroking him with his thumb, until the back of his hand pressed against Robert’s flat abdomen, his fingertips caressing the very root of his manhood. In the back of his head, Robert knew he was guilty, could feel it bleeding through every time he threw his head back, whimpered and swerved in effort to stay straight on the road.
    The teasing stopped when he was able to see clearly and drive correctly… but jumped on the gas when the warmth of Vincent’s mouth enveloped him completely. Robert could feel the tip of Vincent’s tongue brush the head of his penis every time they flew around a curve. Up and down, he met every beat of the eighteen year old’s persistence. At first Robert controlled the time, when they met thrust for thrust. But Vincent knew almost every one of his weaknesses.
    “Mmm,” he droved with an elbow seated on the driver’s door, partially hiding his glittering green eyes behind his fingers. Robert was losing the pace. Sucked out, he thought quietly. The feeling was “sucked” out. And quite literally…
    Vincent was sucking the very movement out of him. But almost instantly he bucked hard when the orgasm smacked the shit out of him; he came thrusting once into the eighteen year old – utterly filling his mouth as his focused drained from the road.
    Vincent’s lips were on his only a second after, his bittersweet tongue filling Robert’s mouth. “At least you don’t taste like cigarettes.”
    “Mmhmph,” he muttered quietly, a laugh distilling his voice. “I hope your neck isn’t going to hurt.” Pensively, Robert let his hand stroke the back of Vincent’s neck, surprised when the eighteen year old leaned into the touch.
    “It won’t,” he whispered, looking at the floorboard, pursing his lips.
    With a low voice, Robert managed to glance at him without making him flinch, “Another vague something caused by your father.” One of the other several million hiding from me, he thought. He couldn’t be mad. No, he refused to worm and wheedle answers and explanations from Vincent. Hell, he’s already hurt enough – can barely fuckin’ move, that’s bullshit. The thoughts twisted in his mind, reaching his face where a tidy glare simplified everything. Mother fucking bastard’s on my damn hit-list…
    He was, though, surprised Vincent settled with a quiet yeah, and leaned down against his thigh again. The kid was always detached and hated being close when the subject of his father came up – but still his tongue was lazily painting patterns across Robert’s flat stomach, a hint of fiery kisses and friendly nipping burning in his tongue’s wake every time a breath caught in the twenty one year old’s throat.
    When the hospital came into focus, Robert was twisting in the seat with worry. Fine, he’s fine. He’ll live – been through worse… But that thought didn’t stop his heart from racing with anticipation when Vincent was hiding against his chest and in his arms when he stepped past the sliding doors and into a busy-as-hell E.R.
    “Hang on –” The nurses’ station was filled with the sound of phones going off, nurses directing out emergency calls, and a little chatting filled in the gaps. “12:43 AM, yes, the call came in an hour ago –” someone was telling him to wait for assistance or some hurried bullshit and then was distracted once a doctor called for help with a cardiac arrest patient.
    Rolling his eyes, he stood for a moment, debating on what to do, when someone called out the eighteen year old’s name. Turning toward him, he realized the doctor looked almost like Vincent’s father. “What happened?” He was surprised when worry itched at the man’s eyes.
    “He’s got a couple broken ribs – from a stool… He was hit with a glass bottle. His father’s an ass pretty much.” He murmured with a nod.
    “Okay… yeah, we can take him. X-rays will be taken and we’ll patch up everything that my brother screwed up. He should be alright to leave in a few days –”
    “Whoa, whoa, whoa, brother?” The doctor blinked, silent, and his dark brown eyes glanced at the floor.
    “Yes, Vince is my nephew.” His eyes held no unsaid questions. The doctor knew every reason the eighteen year old was asleep in his arms. He silently led Robert down a network of halls until he stopped at an empty room. “And his father’s my brother. I’ve been patching him up for a while now. It’s part of the reason I decided to become a doctor and the reason I transferred here,” he muttered as he shut the door behind him. “Have to wait for the x-rays,” he waved his hand toward the bed and spoke softly, “But until then, he can sleep in here.”
    “You’re not going to admit him?”
    “His father never forgets to ask me whether I’ve seen him here or not, comes here to look at records when he thinks I’m lying – so, no, I’m not going to admit him,” he said lowly with a conflicted expression. “But anyway, how did this… all happen?”
    “I’ve told you. If you want the real answer you’ll have to ask Vincent when he wakes up –” Robert slowly stood from the chair he had sat down in, nodding to the eighteen year old asleep on the bed. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Please don’t let his father come here.” His face was stricken with worry before the doctor softly smiled.
    “I’ve been dealing with him for a while,” he admitted, “I think I can handle that.”
    Robert walked to the door, turning on a moment’s notice, “Thanks, Doc.”
    “Trent,” he said with a smirk when he noticed the softened expression on the boy’s face every time he looked at his nephew.
    Robert held the glance in Vincent’s direction, eyes narrowed tightly but a smile lingering faded on his lips, “Thanks, Trent.” He stepped out of the room quietly, boots echoing down the empty halls of the hospital until he navigated his way back to the E.R.
    Automatic doors slid out of his way, and just as he sat in the quiet cabin of his brother’s truck Robert swallowed nervously, wiping his palms against his chainless Tripps. Vincent’ll be fine… sixteen years; he’s had his uncle for sixteen years. Robert had figured that they weren’t completely close. The gold cross that had been dangling from the doc’s chest confirmed that… considering Vincent never talked about him – but also because of his father, figured that it had been the reason why Vincent didn’t want to go, in case he wasn’t able to get to the right person. Any of the medical staff would have written his name down. And with all that aside, if he was close to the man, his father would find out…
    With every reason possible fluttering through his head and out of the way, Robert couldn’t believe the shittiness of the situation – how trapped Vincent was when really he shouldn’t have had to worry when the hell the next time he was going to eat would be… or if he’d manage to wake up in the morning at that. With the last thought buzzing, distracted in his mind, slowly Robert pulled up to the house and parked in the driveway, 2:04 AM blurry on the dash of the truck when he turned the key in the ignition and opened the door.
    Shit, the hangover would last in the morning…
    He didn’t care really, whether he had a hangover or not. He wouldn’t have to deal with Derek taking over all the panicking for him when found out Vincent was gone anyway. He planned upon leaving… early…
    Robert stalked up the staircase inside, his thoughts muddled at the fact that his bed was going to be cold tonight… He saw the Vodka bottles next to his door. But Derek’s door was closed tightly and they were leaning against his unopened.
    So Vincent broke his ribs over these… Why didn’t he ask me, goddammit?! Robert left both the three bottles and the thought there in the hallway. If Vodka was what this was all about, then Vincent deserved to drink them for going through all the pain. But on his bed was a bottle of Snow Creek Berry and Hill something – the label had been ripped off, but they were both unopened. He flopped down with the taste of himself and Vincent with his hard earned alcohol banded in his mouth.
    The taste of berry wine, though, washed it out; the imminent buzz helped him drift to sleep – both Boone’s Farm bottles resting beneath his arm and the smell of Vincent soft beneath his cheek.

Description
Being back in the stinking apartment hadn’t been his idea at first… not from the sensibly working side of his brain. He couldn’t hear it now, telling him earlier just to stay where he felt safe – next to Robert, warm and flush against him in the darkness of his room.
    Climbing up the fire escape’s rusted railed stairs was easy. Unlocking the window hatch with his small pocket knife took seconds. But smelling the scented alcohol through the apartment, seeing the blood on the floor and soaked through his smoke-stained, frail sponge mattress – that was the hard part. The sheet that was supposed to cover it was ripped off and covered the floor in ribbons. Yellow stained wall paper hung limply in a stale breeze floating through the open window.
    Vincent shook his head angrily; the only reason he had left it open was for swift escape, a way out. His father always kept every way out locked. And when he was locked out himself, that’s when the drinking started. He hated that he had to take an extra precaution when it came to his own damn father.
    Vincent had been sure that his old man had been passed out from nine bottles of Boone’s Farm on the stained, flower-patterned couch that was set against the far wall in the living room – but he was stuck in the hall way floor, a bottle of Blue Hawaiian had been spilled on the nasty, sticky grey carpet.
    Vincent tried his hardest not to gag when he smelled the man. Tripping over and down the hallway, the sane part of his brain was trying to figure out why he was here. All he could think about was the alcohol stashed it the kitchen. His heel hurt like a bitch, and a strong buzz would definitely take off the blaring pain.
    When he reached the greasy, dark cabinets the squeaking of the hinges elicited a groan from down the hallway. Maybe his father wasn’t as drunk as he had thought…
    Boone’s Farm was all he could see. The bottles of Strawberry Margarita and Mango Grove almost fell into his arms. A couple Snow Creek Berry busted in a bright splash on the mold tinted linoleum. The smell of an open Apple Blossom was spreading across the small kitchen. Behind all these, Vincent knew there were much stronger drinks – several different brands of Vodka were spread in his arms.
    He was careful about spilling anything across his tight grey shirt… Robert was going to kill him. Words that he was sure he would hear the twenty-one year old say were blurry in his head, You should’ve asked me! You dumbass! Why did you do that?! I –
    Robert and the still thinking side of his head were silenced when the murmuring figure of an overweight, lazy-eyed Mr. Takashi leaned against one of the walls in the short hallway.
    “Vince, zat chew?! Come here Vin –” The forty-eight year old man tried to motion to his son, failed when his knees buckled and he fell face-first in the floor. In his stupor, he held tightly onto the Blue Hawaiian bottle as if it were the last bottle of alcohol he would ever have.
    Wide-eyed, Vincent rushed past the busted television that sat drunkenly sideways on a small stool before his father tripped over it in effort to catch his son. He had gotten the chain lock that kept the door from opening, but it was only as far as he got.
    The sound of a sickening smack was echoing in the room. Breaking glass was slowly crunching in his ears, the sound too loud to be normal. Plastic bits were flying at his face, and Vincent couldn’t make sense out of the pop-corned ceiling, or if it was really the nasty orange shag carpet beneath his face – or the warmth of his own tanned hand.
    Pain was crawling sluggishly up his right side, the one that wasn’t pressed up against something hard and paneled. The wall met his face and an empty beer bottle smashed into his left thigh. Something roughly firm was planted on his forearm, bending his arm behind him. The gruff, grating sound of a drunk was yelling at him when it was nothing more than a meager whisper.
    Vincent had lost the grip of reality the working side of his head had held onto for so long – what his father was doing didn’t make sense, the words he was saying were garbled. The sweet stench of Vodka was splattered across his tight grey shirt and he realized he wanted it there after all. Half-asleep, half-awake words were being spat from his lips but he had no control over them.
    The three busted, broken ribs he knew he received from a small wooden stool were doing all the talking. “Goddamn you! You mother fucking monster! I’m going to kill you for this!” The bright pain that flared in his side fired the dormant part of his mind that willed only instinct and impulse.
    An elbow jerked away from the wall, and the adrenaline in his head couldn’t keep track of which side was what and how up was down… but he realized that it took only seconds to grab several random bottles – of Vodka, Strawberry Hill, and Snow Creek, half a bottle of JD’s next to the door – the Boone’s Farm Blue out of his father’s hand, and fly out the door over the side of the balcony that fronted the shady apartment complex. On his back, he landed on the hood of a pickup with only swearwords to accompany the pain that flowered, red and aching, over his shoulders and lower back.
    He sucked in a few breaths like a dying, suffocating fish and haphazardly threw a clear bottle at his father still standing thoughtlessly in the doorway. The door slammed before the bottle met the red chipped paint in a whir of breaking glass. The wine was flowing down onto the sidewalk that lined the first floor, and Vincent stood under it until all of the alcohol had covered him.
    A few minutes passed before Vincent realized that his long black slacks were silky on his bare feet, the pavement rough on them. The deep gash that grazed the soaked edges screamed in agony as the alcohol burned through the tightened dried scab that held back the blood. Leaning over and cracking it open he let the blood flow from his torn heel. He cussed as the pain lit his ankle and managed to walk to the edge of the parking lot and up the road a little.
    Smelling like cheap, sour Vodka, Vincent carefully limped and huffed across the train track that ran parallel to the road, toward downtown with blood following behind him and the taste of Blue Hawaiian Boone’s Farm wine chapped on his lips.

Robert Curtis was one mad son of a bitch.
    Oh, he was furious, and Derek had just hit it home, “I – no! I don’t know where the hell he is! You didn’t hear him get up?!” Why the hell didn’t anyone know where Vincent Dumbass Takashi was?!
    “Move out of the damn way!” He pushed Derek against the wall with his forearm and muttered an apology down the hall as he almost flew down the stairs in a frizz of long hair and worry. “Where is he?!” The slam of the car-door quieted the sound of the engine. Backing out of the short driveway he recklessly turned out onto the road, sped around the one curve and onto the main highway. Over the speed limit he rushed until the old apartment complexes came up to meet him.
    The mildewed brick was disgusting against the bleached sky. The car bounced over the track that led to the shitty half of the town. Rolling down the window, Robert saw no sign of Vincent. Quietly, the car growled past the apartment that he had remembered. 73 hailed him from twenty feet away in a nasty unclean gold sheen. Something wet had been poured on the door, or at least that was what Robert had figured until he noticed the broken remnants of a bottle rolled against the rusty twisted green railing.
    The scratched label told him it was a Boone’s Farm bottle. “Shit.”
    Vincent was nowhere near his father’s place, and driving around the town for three hours showed up nothing. He killed the engine quietly when the car was put in park. Shoving the keys into his baggy pants pocket, Robert quietly moved up the steps and through the dark kitchen. Dammit, he wasn’t going to sleep tonight until he had Vincent safely beside him.
    A shout and a loud banging sounded over his head, and with more than a couple cusswords hanging on his lips, he ran up the stairs. “Derek?”
    “No! I am not going anywhere! Geroffme, goddammit!” He could barely hear the voice, but it sounded more like Derek than anyone. Robert moved swiftly up the stairs and stood with his hand on the doorknob, trying to decide whether or not to walk in or not. “Derek…”
    Vincent’s voice forced him into the room. And he was struck immediately by the sound of Derek, practically praising him. “Thank god damn you’re here! He needs s’to go to the hospital. Shit man, it’s s’hard to deal with hizzass drunk as a mother fucker can get, had a whole bottle uff Vodka and two Boone’s Farmers. All to his-elf! Didn’t even mother fuckin’ share! Shit –”
    If it hadn’t been for relief, Robert would have laughed at the way Derek was stupidly shaking his head – as if water was stuck in his ears – and not to mention his choice of words. He was surprised the headache wasn’t getting to his younger brother, but he was sure a headache was definitely gonna bother Vincent… he had more than a few things to say.
    With a swift nod toward the door, Vincent walked toward him with a defiant spark in his dark eyes, and suddenly, gently, he settled his right hand on the soft black shirt Robert wore. Through the fabric he could feel the heat spreading across his shoulder. With a slight smile settling on his lips, he walked down the hallway, two doors and across with Vincent uncharacteristically close.
    It was when the door shut, that he grasped Vincent’s upper arms and held him gently against the cool wood. “Where were you?” His leaned carefully down until his lips were just centimeters from Vincent’s.
    “Robert, please –” When there was no response against his lips, Robert leaned back and studied the eighteen year old through the darkness.
    “What happened?” The words were hurried. “Are you okay, Vincent?” When they slipped out of his mouth and onto the warm, sweat-soaked skin beneath his lips, Robert pressed a little closer. He wanted to protect the other from anything – and that anything definitely included the son of a bitch that had been torturing him for sixteen years. “Vince –”
    “Ugh,” Vincent flinched completely under his hands.
    “Answer me!” Robert said firmly. He pulled himself back, planted his hands on the door, over both of Vincent’s shoulders, and looked down at the floor. “Please.” Carefully, Robert nudged Vincent toward the bed, let him settle onto the comforter, and slowly held his hands wide across the eighteen year old’s back. Spreading gently out, he massaged each muscle until he felt Vincent push against him in pain. “What did he hit you with?” Softly, he whispered.
    Robert knew who did it – knew that the bastard had hurt his Vincent again… And this time he was going to get even, an overdue sixteen years even. He let his fingertips move strictly against the soft fabric of the thin shirt Vincent wore – it was even tighter, stickier, when he let his tongue sluggishly roll over the subtle taste of Vodka. “Mmm,” Vincent barely leaned into him and Robert could tell he was in pain, could feel how rigid he became, how tense.
    “A stool.”
    “What?” Robert stopped, leaned back and studied Vincent’s face silently.
    Opening his eyes, the eighteen year old blinked slowly once and whispered, “A glass bottle in the thigh. A small old blue stool. He hit me in the ribs. And I jumped –” Vincent hissed lowly when Robert brushed his right side lightly, “Yeah, right there.”
    “You’re going to the hospital –” Instantly Vincent’s hands came up, “Yes, I’m taking you right now –”
    “No. No, I’m not. I can’t. My dad will look up the records. He’ll fucking kill me. I’m not kidding. He’ll ask who brought me, what the car looked like, who you are…” he reeled with anticipation. “No.” Shaking his head, he threw his head down on Robert’s pillow. “No,” groaning, he thrust his hand against Robert’s chest.
    Shaking his head, the twenty one year old cautiously picked up Vincent, whispering in his ear, “You’re hurt, Vincent. And you sure as hell can’t walk. I know you’re having trouble breathing. Please. Please, I won’t let him get near you. If he so much as thinks about it –” He couldn’t think about it. He had every intention of killing the old man. But Robert knew that something as drastic as that would get them nowhere… and only hurt Vincent more.
    “Mmm.” Robert felt the warmth of the murmur warm on his chest, but couldn’t understand what he had said. By the time he had reached Derek’s pickup, Vincent was almost limply asleep.
    “I know it hurts. You can’t hide it by sleeping, Vincent…” He muttered when he started the engine. The hospital was an hour away. And he had thought the tank was almost empty, but once the engine roared to life the dials fell into place; it luckily moved barely, brightly above the half-a-tank mark. “Good, dammit.”
    Vincent had moved down onto the seat in a sort of crunched, odd looking position. He lay on his left side – the one Robert knew didn’t house the bruised, most likely broken ribs. He hated admitting it, but Robert knew. Vincent’s head was resting in his lap, with his eyes closed – lightly he had managed to sneak his hand up along the thick fabric of the pants Robert wore until he let his hand stroke freely along the loose material.
    “Vince –” Gulping down a lump that carved pain in his throat, he felt Vincent’s hand tug away at the button that was hiding underneath the shirt he wore. Somehow it was manageable for him to lay on his flat stomach, rest his chin and look up at the twenty one year old with amusement glowing in his eyes, and – he was managing the tight waistband of the boxers he wore… Robert thrust in surprise at the firmness Vincent used.
    Tripps, why in the hell did I wear these… He never stopped wondering, but didn’t quite blame the pants. They were notoriously known for their “accessibility” – and accessibility was the right damn word. Vincent thoughtfully was stroking him with his thumb, until the back of his hand pressed against Robert’s flat abdomen, his fingertips caressing the very root of his manhood. In the back of his head, Robert knew he was guilty, could feel it bleeding through every time he threw his head back, whimpered and swerved in effort to stay straight on the road.
    The teasing stopped when he was able to see clearly and drive correctly… but jumped on the gas when the warmth of Vincent’s mouth enveloped him completely. Robert could feel the tip of Vincent’s tongue brush the head of his penis every time they flew around a curve. Up and down, he met every beat of the eighteen year old’s persistence. At first Robert controlled the time, when they met thrust for thrust. But Vincent knew almost every one of his weaknesses.
    “Mmm,” he droved with an elbow seated on the driver’s door, partially hiding his glittering green eyes behind his fingers. Robert was losing the pace. Sucked out, he thought quietly. The feeling was “sucked” out. And quite literally…
    Vincent was sucking the very movement out of him. But almost instantly he bucked hard when the orgasm smacked the shit out of him; he came thrusting once into the eighteen year old – utterly filling his mouth as his focused drained from the road.
    Vincent’s lips were on his only a second after, his bittersweet tongue filling Robert’s mouth. “At least you don’t taste like cigarettes.”
    “Mmhmph,” he muttered quietly, a laugh distilling his voice. “I hope your neck isn’t going to hurt.” Pensively, Robert let his hand stroke the back of Vincent’s neck, surprised when the eighteen year old leaned into the touch.
    “It won’t,” he whispered, looking at the floorboard, pursing his lips.
    With a low voice, Robert managed to glance at him without making him flinch, “Another vague something caused by your father.” One of the other several million hiding from me, he thought. He couldn’t be mad. No, he refused to worm and wheedle answers and explanations from Vincent. Hell, he’s already hurt enough – can barely fuckin’ move, that’s bullshit. The thoughts twisted in his mind, reaching his face where a tidy glare simplified everything. Mother fucking bastard’s on my damn hit-list…
    He was, though, surprised Vincent settled with a quiet yeah, and leaned down against his thigh again. The kid was always detached and hated being close when the subject of his father came up – but still his tongue was lazily painting patterns across Robert’s flat stomach, a hint of fiery kisses and friendly nipping burning in his tongue’s wake every time a breath caught in the twenty one year old’s throat.
    When the hospital came into focus, Robert was twisting in the seat with worry. Fine, he’s fine. He’ll live – been through worse… But that thought didn’t stop his heart from racing with anticipation when Vincent was hiding against his chest and in his arms when he stepped past the sliding doors and into a busy-as-hell E.R.
    “Hang on –” The nurses’ station was filled with the sound of phones going off, nurses directing out emergency calls, and a little chatting filled in the gaps. “12:43 AM, yes, the call came in an hour ago –” someone was telling him to wait for assistance or some hurried bullshit and then was distracted once a doctor called for help with a cardiac arrest patient.
    Rolling his eyes, he stood for a moment, debating on what to do, when someone called out the eighteen year old’s name. Turning toward him, he realized the doctor looked almost like Vincent’s father. “What happened?” He was surprised when worry itched at the man’s eyes.
    “He’s got a couple broken ribs – from a stool… He was hit with a glass bottle. His father’s an ass pretty much.” He murmured with a nod.
    “Okay… yeah, we can take him. X-rays will be taken and we’ll patch up everything that my brother screwed up. He should be alright to leave in a few days –”
    “Whoa, whoa, whoa, brother?” The doctor blinked, silent, and his dark brown eyes glanced at the floor.
    “Yes, Vince is my nephew.” His eyes held no unsaid questions. The doctor knew every reason the eighteen year old was asleep in his arms. He silently led Robert down a network of halls until he stopped at an empty room. “And his father’s my brother. I’ve been patching him up for a while now. It’s part of the reason I decided to become a doctor and the reason I transferred here,” he muttered as he shut the door behind him. “Have to wait for the x-rays,” he waved his hand toward the bed and spoke softly, “But until then, he can sleep in here.”
    “You’re not going to admit him?”
    “His father never forgets to ask me whether I’ve seen him here or not, comes here to look at records when he thinks I’m lying – so, no, I’m not going to admit him,” he said lowly with a conflicted expression. “But anyway, how did this… all happen?”
    “I’ve told you. If you want the real answer you’ll have to ask Vincent when he wakes up –” Robert slowly stood from the chair he had sat down in, nodding to the eighteen year old asleep on the bed. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Please don’t let his father come here.” His face was stricken with worry before the doctor softly smiled.
    “I’ve been dealing with him for a while,” he admitted, “I think I can handle that.”
    Robert walked to the door, turning on a moment’s notice, “Thanks, Doc.”
    “Trent,” he said with a smirk when he noticed the softened expression on the boy’s face every time he looked at his nephew.
    Robert held the glance in Vincent’s direction, eyes narrowed tightly but a smile lingering faded on his lips, “Thanks, Trent.” He stepped out of the room quietly, boots echoing down the empty halls of the hospital until he navigated his way back to the E.R.
    Automatic doors slid out of his way, and just as he sat in the quiet cabin of his brother’s truck Robert swallowed nervously, wiping his palms against his chainless Tripps. Vincent’ll be fine… sixteen years; he’s had his uncle for sixteen years. Robert had figured that they weren’t completely close. The gold cross that had been dangling from the doc’s chest confirmed that… considering Vincent never talked about him – but also because of his father, figured that it had been the reason why Vincent didn’t want to go, in case he wasn’t able to get to the right person. Any of the medical staff would have written his name down. And with all that aside, if he was close to the man, his father would find out…
    With every reason possible fluttering through his head and out of the way, Robert couldn’t believe the shittiness of the situation – how trapped Vincent was when really he shouldn’t have had to worry when the hell the next time he was going to eat would be… or if he’d manage to wake up in the morning at that. With the last thought buzzing, distracted in his mind, slowly Robert pulled up to the house and parked in the driveway, 2:04 AM blurry on the dash of the truck when he turned the key in the ignition and opened the door.
    Shit, the hangover would last in the morning…
    He didn’t care really, whether he had a hangover or not. He wouldn’t have to deal with Derek taking over all the panicking for him when found out Vincent was gone anyway. He planned upon leaving… early…
    Robert stalked up the staircase inside, his thoughts muddled at the fact that his bed was going to be cold tonight… He saw the Vodka bottles next to his door. But Derek’s door was closed tightly and they were leaning against his unopened.
    So Vincent broke his ribs over these… Why didn’t he ask me, goddammit?! Robert left both the three bottles and the thought there in the hallway. If Vodka was what this was all about, then Vincent deserved to drink them for going through all the pain. But on his bed was a bottle of Snow Creek Berry and Hill something – the label had been ripped off, but they were both unopened. He flopped down with the taste of himself and Vincent with his hard earned alcohol banded in his mouth.
    The taste of berry wine, though, washed it out; the imminent buzz helped him drift to sleep – both Boone’s Farm bottles resting beneath his arm and the smell of Vincent soft beneath his cheek.