When his Father died, Victor stole a pair of his jeans.
He went through his Fathers drawers and took them.
They were baggy at first, but with age, he grew into them.
The eventual rips and stains were his, but the jeans were still once worn by his Father.
He didn’t ever want to become Him.
Never wanted to hurt Jimmy like he had been at the hands and words of his Father.
But when he yelled, he heard His loud voice. And when he hit, he felt His fists as his own.
Jimmy never fought back.
Never even struggled the times he tightened the grip around his throat.
Victor wished he would.
He ached for him to show some hint of them being the same, selfishly, so he wouldn’t have to feel so guilty.
But part of him barely even registered it was wrong.
Jimmy was his family, his friend, and they needed eachother. They could never leave each other, so why worry?
When the moment came that finally pushed Jimmy enough to fight back, he could tell the kid was giving his all. It wasn’t enough, but he was trying.
Victor laughed as he took the punches Jimmy threw at him, which only urged the other on more, to Victors delight. He wanted to see that same rage he showed the night he killed their father.
But, as the tears started to fall down Jimmys face, he knew it was time to stop.
As much as he internally wanted to keep pushing him, to keep feeding his own ego, he knew better than to make him cry any harder.
Anger Victor could deal with, but it pained his heart to see his little brother upset.
His Father never seemed to notice anyones tears, but Victor saw Jimmys, and that gave him a sense of pride, even when being the rare cause of them in the first place.
Victor wrapped his arms around his brother held him close, nuzzling his face into his wild hair as a silent apology. And, as usual, Jimmy held him back just as tight.
The jeans he wore would always be his Fathers, regardless of the years spent owning them.
His genes would always be His.