A/N: So, I didn't put a disclaimer in the first chapter. But :

I am not making money off this story, or profiting in any way. This is a work of fiction and was written for the purpose of perverted entertainment.

They successfully started a mosh pit. It had started out pretty lame as the three had awkwardly started jumping onto the spot, but then Holly took Greg's lead and began to throw her entire body weight into the others as she passed them in kamikaze circles.

It might have looked just as fun as it was, because soon there were a few other kids - throwing themselves into each other and jumping, spinning, laughing. By the end of the song, a good half of the dance had taken to the base of the stage.

Greg was pretty proud of the fact that it was because of him that everyone seemed to be having a lot of fun. A few people were even clapping him on the back. "Isn't that your brother, Greg?"

Yea, and he was going to take credit for the whole thing, just for the rare moment that Rodrick would be proud of him. Maybe they'd even get to sneak out to a movie or something.

"That. Was. Awesome. Greg!" Rodrick's fist pumped into the air with each word as he dance-walked around his van and beat the hood to an imaginary rhythm in his mind. "Loded Diper just rocked the socks off all those eight graders!"

Greg laughed, climbing into the front seat as casually as he always did and lifting his feet onto the dash. Something in him glowed at the knowledge that he was the reason his brother was so happy at that moment.

"And you! That's a sick mosh bruise on your arm. Wear that proudly, little brother."

Rodrick lifted Greg's arm to get a good look, raising it under the dim light coming from the street post outside. There, reflecting back was a good purple welt Greg hadn't noticed yet.

"Woah! I don't even remember getting this," he said excitedly, only really interested in the way Rodrick thought it was cool. Greg was definitely going to tell Rowley about it right away – that was, unless Rowley also had one.

Rodrick tapped his hands rapidly against the steering wheel before squealing out of the parking lot and onto the empty dark street. It was almost midnight, and in the small town, everyone seemed to be locked inside their dark houses. Greg thought it was kind of nice that he was up this late – it was a rare occurrence. Rodrick, on the other hand, seemed to be thinking the exact opposite.

"Fucking lame, it's only midnight," he growled, lifting up a leg and kicking at the clock in the middle of the van.

"As if that's going to make the time go any faster, stupid," Greg said.

Rodrick's hand reached out and back slapped Greg's shoulder as the other spun the wheel to perform a sharp turn at an intersection. Wasn't there a stop sign?

"Just because you danced to my song, doesn't mean I won't hesitate to murder you in your sleep."

They were slowing now, coming up to their curb and Greg realized he'd be getting out soon.

Well didn't that just suck? The one time in weeks that Rodrick had actually spoken to him, and it was over that quickly? He hadn't even had the chance to say what he really wanted to – what with talking bullshit taking over a majority of the conversation.

Greg grabbed the door handle and went to hop out but Rodrick coiled his fingers under Greg's arm and pulled him back in. Under any normal circumstances, Greg would've kicked Rodrick and run away. But Rodrick's fingers were digging into his bruise nastily and suddenly Greg knew that he was pretty much helpless in this situation.

There was no way anyone could expect him to actually fight back. Rodrick was much taller than him – not to mention, older. So as he usually did, Greg sucked up the pain and, visibly wincing, he managed to say, "Ow, let go of me Rodrick." His jaw was clenched and he tugged a bit to see if the grip had changed any.

"What are you going to say to Mom when she asks about your bruises?" the older brother asked wickedly, his free hand unbuckling his seatbelt while the other twisted further into Greg's bruise.

"Nn – ow! Seriously, Rodrick. Stop!"

"What are you going to say? What's your excuse?" Rodrick asked. Was it just Greg, or did Rodrick seem to be shuffling closer to him? Yea, Greg definitely didn't remember Rodrick being this close a few minutes ago.

"Ah! I don't know. I didn't think about that!"

Rodrick looked serious in the blackness of the van. Or maybe it was Greg's imagination running away from him. Perhaps, even the wickedness of his brother's eyes was directly the fault of the eyeliner surrounding them.

Whatever it was, Greg took one look at Rodrick and stiffened. For a moment, he felt the familiar fear his brother seemed to be able to cast upon him whenever he wanted. He remembered being caught in Rodrick's room half a year ago, snooping through his brother's cologne.

That was the last time Greg had been scared.

Then suddenly, Rodrick released Greg's arm. "Well now you can tell her it was me."

Greg watched the van turn the corner of the street and disappear as he contemplated what Rodrick had said. Was he serious? Did he really want Greg to tell her that? Well there was just no way that was happening. Besides, the bruises weren't from Rodrick, really. They were from the mosh pit. Right?

In the moment of doubt, Greg looked down at his bruise to see it had visibly contorted to the form of Rodrick's hand.

Suddenly angry, Greg stormed inside the house.

Stupid fucking Rodrick – stealing his first cool bruise!

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