You’re leaving next year.

I pick up the pace, lungs burning, the taste of iron in my mouth.

They’ve asked for the best. That’s you.

The sun isn’t even out yet and it’s already nearing ninety degrees. Sweat drips down my face.

Overseas. You’ll be assigned a post, possibly a team.

I lose focus and trip on a small rock that has accidentally found its way to the track. I go down hard, not bothering to catch myself. I let myself lie there, well aware that my knee is bleeding from the friction of it hitting the ground. I bring a hand to my face to wipe away the sweat but it’s not sweat. I’m crying. I sit up, head falling down, physically and emotionally exhausted.

This place is all I have ever known. I knew I’d be sent off eventually but I just, I don’t know. I don’t think I expected it to feel like this.

When The General said he wanted to talk to me about my future, I thought he was going to lecture me about something like my sexual habits. But he just sprang it on me. I didn’t react- I didn’t say anything. I just nodded and left.

Maybe I thought I would stay here forever. Maybe I thought I’d be a commander.

But wouldn’t that be a waste? All this training, all this knowledge, and for what? To never leave Nevada? No, I have to serve my country. That’s the entire point of SFAMS.

I get up slowly, eyeing my bloody knee, grunting as I realize my other knee is also cut. I walk back to the Morge to go take a shower. I usually wouldn’t bother showering after my run but I could use the relaxation. 

When I walk into the library, Wade notices my knees and says, “busy night?” with a wink. Terry laughs and says, “Noah let you get your way with him?”

“Fuck off. I fell. Besides, you heard him, he’s not gay.” My stomach hurts as I remember him saying I’m not into that. 

“People say things, it doesn’t make them true.”

“If he was into guys, I think he would pick up on me flirting with him every day.”

“Maybe you’re just a bad flirt?”

“Wade, have you seen how many guys he gets? I don’t think flirting is his issue.”

“Whatever, let’s get this over with.”

We had come to the library to study for a test. While Cybats were heavily physically trained, we also had to be mentally trained. With that came excruciating tests and exams. We were studying for our advanced geographic information systems. It was a bitch of a class. I wasn’t bad at it, but I preferred other subjects.

“Do you have the geospatial datasets? I can’t find it,” Terry asks as he looks through his files on his computer.

“Yeah, I’ll send them.”

“Did you make the raster format for the elevation?”

“Yeah, but I sent it to Wade to finish it because I had to finish the Arctic ice footprint analysis.” That was the good thing about being a Cybat; we were allowed to work together. The three of us have been a team from day one, balancing each other's skills out nicely.

From the corner of my eye, I see Noah walk in. 

“What’s he doing here?” Terry watches as he walks to the books, searching for something.

“I don’t know? What are we doing here?” I think people forget that the CAU still has classes. They might not be as advanced as CIU or the CCIU, but they still are required to learn. But because I’m also a bit curious, I tell them I’ll go ask.

I follow him to a random aisle. “Looking for something?”

He’s standing in one of the narrow aisles, staring at the vast amount of books. He doesn’t bother looking at me when he says “Kaplan.”

“Which one?”

“Revenge of Geography.”

“Why weren’t you at any meals today?”

I had looked around for him because I thought he was finally going to accept our invitation without forcing him to. He turns to look at me and I nearly lose my shit when I see that the entire left side of his face is freshly bruised and swollen.

“I was busy.” He says nonchalantly.

“What the fuck? What- who did that?” I fail at suppressing my panic and anger.

“I’m in the CAU,” he says matter-of-factly. but while bruises are normal, that isn’t a typical training bruise. That is the injury of someone who has been pinned down and beaten mercilessly. Rage burns through my vision.

“Who did it?” 

“It really doesn’t matter. I need to find-“

I cut him off by pushing him against the shelves, holding him in place. His eyes widen, shocked.

“No. Tell me.” My hands are gripped to his upper arms.

“You’re not a commander. You can’t just-“

“I’m not shitting around. Fucking tell me.”

He looks at me, eyes unblinking, and says, “I’m not well-liked.”

My chest tightens. “I know, but what happened?”

“I was woken up to a few very angry guys. They didn’t like me crushing them in the matches. Apparently their friend got sent home.”

“Alright.” I drop hands.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, you’ll just sleep in my room.”

“Excuse me?

“I’ve got a couch. I’ll come with you to get your stuff from your room.”

“You sound crazy right now. I’m not sleeping in your room. I can handle a few angry guys.”

And perhaps I do sound crazy but, “I know you can. The problem is that you shouldn’t have to.”

“I don’t think that sleeping in your room will make my situation any better.”

“Would you just trust me?”

“Trust you? I don’t even know you.”

I take a step back from him trying not to fall apart in front of him. But that hurt. Mainly because it’s true, he doesn’t know me. But it’s also a reminder that whatever I’m feeling isn’t mutual and that hurts like hell.

“Please, at least until we figure something else out?”

“Isn’t that against some kind of rule?”

“Many, but I’ll talk to The General.”

“I don’t want him to know. It will make things worse.”

“I won’t tell him who did it.”

Terry finds us, probably confused about how long I’ve been gone. “Ten, we need to-“ He cuts off when he sees Noah’s face.

“Shit, man. What happened?”

“My existence bothers people.”

Terry looks at me carefully, knowing exactly how I think and what I’m planning on doing.

“Ten, you need to calm down. Look, he’s fine. Still pretty as ever.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Alright, sure buddy, now just bring Noah to the tables, and let's talk about this.” He talks to me as if I’m a bomb about to go off.

Noah glances at me confused.

“I’m calm.”

“Noah, why don’t you go sit over where Wade is. I need to talk to him alone.”

Noah is hesitant but slowly walks away.

“Ten, you cannot-“

“Don’t tell me shit.”

“You’ll kill them.”

“That’s the point.”

“You cannot kill someone over something like this.”

“They hurt him,” I say quietly.

“I know. But you’ll lose control.”

“I’m controlled.”

“In a match, sure. But I know you. You’ll go overboard.”

“I will not.”

“You will. How about I get a few of the boys to do it?”

The cryptic conversation was about finding out who put their hands on him and returning the favor. I think about what Terry says.

“Fine. But I’m going.”

“Ten..”

“No. I’m going and if I lose control, hold me back. End of conversation.” He sighs and scratches the side of his face.

“Let’s go back. We really have to finish before it gets too late.”

“He’s sleeping in my room tonight.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“Maybe.” I turn around to face the books.

“What are you looking for?”

“Kaplan.”

* * *

“You can put your stuff anywhere. Also, there’s food in the fridge. You should eat something.”

I watch him uncomfortably put his stuff down.

“I’d rather just go to bed.” He eyes the couch I had set up for him. I put a sheet over the three cushions thinking it would feel more like a bed. But as I compare my bed to the couch, I feel bad. A couch can’t compare to a bed.

“If you want, I can take the couch.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Do you want some pain medicine?”

“I’m not in any pain.” I don’t argue but that has to be a lie. I’ve had my share of bruises and facial ones always hurt like a bitch.

“Okay, well, I’m going to shower. Do you also want to?”

“Uh, what?”

“Do you want to shower now? I can go after you if you’d like.”

“Oh, no. I’m too tired. I’m just going to call it a night.” He ruffles through his bag of clothes and finds a pair of pajama bottoms. I watch as he takes off his shirt, then, pants, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black boxers. I swallow. He’s got more intense bruising on his ribs, just as fresh as the one on his face. I also notice that he has a few scars around his body. Scars that resemble stab wounds. Noah Finley, who are you? I pause at the black ink under his collarbone.

“You have a tattoo?”

“Um yes.” His hand goes to touch the small for script words that are etched into his skin.

“What does it say?”

“Gravidum cor, fœtum caput.” He says as if I’m supposed to know what that means.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a quote from Robert Burton.”

“What does it mean?”

He shifts awkwardly, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“You know I can just look it up?”

He turns his back to me, heading to the bathroom. “So do that.”

He goes in and shuts the door. So I pull out my phone and Google it. I click on the first result from a book called, The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton. I read the highlighted section:

When I first took this task in hand, et quod ait ille, impellente genio negotium suscepi, this I aimed at; vel ut lenirem animum scribendo, to ease my mind by writing; for I had gravidum cor, fœtum caput, a kind of imposthume in my head, which I was very desirous to be unladen of, and could imagine no fitter evacuation than this. Besides, I might not well refrain, for ubi dolor, ibi digitus, one must needs scratch where it itches.

He comes back out, droplets of water running down his face, dripping down to his chest. He doesn’t look at me as he lays down on the couch and pulls the blanket over his legs.

“Why do you have that as a tattoo?”

He closes his eyes and says, “Thought it sounds nice.”

I won't call him out on his bullshit. I want to ask him why he feels that he has to pretend to be okay. I want to ask him why he has scars all over his wonderful body. I want to…I want him to open up to me. Even if he isn’t interested me in that way, I want to know him. Even if I can’t be more than that, I still want to be his friend.

I turn off the lights before I head into the bathroom to shower.

When I finish, he’s still up, slightly restless. I recognize his movements, his winces. I go to my drawer and pull out a small bottle of pain reliever and grab a water bottle from the fridge.

“Take.”

He opens his eyes, looks at what’s in my hands, and sighs. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Be nice to me. I don’t need pity.”

I stare down at him. “I don’t, you’re right. But I want to.”

He looks away from me. “Weird.”

And what I want to reply is: No, you don’t get to tell me that I’m weird for caring. You don’t get to push me away because for some reason you don’t think you’re worthy of someone actually giving a damn about you. You don’t get to make me feel this way and then act like this. It isn’t fair.

But I can’t because he doesn’t need to hear that right now. He doesn’t need more to think about. Because even though I asked him what it meant, I know why he has that tattoo. I know why he chose to put it on his skin forever. It’s the same reason I run every day. To remind me that I’m alive…and to remind me that despite all the good in me, I am still broken.