"I'm not flexing. I'm mourning. My hands are gonna be permanently wrinkled." He holds one up, inspecting his fingers with mock horror. "I'll never play the guitar again."
"You don't play the guitar."
"You don't know that."
"Do you?"
"No. But I could have. I could be a rockstar. And now I never will, because of these mats."
I try not to laugh. I fail. I press my rag into the corner he's been avoiding, the same corner he always avoids, and scrub it properly. "You keep missing this spot."
"I'm saving it for you.” He winks. “It's called teamwork."
Another chuckle escapes me. He grins, and the scab on his lip stretches. A tiny bead of blood appears, bright red. He touches it with his tongue without thinking. My eyes track the movement. I force them back to the mat.
"So," he says, and his voice shifts. "About last night."
My hand stalls. Mouth goes dry. "What about it?"
"Nothing. Just…" One shoulder shrug. Keeps scrubbing. "Thanks. For showing up and helping me."
"Don't thank me for that."
"I'm not thanking you for hitting him. I mean, that was fucking amazing, and I definitely am thanking you for that. I'm thanking you for… I don't know." He stops. Scrubbing slows. He's staring at the mat. "For giving a shit about me, I guess. Not for spanking me. Well, though, I can't even lie, I kinda like it."
"I know you do."
"Pervert," he jokes.
"Asshole."
We go back to scrubbing. Yeah. There's no coming back from that.
Chapter 8. Ethan
Marsal shows me how chaos can be a constant. All the time. Every damn minute of every damn day.
I used to think I was good at filtering out distractions: noise in the mess hall, the punching in MMA, even the barking from Griff's morning speeches. Then Marsal happened, and now I can't tune him out, no matter how hard I try. Somehow, he's louder when he's trying to be quiet.
Quiet Time used to be three hours of peace, although forced. I stretch out on my bed by the window. Everybody else is asleep, except Marsal. He fills the room with fidgeting and restless energy, the sound of his ankle bouncing against the metal rail.
He's supposed to be quiet. Thinking, or whatever. Doing anything but being on my nerves.
Not what happens.
"This is actual torture," he whispers, lying sideways on his lower bunk so his hair flops over the edge. "How many more hours until they let us out?"
"Fifty minutes," I hiss, not bothering to look away from my pharmacology flashcards.
"Fifty? I could kill myself and be reincarnated before Quiet Time ends."
"Shut up, Marsal."
He ignores me. Of course he does. That's his specialty. Ignoring me while making himself unignorable, like a song you hate but can't forget.
A few seconds of silence, and he's at it again. Humming. He does this thing where he hums half a song, then skips to another, and another. I don't think he notices he's doing it. Part of his ADHD. I also know he uses it as an excuse to drive me insane.
He does it on purpose. I'm positive.
