That's what he tried to tell himself. Don't think about the way this — what was he supposed to call this guy now? Yesterday, they were friends. Best friends. When the uniforms are exchanged for civilian clothes and they temporarily put aside being brothers in arms, they were simply a couple of boys still fumbling through the hurricane of young adulthood. And they were best friends.
At least… that's what he thought. He thought they were friends. But that's what some of the drill sergeants had told him not to do when he was in basic. Don't think, just do. Sometimes it's better that way, but for something like this, could he even do that? Could he truly and wholeheartedly act like he didn't know what was going on? That— that he didn't know.
Surely, he had to have known! He had to! The wandering around the mall, the late night runs to whatever fast-food place was open, the drinks, the laughs, the movies, the—
"You can hit me if you want to." His voice is a stone that hurtles through glass and he finds himself looking up from the empty page of his sketchbook. Brown eyes meet each other between the space of a too-small barracks room that used to feel like it was his. For so long — even before joining the army — the one thing he had full control over, was his room. His personal space that he could make his own and now it didn't feel like that anymore.
The air no longer smelt like the lavender incense he and his roommate not-so-secretly burned despite the rule against having such flammable items in their rooms. His bed that he sat on while slouched against the wall was now nothing more than a place of desecration. And this person that he stares at with dead, dim eyes looks like he's the one who got betrayed in one probably the most intimately violating ways instead of the reverse.
"Punch me, slap me or," the other is suddenly shoving a butter knife in his hand, "cut me. Do something! I won't fight back! You can beat up on me as hard as you want. Just—"
"No."
He barely recognizes his own voice. How soft and cold and bitter it sounded when he finally decided to speak. The guy, his once-friend, is shocked. His eyebrows are raised, eyes wide and glassy, and his cropped ears perked up at full attention. "What?"
The stench of hope and guilt— he hates it. He hates the way the other looks at him like a hurt puppy. "I told you, as soon as it was light out that you needed to leave, Chambers. You're lucky I didn't kick you out last night when you woke me up."
"I'm sorry, May," the man tries, but the way he sounded so sincere made him feel even more numb. More empty and for a moment, he wondered what he was supposed to say to his boyfriend if he finds out about this. Or his friends, or his roommate who he silently wished was here right now and not off base, or—
He can't tell anybody. There's no way he could tell anybody. Maybe, he just shouldn't think about it. It'll eventually go away if he doesn't think about it. Just do. So he stands, sketchbook falling on the cold, laminated floor as he grabs his key-card. "No. Cholymay." He never wants to hear his nickname come out of Chambers' mouth ever again. "And you're not sorry either. Sorry you got caught maybe. That's why you're begging for me to punish you, but I'm not going to do that. I could, but I won't."
If only the conversation ended there, but still, Chambers couldn't stop pleading with his eyes. May can see that the man's thin tail isn't even tucked between his legs. It was thrashing from side to side.
Had it been doing that this entire time? Well, it's not going to work.
Besides, it's seven in the morning and it's Christmas. Of all the days, why'd this have to happen? What was it that made Chambers think that after knowing him for so long, that he would want something like this? That he ever wanted something like this. May starts to believe that perhaps, it's his own fault. He was too welcoming. Too willing to allow others to be themselves around him between their quietest moments and flashes of child-like whimsy. It's his own fault.
He did this to himself!
Maybe this was why May's dad always told him that a lot of men ain't shit no matter their secondary gender. "You always have to be careful around people, boo," his dad always said. "They're going to assume things because you're cute and little and have good hair. And you're mixed and haven't presented any characteristics yet! That's all I'm sayin'. I don't wanna come down there and have'ta kill somebody because they put their hands on you, but I'll do it. I'm crazy!"
And May believed him. He'll always believe that his father is crazy, but he feels even crazier. The fact that he can't physically express any emotion on his face or in his voice as he dropped the butter knife he hadn't realized he was gripping like a broken rope bridge onto the bed. That ruined bed with all its warm softness that now mocked him for being so fucking stupid. "Listen," May let's out a small sigh. "I could've thrown you out in the cold and made you walk home. I could've thrown you down the stairs. Hell, I could've pushed you over that railing right outside that door to watch you fall on the hard pavement since my roommate and I live on the fifth floor, but I won't. I'm not going to waste my time like that with you because I don't want to deal with the MPs fathoming the idea that I woke up on Christmas Eve to my friend trying to rape me in my sleep."
Chambers looked like he wanted to say something, but thankfully, nothing was uttered and his tail had finally stopped its incessant thrashing. He knew what he did. They both knew. What could the man say when the deed was already done?
"You chose this." Chambers flinched at May's too-flat of a tone. It was like his mind was being read for filth. "You knew I didn't like you and have a boyfriend and you still chose to be sneaky anyway. I shared my space with you and was happy I could hang out with someone during Christmas while everyone else is on leave and you still. Chose. This. You're not sorry."
"May, please. I'll do anything you want, I swear. You can do anything you want with me in return!"
"You don't deserve anything." A low, threatening growl rumbles in May's chest and his pupils turn to slits. "Get the fuck out of my room. Don't call me, don't text me— I don't even want to be a thought in your head. Don't even think about coming back to this base either."
The long pause of silence is deafening after that. Chambers stares at May, dumbfounded as he watched the other sit back down on the bed and focus on fiddling with his key-card. He looked so tired. Tired and done with everything that gave life any semblance of meaning.
"May, look at me. Please. I'm sorry! I didn't—"
"You will address me as Corporal Cholymay and you will fucking leave, Chambers."
Another long pause of silence until Chambers hesitantly whispers, "I… Right… I'm leaving now, Corporal Cholymay."
The heavy door to May's barracks room opens and closes, its electronic lock softly latching back into place.
May gets up and grabs the extra duvet cover in his locker and haphazardly spreads it in the middle of the floor before laying down on it. He should've grabbed a pillow too, but he'll make due with the camel pack he kept under his bed. Sleep shouldn't have been able to take over him so easily, but he doesn't think about it.
He doesn't want to think about anything anymore.