Cola comes over a lot after that.
Sometimes, I'll invite him and sometimes, he'll invite himself. But most of the time, especially when he's studying, he just ends up tagging along with me, quietly catching my keys and driving to my house. He knows the way now. But I know his mind is elsewhere on those days, probably still buried deep into a textbook, so I just look silently out the window, counting the number of deer I see moving through the cool woods. It's not until I push dinner in front of him that he's aware that he's at my place. Then, he looks up, surprised, and smiles when I put a spoon into his hand. And after the license for Pepsi arrives, it becomes the three of us, almost everyday, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
He doesn't study as much as I see the other students do, but he studies enough, if his first exam score says anything. I grade that test in front of him, pausing to look up at him occasionally while he zones out on the couch. The windows are open, letting in the smell of fallen leaves and the rain that streaks patterns down the glass. The room is lit by the warm glow of a lamp, and I'm sure he's dozing. He's taken to raiding my closet of my sweatshirts, especially as the weather grows colder, and he has one on now, the arms pushed up past his elbows.
He hasn't slept well for the past week or so; most of the students don't the week before a test.
"Ninety-three with the curve," I say, capping my pen. He stirs briefly. "So you made the A."
"Is that my test?"
"Yup."
"Are you impressed, Professor?"
I shrug.
"You could have done better."
"You're really touchy, Professor. Did you know that?"
I stop moving and indeed, my fingers were drumming a pattern on his waist a second ago. Before I can move away, he continues:
"I don't mind. I have a younger sister and she was pretty grabby growing up. Just wanted to point it out."
"Is it that noticeable?"
"No. You just do it to Pepsi and me. Then again, I've only seen you with us two. I've been keeping track of little things."
"What kind of little things?" I question, but it's lost in his sudden movement. He grabs a pillow, puts it against me and leans back, eyes closed. "Tired?"
"Exams suck. Thanks a lot."
"What's the point of using me if you're going to use a pillow anyway?"
He ticks up two fingers.
"First of all, no homo if there's a pillow."
"What are you, twelve?"
"Second," he continues, "you can't move or you'll disturb me. And you haven't been sleeping well, either."
"It's been better with Pepsi."
"Has it?" He smiles, and I've come to recognize that content pull of his lips. Nearby, Pepsi yips on the floor in some exciting dream, her legs twitching. Her throat contorts in a half bark. "That's good." He reaches out and touches the life scar down my arm. I jerk, but this time, I don't pull away. He continues brushing soothingly until his fingers stop and his breaths become slow and deep.
"Hey." He doesn't stir. "Hey, you." I gently flick his cheek, but he's out. Sighing, I stand and pick him up, gathering him into my arms like the loose ends of a rag. He is boneless with sleep, but I swing him up easily, and walk into the guest bedroom to place him on the bed.
The first time I lifted him, I almost dropped him because he felt so different. He didn't have the weight of a soldier, heavy with an assault rifle and ammunition, and didn't have the compactness and curving softness of a girl. Instead, his head rolled into the nook of my shoulder, showing an inch of his languid collarbones and fair skin, all sharp bones and pointy edges and somehow, I was still able to hold onto him. He wasn't very heavy, but then again, I was used to dragging two hundred fifty pound soldiers across dust and dirt.
With another person breathing in the room next to mine, I sleep well and wake up 0600 army time. Pepsi is already up and ready to run. She hops to the guest room, excited. I open the door and in the soft sunrise, see Cola still deeply asleep.
"Cola. Time to run."
He only responds with a long, drawn out groan.
"I hate your morning routine," he mumbles, burying his head back into the pillow.
"Come on. You've been doing well." It's true. His slender calves and skinny arms are starting to shift with growing muscles. "You can jog a mile without stopping now."
"And you still aren't satisfied with that."
"It's good for you. You're a med student. You should know that." He doesn't respond, but his breathing levels again, and I know he has fallen asleep. "Pepsi, sing a little."
Long, undulating howls break out from Pepsi's throat, dyeing the air with the frost of the tundra. I let my voice rise and fall with hers and break off with a bark.
Cola lies, covers half drawn over his head, and in the falling bars of morning light that sprinkle through the shade, I see that his eyes are not black, as I thought them to be, but a rich, dark green. With the sun on them, they seem to glow unnaturally.
"You sound like a dog. Not too much wolf in you." Slowly, he gets out of bed, stretching and rubbing his eyes. "When we hear a real wolf call, I'll sing back, and then you'll see how good I am." Sleepily, he starts to tuck in the covers and I watch his half-awake motions, more memory than thought. He always does this.
Outside, it is cold enough for our breaths to cloud. I jog slowly, keeping with Cola, who stubbornly keeps my (watered-down) pace for a mile. Then he slows into a walk, breathing in great gulps of air. Pepsi canters ahead of us, tongue out in a canine laugh.
"I think Professor Might doesn't sit still long enough for you to touch him," he says, still breathing heavily. I quietly mull over his sentence before realizing it is a continuation of yesterday's conversation. "And your friend Iruka doesn't really come over much. So I'm the one you have at hand."
"That's true," I reply. "Gai is very jumpy. It makes me jumpy, too. Come on. Let's turn back."
"You've stopped fidgeting so much, Professor."
I look at my hands, brown and calloused. They don't shake.
"Pepsi's helped a lot. And you."
"And me?" And his eyebrows scrunch into a question mark.
"You're very calm. Like a waterfall."
"Waterfalls aren't calm."
"Consistent, then. Very consistent."
"A lot of people don't like me for that same reason." I can hear the change in his voice, but not in his face because he looks away from me.
"Hey." When he doesn't respond, I step forward and pull him so that he's facing me. "Hey. I like you, alright? Alright. And how many more people do you need?"
His smile creeps over his face again.
"Do you like me enough to excuse me from mandatory homework?"
I punch him hard enough to hurt but he doesn't stop smiling.
The sunlight strains through the canopy of shifting leaves, red, yellow, orange, and it falls in patches across my skin. I can hear a whippoorwill start it's throaty song. The trail stretches out in front of us, meandering, covered by a carpet of browning grass and colorful leaves. Yesterday's rain left a damp smell in the air. Next to me is his heartbeat, his footsteps, his breathing, all beating out the steady thumping of his existence.
"What happens in the winter?" he pants, "Do we still run?"
"If you're still around by that time, we'll ski."
"You can ski here?"
"If the snow forms an ice crust. Otherwise, we'll follow trails. It's harder than running, with all the snow. But it's a lot prettier."
"I dunno." He pauses to wipe the sweat off his face with his shirt. "This is pretty, too."
In the distance, the roof of the house comes into view.
"I need to go shopping today," I mutter to myself.
"I'll come with you."
His profile is calm, his cheeks pink with cold.
"Why do you want to come?"
"I need to get snacks. You have none."
"Is there something wrong with your apartment?"
His face doesn't change at my question.
"No. Why do you ask?"
"You spend more time at my house than at yours."
"I told you. I've been keeping track of the little things." I wait for him to explain. Slowly, we approach the house. I take out my keys and unlock the back door. It seems like a long time before he answers. "You seem lonely, even with Pepsi. So I thought I'd keep you company." He shrugs. "It's not bad. I like it. I can be quiet and we can go days without talking but you don't nag me to talk or anything like my mom or my dad."
"I'm not lonely."
"Mhm."
"Do you love your mom?"
"Of course I love my mom," he retorts defensively.
"Do you love your dad?"
"Nosy."
"We're both nosy."
"False. I'm nosy. You're not that nosy. You're inferior to me in nosiness." Then, suddenly, "I thought Professor Might was your best friend."
"He is."
"Then why am I over more than he is?"
I don't answer and start to empty my pockets on the counter so I can take a shower. Pepsi clatters over the tiled floor, chasing a feather that flew in. It's funny to see a dog as big as her leap in the air like a cat.
He doesn't repeat his question.
I realize something else about him at the grocery store: Cola has a sweet tooth.
"A little," he admits when I confront him about it. "My dad's one of those strict Catholic parents that don't let you eat junk food, make you go to church every Sunday, tells you to get straight As, blah, blah, blah." He looks over the assortment of sodas, candy bars, and chips in the shopping cart. "I went to church and I got straight As. But I could never stay away from sweet stuff."
He follows me idly with the cart while I pick out meat and vegetables, sorting through mushrooms and eyeing pieces of skirt steak. I keep Pepsi's leash short in my hand, but she doesn't pull. She's very well-behaved, even if her nose twitches at the slices of roast turkey and ham at the deli.
"You're rich, aren't you?" he asks. I look back at his bored face, chin in his palm, and then turn back to my lettuce.
"I wasn't. I'm alright now. The military paid for my schooling, as long as I gave service in return, so I didn't need to pay off debts or anything. And I don't pay rent, since I have my own house. All I'm doing now is paying for the ridiculous amount of food you eat."
"Sorry," he says, not sorry at all, grinning. I smile back, but the expression drops off his face. "I'm not used to you wearing the mask anymore. I don't know when you're smiling."
"Doggy!" a small child exclaims.
"Ugh, children," Cola mutters when a brother and a sister patter up to Pepsi. She wags her tail, pleased with the attention, but patient before anything. I crouch to minimize my threat level.
"Hey, guys," I say, "Where's your mom?"
"Over there," the girl answers, a finger in her mouth. I look behind her, but don't see anyone that looks like a frantic mother. "Can we pet the doggy?"
"Yeah. Her name is Pepsi." She continues to wag her tail under the tapping hands of the kids.
"What happened to your eye?" the boy asks, no doubt asking about my scar.
"I fought a pirate."
"Cool! Are you a ninja?" the boy asks.
"Pepsi isn't a real name, is it?" the girl questions dubiously, finger still in her mouth.
At that instant, a woman with short, frizzy brown hair like the girl's strides over to us.
"There you guys are!"
I stand up again when the kids run back to their mother.
"Her name is Pepsi, mom. Can we get a dog, too?"
"I'm sorry if they were bothering you," she says, taking tiny hands in her own.
"They weren't," I reply and nod at the kids when they say goodbye. I hear them talking about Pepsi as they walk away. Pepsi snuffs at the floor and sits.
"How have you not gotten a girlfriend yet, Mr. I'm Good With Kids And Can Cook."
"Don't swing that way so much anymore."
"A boyfriend, then."
I shrug. The hum of the general workings of a grocery store filled the comfortable silence between us. "That's partly why I don't let Gai over."
"Because you're gay? I don't know what that has to do with it, unless you're harboring some intense crush or something." Unlike me, he never needs to be reminded of what previous conversation I'm alluding to. He seems to have all of them floating in his head, easily picking where we left off as if there was no time between at all.
"It's not that.
"Then?"
I stare at the avocados for a long time, trying to voice my thoughts. Cola rummages through the shopping cart and rips open a carton of Pocky.
"You shouldn't do that."
"Then?" he repeats, breaking the chocolate-coated sticks into his mouth. His eyes have become uncharacteristically focused.
"I feel like I would be tainting him," I say calmly. "Gai was my friend before the war and after. I don't want to - I don't want to be a burden to him. I don't want him to see me wake up with nightmares. I want him to think everything is alright."
He doesn't say anything and instead, holds out the box of Pocky to me. I take some.
"It's not-" he starts and then stops, fishing out a few more sticks. "You won't-"
"Cat got your tongue?"
He scowls and opens his mouth, showing me the half-chewed remains of chocolate and cracker. No cat, though. Pepsi pads up to him and leans against his leg, asking for a head scratch.
"I don't think Professor Might would think of you as a burden," he says, crouching down and petting Pepsi around the throat, "That's a friend privilege, Professor. At least-"
I think this is the first time I've ever seen him at a loss for words.
"I get it, I get it," I say soothingly, gripping his shoulders.
"But do you really?" he questions, frustrated with his unusual lack of eloquence. His eyes, usually sleepy or restless, are still focused intensely. "Because I don't want you to go through life thinking you're a burden because you're not and you're an awesome person-"
"Cola," when I put my hands on his face, he digs the tip of his fingers between the bones in my arm, hard enough to hurt. Under my fingers, I can feel the muscles of his jaw clench and twitch as he grinds his teeth together.
How long had he struggled with this problem himself to show such distress on his face? How long did he question his self-worth?
"Cola, are you going to have a panic attack?"
"No," he says, releasing his grip, "I don't get panic attacks." I don't release mine and hold his head between my palms like I hold Pepsi's sometimes, lightly swaying his head side-to-side.
"It's alright. I get it. Alright? It's alright."
"Because you're an awesome person and it's not good to think like that. It eats at you. You shouldn't think like that. It'll tear you apart."
"Yeah. I know. It's okay."
Slowly, his eyes ease into the sleepy look that he usually has, and he nods.
"Alright," he says, breaking eye contact, and that's when I know he's okay. "Alright."
"Alright," I echo, and remove my hands from his face, the hollow of my palms unfolding from the curve of his jawline. I feel strangely empty and put my hands on Pepsi's head to fill the space. She looks at me like she knows something and woofs softly.
I unhook the mask from behind my ears, trying not to mind the eyes that suddenly stare at me from around the grocery store. When he looks back at me, I smile.