I tap his sweaty face once, then pause. That day, when I saw those soldiers cornering him, I heard sideways remarks. Things like:
He’s so girly.
A weakling.
I bet he takes it in the ass.
A sodomite.
Usually, I would’ve walked away from such a scene, and in view of how persistent this shit has become since I saved him, I probably should’ve let him be.
But I didn’t.
I wonder why. It probably had to do with the desperation on his face, and the way he intended to take the beating, no matter how brutal it got.
Now, I’m thinking about those soldiers’ words again. More specifically, the girly part.
His skin is so soft, it’s almost like butter beneath my fingers, and that’s…fucked up.
Not because of the feminine part, but the fact that someone as delicate as he is, is hell-bent on joining the army. It’s a place for brutes and outcasts like myself.
People who only know how to kill and need a license to do it freely and with a justified cause.
This is a nest for the orphans, the poor, and men who usually have no place to turn back to. Those who protect society are the very ones who were rejected by it.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure Lipovsky is a woman. The only reason I keep addressing him as a he is because that’s the gender he chooses to display on the outside. In fact, he’s making a lot of effort to avoid standing out.
He starts wheezing, his breathing morphing into an irregular rhythm. I grab him by a fistful in his shirt and turn him over so that he’s lying on his back.
My boots are on either side of his waist, and I pause again at the sight of his face under the bright moonlight. Delicate, gentle features, small nose and mouth, soft facial curves.
Am I really the only one who sees the signs?
I’m about to release him when I sense something taut on his chest, right beneath the oversized T-shirt. I let his head fall to the ground and reach toward it.
A smaller hand grabs my wrist, halting me in my tracks. Lipovsky’s eyes shine in the darkness, resembling a feral injured animal. I’m almost sure he’ll start to snarl and hiss any moment now.
Like a powerless kitten.
He shakes his head once, whether in warning or suppliance, I’m not sure. This little fucker has the audacity to touch me.
I jerk my wrist from his hand and stand to my full height, but I don’t change my position, so I’m glaring down at him. “Do you or do you not know that you fainted, sunshine?”
A red hue creeps up his neck. No shit. It splashes over the pale skin and spreads until it fully covers his ears.
Is he…blushing?
“I told you that I couldn’t take it anymore, sir,” he all but announces as if this is some sort of amateur training that he gets to quit whenever he wishes.
“Say that again.” My voice has turned chilly, deadly almost, with no hint of coolness whatsoever.
Any smidge of red disappears from his face, and he meets my gaze with his weary one.
“Cat got your tongue?”
He purses his lips but has enough self-restraint to stop from talking and unavoidably earning himself a disciplinary punishment.
“You’ll continue to do this training every day and you’ll also add a muscle-building routine. Every night. Every morning. If I find out you’ve missed any, you can kiss the military goodbye, because I could—and would—get you discharged, Private.”