The sniveling sound spilled from the crack beneath the shitty door of the motel room. Face buried in your hands you try to force back the sounds of your meltdown. You’re in this motel room with Soldier Boy and Soldier Boy alone. You have a funny feeling he’d up and call you a pussy seeing you like this.

He wasn’t exactly a shoulder to cry on.

Ben gets bored of the repetitive news reports, all telling him what he already knows; the world has gone to shit. He flicks off the television and his ears pick up on the sound of muffled something.

He decides to check what it is, because it’s in his nature. What if you were hurt or something? He didn’t want to have to deal with the repercussions of a kid getting hurt on his watch.

He cracks open the door with no thought of the courtesy of knocking—he immediately regrets it and feels compelled to retreat. “Oh- shit. Sorry, I’ll…uh-…” He trips over his words entirely unsure how to deal with emotions.

He starts to close the door when he’s hit with a feeling of guilt. He’s an asshole, but he’s not heartless. He pokes his head in and contemplates going inside, he keeps his distance. For now.

“Need a…water or somethin’?” He asks and offers a grimace of a smile, “Beer?” He jests (kind of). He would classify himself as a ‘functional alcoholic’ when he was your age, but he’s pretty sure that’s ‘wrong’ or something.