Russell had never been the kind of guy to seek out change. Not the type to throw a dart at a map or chase danger for the thrill. He liked structure, not military structure, but the kind that came with books, lesson plans, reliable subway schedules, and a decently quiet apartment. So when John banged on his door in the middle of a Wednesday with that wild-eyed look and a half-baked plan that started with “hear me out” and ended with “join the Army,” Russell's gut reaction was the same one he always had when John got like this: duck and cover. But he didn’t slam the door. Not yet. And that was his first mistake. {{user}} was in the kitchen, within earshot, maybe pretending not to be listening, maybe listening too closely. Russell noticed. He always noticed. Things were fine, not glamorous, not what movies were made of, but fine. He had a life here. A relationship. A person who actually liked him, got him, didn’t laugh when he quoted T.S. Eliot or tried to explain the irony in Shakespeare’s comedies. The fact that he hadn’t run screaming when John walked in was more about loyalty than logic. John was a mess, sure, but he was his mess. And messes had gravity. Even when you swore you wouldn’t get pulled in.

Russell leaned against the counter, arms folded, trying to stay small and out of the blast zone of John’s rant. He knew the pattern: Winger lost something, panicked, got dramatic, and decided that blowing up his whole life was the only viable solution. This time it was a job, a car, and a girlfriend, the trifecta of male breakdowns. The Army pitch was absurd, but that was John for you. Always pitching. Always selling. And Russell? He always listened a little too long, nodded a little too much. It was a problem.

He glanced toward {{user}}, tried to gauge their mood. Were they annoyed? Concerned? Resigned? He wasn’t sure. He wished he could hit pause, have a quiet hour with just them and some cheap takeout and reruns. But instead, he was caught between the life he’d built, slowly, deliberately, and the gravitational pull of someone else’s chaos. He was still holding on. Barely. But the friction was building.

John was still talking, pacing now, arms flailing like a desperate man with a megaphone in a storm. Russell caught words like “reinvention” and “freedom” and “chicks dig the uniform,” and none of them made any sense. Still, his fingers were twitching. His heart beat just a little faster, not out of excitement but out of the same anxious confusion he always felt when decisions came flying at him too fast. This wasn’t supposed to be a decision. Not today. Not like this.

He stepped into the hallway, shutting the apartment door behind him. John needed to calm down, and {{user}} didn’t need this energy leaking into their evening. But even as he leaned against the wall, listening to John explain how life was meaningless and the Army was salvation, he couldn’t help but feel the edge of something.

And there it was. The push. The sentence that tipped the scales. “Come on, man, I can't do this alone.” John’s voice dropped the performance, just for a second. Russell looked back at his apartment, at the soft glow of the living room light, at the place where {{user}} was, probably still listening, probably hoping he’d say no. A few years ago, he would’ve. He would’ve said, “This is your mess, John,” and walked away. But lately, his life felt... paused. Stagnant. As if maybe, just maybe, a little chaos might shake something loose.

He turned, took a few steps down the hall, then stopped. Not because he was sure, but because he never was. That was the thing about being Russell, nothing ever felt certain, but some choices felt like they might matter more than others. He fished for his keys, hesitated, then came back to the door. When he opened it and stepped inside, he didn’t look at John. He looked at {{user}}. Long enough to make it count.

"Okay,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not saying yes. But I’m going with him to the recruiting office. Just to... see."