"Hmph." He grunted as I sat there...unbelieving. 

I could not answer the teacher. 

Because it was too much. Buddy's concern. I'd never been so trapped. 

But it made me hostile - wanna push away, break away, rather than confide in him. 

"I um...yeah. I'd like to study -"

"No, fuck, what is wrong with you?" Buddy whispered, his tone lower and more defeated than angry.  

It broke my heart. The teacher was clenching and unclenching in a nervous manner his fist resting on the table. "Okay then. I believe you said you want to study something. So maybe come over here where your friend doesn't have a grouch so you can focus."

I stood, gingerly, my hand shaking on the desk as I pushed off of it. I walked one step forward...looked back at Buddy. 

"Angel. Don't just..."

I gasped. Stood in my tracks. He said my name. He remembered my name. And I'd only seen him a few days. 

He must have cared - why would he care for me? What did I do to him? 

He understands what's going on - I never showed him a bruise. He fights me when we are together. How is this possible he knows the fights I suffer all by myself?

He thinks it's wrong, really wrong. 

I didn't confront the problem like I should have. I was a failure, and I did not want to tell anyone, not even him. 

But how do we get better at fighting if we find it too hard to listen? If I'm making a mistake, I gotta let him tell me than letting myself get pinned down all the time, doing the same strategies, even if they are in my personal life. 

I looked to the teacher...I stood longer. "What's wrong, Angel?" Mr. Mark said. 

I ran out of the classroom, clamping Buddy's hand in mine. He bumped against the desk, hard, and by the time I closed the classroom door, he pulled my hand back and pushed me against the wall. "You can tell me here. You can tell me now."

I pushed. "You can't tell me when I can and can't do something. Get off me. You aren't my boyfriend."

Buddy stood back, and blushed. His hands were off the wall behind me. His vulnerability was in full view. 

Dark jeans and a stark button up shirt. He sure did clean up. Maybe I knew him too shortly to judge. Fiddly fingers. A chest that mimicked an elevator. Maybe because I just ran with him, though. 

The moment seemed to stop; I saw his chapped lips. I heard and smelled his dope breath. For once, he didn't stink. He smelled like goodness...shower fresh. Literally. Maybe a utilized fragrance. 

His arm muscles shown under his shirt as if it wasn't lose enough, but it seemed to fit well over his flat stomach. He had no pecs, not that I should judge, because why would his body matter unless I was trying to find weak spots? I wouldn't know, really, fully, until I could wrestle (with him), too. I wanted to wrestle. 

I felt the warm saline blob rise in its unblobbed from before it cougulated under my lid. I wanted to fall to my knees right there, but why? He was right there. 

I fell into his chest. I clenched that jacket he shouldn't have worn. I wanted his singlet...I wanted the sheer material loged in between ny fingers, though...I wanted the sweat I loved. I wanted him for that. 

I wanted his touseled hair, too. His ruddy complexion when I gave him a run through the school hallway. The warmth he exuded now. His rising and falling emotions, and now chest. I...I guess I wanted him. 

The only thing that was ever mine. 

When I was told to leave wrestling, he was here. When I was crying, so was he. This was a day. A day more than I had with him before and I already felt that he was the one. The one to take all this away. It did not even feel like a bandaid. It felt like a surgery, and I let my quaking body stand against his strong figure, and I let his complexion soften from blushed to concerned, to content. 

I think we were both good, now.