Kowalski
At 4am I don't go to bed like I have been lately. Instead I throw my suitcase onto my bed, haphazardly throwing my clothes into it. I add my electronics into my satchel and place the note on my desk where it will be easily noticed. Anything not essential – especially my now worthless science junk – I leave behind. Maybe they can donate it or something? I don't care. I am beyond caring at this point. My vision blurs and I feel everything sway for the umpteenth time. Maybe I should rest but I can't stay here any longer. It hurts to even think about being in this place!

I head to the kitchen and put the kettle onto boil, grabbing my thermos and placing a teabag in it. It is going to be a long drive to...to nowhere planned, really. Somewhere far away. Somewhere where I won't keep being a burden. The sound of it boiling makes my head throb and everything blurs again. I consider taking some food but one look at it makes my stomach twist and for one dreadful moment I feel like I'm going to be sick. I quickly shut the cupboard and sip slowly at water, hoping it somewhat does something. I still feel sick but it at least fades slightly.

The sudden sound of the door opening makes me jump out of my skin and I turn around to see Skipper.
"Kowalski? What are you doing up?" Skipper asks, leaning against the kitchen counter and pouring himself a coffee.
"Couldn't get back to sleep," I lie. I didn't even try. How much sleep am I even averaging a night at the moment? Two hours? Less?
"Well...want to join me for a bit planning training exercises?" he asks. No. I need to leave! I bite back a groan, aware this is going to push me back a day but nod.
"Just give me a moment," I say. I go back to my room, quickly shoving my case under my bed. They cannot know what I am doing until I am far far away.

                                             -----------------------------------------

"You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Kowalski, I am serious."
"I don't want any!"
"Kowalski!"

Skipper and I go back and forth as my bacon sandwich slowly goes cold. My arms are crossed resolutely over my chest, the smell of the bacon sandwich vile and making the urge to throw up return even more than usual. I scarcely managed to keep down my piece of toast at breakfast and this is something a lot more strong.
"Kowalski, we are doing more outdoor training: you need the energy," Skipper says.
"I am not hungry," I repeat, glaring at the sandwich.
"Kowalski!" he says, voice bordering on a shout. I flinch and give in, picking it up and taking a bite. I force myself to swallow and my stomach churns in disagreement.

Don't be sick. Don't be sick.

I manage to finish and I get up.
"Let me know when we're training," I mutter. As soon as I am out I sprint to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to be sick.

My head feels worse than ever and I can scarcely see straight. The buzzing won't leave the back of my mind and I feel too hot and cold at once. I rest my head against the cool wall of the bathroom. I see stars on my vision and shake my head slightly, trying to clear it. I just need to get through training and wait until everyone has gone to sleep. Then I can leave.

I stand, half staggering, heading outside because I know it is bound to be training soon. The cool air and the thick snow do nothing to clear my head and the light causes me to almost black out. Don't be weak. Don't be weak.

The others come back and I take a small step away from Gale who is shooting me his usual malevolent look.
"We're going to start by running laps," Skipper says. "Well. You are. I am timing to see if any of you beat your scores." We head over the start line placed in the snow but I am aware that I can barely see where the track is. In fact it is so blurry that there are three or four with each blink. My breathing hurts. My head hurts. My joints hurt. It's just a few laps though. I can cope. I can cope. I have to cope.

One lap. I am at least keeping up, even if I am not far ahead like usual. My joints ache with each movement and everything is swaying.

I begin lap two. A ribbon of white crosses my vision and my legs buckle. The last thing I am aware of before it all fades to black is a sudden and sharp pain in my head as it connects with the floor.

Skipper
Kowalski falls and I feel my heart rise to my chest. He doesn't get up. I run to his side, kneeling by him, not caring that the snow immediately saturates my trousers.
"Kowalski?" I ask, gently, shaking his arm as carefully as I can. He doesn't react. I swallow and move to adjust his glasses. My hand retracts for a second. He is boiling and shivering violently. The issue though is that I notice the cut on his head from where he fell: there is a steady stream of red falling onto the pure white snow and yet he remains still. "Kowalski? C'mon, open your eyes for me?" I am almost begging. What happened? This looks beyond a simple flu or fainting spell. What do we do? This is Kowalski's area of expertise, not ours. He's the smart one!

I try to recall what he has said in the past. Moving someone unconscious is bad, right? Especially with a head injury and after a fall. But leaving him in the snow can't be good, right?
"Rico, phone a doctor," I order. "Ask if we can move him inside." I take one of Kowalski's hands in mine, not caring if the others notice and piece together I like him. Not caring if Kowalski wakes up and pieces it together. I gently rub my thumb over his knuckles, noticing the patchwork of purple bruises and scabs on them. Where did they come from? We haven't used the punch bag in a few days and these are definitely very new bruises.

Still nothing. I take a risk in moving him slightly so his head is resting on my lap so he doesn't freeze, moving his dark locks out of the way to see how bad the cut is. His hair has some blood in it and I swallow, trying not to think of how he still isn't responding. It looks awful and my only hope that it is either paranoia or it looks worse than it is because of how much blood spreads.

"Doctor will be here shortly," Rico tells me. I don't even bother looking up at him, focusing entirely on the unmoving genius. "He said normally definitely don't move him but he won't get here for over an hour so it is worth the risk if we are careful." I say nothing and gently scoop Kowalski up in my arms, making sure his head is resting on my shoulder. He feels too light. Too fragile.
"It'll be okay. I've got you, Kowalski," I whisper, even though I know he probably can't hear me.

I get him inside then walk to his room, opening the door with my foot. I am immediately hit with cold air. I frown, taking in the wide open window letting in all the cold air and the bed is made better than a hotel one: it has clearly not been used lately. It's too cold. If I leave him in here then I may as well have left him out in the snow with a blanket.

I turn on my heel and head to my own room, still cradling Kowalski as gently as I can in my arms.
"Stop hovering you three," I say fiercely, glaring at the hovering trio. "Let the doctor in when he arrives." I shut my door in their faces. I know I am being mean but I can't bring myself to care. Not when the only sign that Kowalski is okay is the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

As gently as I can I lay him on my bed, making sure he is comfy and then I tuck the duvet and blanket up around him. He is pale. Too pale. He almost blends in with the boring white duvet I have given the cover is in the wash. I don't want to leave him but I quickly dash to his room and shut the window before it can get any colder.

My gaze lingers around the room, noticing that his laptop and several of this other possessions are missing. My gaze finally zeros in on a note – I am assuming it is a note – on his desk with my name elegantly printed on it. I pick it up and dash back to my room to see if he has woken up. He is still motionless and I sigh, stroking his hair again. Has he always been this pale? I glance away from him but keep a gentle hold on his hand as I begin to read.

Skipper,

By the time you read this I won't be here.

I swallow, glancing at Kowalski. If this is what I think it is... I shake my head, refusing to accept the possibility of there being no more Kowalski and force myself to read.

Okay, reading that back it sounds worse than it is. I am

leaving. I can't stay here anymore. In recent times it has beenpainfully clear that I do not belong here. I am useless, a burden. I ammeant to be an inventor but they always go wrong. I only cause the groupissues and you would only be better off without me. It isn't like youwould care anyway.

I am not sure what I did to make you hate me so much.

I thought things were okay but they aren't. So I amleaving, as I said before. It hurts to be here. It hurts knowing I do notbelong here. Please don't look for me.

I am sorry I caused nothing but inconveniences over the year.

Kowalski

I swallow, taking every bit in bit by bit. Kowalski believed every bit of criticism we gave him. That I gave him. Kowalski is seeing himself in the worst light. Kowalski – brilliant, bright, almost-perfect Kowalski – thinks I hate him when really he is the person I care most about. Then the key part of the note, the most reiterated part, finally sinks in. Kowalski was going to leave. I have hurt Kowalski so much that he doesn't want to be here. I have driven him away.

The tears fill my eyes as I look at his still unmoving form, tightening my grip on his hand, vowing I will find some way to make it up to him.