My eyes scan the bed above me in all its hanging glory, listening to my 'friend' let out word after word without any real attention played to what he's saying.

"God, I'd love to be French! Wouldn't you?"

The small light from the bunk across from me suggests that the other side of the bed can't sleep either though my eyes can't see through the cloth covering them.

"Why?" I question, no genuine interest in this Englishman's fascination with the French. He is maybe six years older than me but acts like a small child. If it weren't for his alcohol habit, I would think the man is actually a tall twelve years old boy rather than a man in his 20's-30's

"Don't you love their accents? My ex was French, she was quite the woman."

I close my eyes, more bothered by his annoying dreamy tone than I could've expected. Last time he held that tone longer than two seconds, I got to listen to three men talk about their childish celebrity crushes and fantasies for hours on end. Now the lower bunk has a new man, probably an another blabbering idiot.

"I, for one, think Russians are better."

The cloth gets pushed aside and the previously busy man from it looks up, seemingly exhausted.

"Shut the fuck up or I will make sure you can't hear a Russian accent ever again," he threatens, accent thickening as he goes on, though his tone holds very little genuine interest in hurting anyone.

He has a book in his hand, I have no idea which one but I don't find it that interesting either. The language doesn't seem that interesting, though that more so than the book's content itself, having been written in Norwegian or Swedish. Perhaps he's from Scandinavia? Could explain the accent.

This guy is new to me, his eyes showing annoyance I have not seen before. He seems easy to aggravate with no playfulness in his words, unlike our previous bedmates, yet still kind hearted behind them.

"I don't know if you know this, new guy, but everyone here talks late into the night."

The 'new guy' rolls his eyes, crossing his arms with the book still in his hand. He seems more annoyed than I do but also somehow in a more childish way. He can't be that much younger than me to be here but the little I can see of him, he seems closer to my age than the other men.

"My name is Markus and you two should share a bed of you want gossip. Certain people would like to read without your little interruptions."

I roll my eyes as the other two idiots just get more excited at the prospect of a name. Markus is a rather easy name, though it still has a small bit of foreign charm to it, I was expecting a Bjorn or something alike to it.

"I'm Tyler!" one of them says, smiling a warm smile to meet that hard gaze from below him.

"I'm Johnny, call me John," my bunk mate declares, looking down happily before he notices the book, "What are you reading?"

Markus looks to me, as if expecting me to become a part of this welcome wagon they have going on. I just roll my eyes and pull the covers over me to hug me a bit tighter, trying to ignore their bullshit. While Markus has familiar features, he is not as striking as the girl who seemed like my sister.

"And that there is Dominic, we call him Nic or Dom though."

"I'd prefer you called me nothing at all," I say, rolling over, "Act like I don't exist, Markus."

"He's a bit... grumpy," my bunk mate tells Markus, slightly hushed as if that would help me not hear it.

I can feel their eyes on me, Markus especially, it's like I'm some animal displayed at the zoo! Their eyes press on, trying to find out something without me saying anything at all.

"He has a hard past."

I roll my eyes, they expect me to tell them. It's pretty clear they are expecting me to tell them something again though soon the two goons move on and Markus returns to his book.

"Everyone I ever loved is dead," I say, after a long silence with snores from the top bunks the only noise along with papers slight turning. I'd assume Markus is awake with the continuation of the small light and the fact it's clearly a book being turned and telling him that fact since I believe most people know it doesn't seem like a big deal.

"My condolences," Markus declares, hushed. It doesn't matter to me much either way.

He sits up, heard by the bed squeaking slightly. I turn my head to face him, seeing the seriousness in his eyes. It's, yet again, like I'm at the zoo or I'm a pet at the pet store. He's staring right at me and some part of me wants to reach for my gun at how much his eyes remind me of lions while an another part finds his attention somewhat endearing.

"I lost my brother," he continues, eyes now displaying a small sadness that has threatened to come out for seemingly a while now, "It wasn't for war, he didn't die for it. He died because of my father, he went to jail for it later but it does hurt."

He smiles in a slightly sad way, perhaps the first smile I have seen from him this whole night. His accent is thick but pleasant, it's clear he is not from an English speaking family by the accent as well as slight errors in his speech that, while aren't that noticeable with the accent, are clearly grammar mistakes.

He pockets the light, gets up and sits in front of my bed, looking at me. The closer he comes the more clearly handsome he is, blessed with the Scandinavian genes many people find so attractive.

"I can not see your face well."

"Perhaps that's for the better, I'm not a beauty Queen."

He rolls his eyes, taking his light from his pocket and placing it in between us. He looks taken aback for a second but settles down, just staring at me as if trying to find the words. It's odd to have someone stare at me for so long without a hint of disgust. Normally the fact I have a hole and a burn just below my eye is already an extremely disgusting sight to many. Then the rest of it? The stitches to the burns to the scars to the burned off eyebrow, I would probably quite fit a horror book in many eyes.

"Where did you get those?"

"On the battlefield, I think. A few of them are from when my town got attacked."

"Do they hurt?" He asks, words coming out like a small toddler when they look at pierced ears for the first time would say them. Intrigued rather than scared or filled with pity.

I flash him a smile, breathing out of my nose a little bit at the question. It's a bit idiotic, he clearly isn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

"No, they're old."

He puts his hand on my cheek, on a very specific burn. It's gentle and graceful, his fingers running along it like some kind of old piece of jewellery that could break from worse. He doesn't seem bothered by it.

The snoring is slowly becoming a rhythm, every three seconds one of them snores and the other snores in between those three seconds. God, I hate snoring, it used to keep me awake ever after the gossip club died down. Running on one hour of sleep doesn't do miracles for your rationale or reaction speed.

He clicks his tongue, ominously present in the buzzing of the room in the sharpness it has, like a sudden stab from a sword. It's as if a track got restarted, timed perfectly between snores. His hand slowly retreats, perhaps expecting more of a reaction than I give. His eyes spell out a sudden tiredness, closing for a second longer than needed while leaning against his arms now placed on my bunk. This should be invasive, I haven't known the boy for long and he's already this close. Somehow, he just seems a bit childish, his face is so young that I cannot pass him the blame for the state this world is in. Besides, he wasn't here either, he was kilometres away somewhere.

"You should get to bed," I say, running a hand through his hair to wake him up a bit. I attempt to keep it from being rough but still use power to go through the dark blond hair.

There's something charming to the innocence in his eyes when he looks at me, seemingly trusting. Maybe he thinks he know more about me than the others, that I have put my trust in him. Or perhaps he has other reasons. Maybe I remind him of someone like that little girl reminded me of my sister. Maybe he reminds me of someone I can't connect the dots to and that's why I don't feel the need to push him away yet.

He presses a button on his light, looking back up at me after the light is out as his arms get off the bed. His figure stands up and walks across, leaving his light on my bed. He's like a small child stumbling on his way to bed.

I stand up as well, taking the light and going to his bed. He seemingly turns to face me and I softly place the light by him.

His hand grabs my arm, pulling me next to him like a toddler would do with a caretaker. Without a word, he pulls the covers over himself and seemingly just falls asleep.

I stare at him for a hot second, unsure of what to do as this boy tangles with me more and more in his sleep until I am practically left to lay still as a statue, him wrapped around me like I were prey in an oddly comforting strangle hold. He's strong, shown by how easily he pulled me down, but has to be younger than twenty. Younger than me ever, even if I look much older than I should. He looks peaceful, like life hasn't quite caught up to him yet or like he has been intelligent enough to forgive it everything that happened, everything that went wrong.