Titus gathered his hair back into a band and sighed as he pulled on his shorts. Working out was the last thing he wanted to do, but Blake tended to be a persistent bastard, not letting go until Titus agreed to join him in the gym. The last time he’d said no, Blake had called every five minutes, and when Titus had said no for the hundredth time, Blake had the power turned off to his quarters. Then he’d continued to call and tell Titus he would rot away in the dark until he met Blake in the gym.
Over the past six months, the silo had been completely renovated. Holly, Justice’s significant other, had told Noah about something called a ‘catch-all,’ a place that most silos around the country had in case something went wrong with the missile all those years ago. Unbeknownst to Noah, the catch-all in his silo had been sealed off.
Between the crew of Rescue One and the Saviors, there simply hadn't been enough room for everyone to live comfortably. They’d split the group in half—some going to the silo outside of Fernley, Nevada, the other half going to the safe house in the Phoenix area. Those left behind in the city—Noah and Abby, Blake, Sophia and Megan, and Hudson, Beverly, and Killian, and Macy and him—had been in charge of making sure the construction stayed on track. They’d also kept an eye on the Colonist offspring terrorizing the city. Well, he did little but stare at the walls; everyone else pitched in and took care of things.
It had been cramped in the seven-thousand-square-foot home, but they had managed. However, when they came back to the renovated silo, Titus had never been so happy as to have his own space.
He had been worthless at that time, and he continued to be. But still, he met Blake.
They warmed up, Billy Idol screaming from the speakers. Blake claimed the pulsing beats and raggedy voice got him pumped up, but it only gave Titus a headache.
"Ready to go, my man?" Blake yelled over the music.
Titus nodded, not bothering to even try to talk over the noise.
Blake pointed to the weight bench, and Titus sighed as he walked over and lay down. Closing his eyes, he wondered what Blake would do if he never rose again. Most likely, he would place an over-weighted barbell on his chest and watch until Titus struggled to finally lift it off. Blake did things like that, all in the name of helping someone.
"Here we go." Blake loaded plates on. "Same amount as the day before yesterday. Let's do this, Titus!"
If only he could muster half the enthusiasm Blake held.
Blake stood behind him as he grasped the bar, lifting it out of its holder. He brought it down to his chest, thought about leaving it there and letting it crush his lungs, but then pushed it back up. He repeated the action ten times. Blake helped him set the barbell safety back in the holder.
"Great job! You think you can do a little more?"
Titus sat up and took stock of his arms and chest. They burned, but they didn't feel weak. "Yeah, I think so."
As Blake loaded more weight on, Titus caught his reflection in the mirror across the gym.
Dark eyes stared back at him, his long, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. His full mouth was set in a straight line—would he ever truly smile again? Despite his lack of excitement or caring about working out, his biceps bulged, and his stomach remained flat. How could someone look so put together on the outside, yet feel like such a hot mess on the inside?
He shook his head.
"What's up?" Blake asked.
"Nothing."
He stared at his reflection for a moment longer, then looked around the gym. One corner held Beverly’s medical gear for emergencies, while a couple of weight benches and a treadmill surrounded him in this area. Blue mats lined most of the floor, and another pile of them sat in the far corner.
He had to admit, having his own quarters really proved to be better than sleeping on the mats. The Saviors had really helped him out, despite what he'd done in his time with the Platoon.
"Why do you do this, Blake?"
Blake's brow furrowed. He set down the plate and sat next to Titus on the bench.
"Why do I do what?"
"Why do you force me to come down here and make my life a living hell if I don't? Why do you put the effort into it?"
Blake rubbed his hand over his head and looked around the gym. "When I went through my rough time, a lot of people around here stepped up and helped me get through it. I suppose I just figured it's my turn to help someone out—a pay-it-forward type of thing."
Titus nodded. The thing that no one seemed to understand was that he didn't want help. He just wished everyone would leave him alone in his misery. Between Macy and the males of the house trying to keep him alive, he'd had quite enough of all their assistance.
The door to the gym opened, and Nico walked in dressed in a tank top, shorts, and running shoes. He grinned as he approached. Titus held mixed feelings about him. The male had always proved to be very nice, but he couldn't help but think that if Nico had talked to Noah about taking him and Simon in, things would be much different. He wouldn’t constantly think about killing himself, and he wouldn’t feel the weight of this depression over him. Simon would be alive, and he would exist in the warmth of happiness they had shared.
Instead, his mind and body resided in a cold, dark place.
However, the Saviors never would have taken them in. His actions while with the Platoon had sealed his fate.
"Ready?" Nico asked.
Blake nodded. "Yup. We're good to go."
He glared at both of them, having the feeling he wouldn’t like where this conversation led.
"Go where?"
"We're going for a run through the desert," Nico answered.
Titus shook his head. "No, I'm not."
Blake stood up and stretched his hands over his head. "Yeah, you are. The three of us are."
"No."
Blake bent down so his face was level with Titus', just a couple inches separating them. The male had overdosed on the garlic croutons at lunch, and Titus grimaced.
"If you don't go, I'll have Billy Idol piped into your room for forty-eight hours straight. Then, I'll stay in there with you, and you can watch me air guitar."
He stood up and pretended to play the guitar, his face contorted. Titus couldn't help but smile, because he didn't look like a rock n' roller, but someone who seemed to be constipated.
"So, what's it going to be, my man? A run, or my awesome rock n' roll skills?"
Neither sounded appealing, but he chose the lesser of the two evils and stood. "Let's go."