Author's Note: This is a continuation of the story Walking that I absolutely love. If you haven't read Walking this won't make any sense. So I suggest that you read Walking; it's really good. J
Chapter 1
My mind is racing, much like my feet that hit the pavement. The scenery is beautiful on this fresh, new spring day. The trees are green, the honeysuckle bloomed, but I don't notice any of it. My mind is too preoccupied to care.
Thump. Why does he do this to me?
Thump. I should relax, it's only a business trip.
Thump. But he knows how I hate being in that house by myself.
Thump. You just need to relax, you're overreacting. I pass my house on the fourth time around the block, ignoring it completely. If it weren't for my daily runs Quatre and I would have a worse marriage than we already have. This morning was particularly interesting; he's going on another one of those damned business trips and leaving me here in this monstrosity of a house. I like to refer to it as my prison, though it is beautiful. The white house with the red door and roof completely ironic and allegorical. Red is the color of heat, seduction, passion; white is the color of purity, truth, however there is nothing like that in my life. My marriage is as boring and passionless as the dying brown leaves of autumn. Routinely, I'll walk into the house after this morning run and he'll be sitting in his favorite chair reading some dull book. He'll look up at me as I rush frantically up the stair trying to avoid him. I can't, I should know this by now. I can't avoid Quatre and his damned intuitive empathy. Exactly five minutes later he'll come upstairs and try to comfort me with soothing words which will soon turn to sex because I'll be draped in only a thin, white towel, soaking wet from just stepping out of the shower.
At this point, I shudder at the thought of opening the front door. Three years of my life have been spent in that place with this man and I cannot remember a single enjoyable occurrence in my marriage. Yes, the white house in which I picked out the hardwood floors that are lamented and shellacked, marbled to rose and ivory perfection, have never been looked upon with any type of joyous eyes. The alabaster, raw silk curtains in the living room and the champagne satin chair with periwinkle and silver pinstripe couch neighbor has never had a friendly visitor for tea or other such conundrum of drink. The violet and aquamarine silk duvet has never been ripped from the mattress in a fit of passionate rage, nor have the raspberry satin sheets ever witnessed sweat-soaked exhausted bodies tumbling languidly upon them. Do not misunderstand, there has been sex; intercourse in the most clinical sense of the word and sometimes Quatre may have caught himself thinking that it was passionate. But, in truth, there has never been passion, never any course hair pulling, biting, and licking, scratching. There has never been any sexual play, no use of sticky sweet condiments, and no use of toys or handcuffs, no different carnal positions. No orgasm. He treats me too gently to every get me off the way I wish. Even in his kiss there is this underlying presence of fear, like he's going to break me if he let's go of his own passions. My life is surrounded by beauty: lush, green trees, lily-white neighborhood, picket fence, even a damned dog, but I am empty.
That's why I run.
Everyday, like a clock or a rooster, or some other strange animal I wake the sun with my feet hitting the pavement rhythmically. I don't know how long I'll run, I don't know where I'll run to, but I always know that I'll run. I don't run the same path everyday. I run a different path, I discover different worlds, I enjoy different venues of my life through my worn and dirty sneakers. My feet take me where my mind tells them to go; over the green lawns of my neighbors, down the deep, dark trails of the park. Sometimes I even go to other neighborhoods, discovering the beauty of newness, of excitement. Everyday, whether it's rain or shine, winter or summer, blazing sun or bitter cold, I strap on my shoes and leave my prison for as long as I can.
Sometimes I think that I should just keep running, forsaking everyone. I could just keep moving my legs so fast, so furiously fast and strong that I don't stop and run away. I'll run away from the three-story white house and scarlet door. I'll run away from the ivory halls, the alabaster, raw silk curtains. I'll run away from the frightening purity, rotting perfection, passionless fucking, empty promises of late nights and romantic evenings. I'll run away from all of that forsaking Quatre, the money, the life and just be free to live the way I want to. I'll regain a piece of who I was and who I am and the person that I always want to be. Even in my exhaustion I would expunge my solitude into the blackened pavement through worn and filthy sneakers.
I would run away. I would run away on filthy white leather thumping melodically. I would run away in a three-year old warm up suit that is one string pull away from falling apart. I would run away with a sweaty forehead and a messy ponytail pulled back by a small, red elastic band that is one pull away from bursting.
But where would I go?
That's why I stay. Not because of fear or exhaustion or financial troubles, but because I have no destination. For most people that would be part of the excitement, the journey, but for me it only creates more frustration, more confusion. I've lived my life through perfectly place metal borders; the walls were so thick and perfectly lined that I had not choice but to follow the path with little to no wavering from it. My future was entirely predestined, and though I would love to breakaway from that ridiculous notion of social control, I am not yet ready. That is why I stay.
I am a coward and I accept it fully.
I accept it with head up high. Women have fled in harder situations than this, why can't I? Simple. I don't have any idea where I would go. Would I run to another colony, change my name and live there with my dog? Would I run to the earth and live out my life as a farmer, marrying a man with high morals and no income? Or will I follow my instincts and follow a small traveling circ…
"You should watch where you're going," this voice is familiar. Too familiar. It's like a voice in a very vivid, almost sensual dream. I know this voice. My eyes open and I notice that I'm again in front of my house, not knowing how many times I've rounded the block, only knowing that I am now straddling a familiar voice. I look down into the coolest depths of jade eyes that I've ever seen. I know those eyes; they looked upon me with grace and favor once. Those eyes smiled happily down at me years ago. I can vaguely remember those eyes daunting on me with an emerald glow of love.
"Trowa?" I speak, unable to catch my breath from the running. Or is it because I am too embarrassed or dare I say shocked to see him. He stares up at me from the comfortable place on his back, those warm pools morphing from gentle green and gold to an almost lime. I see them darken quickly and a simple smirk aligns his face; he's amused with me.
"I doubt that Quatre would enjoy for us to stay this way, especially in plain sight of the neighbors." I wonder for more than a few seconds as to what he's talking about. It occurs to me quickly that my thighs are expertly pinning his hips to the ground and that this larger man is under me. As innocent as the circumstances were that led to this position, it is still improper of a lady of my community stature and status to be caught in this pose with a man other than my husband, on the front lawn no less. I scramble quickly to get up, pulling him up with me as soon as I straighten myself out a bit.
"What are you doing here?" my voice sounds angered. I am. I haven't seen Trowa since his blatant admittance of love the day before my wedding three years ago. He's been as quiet and mysterious as ghost since then. There had been sightings and clues- a postcard here, a present there- and he'd surfaced often enough not to cause worry, but there had never been any tangible contact with the man, not even a vid-phone conversation.
"I talked to Quatre yesterday and told him that I needed a place to stay for a couple of days. He said that it was fine considering that he was going out of town and that you don't like being in that house by yourself." I take this small narrative to give him the once over. Three years is not really enough time to change drastically, but it is enough time to mature. Trowa has matured since I'd seen him last. After I married Quatre he quit the Preventers and disappeared on some strange quest. He gave Lady Une the excuse of having to "find himself." I can tell that he has. He looks relaxed and calm, not the pent up young man that he was three years ago. His shoulders are lowered and relaxed, and they move with his body in a calmer gait rather than against the flow and current like they used to. He's lost the last bit of boyishness about him that he barely retained from his childhood and the wars. Now, his stance is confident, his face lined with a turmoiled youth, his posture austere though comfortable, and his movements punctuated by a grace that only well-traveled gentleman attain. He's still shockingly beautiful, having shed some of the ruggedness of his youth for a gentler, more refined type of beauty. His skin still holds that sheen of deep, rich olive, buffered by an opulent tan of golden brown. His hair has been lightened by the sun, no doubt from many days spent outside, and what was once a simple mousy auburn is now a gold-flecked shock of ginger that flows softly in the wind and settles somewhere around his perfectly angled shoulders. And his eyes. those lime, jade, emerald pieces that look out from under a tuft of unruly bang. The citrine-flecked irises set in almond shaped frames and long, flowing dark lashes. Those hadn't changed a bit. I look into them and still see the same daunting love, then he blinks and it's gone.
"Quatre has made me look like a coward," I say, a tinted smile on my face. Your eyes widen and I can see a small bit of bemusement that you're tying desperately to hide.
"Your cowardice is understandable, this house is rather large, especially when you're alone in it." I walk towards the red door and you follow lifting your bags by yourself. I suppose I should have asked to help you, but I don't. You're a strong man; you can lift your own bags.
"What are you doing out this late?" you ask as I unlock and open the door. It is late. I hadn't noticed. It's almost seven. I've been running for the past two hours, non-stop.
"I try to run as often as possible, especially when Quatre and I are on the verge of an argument," I say without remorse. I, out of the corner or my eye, notice that Quatre is looking at me; his face is almost grimaced in embarrassment from my comment to Trowa. But the sweet blonde hides it well behind a hurting, false smile as he greets his old friend at the door. He doesn't greet me; he only gives me a look of utter disdain. I turn, smile pleasantly at both men and excuse myself for the customary shower.
I know why my husband is upset with me. Ever since this morning when he told me that he was going to away on yet another business trip I have been flippant and disinterested in him. I see that he has decided to return the favor. Telling Trowa is in no way acceptable. Quatre is extremely private about our marriage.
I strip off my sweat-soaked clothes and fling them into the clothesbasket. I let down my hair, feeling some of the wet, sweaty ends brush sloppily against my naked back. My sneakers were off as soon as I entered the house; Quatre prefers that I not wear them in the house considering the dirt that I could track in with them. I smile stupidly, stretching my neck and trying to relax. Trowa and Quatre in the same house, it almost feels like old times. It feels like the old times before I was married and I used to spend time with both men equally. It was Quatre then that swept me off my feet, though Trowa had always held my heart in his hands. It was so difficult to deny him everything those three years ago.
The mirror doesn't lie; it tells the truth if you stare at it hard enough. My smile is bright but my eyes are dull, lifeless, almost sickly. My hair that usually holds an artificial sheen is deaden by straggled split ends and small streaks of gray worry. My skin, instead of holding the opulent radiance that was usual in my single years, the sheen that men used to compliment with flowery adjectives such as "mocha" and "tawny," is now a lackluster, muddy brown. My hazel eyes aren't bright and my face is uninteresting. The only thing that has gotten better about my physical appearance after my marriage is my body. The running has kept me thin, has kept me muscular, and has kept me sane. And it is my body that I admire in the mirror.
I do not admire my once gorgeous face; it is only my body that strikes me as beautiful. It is the accentuated biceps and triceps that my eyes slide appreciatively over. The full bosom, tipped with coffee brown nipples falling languidly onto a cinched waist and blossoming to round, shapely hips would be enough to make any man happy. But the real prizes are my legs. The two brown limbs stretch sensually from pert, taut buttocks. The swollen quads jut appreciatively from my thighs leading my eyes enjoyably down to a pressurized and equally swollen calf muscle. I love my body; it is a symbol of all my hard work, a metaphor for all my mental anguish.
"We really shouldn't be bringing other's into our family arguments," Quatre is behind me. I wonder for a moment how long he's been standing there. I wonder if he watched me or if he'd just showed his face. I turn and meet his blue-eyed gaze as it wanders favorably across the naked planes of my body. I smirk inwardly.
"Trowa is an old friend, I didn't want him to feel left out." He's not paying attention to my sarcasm or to my excuse; his mind has wandered to look at my body. I do not cover myself; I am not ashamed of my body and I love it when Quatre looks at me in this way. He walks toward me, cocking my chin up for a simple kiss and I do not pull away. Sinfully I allow him to pawn my breasts though I know he is not worthy. I allow him to push my lips apart with his tongue and I allow him to lay me on the bed without struggle.
"I got something for you," he whispers in between wet, sloppy kisses. I do not respond, I only stare up at him with my dull hazel eyes. He stands from the bed and walks over to his closet, pulling a wrapped present. He hands it to me as I put on my white robe that had been hanging on the bed. I stare at the gift then at the excitement in his aquamarine eyes.
I take the present and open it slowly, removing the crackling silver wrapping, letting it crumple on the bed next to me. I remove the top from the box and shuffle the white, packing paper around to reveal a new pair of running shoes. This is ironic. If only he knew the reason why I run.