FDR inhaled deeply, his back still resting against his bedroom wall. He extended his hands toward his face and wiped his cheeks to make sure he wasn't actually crying. He then walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. The sounds of crashing water from the shower down the hall reassured him that Tuck was still showering. FDR was now capable of collecting his thoughts. He couldn't (and didn't want to) be in the apartment. Seeing Tuck's glistening body wasn't the only problem. FDR felt like his guilt was written all over his face—an open book for Tuck to read at FDR's expense. It was one thing to ruin their friendship, which FDR desperately wanted to avoid, but FDR could not face this incident spreading throughout the agency. He was FDR: ladies man and top agent. He loved his job and the admiration that came with it, but now it was time for damage control.
Until now, FDR was secretive about his feelings. It wasn't until recently that he was getting sloppy. He needed time to thinkand also to work off his frustration. He couldn't just lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling; Tuck was still in his restroom!He thought about immediately jumping into the shower once Tuck got out, but that would mean their paths would have to cross. Suddenly, his apartment went silent. Squeaks from turning shower faucets could be heard. FDR had to figure something out quickly.
Starbucks? No. The grocery store? No. Bingo! The gym!
He had about five minutes to get his stuff together while Tuck dried himself off. He ran to his room and began searching for his gym bag until he realized that he was still in his boxers from the night before. He was limited on time, so he decided to put on his gym clothes instead. Searching for basketball shorts, a shirt, and a pair of socks in his dresser was easy. But as the minutes passed, he began to panic and as a result started slamming his drawers shut. The clash of wood on wood echoed throughout the room. FDR was definitely not being coy about being in a hurry.
"Is everything okay out there, mate?" asked FDR.
FDR froze in his tracks. His eyes shifted from his tennis shoes, which lied next to his bedroom door, to the restroom door. Tuck was talking through the door. Fortunately for FDR, Tuck was not done in the restroom.
"Yeah," responded FDR. "I'm just getting a few things."
"Are you going somewhere?"
"I'm going to the gym," said FDR. "I'll be back later."
"You're up for a workout after last night? Wow. I need time to recover."
"Well I didn't have as much as you had. Don't wait up for me."
FDR grabbed his gym bag and reached for his phone on the night stand. He then picked up his tennis shoes and exited his bedroom. Tuck had said one more thing, but FDR was too focused on getting out of his apartment to even notice. He didn't even lock his door, though he reached for his keys. It also didn't even dawn on him how quickly he was moving until the smooth soles of his socks caused him to lose balance on his apartment's metal stairs.
Just get to the car! Just get to the car! Everything will be better soon.
In a matter of seconds FDR entered his personal garage and stepped into his car. He immediately pushed his garage button on his car keys before starting up the engine. The moment the garage door was almost open, FDR revved up the engine and backed out. Although he was fleeing home, a place he once felt safe in, he felt like he was now seeking a new sanctuary. His face may have been covered in guilt before, but now it was mostly covered in fear. He did encounter fearful events as an agent, but this kind of fear had been foreign to him since high school. And now he was worried about where this fear would lead him.
FDR pulled in slowly into a parking spot near the gym entrance. The gym had large windows, which allowed FDR to take an estimate of how many occupants were in the building. The gym was practically empty, a surprise to him around this time, but he didn't immediately get out of his car. He put on his shoes, pocketed his phone and headphones, and took a few deep breaths. He questioned bringing in his gym bag, but that would involve him stopping by the locker room. The fewer people he had to talk to the better. He usually worked out at the agency, but he liked having a gym membership because it allowed him to escape the craziness of this time he was more distracted than usual. He didn't even greet the girl at the front desk who was overly fond of FDR. Rather, he punched in his electronic pin and headed toward the treadmills. He was practically running away from home, so he triedto kill that urge before he made a habit of it.
The treadmill started at a smooth 4 miles per hour. Once his heart rate was up, FDR increased his speed to 7 mph. He was content on staying at that speed for the next 45 minutes to an hour, but he needed a stronger distraction as his thoughts continued to fade back to Tuck. His mind was filled with innocent questions at first, such as, "I wonder if Tuck got something to eat?" or "Did Tuck go home after his shower?" But then his mind began to drift.
I wonder if he smellslike my body wash? He didn't do laundry, so would he be wearing my clothes? My underwear?!
FDR was now lost in his thoughts. His heart beat even picked up, proving that his thoughts were much more active than hisactual running. But the sudden tingle in his groin somewhat brought him back down to earth.
"No," said FDR, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. It took a second for him to realize that he actually said that out loud. He looked around him to make sure he didn't surprise anyone with his sudden outburst. After realizing his words went unnoticed, he became angry with himself. FDR couldn't believe where he was now, both physically and figuratively. He actually ran out of his house. He hadn't run away from anything in his life—even after his high school incident. Well, it wasn't exactly an accident because he only regretted the outcome. But this time, he regretted everything he did to Tuck.
For the next few minutes on the treadmill, FDR tried to find any type of justification for his actions. But every thought failed to give him solace. He ultimately settled on himself being weak. Even that admission left a bitter taste in his mouth. How could he be weak? He was ruthless, the agent who would devour anything in his path. But now, he was being devoured by his libido. That was something a teenager faced not a grown man, thought FDR.
If the past 30 minutes had a silver lining, it would be that FDR had just completed three-and-a-half miles on the treadmill. The treadmill beeped to signal that he had reached his halfway mark out of the hour. FDR looked down with a surprised look on his face. He had never heard the treadmill make that noise. That was probably because he always ran with headphones. FDR was definitely elsewhere mentally because he failed to put on any music. His phone and headphones were still in his pocket, so he reached in and retrieved the two items. To prevent himself from tripping, he paused the treadmill. Yes, he was a skilled and talented agent who had trekked through ruins and jungles. But as of right now, he was not at his prime. The speeding mat came to a slow halt, allowing FDR to put in his headphones properly. The cord dangled in front of him as he reached for the connecting end. He was about to plug the end into his phone when his screen lit up with a text message, which based on its time of delivery, was received a few minutes ago. The friction of his phone in his pocket against his thigh countered the vibration of his phone, so he didn't sense the incoming message at all. Nevertheless, FDR had set up his phone to provide him with a preview of a text message so he could prioritize their importance. The text was from Tuck, and the preview read: I need to talk to you. I saw something odd this morning. Call me...
FDR stood frozen on the treadmill. He even slowed his breathing. It wasn't until his body yearned for oxygen that he finally took in a deep breath. His eyes remained focused on the phone screen as he swallowed hard. It appeared that his mouth had gone completely dry, and now he was hyperventilating. Paranoia was kicking in.
Oh God! I've been busted!
FDR didn't dare unlock his phone to read the rest of the message. He assumed the worst. Instead, he plugged in his headphones and activated his music without unlocking his phone. He blasted the first song that played and started up the treadmill once more. By the time he put his phone back into his pocket, he was back at 7 mph. But even the sudden change in speed couldn't keep his head from spinning.
Has Tuck noticed the way I look at him? Did he wake up because he knew what I was doing?!
His worry continued to grow, so he increased the speed of the treadmill to 9 mph and set the incline at 3 feet. If he didn't break a sweat before, he definitely was now. He knew he missed up big time. He could only imagine the earful he would receive when he returned home.
Maybe I can just ride it out here for a few hours. Maybe he'll leave on his own.
But even FDR couldn't believe that. Tuck had been staying at his place for almost a month, so he could easily camp out until FDR got home. And even if FDR stayed out late, he knew he couldn't sneak past Tuck. He could be on the couch or in his bed. Either way, it was definitely a con having a secret agent as a best friend. Tuck would wake at the instant the front door open, and FDR would be bombarded with numerous questions.
FDR was about to pass out from his extreme run when the treadmill timer saved him. His hour was up. Thankfully FDR was stopped because he would have continued running, possibly resulting in a major injury. Don't think he was above that either. He actually contemplated getting seriously hurt to the point that he was back in the hospital. Then, he thought, Tuck would feel bad for him and forget anything ever happened. But even that was a stretch, so he didn't risk hurting his recently healed leg permanently.
He almost lost his footing when he stepped off the treadmill. The last thirty minutes of his run left his legs feeling like spaghetti. He may have been in shape, but his recent absence from the gym and work put a damper on his stamina. FDR looked around the gym to make sure nobody was paying attention to his weak state or perhaps his sudden attempt to beat the treadmill. He looked back at the treadmill to make sure that he wasn't forgetting anything. His music was distracting him from even doing that simple task, so he paused his music and pulled out his headphones. FDR knew something was off, but he couldn't put his finger on it at first. Then it hit him. FDR was not only parched, but he also left his water bottle in his car. He wasn't in the mood (or shape at the moment) to head outside and back in because he knew that would involve him passing the perky girl at the front desk. He settled on drinking from the water fountain, which didn't have a decent filter. After a few sips, he pulled away from the fountain with a sour look on his face. The water tasted bitter to him, but that was probably due to the salt on his lips from the sweat he just worked up. But he had to admit that the cold water was refreshing. It even settled his mind and body, allowing him to jumble a few thoughts together in regards to getting back home...unscathed.
His reputation aside, here was FDR's current dilemma: should he open up the text before or after lifting weights? He remained at the fountain and thought of his next step. He was about to reach for his phone, but a fellow gym member walked up behind him and asked if he was about to use the fountain. FDR shook his head and moved out of the way, which threw him toward the weights. He nodded his head at the weights, as if it were a sign from God, and returned his phone back into his pocket without reinserting his headphones.
FDR lifted up two forty-pound weights. He usually lifted more, but seeing as he had not eaten breakfast or hydrated properly, he decided to take it easy. After all, he was still feeling a little light-headed from the treadmill, as well as from the questionable, unopened text in his pocket. But his multiple reps went by smoother than his venture on the treadmill. Each lift and relaxation was executed in front of a large mirror that other weightlifters shared. Maybe it was his complete attention to his facial responses or the possibility of being seen by people within arm's reach, but FDR could pretty much keep his mind off of Tuck. But what couldn't be seen on the surface quickly submerged beneath his ribcage. His heartbeat first picked up from lifting weights, but after a few minutes, his heartbeat raced because of the inevitability of having to return home. The worst news lurked in his home, a place he thought his vulnerability would never be threatened. FDR rolled his eyes at his current state. He was scared to return home like he had disobeyed his parents. He was a grown man! This slight glimpse of courage and anger was good for him, though. He was now thinking rationally. Well, rationally compared to before, but he was still wary of what he might lose and what he might be forced to do to protect himself—in other words, he wasn't a deadly assassin who only hunted foreign foes.
FDR stopped lifting and slowly lowered his weights. He could not believe that he actually thought of hurting his friend. Well, his only true friend, assuming Tuck still was once he returned home. The complete and utter loss of Tuck actually hurt FDR's heart. FDR's anger turned in on itself, causing him to beat himself up over everything since day one.
It was you who followed him on his first day! You actually exposed yourself to him! And if that wasn't bad enough, you violated him! You can call it whatever you want, but you know damn well that he would not have liked your hands on his body.
FDR returned the weights to their station and stretched in front of the mirror. His face may not have read sadness, but his eyes sure did. He put himself in Tuck's shoes, making the guilt even worse. But then it hit him! FDR's eyes opened wide. He was a special agent, and that required him being able to analyze a person's personality and predictable characteristics. But simply, Tuck was not an average Joe. In fact, he would not be hiding behind a text message about the night before. He would have challenged FDR right there in his apartment. So what was he scared of, thought FDR? He squinted his eyes in agreement and reached for his phone. He quickly unlocked it and clicked on messages. It read: I need to talk to you. Isaw something odd this morning. Call me crazy, but I think someone bit me at the club last night.
FDR sighed hard and shook his head slightly. He felt absolutely foolish. He thought Tuck was aware of what happened last night, but it seems the alcohol made him forget all about the Walking Fantasy. Aside from his feeling of relief, FDR was becoming angry with himself. He had been worrying for nothing.
That was a close call, but no more clumsiness. You need to be done with him. You got that? It's going to hurt...but look at where you are now. Do you want to risk everything again? And all because you can't control your urges. Oh yeah, you sure are a "top-notch agent."
FDR was done working out. He wanted to go home and eat something. Feeling absolutely ecstatic, he returned his phone into his pocket and practically skipped out of the gym. He even smiled and winked at the girl behind the front desk. She couldn't even respond at his gesture, so she simply smiled and gave him googly eyes. FDR started up his car and raced out of the parking lot. He just couldn't wait to get home, but not just to see Tuck per se. Rather, he couldn't wait to bring up all the dirt from last night. Well, he might embellish on a few things and leave some facts out, but Tuck had no idea what was heading his way.
The drive back was not as long as his drive to the gym. FDR attributed that to his previous feelings of despair. He parked his car and raced up his stairwell. Race is a very generous word because FDR's legs were still weak from his morning run. But he was practically flawless when it came to balancing himself and walking at the same time. He finally reached his door, which still remained unlocked from when he left in a hurry. He placed his keys on the kitchen counter and went to pour himself a glass of water.
Seeing as Tuck was not in the kitchen or living room, FDR called out for him. "Tuck, I'm back. Where are you?"
FDR heard a slight grunt and moan, so he looked around him. He called out once more. "Tuck?"
"I'm in here."
"Where is here?"
"Your bed."
"Oh, okay." FDR walked down the hall with his glass in hand. He expected to see Tuck getting ready for that morning, but instead he was surprised with a still half-naked Tuck (but in a new pair of underwear belonging to Tuck) sprawled across his bed.
"Are you okay?" FDR asked, giggling.
"Shut up," responded Tuck, his face pressed into a pillow. "I still have a headache. Also, I have no idea how much I drank, but I am unbelievably tired. I might even stay in all day."
"That's fine with me. I'm just going to shower."
"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight."
FDR was suddenly giddy, both at the site of Tuck being hungover as well as back in the same compromising position he was before. FDR collected clean clothes and underwear from his drawers and silently tip-toed to his restroom. But before closing the door, he took one last peek at Tuck. Maybe it his happiness or the relief of the moment, but FDR wanted to remember this moment...because it was going to be the last fond memory he had of Tuck. He was being serious about being done with Tuck at the gym, but seeing Tuck once more in nothing but boxer-briefs, FDR accepted defeat. He may not have thought or hoped anything would happen with Tuck, but he knew that having Tuck around would be unfair to their friendship because Tuck would be repulsed by the perverted thoughts lurking in FDR's brain—if he knew! FDR closed the door and undressed. It was time for a shower, but this time it would be a cold and bitter one.
