Runner's High
Chapter Fifteen, Can't Love You, Can't Leave You
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Naruto stood at the bottom of the concrete steps looking left, then looking right, but neither of them is here.
He sat down to wait, gazing unseeingly at the flowing river, a pit of worry forming in his stomach.
If neither of them is here, then what if they're together somewhere else? And if so, how did he miss Sasuke leaving the dorm before him?
He clutched his head, scrubbing his hair with anxious aggravation. Why would they be together? Hinata chose him, didn't she? He was good yesterday! He didn't pester at all! No texts, no sexts, no visits at her job! What is he still doing wrong?!
His phone chimes.
He swipes to check his messages and his grip around his phone tightens.
Sasuke sent him a selfie with Hinata. She's under his arm and her hand is on his chest, and he looks so smug and she looks so pretty and it's absolutely infuriating!
Sasuke: I thought you would've gotten here before me.
Sasuke: I'm going to her house after. She's cooking for me, remember?
Naruto pocketed his phone and sprinted up the stairs.
Remember?
Remember?!
When did this happen?!
He arrives both too late and just in time.
They're gathering their things from the lockers, but at least he didn't miss them entirely.
He runs up to her. "Hey, Hinata-san! Why didn't you text me?!" He clumsily shoves himeslf between her and Sasuke, causing the latter to stumble away, and she's not looking at him.
She walks ahead. Sasuke shoves him aside, throwing him an incredulous look over his shoulder before following after her.
Naruto spreads his arms out, his head feeling like it's about to explode from the building pressure of his confusion. "What the hell?!"
He sprints after them and suddenly he's back to being their shadow. Watching them talk so amicably makes his blood boil.
He exists, doesn't he?
It takes him up to the very last minute to realize that he's finally going to see Hinata's home.
The home she made with her husband.
Where they share the same bed and wake up in each other's arms. Probably. He still pegged her as an unhappy housewife, regardless of her assurances that she's fine. Whatever's 'fine' for her, he knows he can give her better.
He's the champion of his own story and he won't be discouraged!
But then suddenly it rises up from the cover of trees and flowering shrubbery, slapping him in the face with its luxury and his legs turn to lead; Otsutsuki Castle, as he likes to call it. Well, goddamn, it really was a castle. His assumptions about the shoes were right: Two-thousand ryo really is a box of donuts for these people.
He forces his legs to move, cupping his mouth as the meticulous extravagance swallows him whole.
This... This is what he truly has to compete with.
Fuck.
Striding through the tall doorway, he's met by a design he thought he'd only see in the finest hotels. To his right is a den set with four chairs circled around a coffee table. To his left is a living room with a couch and loveseat, an entertainment console supporting a large flatscreen television. Beyond the living room, he can see the entire kitchen. Beyond the den, a fancy dining area with a wine rack.
Directly down the path is a powder room just beyond the foot of the stairs, which have a modern, minimalist design; black, boxy metal railings that conceal nothing as his eyes follow them upstairs. But all he can see from here are picture frames and paintings. What with these vaulted ceilings, the second floor appeared to be even higher up than one normally would be.
He's curious about the rest of her house. Sasuke's been his goddamn wingman by necessity, not choice, because she won't talk to him. Again, as it would appear.
Maybe he can wander around.
She hasn't invited him, but she hasn't told him to leave either, so she must be pretty trusting of him for some reason.
Sliding off his shoes one heel at a time, his stomach growls.
Sasuke has already taken a seat at the island counter facing the stove as Hinata prepares something.
Jealousy has become his only companion lately.
Naruto crosses the house into the kitchen, taking a seat beside Sasuke, glaring daggers at him as now is custom.
"She wanted me yesterday," he grumbled.
"Uh-huh. And that was yesterday."
"She's just feeding you because you're like her kid now."
"Even so, I get to be doted on. Normally, I'd let you know what that's like, but this time you can watch."
Naruto's fists tightened atop the counter. There was the cracking of eggs and the sizzling of leftover rice. Rich aromas soon filled the air but did nothing to temper his bitter mood.
By the time she's done, she turns around and slides a plate of steaming, fluffy omurice in front of Sasuke, with a cutesy, smiling tomato drawn in ketchup.
His eyes snap up from the empty spot in front of him to the stove, to Hinata, back to the empty spot, then finally to Sasuke.
On the one hand, he felt some vindication that this further invalidated Sasuke as a rival. But on the other hand, he still wasn't happy. He secretly wanted his own omurice and specialized ketchup drawing.
He looked into Sasuke's face once more. He was staring down at the drawing, his face strategically neutral. But somehow, Naruto got the sense that Sasuke didn't know how to feel either. His lack of reaction was a reaction in itself.
Hinata flashed Sasuke a proud smile before turning back towards the sink, turning on the faucet to begin cleaning. She slipped on a pink pair of dish gloves, grabbed a sponge and hummed a sweet little tune as she worked the dishes.
Sasuke, seemingly overcoming embarrassment or worse, finally spooned a chunk of egg-wrapped fried rice, tendrils of steam billowing, causing his stomach to grumble and whine.
"Where's my food?"
She didn't acknowledge him.
Sasuke smirked before taking that first bite. "Otsutsuki-san."
"Hmm?" she sing-sang, causing Naruto's knuckles to whiten.
"Your food is delicious."
"I am a wife, after all," she giggled coyly.
"Don't read into it," she had said. "I just had a craving."
So she's really still at it. Apparently he's supposed to believe yesterday meant nothing.
Yeah, okay.
Sasuke doesn't deserve any of the privileges he's been given. He's a pump-and-dump jerk. If she weren't so innocently sending Sasuke platonic signals, he'd be more incensed about the situation, because it wouldn't be fair. Not that he's trying to go all Nice Guy™, but it really wouldn't be fair.
His stomach growls.
He excuses himself from the table and surveys his surroundings.
This is like those four-million-ryo homes, isn't it? Damn, how'd he go and fall for such a refined piece of ass?
He exited the kitchen and headed up the stairs. It opened up to another den on his right, which appeared to be a mini-library, which a chaise lounge and bookshelves. There was also a vinyl player atop a stand, with a box of vinyls beneath the shelf. He headed straight over there and crouched down, flipping through the albums. Half of it was like a coffeehouse starter kit full of acoustic covers, instrumentals and soft jazz, while the other half seemed to be collectibles of various classic singers. He slid the box back into the shelf and turned his head right, which led to a balcony. A big macrame hammock swing chair overlooked the front of the house. It was accompanied by three macrame hanging plant holders, double-tiered, tiny plants sat in each, a couple were succulents, some others were waxy.
He stood up, the left half of the second floor moving up his priority list. This wall in particular seemed to split the hallway into two, obscuring what he was sure lead to the bedrooms. He made a beeline for what lay beyond the wall, but the wall pictures snatched his attention and wouldn't not release him.
There were two of those giant collage-type picture frames. At least twenty photos in each.
Smiling, hugging, cuddling at various stages of their marriage.
Isolated, snowy lodges, empty beaches, a stony waterfall plunge pool, and secret meadow. No one else was included in these photos, it was always them.
There's something about this that he just can't let go.
If he had to guess, based on the most recent looking picture there, the happy memories stopped when she was mid-twenties.
He circled the wall to find more photos. Maybe there's still even more recent photos that he's not seeing.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he questions why he needs to be right.
It's shitty. He knows it's shitty.
He should feel bad about this, he should feel sad for her or something. Instead he wants proof. Proof that her life sucks. That it sucked for a while. And to do what with that proof? Shove it in her face? Make her cry?
Those are not ideal conditions to make her be with him.
Maybe he needs proof for himself. Something that wakes him the fuck up.
He just doesn't know what it is about her, but he needs her. He doesn't want to wake up. He wants to be with her however he can, and he knows deep down he's volunteering for a lot of abuse.
But if this is the worst she can do, he can handle it.
If anything, it's sort of cute.
Incredibly annoying and infuriating, but cute.
This part of the house seems to be the most private of all. He decides to wander left. The first room he comes by gives him pause. There's a table with jars of paintbrushes and doll pieces. Against the left wall is a glass case of various ball-jointed dolls ranging from 55cm to 70cm tall. They're immaculately dressed, coiffed, and painted and he pictures Hinata sitting at that table in her free time, putting one of these things together. It matches her teenhood hobby as far as he can tell. He peeks around just in case before entering the sacred room. And one of the dolls in the case catches his eye.
She's got a half-black half-white hime cut. Her starburst eyes resemble her husband's, but the frosted lilac color resembles her's.
Well, if she did have a kid with him… He probably wouldn't be here, trying to steal her away.
But it's something she's always wanted, huh?
What if it's something she's unable to have?
No, no. She wouldn't have told me to put a condom on that first time. Not that I've bothered to put one in since, eheheh.
He walks past the hobby room and is met with more photos. But these too resemble the same era as the ones out there.
Some couples just forget to be in love and become roommates. It's really beginning to look that way. All of his fantasies about her, they've been rooted in truth all along.
Even if she tries to suck it up and endure, she still admitted to being unhappy.
He stands in the threshold of the master bedroom, and it's as big as a hotel suite.
Double king sized bed, low bed frame and headboard that match the stair's boxy, black railings, flanked by sleek modern nightstands. Across from the bed is a white vanity with pearlescent painted trims. On the vanity is a white LED lamp, a makeup box and necklace holder.
The pearls she wore at her niece's birthday are among the flimsy silver chains.
Her husband hadn't been there with her. She went to her niece's party alone, she practically set it up alone.
But she looked so happy in those photos without him.
Naruto crosses the finely furnished room, eyeing the enormous bed. The one those two share.
His mind grows vague and foggy as images of her beneath her husband play out before him, images of her arching against him, writhing as he makes love to her, her cries only smothered by their lips.
He can almost smell it in the air.
He doesn't notice how his face grows hot, how his heart sinks like a lead ball in quicksand, nor how his feet turn to ice.
He presses the butt of his thumb between his squeezed-shut eyes as he grimaces, her reverent eyes on her husband as he brings her to climax.
A soft tap against the door pops his nightmarish delusions and anxieties and he looks up.
Hinata's standing in the doorway, a pillar of ice with an even colder, detached gaze.
She looks disappointed.
His voice refuses to work. But he wants to apologize. He's kind of sorry for himself, as well, for thinking he could handle this.
Behind him is the master bathroom and across from him is a closet. He watches as she heads over to the closet, opens it and disappears inside.
Is she still ignoring him?
Isn't she mad?
Doesn't she want to tell him to get the fuck out?
When she emerges from the closet, she's carrying a silk pearl robe. She lays it out on the bed.
Then she begins to undress.
His jaw drops.
First she unzips her windbreaker, revealing a white sports bra similar to the ones she used to wear around him. The way it pushes her breasts up never stops to amaze him. They just call out to him to be licked and fondled, her cleavage demanding a thick dick to milk.
She shimmies out of her capris, then her thong, and his throat dries around a hard lump.
She grips the hem of her sports bra and lifts it up, her breasts bouncing heavily as they are freed. He will never tire of this scene.
She circles the bed, walking past him into the bathroom. The glass shower door squeaks open as she steps inside and his breath stills in his chest.
He watches as the waterfall hits her body, the shine of her wet skin highlighting every ample curve, and his hand seeks to alleviate the throbbing ache of his arousal just shy of masturbating.
Or maybe he will masturbate.
Maybe he walk right up to her shower and cum all over the glass. He'll watch her lick it up with a grateful smile on her face.
Ungh, fuck.
He really would be a pervert.
But his semen was inside her yesterday.
She carried that creampie all the way home and he bet she stood there under the shower, with two fingers inside herself cleaning it out.
He licks his lips and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as lust pools in his groin.
He's completely helpless and hopeless when it comes to her.
Will she let him fuck her today?
He cups his balls as he strokes his length, priming himself for her.
She gotta want it.
This is just foreplay for her. It has to be.
Fifteen miserable minutes pass when she turns off her shower and he's perched on the edge of the bed, his knees having given up on him five minutes ago.
His eyes follow her towel everywhere, from between her breasts to underneath, from her outer calves to her inner thigh. She dries her neck, her back, her huge ass, then tosses the towel into a nearby hamper.
She exits the bathroom, drawing nearer, his eyes futilely meeting hers as she circles the bed where she laid out her robe.
He stands up, watching her drape herself in silken luxury, his balls aching at the way her nipples clearly press against the fabric, the way it complements her eyes and softens the heavy shadows of her curvaceous form.
She turns and leaves the bedroom and he nearly trips over himself following her.
What is going on?!
Is he actually dead or something?!
"Hinata-san!" he clears his throat. "Otsutsuki-san!"
But no. She still doesn't acknowledge him.
He throws a final glance over the railings, finding that only his and her shoes remained.
Did Sasuke really leave?
His heavily beating heart released some of that weight now that he knew he wasn't walking into something he never wanted to see.
He pressed his hand to his chest reassuringly.
It was just the two of them here.
Him and Hinata.
Alone.
In her huge as fuck mansion.
Alone.
He peeked his head into the room she entered, surprised to find a nearly identical master bedroom, but the trappings and furnishings couldn't be more different. These personalized touches were cozy and romantic. They felt more like Hinata.
Her back is to him as she pours herself a glass of red wine.
Her television is at low volume, as if she turned it on just for the noise and not the programming.
When she pulls her feet up and reclines against her pillows, she looks at him. She finally looks at him, but the way she stares at him so blankly, it makes him squirm.
He swallows but the lump stays firmly lodged.
She takes a languorous sip from her stem glass. When she lowers the glass, her pretty pink lips are stained red at the center, as if she were in a state of arousal and it beckons him to enter her space.
"Stop," she coolly orders and he pauses mid-step. "I haven't decided yet."
His mind and body scream a futile cry to understand What the fuck is going on?!
His fingers curl into clenched fists as his jaw sets.
"You know what I wanted to do to you earlier?"
"Hm?"
"I wanted to eat you out. Right in front of Sasuke-teme."
Her cheeks pinken up to her ears as she takes another sip of wine, attempting to appear nonplussed.
"Why didn't you?"
His mind reeled.
"Because you would've hated me for it."
She swirled the red juice in her glass, watching the whirlpool thoughtfully. "I wonder about that."
Naruto rushed to the foot of the bed, kneeling down on the ottoman as he clutched the bedding and looked her dead in the eyes. "Are you done fucking with me yet?! No way you would've been okay with that! Don't get my fucking hopes up!"
She chuckled against the rim of her glass, but it wasn't a happy sound. Her eyes winced with the shyest glimmer of tears.
His stomach dropped.
"Hinata, what happened?"
She flashed him an overly sweet, insincere smile. "Hm?"
"I'm gonna throw that fuckin' glass out of your hand if you don't talk to me."
She averted her gaze to the bottom of her glass, losing herself in the deep red liquid and his fingers clutched harder at her bedding.
Then she put her glass aside on a coaster on her nightstand, and she lightly sighed. "Let's just have sex already."
"NO!" His voice boomed in the quiet, but it didn't rattle her.
"No?" she turned over onto her belly, presenting him with her ass. "Not even when I'm vulnerable like this?" she wiggled a little, mercilessly reminding him of how good she felt yesterday, her soft, heavy flesh smacking against his pelvis. He wants to run his hands all over her through her silk robe, but...
"You're acting super weird and it's pissing me off."
She sighed again, hugging her pillow closer.
"If you don't want it, then forget it."
He swung his fist down on the bedding, making her comforter fly up. She didn't even flinch.
"I DIDN'T SAY THAT!"
He palmed his burning face. Everything she's said and done has felt like she's been fitting him into a straitjacket, one sleeve and belt at a time, and he doesn't know what to do.
He can't do her like this.
Sasuke probably could.
His hand slides down to his face to cover his mouth as he looks at her through heated eyes.
He can't leave her.
He can't keep an eye on Sasuke, either.
He has to stay here.
Skip his classes.
If she calls Sasuke to come over because he won't do her, well, he can't fucking allow that.
He blinks away the haze of his ire and realizes how small she truly looks right now.
Naruto climbs atop the bed, pausing every so often to see if she'll move away, and when she doesn't, he gingerly fits himself beside her. He draws his arm across her torso, then he carefully pulls her against his chest and she shakes. She's keeping her face pressed against her pillow, but she can't hide her cries. He circles his other arm beneath her to hold her close, imbuing her with his heat, tucking his face into her damp, clean hair, frowning as her heart raced wildly against his chest.
He laid there with her while she cried herself into exhausted torpor.
There are other ways to be with her besides sex.
But maybe that's the thing she's feared most of all.