Alive

By: Aviantei

5 mph


Cunningham's couch is heaven made from stuffing and upholstery, and I've all but melded into it when a key turns in the lock. Gladiators in a movie I'm only half paying attention to scream at each other on screen, their weapons clanging in a massive racket. The door opens a bit before footsteps pound from the entryway, bringing Cunningham into the room, his face twisted into a mask of worry and confusion.

I toss up a wave with half an enchilada in my mouth. "Welcome home," I greet, then gesture to the spread of food across the coffee table. "I bought you dinner."

"Who the hell are you?" Cunningham demands, striding over to me. Something thuds to the floor amongst the cacophony from the surround sound—he dropped a grocery bag, looks like. Cunningham grabs at my shoulder. "I don't know how you got in here, but—wait a minute…"

He squints at me. I fish around on the couch behind me, then retrieve my hat. I can't quite tuck my hair back up under it with just one free hand, but it seems to do the job anyway, recognition flashing through Cunningham's features. His outfit is a blend of muted darks not suited for the heat at all.

"You might wanna close the front door," I caution. "You're gonna let all the AC out otherwise."

Cunningham pulls his hand back to cover his face with it. I can't quite make out his muttering, but I catch his sigh. I scoot over to one end of the couch and pat the cushion beside me. "Come on, shut the door and get some grub. I don't know what you like, so I just ordered a bunch. It's on me."

"You broke into my house!" Cunningham smacks his palm into the back of the couch.

I frown a little but lean towards the table and spoon more rice onto my plate. "I also broke into your IGPX hangar, but I didn't see you throwing a fit about that." I'm not sulking. If nothing else, I've never seen someone have this sort of reaction before. I add a dollop of sour cream to my plate and mix it up. "If you wanted to call the cops on me, you would've done it the moment you walked in the door. Hell, you could've incapacitated me. So stop your whining and watch this dumb gladiator movie with me, kay, Alexander?"

I use his proper name on a whim, just to see what happens. Cunningham stands up straight, away from his imposing lean over me. He smells like expensive cologne, covering up the last traces of sweat from his practice. "Explain to me just what you're doing."

"I will over dinner," I promise and reach for the remote. "See, I even paused it for you. Go ahead, settle in. I can wait a bit."

Cunningham turns away before I can get a read on his face. He tromps back to the door but doesn't slam it. He does flick the lock, though No, he doesn't seem to be calling the cops, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe this was worth it after all.

I tuck my legs up to my chest and toss the cap aside again. I focus on balancing my plate on my kneecaps, and Cunningham comes back into the room a few minutes later with a bottle of water in hand. That's an athlete for you. I give him a smile—half to disarm him, half to unnerve him—but he doesn't return the expression. Instead of sitting down at the couch, Cunningham drops himself into an armchair perpendicular to me. I try to offer him the plate I snagged out of his kitchen, but the man threads his fingers together and stares me down.

"Answers," he says, "before I decide you're a stalker and press charges." He speaks with an air that carries the weight of his fortune. I wonder how he'd react if we compared bank accounts. "You have thirty minutes. Don't waste them."

I sigh and press play on the remote. One gladiator, who had been paused mid run, is felled by a nasty sword swipe from his opponent. I can't decide if the gush of blood looks cheesy or realistic. "You don't really mean that." Cunningham glares, trying to impart that he does, in fact, mean it. "I meant what I said before. If you wanted this over with it would've been done last week at the track. But you didn't tell anyone, not even your precious Sir Hamgra, what happened."

Cunningham grimaces before he resets his hard tone. "Your point?"

"My point," I say, cutting off a fresh piece of enchilada, "is that you're just like me, and you want to see where this goes." I pop the bite into my mouth and conduct an orchestra with my fork, going out of time with the dramatic movie soundtrack. "You're bored, Alexander, and so am I. So let's be friends."

"Don't call me that," Cunningham snaps. I shrug. If that's his biggest concern, I'm well on my way to victory here. "And where do you get off talking like you know me? I've never heard such a pile of bull in my life."

I don't mind if he's angry; that means he won't think straight, which is easy to take advantage of. "Hey, I just know what I know," I say. Because I'm just like you, I don't say. "You're a superstar celebrity who has way too much time and money on their hands. I have so much money on my hands I wouldn't have to work a single day in my life and still have an inheritance to spare. It's dull, and when you're an adrenaline junkie that's no fun. So I figured, if you need something to do, I can offer my company.

"You piss me off anyway."

I didn't mean to say the last part, but too late now. Cunningham stares me down, though his intent has shifted from accusatory to curiosity. I all but have him, even with my non-sequitur. Cunningham sits up straight and crosses his legs, looking all the world like a king on his throne.

"Well, if I am bored, what makes you think you can do anything about it anyway?"

I grin, though I don't think it comes across as cheerful as I want it to. "You know challenging me just makes me wanna do this all the more," I warn. The fight on the screen winds down, softer music playing over the aftermath. "I think I can do something because I've done most things that people would call exciting, if not insane. You name an extreme sport, and I've done it."

Cunningham raises an eyebrow. "And I've never heard of you in the IG Leagues because?"

I wave a hand through the air and face down my food. "That's not important," I say, sounding too hasty. I don't look back to him. He'll think I care about his opinion. "When's the last time you went out and did something big and exciting that wasn't your job?" Cunningham opens his mouth but shuts it soon after. I cram my plate into a free place on the table and stand up, sauntering over to the armchair. "You're getting burned out because you do the same thing over and over. Just race track after race track. Even something that big becomes dull if you don't mix it up a bit."

That was my stupid, grey-drenched mistake.

"You're telling me I need a hobby?" Cunningham asks, incredulous.

I toss my ponytail back over my shoulder. "I'm telling you you need an adventure," I correct. "You're living in a house a suburban mom would love to have when you could easily afford a mansion." Cunningham's eye twitches. Bad topic, then. I stow it away for later; this isn't the time to piss him off. "You have money sitting around that's just collecting dust otherwise."

"I donate." As if he needs to defend himself to me. I send money to my brothers, but that doesn't make much of a dent in the long run.

"Good, you're a boring altruist," I drawl, teasing a lock of hair between my fingers. "Tell me something: when's the last time you can say you had fun?"

There's a heartbeat of hesitation. "When I'm racing—"

"And how often does that happen?" I lock Cunningham in an even stare. He's determined not to look away from me, and that makes it so much easier to catch his vulnerability. I hear sobbing from the television. "Not often enough, right? Those highs are flashes of color, but everything else is a drab monochrome. So why not let me squirt some paint on that lifeless canvas of yours?"

Cunningham stands, anger flickering in his eyes. I widen my stance and prop my hands on my hips, refusing to budge. Our glares meet while the film characters talk, their words so unimportant they might as well be mumbling. I catch a glance of Cunningham clenching his fists. The rest of his stance doesn't keep up, but I reevaluate my escape routes, which involve either jumping off the couch or knocking the Mexican dinner spread clean off the table.

"What if you can't do it?"

I blink. "What?"

Cunningham tucks a hand into his pocket with a confident smirk. "If you're so sure you can do it, you won't mind a little consequence if you fail, right?"

I check myself before agreeing to something dumb. No matter how fun this is, no matter what stupid lengths I'm willing to go to for a thrill, those are my choices. I don't dive into situations blind. It's how I've made it this far. Movement flashes across on the TV screen in my peripheral. "What did you have in mind?"

"It's simple," Cunningham says, his tone almost light and airy. If he's enjoying this as much as I am, we're close to checkmate. This should be the last hurdle. "If you manage to make me enjoy myself or whatever, then I'll play along. You don't manage that or try anything funny in the process, and I'll call the cops. I'm sure they'll find how you got into the IGPX hangars without getting caught to be very interesting."

You don't have any proof, I almost snap, but stop those words, too. No, Mariya is my trump card. And she'll make me wish I was arrested if I out her. Let him think he has an advantage. I'll just have to make preparations if things go south.

And if they don't and I enjoy myself a little? That'll be more than I can ask for at this point.

"Alright," I agree, meeting his smirk with one of my own. "Then I'll be sure to take care of you before the off-season is over." That gives me several months to work with. Piece of cake. "You'll be enjoying yourself in no time, Alexander."

This time when Cunningham grimaces, he almost looks embarrassed. "Okay, if you're going to be hanging around, then you definitely can't call me that." I snicker a bit. "Come on, sit down, will ya? You're blocking the way to the food."

"Well of course." I dip into a bow then hop back onto my seat. I retrieve my plate and a handful of chips, craving the burn of salsa. Back in the movie, I don't even recognize half the characters on screen. They're pretty generic, so they must be sacrifices for the upcoming body count. "Geez, what the hell's even going on anymore?"

"They're traveling to pursue the man who killed the protagonist's family," Cunningham supplies whilst forking a serving of carnitas to his plate. Great, revenge plotting. Should've expected. "At this point, they've figured out he has his own men, they just don't know how to fight him."

"Riiight," I drawl. Someone's watched this movie too many times. Well, what he likes is what he likes. I crunch through my chips and the faint burn of salsa for a few minutes, trying to re-immerse myself in the film, but I keep flicking glances to Cunningham instead, curiosity crawling up my vocal chords. "Hey. Are you serious about this whole deal?"

Cunningham, hunched towards the screen, looks back to me. "Well, I can't eat all this food by myself," he says, gesturing his meat-tipped fork to the table. "And you're not the only one who can't back down from a challenge."

He returns his attention to the movie, and I smile a little bit to myself. If this keeps up, things might just be exciting after all.


[Author's Notes]

Look, real Cunningham and Kirsten interaction! Also the headcanon that Cunningham likes gladiator movies. You can thank the Ichi Megamix for that one, and I'll uphold it until my last breath.

That being said, we've at last reached the setup to the plot: the bet that Kirsten can make Cunningham have some fun that doesn't involve racing. Will she succeed, or get arrested trying? That'll of course be answered as the fic continues, so you can look forward to the beginning of their shenanigans next chapter.

I hope everyone's doing well this week with the holiday and getting back into regular routine afterwards. I got some good job news (I'm a part-time freelance writer now; I'm getting paid to write words), plus I'm also tackling Camp NaNoWriMo with the latest round of revising an original novel. If anyone else is participating, I wish you the best of luck.

Last week I missed the shameless self-promotion corner, so here it is this week, and it's back for revenge! My WordPress blog has monthly ramblings about more detailed project info and planning. In fact, there's an entry at the turn of every month! So stop on by PlotBunnyProductions via WordPress to see just what the heck is going on.

And, of course, stop on by this story next Saturday for the next chapter. Please look forward to it!

-Avi

[04.02.2018]