Well, I told you read to read the previous chapter slowly, now I want you to read this one - fast.
Why?
Because Remy's late, of course.
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Breathless.
Pounding pace through the bushes.
Run, little white rabbit; run. You're late.
Thoughts precipitated through his mind, blurry, bewildering. As breakneck as his run to her house.
Fool!
Idiot!
Moron!
He cursed himself, punctuating each thought with a leap.
The dangers of a malfunctioning alarm clock revealed, he thought as his breath staccatoed in his throat. His lungs were shredded with spikes of pain.
The sun about to rise as if in derision of his frantic race, round and obese and disdainful, a lightening of sky illuminating his sweat stained face and now-jerky run. He had to beat the sun, the sun determined the time of rendezvous, he had to beat it, he had to. . .
Trip.
A little rise of rock, interfering, clutching at his foot. Making him go stumbling, crashing.
Headlong rush into the oblivion of a tree.
Moments spent stunned, upside down, world in a tumble, hazed.
A little nudge to collapse the sticking up legs on to the ground, moments spent in reddening agony.
The long painful haul back up to a semblance of standing, the slow crabbing run onwards.
Step.
Step, and totter, dizzying and hurt.
The world shimmers and dims as he collapses to his knees. Knuckles white, hand clutching chest. Ragged breaths from hoarse dry mouth. Choking. Dampened hair sticking to sweating forehead, jeans ripped at knee, welling blood.
Pain.
But pain is not a factor here. It doesn't count. What counts is that he set the meeting, he set the time, he must not, cannot be late.
Collapse and die; but don't break her heart, don't lose her trust.
Never.
Not again.
On his knees in the first rays of the sun, not even halfway to the house, her room. On his knees, defeated.
The dangers of late night drink revealed, revealed in soft clear sunlight upon his worried face.
Up on his feet again. The knee is ignored.
Running again, each step spiking pain in his leg, sharp, hurting. Thoughts still a blur, still a shattering of mosaics in his mind. But in all the blur, she stands out, green eyes looking at him in his memory, clear, crystal.
Maybe he's overcautious, he thinks, running still harder, maybe she will forgive, understand, be appeased.
He knows he has a greater chance of flying her off to the moon.
The sun, unrelenting, rises still up, and he curses in hapless impotence. Inexorably it rises as he runs past the first few cars on the quiet streets, jagged in motion, jagged in thought, impaled by his own stupidity.
And hurting.
Darlin', forgive me, he thinks, praying as best he can while running, hoping she won't be disappointed. Or angry.
He is hard pressed to figure which is worse.
His hangover is stifling him, grabbing his head in a vise, blocking coherent thought, replacing everything he feels with a pounding beat which keeps in time to his footsteps, in time with his throbbing knee.
Tripping and stumbling, he reaches the park, finally, gasping, exhausted.
He sees a bike standing unguarded, and he makes his way to it, limping and bruised. He manages to start it, leaden fingers forcing several attempts at hot-wiring it before it finally starts.
He drives as fast as he can without jarring the bike, careful, steady. He sways unsteadily at times, headache interfering, clouding judgment, clouding care.
Weaving.
Tilting.
Eyes half closed from the wind in his face, and the pounding in his head.
The cold bites, waking him slightly, making him aware again.
It's not a matter of life and death. It is a matter of trust and love. Far, far more important.
And on he rushes, the wind attacking him, cold, harsh, and the sun staring down in mocking glee.
Inexorable,
Victorious.
And the pounding in his head is as intolerable as the roar of the bike, as the thought that he might have lost his love.
His life.
The only thing he holds dear to him.
And then the cold unyielding wind seems to fade and the bike slows down as he senses her near.
Everything begins to look familiar again.
He stops the bike in front of the gates, and he enters the grounds as only he can.
His heart is pounding in the uneasy stillness as he lifts up a few pebbles from the ground.
He hesitates, then throws them lightly against her window, and it seems like he's waiting forever, but only moments pass before he sees a shadow against the window.
She opens the window and leans outside, looks at him, and he knows she has forgiven him, he feels it.
But it still hurts him that he kept her waiting like that, and he knows that he would do anything to stop her from getting hurt, by him, by anyone.
Anything.