A Breath of Innocence

by K. A. Merikan

  Mark groaned. Riding in his regular clothes wouldn’t be the most comfortable, but he was done waiting. He took a deep breath and listened. At this hour, just before the end of the year, chances were there was hardly anyone here, so finding Griffith shouldn’t prove too difficult, regardless of the size of the entire riding complex. The paddocks were lit well enough, but Griffith was exhausted and an hour ago seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. What if he ended up hurting himself? Mark needed to get to him fast.

  “Missed me?” he asked Guerrero and got the horse ready for a ride faster than ever before.

  Judyta, one of the resident trainers, leaned over the gate to Guerrero’s stall and smiled at Mark. “Riding so late? There’s barely anyone here tonight.”

  Mark forced his face into a neutral smile. “Have you seen Griffith? He must have gone riding without me.”

  Judyta’s lips pressed together. “Ah, I saw him heading out toward the red paddock. Didn’t seem in the best of moods. I’d say best to leave him alone tonight.”

  Mark laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

  Red paddock it was then. He mounted Guerrero and cued him to go faster as soon as they left the stable. Worms were knotting up in his stomach and he couldn’t shake off the heavy, unpleasant sensation it brought.

  The sky was bright over the city that spread its body beyond the green hills where Mark was, but it was still dark enough out here that the few lamps that were on created spots of light on the dusky road leading past two paddocks and all the way to the woods where Griffith had taken him riding several times.

  Mark spotted the red paddock from far away. Unlike the alley, it was bathed in a white glow, as if Griffith were in the spotlight for all who wanted to see him perform. Mark took a deep breath, squeezing his hands on the reins as he watched Percival move in perfect sync with his rider. The falling rain was like a sheer curtain dividing Mark, with his dark, violent past from Griffith’s sunshine.

  Should he really cast a shadow on Griff’s life when the punch Griff had landed earlier could have been the closure he needed? What right did Mark have to invade his life this way?

  The blue coat Griff was wearing despite everything that had happened since Christmas was the one thing telling Mark that not everything was lost.

  Riding in a broad circle, Griffith was completely focused on the task at hand, posting as if he’d been born in the saddle. His perfect backside was now covered by the coat, but Mark had seen Percival trot enough times to know the rhythmic way Griffith moved up and down by heart.

  Enchanted by this vision of the young man, yet apprehensive, Mark had Guerrero walk slowly as they approached the paddock. His back beaded with sweat as he got closer to the circle of light, but he was a man of action, and once he made his decision, there was no going back. Holding his breath, Mark entered the enclosure.

  Griffith started, as if he’d only now noticed that he wasn’t alone. He broke the rhythm of his movement, and his ass dropped into the saddle, out of tune with Percival’s trot. The equestrian helmet cast a shadow on the upper half of the handsome face, but Mark could still see Griffith’s features stiffen as he stopped the horse. With the wide expanse of sand mixed with strips of fabric between them, neither moved, as if upsetting this status quo would inevitably shatter the connection they still shared.

  The icy rain had already soaked through Mark’s clothes, and its touch made him shiver, yet he didn’t move an inch, just staring at Griffith, who finally cued Percival into a broad walk. Mark’s heart soared with hope, but it didn’t last long. Instead of approaching the entryway that Guerrero now blocked, Griffith had his horse do a rapid turn and urged him on, until they sped straight for the fence, as if he were about to intentionally crash into it. But no.

  In a final slap to Mark’s face, Griffith leaned over Percival’s neck, and then they both flew into the air, gliding above the wooden fence as if Percival had invisible wings. Mark might have stopped breathing, but the moment of awe was over the moment Griffith and his mount landed and rushed off into the dark.

  Mark didn’t even think before he steered Guerrero back onto the dirt road leading toward the woods. The helmet protected his eyes from the rain, but visibility was still poor, and he needed to be fast if he wanted to catch up with Griffith, who at this point was only a pale shape in the dark.

  Guerrero didn’t like it at all. The horse sped up when prompted, but it was a struggle. Mark had picked up a lot of tips on riding from Griffith, but their skill was in no way comparable, and neither was the obedience of their mounts.

  “Griff! Come on!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The drizzle got into his mouth and nose, blocking his airways and making the chase all the more difficult. When he got away from the illuminated paddock, and his eyes adjusted to the sparse light, he could see the path ahead well enough to be confused by how empty it was. Griffith couldn’t have possibly reached the far-off trees just yet, but maybe there was some kind of side road Mark didn’t remember? Intent on finding out, he urged on his stallion and repeatedly called out for Griffith.

  His heart fluttered when just a few lengths of Guerrero’s body ahead of them, the graceful, pale shape of the white horse emerged from behind a tall bush, where Griffith must have hidden in hope of losing Mark. But instead of staying where it was, the animal trotted on, leaving Mark far behind within seconds.

  “Griff! It’s dark! Don’t go there.”

  But when Griffith ignored him, not even looking his way, Mark blindly followed, slapping the reins against Guerrero’s neck. There was something about a hunt that made him forget everything around. Past or future didn’t matter when his target was in front of him.

  Hee wouldn’t give up until he caught Griff and sank his teeth into the fresh meat. His blood pumped faster, veins bursting with heat despite the cold rain drenching the world around him.

  He barely caught the movement on the path ahead in the maddening gallop, but Guerrero took only a fraction of a second to react. His massive body went tense, and then jerked upwards, catapulting Mark out of the saddle. The world spun around him viciously, but he had the good sense to curl up before the ground inevitably pulled him in. Damp grass and mud cushioned Mark’s fall somewhat, but it still felt like being punched.

  The fox that had startled the horse ran off between the bushes, leaving Mark aching and unsure if all the bones in his body were still whole. He took a deep breath and stayed on the ground, ignoring the rain falling to his face and the slick mud on his fingers. That was it. He wouldn’t be catching Griff tonight.

  The whisper of rain couldn’t tone down the whinnying close by, but when Griffith’s clean, beautiful voice called out through the background noise, Mark raised his head despite the pain. So his neck was still whole. He’d been starting to freak out that it could have not been the case.

  In the faint light, on the background of the dark blue sky, Griffith was riding his way like a ghost appearing out of nowhere to lead a lost wanderer to a safe path. Percival came to an abrupt stop, and Griffith slid off, landing in the mud like an olympic gymnast. He was so unbelievably perfect Mark could hardly bear watching him without permission to touch.

  “Mark?”

  “I’m fine. I think.” The ache in his ankle wouldn’t stop, but what did that matter if Mark’s fall had brought Griffith back to him? Maybe he should play up the pain so that Griff didn’t leave him?

  Kneeling in the mud, Griffith leaned over him, hands squeezing Mark’s shoulders. “Can you move?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you. I can’t take this anymore.” Mark grabbed Griffith’s wrist, feeling like a corpse rising from the grave to entrap the pretty boy leaning over it to leave some flowers.

  Griffith stiffened, but with the brim of his helmet shadowing his face, it was hard to say what he was thinking. When Griff finally spoke, his voice was low but calm. “No. First we see if you’re fine. Can you get up?”

  Mark calculated his answer for
a whole second. Domenico had taught him that sometimes playing dirty was the only thing that could get you what you wanted, so he pulled on Griff’s wrist ever-so-slightly. “I don’t know. My ankle feels weird.”

  Griffith shook his hand away and matter-of-factly took hold of Mark’s aching leg. “This one?” he asked, gently nudging the front of Mark’s foot. His ankle was stiff and throbbed when touched, but it didn’t feel like anything too serious.

  “Yeah.” Of course Griff would come back for him even after what Mark had done. Because he was a good person. A sweet boy who should be cherished, not discarded just because of past issues that had exploded into Mark’s face.

  Griffith moved the foot around, his lips set. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re not that good a rider. You could have broken your back or died,” he said with the silhouettes of the two horses looming behind him like giant bodyguards ready to intervene if Mark dared to pull Griffith into his lap.

  “I needed to… catch up,” Mark said flatly and with Griffith’s help slowly transferred his weight to his feet and rose. And because he was despicable, he used this opportunity to put his arm over Griff’s shoulders. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d yearned for Griff’s touch and affection until now. Griffith was a powerful magnet to Mark’s rusty iron, and when they stood close, there was no escaping the pull.

  Griffith stiffened at first, but in the end said nothing, whistling to Percival. Minutes later, they started their damp walk back to the stables, holding their horses by the reins, because Griffith had decided he wasn’t risking any more injuries tonight. Step by step, the ache in Mark’s ankle subsided, but he had no intention of revealing this to Griffith, as it could cost him what little contact he was allowed. The rain became harsher as wind joined in, agressively tossing large droplets into their faces. The water tasted of—out of all things—grass.

  “Allen’s mine,” Mark blurted out, unable to organize his thoughts any better. He flinched the moment the words come out, because hearing them in his own voice made the truth all the more real.

  He braced himself for Griffith letting go of him, or even attempting another punch, but instead heard a low exhale

  “What the hell do you m—” Griffith must have understood what Mark had meant halfway through the sentence, because he trailed off, leaning away as if he intended to let go of Mark. “You what?”

  “I’m the father. I didn’t know until Christmas. I had no fucking idea.” Mark rubbed away some wetness off his face, but it was no use. It just kept coming.

  Griffith lowered his face, at a standstill. He then took a deep breath and shook his head, sending droplets Mark’s way. “You love Charlotte and you’re back for her?”

  “No. I did come back to see if there was a chance for us, but I don’t love her anymore. Turns out I loved the idea of her, because she used to be special to me, but we both changed. And then I met you…” Mark sighed deeply and kissed the side of Griff’s head, right below the helmet, rubbing his lips against the damp hair.

  Griffith flinched, briefly raising his shoulder, as if he wanted to pull away, but he didn’t push Mark back in the end. “This is so fucked up. You are the guy who swept her off her feet and got her pregnant? What the hell?”

  Mark took a deep breath. His chest expanding with words he wanted to say to his defense. “I didn’t know she was pregnant when she went home. Things used to be very different in my life back then. I couldn’t go with her, and even if I did, what would I have done? At seventeen, with no education, in another country...” He shook his head just thinking about it.

  Griffith took a deep breath, but the initial shock must have worn off, because he started moving again. That or he was as cold as Mark.

  “But... how? What were you doing with my sister? Why would you take her, a perfect stranger, on a motorcycle trip around Colombia? Didn’t she tell you she was there with family?”

  “It was this crazy thing that got completely out of hand. I came over thinking only of the possibility of rekindling things. I wasn’t sure what would happen. And now I find out I’ve got a kid. I need to be a part of Allen’s life.” He took a shuddery breath, briefly closing his eyes. “She won’t let me visit him unless I stop seeing you. That’s why I was with her tonight. I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s eating me up.” He squeezed his hand on Griff’s shoulder when they passed the red paddock.

  The lamp illuminated Griffith’s face, which was drenched with the rain, with pale lips and a set to his eyes. “Oh, God... I don’t know what to say. This is so fucked up. You told her we were dating?”

  “No, she doesn’t… want me around. She thinks I’m a bad influence, and she’s right.” Mark had to look away when his heart twisted, as if invisible hands wanted to drain it of blood. “You’re so beautiful, and sweet, and smart, and you dance like a god, and I’m a fraud. I’m not even at uni, I’m working on finishing secondary education and only have a photography module. You deserve so, so much better.”

  Griffith rolled his eyes and squeezed Mark’s shoulder way too hard. “Oh, spare me. What are you doing here then if you think you’re so bad for me? Haven’t you done enough? You chewed me up and spat me to the pavement,” he said, finally letting go.

  Mark went silent as they entered the empty stables. Griff was right. What was Mark even doing here? Why did he keep reaching for what wasn’t meant for him? They walked up to Percival’s pen, and Mark pulled away despite the burn in his ankle.

  “I just wanted you to know it wasn’t your fault. You deserve the best.” He didn’t wait for an answer and quickly turned around, ashamed of everything he’d done since he’d arrived in Bristol, looking for Charlotte as if he deserved her attention. He should have never come.

  A part of him hoped that Griffith would stop him, but he no longer begged Mark to stay, and in fact said nothing. Each step forward through the silent walkway made Mark’s heart heavier, but he’d dug this hole, and he would sleep in it, forever guilty of tainting not only Charlotte’s but also Griffith’s life. He was a disease, and wrecked anything he touched.

  He had no one he could relate to here. No one understood his experience and no one would accept him tainting the crystaline water of their world. At least Guerrero didn’t demand anything beyond what Mark could offer him and appreciatively snorted when Mark cleaned him up and removed the tack. The poor horse had even lost his old owner because of things in which Mark had dipped his fingers in.

  Once he was finished with the horse, he headed to the changing rooms through the eerily empty corridors. He had no clothes to change into, but there were always spare towels available, so maybe he could at least clean up a bit and dry his pants on the radiator before going to the car. Coming here had been a mistake. He should have left it at the punch.

  Then again Griffith deserved to know the truth about Allen, and some half-truths so he could eventually mend his relationship with his sister.

  The men’s locker room was small and old fashioned, with lacquered wooden benches and cheesy horse prints hung above the lockers, but there was an adjacent bathroom with two showers, and at the end of the day, that was all he needed. Mark let himself dwell in the murky waters of his mind, his breath remaining as subdued as his emotions. He wiped his face and washed his hands. He was still cold in the thoroughly soaked clothes but had zero motivation to do anything about it.

  He should suffer for what he’d done.

  In moments like these, he missed the adrenaline and focus of the work they used to do with Domenico. On the edge of life and death, there was no room for thinking too much about his past, his real family, or the shit he’d been through. And then on top of it, he’d sometimes get to release the pent-up frustration on someone who deserved the violence.

  Mark was drying his hands on the towel when someone entered the locker room, and he left the restroom with resignation, hoping that maybe at least the other guy wouldn’t be too chatty.

  But it wasn’t a stranger. Mark stopped m
id-stride when he spotted Griffith leaning against the closed door, his lips open, damp clothes clinging to his body. He was breathing hard, as if clashing with Mark again stressed him out, but he looked up in a silent challenge.

  “Sorry, I'll be out in a sec,” Mark said, lowering his eyes in shame. He was still wet, and his clothes soaked through with mud, but he could protect his car seat with some plastic bags.

  His heart thumped slowly, heavy with thick regret, and he was fast to walk up to his locker, feeling as if he’d turn to stone if he dared to meet the accusatory blue gaze. He almost missed the flick of Griffith’s wrist by the door handle, but the sound of the lock clicking into place had him finally looking up.

  The weight of their silence was crushing in the small space, and Griffith must have felt it too, because he rolled his shoulders, as if attempting to release some of their stiffness. He was very pale, and now that Mark gave himself permission to look back at him, it was impossible to miss the violent tremors going through the lean body. He took a couple of deep breaths that seemed to border on painful, and spoke.

  “I love you.”

  A flash of heat went through Mark as he watched the beautiful boy he didn’t deserve yet so deeply craved.

  “You shouldn’t,” Mark said but took a step closer, unable to break the eye contact now that it was established.

  Griffith licked his lips and peeled the damp fabric away from his chest. He swallowed, so clearly in need of being held it was difficult to stay away.

  “Too late,” he whispered, finally taking a step toward Mark. His hair, which had been protected by the helmet, was the only dry place on Griffith’s body. It was matted and tousled, as if it hadn’t seen a comb in a week. “You broke my heart, but I still want you.”

  Mark took another step closer, his heart torn between hope and shame over his actions. “I never meant to hurt you. I would cut any trace of myself out of your life if I could.”

  Griffith slid his hands over his arms, over the wet blue coat, as if he could make himself warm this way, but ended up taking it off and placing it on a bench. “Why? Because Charlotte thinks so? You should have asked me. Me,” Griffith said forcefully and grabbed Mark’s wrist, pulling him closer. His fingers were ice.