Running Straight

📅 Early May+, 2015

【ᴄᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ᴀs ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴀs ᴀʟʟᴜsɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ sᴇx ᴛʀᴀғғɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ】

Anarchy had started working out a couple years back, when he was eighteen and still struggling against the pull of addiction. Mornings tended to be difficult, before he got his dose of methadone for the day; before therapy sessions started and could lend solidarity and distraction to his fight against the cravings with which he was so familiar. So...he started filling that time with exercise. At first with work-outs at the apartment complex’s small fitness room, then at a larger, more equipped gym a short distance away that could offer him more variety. It occupied him physically; took his mind off the itch in his veins and the back of his brain. 

It was gratifying to feel himself get stronger, too; to see himself get stronger. It served him well, especially in those first years where he needed to change completely. And he had. Now, even though a proper workout at the gym afterwards was the thing that really made him feel physically ready for the day, Anarchy had found that the less intense experience of going for a jog around the nearby reservoir offered something mental, something different than pumping iron did. Highland Park was usually free of other people prior to 6 o'clock and there was a tranquility to it that he enjoyed. He didn’t do it every day, but it seemed to help him think and brainstorm lyrical work, so he was considering making it more daily.

It was especially appealing this particular morning, with birdsong and clear skies, still early-pale and cool. It was perfect for creative musing, and Anarchy got easily lost in thought—at least until rounding the path at one turn and nearly colliding with a young, tan-skinned woman running in the opposite direction. 
They fortunately avoided running outright into one another, though both stumbled as they hurried to stop. She tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder and laughed a sorry at the same time he did; they exchanged a mutual apologetic wave before continuing on.

It was easy enough to start zoning out again as he went, testing out mental chords for Has The Fire Reached Fresno Yet and seeing how well they fit with the lyrics he’d come up with for the chorus. He wondered if Kato would let him put a rap-py sort of spin on it, maybe. Not full-on, but enough to echo Linkin Park a little bit.

Before he knew it, he’d done another half loop, or he figured he’d done, because he and the woman ran into each other. Physically.
Anarchy fortunately managed to catch her and keep her from falling, another apology leaping to his lips:
“Ah shit, sorry, I swear I’m not aiming for you—“
“No, no, it’s me, I was totally engrossed in this podcast,” she said as she staggered back into balance, removing one of her earbuds.
“Do you come here often?” Anarchy asked while they both straightened up, then realized the implications of that question and stuttered; “I just mean—I jog here a lot at this time and haven’t run you over before—” 

Thankfully her initial raised-eyebrow response became an amused smile; she gestured ambiguously northward. “No, I’m new; just moved to Ridgewood recently. So maybe we’ll run into each other more often.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “Less bodily, though.”
“Sure, yeah, I’m just south of here,” Anarchy said. “Uh. I’m Anarchy.”
She looked incredulously up at him, one earbud in, amusement still playing on her lips. 
He smiled back self-consciously and rubbed the back of his neck. “...It’s my name.”
“...Anjali,” she replied, then slipped her other earbud back in and continued on her jog with a wave. 

Two days later he saw her again as he arrived at the reservoir; she offered a smile and a wave upon spotting him, so he jogged up alongside her.
“How’s the podcast?” he asked as she removed an earbud; “Ah, if it’s good, I can leave you alone. Just thought I’d say hey.”
She shot him an appraising sort of look, then rolled her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “It's good enough, but I can listen to it on the bus, too.” She took her other earbud out as they fell into sync and jogged side-by-side. “You don’t listen to anything while you’re out? That’s psychotic.”
Anarchy chuckled. “Sometimes I do, but I’ve been trying to write music in my head recently, so listening to anything would be distracting.”
“Oh, you’re a musician?”
“Bassist and mostly-unclean vocalist in a metalcore band,” Anarchy said, with a somewhat uncertain smile, knowing the genre wasn’t everyone’s definition of ‘music.’ “We’re working on an album. The quiet out here helps me think.”
Anjali raised an eyebrow. “What’s an unclean vocalist? You’re the one allowed to swear?”
Anarchy laughed. “Ah, nah. I’m afraid it means I’m the one who does the, uh, screaming.”
Anjali’s facial expression was much the same as the one she’d worn when he’d said his name: Somewhat amused but also looking like she didn’t quite know what to make of him.
“...Mm,” she said, turning her eyes forward again. “Interesting occupation, at least. Not one you hear about every day.”

Anarchy typically didn’t enjoy small talk, and that’s definitely what it was, at first, but Anjali had a way of carrying it on that didn’t make it seem...flat, or doomed to superficiality. She came off as slightly aloof, but had a way of studying him in the pauses between exchanges that gave him the sense that she was listening. And she was interesting, herself. 

Their morning jogs managed to become something of a routine; eventually daily or near-daily, and with them he got to learn about her: She had a passion for history and worked as an archivist and docent at a museum in Manhattan, it turned out. She’d just gotten her Masters in Archival Science. She was 24, nearly 25, and surprised to learn that he was only just barely 21.

“...Well, it’s been a long 21 years,” he offered when it came up.
“Hm, well...I’m always one for history,” she said neutrally, and though it was an invitation, Anarchy hesitated over accepting; he deflected as subtly as he could.
“...Yeah, I guess you gotta dig history to be an archivist,” he said. “Seems like a cool job. It’s not one you hear about every day.” He smiled at her.
“Yeah, the archaeologists get all the attention,” Anjali joked. “But who keeps track of their shit once they’ve dug it up? Curators and archivists. So...suck on that, Indiana Jones.”
“I'll tell him next time I see him. Man, though, it’s feeling like we opened the ark, isn’t it?” Summer temperatures were wedging their foot in the door already by mid-May, and it having climbed to the 80’s only just beyond daybreak was definitely denting their jog. Anarchy wiped his brow. “Reminds me of Fresno.”
“California?” Anjali asked.
“...Yeah.” 

They paused along the path for much-needed drinks of water. Though Anjali had been the one to come off as aloof at first, Anarchy’d noticed his own wariness once the door to his history was opened, because it felt like there was no way to get into any of it without in some way getting into all of it—so his first inclination was to just...not. Of course, he was very aware that he was wearing part of it on his face.
“Are you from there?” Anjali asked.
“I was born there.”
“When did you move to New York City?”
“Age fourteen.” Anarchy tossed his water bottle in the air and caught it. “...Hopped freight here.” 
“Hopped freight?” 

“Yeah, you know how it is,” he said, shrugging. “Your dad slashes you in the face with a broken bottle so you run away from home and trainhop across the country. Then you grow up and your band’s not big enough for you to be a bassist full-time but you can’t get any regular work ‘cause the scar makes job hunting hard as shit. God am I sick of construction.” He looked up at Anjali, who just stared.
“…I don’t think I know how it is,” she said slowly. “Your dad did that? What—Why? What—what did you do here, as a kid, then? Did you have family here to help you?”
Anarchy grimaced; there was something painful about watching a—for lack of a better term, normal—person try and make his past make sense to them. He wasn’t even going into the actually shameful stuff.
“…Uh, no,” he said. “I, um, I ended up on the streets here. Like I said…long 21 years.”

They continued their jog with Anjali still wide-eyed and apparently struggling for words. “But you’re not on the streets now,” she said; “You got on your feet. Wait, Anarchy, you can’t just—“ She grabbed his arm, halting them. “You can’t do that, just give me a sliver of the story. What happened? How did you get to being in a band? Are all of you…runaways who met on the street?”
Anarchy nearly laughed. “Uh, essentially we are, but not in the way you’re thinking.” He smiled and tilted his head down the path. “It’s easier if I keep moving, c’mon.” He started jogging with her still on his arm.

“I’m clean now, even off methadone at this point, but my band found me after I accidentally overdosed,” he said as neutrally as he could; “Heroin. They carted me to a hospital and ended up offering me a place to stay. Owe them my life.” 
“Oh. Jesus.” Anjali frowned and studied him. “…Was the heroin, like, a family thing? Was that involved with your dad—?” 
Anarchy balked, then resisted the urge to snort. “Fuck, I wish dad had been a junkie! Then he might’ve just nodded out or OD’ed instead of beating the shit outta us all. Nah, Ol’ Man Mike was just your normal raging alcoholic.”
“You have a really different definition of normal than I have,” Anjali said. She frowned. “…Or…I guess you just flat out had a different ‘normal.’” 
Anarchy braced himself for pity. Instead, Anjali cocked her head to the side and assessed him in his periphery. 
“Pretty incredible that you are where you’re at with all that behind you,” she said, “And I’m positive you haven’t told me the half of it.”
“Doubt you’d really want to hear the half of it,” Anarchy replied, smiling. “Thanks, though. It’s been a wild ride.”
“You’d doubt wrong,” she said. They were finishing up their final loop around the reservoir and slowed their pace, preparing to part. “And I definitely want to hear more about the freight hopping sometime. Tomorrow.”
“...Sure, yeah.” 

Their conversations organically grew deeper from there, and longer: It felt harder to clip them to a close at the end of a jog, so eventually Anarchy ended up asking if she might want to grab a coffee with him afterwards before heading home. She agreed, and so that started happening a bit more often, too. 

He talked around certain aspects and chapters of his history, and preferred conversations based more in the present; about band work and job searching and workout routines on his end. But with the limited nature of those topics, he was always more than happy to let her expand on recent additions to the museum collections; scraps of ancient writing or some other artifact that managed to fascinate her. One morning her coffee went cold while she talked about the difficulty of preserving paper documents; comparing and contrasting the different types of ancient inks in how well they stood the test of time:

“The Greeks and Romans used carbon inks, and those don’t damage the paper, but they’re really susceptible to moisture. Iron gall ink is water resistant, but, you know, acidic. Still, it was the standard for fourteen hundred years, so it’s not like it can’t hold its own—” Anjali paused and looked at her coffee, which she’d just noticed the tepid temperature of, then looked back up at Anarchy. “...How on earth are you putting up with me?”
“Just nice to hear people talk about stuff they care about,” Anarchy replied easily. “Did you say something about the Romans? K-O has a history thing, too, specifically about them. Our previous album had a lot of Latin and references to Rome in it ‘cause of him. I’m used to listening to this kinda stuff, even if I don’t get it-get it.”
Anjali smiled and shook her hair over her shoulder, looking somewhere between pleased and self-conscious. 
“Well...good. But tell me about that album, then. I talked your ear off enough, might as well give you the chance to return the favor.”

Their coffee dates were fun; it seemed natural that they eventually go out for longer; for lunch, instead. They’d held hands walking in and as they parted ways afterwards, Anarchy asked if he could kiss her goodbye; both the “of course” and the kiss lended a smile to his lips and a swell to his chest. As he started to walk away, a spring in his step, sudden uncertainty tripped him up and he stopped short, turning back to face her.
“Anj—maybe stupid question coming up—we are dating, right? Dating-dating?” he clarified; “I figured, with the, uh...going out for lunch together and kissing and all, but...wanted to make sure.”
Anjali looked back at him, her “Yes, ‘Key, that is the idea,” somehow sounding crescented by the tilt of her lips. 
She never would stop wearing that amused smile around him, would she?

But barring all amusement, they were dating, they were together, now, officially, and having thoroughly enjoyed Anjali’s company from the beginning, Anarchy went ahead and made the leap to introducing her to his roommates. Any reservations he had left over from his last relationship were dashed near-immediately, and he wound up delighted by how readily they accepted her: 
Anjali was athletic and feminist like Athena, and Kato was impressed by her smarts and the interest she took at their first meeting in his 1946 edition seven volume set of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

“Have you seen the Greek and Roman galleries at the Met?” she asked him; “I volunteered as a docent there for a bit, early in college. The total collection is almost 30,000 works. They even have Etruscan art, from before the assimilation into Rome.” 
“...Uh, yeah. Only a couple times, though, I think,” Kato finally managed to respond after gaping for a moment. “I’m pretty sure I went in middle school, but I don’t remember it. And I took Athena there in high school.”
“And I was a terrible date because I didn’t care about any of it,” Athena joked. 
Kato rolled his eyes. “Nah, maybe I was the terrible date for dragging you across the city to see something you didn’t give a shit about. Good thing we stuck with being friends instead. Works better.”
“Yeah, now I can not give a shit with impunity.” Athena rolled her eyes and offered Kato an affectionate smile. “I try to listen to you about it, K! My brain just shuts off, I can’t help it. At least you’ve got ‘Key.”

Anjali glanced over at Anarchy and cracked a smile, turning back to Kato, “So you do that to him too? Good to hear I’m not the only one rambling at him about history. I was sure I was just boring him to tears.”
“You mighta been, the trick is to check if his eyes have glazed over or not,” Kato drawled. “I can usually get a solid 10 minutes in before I’m pretty sure he’s tuned me out. Longest was 25 minutes. Let me know if you beat my time.”
“Hey, I’m sure I’ve done longer than that,” Anarchy said good-humoredly. “Half an hour at least. But maybe when my brain’s all fried now you two can talk history with each other.”
“Right, yeah,” Kato replied; “Shall I just start tagging along on y'all's dates so that I can go off about the Marian reforms as soon as I notice your expression go slack? Sure Anjali would love that.” He offered her a short nod and a smirk. “Somehow I’ll restrain myself, don’t worry.”

Really, it was the opposite of things with Angela, in a lot of ways. It wasn’t a deal bringing Anjali over to hang, and she was perfectly down to trade off on rounds of Mario Kart or chat historical knowledge with Kato, who not only restrained himself from crashing dates but also from making snide comments. Some nights she stayed over and everyone in the apartment would stay up late talking, and if Athena was out with Wendy then Anarchy could almost kid himself into feeling like he was third-wheeling a history lecture run by her and K-O. It was great to have everyone getting along as friends.

And on a personal level for Anarchy, things were more comfortable by far in that Anjali didn’t seem to want him the same way Angie had. Physically. Things heated up sometimes but when it really came down to it and he just...couldn’t, he allowed himself to confide in her, minutely, about some of the places that addiction had led him in youth: Saying that his hesitation wasn’t on her, and that he likely just needed a bit of time, but that some of those past experiences probably were what made physical stuff “a bit of a thing” for him. She’d been immediately understanding, and never pressured him, even though it meant things only got past canoodling a couple of times.

But...she didn’t seem to mind that. They hung out, and went on dates; walked and talked and jogged together and it was just...comfortable. It was almost like having found a third “best friend.”