out a hundred push-ups, watching a large, black moorland beetle scurrying around intent on its important business on the granite rocks.
When he was done, arms burning pleasantly, he climbed back down the rocks. He was tempted to take the shortcut, but that led past the bog. Last time he’d run past this notorious site, a sheep had been lying half in, half out, just its hindquarters sticking up, still intact and standing. One gnarled, withered old tree stump stood alongside this traitorous place. It always resembled, in Ben’s mind, a hooded figure, head bowed, contemplating the mud. It had looked to him the day he’d found the sheep as if the poor creature had been pushed into the killing peat by this strange manifestation and held headfirst, suffocating.
The place was a gruesome reminder of the power of nature, the true wilderness they lived alongside. Both he and Nikolas always used the longer, safer track as a matter of course, and he did so now.
He’d jogged up to the tor. Now he sprinted. He pushed himself harder than he usually did, running through small streams rather than skirting them, going up and over rocks rather than around the base. By the time he reached the dry stone wall, the demarcation between their land and the moors, he was shaking with exhaustion but feeling clear headed for the first time since a shadow called Kristina had slid over him at just the moment he’d been the most secure, the most relaxed, the most…in love.
Even feeling the temptation to propose something…?
He still hadn’t finished his workout. He went straight through the bedroom, noted Nikolas had managed to turn over, and passed through the bathroom to his gym. Nikolas had built him a private gym with commercial grade Precor equipment.
For the first time ever, he stood in front of the mirrored back wall and studied himself—his physique. Although Nikolas had spent ten years calling him vain, deriding the guy-bunny in him, mocking his fitness obsession (whilst at the same time enjoying all the benefits of it—frequently), Ben wasn’t narcissistic. He never had been. He liked being fit. He liked being the strongest in any room (including rooms with Nikolas in them, although this belief would be hotly contested if he voiced it). He enjoyed examining his form and seeing individual muscles strong and stark beneath the skin. Was that vanity? Perhaps it was. He’d never considered it before.
Now he looked from the eye of someone selecting him to portray the life of a man who’d been a gladiator, a man who’d risen to a brief pinnacle of fame because of his face and his body and the pain he’d gone through to achieve that shape. Peter had told him that their main problem would be portraying Oliver Whitestone before he went to the Wars training camp, because Ben had that gladiatorial build already. He supposed he did. Judging himself now, he acknowledged anatomical perfection—what he’d been striving for his whole life. Muddy, sweaty as he was, splash him with blood and he could be standing in an arena before a baying crowd. He turned side on. Oliver Whitestone had only been six foot tall—taller than almost all his fellow cast members. Even so, Ben would have towered over him.
He started on his routine. One hour. Chest, biceps, curls, rowing, declined twists…it was all so familiar. He’d been doing it since he was sixteen, since the army had given him gyms and training instructors all for free, all for a return of service, which he’d been more than willing to give.
He paid particular attention to his abs, declining the bench at a steeper angle than normal. He began to plan his diet for the next month. He’d cut out all carbs except vegetables, and step up his intake of good fat. Nikolas wouldn’t even notice. He spent mealtimes trying to avoid getting nagged that he wasn’t eating and that he was drinking too much. Ben smiled a little. Nikolas would actually probably like the new meals he was planning. No more
When he was done, arms burning pleasantly, he climbed back down the rocks. He was tempted to take the shortcut, but that led past the bog. Last time he’d run past this notorious site, a sheep had been lying half in, half out, just its hindquarters sticking up, still intact and standing. One gnarled, withered old tree stump stood alongside this traitorous place. It always resembled, in Ben’s mind, a hooded figure, head bowed, contemplating the mud. It had looked to him the day he’d found the sheep as if the poor creature had been pushed into the killing peat by this strange manifestation and held headfirst, suffocating.
The place was a gruesome reminder of the power of nature, the true wilderness they lived alongside. Both he and Nikolas always used the longer, safer track as a matter of course, and he did so now.
He’d jogged up to the tor. Now he sprinted. He pushed himself harder than he usually did, running through small streams rather than skirting them, going up and over rocks rather than around the base. By the time he reached the dry stone wall, the demarcation between their land and the moors, he was shaking with exhaustion but feeling clear headed for the first time since a shadow called Kristina had slid over him at just the moment he’d been the most secure, the most relaxed, the most…in love.
Even feeling the temptation to propose something…?
He still hadn’t finished his workout. He went straight through the bedroom, noted Nikolas had managed to turn over, and passed through the bathroom to his gym. Nikolas had built him a private gym with commercial grade Precor equipment.
For the first time ever, he stood in front of the mirrored back wall and studied himself—his physique. Although Nikolas had spent ten years calling him vain, deriding the guy-bunny in him, mocking his fitness obsession (whilst at the same time enjoying all the benefits of it—frequently), Ben wasn’t narcissistic. He never had been. He liked being fit. He liked being the strongest in any room (including rooms with Nikolas in them, although this belief would be hotly contested if he voiced it). He enjoyed examining his form and seeing individual muscles strong and stark beneath the skin. Was that vanity? Perhaps it was. He’d never considered it before.
Now he looked from the eye of someone selecting him to portray the life of a man who’d been a gladiator, a man who’d risen to a brief pinnacle of fame because of his face and his body and the pain he’d gone through to achieve that shape. Peter had told him that their main problem would be portraying Oliver Whitestone before he went to the Wars training camp, because Ben had that gladiatorial build already. He supposed he did. Judging himself now, he acknowledged anatomical perfection—what he’d been striving for his whole life. Muddy, sweaty as he was, splash him with blood and he could be standing in an arena before a baying crowd. He turned side on. Oliver Whitestone had only been six foot tall—taller than almost all his fellow cast members. Even so, Ben would have towered over him.
He started on his routine. One hour. Chest, biceps, curls, rowing, declined twists…it was all so familiar. He’d been doing it since he was sixteen, since the army had given him gyms and training instructors all for free, all for a return of service, which he’d been more than willing to give.
He paid particular attention to his abs, declining the bench at a steeper angle than normal. He began to plan his diet for the next month. He’d cut out all carbs except vegetables, and step up his intake of good fat. Nikolas wouldn’t even notice. He spent mealtimes trying to avoid getting nagged that he wasn’t eating and that he was drinking too much. Ben smiled a little. Nikolas would actually probably like the new meals he was planning. No more
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