Well, shit.
They were so close together, thighs and elbows brushing. The smell of the papery leather of Arthur's jacket mingled with the stench of alcohol was permanently ingrained into the car, it seemed. Arthur's vision would nervously dart from Alfred's face, sweet Alfred in a plain white shirt and jeans, to the windshield. (Despite Arthur's slightly buzzed state, he was sure he could drive substantially better than a sober Alfred.)
The windows in the old Impala were cracked just a bit so the night air slid in, cooling down Arthur's feverish skin and Alfred's heart hammering away.
Finally, Alfred broke the awkward silence by clearing his throat.
"You…. So you and Bonnfoy, huh?"
At this, green eyes flitted to blue. A scary expression, amusement plastered on his face as his eyes twinkled.
"Hah! You really think I'd fuck Bonnefoy if he didn't get me wasted and if he hadn't paid me?" Arthur snickered at this, and Alfred realized his chest hurt. He heaved a sigh and for a split second looked, really looked, at Arthur before directing his attention back to the road.
"I told you, if you need money, just-"
"Stop." Arthur's gaze was now boring directly into the general vicinity of Alfred (damn that chardonnay!), and his eyes were narrowed.
"I'm so sick and tired of taking from you, robbing you, and I swear to God, Al, I took a twenty from you- from that infernal piggy bank, and I just- here!"
After his insistent slurring, he punctuated his confession by pulling out from his jacket pocket and throwing a crispy Benjamin Franklin at Alfred's lap. Alfred felt something ugly tug at his soul, then, knowing how that money had been earned. Arthur himself decided to follow suit by burrowing his face into Alfred's shirt, warm and smelling like detergent, feeling like home. Alfred's pulse sped up then, he could feel.
Silence passed for a few moments, and Alfred could feel Arthur's warm breaths through the thin material of his t-shirt. Only a few more minutes and they would be back home to that cold flat with a closet full of blankets, and to Alfred, nothing sounded better.
Timidly, in a muffled broken voice, "I'm sorry, Alfred." Alfred, by this point, kept his eyes on the road ahead, one hand on the wheel now, and ruffled Arthur's hair comfortingly, ever the steady one.
I can't ever tell him.
"It's okay, Arthur. It's okay."