The Tennessee Waltz

by Shadowcatxx

AU. Matt Bonnefoi is so desperate to get home that he accepts a ride from Al Jones, a stranger he meets in JFK Airport. Despite a raging blizzard, they set out for Ontario—but they don't get far. What happens when a grieving Canadian and a deprived American are forced to spend twenty-four hours trapped together in a snow storm? Only good things ;)

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

AND "The Tennessee Waltz"

THE TENNESSEE WALTZ

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.

ALWAYS practise safe sex.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

AMERICA — Alfred F. Jones

CANADA — Matthew Bonnefoi

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt (named only)

AUSTRIA — Roderich Edelstein (named only)

---

ALFRED

The first time I saw Matt Bonnefoi he was crying.

"Hey, you okay?" I asked.

He looked up in disbelief, as if he was shocked I could see him. "I'm fine," he said in recovery. He bowed his head, letting his parka's hood flop down. He lifted a gloved hand and wiped his eyes, sniffling, pretending that his red nose and cheeks were results of the cold. It was snowing hard outside, but we were indoors. I supposed his flushed face was just as likely from the heat blasting overhead. I, myself, found it sweltering. Trust JFK airport to disillusion foreigners, as if cranking the heat inside could somehow melt the snow outside.

"You don't look fine," I said skeptically. I glanced at the overhead board, trying to decide which flight he was waiting for. He didn't have any luggage with him, just a canvas shoulder-bag. It had a label stitched to it, but I didn't recognize it. It must've been Canadian though; it incorporated maple leaves. Not that it mattered where he was going or coming from. Everything was grounded because of the storm. Every flight flashed: DELAYED. "Hey, why don't I buy you a drink?" I offered cheerfully.

"Thank-you," he said softly, "but no."

I leaned down, hands in my coat pockets, and gave him a winning smile. "Oh, come on. I'll throw in a plate of curly-fries—"

"No offense, but could you please just leave me alone?" The last part of his sentence—leave me alone—was a whisper accompanied by tears.

"Yeah, sure. Sorry," I added because I felt bad. Then I walked away.

I went to a restaurant and sat at the bar. I dropped my satchel, shrugged out of my coat, and ordered a beer, absently watching the hockey game playing on six different screens. I eyed the menu, considering a plate of curly-fries for myself, but decided against it. I wasn't hungry, just bored. I had arrived at JFK from LAX an hour ago. I guess I'm lucky the airline didn't reroute the flight. I waited an hour, hoping that the blizzard would ebb, but the reports didn't sound promising. The one T.V. screen that was showing the News reported blackouts and icy road-conditions that had already caused countless accidents. They were warning people to stay off the roads, but I've never been a patient man and I was getting sick of waiting. My truck was sitting in the underground garage and I was anxious to get going. The bartender advised against it, calling me "boy" (I'm twenty-five fucking years old!), but I paid my bill and then left. The airport had emptied considerably. It was getting late and the airlines were putting people up in hotels for the night, but, as I walked back through the empty departures lounge, I saw the Canadian. He hadn't moved.

I was going to leave, but I've never been good at minding my own business either. The poor guy just looked so fucking sad. He had nobody with him and nobody else seemed to notice him.

Overhead, an automated voice announced:

"DUE TO DANGEROUS WEATHER CONDITIONS, ALL FLIGHTS ARE HEREBY DELAYED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. THANK-YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE."

I sighed. I couldn't just leave him there.

"Hey," I said, gently kicking his boot. "Can I take you to the hotel?"

He looked up at me, wide-eyed in shock. He had big, violet eyes that revealed fear.

Then I realized what I had said. "Oh, shit! No! I didn't mean it like that! It's just that you look kind of lost."

"I—" He stopped, debating what to do. Then his shoulders deflated and he shook his head. "I just want to go home."

I sat down on the bench beside him. "Where's home?"

"Montréal."

"I'll take you as far as Ottawa, if you want."

I don't know why I said it. But as soon as I did, I saw hope rekindled in his eyes.

"No, no I couldn't. I—" He shifted, fidgeting with his gloves. "You're really going to drive north tonight?"

"I'm sure as fuck not sitting here all night," I said, cocking my head at him. "God knows when this'll let up." I gestured to the window. "They say it's the worst blizzard in a decade. They'll be closing the highways soon so if you're coming with me we've got to go now."

He stared indecisively at the tiled floor, as if the answer was written there. I stared at him. He looked my age or younger: I guessed he was twenty-four. He was smaller and a lot paler than me, but he wasn't unattractive. In fact, he was pretty. Since the rest of him was covered from head-to-toe, I supposed it was his eyes that held my attention; eyes that looked heartbroken. It was then that I realized why I had spontaneously offered to take him north, and why I wanted so badly for him to say "yes". I could've pretended that it was a selfless good-deed, that I truly wanted to help him, which wasn't necessarily untrue, but, really, I just wanted to be the hero tonight.

Finally, he said: "Okay."

We rode the elevator to level B2 in awkward silence, then I led him to my truck. It was navy-blue beast and had a cap on the back. I had taken it camping recently and hadn't emptied out the bed yet—or the cab.

"Sorry, it's kind of messy," I said, shoving McDonald's boxes aside.

He disregarded it and climbed into the passenger's seat, dropping his shoulder-bag at his feet. "I don't know how to thank-you for this—"

"Forget it," I said, tossing my satchel into the backseat (it was an extended-cab). It landed on a sleeping-bag and bounced off. "I'm going up to Ottawa anyway, it's not like I'm taking you out of my way."

"Yeah, but I'd still like to repay you for it. My flight from JFK to Montréal was worth four-hundred dollars, I'll give you half of that when we reach Ottawa."

"Four-hundred for a two-hour flight?" I repeated, whistling.

"It was a last-minute fare," he clarified.

"From where?"

"Berlin." He faced the passenger's window, but I could see his reflection in the dark glass and knew I had hit on something painful and private.

I started the engine and backed out, but before I shifted the truck into DRIVE, I turned to him. "I'm Alfred F. Jones, by the way. You can call me Al." I held out my hand.

He took it and shook. "Matt Bonnefoi," he said, offering me a hesitant smile. "Thank-you, Al. I was lucky to meet you tonight."

---

MATTHEW

Al's truck smelled like McDonald's pickles, but I didn't say anything about it. Nor did I mention the Abraham Lincoln bobble-head stuck to the dashboard. I was just glad to be on the road heading north toward home. Home. It felt good to call Montréal home again, since I had been gone for so long. Berlin was supposed to be my home now. It's where all of my belongings were; it's where my job was; it's where Gil was.

"Do you have a way to get home from Ottawa?" Al asked.

Grateful for the interruption, I said: "Yes. I'll call my Papa to come get me. Montréal is only a two-hour drive from Ottawa, he'll do it."

"O-oh, lucky you. My Dad would make me take the bus."

"Really?"

"Well, he'd offer to pay for it... probably." Al shrugged. I honestly couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. "Are you, uh, hungry?" he asked. One-handed, he fished a bag of Oreo cookies from the consol box.

"How long have these been in here?" I asked, taking the bag.

"Uh, maybe a month? But the bag hasn't been opened so it's fine."

"Maybe later," I said.

He looked sideways at me, as if refusing Oreos was a crime. "You diabetic or something?"

"No. I'm just not hungry."

It might have been true. I hadn't eaten since eight o'clock that morning, but I didn't feel hungry. In fact, the thought of eating made me feel nauseous. I had tried to eat supper on the flight from Berlin, but ended up giving it to the ten-year-old sitting behind me. It was just as well, though: it had been pork schnitzel and sauerkraut. Usually I liked German food, but after eating it for three years I was starting to get sick of it. (If I could tell my six-year-old self that I was actually craving vegetables, he would smack me.)

The snow was really coming down hard and the windshield-wipers were trying furiously to keep up. The drag of rubber on glass was the only sound aside from the engine's low hum, because the radio signal was blocked. Al tried to tune it, but every channel was fuzzy except for an Oldies station playing hits from the 1950s, so he turned it off and we sat in silence. In the dark. Al's handsome face was illuminated by the dashboard lights, which made his eyes look otherworldly: exceptionally blue. He was a tall, broad-shouldered blonde—not unlike Gil's younger brother—wearing a brown bomber-jacket and a glowing L.A. tan. He looked my age or older: I guessed he was twenty-five. Maybe that's why I wasn't intimidated by him. Papa would flip-shit when he found out that I had accepted a ride from a stranger—he had always been paranoid about my safety—but, right now, all I wanted was to get home as fast as possible. I don't know why I had said "yes" when Al offered me a ride, but I do know that I've never felt more forgotten then when I was sitting alone in that airport.

"So is it just you and your Dad in Montréal?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes, I never knew my Maman."

"Really? Me neither. I mean, not really. She and my Dad weren't married, then she walked-out on us when I was five."

"My Maman died six months after I was born."

"Oh, fuck. Sorry."

"It's okay, I never knew her." I shrugged. "I'm sorry for you though. That's harsh. Do you have siblings?"

"No. You?"

"No."

Al bobbed his head in a nonchalant fashion. I felt responsible for the awkward silences, which he kept trying to break, but I didn't feel like talking. Instead, I stared out the passenger's window, spying on the whiteout. Al's truck was the only vehicle reckless enough to be out on the highway, it seemed. I listened to the tires as they crunched over snowdrifts, sliding dangerously. "Fuck," I heard him mumble several times, trying to maintain control of the vehicle. I almost offered to drive for him, but thought it would be impolite.

When we reached the toll-gate, he punched the steering-wheel, and snapped: "Fuck!"

"They closed the highway," I said needlessly. I should have kept my mouth shut, it only fueled him. "Maybe we should just stop for the night—"

"Fuck no. It'll be faster taking the back-roads anyway, the trees will cut the wind."

"But, Al, I don't think—"

"It's okay, I know my way around upstate. I did a lot of running away as a teenager." He flashed me a pearly-white smile. "Don't worry, Mattie, I'll get us to the boarder in no time."

Mattie—?

Despite his confidence, Al's credentials were not altogether reassuring (or valid). The country-road he pulled onto was dark and unplowed and made me feel anxious, like a victim in a horror film. But afraid of seeming rude and ungrateful, I returned his smile wearily. The clock read ten-thirty, but the setting felt more like the fairytale dangers associated with midnight. When I told Al this, he laughed.

"My Dad always called midnight the witching-hour." He rolled his blue eyes. "He's really superstitious. Like, jumps-the-thirteenth-step and throws-salt-over-his-shoulder-when he-thinks-no-one's-looking kind of superstitious."

I smiled. "My Papa's not superstitious exactly, but he took me to the Trevi Fountain once and told me that if I threw a coin into the water I'd fall in love—"

I gasped suddenly, unexpectedly. It startled Al.

"Hey, you okay?"

I nodded, my lips pursed tightly together. I shouldn't have said anything. Fuck.

After a minute, Al said: "That's why you left Germany, isn't it? You got your heart broken."

Again, I nodded mutely as a single tear rolled down my cheek. There was no point denying it. "My f-fiancé," I stuttered. "I caught he and his friend in bed together... t-this morning."

Al exhaled. "Oh, Jesus. This morning? So what did you do, hop on the first flight out?"

"Yeah. I, uh—" He pulled a box of tissues from the console box and handed it to me. I took one and pressed it to my face, feeling pathetic. "I didn't even pack. All I've got is what I took to work with me this morning. Fortunately, it was cold in Berlin today so I've got my parka." The half-hearted joke died on a sob. I grabbed another tissue. "The thing is," I admitted, whispering now (I don't know why I was telling him), "Gil didn't even try to stop me when I left. I kept expecting him to come after me, like the heroes in movies do, you know? But he didn't. He just let me go."

---

ALFRED

Matt bowed his head sadly. His pale-blonde curls hid his face, but his hands were trembling, knitted in the red scarf folded on his lap.

"Jesus Christ," I said thoughtlessly. I felt bad for him, worse now than when I'd seen him alone at the airport. But I didn't tell him that. He was already feeling bad enough by himself without me adding to it. So I said: "What you did is really brave, you know, leaving like that. Just getting on a plane and not looking back. You're a pretty tough son-of-bitch." Matt exhaled in ridicule. "Really, Mattie. I would've beaten the guy senseless for cheating on me. I wouldn't have had the self-control to walk away."

"Yeah, a lot of good it did me," he criticized. "It was an impulsive, emotional decision that got me stuck here in a blizzard four-hundred miles from home sobbing like baby."

"Hey, c'mon. If I'm going to try to cheer you up"—I smiled hopefully—"then you'll have to meet me halfway."

Matt glanced at me and forced a smile. "I'm sorry," he said softly, wiping his eyes. "I know you didn't sign-up for this. You're so incredibly nice, Al, taking me home, and all I've done in return is mope. I'm sorry that I'm not very good company right now." He shook his head, curls bouncing. "I don't usually breakdown. I really don't know why I'm acting like this, honestly, I—"

"Well, I do," I interrupted his self-pity. As gently as possible, I said: "It's because you're sad."

He nodded in defeat.

"So," he said after a long, tense minute of silence. "Now you know why I'm so keen to get home. What about you? What's in Ottawa?"

"My Dad," I replied vaguely. "He, uh, just moved there last year."

"And you're on-leave for the holidays?" He gestured to my open-necked jacket, which revealed my dog-tags. "That's nice."

"Uh huh."

"What branch of military are you?" he asked, clinging to the change-of-topic.

"Army. I'm a Green Beret, baby," I flashed him a sideways grin. Then clarified: "Special Forces."

"Have you ever been posted abroad?"

"Yeah, two tours overseas," I replied, "but I can't really talk about it."

His eyes filled with sympathy. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, no it's okay." I smiled in reassurance. "I just meant that I'm not at liberty to disclose anything. Not that it's a really happy topic anyway, and, you know, I'd hate to bring you down."

Despite his melancholy—his puffy red eyes—Matt laughed. "Yeah," he said ironically. "I wouldn't want that."

I congratulated myself for drawing a laugh from him. It was timid, but nice-sounding. I shifted and grabbed an Oreo from the bag, driving one-handed. "So what do you do?" I asked, trying to keep him talking. "Do you work, or are you a student? Or a house-husband?"

Matt snorted. "No. I work for a publishing house in Frankfurt, I'm an editor. I manage our satellite office in Berlin. Fortunately, tomorrow is my day-off," he joked.

"Oh, yeah? That sounds important."

"Trust me, it sounds more important than it is. It's a dead-end position. The editor-in-chief is, well... kind of spiteful. I think he only hired me because he liked the way I look," he said sheepishly. "In retrospect, I shouldn't have taken the job, but I had just moved to Germany and I needed the work. When he found out that I was engaged and unlikely to cheat on my fiancé—ironic, that—he stopped being nice and transferred me to Berlin."

"Pft, fucker," I scoffed. I hated people who took advantage of their position.

"It wasn't all bad though," he reiterated. "Sure, I was isolated from any kind of advancement in the company, but at least I was closer to G-Gil—" He hiccupped, sucking back a sob. "Sorry—fuck. I'm such a fucking mess."

I didn't disagree as he grabbed a tissue and hid half of his face. I just stared sideways at him, wondering what kind of jerk lets go of someone like Matt. Not that I was in a position to judge. I hadn't been in a 'serious' relationship since high-school, having given my life over to the army since then. I guess I had never found anyone worth holding on to, but if I did I sure as hell wouldn't let him go. Not without a fight. Fuck. I clenched the steering-wheel. I knew it wasn't any of my business, but I felt angry on Matt's behalf. I hated cheaters—traitors. And Matt didn't look like he had the energy to hate the fucker yet. He was still in shock, I guess. Just sad.

Then suddenly his tear-filled eyes grew wide, and he gasped: "Al, look out!"

It was a sharp bend in the road camouflaged by snow. I barely saw it. I was driving too fast.

In reflex, I hit the brakes at the same time Matt yelled: "No, don't!" The truck's tires seized and slid traction-less on a sheet of black ice. I jerked the steering-wheel forcefully and the momentum swung the back-end around. The truck did a one-eighty, propelling us into and over a deep ditch, narrowly missing a tree. I flung my arm out as the cab landed, bracing Matt as his body flew forward. My right wrist twisted back in the impact and I felt a sharp jolt of pain. Ignoring it, I shifted the truck into gear and stomped on the gas. "C'mon, baby! C'mon!" I urged. The back tires spun uselessly; the front tires didn't move. The engine groaned. I shifted into REVERSE and tried again. The truck rocked slightly and I rocked with it in encouragement, but it didn't move. "No! No, no, no! Fuck no!" I punched the steering-wheel. "Goddamn it!"

I kicked open the door and climbed out. Matt followed me, crawling over the seats to the driver's door. The passenger's door was inaccessible because the truck had landed lopsided, half-buried in the ditch. A blisteringly cold wind hit me, pelting me with snow and sharp ice-crystals. I almost retreated, but anger fuelled me, urging me on. I grabbed my gloves from the glove-box and pulled them on as I stomped aggressively through a knee-high snowdrift. The truck had left shallow tracks, which were already being filled in by dense snowfall. Matt stayed close behind me, stepping in my tracks.

For over an hour we tried to dig the truck out, freezing our fucking nose-hairs off. I don't think I've ever been so cold in my life. I dove into the box in search of a shovel or tools—even my rifle, anything!—but there was nothing of use, just camping equipment. "I'm not fucking MacGyver!" I snapped at Matt in frustration. "Are you—?" Wordlessly, he shook his head. He returned to the driver's seat, dropped the truck into the lowest gear, and pressed the gas pedal while I pushed from outside, but it accomplished nothing except covering me in snow. "AH!" I growled, kicking a tire. We searched for something to create friction with, but found nothing. It likely wouldn't have helped anyway; one of the back tires was barely touching the ground. We tried, growing desperate in the cold dark. We tried for a long time.

We tried. And we failed.

Defeated, we climbed back into the truck and I turned off the ignition. The engine's low growl fell silent and, after a minute, the cab went dark. I stared at the steering-wheel's dense outline, shivering as I cradled my tender wrist (I had sprained it). Matt sat in the passenger's seat bundled up in his snowy parka. He looked statuesque, like an ice-sculpture wearing a fur-lined hood. After a minute, I heard a ragged inhale and knew he had been holding his breath, trying not to cry. It cut me; made me feel guilty.

Quietly, I said: "I'm sorry, Matt."

---

MATTHEW

Al sat beside me, shivering violently. His gloves were soaked and he had torn a hole in the knee of his blue-jeans; his L.A. tan looked pale. His breath materialized in the cold and froze on the icy windshield. Coming from California, he wasn't dressed properly for the cold weather. His bomber-jacket looked really good on him (black-wool and leather), but it wasn't meant for negative temperatures like this. Gloveless, I reached over and turned the key in the ignition. The interior lights momentarily came on and the truck grumbled back to life.

Al said: "Don't w-waste the g-gas."

"Where are we going to go?" I asked rhetorically. He looked at me, his lips trembling. I said: "You're cold—"

"I'm f-f-fucking f-f-freezing!"

"—so am I. And when the ice melts, we'll be wet. We won't warm up without the heat on," I reasoned. Taking liberties, I cranked the console dial deep into the red zone and opened the vents. Hot air blasted from deep inside the stranded truck, soothing the cold's sting. It wouldn't outlast the night—the gas tank was only three-quarters full—but for now it was worth wasting. "Take off your gloves and unzip your coat," I advised him, gesturing. "Let the heat warm your skin." Al fumbled as he pulled off his wet gloves, dropping them, and reached for his zipper. But his hands were shaking badly. "Can I—?" I asked, leaning toward him. He nodded. I unzipped his coat and readjusted the heat vents so they were all blowing directly on him. Then I pulled my scarf off, which was bathed in my body-heat, and draped it over his head like a shawl.

"You weren't planning for a blizzard today, were you?" I asked lightheartedly.

He held the scarf tight beneath his chin, hugging it. He looked like a man in disguise. "No. You were—?"

"I always am." I indicated my parka and thick winter gloves. It was a joke, of course, but I think he believed me. "Eh," I added, suddenly remembering the camping gear in the truck's box. I eyeballed the area of frosted window-glass that surrounded us, letting out heat. "I have an idea, a way to insulate the cab." His cornflower-blue eyes looked at me curiously. I smiled, and said: "How attached are you to that tent?"

---

I sliced through the tent's durable fabric with a fishing knife, cutting the silicon-coated-nylon into strips large enough to cover the truck's four windows from inside. Al took a roll of duct-tape and attached each strip, securing them tight, and taping up any holes in the makeshift insulation. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he turned the radio on and we listened to several post-war hits as we worked: we even sang to some. ("Of course," he said sarcastically. "We can't call for help, but the Oldies station is coming in loud and clear.") Then, together, we covered the outside of the cab with a rain-resistant tarp. "The snow's still going to bury it," Al said, disheartened. I replied: "Good. Snow's a good insulator. It'll keep the wind out." I found two flashlights in the box and Al unzipped a heavy sleeping-bag, which he draped over us both. We sat bundled together in the backseat for warmth with a case of bottled water and a bag of Oreos. Al still wore my scarf (around his neck), and I pulled up my hood. Hours passed. We kept the heat on high for as long as we dared before turning it off, saving a half-tank of gas. By then the truck's cab was toasty warm and Al's body beside me was unnecessary, but not unwelcome. In truth, I liked the physical contact. It made me feel safer than I would've been alone. I think he felt the same way, because he leaned absently against me.

"You got a signal?" he asked, waving his cell-phone uselessly in the air and grimacing.

"No," I said, checking for the umpteenth time.

The radio died ten minutes after the ignition was turned off, just as "The Tennessee Waltz" finished playing. I hadn't heard the song in years, but, instead of nostalgia, it left me feeling heavy-hearted and vulnerable. Maybe Al sensed this. Maybe that's why he said:

"Tell me about your fiancé—ex-fiancé," he corrected. "Gil, was it? What's that short for?"

"Gilbert," I relied softly. I didn't want to talk about Gil. I didn't even want to think about Gil (though, that seemed inevitable), but Al insisted.

"C'mon," he said, turning to me. He held a lit flashlight, which gave his face a sinister cast. "The first step to getting over a breakup is deciding to hate the person who broke your heart. It's fun," he smiled in encouragement. "Here, I'll show you. What's Gilbert's surname?"

I eyed him skeptically, but answered: "Beilschmidt."

"Oh, seriously? You just made this really fucking easy, Matt." He barked in laughter. "Beilschmidt? What is that, a type of German beer? There's no fucking way you were going to become Matthew Beilschmidt, was there?" I shrugged sheepishly, avoiding eye-contact. Then I felt him elbow me gently. "C'mon, play with me," he urged. "What does he do for a living?"

"He's a mechanical engineer in Berlin."

"O-oh, fancy. So he's a condescending know-it-all." He grinned. "Bet he kisses his car goodnight, right?"

"No, of course not," I said, biting the inside of my cheek. "He has a motorcycle."

Al tossed back his wheat-blonde head and laughed in mockery. "Typical! So how'd you two meet?"

"I've known him my whole life. He's a friend of my Papa's, they were roommates in university."

As soon as the words left my lips, I wished I hadn't spoken so casually. Al gaped at me in sudden shock.

"What? Are you serious? Just how old is this guy of yours anyway?"

"Well, he's not that old," I said in defense. "Papa was really young when I was born. Gil's only forty-one—"

"Only forty-one? And you're, what, twenty-four?" he guessed correctly. "He's seventeen years older than you. How the fuck did you end up engaged to him?"

Oh, God. I really wished I hadn't told him the truth. It would've been so easy to lie; he didn't know me or my family, after all.

"I don't know," I said, lowering my eyes. I focused on my parka's zipper, pulling it up-and-down as I talked. "I've always been really quiet and I didn't have a lot of friends as a kid, so I just got used to being with Papa and his friends." I shrugged inconsequentially, but I could feel an invisible fist clench my stomach. "I guess it really started in high-school. I developed a huge crush on Gil, which was only a little inappropriate at the time. And it's not like I acted on it or anything. I was way too timid. He had always been a big part of my life though, so it wasn't weird when we did things together. Outings, I mean," I clarified quickly. I didn't want Al to get the wrong idea and think that I had been a fourteen-year-old trying to seduce Papa's friend. "Like, when I was a kid he used to take me to hockey games and stuff... I'm not really selling this, am I?" I asked, noting his furrowed expression.

"Not at all," he confirmed. "You're kind of just digging a grave, Matt. But go on, I'm curious."

I shrugged. "There's really not much else to tell. Gil had been a constant presence in my life for so long that it was an easy transition from childhood crush into, you know, being more. Papa wasn't thrilled about it," I understated, "but eventually he accepted that it wasn't going to end. I guess, for me, it just felt natural. It was never really weird for me because Gil always took the lead on things, you know? And it helps that he's never looked his age. He doesn't look forty-one," I emphasized.

"Uh huh, sure," Al grunted. "But it doesn't change the fact that he was nailing a high-school kid, does it?"

"No, he wasn't. It wasn't like that," I reiterated in self-defense. "Gil didn't touch me until I turned eighteen."

"Really?" Al asked skeptically. "He never kissed you?"

"Well, yeah... maybe," I admitted. I could feel my cheeks heating in embarrassment. "But it was never, like, a precursor to anything more. Gil was a gentleman about it—"

"How long?" Al interrupted.

"Pardon?"

"How long did he wait after you had turned eighteen?"

"It was..." I didn't want to tell. I had never been ashamed of my relationship before, but the recent knowledge of Gil's betrayal left me feeling insecure. It tainted a memory that had been precious to me once: losing my virginity to the man I had loved. "It was my eighteenth birthday," I confessed quietly. I braced myself for a verbal blow (Papa had been furious when he had found out), but Al only sighed, unsurprised.

"Your gentleman sure didn't wait long, huh? Just long enough to avoid prison if something went wrong." He looked directly at me, and added: "I bet he'd been waiting to fuck you for years."

Twenty-four hours ago, I would have denied it. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have thought Gil incapable of hurting me. But seeing him in bed with Roderick had shattered something inside me. That naivety I had been holding onto for years suddenly disappeared and I was left staring at the cold reality of the adult world without the blinders of innocence. I felt instantly afraid, ashamed, embarrassed, worthless. I had never felt insecure with Gil before. He had always had a way of making me feel like I belonged. But seeing them together, staring in devastated shock at both of their calm reactions, I had never felt more like a lost little child in my life. As I left the house and boarded the bus for the airport, one painful thought kept attacking me: How long? How long has this been going on? How long have I been oblivious to my fiancé's deceit? One thing was certain by the looks on their faces though. What I had interrupted hadn't been the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

I felt the touch of Al's knuckle on my cheek, wiping off a tear. "I'm sorry," I said.

"No, I'm sorry, Matt. I didn't mean to make you relive anything," he guessed.

It was truly remarkable how well this American, this stranger, could read me when few others ever could, Gil included. Then again, my defenses weren't exactly fortified just then—and it was Gil's fault. I clenched my hands. "It's okay. Let's keep playing," I said, feeling a pinch of spite. I pulled out my cell-phone. "I'll show you a picture of Gil."

Al took the cell-phone and his lips curled into a cat-like grin. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. He looks like a fucking vampire!" He tapped the screen, indicating Gil's albinism. "This is the guy who broke your heart?" he asked in disbelief, then shook his head. "Seriously, Mattie, have you glanced in the mirror recently? You're way too pretty for this guy. You could get anyone you want."

Al's offhanded compliment took me off-guard. "Yeah right," I said sarcastically.

"Hey," he said, tossing the cell-phone aside. His voice had changed; the bite of mockery was gone. "I've only known you for, like, six hours now, but I already know you're worth more than that guy, Matt."

My heartbeat unexpectedly skipped. I glanced at him. "You don't even know me."

"I know how brave you are," he said. "I know that you left your life in Canada to start anew in Germany. You took a job you hate to support yourself and be closer to Gil. You gave up everything to be with him, and, despite what he did, you still don't hate him. That shows how much you really cared for him. But you left, which proves that you're not a pushover, and you're not afraid to make hard decisions. I know you're more likely to blame yourself than anyone else—even when a guy you just met gets you stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere." He cocked his blonde head and grinned cheekily at me. "You don't lose your temper. You're level-headed and you're kind, someone who's more concerned with others than himself." He tugged my scarf in example. "And," he added, gesturing to the truck, "you're resourceful. You're smart and unafraid of hard work. You'd be just fine on your own, you know." His smile touched his earnest, cornflower-blue eyes. "You don't need anyone, Matt, but anyone would be lucky to have you."

---

ALFRED

What the fuck was I saying? I sounded like a goddamned poet! (And not a very good one.)

Nice going, Jones. Now he's going to think you're hitting on him. Which I wasn't. Not really.

Not intentionally, anyway.

Okay, maybe just a little. Maybe I wanted him to look at me with those big violet eyes like I was his hero.

But that's all, I swear.

It's not like I was expecting him to forget about his cheating ex-fiancé and fall effortlessly into my arms. And I guess ripping on Gil wasn't winning me any brownie-points with Matt. The break-up was still too fresh: too raw for real mockery. Glancing at his downcast face, a part of me wished that I hadn't said anything. I shouldn't have asked so many questions—or gone spouting off a goddamn soliloquy. His relationship was none of my business, after all. But I was interested in him. I honestly wanted to know more about him. I've always been impulsive. "You leap before you look," Dad says (criticises). I had joined the army right out of high-school without thinking. It had been a gut-feeling that just felt right. Like it had just felt right to offer Matt a drive to Ottawa. I suppose that backfired—now stranded in a blizzard—but even though I was angry at the situation, I didn't regret my decision. Not yet. And I hoped he didn't either.

I laughed off my failed attempt to flirt and quickly changed the topic. We talked about a lot of other things as the minutes ticked by, other interests. He loved hockey; I loved football. He loved books; I loved movies (and we both secretly loved superheroes.) We both loved the outdoors. He had spent his childhood summers in Northern Québec in a cottage; I had spent my childhood summers on the beach. He told me stories about his youth in Montréal; I told him stories about my youth in—well, everywhere I had lived (Dad and I had moved a lot because of Dad's job). We talked for a long time, trying to distract ourselves from the blizzard, and actively avoided the topic of ex-fiancés.

"Does your wrist hurt?" Matt asked after a while. I had been absently cradling it.

I lifted my right hand and made a fist, then winced. "Ach! Yeah, it does. But it's no big deal." I shrugged it off.

"May I—?" Matt reached out shyly. He took my hand in his, supporting it as he applied the gentlest pressure to assess the damage. "Do you have a first-aid kit?" he asked.

"Really, Matt, it's not that bad," I said as he retrieved the kit, ignoring me.

"Hold out your hand," he ordered, unfolding a linen bandage. He started to wrap it tightly around my wrist, which throbbed. "There, now just... Hmm."

Absently, he laid my wrist down on his upper-thigh while he searched for a pin. I felt my stomach jump into my throat and hoped it didn't show on my face. Matt's legs were long and slender. I could feel his body-heat through his blue-jeans. If I flipped my hand over, I could grab his—

"Oh, here it is." He took a pin from the kit and secured the binding. "That feels better, doesn't it?"

I swallowed and removed my hand. "Uh, yeah. Thanks."

I watched as he repacked the first-aid kit and then leant forward to put it away in the front. Before I could stop myself, I was ogling his shapely backside. I felt the heat rising in my, uh, cheeks, and looked quickly away as he sat back down. He pulled the discarded sleeping-bag up over us both, trapping me there beside him as he nestled back down. Discretely, I tried to shift away, but failed. We sat almost shoulder-to-shoulder; thigh-to-thigh. Matt had taken off his parka, which was lying in the passenger-seat, and only wore a long-sleeved t-shirt. I felt him shiver, but I don't think he was cold. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his belly and leant back against the backseat. It was getting late—three-thirty in the morning—and I wondered if he was tired. I was about to offer him the whole seat to lie down in (I would climb into the front), but before I could speak, he looked at me and smiled.

And my heart pounded in reply. Somewhere between JFK airport and "The Tennessee Waltz" I had realized how undeniably attracted I was to the guy sitting next to me. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of how long it'd been since I'd last had sex.

"How long do you think we'll be here?" Matt asked conversationally. I suppose we had exhausted every other polite—and impolite—topic of small-talk by then.

"That depends," I said, leaning back as well. My knees pushed against the driver's seat, which was pushed-up the whole way. "We can't leave the truck until the storm ends and nobody will see us buried here until we do. Not that I think there's anyone patrolling these back-roads tonight anyway. Nah." I grinned playfully. "We're just going to have to rescue ourselves. We could be here for days," I said in mock-threat, showing my most beguiling smile. "Think you can survive for that long, Mr. Editor?"

"If I can't," he teased; absently he leaned closer, "will you take care of me, Soldier?"

It's a good thing Matt started laughing then, because I would've kissed him if he hadn't. It was too irresistible an opportunity. He was so close, so good-looking. My pulse quickened. I felt truly warm for the first time in hours. I felt heat radiating from my tense lower-body up into my belly. As his soft laughter subsided, I could see the remnants of tears in his long, pale eyelashes, and I wanted to wipe them off. I flexed my fingers. Those violet eyes were looking at me, unguarded. When they landed on my lips, I lost the battle for self-control. Compulsively, I leant forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

---

MATTHEW

I tensed, initially. But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been expecting Al to kiss me, or hoping that he would.

A part of me felt guilty, as if I were cheating on Gil, but I swallowed that part when I let Al's tongue into my mouth. Al's lips were made for kissing, soft but firm, and he knew how to use them, too. I felt his kisses send a shiver of anticipation down my spine, readying for more. It was a mixed feeling, nerve-wracking but good. It made my heart beat fast. Even Gil's kisses never made it to my legs, which tingled where Al touched me, resting his hand on my thigh. Maybe because Gil was too familiar to me, too safe. But Al was different. Al was new and young and exciting, and he took the lead without asking or considering the consequences. He pushed forward, pressing his lips to my lips; his tongue tangoing with my tongue. It was hot and heady, desperate even. He made me feel like I was doing something I shouldn't be. And I loved it.

When we broke apart, he was red-cheeked.

"What was that for?" I asked, breathless.

"I was just thinking," he smirked caddishly, "if I die out here, I don't want to have any regrets."

It was a line, but a good one. It hit me in just the right way.

"You know," I said, shifting closer, "I've never been with anyone besides Gil."

"Oh?" Al raised an eyebrow and the side of his mouth lifted crookedly. He looked rakish, like a film star. "Is that a bad thing?"

I considered him, this handsome blue-eyed soldier, inadvertently comparing him to my ex-fiancé. "Yesterday it wasn't," I admitted, "but today... I think it might be."

I pressed my hands flat against his chest, his jacket, and brazenly nipped his lip. I felt his hands on my waist, strong and warm. They moved naturally, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt and resting on my bare skin. My heart palpitated in anticipation of what I was about to do. Absently, I wet my lips. I felt my cheeks heat, but I couldn't help it. After hours of trying to avoid looking at him, I couldn't not look at him. He was so gorgeous. My body felt weak in his arms, but I, myself, felt electrified. I tugged deliberately at his jacket's zipper, drawing it down. His collar fell aside and I slid my hands up the sides of his neck. Then I closed my eyes and kissed him: once, twice. I did it slowly, letting him read my intent. Then I paused, waiting for him to respond.

His eyes had closed, too. When he opened them I was rewarded by those beautiful blues. "You're really sleep-deprived," he said. His hands caressed me tenderly, but not gently. "You're acting rashly based on emotion and grief."

I ran my thumb along his defined jaw. "Tell me something I don't know."

"I don't want to take advantage of you."

"No?" I slid closer, crawling half onto his lap, and arched my back. I kept eye-contact, lips parted. "Not even a little?" I asked in mock-innocence.

He swallowed. I saw his Adam's Apple bob. "Well," his eyes raked me hungrily, "maybe a little. Are you going to regret this?"

"I don't know," I replied, which was the truth. I leant down, letting my lips hover inches from his. "Ask me tomorrow."

Al needed no guidance, no instruction—no further permission. Before I knew it, I was straddling his tapered waist, exploring the athletic shape of his muscles with eager hands as our lips clashed together. Eventually, he pulled his away and lowered his head to my neck, sucking my skin as he relieved me of my t-shirt. I let one hand get tangled in his feathery hair, forcing him closer, as the other unclasped his belt and yanked his fly open. It was clumsy and fast, insistent, but I didn't care. I didn't want to wait. Fuck foreplay, I wanted him now. I shoved his shirt overhead, tossing it beside his discarded jacket, and pressed myself to his chest, skin-to-skin. His was beautiful, smooth and golden. His stomach muscles rippled as he moved, repositioning himself. His hands reached under me and lifted me momentarily before laying me down across the backseat. It was tight, too small for either of us. To compensate, I wrapped my legs around his waist after he had tugged off the remainder of my clothes. "Ah, fuck!" he growled when he banged his head on the roof, struggling out of his jeans and boxers. I laughed breathlessly and he pierced me with a wolfish grin. It was the carnal look of a predator. Eagerly, I pulled him back down. I wanted his weight on top of me. I wanted the scent of his sweat and aftershave on me. I kissed the cords in his neck, then his shoulder, running my tongue over the slope of his collarbone; tasting his skin. He said something, but I didn't comprehend it. I murmured in agreement; it seemed like the right thing to do. In truth, I didn't care what he did as long as he fucked me soon. I was already hard from his hand's ministrations, which had become focused on my lower regions. In retaliation, I rubbed my hand faster up-and-down the length of his thick cock. He whined and bit his lip. His face was contorted and he was panting. I'd have bet I looked the same. Neither of us would last much longer if he didn't do something soon—

"A-ah—!" I gasped suddenly as he removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock, pushing it inside me.

"Mattie," he exhaled, close to my ear. He grasped my waist and pulled me closer, sinking himself deeper. My legs tensed, trembling. He slid his callused hands over my hips to my thighs, fingernails digging in as his body rocked back-and-forth, gentle at first; then his pace increased. "Ah, Matt—" he repeated. This time, I said:

"Y-yes—Ooh, yes."

I squeezed my eyes shut, letting a tense knot of desire build inside of me, bringing me closer to release. I held his shoulder one-handed; my other hand clawed at the window behind me. I threw my head back, sweaty curls slicked to my face, and involuntarily arched into him. My body was responding on-cue to Al's fast movements. He was skilled. It felt natural, not rehearsed. And it helped that he was deliciously slick inside me. His girth filled me, stretching me. It was different from anything I had ever experienced before. Al was bigger than Gil, but less schooled in technique. It was less routine; less gentle. Al was as excited as I was and he didn't hold back. I opened my eyes and noticed that he was smiling as he fucked me. It was absurd—but it made me smile, too. At least, until I felt the tension suddenly break inside of me and I cried-out in release:

"Ah— A-Al—!"

"Matt!" he gasped in reply. "Can I c—uh!—m inside you?"

"Yea—uh!" I thought I was done, but another wave of climax rocketed through me as Al's seed released deep inside of me. It sapped my remaining strength and I collapsed.

"Aaa-hh~"

---

ALFRED

I braced my hands on either side of Matt, panting hard. It took serious effort to stay upright and not collapse on top of him. My whole body was spent. My arms were shaking. My lips were wet, coated in saliva. I must've looked like a wild animal leering down at my prey. (Oh fuck, stop drooling like a goddamn dog!) I'd felt like a beast, wanting to kiss him and touch him and take him. The desire to bite him was strong; I wanted to leave a visible mark on his skin. A token, I guess. I don't know why. But I resisted the urge to do it. Matt had let me fuck him, but I wasn't sure how keen he'd be for a love-bite. I had to keep reminding myself that I didn't know him. We had only just met, and yet... I looked down at Matt, whose chest was rising-and-falling fast; whose pale skin was flushed pink and beaded with sweat; whose lips were soft and swollen; whose eyelids drooped in exhaustion, revealing slivers of vibrant violet. His eyelashes quivered, still wet with tears. And I swallowed. Somehow, being with him was easy. I felt as though I'd known him forever.

"Matt—?" I ventured.

His eyes met mine and he smiled timidly. Gone was the self-assuredness that I had seen in him only minutes ago, someone confident in his sexual ability, his skill, but uncertain how to connect on a more intimate level. I could see it in his eyes, a question: Well, I let him fuck me. Now what?

I took the lead, relaxing and only half-intentionally falling on top of him. "Oh, God," I moaned, burying my face under his chin. His skin was soft and smelled sweet. I rubbed his biceps, shivering even though I was covered in a layer of sweat. Well, that's one way to stay warm, I thought, nuzzling Matt's neck. A laugh reverberated in my throat and I chuckled. Matt glanced curiously down at me and I raised my head to meet him, eye-to-eye. I said: "That was amazing, Mattie." In example, I kissed his sweaty neck. "Oh, fuck! That was so good!" I felt giddy. I'd had sex before, but never like that. "You can't tell me that wasn't the best you've ever had. Tell me, Matt." I inched closer, like teens at a slumber-party, letting my lips hover just above his. "Better than, uh, what's-his-name—right?"

Matt hesitated, eyes breaking contact. A jolt of self-consciousness hit me, but it was short-lived. He was only teasing me. Without looking at me, he said: "It was bigger."

Good enough. My face split into a victorious grin, and I hollered: "Fuck yeah!" making him laugh. I pecked his lips and laid back down, pillowing my head on his chest. I felt satisfied. And so fucking tired.

Matt shifted again, seeking comfort, the flat muscles in his stomach rippling lithely as he moved. (And—Oh, God!—could he move.) I wondered where he had learned to move like that. I didn't realize I'd asked the question out loud until he said:

"Montréal."

I looked at him quizzically, resting my chin just below his beating heart. His tone was playful—fingers coiling gently in my hair—but there was reticence in the depths of his eyes. I wondered what he was thinking about. Are you going to regret this? I had asked him. He hadn't said no. He hadn't really said anything then or since. Suddenly, his expression struck me as distant, as if he was thinking about something else; someone else. It made me feel a pinch of unease, self-conscious about my performance. Even though I had asked in jest, I did not want to be compared to his ex-fiancé, whom I was rapidly beginning to think of as a rival. I also didn't want Matt to regret what we had just done, especially since, for me, it had been the best sex in—ever. I'd never felt so close to someone else before, so naturally connected. I didn't want him to be feeling bad or guilty. The mere thought hurt me.

"Matt—" I started. But he interrupted:

"Thank-you, Al."

His words shocked me, not only because there were tears in his eyes. The playfulness was gone, replaced by the same vulnerability I had seen in him earlier. I wondered if he had merely been suppressing his heartbreak, using me to distract himself from how lonely and hurt he was. It's exactly what I hadn't wanted. I didn't want to be anyone's second-choice. To hide my feelings, I cracked a joke:

"God, Mattie, you really are amazing. I didn't even have to ask you to say that—"

He pressed a finger to my lips, silencing me. The tears contradicted his smile, which, for all the world, looked genuine. It was beautiful, but sad. Quietly, he said: "Not for that, Al. For this." His voice grew softer, nearly a whisper. "Thank-you for caring about me tonight. Thank-you for being here." His hand moved, gently stroking my cheek. The caress sent a shiver of muted arousal through me. "I'm glad I'm here. I would much rather be stuck here in a blizzard with you, then be in that airport all alone. I'm glad I met you."

A tear fell and rolled down his cheek. I brushed it off.

"Hey." I smiled, covering his hand with mine. I liked the touch of his fingers, even though the tips were ice-cold. "I'm glad I met you too, Matt, not only because of the mind-blowing sex."

A nervous laugh escaped him. I felt it in his stomach. "You're going to run out of adjectives soon," he teased.

"Ah, well, if you haven't noticed," I said, matter-of-fact, "I'm a rather vocal man."

"Oh, I did notice," he affirmed. His lips curled into a sly grin, alluding to my sexual performance. "And now we're all sticky because of it. Me more than you," he noted.

He was right. Smeared was a good word to describe Matt's lower-body. Carefully I sat up, letting my flaccid cock slide from his body, and, cheekily, I touched my fingers to the milky substance coating Matt's abs. His eyes grew wide in horror as I licked my lips. "Don't—!" he started, but too late. I popped my finger into my mouth and sucked off his salty semen. A sound very much like "Ach!" escaped him before he started laughing, red-faced in embarrassment. It was adorable. Really, Matt? That's what embarrasses you? In appeasement, I fished in the driver's seat pocket and produced a half-dozen packets of sanitary-wipes emblazoned with the KFC logo.

"Well," his voice was still soft, but it held a hint of sarcasm, "aren't you prepared?"

I squared my shoulders and proudly lifted my chin. "I was a Boy Scout for a whole eight months, you know."

"Eight months?" He bit back a smile. "What kind of a soldier can't make it through Scouts?"

"I was kindly asked to leave."

"Why?"

I watched as he repositioned himself, lifting his long legs to wipe my sticky emissions from his upper-thighs. The sight of my semen dripping out of him made my stomach flip unexpectedly. "I, uh, didn't play nice with the other kids," I said in an unintentionally deep tone. It made him pause. He looked at me, those swollen lips slightly parted in question. "I don't like sharing," I added not-so-subtly.

"That's good to know." He placed his hands on my shoulders and used me as a brace to pull himself up into a sitting position. Like before, his violets lingered on my lips, then shyly sought eye-contact. Blushing, he said: "I like possessive men. I like men who fight for what they want... what they love."

I didn't miss the implication, that Gil had let Matt go.

Deliberately, I leaned in and kissed him chastely. I'm sorry you got hurt. I'm sorry that German broke your heart. I would never do that to you, Mattie. If I had you, I would never let you go. That's what I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to sound too eager or desperate. I had my pride, after all. Instead, I smiled at him, and said:

"I love a good fight."

---

Matt fell asleep soon afterward. It was a deep, dreamful sleep made obvious by the way his eyelids quivered. I offered him the whole backseat to curl up in, but as I was climbing into the front he grabbed my forearm. "No, wait," he said coyly. "Will you just... hold me while I sleep?" It was a request I was happy to fulfill, even if that meant sitting with my legs stretched out over the consol-box. Matt rested his tousled curls on my chest and wrapped an arm around my stomach, and he was asleep before I had even covered us both with the sleeping-bag. As promised, I held him, drifting in-and-out of consciousness. As a soldier I was used to long-hour shifts standing guard, but I was usually bored. Being here with Matt, I wasn't bored. Vaguely, I listened to snow pelting the truck outside, letting the peaceful sound lull me now that I was tired and relaxed. Eventually, I, too, fell into a restful sleep.

We stayed like that for a long time. Matt slept for a long time, which I think was good. He needed it. When I finally awoke, my neck was stiff and my right arm—the injured one—had gone numb, but I didn't move Matt off. Like a perfect gentleman, I let him rest. I didn't even grope him. One-handed, I checked my cell-phone. There was still no signal, but the clock told me it was almost noon. We'd been asleep for at least seven hours. As if prompted by the time, my stomach gave a grating growl in hunger. It roused Matt, who, as it happened, was also starving. (It's amazing what sex does for your appetite.) Together we devoured the box of Oreo cookies, both fighting over the last one. Then Matt leant back, pulling me with him, and huskily said:

"Al, fuck me again."

I did, obviously. And it was just as good as the first time, maybe better. If not better, it was definitely louder.

The third time we did it, it was half-three in the afternoon (so said my cell-phone), and we did it to, uh, keep warm. It had become freezing in the cab again, and, while the heat blasted, the radio playing as the truck's engine ran, I climaxed for the third time in less than twenty-four hours. Best. Road-trip. Ever. Matt straddled my lap this time, his fingers digging into my tense shoulder-blades as he fucked himself on my cock. I held his hips as he moved, urging his pace to go faster, harder. His back arched, pale-blonde curls thrown back as he whined and moaned, writhing in my lap. God, he was sexy. I kept my eyes on him, watching him the whole time. I bit my lip so hard I drew blood. It tasted like salt, iron, and Oreo cookie—like Matt's kisses. We climaxed at the same time (we were getting good at doing that), and then he collapsed against my chest, completely spent.

He was still sitting on my deflated cock when I heard people outside.

I had just enough time to pull the sleeping-bag over our flushed, sweaty bodies before the tarp was peeled off one of the windows and a middle-aged man's face appeared. A neighbour, I figured. His deeply lined brow furrowed in disapproval as he comprehended the scene. "Ah, jeeze," he sighed. In resignation, he added: "You kids need a tow?"

"Yes, please," I said, smiling innocently.

He rolled his eyes and stalked off, muttering to himself.

A half-an-hour later, Matt and I were sitting in the neighbour's kitchen while his wife force-fed us coffee, egg and bacon sandwiches, and cornbread biscuits. She fussed over us like a great-aunt, volunteering information about her son in comparison. "My son, Charlie, he's a doctor, you know. He's a handsome boy, like you two. See? Here's my Charlie." She showed us a photograph of an exceptionally average-looking guy in a black graduation gown. Matt and I both nodded politely. Eventually, the tow-truck arrived. When Matt tried to follow me out, clinging to my coat-sleeve, the wife protested, insisting that three people was more than enough and we didn't need Matt, and that he should stay and talk to her. Matt shot me a pleading look that plainly said: Don't leave me here with her! but I winked and walked out. I could feel him glaring at my behind, thinking: Traitor, which made me grin.

In the daylight I could see the damage my truck had caused. As it turns out, the field I'd driven into belonged to the man standing beside me, glaring suspiciously at the—ahem—rather dishevelled interior. I was expecting him to drive a hard bargain as far as compensation went, but in the end I paid him a fair sum to fix the fence and that was it. "Thanks," I shook his hand. He grunted. Then I went back to collect Matt, who whacked me in the back of the head as he climbed into the cab. "Thanks a lot!" he growled.

"I should call my Dad," I said, fingering the cell-phone in my pocket.

In the end, I didn't. We arrived at my Dad's house in Ottawa at ten o'clock that night. The house lights were on and smoke curls twisted from the chimney. It was a half-bricked cottage with a bare crab-apple tree hanging over the porch. I'd seen a picture, but I hadn't visited since he moved-in. I cut the truck's engine and then sat there in silence.

---

MATTHEW

I waited. It wasn't my place to move first. Al was staring at the house—specifically the front door; though, he avoided direct contact with the window—like a highwayman eyeing the noose. His knuckles looked sharp, the skin pulled taut as he clenched the steering-wheel. I glanced at the clock, watching quietly as the minutes ticked by. Despite the hours we had spent talking while stranded, he had carefully evaded any questions focused on his father and home-life. He had been liberal about his childhood stories, but he had refused to elaborate on his adolescence onward. Based on the way he was staring at the cottage, I guessed his father had something to do with it. In fact, it was becoming clear that Al's father was the exact reason for his disinclination to return home, even for Christmas.

"Al—?" I hesitated. I didn't want to be insensitive, but it had been six minutes. Like it or not, Al's father was going to glance out the window eventually and see his son's truck in the driveway.

In reply, Al opened his door and got out. He slugged up the walkway as if he were in full-kit, and then paused on the porch, waiting for me. The smile he plastered to his face was forced, which I disliked. He had an honest face; he looked ill-at-ease trying to fake it, which compromised his good-looks. As I approached, he offered me his hand, as if I were a Victorian lady needing assistance to climb stairs. Despite that, I took it and was surprised at the pressure he applied. That's when I realized that the gesture was for his benefit, not mine. It was the subtle gesture of a man asking for support without admitting he needed it. After everything that Al had done for me—and to me—in the last twenty-four hours, I could hardly refuse him. And, more than that, I didn't want to. I felt absurdly happy to lend him comfort. In reply, I squeezed his hand.

Al knocked. Then we waited.

It was a cold night. The south-east of Ontario had been hit with the record-breaking blizzard twelve hours in advance of New York and, by the looks of the white cityscape, it had gotten it even worse. As we waited, braced against the wind, shivering, I eyed the icicles hanging from the eavesdrop wearily. They were huge, like glassy stalactites. As a precaution, I inched Al slightly forward just in case one decided to fall.

When the door opened, it revealed a slight-figured blonde man who looked so close in age to my Papa—even younger, maybe—that I wondered if Al hadn't been conceived, uh, unexpectedly, as I had. He was not tall, nor broad, like Al. In fact, his lean body completely lacked the definition that Al's had. But there was no mistaking the familial resemblance in their handsome, fair features—and their mannerisms. Al's father stiffened when he saw his son and an inscrutable expression reshaped his face. He did not sound eager when he said:

"Oh, it's you. What do you want?" He didn't invite us in. In fact, he blocked the doorway.

"Hey, Dad. It's good to see you, too," Al said sarcastically.

Al's father didn't blink. His Lincoln-green eyes glanced critically from Al to I before taking note of our linked hands. In a tone harbouring judgement, he said: "Are you in a spot of trouble, Alfred? Or do you just need money?" Again those green eyes pierced me, lingering suspiciously, as if I were the cause of Al's lack of funds. It was the look I imagined that conservative parents gave their runaway sons who showed up unexpectedly with pregnant bedmates. It was a look that made me feel irrationally guilty. And small. Though he wasn't my father, I felt thoroughly scolded.

"I came all the way out from L.A., Dad." Al shrugged, a surprisingly helpless gesture. "Are you really going to shut me out?"

Wordlessly, Al's father stepped aside. He didn't wait for us to enter, he just headed down the narrow hallway. "Cuppa tea?" he offered tersely, then proceeded into the kitchen before Al or I could answer. Tea sounded good to me, but Al looked like he couldn't have cared less.

Al followed his father's fast, slipper-padded footsteps into a small kitchen; I followed Al. I'd barely kicked off my shoes before he started pulling me, not letting go of my hand. He kept his combat boots on, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood, which his father's perceptive eye noted unhappily. He had stopped in front of a big stove and didn't turn around until Al said:

"Dad—?"

"Hmm?"

"This is Matt," Al introduced me.

Suddenly, I felt put on-the-spot. "Matthew Bonnefoi," I said, giving my whole name. Al's father seemed like a man who preferred formality. In reply, he politely extended his hand, which I shook.

"A pleasure," he said flatly. "You may call me Arthur. Cuppa tea, Matthew?"

"Actually," Al interrupted. Arthur's eyes slid to his son like a cobra spotting a field-mouse. "It's been kind of a long night. Can we use your shower? I mean, separately, obviously," he added quickly. He chuckled, but avoided eye-contact.

Oh good, I thought, blushing. Just in case Arthur had any doubts that his son was fucking me...

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Second door on the left," he said, extending his hand. "Towels are in the armoire; soap's in the cupboard. I'll put your clothes in the wash and find you something else to wear," he added, guessing my size. I was taller, but we had a similar figure. The Englishman's—Al's father spoke with a very distinguishable London accent—clothes would fit me just fine, but accepting them felt very weird. I still barely knew Al, after all, and now his sullen father was handing me pyjama bottoms and an old Abbey Road t-shirt. "The hot water's blue, the cold water's red," Arthur said, gesturing to the shower faucet. "It's backwards."

"Merci," I said accidentally. (My native-tongue is French. I often involuntarily slip into it when I'm nervous.)

Arthur paused in the washroom's doorway and eyed me curiously. "Montréal?" he guessed knowledgably. I nodded. "I've never liked that city," he said. And he smiled. It was the first time I'd seen him smile and I was struck by the resemblance between he and his son. It was a nice smile.

"Thank-you," I repeated in English, indicating his hospitality.

Arthur nodded and left.

---

ALFRED

I felt like a guest in my Dad's house. It was smaller than my childhood homes, but nicer; it looked like Dad had finally let go of the arts-and-crafts décor he had favoured in my youth and replaced it with pretentious art and stacks of well-fingered books. I recognized a few Classics that he used to read to me, but I was genuinely surprised to find a familiar art piece hanging on the wall in a place of honour over the fireplace. Nestled between two demure paintings of the Old English countryside was a finger-painting I had crafted when I was five. That was the year my Mum had left us. In the sloppy red, blue, and yellow painting, it was just my Dad and I.

"Alfred."

I hadn't heard Dad return from the washroom and I'm embarrassed to admit that I flinched. Dad's voice had an edge to it, like when he used to reprimand me. He was standing stiffly in the arched doorway, between the kitchen and living-room, and holding two beers. He handed me one. "I know you don't like tea," he said, sitting down. I sat on the couch's arm on the opposite side of the room. Dad held the beer, but didn't open it. Avoiding eye-contact, he said: "Why are you here, Alfred?"

I snorted. "I was overdue for a scolding. The Army's pretty easy-going about that sort of thing, you know—"

"Alfred," Dad interrupted, "I'm serious. I haven't seen you in three years. You've worked every Christmas for the past five years, presumably to avoid me, so why are you here now?"

"Because..." A half-dozen sarcastic retorts filtered into my head, but I paused. I didn't want to lie. I could feel a big truth-bubble in my throat, which popped when I looked at Dad's downcast eyes. I said: "I'm here because I want to be. I think." Dad glanced at me. I sighed and slid onto the couch. "The truth is, I've been meaning to visit since you moved here, but every time I've had leave, I just..." I shrugged. Now I was the one avoiding eye-contact like a coward. I could feel Dad watching me carefully, which is why I told the floor: "I always convinced myself not to come see you. I chickened-out," I admitted, feeling ashamed. "I came close a couple times. I was in Buffalo four months ago and I was going to call you, but when you answered the phone I hung up."

Dad cocked an eyebrow. I could practically hear him mocking me: Very mature, Alfred.

Aloud, he said: "So what makes this time different?"

"Matt. I honestly don't know if I would've come here if I hadn't met him, if he hadn't needed my help."

"Forever the hero, Alfred." Dad smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. He sounded tired. "Just can't resist a cry for help, can you? Or a pretty face—"

"That's not it!" I snapped, too harshly. I recovered, and added: "When I got to JFK and they grounded all the flights, a part of me was really relieved. The blizzard was a good excuse not to come here, not to see you. I was going to find a hotel to wait-out the holiday, but then I met Matt. When he said he was going to Montréal, it was like a sign." I shrugged, helpless (embarrassed). "It was like Fate giving me a kick in the ass, telling me to come here. I've spent the last five Christmases alone and every single one of them sucked. I know we left things on bad terms, but," I hurried on before he could recall details, "you're the only family I've got, and I... I missed you. I wanted to come home."

"This isn't your home, Alfred. You've never lived in this house."

"Home is wherever you are, Dad. Pft. That was really lame." I laughed nervously. To distract myself, I twisted the cap off the beer, struggling to grip the bottle in my injured hand.

Wordlessly, Dad crossed the living-room and sat down on the couch beside me. "Battle wound—?" he asked.

"Souvenir," I corrected. "I would've been here yesterday, but my truck took a nose-dive into a ditch. It's not serious." I indicated my wrist. "And fortunately Matt wasn't hurt. It's, uh, kind of a long story."

"Oh?" Dad's eyebrow cocked in intrigue. "Are you planning on leaving soon? Tell me about it, Alfred. Tell me about Matthew, your damsel-in-distress."

I snorted. "He's hardly that. He's just..." I paused, then blushed.

The sound of Dad's soft chuckle surprised me. I looked at him as he twisted the cap off of his beer bottle and tapped it lightly to mine, producing a clink. "Cheers," he said. And smiled.

---

MATTHEW

I toweled off and re-dressed quickly. The Abbey Road t-shirt clung to my wet body no matter how much I tugged at it. It was a little short. It revealed a sliver of my midriff. (I calculated that it would also be too short on Arthur, but didn't want to contemplate why the Englishman had intentionally bought a revealing shirt; the eighties were a weird era.) I finger-combed my curls, which stuck annoyingly to the back of my neck. Then, taking a breath, expecting an awkward encounter, I walked into the living-room. Al and Arthur were talking quietly, but they stopped the instant I entered. I felt like I was intruding on a private family moment, but I could hardly go wandering around someone else's house uninvited. I felt both of their eyes capture me; Al's ravishing me, Arthur's scrutinizing me. Suddenly, I felt very self-conscious.

Softly, I said: "The shower's free."

Al stood and set an empty beer bottle aside. I didn't want to be left alone with Arthur, whose hooded green eyes were unreadable (unlike his passionate son's). I hadn't made the best first-impression, after all, but it's not like I'd had much choice. I was an uninvited guest in this house; just Al's charity-case in Arthur's eyes. As Al passed me in the doorway, he lifted a hand to my shoulder and squeezed boldly, conveying reassurance. I loved the feeling of Al's warm, callused hands on me—but not when his father was watching. I could feel Arthur observing my reaction, which was to bow my head and blush coyly like a besotted schoolboy. Fuck.

"Cuppa tea?" Arthur offered when Al left. "Or perhaps something stronger?"

"Actually, tea would be nice, thank-you." My head felt fuzzy enough already without lowering my inhibitions with alcohol.

Arthur left to brew a pot, leaving me alone in the small living-room. Papa would've called it 'cluttered', but it wasn't that different from his house in Montréal. Both men seemed to have a preoccupation with the past, clinging to their 'glory-days'.

Inadvertently, I remembered breaking an antique vase when I was eight-years-old, and how terrified I had been to tell Papa. I remembered how his face had gone from white to red as he tried to bottle his disappointment. Gil had been there, too, and he had held my hand the whole time. I had told him first in secret, afraid of confessing my blunder to Papa. Gil was so much calmer than Papa in a crisis. He had always made me feel less self-conscious. It had been Gil who had given me the courage to face Papa back then. "It's okay. I'll be with you the whole time, Mattie," he had promised. I had trusted Gil implicitly back then. But that was a long time ago.

I was inspecting the childish skill of a framed finger-painting when Arthur returned toting a tea-trey. I took a cup and let it hover at my lips, breathing in the scent of strong English tea. I sat where Arthur indicated, trying to hide the fact that Abbey Road left my lower-back bare. He sat opposite me—and then silence engulfed us. It was so quiet, I could hear the shower running in the background. Finally, I said:

"I'm sorry." It was the first thing that popped out. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Kirkland—"

"Arthur, please," he interrupted. "And don't be. I'm the one who behaved poorly before. I'm sorry, Matthew. I shouldn't have judged you just because you're with Alfred."

Arthur's tone was polite, yet something in the way he said with was suggestive enough to make me blush. He didn't comment, though; if he noticed at all.

"Alfred tells me that you're the one in a spot of trouble, Matthew."

Quickly, I gave him a (paraphrased) synopsis of my woes. I finished by asking if I could use his telephone to call Papa.

"Of course." Arthur gestured to the telephone mounted to the wall in the kitchen. (My cell-phone had died.)

I mentally prepared myself for a hysteric scolding, but Papa's voice was shockingly inanimate. Sheepishly, I asked if he would come get me in Ottawa and he agreed.

Arthur's tea was untouched when I returned. He was staring vacantly at the coffee-table, but blinked when I sat down. Al was still in the shower. (Come on, Al! What the heck are you doing in there?)

"Matthew."

Arthur's voice made me flinch.

"May I ask you a question?" He faced me, and said: "Why did you come here with Alfred?"

"Oh, uh, I—I needed a ride."

"Is that all?" He sounded more suspicious than curious.

I could have evaded the question, but it would have been cowardly. Arthur's tone suggested a certain degree of knowledge regarding the last twenty-four hours. I sighed, and said: "Al told you what happened?"

"He didn't need to. I can see how much my son likes you, Matthew. It's you I can't read."

"Oh—?" I tried to look nonchalant, but Arthur's scrutiny made me blush—again.

"It's not surprising based on what you've both told me about, well... I'm sorry about your ex-fiancé," he said. "But may I make a request of you?" I nodded wordlessly. Deliberately, he said: "Please don't hurt my son, Matthew. I realize that you might not be ready to fall head-over-heels in love just yet, but, if that's the case, then please don't lead Alfred on. He's been hurt enough already. I know he has, because I've contributed to most of it," he admitted, halfway between bitter and regret.

"You don't approve of Al's life, do you?" I asked. It hadn't been a hard puzzle to crack. "His career-choice."

"No."

"Why?"

I thought that I had overstepped. Arthur was silent for a long time, thinking. When he finally said "Matthew" I could hear the pain in his voice.

"When you look at Alfred, you see a big, strong man who can protect you," he guessed (correctly). "But when I look at Alfred, I see my baby deliberately placing himself in danger every single day. I see him throwing his life away, in love with a job that will never love him back. Every time I see him, I worry that it'll be the last time I ever see him. I love my son very much." His voice unexpectedly broke. He swallowed. "But I can't forgive him for leaving."

"Sir?" I probably should've kept my mouth shut. It was between them, after all. It was none of my business, but something inside me wanted to defend Al. "I know it's not my place," I began cautiously. "I've only known Al for twenty-four hours, and I've only known you for about two now, but I think you're making a mistake. Al is a protector. That's who he wants to be. It's the first thing I noticed about him. It's the reason I wanted to go with him," I realized, "because he made me feel safe. He saw me and he cared about me when no one else did. Al loves being a hero more than anything. It's a part of him, and if you can't accept that then you're going to lose him a lot sooner than you think. If you continue to make him choose between you and the army, then nothing is going to change. You're going to lose him completely."

Arthur shifted. "Those are bold words."

I bowed my head. "I'm sorry—"

"The words of experience."

Arthur's tone was expectant. I swallowed, then admitted: "Not exactly, but... If my Papa hadn't accepted Gil, my fiancé, I wouldn't have thought twice about leaving him. Papa, I mean. I would've chosen Gil over him, and, worse, I would've resented Papa for it. It's not what I would've wanted, just like losing you isn't what Al wants, but he's going to do what he wants to do regardless. It's something he has to do for himself, but I know that he'd feel a lot better if he had your blessing, your support. Just like I felt better having Papa's."

"Your father didn't want you to be with Gil?" Arthur asked.

"Uh, no."

"Gil, the cheating ex-fiancé whom you're running from now?"

I pursed my lips. I could see Arthur's train-of-thought like a road-map. I said: "You're kind of bulldozing the point I'm trying to make, Mr. Kirkland."

He grinned not unkindly. "It's Arthur, Matthew. And I'm sorry, but I'm inclined to agree with your father. If you had of listened to him in the first place then you never would've had your heart broken."

"And I never would've met Al."

Arthur's eyebrows lifted a half-inch and he looked at me as if seeing me anew.

Finally, he nodded in approval, and said: "Drink your tea before it gets cold."

---

ALFRED

I took a long shower. I needed it. I needed to let myself relax.

I dressed in a pair of tartan pyjama bottoms that hovered high above my ankles, but I completely bypassed a shirt. Dad's t-shirts were too small and I didn't feel like tromping back to the truck for my duffle-bag. Despite the cold outside, the wood-stove in the kitchen kept the cottage toasty-warm. Barefoot, I went back to the living-room, where I found Matt exactly where I'd left him, talking to Dad. His posture was politely tense, but his expression was relaxed. He didn't look too ill-at-ease. In fact, his eyes brightened when I walked in, which made me feel good.

Dad left, making an excuse to give us privacy.

I said: "Did you call your dad?"

Matt nodded. "Yes. He'll be here in a couple of hours."

"Do you want to sleep?" I offered, glancing at the clock: eleven-fifteen. "Have a little nap before he comes?"

"No." Matt stood and swiftly closed the distance between us. I was immediately bombarded by the scent of peppermint soap: Dad's soap. It was kind of weird being attracted to someone who smelled like my Dad and who was wearing his clothes, but beneath it all he was still Matt. My Matt. His hair had dried into a curly mess, like a cherub's; his pale skin was flushed with heat; and he still had that faraway look in his eyes. Suggestively, he hooked his fingers below the elastic-band of my bottoms and tugged gently. His fingers were cold on my naked hips. I shivered in a very good way. "I'm not really tired," he said softly, eyeing my lips.

I placed my hands on his lower-back, left bare by the t-shirt, and smirked. "You want to make-out instead?"

"Yes."

We ended up in the guest-bedroom, sprawled on the double-bed in the dark. Matt was completely wrapped around me (Jesus, he's flexible!), long, slim limbs clinging to me in desperation. His tongue tasted like toothpaste and tea; his flushed skin tasted like him. Just Matt. "Mm, you're my favourite flavour, Matt," I said at one point, only half-aware of myself. He laughed—which is pretty hard to do with someone's cock in your mouth. He had wasted no time covering the length of my body, working his tongue, his hands, from top to bottom. I fisted a handful of bed-sheets to keep from calling-out. Then it was my turn to inflict some sweet torment. I flipped him indelicately so he was lying on his back, my weight pressing down on him. He gasped and moaned as I took revenge on him; in him. I hadn't realized before how fucking loud he was—and I smiled. Dad almost certainly heard him, but, courteously, he stayed well out of sight. Even if he hadn't, I don't think I could've stopped. I was too consumed by Matt. I fucked him hard from the top and bottom; from front and back—basically, every way we could think of. I didn't want to let go of him. We fucked as if we'd never fuck again (which, realistically, we might not). Finally, when both of us had had enough; when we were both completely empty, I collapsed on the bed beside him.

"So much for showering," Matt said, panting.

When he caught his breath, he crawled gingerly to his feet. I noticed the way his knees buckled and I smiled to myself, feeling both protective and proud. I traced the base of his elegant spine with my fingers, eyeballing the red love-bite on the curve of his hip. It was exactly the size and shape of my mouth; its twin discoloured his body farther down. I'm glad he had let me mark him, even if nobody else would ever see it. In that moment, watching Matt's naked body stretch and reach for his clothes, I felt possessive of him.

"I should get cleaned up before Papa gets here," he said.

I wanted to say: "No, just forget it. Forget everything else and stay here with me." But I didn't. I didn't trust myself to speak, so I didn't say anything at all.

Matt had barely left the room when I heard Dad's voice in the hallway:

"Oh, Matthew. I've got your clothes here, they're dry."

"Oh, merci!" Matt said, flustered. "I was just, uh—I'll go change now!"

I heard his footsteps in fast retreat. Then Dad's head poked into the room in accusation. I was lying sprawled on my back, stark-naked, my arms folded behind my head. I could've moved to cover myself, but I didn't really care. I shrugged in mock-innocence. Dad rolled his eyes and left.

It wasn't long after that I heard a knock at the front door. I pulled the pyjama bottoms up over my hips and knotted the drawstring to secure it, then ventured out. I heard Dad's polite voice in greeting, and then the sound of an unmistakable French accent. It said:

"I am Francis Bonnefoi. Is mon Mathieu 'ere?"

"Yes, he is," said Dad, stepping aside. "Please, come in. I'm Arthur Kirkland, and..." Dad spotted me then and hesitated. I realized why when I caught my reflection in the wall-mirror: flushed, bedraggled, and covered in hickeys; I looked like someone who had just had sex. "Uh, this is my son, Alfred," he finished, as dignified as possible.

Francis, however, didn't seem to notice me. He barely looked at me. He was scanning the hallway behind me, searching for signs of Matt. "Enchanté," he said, distracted as he shook Dad's hand.

When Matt appeared a moment later, Francis went directly to him and caught him in a heartfelt hug, as if he hadn't seen his son for months—which, I remembered, he hadn't. It wasn't hard to see how much Francis loved Matt; and how unashamed he was of that fact. Matt was lucky; a lot of people seemed to love him. I felt something then, but I couldn't describe it. It made me feel somehow happy and sad. Jealous, maybe. I cast it off as I looked at the father and son's reunion. Francis hugged Matt long enough to make Dad and I feel sufficiently awkward.

"Comment ça va?" the Frenchman asked.

"Oui, ça va bien," Matt replied.

Dad and I continued to wait, standing a few feet apart, feeling like we were invading a private moment. Matt squeezed Francis in return, drawing strength from his father. I saw him inhale deeply, as if struggling not to cry.

Eventually, Francis let go. He declined Dad's offer of tea, thanking him for the invitation, but admitting that he really just wanted to take Matt home. "Mon Mathieu 'as been gone long enough," he said, matter-of-fact. His tone hinted at a command, but instead of being affronted, Matt seemed relieved by it. He took comfort in Francis' bearing, his familiarity, so certain, like a child, that everything would be okay now that his father was there.

I felt Matt's weariness as he hugged me. Francis waited by the door, making forced small-talk with Dad while Matt and I said goodbye. I, of course, didn't want to say goodbye to him, but it wasn't my choice. Reluctantly I realized that Francis was right: Matt needed to go home. He needed to grieve for his failed engagement and get over Gil: a six-year-long relationship. It had been fun pressing pause on life for a while, but both of us needed to face reality now. It was after midnight, time to accept that our fairytale was over.

And yet, I held Matt for almost as long as Francis had. I wanted to remember the feel of his body; the smell of his skin. I felt him inhale and imagined that he was doing the same with me.

In a soft whisper, he said: "Thank-you, Al. For everything." Then he kissed my cheek, and, before I knew it, he and Francis were gone.

I stood in the half-open doorway with Dad, watching as Francis' car was swallowed by the dark and distance. Only when I had completely lost sight of the bright headlights did I close the door and turn around. Dad stared at me expectantly. I waited a minute, then said:

"So, uh, I can go if you want—"

"Don't be a twat, Alfred. You'll stay," Dad decided. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and stalked purposefully into the kitchen, expecting me to follow. "You've already broken-in the guest bed anyway." I couldn't see his face, but his tone hinted at a grin. But it was gone by the time he reached the kitchen. There, he stopped. His shoulders tensed. He said: "Besides, there's still a lot for us to say. I'll start."

He lifted his head and, very deliberately, said: "I'm sorry."

I just stared at him.

Dad persevered. "I still hate that you joined the army. I still can't accept it. But I am sorry for the way we left things between us. I never wanted you to leave, Alfred. Maybe that's selfish, but..." He paused; swallowed (his pride), and said: "I do love you."

Dad's words jolted me, and, without invitation, I pulled him into a hug. I held him and squeezed his neck like I had as a touchy toddler. After the initial shock wore off, I felt his hands tentatively return the impulsive gesture. He indulged me for a moment; patted my back a couple of times. Then said:

"Alright, Alfred, that's enough. We're not French twats—get off."

I pulled back, chuckling. "Dad," I said, grinning, "I love you, too."

"Oh, sod-off." He shoved me. "And take another bloody shower, will you? You smell like you've just shagged a sodding brothel."

---

MATTHEW

The car-ride back to Montréal was quiet. I sat in the passenger's seat and stared vacantly out the window. Papa's eyes never left the road; not that I saw. He left the radio off, which was unlike him. He disliked silence. In truth, I couldn't tell what he was thinking and it unnerved me. His face was uncharacteristically solemn. I had had an entire plane trip to decide what to say to Papa when I saw him, but now I couldn't think of anything. Despite my resolve, I didn't want Papa to be disappointed in me. I didn't want him to pity me. And I really didn't want him to say: "I told you so." I had been embarrassed enough already, walking in on Gil and Roderich; running away like a child; having to eat the words I'd once felt so confident speaking: "I love Gil and I want to be with him." I already felt like a big enough fool without Papa judging me.

I kept waiting for the judgement; the scolding; the reprimand, but it never came. We left Ontario and crossed into Québec, but Papa's eyes never left the road. He navigated the snowy highway in silence, speaking only once to ask if I wanted Tim Horton's drive-thru.

It wasn't until we had reached home and were sitting in the driveway that he finally said (in French):

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," I replied.

"Okay."

I started to exit the car, but his voice called me back.

"Gilbert called yesterday."

I swallowed and sat back down. "Oh?" I chanced a glance at Papa.

"He told me what happened. He was very upset, Mathieu. He kept apologizing, and saying how sorry he was; saying how much he still loves you; how much he still wants to marry you. He wanted to talk to you. He wanted you to know that he regrets it all and he wants you back. He's a royal mess. He even begged me. I've known Gilbert for a long time, but I've never known him to act like that. He's completely heartbroken, Mathieu."

My heart clenched in reply, but when I thought of Gil a wave of bitterness soured the image. I felt my eyes fill with tears, but, with effort, I held them at bay. Quietly, I said: "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing."

Papa's cold tone surprised me. I looked expectantly at him.

"I hung-up on him," he said. His blue-eyed gaze met my mine and a smile reshaped his lips. "Nobody hurts my baby like that."

Affection for Papa overwhelmed me then and the tears fell, rolling down my cheeks. I whispered: "Thank-you."

"Oh, Mathieu," Papa cooed. He led me inside and then held me as I sobbed—for everything. The last twenty-four hours had overwhelmed and exhausted me. But I was glad to be home. I felt like a helpless child, but in the best possible way. I felt like a boy who's father could protect him from everything. Papa's loving embrace had always been the safest place in the world when I was young, and I was pleased to find it still was. It didn't matter that I was twenty-four-years-old; Papa's touch and soft, soothing voice had never lost the power to make me feel better. Finally, I was glad to be home.

"It's going to be okay, baby," he whispered. "I'm here. You're going to be fine, Mathieu. I know it hurts now, but you're going to be just fine. I promise."

It was half-three in the morning when I finally looked at the clock. Papa said: "Mathieu, go to bed, chéri."

I nodded, half-asleep. Before I got up I looked at Papa and smiled. "Will you make me breakfast tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course." Paternally, he combed back my hair, hooking a curl behind my ear. It felt so good, so calm and peaceful. I almost flinched when he suddenly added: "But only if you tell me about Alfred Jones."

My eyes widened and my cheeks went red. He cocked an eyebrow knowingly and then laughed.

"See?" he said in self-satisfaction. "I told you, Mathieu, you're going to be just fine."

---

ONE MONTH LATER

My cell-phone woke me, ringing loudly. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, but I had been dead-asleep. I blinked the sleep from my eyes as I swatted at the offensive cell-phone. I didn't look at the caller ID; I just answered it. I was mid-yawn when I said: "Salut—?"

"Matt? It's Al. Al Jones, remember me?"

Instantly my eyes snapped open and I sat upright in bed, holding the cell-phone snug against my cheek. Al—! Suddenly, I was very awake. It had been a month since I had returned to Montréal; a month since I had left Al, and I hadn't heard from him since. I had thought dozens of times about calling him, of course. I wanted to. But I had always talked myself out of it. Coward, I thought now. I felt suddenly nervous hearing his voice again: that loud, bold voice flavoured with a pinch of Southern twang. Nervous, but grateful as well. It disarmed my secret suspicion that our time together had been nothing more than a prolonged one-night stand.

"Uh, Matt—? You there? It's Al," he repeated.

My stomach fluttered giddily. "Yes, I know. Just how bad do you think my memory is, Al?"

He laughed (nervously—?). "Yeah, uh, listen... How've you been?"

I could hear the unasked question in his voice. He was not good at hiding trepidation; or jealousy. I liked that about him. After being deceived by Gil, I liked that I could read Al's intentions so easily. Instead of letting him sweat, I skipped the small-talk, and said: "Gil and I are done, Al. We were done the minute I left Germany."

"Oh, good," he exhaled in relief, "because I'm in Montréal."

"You're what?"

"Yeah, I'm in Montréal," he repeated, sounding uncertain. "I just don't know where. I'm standing in front of this big statue of a dude, uh, a cowboy—? and a big-ass horse. It's, uh, kind of in a park-ish—?"

I could feel myself smiling into the cell-phone as I crawled out of bed. I pictured Al's handsome, blue-eyed face contorted in confusion as he paced back-and-forth on the snowy path, and I felt overwhelmingly happy.

"You're in Dorchester Square," I said.

"Oh, good. I'm glad you know where I am, because I sure as fuck don't. Everything's in fucking French."

"Just stay there," I ordered, tugging on a pair of faded blue-jeans one-handed. "I'll find you."

---

ALFRED

I pocketed my cell-phone and sat on a bench to wait. The bronze cowboy glared at me, looking royally pissed off about something, but I didn't know what. I didn't read fucking French. I waited for what felt like a long time, watching lots of people walk and jog by. It was easy to discern the tourists from the locals in this part of town. I was clearly a tourist (sans camera). When I was sure Matt was running late, I checked my cell-phone, only to find that barely ten minutes had passed since I'd called. I want to say that I looked cool and confident while I waited for him, but that would have been a goddamned lie. I looked more like a guy afraid of being stood-up by a blind-date.

The truth was, I was nervous to see Matt again. A month was a long time not to see the guy you were pining for, after all; the guy you imagined when you jerked yourself off.

I sat on the bench, kneading the fabric of Matt's red scarf in my hands, trying not to grin when I replayed his admission that he was single. I'd been so afraid that he and Gil might've reconciled. I'd almost called Matt to find out before coming, which, in retrospect, would've been a good idea. But I didn't. I couldn't. If he had said yes, he and Gil were back together, I think I would've hurled my phone at the wall. Instead, I'd impulsively gotten into my truck and drove. I'd been staying with Dad in Ottawa, dodging his eye-rolls and pointed looks for weeks, until finally he'd said:
"If you want to see him so badly, just go!"

My leave from the army would be over in a few short days, then I'd be going back to California. I didn't think it mattered at first, but it did. I realized that I finally had something—someone—I didn't want to leave behind. I knew that if I went back without seeing Matt, without telling him the truth about how I felt, I'd regret it.

So I'd left Dad, promising to call. And two-and-a-half hours and an exorbitant parking fee later, I was lost in downtown Montréal.

"Al!" Matt called.

I looked up and saw Matt walking toward me. Hot-fucking-damn, he looked good. I stood to greet him and a second later found my nose immersed in the sweet scent of his curls. I hugged him back, trying not to seem too eager (though, he had initiated the impulsive hug). Immediately, I relaxed in his arms. Holding him felt good; it felt right. I could've stayed there all day, but since we were in a public square, I pulled back first—and met his smile and those stunning violet eyes. "Matt." I grinned (like an idiot). "It's really good to see you."

"Yeah, you too, Al. But," he cocked his head curiously, "what are you doing here?"

"Well," I said, feeding him a preconceived speech, "you left Ottawa and I realized that I still had your scarf."

"Oh—?" He took it, eyeing it and then me. There was a note of playful suspicion in his tone.

I could feel myself going red, but soldiered on. "I thought you might need it," I said, finding it hard to keep eye-contact. "And, uh, I wanted to tell you, that, uh..."

"Al."

Gently, Matt touched my hand. It was all the encouragement I needed.

"Matt, some jerk in Germany made the mistake of letting you go. I'm not going to do that. I'd rather fight for you than lose you," I said honestly. I took his hand. "If you'll let me, that is. I really like you, Matt. I think I have since the first time I saw you in JFK airport."

"I was sobbing—"

"I know. But it just made me want to see you smile."

Matt smiled then, and it was beautiful. In a soft, shy voice, he said: "I really like you, too, Al. You were there when I needed a friend, and when I needed more. I'm so glad I met you. And I..." His violet eyes involuntarily went to my dog-tags, conveying worry; fear. "I don't want to lose you either."

"You won't," I promised, squeezing his hand. "Now, where in this city can I kiss you without being judged?"

Deliberately, Matt reached up, took my face in his hands, and Frenched me right there in the middle of the city, in the dead-centre of Dorchester Square.

After a minute (or two, or three—), I pulled back, smiling.

"I think I like Montréal."

---

I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee Waltz
When an old friend I happened to see.
I introduced him to my darling and while they were dancing
My friend stole my sweetheart from me.

---

FIN

THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've had this story archived for a while. It's been my go-to story to work on when I don't feel inspired by anything else. Because of that, it was written in pieces. If it feels disjointed, that's why. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (even though it murdered a little part of my soul to make Prussia the "bad guy"). Thank-you! :)

Cheers,

Shadowcatxx