Chicken: Live a Little
"You know, I really, really, really don't think this is a good idea."
Arthur's complaint either goes unheard or ignored as the old Honda Civic barrels down the road, kicking up a mist of dust. Wind howls through the cracked windows, through his hair, and out through the broken trunk with a few stolen wrappers. Rock music blasts out the speakers, rattling his senses in a cacophonous symphony. It almost drowns the boisterous sniggers, the cackles and crackles of malformed pleasure, the wolf whistles, the cheers of celebration, the tirade of teenage anarchy driving through the night.
Arthur wonders how he got himself in the situation, just how far down he slipped into delinquency. He once was a sweet, hardworking boy, always did his work and always avoided trouble. Parties were just distractions from the bigger picture of lifelong prosperity. But somewhere along the way, the adults say he lost himself to revelry. The fact baffles his superiors, and many of them speculate just when he threw his life away. There are theories—from when he came home at three o'clock in the morning intoxicated to instances as early as the failed test in English class—but Arthur knows the truth, if he was truly honest with himself.
Alfred F. Jones accounts for his change of heart. No matter how much he argues, no matter how much he refuses, that slacking boy changed him. In the beginning, when Alfred was but a new student in History and seated directly behind Arthur, they rarely spoke a word. He could not sway the Briton by regalement of amazing parties and adventures. Those stories were like a leech, eating away at Arthur's resolve day by monotonous day until he finally ventured out with the charming American slacker. The rest fell into place – first party, first fistfight, first drink, first cigarette, and first sex session in the back of a rundown Honda Civic – all with Alfred by his side.
Every time ends as predictably as it begins. Arthur regrets whatever he did, swears never to do it again, and falls back into anarchy's sweet siren call. Some could call it a ritual, or so Alfred says.
Chaotic trysts like these bordered between idiotic and suicidal. Every time he agreed to a night out with the gang he more or less risked his life. Some have battle scars to prove it—Gilbert with the elbow that cannot stretch right since he snapped it last summer, Antonio with the scar that crawls across his chin.
"Shut up, Art. Live a little," says Alfred.
Reluctantly, Arthur silences; he knows better than crossing Alfred when he was in one of his relentless moods. He was the driver, the leader, the shepherd to a flock of hopelessly misguided sheep.
He hopes that perhaps the schedule changed tonight, that perhaps they missed it because of their late departure. But, almost as fate's way of spiting him, Alfred stiffens, rigid and coiled like a snake, in his familiar way. Knuckles bleach white because of his intense grip on the steering wheel. Blue eyes transfix on an uncertain point in the road, shrouded under the false lure of dark nothingness. A wicked smile curls on his metal pierced lips. He knows what's coming, and Arthur does too. He doesn't need to hear the blaring whistle; he can feel the surge of excitement within the car, the dangerous pleasure brewing behind each set of eyes.
Fluorescent lights blind Arthur as they near. Alfred drums his hands on the wheel impatiently. Everyone in the backseat cheers. The Briton's nails puncture the claw-bitten foam seat further.
"Alfred… Alfred, it's getting closer."
"I know."
"Alfred! You're not going to win!"
"Shut up."
Another whistle screeches – their last warning before collision.
This was it—game over. Arthur closes his eyes, praying to the God he forsaken long ago, imagining his body splattered and charred along the tracks. Inhale, exhale; he's hyperventilating because he knows once Alfred sets mind he never changes it.
"Alfred!" One last effort – futile, he knows.
Just at the last moment, when everything goes silent with the certainty of death, the vehicle jars to the right in a sharp turn. Arthur's head smacks against the window pane, splaying multicolored dots across his vision. The laughter never ends; it just goes distant as though someone holds his head underwater. The freight train roars farther and farther down the adjacent track until it is just a tiny, dark slither along the horizon—a memory.
Arthur's head throbs and spins, and he's certain he will vomit; he cannot tell if that is from the car's serpentine driving pattern or his head injury. Growling, aggravated by Alfred's carefree laughter, he punches him in the arm. "You could have fucking killed us!"
"Come on," he chuckles, breathless. "Live a little."
As much as he wants to protest, wants to scream and yell and call them the idiots they are, Arthur cannot. Soft laughter rumbles through his quaking body. The train, his anger, is in the past; right here, right now is skyrocketing into blissful future. Now he knows why he agreed to these feats. This wild hysteria they brought on is life, the desire to live, shooting through his nerves, his senses, his everything. It builds in his core until his feels completely breathless, completely weightless, like he transcended worldly boundaries to catharsis. As long as it courses within him, as long as these people—these messengers of a genesis—accept him, Arthur knows he's not yet lost.
Meh . . . I don't know about this one, guys. People keep telling me that it's brilliance, but I don't see it. Maybe I'm too overly critical. Anyway, this AU has been brewing in my head, and I really like it. If I receive enough feedback requesting more, there will be a continuation . . . That'll probably be M-rated, just saying.
As always, critiques-constructive criticism or praise-is highly requested and appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to read this piece.