summary: alfie and amber spend part of the holidays together.
pairings/ships: amfie
rating: k+
setting: post-season two, pre-season three
notes: heavily inspired by the piece 'you are jeff' by richard siken; told from amber's perspective (second person). the driving age is seventeen in the uk and i'm going to assume that the sibuna gang have passed year twelve (as they graduate secondary in the third season) by this time of this fic. also, please leave a review and/or fave, if you don't mind?
you're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.
- richard siken
a year ago, you couldn't possibly imagine stepping foot in camden of your own free will.
yet here you are, in camden, with your boyfriend in a silver camry with five-inch scratches near the headlights.
(the car wasn't even his, but it doesn't matter.)
he got his license two weeks ago. you remember laughing over the phone as you reminisce over the fluffy pink cart that destroyed your picnic. "oh alfie!" you'd spluttered, "you're so funny!"
ten minutes later you heard burning rubber outside your chelsea apartment, and there he was: soaking wet and on the brink of hypothermia. in his hand was a picture of him with 'driving license' in bold, black typeface; the union jack to its left.
your cynicism faded because why on earth is he so stupid? ushering him inside you wrapped him up in your bathrobe and chided him for hours about going out in the pouring rain and not bringing an umbrella and for god's sake alfie why don't you call that's what phones are for.
really, you just don't want him to fall ill.
he stays the night at your place and thank goodness daddy isn't home because he would throw a tantrum about uninvited sleepovers. (mum doesn't mind. she never does when it comes to you; let's face it - you're too pathetic for the likes of her.) after a while you can't stay mad at him so you just lie together on the floor talking about nothing in particular, as always.
you fall asleep at three, his fingers entwined in yours. his chocolate skin makes yours look so pale and you wondered if you're sick. maybe you're a vampire, but the thought of a blood-centric diet is just way too gross.
when you woke up, it's ten in the morning and the sun is high in the sky. alfie's sitting next to you with a plate full of toast with that trademark grin of his.
"i was wondering when you're going to wake up, sleeping amberella," he joked. you gently whacked him on the arm. he didn't flinch. "i made you breakfast. your maid insisted on doing it yourself but - "
"toast? pancakes? waffles?" you cringed, sitting up and throwing a pout in his direction. "alfie! what did i tell you about carbs? i have fruit in the mornings, and salad, and maybe - "
"changing your diet for one day isn't going to kill you," he reassured, resting an arm on your shoulder. (you've got to stop feeling so guilty. guilt means worrying, and worrying causes wrinkles.) "i promise that we'll have a detox session next week or something."
a smile ghosted your lips, but your eyebrow was firmly arched, "i never knew you were interested in detoxifying."
he laughed. "only for you, ambs."
your stomach is suddenly full of butterflies, your grin stretches from ear to ear, and you feel like you're on cloud nine all at once.
half an hour later, you've snacked on god knows how many pieces of carbs, but you couldn't care less because he's shoving way too much food into his mouth and you have the ambulance on speed dial.
(what is with you and gluttons?)
he asked you to go watch a movie with him - he insists on paying again - and how could you say no? his movie choice was questionable, but he was your boyfriend and he always lets you have a say.
"you're not spending two hours getting ready," he challenged, "i give you ten minutes because i have a feeling - "
as if on cue, you can hear a car honking outside. in haste you skip the eye shadow, the blush, the eyeliner - and actually went nude for once. a quick apology and an even swifter getaway made the incessant noise stop, though nothing could stop the string of curse words coming out the man's mouth.
you cringed when alfie paid for the tickets. and the food.
in all your years of dating, you hate it when a guy pays for dates. you're your own woman, and you'll be damned if a man wants to pay for something you're pampering yourself with. when you were with mick, you paid for every single date, even the one to the fancy restaurant that cost nearly five hundred pounds and made you go over your credit allowance. if it wasn't the perfect mick campbell you went with, you knew you'd be sent to hell.
alfie is too sweet to argue with.
you watched a movie about aliens, and you swear on your limited edition louboutins that you actually thought the movie would be interesting. even though you bought two large boxes of popcorn, he managed to hog most of it. you didn't mind in the slightest; popcorn contained too much fat for you. the movie was okay, but you spent most of it curled up on the crook on his shoulder.
he didn't mind. (he never does.)
most of your day has led up to this.
it's ten o'clock when you finally leave the mall after a much-needed manicure and several hours of browsing doctor who merchandise. you vaguely hear victor's bellowing in your head yelling at you to go to bed. bright lights illuminate the city streets, and you think to yourself, catch me now, victor!
you're in a car with your boyfriend, and you feel like victoria beckham. you're in a car with your boyfriend, driving through the middle of london at a measly thirty miles an hour but everything outside is flying so fast past you that by the time your fingers rests upon an object it is already beyond your reach.
"you're quiet, ambs," he observes, and the concern curls your heart into knots, "are you okay?"
"i'm fine, alfie!" you reply, grin stretching from ear to ear, "i'm wonderful!"
"really? you don't think my driving's all that horrible?"
"i'm just thanking the fashion queens that you haven't gotten us into a - "
cursing your words, a car swerves right in front of you - obviously the work of a drunkard - and the screech hurts your ears. alfie puts his full weight onto his foot. the car jerks into a halt, and you swear you can smell something burning. you scream, because you're more terrified than that time he nearly got stuck in the tunnels or that time he nearly died and you don't want to end your short, perfectly dressed existence with something as horrific as a car crash.
"amber?" alfie asks. his arm stretches across from his seat to yours, and he squeezes your hand in the sweetest, most alfie-like way. your cheeks flush a light shade of rose (for once, you're thankful it's dark), and you give him an almost undecipherable nod as a tear streams down your cheek.
you finally arrive at his neighbourhood, and thankfully it isn't as bad as the pictures make it seem.
however, your joy is extinguished by a fire of worries shocking your brain. you're scared that this is all a façade and that gang meetings are held in family backyards and pervs cast cameras on unsuspecting youngsters. what makes your skin crawls most of all is that you're sleeping over in his bed tonight and because you didn't plan this you forgot to bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush and you're going to look absolutely filthy tomorrow.
you verbalise these thoughts, and he just shakes his head and tells you how beautiful you look as you pull up on their front yard, you blessed beauty.
his mother sights you on the porch, and you don't know if you're being paranoid but it looks like she's raising a brow at you. "she's my girlfriend!" alfie exclaims, and you're grinning to yourself like a moron.
(he's always so proud of you, even when you've done nothing, and you don't know how you deserve that.)
mrs. lewis slinks back into the lewis home, and it's you and him accompanied by the black english night in front of you. you link his fingers with yours, and he's so warm: your personal toaster oven.
"i don't want to go inside," you whisper, your voice so faint it didn't help that you're partially deaf in one ear.
his reply was succinct, but enough. "then don't."
he turns off the engine, unbuckling his seat belt and rolling the window. the cool summer air brushes your skin and it prompts you to do the same. you both tilt your seats back, staring at the same sky that says all the 'i love you's you can't, because in the end it's you (us) against the world.
a/n: okay i hope this wasn't completely horrible.