10

They drove for about four hours before shit hit the fan and Alfred's Thunderbird decided to rebel, perhaps at odds with the uncharacteristically long journey it had been commandeered to endure.

But they were four hours that Alfred—and, he hoped, Arthur—would never forget.

There was something special in doing nothing but drive. Since cars were invented, driving into infinity had become a symbol of freedom, independence, endless romance. He'd always imagined himself being able to get behind the wheel and drive wherever the road would take him, without a care in his mind or a burden on his shoulder. While there were still a few cares and still a few burdens, this was freedom unlike anything he'd ever felt. He'd joked around with his high school friends about taking a road trip across the country. Route 66 and all that jazz. But they'd never gotten around to it and since diving into his life of intense training and fighting, he hadn't gotten this sort of shot at freedom.

Arthur being there made it that much better. Rock music playing the whole way, summer sun shining down on them, while Arthur sang along and ate gummy bears and smoked cigarettes and told jokes that went right over Alfred's head.

"Knock knock," Alfred said.

"Who's there?"

"Boo."

"Boo who?"

"Hey, it's just a joke, don't cry!"

"That's absolutely terrible," Arthur scoffed. "Let me tell you a real joke. Why did the bald man paint rabbits on his head?"

"Um. Because he's expressive?"

"Because from a distance, they looked like hares."

Alfred didn't say anything. He tried to laugh, he really did, but even after he actually understood the joke he couldn't find any laughter within him. He just looked over at Arthur and pursed his lips. Then he shrugged.

"You just don't understand British humor, that's all," Arthur grumbled. Then he stole the gummy bear that was in Alfred's hand.

They talked about a lot of things. Being on the highway, while it was pretty quiet and they were zooming and the top was down and the Beatles were blasting, was oddly conducive to genuine, easy conversation. Alfred ran his mouth because, for one reason or another, Arthur listened. Alfred could tell, even if he wasn't looking directly into Arthur's eyes, even if Arthur wasn't directly engaging in the conversation, that he was listening. It was just something he could feel. And he felt it especially when he turned his head every few minutes to glance over at his companion. Feet on the dashboard, sunglasses glistening, hands tapping against his thighs to the beat of the music. At one point, he put his head over the window and looked over his shoulder, at the stretches of road they were leaving behind. The shape of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, the tangles in his hair and the pucker in his lips, were such breathtaking, small details that Alfred was astonished at his own ability to recognize them. He couldn't get the taste, the feel, of Arthur's kiss off his lips. But they hadn't talked about it. That was probably for the best.

It was the most energetic Alfred had seen Arthur since he'd climbed up onto his bed to cover up the smoke alarm, about two weeks ago, the first night they'd met. That seemed like so long ago, didn't it?

I can't have only known him for this long, right?

How...how did we end up here, again?

Me, driving down the highway to nowhere. He, a picture-perfect image in the passenger's seat.

Normal people don't do this, right?

Alfred was so unbearably happy that he was able to push the frightening vision of Ivan Braginsky's face to the dim, dark labyrinths in the very back of his mind.

His luck must have run out, though, when his car's engine began to sputter and stumble along the highway.

"Shit," he grumbled.

"What? What's going on?"

Instead of responding, Alfred managed to take the car from the left lane all the way to the right, out of the way of the other highway-goers, just before the car completely stopped working. It was making terribly sad sounds, and it made Alfred's heart pound uncomfortably.

"Fuck, I just took it out!" he cried, banging his head against the steering wheel. Staying like that, he managed to press the button to get the top up and take a few deep breaths. They'd only been out for four hours and the car was already pissed.

"Perhaps we should check out the problem ourselves?" Arthur suggested. Alfred had almost forgotten that he was there, and his voice, hoarse with years of cigarette smoke, brought him back to the reality that he was not alone and that he needed to get his shit together.

"Yeah, good idea. You can stay in the car if you want."

"All right."

Alfred stepped out of the car and moved to the hood. They were already pretty up north from New York City, surrounded by lush green hills and blossoming trees and a world completely unlike the bustling city in which they'd been previously trapped. The air was fresher and there weren't as many cars and everything seemed calmer. Everything except for his smoking engine.

He got back into the car with a huff and a puff and anxiety written on his face. He couldn't hide it even a little bit.

"Well?" Arthur asked. He'd put his feet down and lifted his sunglasses.

"Well," Alfred began, "the engine is pretty much useless. Can't tell you why or how, but I guess I did something terrible in my past to warrant this, who fucking knows. Maybe this is karma for kidnapping you."

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"So, long story short, the car isn't going to move from this spot without being towed."

"All right. Call whomever you need, then. They can just tow the car to the nearest repair shop."

"Yeah, well..." Alfred pulled out his cell phone and stared at it. Dismally. Hopelessly. "There's no service here."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Can we walk to the—?"

"What, you mean fifteen miles?"

"Oh."

"Yeah." Alfred leaned his head back and stared at the roof of the car. "I mean, it's doable, but it would take at least two and a half hours."

"I suppose." Arthur stared out the window and pursed his lips. "Any ideas?"

"Well..."

Two minutes later, Alfred was standing on the side of the road with his thumb stretched out, and Arthur was sitting next to him on the grass with their small bags. It was the best thing Alfred had been able to come up with and, if he was being honest with himself, he'd always kind of wanted to hitchhike. He put on his best smile and let his hand sway up and down, outstretched so that anyone could see it. There was no hope for him to fix the car at this point—he knew the steps, but he had none of the repair materials he needed. With no service and a long way to walk on the highway, Alfred and Arthur had decided that this was the most efficient way of doing it, even if it meant subjecting themselves to potentially dangerous (though generous) strangers.

"We can switch when your arms get tired," Arthur said. He was hugging his legs to his chest, chin on his knees, looking very bored and smoking a cigarette. It was a good look on him.

"Please. Like that would happen to a hero like me."

"Bite me."

"America's full of nice people. Someone will definitely pick us up."

"Whatever you say."

It was still light out, so it would be a while before they'd have to start walking just to get off the highway before nightfall.

Alfred wasn't sure how long he was holding up his thumb, switching between one arm and the other, smiling and waving like he was some kind of celebrity. He got a few smiles back, a few waves, a few apologetic looks, but still nobody stopped. It was becoming mentally exhausting. Arthur seemed tired (they hadn't gotten much sleep last night) and their conversations were short and sleepy. At the very least, the weather was nice and the scenery was beautiful.

Perhaps an hour or so later, a small, dark blue Peugeot 208 passed and, at the sight of the now tired Alfred and drowsy, curled-up Arthur, pulled over and came to a slow stop. Alfred's energy returned to him and he let out a cry of excitement.

"Yes! See? I told you!"

"Wonderful. Now help me up before they change their mind."

They grabbed their bags and walked to where the car had pulled over after Alfred made sure the Thunderbird was locked and they had everything they needed. Before actually getting into the car, he knocked on the passenger seat window, tinted so that the actual riders in the car weren't visible. They rolled the window down, and Alfred leaned forward while Arthur waited a few meters away.

"Hi," Alfred greeted with a smile. "Thanks so much for pulling over."

"Bien sûr, chéri. You're so cute I couldn't help it."

The man who'd spoken was in the driver's seat, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the stick. Alfred had never seen someone who moved so much like water, movements fluid and rhythmic. The man had shimmering blond hair tied back in a messy yet elegant ponytail, lips shining from pink gloss, warm blue eyes. He was wearing a purple collared shirt open at his chest and tucked into a tight pair of black trousers, a French flag pendant, and solid gold studs in his ears.

"What are you talking about? I'm the one who told you to stop," said the man sitting beside him. A darker but brighter man, with unkempt brown hair and olive skin and eyes that were almost as green as the summer grass. His smile was sunny and contagious. The blond man spoke with a heavy French accent, though his voice was smooth and musical, while the dark-haired man spoke with a different kind of accent—Spanish, maybe? The intertwining of their voices was really gorgeous, Alfred mused.

"Either way, we're happy to help," the Frenchman said with a wave of his wrist. "Right, Antonio?"

"Claro. The more the merrier."

"Where you guys headed?"

"Lake Placid," the Frenchman replied. His smile was very easy. "About an hour north. That's as far as we can take you."

"Great. Hey, Arthur! How does Lake Placid sound?"

"It sounds placid."

"All right. Guess we're headed to Lake Placid," Alfred smiled. But when he turned back to the men in the car, the Frenchman's eyes were wide and he looked as if he were both hiding a smile and resisting the temptation to scream.

"Arthur?" he repeated. He reached up and wiggled his fingers. "Chéri, who is your friend?"

"Hey, Arthur, come introduce yourself."

Arthur squeezed his face in beside Alfred's. But before he'd even managed to say a word, the color drained from his face and his jaw hung open and his words appeared to leave him. He was staring at the Frenchman's face as if he'd seen a ghost and was utterly, completely terrified.

"F...François?!" he finally screamed. The Frenchman, in response, broke into an elated smile that reached from ear to ear and jumped slightly in his seat.

"Arthur! Mon choupinou! My, it's a small world, isn't it?"

"Much too small, if you ask me! Why did it have to be you of all people?" Arthur cried. He was so angry, getting so worked up, that Alfred could see the tension in his temples and his jaw.

"Do you two know each other, then?" Alfred asked cautiously. Arthur's temper had flared up and he didn't want to step on any landmines.

"Yes, we do," François winked. "Arthur and I were once the most passionate lovers."

"Shut up, you bastard!"

Antonio seemed just as surprised and confused and entertained as Alfred.

"Oh, but Arthur, didn't we have the most exciting days together?" François gushed. He was puckering his lips and blinking his long eyelashes and speaking in a dreamy voice. "Don't hurt me in such a way, mon amour!"

"No. I hate you. Al, we're not going with them. We're going to wait for the next idiots who blunder by."

"But—"

"I'm not riding with this frog, not even if I have to spend the night sleeping on the side of the road."

"Arthur! Come on. Even if you guys did have a thing, can't you just bury the hatchet? Move on?"

"Don't worry, you adorable child," François interrupted. He was addressing Alfred now. "We buried the hatchet long ago. Isn't that right, Antonio?"

"I should hope so," Antonio laughed. He leaned across the seat and lightly kissed François's lips.

"See! Nothing to worry about. Lake Placid sounds good, anyway."

Arthur crossed his arms and looked away, now blushing madly and pouting like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Alfred had instantly grown to like this beautiful, easy-going couple, driving in their cute little car and picking up these desperate hitchhikers. He liked the way their voices sounded together and the way they spoke and the generous, kind sparkle they both had in their eyes. One pair blue, the other green, like two matching pieces in a jewelry set. He wanted to ride with them. And he wanted to get off the highway and get his car towed soon.

"Come on, please? Please? Please?" With each word, Alfred inched closer to Arthur's face, clasping his hands together and making his puppy dog-face. The one that very few had been known to resist.

"No."

"Oh, Arthur, at least do it for this precious boy," François cooed.

"You shut up."

"It's only an hour," Antonio pointed out. "It really would be very quick. You could even take a siesta if you wanted!"

"No."

"Pleeeeeaaaseeeee?" Alfred pleaded. Arthur had been avoiding his eyes, but when he glanced over at Alfred's pathetic, tear-jerking expression, he let out a breath and rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms.

"Fine! But it's only because I owe you," he grumbled.

"Yes!"

"¡Estupendo! Climb in."

They threw their bags in the trunk and sat in the back of the car, Arthur behind François and Alfred behind Antonio.

"I'm Alfred. Alfred F. Jones," he smiled. He could meet François's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Nice to meet you. This is seriously so nice of you guys."

"My, you're a pretty one," François chuckled. Alfred felt his cheeks becoming warm as the Frenchman turned around in the driver's seat and brought his face closer. Eyes locked onto Alfred's, he took his hand and kissed it, letting his lips linger. "Enchanté, chéri."

"L-likewise."

"Pas de problème, Alfred," François continued. Then François put the car in drive and they continued down the highway. "My name is François Bonnefoy. Please call me François. And this is my partner, Antonio Carriedo."

"Are you guys taking a trip to Lake Placid?"

"No, we own an inn there," Antonio said.

"Oh. Cool." He shifted in his seat and glanced over at Arthur. He looked very different sitting in the backseat of this car than he had sitting in the passenger seat of the Thunderbird. "So, you and Arthur really...?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," François laughed. "We met when I lived in London for a little bit. It wasn't terribly long, but we did have our fling, as they say."

"I've tried to block it out of my memory, but somehow you keep showing up in my life," Arthur sighed.

"He's a bit dramatic, isn't he?" François winked in the mirror. "We've actually been good friends since then."

"You have a twisted definition of friendship, frog."

"You always did love that pet name."

"Fuck off."

"A small world it is," Alfred laughed.

"How do you two know each other?" François asked. Alfred and Arthur anxiously looked at each other.

"He was here for a shoot and we met at a bar," Alfred lied. As much as he wore his heart on his sleeve, he was also a frighteningly good liar. "Decided we both needed to get away, and here we are."

"Interesting. Arthur isn't one to open up easily. Are you, Arthur?"

"Maybe you just think that because I hate you."

"That's not what you said when we were in bed together."

"Piss off, you cheese-eating surrender monkey."

"Ow, mon coeur."

Antonio and Alfred laughed, and Alfred felt comfortable. Moments like this were what he'd been looking for on his journey to escape. He loved Coach, and loved being around him, but Coach reminded him too much of his past, his present, his failures. Meeting strangers, laughing with them, was a different experience that he so desperately needed. This was exactly what he so desperately needed.

The four of them were silent for a few minutes, listening to grainy classical music rise up from the stereo.

"What do you do, Alfie?" François finally asked. Alfred was taken aback at first by the use of this nickname, but he liked the way it sounded on François's French tongue. Antonio leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes with a gentle smile, while Arthur leaned against the window, persistent in his grumpy comportment.

"Actually, I'm a UFC fighter," Alfred said. "You know MMA?"

"Sure. Afraid I don't watch it. But that's exciting. You must be very strong and powerful."

"Well, I mean..."

"You must have talent to go along with those chiseled features. No need to feel modest, darling. I don't know anything about it, so you could tell me that you're the best in the world and I would be none the wiser. "

Alfred could see François's smile by the sparkle in his eyes in the mirror. But still, the words struck something sensitive in his heart. He grinned, fell silent, stared out at the trees zooming past.

For the next hour they made idle conversation. Antonio slept, though Alfred noticed that his hand gripped François's even in his slumber. It was clear then that Arthur and François really had buried the hatchet a long time ago.

Arthur stayed quiet and seething, and the sight was enough to make Alfred's lips tingle. He wanted to kiss those pouty lips again, that cheek crushed against the window, the pale neck that had looked so perfect stretched out of his car.

About an hour later, they exited the highway and entered the colorful, mountainous village of Lake Placid.