Author's Note: God, football. I've never really been a fan. So, incidentally, this chapter was a challenge. Thankfully, my boyfriend used to play. He was a good sport and helped me significantly with this chapter. So, shout out to Holden.

If any of you out there are die-hard football fans, I apologize for any inaccuracies. Feel free to point out anything I messed up, though I suspect errors are kept to a minimum and will not be distracting. Besides, football is obviously not meant to be the focus of this piece ;).

Arthur arrived at Alfred's doorstep on a particularly overcast Saturday in late spring, armed with nothing but a large cola from the convenience store and an internal monologue. It had taken him days to build the courage to do this, to find the words. But the longer he waited, the more it hurt, until finally it became unbearable.

Taking a cleansing breath, Arthur rang the doorbell. Then, he waited, rocking on his heels, clutching the absurdly large drink in his hand. It was sweating. So was Arthur.

The door creaked open, and there Alfred stood, wearing Captain America print pajama pants and a wrinkled white t-shirt. "Uh… hey, Art," he said, his expression unreadable.

Arthur held up the plastic cup. "I brought you a drink."

"Uh," said Alfred again. He leaned against the doorway, crossing one leg over the other. "It's a little early for pop."

Arthur shook the cup. "That never stopped you before."

Slowly, wordlessly, Alfred took the cup from his hand and took a long drink.

Arthur could not stand this much longer. "Look, Alfred, I came here to talk to you." He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to ignore that they were trembling. "Last week. What I said to you was inexcusable. I… I'm not sure why I said those things. You didn't do anything wrong. I, well, I don't know, really. I flew off the handle." As Arthur finished stumbling through the words, sounding nothing like they had in his head, Alfred just continued to sip at the straw. Arthur took a breath and continued. "You have the right to do whatever you want with girls. It's none of my business. I snapped at you, because, well, I'm not sure. For no good reason, honestly. It was certainly a lapse in judgment in my part." Alfred was still drinking. Arthur felt his face grow hot. "When I think about it, really, I suppose I…"

"Arthur."

Arthur let out a breath, relieved Alfred had finally stopped him. "Yes?"

"You don't do much apologizing, do you?"

Arthur had to consider that for a moment. Surely, he could not be that stubborn. But when he tried to remember the last time he had apologized to anymore, he found himself unable to. "Well… no," he said quietly.

Alfred bit down on this straw, the corner of his mouth twitching into what was almost a smirk. "Say the words, 'I'm sorry.'"

Arthur looked him squarely in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

"There, now, was that so hard?" Alfred laughed and clapped Arthur on the back. "You're lucky you're cute. You can be impossible sometimes; bless your heart."

Arthur elected to ignore that comment, as well as the twist it caused in his stomach. "You aren't angry?"

"Well, I was. For about fifteen minutes." Alfred shrugged, then, so quickly Arthur was quite sure he had imagined it, winked. "I dunno what it is, buddy, but I have trouble staying mad at you for long."

Arthur shook his head, a little bit flustered. Well, that was annoying. "Well, good. Glad that's behind us." The odd feeling passed quickly as relief set in. He was grateful Alfred had been so quick to forgive him, because if he hadn't… well, Arthur didn't really want to think about that. "We could do something today, if you would like. I have the rest of the day free."

"Wow, Artie!" cried Alfred, waving the drink in the air. A few droplets of cola flew off the straw and onto Arthur's sweater. He tried to wipe them away discreetly. "I think this is the first time you asked me to hang out!"

"Oh, come off it. There's no way."

"I think it just might be," said Alfred. "Anyway, you caught me on a good day. I don't have practice or nothin'. What are you fixin' to do?"

Arthur shrugged. "Whatever you want, I suppose."

"Hmm," hummed Alfred, rubbing his chin. Then he grinned madly. "I've got it."

Arthur was not sure he liked the look of that grin. "Oh, no," he said, despite the small smile playing on his lips. "What have you come up with?"

"Football!" cried Alfred, beaming. "I'll teach you how to play!"

"You cannot be serious."

"Of course I'm serious!" Alfred shook the ice around in the cup – had he really finished it already? "It'll be fun! Don't worry, we'll play touch, not tackle."

Arthur felt a jolt of something annoyingly close to panic. He knew nothing about that game; he was bound to humiliate himself. "Alfred, I don't think…"

"Artie, I hate to use this against ya, but you're the one who got real ugly with me for no reason. I don't think you get much of a say."

Arthur looked at his feet. That was fair, he thought begrudgingly. "Alright, alright," he said. He waved a hand, let it drop. "Lead the way."

A few minutes later, Alfred had traded his pajama pants for athletic shorts, and was standing on the far side of his rather large lawn. "Alright," he called to Arthur, who was standing on the other side. "This here is my end zone." He took the ball he was holding he touched it to the ground beside his feet. "This is what I'm defending. I don't want you to get to this line. Getting to this line is how you score. That's called a touchdown."

Arthur nodded. That was simple enough.

"Now, this ain't no free for all. In each quarter you get four plays, or downs, to make it ten yards past the line of scrimmage. That's where you start out." Alfred walked to the middle of the yard and touched the ball to the ground in front of him. "Let's say the line of scrimmage is here. If you make it ten yards past here in those four tries, then you get another four tries to make it ten more yards. If you don't, the other team gets the ball."

Arthur nodded again. That was a bit more complicated, but he could still follow it.

"So, each play ends in a new down. If you get ten yards, it goes back to being the first down. It can add up, too. Like, let's say you get four yards on the first down, three on the second, and three on the third. The next play would still be a first down."

Arthur's ability to follow this was quickly slipping. "Wait, is a play the same as a down?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah, see, you got it!" He tossed the ball between his hands, spinning and catching it with ease. "So, plays. There are different kinds of plays. The one we use the most is probably a running play. That's when the quarterback – that's me," Alfred smiled brightly, "passes the ball to the running back, and watches out for people trying to blitz. Or I can just run it myself. Which I usually do."

"The running… what?" Arthur was now certain Alfred was speaking a different language. "Why does this have to be so bloody complicated?"

"Art, we barely even started. Anyway, there's also a passing play, which usually gets more yardage, but then the other team has the chance to intercept." Arthur began to ask a question but Alfred just kept talking. "Now, what really matters is strategy. What you gotta get good at is faking a handoff to your running back. It screws the other guys up. You should always watch the other team, like, see if they're any good at intercepting. Then, they might not have much going for them on the ground. You also guess if they're going to run or pass, and if they pass, how long they – "

"This is ridiculous!" cried Arthur, the unfamiliar terms making his head swim. "My God, do you ever play the bloody game or do you spend the entire time trying to figure out what you're going to do?"

"Well, alright." Suddenly Alfred threw the ball at Arthur, who didn't react until it hit his chest and fell to the ground. "Time to play, then!"

"What?" Arthur picked up the ball and held it arm's length in front of himself. "I haven't got the first idea how! Besides, aren't there usually far more players?"

"Sure, but it don't matter for now." Alfred pointed to a tree a good distance away. "Try to get to there. We don't have a football field, but let's call it ten yards."

"And what will you do?" asked Arthur though he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

"Well, I try to stop you! I'll even be the cornerback, so you have a good head start." Alfred jogged back towards the other end of the lawn.

"The cornerback?" Arthur stared at Alfred in bewilderment. "Is that like the running back?"

Alfred smiled sympathetically. Arthur wanted to throttle him. "No, Arthur," he said. He then planted his feet shoulder-width apart and rubbed his hands together. "Alright, first and ten!"

"What the hell does that mean?"

Alfred could barely speak through his laughter. "That means run, Art!"

Arthur realized with a slug of dread that he was not getting out of this. He gripped the ball awkwardly, almost hugging it to his chest, and started to jog. Alfred was still laughing, badgering him to go faster, so Arthur did, until his feet were pounding against the grass and he realized just how out of shape he was. The clouds had dissipated, allowing the sun to beat down heavily on his sweater and slacks that certainly were not meant for this. But he found himself fixing his gaze on the tree, pushing himself to run faster. He hated to admit it, but for a moment Arthur thought he might be having fun with this ludicrous American sport.

That was, until Arthur caught sight of Alfred charging for him quicker than he had ever seen anyone move. Arthur's eyes widened, his pace slowing in bafflement, until finally, in one horrifying moment, Alfred leapt from the ground and threw himself at Arthur, knocking them both swiftly off their feet and onto the dew-soaked grass.

"Fumble! Fumble!" screamed Alfred when Arthur unavoidably let the ball fall from his hands and roll away.

"What the hell?" Arthur screamed back, Alfred laying horizontally across his chest, crushing him, making him dizzy. "I thought we were playing touch!"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot." Alfred laughed again, bubbly and uninhibited, and Arthur's heart leapt with the sound. It was amazing, seeing Alfred so purely happy. It always was. "Sorry, Arthur, but I don't think you would make the team."

"As if I ever bloody wanted to!" Then, Arthur could not help it – he erupted into laugher and laughed until he was breathless, Alfred still lying across him and laughing with him. And suddenly there were no letters, no jumbled thoughts, no unexplainable flashes out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly there was only Alfred, only this amazing energy building in his chest and bursting from him. Alfred had so much happiness inside him, it was infectious. Magnetic. Addicting.

He made the world a brighter place.

.

Alfred wiped his sweaty, clammy hands on his jersey, feeling suffocated in the humid locker room. He had not slept at all last night, or much at all since he had left Arthur at the hospital. Nothing could distract him from the memory of that disaster. Ever since Arthur had broken down, since Alfred could do nothing to help him, since he told him he hated him… nothing else seemed to matter. Not even the kickoff game.

"Alright, boys!" said Davie, his voice booming throughout the sweaty, musty locker room. "Listen up! We've worked very hard for this moment, and naturally, I expect nothing but the best from all of you!"

Alfred listened to his teammates whoop and holler around him. This time last year, he was the loudest out of all of them. Now his lungs felt empty. So he just smiled, hoping no one would notice, and tried to hold it together.

"I think we all need to remember, boys, when you're part of a team, you're part of a family." Davie crossed his arms over his chest and turned on his turned on his heels, surveying the entire room. "Your loyalty is to each other. Your main priority, above everything else, is to watch out for your team. Stick out your neck for your fellow teammate. Because you know damn well the bastard next to you would do the same for you."

Alfred felt a nudge from one of his offensive linemen, who grinned at him and gave him a few pats on the knee. Alfred smiled back and nodded, grateful for the sentiment, but the notion still felt meaningless and hollow. He cared about his teammates, of course. But he didn't know all that much about them; not really. He didn't know where any of them went to high school, or the names of their childhood pets, or even most of their middle names. Their relationship started and ended with what happened on the field. Not to mention, every season at least one or two of them got traded, or they retired, or got injured, immediately to be replaced with a shiny new face straight out of college. He cared about them, but it was hard to think of them as family. They were barely even his friends.

Alfred knew where his loyalty lied, and it wasn't here. Not anymore, at least.

"You've all busted your asses in practice. I have no doubt in my mind this is going to be a great season." Davie straightened, planting his fists squarely on his hips. He tried to speak firmly but his grin gave him away. "So don't you dare disappoint me. Got that?"

Everyone cheered again, yelling over each other, jostling each other around, and Alfred at least tried to join them. He gave a short cheer but it felt forced. He tried to get hyped, tried to get him head in the game, tried to find his zone. But that zone had disappeared around the same time he had found Arthur again. Now Alfred only felt truly centered when he was with him, or at least when he knew he was okay. Right now he didn't have that luxury.

"Now, let's kill those Hurricanes!"

Another eruption of noise. Everyone stood and rushed towards the locker room door, a riotous mass of bumping pads and clanking helmets. Alfred trailed behind them, fumbling with his own helmet, and almost made it out the door before he heard his coach's voice beside him.

"Hey, Jones. Feeling alright?"

Alfred dropped his helmet immediately on his foot, yelped, and rushed to pick it up. Of course, Davie had noticed. He had been doing almost nothing but noticing since this whole saga began. "Feeling great," said Alfred anyway, a touch of sarcasm in his voice that he did not intend.

The other players had already rushed out into the adjacent hallway, getting themselves into formation to run out onto the field for the national anthem. Alfred was left alone with Davie. "You just got back from New York a few days ago," said Davie evenly. "You were with him."

"Yeah." Alfred traced the Patriots logo on the shell of the helmet. "Didn't go too well this time, I'm afraid."

Davie pursed his lips, the wrinkles around his mouth creasing. "I can tell."

The Florida heat was starting to get to him and Alfred had not even started playing yet. His mouth was dry, almost raw, so he picked up his water bottle and took a long drink. The feeling didn't go away. Davie was still staring at him, and he couldn't think of an excuse, so Alfred shrugged.

"Jones, this is a big day for us. I thought you said all of this wouldn't affect your gameplay."

At that moment, Alfred had a thought so strange and foreign he almost didn't recognize his own voice in his head.

It's just a game.

Alfred blinked, a little stunned, and stared blankly at Davie. Football used to be his own little world, where it was the most important thing to ever exist and nothing else mattered. It had been that way since his dad first taught him how to grip the ball, which he had done long before he had taught him to read. Was it just a game now? Had it always been?

"And it won't," said Alfred, summoning what was left of his resolve. "I just need a minute, coach. I'm sure I'll be fine the second we hit the field."

Davie regarded Alfred with a long, even gaze. His expression was something that Alfred could not place exactly. "Give it your best, alright?"

His best. Alfred couldn't promise perfection at this point, but certainly he could promise his best. "You got it!" he said, for a moment feeling like he had last season. But the feeling passed quickly when he remembered Arthur again, remembered the number of miles that separated them. But Alfred ran to catch up to his team, hoping to be lost in the flurry of it all, to do what he could to not to let Davie down.

Hard Rock Stadium's bleachers were painted a brilliant blue that matched that of the sky. Alfred felt the shadows of the hallway give way to the sun and the lights, beating down on his padded shoulders, his hair, his lungs. He heard the blast of the blast of music, the announcers, and finally the familiar roar of the crowd, all 65,000 of the people who had come here to see him. Their bodies were nothing more than specs of color in the massive arena, jumping and clapping and cheering. Alfred looked over his audience and waited for the familiar mind-numbing rush of adrenaline.

But nothing happened.

Alfred lined up with the rest of his team, flashing a quick smile for the cameras, and placed a hand reverently to his chest. A pop singer sung the first few words of the song, far more dramatically than necessary, and Alfred closed his eyes, concentrating on his admiration for his country if nothing else. But still his mind wandered – to Arthur, to the heat, to this bone-soaking exhaustion that was making him sick. By the time Alfred could pay attention to the lyrics, the song was over.

As the singer exited the field, Alfred stared at the turf, letting his eyes go unfocused, letting his fatigue take hold of him for a moment. He was just so tired. It was the kind of tired that nothing could fix; not caffeine or even sleep, and it made him want to sink into the ground.

"Jones," came a harsh whisper from beside him. It was one of the tight ends. He nudged Alfred, almost hard enough to knock him from his feet. "You're up."

Oh. The coin toss. Alfred had forgotten about it, somehow. Mustering up another grin and a wave, he jogged to the middle of the field to meet the Miami Hurricane's quarterback. The referee showed the coin, Alfred unthinkingly chose tails, and then it was flipped. Tails. Alfred wasn't surprised – he always seemed to win these things. He felt some sense of relief as he announced his decision to receive the ball first, as he needed to play immediately, if today only for the chaotic fury of it all.

And then, finally, kickoff. Alfred braced himself, staring off into the cloudless sky as his heart beat rapidly. A whistle sounded and it was starting. Alfred was reduced to his senses, and he was grateful for it. He could only feel the turf beneath his feet and the heat inside his helmet, only heard the kicker's foot connect with the ball, only saw the ball spiraling up into the blue sky in slow motion.

The world burst into full speed once the ball fell back to earth and Alfred's fingers curled around it, and he took off, his heart jumping to his throat and he plowed into a wall of the opposing team. This was his favorite part of any game, when everything suddenly ruptured into an uncontained explosion of energy and colliding bodies and screaming fans and his own pounding heart. Alfred battled his way through the confused tangle, the ball hooked tightly in his arm, until he was suddenly blitzed and lost his footing.

He probably should have seen that coming.

Alfred crashed spectacularly to the ground, his legs flying up behind him as his chinstrap dug into the dirt.

The whistle sounded. "First down!"

Alfred surveyed his surroundings and quickly realized that he was barely past where he started. He stayed down for a long moment longer than what was necessary, a bit confused. Had he really only made it a couple of yards? How was that possible?

Alfred shook it off as both teams rushed back into formation. He just needed a minute. That was what he had told Davie, and that was what he meant. He took a series of deep, slow breaths, shaking out his hands and wiping the sweat from his brow. Another play, another chance to lose himself, another chance to finally pull himself from the cold, white hospital to this hot, blue day. It was what Alfred needed. This was his career, his life. He owed it to Davie, to his teammates, to everyone watching from the stands, to the kids who wore his number on their backs and the New Englanders at home screaming at their televisions. So Alfred adjusted his helmet roughly, grit his teeth, and commanded himself to concentrate.

But still, the next several downs passed this way – confused, messy plays that Alfred should have completed seamlessly, plays that he had practiced endlessly just a few weeks ago. But now everything was suddenly impossible, suddenly far off and foreign. Alfred felt the beginnings of a headache pick at his temples are they approached the end of the quarter, only having reached the thirty-yard line, with one down and five yards left to go.

Once everyone was set, Alfred shouted, "Blue 76, Blue 76!" signaling a change of plans, because obviously this team's defense was much tighter than usual; and dropped back as if to throw. "Hut, hut!" In the last second, focusing on the opening he had created, Alfred lowered the ball and snapped it to his running back.

At least, he meant to snap it. The ball slipped off Alfred's fingers like water and fell to the ground. A flash of orange darted across his field of vision that took far too long to register as the Hurricane's linebacker, and the ball was intercepted immediately.

"Jones," hissed the running back through his helmet, spit flying from his mouth, his eyes half-unbelieving, half furious. "Are you insane? What the hell are you doing?"

Alfred felt an embarrassed flush creep up his neck, compounding the already oppressive heat. He was certainly starting to feel insane. But it was only the first quarter, he told himself. He had barely even started.

Once they were on offense again, the teams reset at opposite ends of the field, giving Alfred another opportunity to clear his head. He jogged across the field, spitting into the grass in an attempt to release the tight nausea residing in his stomach, and scrambled into place. This side of the field was muddy, he noticed with a grimace. Just another thing to deal with on top of everything else.

"First and ten!" The referee pointed his arms towards The Patriots, blew the whistle, and then everything was fast and hot and confused all over again.

The beginning of the quarter passed uneventfully, with the Hurricanes managing to score a grand total of fifteen points, the Patriots at a solid nine. Now the Patriots were on the offensive again, Alfred's eyes locked intently on his teammate before him, a runner who had secured the ball and was now charging for the end zone. Alfred had let his instincts take over, going through the motions, playing this game he had loved from childhood as if it was an assembly-line production of movements, feelings, and sounds. If he could not find his zone he could at least pretend it was there.

There were just a few minutes remaining to secure the lead they so desperately needed before the second half. Alfred panted through the humid, tar-like air, running alongside the ball carrier and watching for members of the enemy team. His eyes locked to one of the enemy tackles, barreling towards his runner, and again, Alfred only had instinct. He ran, jumped. The next thing he felt was his body colliding with the tackle's legs.

There was a whistle, a flash of a flag, and a shout. "Clipping!" The referee chopped the back of his thigh with a flat hand. "Fifteen-yard penalty!"

Alfred lay flat on his back, frozen and humiliated, as the Miami crowd cheered riotously at his failure. There was no way they could take the lead before halftime now, not with that massive setback. His center sneered at him, monstrous from where he stood, and muttered an expletive. Alfred sat up, turned his head to spit again, and closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness as the sky spun dangerously above him. His legs felt heavy, almost useless.

But Alfred stood anyway and fought uselessly though the rest of the quarter. They failed to score, of course, and then it was halftime.

"Jones," said Davie as Alfred retreated to the sidelines with his team. He brought a hand to his forehead, pulled at the front of his hair, and flipped his hand at him. "I think you know damn well what I'm going to say."

Alfred lowered his head. "I know," he said. Tears pricked at his eyes and he blinked them back roughly, silently cursing himself, cursing this whole damn day. "I'm playing like crap, I get it, I just…" The tears threatened again to spill and Alfred closed his eyes to stop them, humiliated, trailing off. The stares of his teammates burned into him. "I'm so fucking sorry," he finished quietly. Then Alfred turned, desperate to go somewhere, anywhere else.

"Jones. Alfred… Hey. Wait a minute." Alfred felt himself being led away from the others by Davie's firm, gentle grasp on his shoulder, until they were under the shade of the bleachers. Alfred managed to look up and saw that Davie's expression had softened. "Alfred, I want you to listen up for a second."

Alfred supposed he at least owed that to him. "Sure, coach."

"You've been a train wreck out there. That, I'm not going to sugarcoat." Davie raised an eyebrow. "You promised your best."

Alfred was suddenly horrified when he realized: this was his best. Due to the insane mix of circumstances that had become his life, this clumsy, careless, pathetic excuse for gameplay was the best he could do. He looked away again, back into the sky. He could not believe there wasn't at least one cloud. "It's been a really, really rough week." There was nothing else he could say.

"You said that already." Davie paused and then chuckled, and for a moment Alfred felt better. "Don't beat yourself up too much. Remember when Montgomery cost us the Vikings game by passing to the wrong team?"

Alfred laughed but it hurt his throat. "Yeah, that was pretty crazy," he said. With a new-found resolve, he lifted his chin and said, "Next game will be perfect. I can promise you that." Then he smiled, genuine this time. There was no reason to let one bad day ruin him. Alfred had had bad games before, he would have them again. It didn't make him any less of a hero.

"Yeah, you better. And you better not be giving up yet, Jones. We have the whole second half to salvage this."

Alfred nodded vigorously. "Yes, coach!"

"Alright." Davie gave Alfred a hearty pat on the back and began leading him back to the sidelines. "Good days, bad days, yeah?"

It was that; that simple, everyday saying, that sent Alfred whirling back to New York. He forgot his conversation with Davie, forgot this abysmal game, and then he could only see Arthur. The way his fingertips were always tapping away at any available surface, how his hair sprouted every which way and his nose was crooked at the bridge. Arthur when he was a teenager, walking briskly beside him down the city streets in autumn, teaching Alfred to drive in his mother's old Land Rover, cuddling a stuffed toy when he was delirious with fever. Arthur now, sitting beside Alfred in the courtyard, leading him by the hand through the dark, dancing with him in his room, kissing him and saying he loved him. Arthur, who was sarcastic and callous and profound and gentlemanly. Arthur who smiled so warmly when he thought Alfred wasn't looking. Arthur who had been so terrified, had thrown him out just days ago.

And then Alfred could not care about salvaging the game any longer.

Jogging into place for the third quarter kickoff, Alfred was hit with the stunning, vibrant memory of when he had tried to teach this game to Arthur. He had found it confusing and ridiculous, kind of like he saw a lot of things. Still Alfred had convinced him to run with the ball, and then tackled him to the ground, much to Arthur's dismay. Looking back, it was probably just an excuse to touch him. Alfred's chest fluttered above the resting sadness as the ball flew towards him.

Another hour, a string of memories, and a series of bad decisions later, The Patriots lost the game with a depressing 26-14. Nearly every pass Alfred had attempted was an easy interception. Despite that, the rest of the team carried hard enough that the score had been close until the final quarter. But, after calling for a diversion play in a final attempt to take the lead, Alfred had thrown to the wrong running back. With no blockage, Greene had gotten sacked immediately. The final stupid mistake in a game that was full of them, it had sealed their fate.

Alfred wanted to blame the heat, or lack of sleep, or even the phase of the goddamn moon at that point, but under a flimsy layer of denial he knew he had thrown this game because he couldn't pull his mind from Arthur.

And that was where Alfred's thoughts still lied as he sat in the cramped party room, nursing a coke that had since gone flat. His eyes went unfocused as he watched the melting ice swirl in the glass. An afterparty was never much of a party if they lost, Alfred had noticed in the years he'd been doing this. Despite the loud music and flashing lights in the private back room of the Miami nightclub, the energy of the place had was ruined by everyone's collectively awful mood. No one was dancing. Instead everyone sat huddled around the bar or drinking champagne at tables, slumping, pouting, and making excuses for the loss to their guests.

It wasn't helping that Alfred's teammates were not-so-subtly ignoring him, some going as far as to openly glare at him, muttering to each other about his terrible game when they thought he was out of earshot. It was annoying but not surprising, how men that were supposed to be like family treated him this way as soon as he played badly. So Alfred sat alone, daydreaming about Arthur and forcing down his shame.

An hour passed like this. Finally, unsure what else to do with himself, Alfred checked his phone. He forced himself to center on the blue light, the words blurring in front of him. There was an email from his agent, an hours-old good luck text from Matthew, and an alert from his calendar.

Reminder: New York!

Alfred stared at the alert, his eyes stinging and painful. He had set that weekly reminder months ago and had since forgotten about them; he had never actually needed them. Usually by the time they popped up he was already most of the way there. The reminders were more of an encouragement, something to look forward to, a sign that he had almost made it when the road seemed endless before him. Today was the first time it had actually served as a reminder.

The realization hit like a splash of cold water, freezing and breathtaking in this warm, musty room. Alfred could not believe six days had passed already. It had been a blur; nothing but sleepless nights and misplaced memories and regret. Alfred had been so caught up in what he could have done differently last time that he had nearly forgotten it was time to go again.

Alfred felt his eyes unwillingly drift shut again… "I hate you! I never want to see you again! You don't understand!" …and quickly forced them back open. He didn't know if Arthur even wanted to see him, but he knew he had to go. Immediately.

Alfred shot up from his seat and made his way to the bar before his brain could register he'd moved. Davie was leaning against the counter, sipping at a beer and making small talk with one of the player's girlfriends. Alfred poked at his shoulder until he turned around. "Hey, Davie? I have to get going, so I'll see you later, okay?"

"Uh… excuse me just a second," said Davie to the woman. He stood from the barstool and looked Alfred in the eyes. "Are you heading back to the hotel, Jones?"

"Nope, New York, actually. Just figured I'd say something so you don't go looking for me tomorrow."

"Wait. Time out," said Davie, shaking his head a bit. "What do you mean, New York? Now?"

Alfred nodded, his mouth forming the words before his brain could catch up to them. "Yep, I think I'm going to hit the road." He checked his phone again, looked at the alert still sitting on the home screen to assure himself he hadn't imagined it. "It's been a week already; can you believe it?"

"Alfred," said Davie slowly, "it's late."

"Mhm. I should probably hustle."

"We're in Miami."

"Yeah, well, obviously." Alfred was overpowered by this energy, this drive, as if he had broken through his exhaustion and found mania on the other side. His legs were buzzing. "I just looked it up, if I drive it straight through I should get there by tomorrow afternoon."

Davie's heard jerked forward, wide-eyed and incredulous. "How many hours is that?"

"Eighteen-ish. Why?"

"Jones, have you completely lost your mind?"

Alfred wondered how many people were going to accuse him of that today. "What are you talking about?" he said. "It's been a week. I need to go see Arthur."

"Surely the guy can wait another day or two."

Alfred shook his head. "No, I need to go now."

"Fly, then." Davie took a step forward. "Alfred, if you absolutely need to go now, please just fly."

Alfred shook his head again, the questions rattling around, answers coming from nowhere and falling from his lips. He was on autopilot and his only destination was Arthur. "I wouldn't be able to leave until tomorrow morning, if then. Flights to New York always fill up so quick."

"You don't even have your car."

"I'll rent one."

Davie narrowed his eyes, his gaze searching Alfred up and down. "Have you been drinking?"

Alfred balked at the assumption. He rarely even drank, and especially tonight he knew his stomach would not be able to take it. Maybe he was acting a little erratic, but Arthur usually did that to him. "Not a drop," he said, staring at his coach earnestly. "Really, Davie, nothing is wrong. I just need to get to him."

Davie said nothing at first. He looked at Alfred, then at the floor, and then took a breath and looked back up at Alfred. "You sound insane, Jones, but I've never had much luck controlling you." The music thrummed around him, pounding along with Alfred's headache. "You'll be careful." It sounded like a command.

Alfred nodded. "Promise." He nearly took off then, but Davie gripped him firmly by the shoulders and pulled him back.

"Alfred F. Jones, I'm dead serious. This isn't a game," he said, a little breathily. "I'm begging you, do not do anything stupid."

"Everything okay?" Alfred shrugged away from his hold.

"It's just, you haven't been yourself lately. I can't help but worry…" Davie trailed off, shook his head. For a moment he looked old. "It's nothing. Go."

Alfred felt like he should have followed that up, but the fire in his veins did not allow him to. He said a quick goodbye to Davie, turned, and sprinted towards the door. He threw it open, a burst of fresh air flowing over him and into the room. He looked over his shoulder one last time. Davie was still staring at him.

Alfred ran.

…

If only for familiarity's sake, Alfred rented a Porsche. After the attendee handed him the keys, Alfred paid, tipped graciously, and walked out onto the car lot. He held the unicorn under his arm, brushing off the odd looks he was getting. Walking out into the Miami night, his legs felt hot and uncomfortable under his jeans. They were sore from the game, throbbing with every step. Alfred was forced to move slower than he would have liked.

The only Porsche owned by the rental company was parked at the far end of the lot. Alfred walked alongside the rows and rows of cars, feeling the intrusive heaviness of his legs each time he picked them up. It was a still night. The smell of tires and tar rose from the pavement, hanging in the air. There was no wind, no crickets or cicadas or birds, and of course, no clouds. Alfred thought of Arthur in the stillness. In less than a day, he would be with him. Though Alfred felt sick with the sensations pulsing through him, his heart pounding furiously though his eyelids were heavy and burning, the thought of getting to him was enough to keep him going.

Alfred unlocked the car, sat down and pulled his legs inside. The interior smelled like new leather and air conditioning. He placed the unicorn carefully in the back, attached his phone to the dashboard and started the directions, revved the engine, and pulled it into reverse. Eighteen hours, Alfred told him as his head swam, his calves ached. Eighteen hours was nothing compared to the decade he had spent away from Arthur. Backing up from the space, he looked up into the empty sky one more time, then turned on the radio and cranked the volume.

The tires squealed as he peeled out of the lot.

…

One hour, and windows were rolled down, all of them, allowing a torrent of air to whip throughout the car as he sped down the nearly empty highway. Alfred's headache had dissipated. He leaned easily against the driver's seat, singing along to the radio, watching the trees fly by. He bounced his free leg, jittery from excitement. He would be with Arthur in no time at all.

…

Two hours, and Alfred turned the radio down. Only now did he realized how much further he had to go. Eighteen hours had seemed like nothing when he thought about it at first, when he was fired up and panicking about getting to Arthur on time. But now, with over a thousand miles left on the GPS and aching legs, Alfred was beginning to grasp how huge of an undertaking this had been. He squinted at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was after midnight. Even if he did not stop at all he would scarcely make visiting hours at the hospital. The unicorn stared at him from the backseat, mocking him from the rearview mirror. So Alfred sped up, until the speedometer was nearing triple digits and the rest of the world turned to nothing but a blur of color.

…

Three hours, and Alfred's headache had returned. He shut off the radio and closed all the windows, feeling overstimulated. Anxiety that he couldn't place swirled in his gut, compounded by his exhaustion, the amount of cola he'd been drinking to fight it off, the heat, and the new car smell that had somehow gotten stronger until it built up and pushed up into his throat and finally he pulled to the side of the road and vomited on curb.

Alfred sputtered, breathing hard, bile dripping from his lips and choking him. Everything hurt; he felt faint. But he had to keep going. He took series of long, deep breaths, wiped his sweaty hands on his pant leg, swished some water around in his mouth, and kept driving.

…

Four hours, and Alfred had to stop for gas. He had forgotten how much of it these luxury cars took. As it pumped, he laid his face against the cool metal of the car and looked out onto the highway, watching the headlights fly by and meld into a continuous line of light. At least his stomach had settled. He closed his eyes and listened to the roar of horns and speeding tires, the sounds temporarily masking the ringing in his ears.

The pump stopped, and Alfred opened his eyes. Far in the distance, he saw the florescent glow of a motel sign. It called out to him. His legs burned and Alfred knew he should stop, get some sleep, and continue in the morning. It would only make sense. But nothing had made sense since he found Arthur again, and at the same time, nothing mattered but him. Alfred's vision had tunneled in the past months until only Arthur was left in his sights.

Alfred fumbled the pump back into its holder and breathed in deeply, the smell of gasoline filling his nose as it splattered on his shoes. He had made so many promises. Promised to visit Arthur every week, promised to get him out of the hospital, once upon a time even promised to keep his feelings to himself. The ways things worked out, he had failed spectacularly at all but the first. Now, with his weekly visits his only leg left to stand on, Alfred wouldn't allow himself to stop. Maybe he couldn't say he never broke promises, but the least he could do was keep the one that mattered the most.

Alfred opened the car door and took a heavy step inside. He wrapped his fingers around the wheel, white-knuckled, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes from closing again as he tore off into the night.

By the time he was back on the highway, he tasted blood.

…

Five hours, and Alfred had made it. The drive was entirely shorter than he anticipated, somehow, and then he was here, in the warmth of the hospital in the dead of night. He felt a hand on his cheek. Arthur's eyes, green and earnest, staring into his. Floating. A familiar voice came from behind him and said, he's doing better. Someone roaring with laughter, another giggling. Different accents. Alfred could not feel his legs.

And then a blaring horn cut through the hospital and Alfred was yanked from it, thrown back in his car, now on the opposite side of the road from where he had started. Alfred blinked rapidly against the bright light that was blinding him. Reality came rushing back and he grabbed the wheel, choking on panic, but then the car suddenly halted still and there was glass in his lap and everything was compressed, twisted, mauled metal in fractured shapes and tearing through his skin. He tried to breathe but the air had turned to smoke; wanted to look and see what had happened but realized he could not move. And then he was powerless to the dark cloud engulfing him.

Alfred faded out of consciousness, hoping he would wake up in New York.

To be continued...