Faith & Fidelity

by NekoMushi

Arthur was adamant to abandon all of his Catholic preachings upon arriving at boarding school, regardless of whether his parents liked it or not. However, he soon learns that old habits die hard when a familiar American shows up and introduces him to homosexuality. That couldn't be orthodox! Men just weren't supposed to love other men...right? Warning: religion, slight homophobia.

2. Chapter II

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Pre-note

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16-20-2013: A combination of previous parts III and IV.

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Chapter II

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"Alfred! Wake up!"

His eyelids fluttered back, revealing the bland interior of an aeroplane staring down at him, laden with bags and blurred shapes shuffling in their seats. For a brief second, Alfred panicked, feeling an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach amongst the whirring engines of the aircraft and the sound of rushing air all around him. He sat up immediately, feeling something tickling the edge of his nose. Upon further inspection, he realized the "thing" was actually his glasses, as they'd slipped down his face as he'd been asleep. Truth be told, Alfred didn't really need glasses. His vision was perfectly fine without them. He'd deduce his knack of wearing them down to an unbreakable routine.

When he and Matthew had been younger children, the latter of the two had been forced to get glasses to help with his impaired sight. Alfred recalled how they'd seldom wanted to be differentiating from each other, and how he'd instantly bought a pair for himself, that didn't affect his eyesight negatively. Ever since that day, he too had walked around school with spectacles, trying to strength the bond he had with his twin. They were twins after all, and neither of them wanted to be unique. They were one and the same, and that would never change.
A twang of pain pinched at his chest at the reminder of his brother, and Alfred fiddled with his glasses solemnly, readjusting them until they were resting on the bridge of his nose and he blinking wearily, wondering why his father had woken him up. His eyes glanced quickly at the window, since he recognized that the cabin was considerably darker than when he'd drifted off to sleep earlier. His gaze was greeted with never-ending darkness, profound and absolute, and mixed with the swirling mass of stars encrusting the heavens with eerie light. The dimness resonating from such stars was barely enough to illuminate the sky, but when Alfred pressed his face to the glass (he noted that it was colder than before), he awed at the faint colour tinging the edges of the soft pools of brightness.

"We're landing soon."

Sure enough, shortly after the words had left his father's mouth, a somewhat quiet voice over the speaker instructed all passengers to take their seats as the plane began its descent into the darkness. Black fog rose up like the ocean, engulfing the flying beast and blocking out the faint light that had managed to enter the cabin, radiating from the stars. As Alfred leaned back in his chair, feeling an unfamiliar, odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him believe he was falling although he wasn't, he watched with desolate sadness as the stars disappeared behind the thick smog. He often liked watching the stars and trying to point out various constellations – he felt lonely without their presence so close. Just a few moments ago, he'd been in a space of breathless delight, feeling that he was so high up that he could just reach through the windows and touch the cosmos.

But they were gone, growing smaller and smaller as they shrunk back upwards into the ether, leaving the lifeless bird to plummet back down to earth.

Having nothing better to do, Alfred just sat still (as still as he could manage) and waited until the brighter, neon luminosities emanating from down below caught his attention. Eyes rimmed with shadows from the lack of sleep he'd had, the teen leaned over to marvel at the new spectrum below; instead of the icy warmth that reached out towards him from above, these lights were blinding and strangely confusing, glowing white-hot in complete parallel to the shock of the cold winds far, far above. Whilst some blinked incandescently, resembling the flickering flames of a fire, others were deep ochre in colour and stood in long lines side by side. Street lamps maybe? Either way, Alfred deduced that not only did London have an impressive selection of lights, but it was absolutely huge, with the array of neon colours stretching out across the black backdrop of the ground as far as the eye could see. It was spectacular…heck, it looked like it was even bigger than New York!

The ground seemed to rise upwards to meet them, getting closer and closer as the lights spread further and further apart, revealing the wide surface of a river and cars. Lots and lots of cars. The plane swerved to the right, dipping downwards on Alfred's half and unveiling the brilliance of the midnight city in its full glory. The blond sat tight, staring with wide eyes and everything and anything he could see – the wonders of London. Finally, the plane's wheels touched down on the runway, sending an unearthly jolt through the cabin and sliding to a rickety halt in the darkness. Alfred unclicked his seatbelt, the artificial metropolitan stars still dazzling his eyes and gleaming behind his glasses, and followed his father off of the plane, dragging his hand luggage behind him.

The airport was empty, and from what it looked like, the flight they'd just gotten off had been the last arrival of the evening. No, wait…after glancing at the large analogue clock, the teen realized that it was about 1:00am. Yet, he didn't feel exhausted at all as he stood by the conveyor belt and waited for his suitcase to come trundling passed. It was odd, standing in such a large room with only a handful of people. It felt like the type of place that would be stuffed to the brim with all sorts of people all hours of the day, but it was so quiet. In a way, it was good since Alfred didn't particularly like large crowds, despite living in freaking New York all his life, but it was so desolate that it was almost creepy. And the blond was definitely not a fan of creepy things at all. Following a handful of tense moments where he was absolutely, positively sure that someone (or something) was watching him move from behind the suitcase trolleys, both his dad and he had managed to collect their suitcases from the belt and were swiftly marching through the empty airport to get to…well, Alfred didn't actually know where they were going at all…

"Hey, Dad," he muttered, half-surprised as his voice ricocheted off of the walls and floors as they walked. "Where are we going?"

"To a hotel," the man answered simply, the wheels of his baggage rumbling along the floor. "Then, we'll have to get up early to have breakfast and then wait for your auntie and uncle to pick us up!" Alfred resembled his dad by quite a bit, if you didn't count the fact that he didn't have glasses and the more "mature" look about him. Both of their eyes glittered with the same arduous zeal and their hair was the same shade of caramel blond; since his father was quite young - for a father, at least - sometimes it was difficult to tell them apart. Although his father brandished the trademark grin of the Jones family, beneath his cheery exterior, he was jittering with nerves. He hadn't seen his parents in an extremely long time – not since he'd left England seventeen years ago with his wife to live in America – and he was anxious to how his younger sister would react after seeing him for so long. Well, he had about nine hours to prepare before she arrived to drop him off at his parent's house in Somerset, so he figured there was no point in worrying too much about it. He'd have to face his family sooner or later. Alfred had never met them before anyway, so it didn't really concern or make a difference to him.

There was no chatter between father and son as they eased their way through British customs, even though they'd been pulled over on multiple occasions and asked the same questions at least five times each; "Why are you moving here?", "Is there anyone who can prove this for us?", "So, your wife – oh right, ex-wife – is moving to France with your other son?", "And you're an American citizen but you were born here?"
Nor was there any speech when they walked through Terminal Four towards the Hilton hotel, either from fatigue or the overall awkwardness of the fact that whenever they spoke, it would fill every corner of the room. The Hilton wasn't a cheap hotel, but considering the time that their flight had landed and the fact that said hotel was attached to the airport itself, they'd had to book it even if it was just so that they could get at least six hours of sleep. Although Alfred hadn't been tired at all before, he was beginning to feel an annoying droop lingering on his eyelids and a slur coming to his mouth every time he tried to talk. Jetlag. Definitely. It didn't take the duo long to arrive in the reception and sign-in, despite the receptionist's cold and bland attitude, and they both collapsed on their respective beds upon unlocking the room, not even bothering to remove their clothing.

As they say, the apple never falls too far from the tree. Or was it an acorn?

Either way, they both slept like logs long after the winter sun arose over the urban skyline and cast an anxious, pale light in their chamber. In fact, they overslept at least an hour passed the time they should've awoken. By the time James, aforementioned as "the father", had managed to creak open his eyes, the sun had already inched itself a fair bit above the horizon, and the clock was close to striking 9:00am. They were supposed to get picked up at 10:00am. Without a second of hesitation, he was on his feet, roughly shaking his son awake and dashing into the bathroom to shower. Alfred, on the other hand, being a lazy teenage bum, just groaned and rolled onto his side, resisting against the need to get up with the urge to bury himself underneath the swamp of duvets again. Nonetheless, he forced himself to roll out of the sea of covers and he landed gracelessly on the floor, his glasses skewed as he hadn't removed them the night before. His lack of bathing thanks to their erratic schedule had resulted in a distasteful scent wafting from his underarms and he sighed irately as he waited for his dad to get out of the shower. They weren't known for taking especially long showers, but that could be a whole different matter if you had a tight agenda. Not that Alfred really cared for those, but still. He smelled and he didn't like it.

"Dad! Hurry up!" His point was emphasized from the numerous loud knocks that followed on the bathroom door.

"Just a minute!"

The door burst open, revealing a very naked middle-aged man with nothing but a towel around his neck to stop his hair from dripping. Seriously!? He has a towel and that's the place he decides to put it!? Now, Alfred may have been attracted to men, but there was no way that such an unsightly scene was a turn-on for him whatsoever. I mean, it was his father for crying out loud – why would he feel a sexual attachment to his own father of all people? Alfred didn't blush, nor did he stutter. He just rolled his eyes, groaning and muttering a harsh "Dad!" before pushing passed him and getting along with his own hygiene business which included shaving his face, as boys his age do tend to start growing facial hair, showering and hurriedly brushing his teeth. Even though he could be painfully lazy sometimes, even Alfred knew his own sanitation standards, and he absolutely hated the bedraggled hobo look that unkempt stubble brought about his appearance. Not that he had to shave much since he had light coloured hair. Once a week or so (or once a fortnight when he could get away with it) was enough.

Eventually, he'd managed to dry himself and drag on some suitable clothes - loose-fitting jeans that just about showed the rim of his boxers since he didn't have a belt that wasn't broken, an unbearably bright pink T-shirt complete with images of vibrant green aliens, stars and large bubble writing scrawled across the front, a faded blue jacket and, obviously, his glasses perched upon his nose - and gather his luggage, at least five minutes before they were supposed to meet up with his aunt and uncle. Their tight schedule and late morning meant that they'd been forced to skip breakfast, which was never a good decision, and thus the unlikely duo found themselves stood in the lobby of the hotel, impatiently awaiting the arrival of their transportation. The view from the large window stretched across the entrance to the reception was fairly bland; an ocean of airfields with a large car park at one end, and small flashing objects rolling up and down the horizon – probably cars on a motorway. In the out-of-place sunshine, they glittered like stars, winking under the ways of bright light.

"Hey, Dad?" the teen asked, zipping up his jacket and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What does Aunt…wait, what was her name again?"

"Aunt Shirley?"

"Yeah, that was it. What does she look like?"

James hesitated for a moment, not quite knowing the answer to that question himself. It had been a long time since he'd seen his sister, and he wasn't quite sure if she'd changed much in the years. Since she was about five years young than him…she'd been only fifteen when he'd left for America all those years ago. After trying and failing to remember her face, he just shrugged.

"Uhh…I can't really remember very well. She'd had short hair, uh, blonde I think. And blue eyes…?"

He broke off as the sounds of a vehicle pulling into the car park wrenched both of their attention back to the window. The tinted glass and the glaring sun made it so it was impossible to see who was hidden behind the doors of the Mini Cooper, but Alfred was too busy marvelling at the miniature size of the car to care. He didn't think he'd ever seen something with such a small build before – what if there was a powerful wind? The car looked like it would get blown right over! However, there were no fierce gales whisking outskirts of London. Only the cooling breeze that whispered across the fields of grass and hummed against the doors to the lobby. James narrowed his eyes the Mini Cooper stuttered to a halt just outside the hotel and, finally, the driver nestled within its belly was revealed.

Two people stepped out; the first was a man, his expression that of boredom as his heavily-lidded eyes briefly scanned the building and he mouthed something to the second. His hair, longer than it should be for a man, gave him a youthful aura, yet the dark stubble dotted on his chin said otherwise – a strange combination of features on his face. Although Alfred couldn't see him very well, he guessed that the newcomer might've been in either his late twenties or early thirties…maybe. He started to doubt his deduction as the man came closer and he noticed the deep violet border to his eyes, permanently inked into his skin, and the indents lining his forehead; stress lines. Mid thirties, at the least.
As for his partner – she seemed to contrast his cold insomnia-appearance completely, with bouncy blonde curls, held up in a ponytail that swayed every time she took a step, and a smooth, semi-flawless, semi-uneven complexion. Despite that though, her elegant gait and clothing definitely reflected her maturity – you see, not all blondes were dumbasses who did nothing but squeal like a tween girl on too much caffeine.

As the complementary pair drew closer, James shifted slightly and started to gaze uncertainly at the floor – these gestures of discomfort only intensified as the woman started to break into a fast pace walk as she stormed through the double doors of the lobby and embraced him with a tight, rushed hug. After a few seconds of utter confusion, Alfred's mind clicked. The woman was Aunt Shirley.

"What is wrong with you, James!?" she scolded after breaking from the hug, a stern expression on her face. "I swear, we haven't heard from you in years, and you decide to phone Mum and Dad up one day to ask if you can live with them for a while!? You're stupid. Stupid and crazy."

"It's nice to see you too, Sis."

Aunt Shirley paused for a while – a long while – and just stared at her older brother, somewhat puzzled. Obviously, she hadn't spoken face-to-face with him for a while, which is why it came as a shock that she was hearing a generic Manhattan dialect instead of her own West English accent, which is how she'd last heard her brother talk. Alfred, on the other hand, was still puzzled – this time, not from why she'd just hugged his father, but more from the fact that she sounded like she'd just walked out of the movie 'War Horse.' Contrary to popular belief, he thought that most Brits spoke with the Queen's English, sounding fancy and rich and obnoxious. He was very, very wrong about that, of course.

"You don't sound posh!" he blurted out immediately, drawing a tense, awkward silence between the family again. After the words had left his mouth, he regretted it since he found all gazes fixed upon him; the neutrally amused expression of his dad, a bemused stare from Aunt Shirley, who was now looking him up and down like he was an object on a shelf to be gawked at, and the eerie dullness of sleep-deprived eyes from the unnamed man who stood beside her, tousled black hair curling around his ears and neck. Quizzical moments passed, and he found himself getting redder and redder the more they stared – had that been a stupid statement? Then, Aunt Shirley began to laugh. She began to laugh a lot.

"Posh? What are you talking about?" she guffawed, snorting as she chortled. She really didn't have the most attractive giggle. Alfred grinned awkwardly, hoping he wasn't blushing too much from raw embarrassment. "Ha! You're funny! And you look so much like your dad too! You're…er…Matthew, right?"

"Alfred," he corrected, beaming as he moved his wiped the outside of his glasses as something to do other than fiddle with the various strings he had in his pockets.

"Ah, Alfred," Aunt Shirley mused to herself. "So, you're the younger twin." Alfred and his father nodded, creating a quirky, almost identical mirror image. "Well, I'm your Aunt Shirley!" Originally, the teen reached out his hand for her to shake, but he faltered when she rushed forwards to give him an almighty, rib-crushing hug instead. He hesitated, before returning it, albeit cumbersomely, as if he didn't quite know how to respond. Then again, this was a random woman whom he'd never met before who was suddenly breaking his spine in an act of affection. Over her shoulder, he found himself looking straight at the odd man, who hadn't moved except to gently scratch his half-beard and rub his shoulder as if it ached slightly. Alfred tried to catch his eye and smile, but the man, despite seeming to gaze in his general direction, didn't seem to notice.

Eventually, after a millennia of being crinkled against his aunt, like paper being crumpled up into a ball, she released him and moved backwards to stand beside said man again before introducing him.

"And this is my husband, Barry," Shirley said, verbally prompting her partner to reach forwards and shake their hands. He complied, and offered a weak, slightly strained smile as his rough hand clasped around Alfred's palm, following James'. The conversation that followed was fairly boring and monotone, with a peculiar mash of accents thrown together; two American, one Somerset and Barry's, of which Alfred couldn't quite distinguish. The way he pronounced things, in a sing-song, melodic way with a richer, fuller tone underneath, was very different to how Shirley spoke but…he must've been British too, right?
For some reason, the siblings stood in the lobby for at least another ten minutes, catching up on "old times" and such, whilst Alfred just stood there apprehensively, unsure of whether he should try and contribute to the banter (most of which he didn't quite understand). Finally, they decided to make a move for the Mini Cooper, of which Barry was driving, so Alfred clambered into the back after trying to stuff all of his and James' luggage into the boot, along with Shirley who insisted that her brother should sit in the front.

"Your Gran and Gramps can't wait to meet you," Shirley exclaimed once the car spluttered into motion and pulled out on the motorway where it started to zoom along at a steady, lulling rhythm. Just the roar of the engine and the flashing countryside that wheeled by would've enough to send Alfred off to sleep again if it weren't for the gnawing in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. "They've only ever seen pictures that your dad sent over when you were a baby." Oh, sweet Jesus… Alfred flushed crimson at the thought of him as baby – from the pictures he'd seen, he'd been quite chubby and definitely not cute at all, despite the protests from his parents' old friends.
His Aunt Shirley was fairly talkative, providing most of the topics of discussion as they trundled across English countryside, away from London and towards the western counties. Alfred could only stare out at the fields, marvelling at the landscape and the array of creatures he'd have never seen near any urban parts of the states; cows, sheep etc.

"Are you leaving behind anyone special?" Shirley asked, flowing onto the next subject easily and flashing a quick wink in the teen's direction.

"What?" Alfred frowned, not quite comprehending what his aunt was implying.

"You know – like a girlfriend?" she prompted. The teen blanched, turning away so she wouldn't see the divergent whiteness of his forehead and sudden rosy tinge that had sprung to his cheeks. That word alone was obstinate enough, but how would he be able to tell his own aunt and uncle he was gay? Twiddling his thumbs, Alfred came to a fast decision; he might as well tell them or they'd probably figure out sooner or later. It couldn't hurt though, could it? It's not like they'd pull over and throw him headfirst out of the cab if he told them…right?

"Well…you see…uhm…I -"

"No."

It was James who ended that theme with his sharp interruption, without meeting either his son's or his sister's eye. Alfred scowled, half hurt as he chewed his lower lip; he knew that his father disapproved of his sexuality…but it wasn't like he could hide him from the world forever, was it? He might not have accepted it with open arms, however that didn't give him the right to restrict who Alfred told…perhaps…perhaps he was ashamed to let his family members know. Feeling a little sick, Alfred sealed his mouth shut, praying for a miracle. Shirley's eyes were narrowed as they flickered between the two. She had guessed something was wrong between them and her curiosity got the better of her as she opened her mouth to speak.

Alfred cringed as his stomach roared, voicing its ravenous hungers for the whole car to hear.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" Barry asked, his sonorous voice tinged with amusement.

"…no…" he answered sheepishly, discomfited from the loud grumble that had escaped from his empty belly.

"Alright, how about we pull over in Salisbury for some brunch then?" Aunt Shirley suggested, beaming. "My treat."

Barry simply nodded, glancing at a roadside sign that stated how far they were from the various towns scattered around Somerset and Wiltshire.
Salisbury: 3 miles
Yeovil: 48 miles
Chard: 67 miles

Alfred tried to sit tight, realizing just how long they'd actually been sitting in the car for; two whole hours! Legs stiffened and pricked with imaginary pins and needles, he was immensely gladdened when they pulled over after entering a small town laden with mini brick houses dotted up and down narrow streets. It was a rather quaint area, nothing like the urban set-up of New York at all. He basked in the sunshine, the orb of warmth at its pinnacle, floating high up in the sky, admiring the serenity of the quiet village. Much unlike his birthplace, there were no honking horns or vivid language being spewed between angry drivers on the road…it was peaceful. And Alfred kind of liked it.

The group wandered down the numerous streets, enjoying the blissful silence and nodding towards locals who walked down the roads as they searched for somewhere to eat. They paused as they turned another corner, gabbling quick "Good mornings" to various people who walked in the opposite direction and admired the view down the half-empty road. One peculiar building stood out among the rest, with its bright white-washed walls and thatched roof. 'The Cloisters' was what the sign on the front read, although Alfred had to pause for a while to run the word over his tongue, next to a black billboard listing the dishes they served within.

"How about we eat here?" James proposed, shuffling towards the entrance as though his mind was already made. Shirley just shrugged and they made their way inside.

"What's changed since I've been gone?" James immediately continued once they'd taken their seats around a rectangular table. Most of the discussion from before, at the hotel, had been focused around James and Alfred and how they'd been getting along in America, yet Shirley and Barry hadn't really revealed much about themselves.

"You've "been gone" about seventeen years. Everything's changed," his younger sister replied, flicking her fingers through the menu to select a drink. "Where should I begin?"

"'Dunno. From where I left off?"

"What, when I was back in high school?"

Alfred detected a hint of venom in her voice as he stared at the beverages he could order. Perhaps she blamed her brother for leaving when she was so young, but she certainly didn't say the words in a loving tone. Nonetheless, her neutral smile hadn't disappeared from her face.

"Yeah, I guess."

Shirley snorted.

"I passed most of my GCSEs, at least and went to Manchester University where I studied English Literature. Medieval and Renaissance to be exact," she explained, her irises rolling upwards as she accounted for all of the years that her brother had missed. "I met Barry at uni – he's from Ceredigion – he was studying Music, weren't you, love?" She aimed the last segment at her husband, who was inspecting the menu tiredly.

"Hm?" he had looked up at the sound of his name, a lazy tint to his eyes. "Oh, yeah."

"And now he's a lecturer at Cardiff. He's got to get up early thanks to us living in Bath."

"Thankfully not too early. It's only an hour drive," the black haired man joked half-heartedly. It sounded strange, and too mellow with his deep accent that Alfred still couldn't distinguish. Jeez, he hardly looks like a musician…

The teenager eventually zoned out after hearing all of the bizarre names of, what he assumed were, towns and cities. But who would name a city 'Bath?' He only spoke when he ordered his meal and drink and when he was addressed. He could appreciate that his father wanted to catch up with everything he'd missed, but it seriously reminded him of life back in their apartment in Manhattan when his parents had constantly molly-coddled Matthew and paid little attention to him. Supressing a sigh, he twitched and laid his cutlery down on his plate even though the others were barely halfway through their meals – he always had been an extremely fast eater, wolfing down his food at an alarming pace, miraculously, without choking.

A half hour of eating and mindless chatting later, they were in the car again, whooshing past the fields and fields of random animals and creatures who stood and subconsciously chewed on grass or other flora, and about an hour after that, they'd reached their destination; the humble town of Chard. It wasn't really much of a town. Just a cluster of houses spread over a few long roads that intersected in the centre and col-de-sacs interweaving through each other like warrens. One such close was where the vehicle found itself, brimming with suitcases and bags as it rounded various corners and spat as it halted on a boulevard named 'Holbear.'

"Well, here we are!" Shirley announced cheerily, seemingly oblivious to the amount of stress that was emanating from James and Alfred.

"We're here?" the older of the two asked nervously, clearly not recognising the neighbourhood they were in at all.

"What's up, James?" his sister asked as they both clambered out of the car. "Oh yeah! Mum and Dad downsized after May graduated since they didn't need such a big house anymore, so they live here now. The old house is about a mile away."

For some reason, Alfred relaxed a little, knowing that his father felt a little out-of-place too, surrounded by the lush scenery and stretches of groomed grassland in all directions. He'd heard of Aunt May before – she was the youngest of his dad's siblings, right? Supposedly two years younger than Shirley, she lived in a place called Cornwall and, apparently, she'd be coming up to visit sometime during the holidays. He vaguely remembered his father telling him that she was incredibly busy, being a software engineer. He actually looked forward to meeting her since he was convinced she might be able to get him a cool new game to test out or something before it was released.

As Barry started to unload the luggage from the Mini, Shirley ushered two (almost identical) Americans down a narrow side-street, grinning at their puzzled and anxious expressions and the icy sweat that was trickling down their necks. Neither knew where they were going until they were pointed in the direction of an elongated house (that couldn't quite be classed as a bungalow) with a spacious, swanky front garden, brandishing an array of trimmed shrubs and flowers for the whole neighbourhood to see. Not that Alfred was paying any attention to that, of course. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the pebbly path that led to a gleaming white door, fixed into place on one part of the house that looked like it wasn't really supposed to be there as it was jutting out (but then again, the home would've been just a boring rectangle if it hadn't been there). It also neatly concealed the conservatory, which also looked odd as it was entirely made out of glass and you could easily see right into it. To Alfred, it was a bit open as if the people who lived within (he was still coming to terms that those 'people' were actually his grandparents) trusted their neighbours too much, but it was also luxurious. For someone who had only lived in a square shack in a concrete block, from the outside, the house was adorably authentic. Contrary to Alfred's belief that "bigger was better", he secretly thought that the little "bungalow" was actually…nice (it wasn't really a bungalow since there appeared to be a miniature section upstairs from the slightly raised roof).

Shirley was the one who rang the doorbell, alerting whoever dwelled inside that they'd arrived despite James' nervous shuffling and Alfred still comprehending that he was so close to meeting his actual grandparents. His friends had always told him about how their gran or grandpa baked them cookies on the weekend, but of course he'd never known what it was like to know his gran or grandpa. I wonder…he thought to himself as he heard the sound of slow footsteps tapping against the floorboards within the abode. Will Matthew be meeting our other grandparents now…or has he already met them? Both Americans froze as the door creaked open.

Behind stood a tall woman, past the prime of her life but still holding some sort of attractiveness between the thin lines that had started to appear on her worn, kindly face, her bright azure eyes glittering with the natural beauty that only the stellar constellations could hold and rimmed with oval glasses (that were actually quite similar to Matthew's). There was something about her tousled hair, streaked with silver and drawn up in a tight bun, and the laxly experienced aura that surrounded and the long skirt that fluttered delicately at her heels that told Alfred that she was quite a bit older than she looked. Again, make-up could hide these blemishes, and although she didn't lather it on (like most teen girls) it was just barely detectable, but only if you were very observant to the point that you could tell the exact area of a room just by breathing in its scent. One second, the "old" woman was stood in the doorway, a smile stretched thinly across her face, much like butter that had been spread over too much bread, and the next her arms were slung around Alfred's shoulders and she was hugging him tightly.

"Oh James!" she cried, her South-Western accent unfamiliar to Alfred's ears as he stumbled back slightly, completely caught off guard by the unprovoked hug. "Where have you been all of these years!?" This embrace continued for quite a while; Alfred locked in place by the woman's unusually strong arms and by the sheer shock of being "assaulted" when he hadn't even done anything, whilst she murmured and scolded him with every breath she took.

"Uhh…" the teen muttered gawkily.

"It's been such a long time!" the woman exclaimed, releasing him and staring straight into his turquoise eyes, her gaze a mixture of worry, glee and ire. "And it seems like you haven't aged a day! You have glasses now too…wait a minute…" She leaned in closer, further invading Alfred's personal space. "In fact…you've hardly changed at all…apart from…you seem younger than the last time I saw you…?" Puzzled, she adjusted her spectacles slightly and scratched her head in confusion, before her gaze darted to the actual James – who'd been observing the scene with mischievous amusement and a grin plastered on his maw – and the pieces clicked into place.

"You're not James! You're Alfred!"

"Well, yeah…" Alfred mumbled, his cheeks flushing crimson. Is this my grandma…? Something about her reminded him immensely of James; perhaps the zealous flash hidden behind her spectacles, or the lines carved into her face from the many times that she'd smiled too widely. It must be.

"Oh my!" she mused, raising a hand to her mouth in surprise. "You look so much like your father." It wasn't much of an amazement for Alfred to hear those words come tumbling from her mouth – after all, he was told that multiple times. Shortly after she'd uttered the sentence, she turned to her son (not her grandson) and greeted him in a familiar way, this time 100% sure that it was the person she actually thought it was, yet with more scolding and hugging as Shirley stood by patiently and waited until they were invited inside the house (Barry followed suit, dragging James' and Alfred's hand luggage with him). Thus followed the usual "where have you been?", "what have you been doing?" and "how have things been?" whilst Alfred just gawked at the charming home that he'd been welcomed into; the walls, washed white, were lined with various paintings (Shirley pointed out that some were actually portraits that Alfred's grandma, Poppy, had painted herself since she'd been an avid artist in her younger years) whilst the carpet stretched out like a bright velvet meadow beneath their feet. Shimmying into the conservatory, with its glorious transparent windows showing off the side and rear garden, whilst overlooking part of the street too, Alfred followed his father's example and shuffled out of his shoes.

Through the mingled scents of the country and flowers, there was an underlying of something harsh and bittersweet in the air, enough to let a light cough escape from the teen's mouth. Smoke. At first, Alfred panicked, his eyes scanning the glass dome for licking red flames – he found none, and instead he saw a thin sliver of charcoal smog dancing on the wind outside, wafting from a man who had his back turned to the conservatory altogether. The door was half-open, leaving an entrance that the smoke from a smouldering cigarette clasped between his fingers might have snaked in through and also allowing the sound of visitors to slither outwards, alerting the man on the lawn that the guests had arrive. He turned, revealing his crumpled face, flawed and blemished with age and an essence of meek surprise in his twinkling eyes. He crushed the cigarette, and was inside, half-hobbling, half-skipping towards the two Americans who had entered his abode in a matter of seconds. He wasn't old – well…not old-old at least – like Poppy, he seemed to be just-slightly-above-middle-aged, yet the way he walked and tightly grasped both Alfred's and James' hands said otherwise.

"James, James, James," he tutted. "What am I going to do with my most wayward son, hm?"

"Hi Dad. By the way, I'm pretty sure I'm your only son."

"I can't believe, after all of these years, I finally get to meet my grandson," Poppy exclaimed again as the father and son had their own separate reunion of manly handshakes, pulling the rather flustered Alfred into yet another hug – this time, it felt much different though. Unlike the first, it was more affectionate and (grand)motherly rather than seemingly starved and frustrated and joyous, and this time, Alfred returned it, or at least he tried to. He wasn't quite used to hugs or kisses being planted on his cheeks, which was why he almost shied away. Then again, he'd never had a grandmother until then, so he wasn't sure how he should act altogether in the first place. In his eyes, she was just a random, slightly-past-middle-aged woman who had only seen a collection of photographs of him as a chubby baby, sent to her via computer. For her, to be able to hold her grandson when she never could've when he was nothing but a toddler; it hurt, because she knew that she'd missed out on vital years of his life, but at the same time it made her feel happy. She knew that she'd be a good grandmother to him, even if it meant spoiling him rotten whenever he came home from boarding school and showering him with gifts and presents. That's what grandmothers were supposed to do and it's what she intended to do, to catch up for all of the wasted years that had gone by without her care.

"So this is your room, Alfred," she told him a few hours later when Barry and Shirley had departed for their respective house, following a riveting adventure through the bowels of the bungalow. 'His' room, previously a spare guest bedroom, had been made up especially for him and rested at the end of the corridor, past the staircase and almost wedged between two bathrooms. It was about the same size as the room he'd left behind in the Manhattan flat, yet the difference was that he wouldn't be sharing it with his twin, making it seem all the more personal and voluminous. A double bed, squeezed between a deep ochre coloured dresser and a window, the curtains drawn back to reveal the back garden and the acres of unused grass beyond, had been decorated with deep azure cushions and a blue throw, complete with rumples and an intricate pattern woven on the front. The bedroom opposite his would be where James slept – it was roughly the same apart from the fact it had an en-suite toilet. Alfred wouldn't argue or throw a tantrum about that though. He was just overwhelmed he'd have a bedroom all to himself – and with such a view, too!

"I hope you like it," Poppy continued modestly. "I tried to set it up how a teenager would…"

There was nothing much more she could say before she was enveloped in a bear hug by her grandson, of whom was grinning warmly and glad that someone had actually gone through so much effort for him. Although it would be unnecessary to say, Alfred slept peacefully later that day, being exhausted from his journey and the thrills of meeting his family after years of barely knowing they existed.

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

The majority of the first week was spent unpacking and adjusting to the new environment in which they were staying. Whereas James slowly started to ease his way back into the "English" way of living from when he'd been a teenager, it was much harder for Alfred to grasp the sounds of cows bellowing every afternoon in divergence to the absence of a squeaking pigeon as it was startled by the beeping of a car horn. When he'd first arrived in the country, it had been peaceful and serene, only ever hearing the sound of a car's tires against tarmac when his dad left for the supermarket in the morning to go and do the food shopping (since he was registered to his parent's car) or on the rare occasion that a neighbour was going on a trip somewhere. It was, after all, the summer holidays, so there wasn't any action or anything mildly interesting going on anywhere in the unpretentious town of Chard.

What had started out as a relaxing getaway from the urban city, soon turned into a boring routine. As Alfred wandered back from the local market, a plastic bag almost dragging against the floor from the weight of the milk carton held within, he pondered what he could do when he got home. It was a question he'd started to ask himself more and more – you see, there was absolutely nothing to do in the town. Perhaps he'd thought the country would be a little bit like the Wild West which he saw so often in his favourite movies, however it was nothing of the sort. There were no cowboys galloping back and forth, bareback on towering horses with sheening bay coats nor were there people clad completely in feathers with vivid colours smeared across their cheeks. It was rather stupid to think that's what Somerset would be like, really. Cowboys and Indians. How childish.

Alfred had enjoyed playing that game with Matthew when they were children. He was, of course, the cowboy, dressed in tattered leather and wearing the symbolic hat and holding the plastic gun that clicked every time he fired a shot. Matthew hadn't fitted the role of a Native Indian very well; he was skittish and as non-barbaric as one could possibly be. However, you can't be too stereotypical about it. Not all Native Americans were fierce and cruel. Just look at 'Pocahontas.' Alfred had lived in Somerset for about a month with his grandparents. Although, at first, each day had been a little awkward in the new presence of grandma and grandpa, he'd soon settled back into his comfortably amiable skin, showing his radiant smile more often in the original Jones household and practically radiating wonderful idiocy wherever he went. He was not a difficult teen to like (even if he was a little bit slow and a tad bit oafish), especially for those of the older generation.

Sometimes, he'd visit the neighbours houses (almost all of them were over fifties) and he'd offer to do their garden or just pop around for a chat. Either way, they welcomed him happily, even if most of them didn't approve of his strong American accent, and they sometimes even gave him a fiver for the chat. Alfred wasn't a judgemental person really (unless you really ticked him off) and he was as innocent as a baby which was why he was adorned so much by the people of Chard. Truth be told, he didn't just randomly go around old people's houses (the most un-teen thing to do) for the sake of it; he did it mostly because he was bored (and he was actually earning a hefty sum of money from it. Some of the kinder members of the community would sneakily slip him a crisp twenty after he'd completed a couple of chores for them, and he was eternally grateful for the financial support; Alfred was saving up for a laptop so he could study on the move at boarding school). Like, seriously bored. So much so, that he could cry sheer tears of boredom if he wanted to. Don't be mistaken, it wasn't that his grandmother and grandpa ignored him or anything – they fed him generously, with gaping portions of English breakfast at all points of the day, and sat with him in front of the old television to watch the news or any mildly scientific documentary that was on, and sometimes even helped him with his studying. He'd be doing his AS-levels next year, so he did still have to study during the summer holidays. But, that was all there was to do. Eat, sleep, study, watch TV…it was so tedious.

Somehow, Alfred had also managed to ease himself into a fitness regime. He did want to stay in a good condition, after all. Since he'd taken part in numerous after-school clubs whilst he'd been back in the States, mainly sports like football, baseball, soccer, (ice) hockey, basketball etc. He'd even tried a shot at boxing when he'd turned fifteen. To keep in a tip-top state to attempt all of the athletic activities, Alfred would normally be seen jogging around the high-rise flats or occasionally lifting weights at the gym. He could still recall when he'd first joined the football team – it had, no doubt, been his favourite sport to indulge in – as the tailback. He hadn't been the absolute fastest when he'd joined, at the ripe age of thirteen, but he'd been fast and had quick enough reactions to see a gap and go for it. The quarterback at the time had also seen he could pack a pretty heft punch if the time had ever called for it. After two years as the running back, Alfred had eventually replaced the old team leader, much to his glee and excitement. However, the memories became sour as he remembered how the word that he was gay had drowned out his previously popular reputation. On the pitch, he'd been deserted by the linemen, left to deal with the defensive team running him to the ground every chance they got, and there were a hell of a lot of chances.

Alfred seethed, hoping to forget the bitter memoirs as they left an unsavoury taste in his mouth. Somehow, he preferred going for a jog in the little neighbourhood of Chard rather than the bustling streets of New York, mainly because there were no people to avoid, nor were their cars honking at him if he tried to attempt jaywalking. He wouldn't usually try to cross the road in the Big Apple without using a zebra crossing unless it was really important. People in Britain honestly didn't seem to care either way. In fact, jaywalking was actually legal. It wouldn't have made much difference in the village in which his grandparents lived anyway – there was never any traffic! His typical exercise daily was a leisurely jog in the morning through the empty streets and perhaps down to the shopping street and recreational centre. It was a shame that there wasn't a gym anywhere close by, and an even bigger shame that there was nobody around whom Alfred could go running with either.

There were seldom any children in the area, and those that were, were just visiting their own grandparents for the weekend or something, and were at least three years his junior. As likeable as he was to young children too, he couldn't really spend any time with them. Thus, as much as he loathed it, he busied himself with long, tiring walks through the fields alone and chores, chores and more chores. Vacuuming the lounge, scrubbing the sink in the kitchen, bleaching the toilet, making tea although it smelled undoubtedly foul, fetching a new carton of milk from the corner shop…

"Gramps! Gran! I'm home!" Alfred called as he opened the door and slunk out of his coat, still clutching the plastic bag with his fingers. "I got the milk!"

"Thanks, love," Poppy said gratefully, accepting the bag from his outstretched hand. That was another thing Alfred had picked up on whilst he was in England – not only was it rather boring to live in such a remote town, the people there called each other "love" and "dear." He'd heard sayings from drunkards in New York as they tried to mimic an English accent (poorly) and such, but he'd never thought that it would've actually been true or anything. He didn't even flinch as he noted his father was gone, again, to God knows where. According to "Gramps", James had always been insubordinate, wandering off at random hours to do the weirdest of things.

"That boy won't be told," the old man had said whilst reading through the newspaper and noticing that the drive was empty.

Alfred rolled his eyes – his father was always like that – and he just spent the rest of the day trying to busy himself around the house. Everything he did was mentally and physically wearisome, utterly mind-numbing, but if he sat on his bed and just did nothing, he feared he'd go insane. So he just continued to dust the television set, even though it was already spotless, in hopes that something interesting would magically pop up on the screen, even though it was just "Who Do You Think You Are?" After clicking through the various channels and deducing that 'Sherlock', 'Doctor Who' and 'Waterloo Road' – some of the British TV shows that he actually liked – weren't going to be on until later, he flopped down on the couch, exhaling deeply. It was official; he was brain-dead. Alfred, never in his wildest dreams, would have ever wished for the summer holidays to be over so quickly.

"You alright, son?"

Alfred cast a glance over his shoulder, seeing his grandfather shuffle into the room with a fresh mug of steaming tea, probably made with the help of that milk he'd recently purchased.

"Yeah. Nothing's on the TV."

"There's plenty on the television if you'd bother to look," was the old man's reply as he settled into his armchair and reached over to grab the daily paper. "Or have you looked at the collection of books in the study yet? There's plenty of classics."

"Uh, I don't really read much Gramps." Alfred sat up and nervously scratched the back of his head. It wouldn't have surprised him much if his father hadn't mentioned his dyslexia. After all, it was just another "shameful" trait that the teen harboured, along with his homosexuality. In response to the statement, the elderly man snorted, ruffling his newspaper in disbelief.

"Don't be daft, boy," he chortled good-heartedly. "A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives whilst reading."

"Yeah, sure. I just…don't really read much is all."

"I suggest 'To Kill a Mockingbird' by Harper Lee. It's set in America and I reckon it'll do you well to read it at the age you are. Should be somewhere in the house."

Alfred stifled a groan. The last thing he wanted to do over the holiday was read. It was the bane of his life, and he really didn't understand why the hell his parents had forced him to take English Literature for AS-level. He knew he'd fail, and badly at that. Not only was the curriculum for schools in Britain quite unnecessary and silly, it was also more difficult than just getting a high school diploma or sitting ACTs. Here, he'd have to be examined on how he learned throughout the whole year and tested on subjects that he hardly knew about.

"I'm gonna go outside," Alfred announced, slinking through into the conservatory and into the back garden.

"Lunch'll be served in about a half hour," were his grandfather's final words, suggesting that he come home by then.

There wasn't really much else to do out there other than admire the impressive scenery and the cows speckling the field nearby, black and white splodges that barely moved other than to dip their necks and take more greedy mouthfuls of grass. The sun wasn't far from reaching its pinnacle, radiating rare heat on the pretty little flowers that stretched their petals upwards, silently greeting Alfred as he walked passed. The heat was enough to make him strip out of his jacket, revealing his jagged teen body beneath, hidden only by a simple T-shirt. Yes, Alfred was quite a "looker" thanks to the sports he often indulged himself in, but no, he didn't have rock-hard abs nor bulging muscles protruding from his upper and lower arms. His babyish face didn't always help with attracting potential flirt-buddies either. Where he'd inherited his sparkling eyes and honey-coloured hair from his father's side (including that one hair that adamantly refused to lay flat on his head), he'd obviously gotten his delicately childish features from his mother.

Wandering down through the village, waving towards neighbours and slinging his jacket over his shoulder as he walked, Alfred eventually halted by the fence that separated the country lane from the meadow of cows. A few, peeked by curiosity at the uncommon sight of a passing human stopping, trotted over to get a better look. Soon, the whole herd, attracted by the low grunting and the general movement, were lined up along the fence, sniffing anxiously at the teen. Alfred grinned; he may not have been in the Wild West that he'd seen so many times in the movies, but he could just imagine rounding up herds of cows whilst riding on his own long-legged horse, whooping and yelling loudly. He reached forwards, attempting to lightly lay his palm on a corn-coloured calf's forehead, but it shied away, eyes wide with fear. Those surrounding the youngster also took a hesitant step backwards, unused to being "petted."

Alfred, despite the obvious nervous aura emanating from the cattle, just smiled and retracted his hand, not wanting to scare them further. He could spend as much time as he wanted out here, basking in the sun's warmth and whistling to call the cows over. It may have been sad, but in some way, they kept him company in the unfamiliar environment. The deep, throaty sounds that escaped from their mouths were amusing and oddly comforting, and he liked the oafish look about their soft, idiotic faces. Cows certainly weren't plentiful on Manhattan Island.

Of course, his time with the cattle was short lived as he realized that Poppy would be dishing up lunch soon. Alfred foolishly bade a farewell to his gathered audience and rushed back to the bungalow where his food awaited, wondering meekly what would be perched on the dining table for him and whether his dad would be home yet. Suddenly, a thought occurred. If he's home, he can teach me to drive, right? After all, Alfred was sixteen now, so it was legal for him to drive and James had promised him that that would be his birthday present. Driving lessons. Simple, yet meaningful. If there was one thing that would make the holiday go by faster, it would be cruising around the countryside in a car, listening to the radio on full volume.

To his dismay, the car wasn't parked in the drive when he arrived back home and he pouted. I'll just wait for him to get home. Then I'll bring it up.

"I'm back!" Alfred yelled as he entered through the front door and kicked his shoes off in the corner.

"It's about time!" Poppy answered, her voice drifting from the kitchen. "Your soup's getting cold."

Soup? In summer? The teen shrugged – his grandmother's cooking was always top-notch so it didn't really matter what he ate. As he seated himself at the dinner table, he stared uncertainly at the limey-green broth served in front of him. It didn't look terrible, but it didn't particularly look appetizing either, despite the tantalizing smell that was already doing wonders to his taste buds.

"Eh, what kind of soup is it?" he asked as politely as he could, eyeing it carefully.

"Potato and leek. It's a Welsh and Irish delicacy," she answered.

"Welsh? Irish?"

"Good God, don't you know your geography?" his grandfather joked before realizing that Alfred was serious. "Oh. Wales is a country across the Severn and Ireland is a large island across the Irish Sea."

Alfred paused a moment, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows before taking a tentative sip. Before long, he was devouring it hungrily along with his bread. Food was hardly ever wasted on Alfred and if he decided he liked something, it would be gone within seconds. His grandfather's explanation had been pretty much wasted on him though. Who ever thought of naming a country after a whale? And actually calling an island "Island?" It was official; people in Britain were crazy. They could've at least thought of a more interesting name.

The rest of the day was pretty much the definition of boring. The only thing that kept Alfred sane was the thought of his father returning home and teaching him to drive. Otherwise, he just seated himself in his room and flicked through a few comics, ignoring his grandfather's advice on reading an actual book. That was probably one of the last things he wanted to do. As for studying – he pushed himself through a few pages of his AP Mathematics textbook, but that was all he could manage before he slumped down on his bed and decided it was too tedious to be doing on a holiday. Yeah, he genuinely enjoyed Maths but sometimes it was just too much effort.

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

"Alfred?"

"Urghg…"

His duvet crumpled and twisted beneath his body, Alfred titled his head, his vision blurred as he understood that he'd dozed off whilst he'd been waiting for his dad to get home. Heaving himself upwards with the help of his hands, he stopped when he was in a relatively comfortable sitting position. His glasses seemed to have fallen in amongst his pillow as he'd slept as they were wedged between the plump cushions that he'd been cuddling moments ago. Alfred rubbed his face, grating himself roughly until he was properly awake, before fetching them and plonking them back in their original place.

"Are you alright, dear?" Poppy asked worriedly, chewing her lower lip as she moved through the room and held her hand up to his forehead. "You're not ill, are you?"

"No, Gran," was his reply. "Just a little tired."

"Okay. Dinner's going to be served soon."

Dinner!? How long was I asleep for!? Once his grandmother had departed for the kitchen, he risked a glance at the clock on his desk. The numbers were clear enough – 8:00pm. Six hours!? Huh…That just goes to show how boring it could be in Somerset, especially when one was living with their grandparents. Usually, Alfred would've passed time by talking with Matthew or going out with friends to play some baseball or football. Matthew. The younger twin sighed, remembering his brother with an acute sense of sadness. He vaguely wondered if he was suffering the same problems in France. It wasn't like Alfred was lonely or anything but…well, talking with his grandparents was awkward. Despite living with them for a month, he still barely knew them and although they were more than happy to uphold a conversation with him, there just didn't seem to be anything to talk about, other than his life in New York. Sure, he had fond memories of his old life, but that was why he didn't want to recall anything; he knew he wouldn't be going back there for a long time, so why hover on the past?

Letting a heavy sigh escape from his throat, Alfred trudged through into the dining room. Of course, his grandfather had already seated himself, sipping yet another cup of tea. In fact, the scent of tea wreathed around the room like poison, stifling and unearthly. Alfred's nose wrinkled. The smell was unfamiliar from the sharpness of coffee and he didn't particularly like it.

"Nice nap?" his grandpa asked between gulps as the teen pulled up a chair for himself.

"Yeah. Say, is Dad back yet?"

"Yes, I'm back," said man confirmed whilst taking a seat next to his son. "Why?"

Alfred jumped, surprised by the sudden appearance of his father. "You said you'd teach me to drive when I was sixteen, right?"

An oppressive silence settled upon the family, interrupted only by the rhythmic clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen and the clink of cutlery on plates. Oh God, don't tell me he's forgotten. Maybe his father wasn't the most loving or attentive parent in the world towards him, but Alfred just wouldn't be able to fathom the circumstances if his dad said he wouldn't teach him to drive. He'd been waiting for this moment for years!

"Um, my birthday was in July…" he prompted desperately.

James paused, fixing the boy with a look that he didn't quite understand. "We'll talk about it after dinner."

Before Alfred had a chance to argue, Poppy had laid a platter of food in front of him that he just couldn't refuse. It looked like a Cornish pasty, crisp and golden and hiding the deliciously prepared beef within its shell. A generous dollop of baked beans accompanied it, along with a splattering of salad and chips. Needless to say, Alfred tucked in instantly. He'd noted how late the Brits seemed to have dinner or tea or whatever-they-called-it. It was a little odd, but he supposed it was alright. As long as he was getting fed, he was happy.

The plate didn't particularly need cleaning by the time the American was done with it, as it had been scraped clean by his fork. He relaxed a little, thoroughly satisfied whilst he helped his grandmother to clean up the table. Piling the dishes into the sink and stopping only to fetch himself a drink of water (although it tasted bland and uninteresting), Alfred excitedly pursued his dad into the lounge to question him about driving lessons.

"Hey, Pops!" he greeted. "So, about the driving –"

"I can't teach you how to drive."

Perhaps it was the curt tone that stung his ears or the air of finality that his father so abruptly left in wake of his dismissive words, but Alfred didn't quite comprehend what he'd been told until a full minute had ticked by. And when he did, instant bemusement struck both his mind and face. It was so easy to read the boys emotions; he was just like a book, wide open and ready for reading. He froze, struggling to maintain a casual smile and guessing that James was just joking. He wasn't a stranger when it came to being funny, after all.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Alfred questioned after a while with the absence of laughter.

"The legal age that you can learn to drive in Britain is seventeen. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you."

Seventeen…

"No way," Alfred denied immediately, folding his arms across his chest. "You told me you were going to teach me how to drive when I was sixteen."

"Yeah, well, the law's different over here," James muttered, seemingly tired as he flicked through the newspaper his own father had been reading a few hours before. "There's nothing I can do about it." Once again, that aging tone of conclusiveness slipped into his last words, controlling and clearly stating that the conversation was over. Although James Jones was indeed an easy-going and talkative person, one trait that Alfred hadn't inherited (or had yet to show) was that irritating, too-rational imperiousness. Maybe he was a little arrogant or childish or whatever, but he didn't fling superiority wherever he walked. Instead, contrary to his unruly, child-like appearance, he had turned out more like his reserved, shy mother (without the reserved, shy parts, of course). But, if one thing was certain about Alfred's personality, it was his hard-headed stubbornness.

"But…" he protested weakly. "But, that's not fair."

And his immaturity.

"Alfred, that's enough."

There's that tone again.

"No!" the teen whinged, gritting his teeth behind his lips. He hardly cared how foolish he looked or how much similarity he had to a four-year-old right then – he just wanted this one thing. To learn to drive. Is that so hard to ask!? Alfred had always known how wayward his father was and how he'd often make promises that he couldn't, or just wouldn't, keep but he wouldn't simply let this be another exception. "You promised."

"Look, Alfred." An eerie sternness entered into James' voice, out-of-place and unfamiliar. So much so that it stopped the teenager's whining the moment he uttered those words. "It's against the law. You can whinge and moan all you want about it, but it won't change. I'll teach you how to drive next year, when you're seventeen, okay?"

"But –"

"That's final."

Despite the obvious end to the debate, Alfred lingered in the room for a few minutes longer, struggling to think of something – anything – to say. He didn't want to believe that his dad could do something so…so…cruel? Callous? Was that the right word to use? To promise his son something, then wrench it from his grasp. It wouldn't be the first time it had happened though, although Alfred was hardly ever on the receiving end of such empty oaths. It was usually his mother who'd been disappointed at the insolence of her husband.

"You're lying," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said, you're – lying."

Balling up his hands into tight, whitened fists, Alfred tried to bite back the hurt hostility in his voice. He had a temper, as shown by his younger self whenever he threw a tantrum, and it was a terrible one at that. Maybe it wasn't so wrathful now – more injured than anything else – but if the disagreement escalated further, his clumsy hands might just break something. Last time it had been a schoolboy's nose for yelling "fag" as he walked down the corridor. Not that his father had ever called him that, but Alfred could already feel his anger and resentment bubbling beneath his skin.

"Lying? What would I lie for?" James questioned sharply.

Alfred hesitated deliberately. "Because you hate me."

"Don't be stu-"

"You'd teach Mattie to drive!"

The words were out before he could stop them, already wreaking havoc in the innocent little lounge. Alfred cursed inwardly, hating where the conversation was going. It's too late to stop now thought…but, if I just walk away…? That could've been a better option – leave the room and whittle away his misery somewhere else. Nonetheless, pride rooted his feet to the ground.

"What are you talking about?" James sounded tired and frustrated. He knew his son was hot-headed and rash, but he'd never heard this before.

"But you would though! You've always liked him better than me anyway!"

"Alfred, stop being so childish."

"I'm not being childish! I just know that you'd favour Mattie over me and you'd teach him to drive. Just….why won't you teach me to drive!?"

"I've already said, I can't. It's against the law in Britain to drive before you're seventeen."

The words that waited to leap forth from Alfred's mouth burned, churning hotly in the depths of his throat. He part his lips again, searching for those words that he longed to spew into his father's face, but all that came was a low, exasperated growl. Something inside wanted him to cry, and he could already feel the hot tears pricking his eyes. No! Don't cry. Not in front of him. Alfred would never forgive himself if he let it go in front of his dad. As much as he wanted to scream and yell and shout out his anger and "hatred" (perhaps that word's a bit too strong to use as feelings being conveyed towards his own dad), he didn't. He held it down and just clamped his teeth over the inside of his cheek, praying it would quell the raging fury that threatened to burst at any second.

"You…-you…!" Alfred stuttered, before giving up and storming out of the room, past his gran (who was just stood awkwardly in the corridor, half-scared, half-worried), and inside his only sanctuary in the house. As much as he didn't want to upset his grandparents, he couldn't stop the sudden bout of hasty violence as he wrenched the door shut, earning a few shudders from the adjoining walls and a loud slamming sound that, not only echoed around the whole house, but thrummed in his head over and over. Yes, Alfred was sick of his dad and yes, perhaps he'd been too rash and too immature, but he believed that he had a right to. At the very least, he should be angry, shouldn't he? Broken promises weren't something that was too recent, but it wasn't a nice feeling, having your dreams crushed like that. Or, in Alfred's case, withheld for another year.

"Stupid," he murmured raggedly, tugging his T-shirt off over his head with my force than necessary as his glasses clattered onto the bedside table. He was unsure whether he was referring to James or himself. Nonetheless, he continued with chucking his clothes on the floor (which was, surprisingly, quite clean since he had nothing better to do in the day other than tidy his room – he'd probably fold his outfit away when he'd calmed down a bit) and slowly peeling himself into his pyjamas, all the while muttering under his breath. If Matthew were here, he'd definitely be venting and ranting at him about how unfair their dad was being. But Mattie's not here, is he? Alfred sighed, not realizing how lonely his existence would be without his twin. Burying himself under the duvets, he bit back sour tears as he quickly burrowed his head into a pillow; one with a skilful union jack design inked on the front.

It's August now. It'll only be about two weeks until school starts and I can see him again.

Two weeks too long.

Even when he dove further under the warm bedsheets, and kicked them off again because it was proving to be too hot and stuffy in the summer heat that flooded through the darkened window, Alfred couldn't sleep. He breathed in the musty smell of his room, still holding a few unaccustomed scents that he didn't recognise, hoping that it would quell his aching mind and racing thoughts. However, his brain was still working in overdrive and he muttered irately, twitching anxiously on the bed. Furling and unfurling his body proved to be futile too. He was just as, if not more, sleepless than before. Suddenly, there was a hollow knock at the door.

"Alfred?" Poppy. "It's me. Can I come in?"

He didn't make a move to open the door himself, nor did he utter a word and simply turned his head the other way as the door creaked open. Thin slivers of light erupted in the corner of his vision, proving that the light in the hallway was on and vibrant. They soon disappeared as the door slipped shut again.

"Are you alright? It can get quite hot in here."

No reply.

"I'll turn the radiator off."

Sure enough, the low hiss of radiating heat soon started to gargle out of existence, replaced by the click of the switch that Poppy was probably turned with her softly gnarled hands. After a brief silence, save the 'tep tep' of someone's feet shuffling across the carpet, an added pressure to the side of the bed told Alfred that his gran was most definitely sitting there.

"I know you're angry, but your father means well."

You hardly know my father.

"It's been hard for you…moving, being separated from your brother. But, it'll get better."

Alfred tried to not to snort. No, it won't.

"Just to think…I only met you a month ago, and you'll be moving again, this time to a boarding school."

There was a lingering sadness in her voice, mingling with a welcomed grief that sounded like it had been there for a long time. In an odd way, it made Alfred pity the woman. She sounded incredibly old, and he was sure that if he bothered to tilt his head and look, he'd have seen the lines drawn heavily across her face, adding age and sorrow to her features.

"You'll be learning so many new things. Everything must be going so fast. You'll be doing you're A levels."

Oh God, there was that weird word again. What exactly were A levels anyway? What did they stand for?

"Nevermind…good night, dear."

Something soft tickled the side of his face, as a gentle pressure was applied to the side of his forehead. He could only guess that it was his grandmother leaning over to give him a kiss good night as her hair lightly brushed along his head – a regular ritual that had commenced most times he fell asleep. Not that he minded though. Despite the general gawkiness that he felt from the close proximity of his grandma, she was still his grandma and it was a little touch of familial affection that made him feel loved. His mother had been a generally caring person, but most of her fondness was directed towards Matthew anyway. There was a big difference between watching love being delivered and being on the receiving end. It was amazing how much warmer you felt, even if it was just a glance and not an embrace.

In a heartbeat, she was gone, taking the scent of lavender with her. The door creaked, but Alfred hardly heard the handle clunk into place as he twisted himself further into the mess of sheets. His gaze drifted to the window as it was the only thing in front of his eyes that was actual mildly interesting to look at. He had no idea what time it was and he really couldn't be bothered to check, even if it would just be a simple movement of the head. Through the miniscule sliver in the curtains, the window glinted against the dim light cast by the moon high up in the sky. Silvery luminosities danced across Alfred's cheeks. From his tired vision, the light was split into azure shapes that flickered every now and then, resembling car headlights. He squinted, purposefully trying to trying to create a new perspective to look at; little specks of disjointed brightness swam psychedelically across the scope of the little room through his half-opened eyes, mesmerizingly beautiful with the intriguing, square-shaped patterns that they made. Sometimes there can be beauty in the unseeing too.

What time is it?

Alfred risked a glance at the clock. 10:36pm. Holy crap! How long have I been lying here? He didn't want to answer that question. No matter how many times he curled up and tried to drift off to dreamland, something kept wrenching him back. Why was his brain in hyper-drive all of a sudden? He seriously hated it when that happened. He'd have welcomed sleep with open arms if he would just stop thinking for a few seconds. For some reason, his chest seemed to have clenched a little too. It hurt.

Wanting nothing more than to just close his eyes and pray that they actually stayed shut, Alfred just grimaced and sat up amongst the ocean of quilts. He fingers brushed his hair out of his face – he didn't even want to imagine how dishevelled he looked right then. Groaning as though he had a hangover or something mentally draining like that, he took another glance at the bedside alarm. It was nearing eleven o'clock, and he wasn't even tired enough to sleep. It must've been the argument. Alfred may have had his moments when he'd been younger, but this felt different. He'd told his father the blatant truth, and it had just been brushed away like it was a troublesome bug. The teen hissed. Why can't he be more considerate of others!?

Knowing he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night, Alfred eased himself out of the sheets and proceeded to change clothes again. Since his pyjamas simply consisted of shorts and a white T-shirt, he just pulled on a red jacket and some jeans. And his glasses, of course. Couldn't forget the useless things; old habits die hard. A late night walk wasn't really out-of-the-ordinary in such a small town, and he thought it wouldn't hurt for him to get some fresh air to clear his head. The house was quiet. Very quiet. Alfred guessed that everyone must've gone to bed, however, his assumptions were proven wrong when he tip-toed past the study and saw his dad typing furious at the laptop. Consumed with whatever he was doing, he didn't notice his son silently watching him from the doorway, a scowl etched on his face.

Alfred knew that if he was caught up at this hour, he'd most definitely get shouted at, but he didn't make a move to go back to his room. No, he was too busy staring, not only at his dad and trying half-heartedly to guess what he was doing so late, but at the cork board to his left which was lined with pins and keys dangling from them. The key to the front door, the key to the conservatory, the key to the back garden through the utility door…the car keys. Hanging right by his face, they gleamed teasingly. They mocked him, taunted him, daring the teenager to reach out and grab them. I could…

He froze, noticing just how little space there was between his outstretched fingers and the maliciously glinting keys. James hadn't moved from his hunched over position, but somehow, Alfred knew just how easy it would be for him to turn and see the precarious position he'd put himself in. If he grabbed the keys and ran through the door, he might just have enough time to start the engine and go. He'd seen his dad do it so many times before. But…was he really up to it? Driving a car? Was his need for vengeance really that great? He gulped, openly expressing the guilty thoughts of doubt that flashed through his mind. It was simple, really. So, why didn't his fingers move.

A throaty cough from James jolted Alfred's thought and he flinched, sweat glistening on his forehead. Just do it, just do it, just do it. His heart thumped, jittering and sputtering like an old jeep roaring across miles and miles of sandy terrain. Inside the jeep, Alfred was driving, sat back and admiring the wide open spaces that were free for him and his vehicle to roam. The joys of driving could've been so far away, yet they were within grasp. The only obstacle was the threat of James hearing the jangling keys and the front door, which was probably still locked. If anything, Alfred would have to grab both the car keys, and the door keys. If I do it one time, I'll do it again…

Driven by some sense of stupid courage, or perhaps the longing of something that was close, yet so far away, Alfred closed the gap between his hand and the keys in less than a heartbeat. He moved too fast and his clumsy fingers were careless as they grasped the front door key and he stifled a breath. Luckily, since it was just one key, it didn't clink against anything, and he scraped it from the pin easily. Nonetheless, Alfred backed away, clutching it to his chest. If he was really careful, he could just unlock the door and be on his way. But he'd never forgive himself if he let such a perfect opportunity go, barricaded by his own childish fear.

The car seemed to wink at him through the study window from under the streetlight, daring him to reach out and grab the other set of keys. Alfred frowned, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration. They were still there, tempting him closer and closer. He wanted them. They wouldn't just unlock the car; they would unlock his freedom. In desperation, he started to reach for them again, only to stiffen when he noticed his dad moving. Coughing under his breath, the man arose from his chair and stretched, making low crooning sounds from the satisfying feeling of his muscles stretching after leaning over the laptop for so long.

"Look at the time…" he mused softly to himself. He started to turn. Alfred was still frozen. Shit!

Ungainly with terror, Alfred's digits had no time to act, closing around the car keys and being wrenching backwards as he tripped to the side, praying that the clinking metal and the sound of his rear end meeting the carpet wouldn't be enough to arouse suspicion.

"What was that?" his dad muttered, and although Alfred couldn't see it from his place on the floor, skilfully hidden out of view of the doorframe, he could imagine his father turning to try and see what had made the sound. Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me, please… Curling into a ball and almost cradling the keys against his chest, Alfred didn't dare to move as he felt the soft vibrations on the floor as his father moved from the study to the hall. Oh shit…he's standing right above me… sure enough, James Jones was standing less than a metre from Alfred and looking dreamily into the conservatory, half expecting some spectre to be wandering amongst the glass dome. Had he spared a few seconds to look at the darkened floor to his left, he'd have seen his son, hunched tightly over his knees in the corner. However, James, after deducing that the sound was nothing but his imagination, stretched one last time and continued on his way to bed.

Alfred, although he heard the footsteps receding, remained motionless on the floor for a while longer, firstly to steady his breathing, then to check that the corridor was truly empty and nobody would lie in wait when he moved his neck. Minutes ticked by before he dared to move, unfurling his fingers to admire the glittering keys in his grasp. Then, he stirred completely, rising carefully to his feet in the silent house. It, along with Alfred, held its breath, awaiting the next stage; open the door. Lumbering hands tried and failed multiple times to insert the key into the lock. It clinked against the edges until it finally slotted in and the door unlocked with a satisfying 'clunk.' Although the click of the tumblers moving within the bowels of the door should've been nothing more than a whispering murmur, it sounded more like the very stars had fallen from the sky and were exploding like bombs throughout the whole house – it was so loud. Alfred flinched, casting a fearful glance over his shoulder. Would he dare to open the door?

Pale from the sheer…rebelliousness of his decision, the blond clasped his hand too tightly over the handle and yanked it down, shivering as it creaked under the strength of his fingers. Now…open. The. Door. As he pulled the door towards him, the hinges squealing deafeningly, something started to burn within his chest. It didn't hurt at all, yet it wasn't the type of warming feeling that he got whenever someone said something especially kind or he witnessed an act of heroic benevolence on the television – in fact, Alfred had felt this kind of feeling before. It was the animosity of a teenager disobeying their parents. Oh, what a feeling! Its core was in the centre of his chest, but as he stepped cautiously through the arch and closed the door behind him, almost forgetting to lock it, it started to crawl through his shoulders and ooze down his arms. It thawed the ice that had settled in his stomach and tingled in his legs, blazing through him and warming him internally.

Despite the fresh, night air that pierced his skin like chilling needs and the sting of frost on his nose, Alfred felt alive. Externally, he was freezing, regretting his decision in just wearing a jacket as the cold pinched at his chest and arms, but internally, this feeling of warm water dribbling with the consistency of melted chocolate through his veins reached even his toes and the very tips of his ears. It was such a wonderful feeling, and it reflected in the sheen of his eyes as he admired the stars – sentinels the kept watch in the night. Magnificent in their bursts of colourless radiance, they winked down at him, shining in all shades of brightness next to the alabaster moon, which had been reduced to just a sliver of chrome amongst the darkness. Eerie, unwelcoming…beautiful.

Alfred could've spent hours just standing there, basking in the lunar and stellar light, mixed with artificial streetlamps, but he had another goal. In his hands, clammy with sweat, were the car keys. Originally, the American had just wanted to go for a simple walk around Chard, but now he had the car keys. He could drive. He could do whatever he wanted, right there and then. And nobody could stop him. That warmth that crept through his skin flared even hotter than before, rippling through his veins and threatening to burst out of his eyes. They glittered, reflecting the stars' lustre, but with much more vivacity and vigour. His pupils eyed the car in all its metallic marvel, ravenously, yearningly, , his culpability was outnumbered by those feelings are arduous delight that he could just reached out, open the car and do as he pleased. Who cared if his dad would be unbelievably pissed when he got home? Who cared that he'd be shouted at?

Alfred had always lived in the moment, and his mentality wasn't going to change tonight or any time else. He would so what he wanted and accept the circumstances later. As the irritating girls in his old high school used to say: YOLO. You Only Live Once.

Branding that statement that he'd grown to loathe yet love at the same time in his mind, Alfred continued on his way to the car. It wasn't anything ravishing or special, with rusted splodges of mud speckling the underbelly and a dim coating of silvery paint where a glossy, metallic sheen used to once glow. But, it was a car and that was exactly what the teen was looking for. He paused, contemplating his next move as his fingers brushed against the bitterly cold door; it had the consistency of ice, hard and glassy, almost mimicking a mirror even though it wasn't transparent. Staring back at himself through the grubby glass of the window was Alfred's own reflection, quivering every so often thanks to the chill in the air and the overall fear of his actions. Standing directly below a streetlight, he was in view of the whole neighbourhood. Not a good position for stealing a car.

Ah, but he wasn't stealing it. He was borrowing it. There was a difference between the two. Nonetheless, Alfred knew he had to alter his position, and after casting a wary glance down the road, he pressed the tip of his thumb onto the mechanic device that opened the doors. Sure enough, the headlights flashed briefly, and a high-pitched honking sound emanating from the vehicle itself signalled that the car was indeed open. The noise carried across the frost-bitten wind, its resonance bouncing down the little street and threatening to drag people from their beds. Alfred, cringing and gritting his teeth at the disturbance, gently clasped the door in his hand and pulled it open, praying that it wouldn't creak. Of course, that was stupid – for the month that he'd been with his grandparents, the car door to the driver's side had never creaked.

One thing that the American noticed as he swung himself into the body of the vehicle and softly closed the door behind him: I'm on the wrong side!? Unused to the accustoms of British driving, he eyed the numerous buttons and equipment in front of him with bemusement. Calm down. It's easy, see? Shoving the key into the ignition and turning it sharply until the engine shuddered to life with a garish groan, he sat back and followed the steps that he'd seen his own father go through. The car jolted forwards with a roar, forcing Alfred to slam his foot down on what he assumed to be the brake. Guessing correctly, he lurched forwards, barely avoiding hitting his forehead on the steering wheel. Right. Seatbelt. Clipping himself in before he flew forwards through the windscreen, Alfred exhaled deeply and started on his journey, the great metal death-trap pulling away from the pavement and jittering off into the night.

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Author's Note

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Here we meet Alfred's dear family, including his aunt Shirley, her husband Barry and his grandparents. Yup. They're all side characters that won't be mentioned much anyway, but I kinda wanted to give them some time to show their colours before they disappeared in the sweep of characters from boarding school.

Thank you to kyo-kun and bittersweet123 for reviewing, and all of those who decided to add this story to their alerts and favourites lists.

I just found out that "Jones" is a very Welsh surname…huh…I guess that Alfred's ancestors must be from Wales then. Hurhur. I'd say that his grandmother's heritage is mostly English, but his grandfather's family tree sprouts from some of the Celtic countries (I would add some Native American heritage, but that'd be a bit difficult unless he was the descendant of a slave)…oh well, it's not important.

Barry is probably one of the most creative Welsh names I have ever come up with. *heavy sarcasm*

Chapter word count: 14,981 words

Total word count (so far): 26,734 words

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Cast

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✯ Shirley Davies (née Jones) as Shirley Davies.
✯ Barry Davies as Barry Davies.
✯ Poppy Jones ("Gran") as Poppy Jones.
✯ Ramon Jones ("Gramps") as Ramon Jones.
✯ Maylene (née Jones – "Aunt May") as Maylene.

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Thanks for reading!

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