The two immortals ordered a couple of sandwiches from the shop. Billy insisted on ordering double what Machiavelli felt was necessary, citing his insatiable appetite. Machiavelli tried to get a soda, but the American sent him back with strict orders to get something healthier. This had only made the boy scowl to himself, but still the Italian was determined to prove that he wasn't grumpy all the time. He grabbed two apple juices instead.
In next to no time at all, they were off again, coasting through wooded areas and heading in an opposite direction from where they had come. For a while, Machiavelli had attempted to keep track of where they were going, but had eventually given it up as useless. Billy alone seemed to know where they were going. He turned into side roads and unmarked pathways seemingly without much thought.
Just as the Italian was about to ask him if they were ever going to stop, Billy turned the car off the road and slowed to a stop by an old railway. From the looks of the trestles, the railway had long been in disuse. Machiavelli was curious about the tracks which lead to a bridge over a narrow river, but Billy parked further down the way, under a tree. He pulled back the emergency brake and cut the engine. "Ready to eat, Niccolò?"
Machiavelli frowned at the use of his first name. He hadn't realized, the other day when he had his tantrum, how much he was going to dislike Billy calling him anything other than Mac. He decided to ignore the issue rather than address it. "Where are we?" the Italian asked looking around. He stood up in the car seat, looking around them. In front of them, an old railroad bridge stretched across the river. Behind them the road wound away from them. "How do you find these places?"
"I've had plenty of time to explore," Billy commented. He reached down to pop the hood of the trunk. "So have you. Don't you ever travel?"
Machiavelli stared out at the bridge. "Not really," he admitted, opening the door at last and exiting the car.
"Ah, well, we'll have to change that," Billy said, grabbing their bag of food. He paused with his hand on the trunk door. "Want anything else from the trunk?"
Machiavelli came around the back of the car. "A book. Can you read to me?" He didn't dare look at the American, fighting his own embarrassment, and instead stared at his boots. The tips of the boots were curling up a little. Idly, he wondered how old these boots really were as he moved closer to the trunk.
"Want me to read the auto mechanics book?" Billy asked cheekily, holding up the little book.
But Machiavelli had found the stack of books Billy had picked out. He thumbed through them. There was the Hughes poetry book, the Hobbit Billy had already mentioned, and then there was Sherlock Holmes, Howl's Moving Castle, and Tales of King Arthur. He paused on a book called Silent to the Bone, but it didn't sound very happy, so he put it back down. "This one," he said, holding up Howl's Moving Castle.
"Alright," Billy said, taking the book. "And you want me to read to you?" The Italian nodded. "Okay," the American murmured. He stuck the book in his armpit and grabbed a blanket from the back of the car. He jaunted over to the river side and spread the blanket on the ground with messy kicks. Billy flopped down on the ground with the easy grace that Machiavelli so loved and envied. "Come on, kid."
Machiavelli knelt next to him with much more care given to his movements. "Aren't you going to eat first?" he asked, watching the American thumb through the book.
"Nah," Billy replied. "I can eat in a little bit. I'll read for a couple of chapters. Then maybe you can read. We'll take turns." He glanced over at the Italian and flashed a grin. "Then we can both eat, see?"
"Alright," the Italian immortal said hesitantly. He unwrapped his sandwich and bit into it. A feeling of great pleasure spread over him as Billy began to read.
"In the land of Ingary, where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility still exist…"
~MB~
Machiavelli wasn't nearly as good at reading aloud as he thought he would be. Through most of his section, he stumbled over words and lost his spot. This embarrassed and annoyed him greatly, which caused him a great sense of suffering. This, in turn, only worsened his condition. Billy seemed unperturbed by it all, eating his BLT with a certain amount of gusto.
By the end of the chapter, the Italian was more than happy to hand the book back to him. "Sorry," he muttered, passing it over to the American.
Billy just raised a hand dismissively. "It's not a problem. You're just out of practice is all."
Maybe, Machiavelli thought idly, but Billy had a certain charm to his reading. The American was inexplicably good at reading in different voices and capturing the cadences of the language before him. There was an almost musical quality to the outlaw's voice as he read which made the teenager lean in slightly. He felt as if he was standing next to Sophie in the hat shop, watching the Witch of Waste enter, and so, he was slightly confused when Billy reminded him to eat his sandwich.
Once he started eating though, he found that he enjoyed his sandwich. He took one swig of the apple juice and put it back in the bag though, not caring much for it. This, he found slightly strange as he normally enjoyed the occasional apple. He chalked it up as another one of the strange side effects he had from being a teenager again.
After quite a few chapters, Billy put down the book. "Why are you stopping?" Machiavelli asked. The teenager was stretched out on the blanket. He turned his head to watch the outlaw as he got up.
"Ah, kid, we have to head back now. It's past four o'clock," Billy told him, showing him his watch.
"Do we have to?" Machiavelli whined.
"Why, kid, do you want to stay out here forever?" Billy chuckled, pulling the Italian into a sitting position. Yes, Machiavelli thought to himself. Billy continued, "We're farther away from the cabin than you think. And I have to pick something up for Scatty before we go back."
Machiavelli felt the familiar stabbing of jealousy in his stomach. "I guess so," he muttered unhappily. "But couldn't we read another chapter."
Billy squeezed his knee gently. "I'll read you a couple of chapters before you go to bed tonight, I promise. But we still have to get back to the cabin in time for dinner. It's not fair to make them wait for us." The outlaw straightened up again. "Come on kid. We don't have to do it all today."
The teenager gave up protesting and climbed to his feet without another word on the topic. As they gathered their possessions up, he slipped into an uneasy silence which persisted through the long car ride home. Billy tried to keep the conversation flowing, but it wasn't easy as Machiavelli slipped into one of his darker moods. In the end, the American immortal gave up conversation and let the boy stare out his window at the landscape in silence.
Machiavelli had almost forgotten about Billy and the thing he was getting for Scatty by the time they got back to town, which had been surprisingly farther away than he had realized. It was only when Billy pulled off by the general store that Machiavelli remembered it at all. His mood had been lightening in the past hour, now it returned in full force to its moody state.
Billy, for his part, didn't bother asking him if he wanted to go in the store or not. "Don't blow anything up, okay?" was all he had said, before disappearing in the store.
Machiavelli waved him off. The American came back a couple of minutes later with something in a large brown parcel. This, he carefully placed in the trunk of the car. They pulled out again, Billy smoothly backing his long car out of its spot and into the traffic.
Machiavelli rushed before Billy when they got back to the cabin. He set off at a quick clip towards the front door, not bothering to see if the American immortal needed help any of their bags. He entered quietly, taking in Nicholas and Scatty sitting side by side on the couch. He could hear Perenelle in the kitchen. The Italian had hoped to get by them without being seen, but had no such luck.
"Hey kid, want to tell us about your day?" Scatty called from the couch.
"Not particularly," Machiavelli mumbled back, casting a dark look at the Shadow. He went straight up the stairs
"Does he seem particularly hostile to me today?" Scatty whispered to the Flamels. The Frenchman gave her a sympathetic look and shrugged slightly, his wife just patted her shoulder.
Billy thumped in through the door. He gave the pair on the couch a wane grin. "I got that thing you asked for, Miss Scathach." He handed her the paper bag from the general store. "I also got a six pack of beer and a couple of bottles of wine for the Flamels for the party."
Scatty looked into the bag. "Thanks. I think he'll like this." She set the package aside, pushing it carefully out of sight under the coffee table. "Did you guys have a good day? The kid didn't really say anything about it."
"Yeah," Billy sighed. "It was good until the very end and then he got in one of his moods. Honestly, I didn't see it coming at all. But besides that, we had a good time, I think." He ruffled the back of his hair with his hand, uneasily pulling at the back strap of one of his boots with the other hand.
"The two of you will have to tell us about over dinner," Perenelle said, joining the conversation at last. She came in from the kitchen. "It's all ready now, by the way."
"I'll get him," Billy assured her. He scrambled to his feet and leaned against the stair banisters. "Dinner's ready now, Mac!" the American immortal called up the stairs.
Machiavelli peeped out of his door. "I'm not really that hungry, thanks." He closed it again. Billy looked rather surprised, but let it go, knowing by now not to push the teenager.
~MB~
Billy knocked at the Italian's bedroom door an hour later. The outlaw was rather surprised to be let in without much protest. He set one of the extra sandwiches down on the Italian's bedside table and looked at the Italian, who was laying on his back on the bed, not doing much of anything. "Is something wrong?" Billy asked carefully, leaning against the wall by Machiavelli's window. He looked out at the world as it began to darken.
"I hate being a kid," Machiavelli whispered tiredly. "Nobody respects you when you're a kid. They all think you're crazy."
"Nobody thinks you're crazy," Billy soothed. "It's just that sometimes you're a bit difficult to live with right now. And that makes things a bit tense around the cabin. But we all need to try a little harder. After all, we all want the same thing."
"Power?"
"Nah," the American sighed. He sat down on the edge of the Italian's bed. "As a very wise man once said- and I paraphrase- there is no difference between adults and children. We are only individual egos, crazy for love."
The teenager blinked at Billy. "Exactly how much of my stuff have you read?"
Billy shrugged. "Quite a bit. I like to know what I'm up against, so I read up on you before we went to Alcatraz and since then I've filled in a few of the cracks." He pulled the blankets up on the Italian. "You wrote quite a bit in your lifetime. Don't you write anymore?"
"Can't publish anything now," Machiavelli said simply. "Everyone thinks I'm dead."
"Come on, Mac- er, Niccolò," Billy replied. "There's millions of ways to get around that now. If you want to write, you should." That being said, the American immortal pulled the book from earlier out of his boot. "Want me to read to you more?"
The Italian nodded. "Isn't this a movie too?" he asked, snuggling down further into the blankets.
"I think so," Billy said absentmindedly. He thumbed through the book until he found the dog-eared page where they had left off earlier in the day. "We can watch it after we finish the book if you can behave in the next couple of days."
Machiavelli flinched just slightly. He felt a twist in his stomach entirely different from what he had felt just earlier that morning. "Never mind, Billy, I don't think I want to read any more right now."
Billy looked up startled. "You sure? Why?"
"I just don't want to," Machiavelli lied. He turned over in his bed so that his back was to the American.
"Hey," Billy said, reaching out to the Italian. His fingers brushed against Machiavelli's shoulder, but the Italian curled into himself, farther away from the outlaw. "I didn't mean that, kid. Let's read."
"I said I didn't want to!" Machiavelli said sharply. "Leave me alone," he begged.
"Alright," Billy said, getting up. "Things will be better tomorrow."
But Machiavelli, listening to the pounding of his heart, didn't believe him. His day, so full of happiness and brightness, had shriveled up in the past ten minutes. If this wonderful day had turned into something so bad, he had no hope for the next couple of days. Once he was sure his bedroom door had clicked shut, he turned over on his back and cried a little.
Outside, in the hallway, Billy leaned against the Italian's door. His enhanced hearing allowed him to hear the Italian crying, regardless of how soft the noise was. His hand tightened on the doorway, wanting to go in and comfort his littlest companion, but reason won out. Instead, he slid down and sat outside his bedroom until he heard the Italian's breathing even out and deepen. Tomorrow will have to be better, the outlaw reflected.