"Do you want me to read to you?" Machiavelli suggested a few hours later in their journey.
Billy looked over at him. "Doesn't reading in the car make you sick?" Machiavelli shook his head. "Oh, it always makes me carsick. But then again, usually when I'm not driving, it's Black Hawk so I guess we're already half way there. What are you going to read?"
Machiavelli twisted around in his seat and snagged a satchel off the back seat. Straining, he also grabbed the box of chocolates that Billy had bought him. He opened that box first, and took a bite from one of the chocolates. He made a face- cherry. He popped it in Billy's mouth. "Okay, let's see what's in here."
"You didn't pack these books?" Billy asked, grabbing another chocolate.
"Nicholas packed it for me. Books from the store." Machiavelli pulled out the first couple of books in the bag and looked at the spines. "There's the Hobbit, and then On the Road by Jack Kerouac, that's appropriate. Cannery Row, Lolita, To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies… how many books are in here?"
"Nick must have known we'd get bored. How about you read… Lord of the Flies. I haven't read that since it came out and that was," he drummed his fingers on the wheel, "1954."
"Well, I'll try to do it justice," Machiavelli said, cracking the spine of the novel. He looked down for a moment, kicking off his sneakers so that he could be comfortable. He used Billy's discarded jacket as a pillow and finally, began to read in accented English.
Machiavelli had forgotten how much he'd liked this book. The juxtaposition of civilization and wilderness, of humanity and hatred had enthralled him in the past, and it did again now. He barely noticed the minutes, then hours, slipping away as they coasted down the highway, Billy on his left.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, his reading became more frantic, Machiavelli racing against the clock. It was with some relief, mixed with candid appreciation, that he read the last few lines. "Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy." He looked over at Billy. "Great book," the Kid said. He pulled over to the side of the road.
"Are you making me drive again?" Niccolò asked fearfully.
Billy shook his head. "Just putting the top up. Temperature's only going to get colder. We're actually heading north right now."
"Yeah, about that," Machiavelli hedged, tossing the book onto the seat behind him. "Why are we heading north to get south?"
"It's a remote place to stay and it's free. Besides we're going to have to stop in Minnesota anyways, if we're going to ride that plane." Billy flashed a grin. "Want the blanket from the trunk? You always get colder than I do."
Machiavelli agreed. He tossed Billy his coat. "Put it on," he commanded.
The Kid saluted him, but he tucked the coat in his armpit. It wasn't until after he'd pulled the blanket out that he bundled into the jacket. He put the top up on the convertible, making sure it was in place before turning the ignition over again.
"How far are we from the house?" Machiavelli inquired, inspecting the pink streaked horizon. As they pulled back onto the interstate, the blue and pink mixed more to introduce purple into the air.
"About an hour away. You going to read some more?"
Machiavelli was already thumbing through the books. "Want me to?"
"Wasn't your voice getting tired before?" Billy asked, glancing over at him. "We can just talk. Do you miss the others?"
"Yeah," Machiavelli said, a bit uncomfortably. "I wonder what they're doing right now?"
"Mm, you could call them when we get there. I think right now we're probably driving through dead zones like crazy," Billy suggested. "I promised we'd keep in touch anyways, I was just too tired last night."
Niccolò nodded. They rode in relative quiet for a mile or two, both immortals seemingly absorbed by their own thoughts. The Italian broke the silence first. "Billy? You seem happy a lot. Do you ever get mad?"
"Of course I do. I got pretty mad at you that one time, didn't I?" Billy drawled. He handed Machiavelli a new CD to put in. Seeming to think about it a little more, he elaborated more. "I was angry a lot when I was a teenager, myself. Angrier than you've been and I behaved worse. It was something I had to work on."
Machiavelli nodded. "How'd you do that?" he asked, his natural curiosity causing him to almost interrogate the American.
Billy drummed his hands on the wheel. "Getting away from the outlaw life helped. You know, my stepfather didn't want anything to do with me, so I found a lot of my father figures in somewhat… sketchy places. One of them, John Tunstall, he was the first guy to give me an honest job. But he got shot and I swore that I'd get vengeance for him. But trying to do that, I lost a lot of friends. And I kept getting pulled further in."
Machiavelli was watching him. Billy flashed a smile at him, gentle, but strained. "Eventually, I realized I'd have to step away from it all."
The Italian was almost sorry that he asked. He glanced over when Billy groaned slightly under his breathe. "What's the matter?"
"My legs are just stiff, is all," the outlaw replied. "Happens when I drive a lot."
"Oh." Machiavelli turned a thought over in his head before he made the suggestion in his mind. "Want me to get behind the wheel again?"
Billy looked over at him in surprise. "Really? Do you want to?" He took the next exit, merging onto a bypass. "Well, we are on a bypass and close to the cabin. I could take over again," he suggested.
The gray eyed immortal was already regretting making his suggestion, but he nodded. Billy pulled the Thunderbird onto the shoulder and they commenced the complicated process of switching seats again. "You're going to have to show me how to do the thing again," Machiavelli said, refusing to look him in the eye.
Billy seemed unperturbed. He walked Machiavelli through the motions again, then settled back, pulling the red wool blanket over him. "Don't go to sleep," Niccolo warned him. "I need you watching me, otherwise I'm going to do something wrong."
"I wasn't planning on falling asleep," Billy replied, stretching his long legs out on the dashboard. "But you're going to be okay, anyways. There's nobody on the road right now. Now put on the gas, just slightly and we're going to go back on the road, so put on your directional." He leaned over the other immortal, hitting the switch for him. "Alright, you can turn it off."
Machiavelli tensed up. At 20 miles per hour, he felt like they were already tempting fate too much, so it was little comfort to him when the American immortal suggested he speed up. He pressed down on the gas only with the stipulation that Billy keep a hand on the wheel at all times. "Hey, this isn't so bad," he said excitedly. "I'm doing it."
"Yeah, you are!" Billy said happily. "Of course, we're still twenty miles below the speed limit and my arm's going numb, but I still think you're doing great."
"Do you think I should go faster?"
"Are you comfortable going faster? Cause it would be kind of nice to get to the cabin before tomorrow," Billy commented. "How about we get up to about 50 mph?" He patted Machiavelli on the back as the numbers on the speedometer lit up. "How are you doing?"
"Okay," the Italian stammered. He clung to the wheel. Billy tried to calm him down by massaging his neck, but the prolonged physical contact was actually more distracting to the Italian than comforting. He both hit the accelerator and swerved over the median line. The Kid released his neck and pulled the wheel back to the right. "Sorry! I can slow down."
"It's okay, sweetheart," Billy consoled him. "We're finally at the speed limit. Just relax."
Machiavelli decided to say something that he never thought he would say. "Just keep talking to me. Talk about anything."
"Hmm, do you think that the Flamels run out of things to say to each other? I mean how much time can you spend together before you stop having stories to tell each other? I'd like to always have a little mystery to my relationships. You can't know everything about a person," Billy babbled. He corrected Machiavelli's steering. "You're going to turn up there. What do you think?"
"What do I think about-?" He took his eyes off the road to look at Billy. The car drifted over to the side of the road and hit the rumble strips. "Sorry!"
Billy turned the wheel the other way. "Careful, the tires. You're going to turn right there before the bridge, here, slow down a little bit. I was asking what you think about couples that are together too long. Do you think people can be together too long? Merge here, you're doing fine."
Niccolo was relieved that there was nobody coming down the road. "I don't know," he said distractedly. "I mean, we've both lived a long time. We've done a lot of things. Maybe it's the same for the Flamels, maybe they've got a lot to talk about."
"Do you think we're going to run out of things to talk about?" Billy asked suddenly. "I'm not smart like you, Mac. What if all our whole relationship is based on you needing me cause you were little?"
Machiavelli kept quiet for a moment, thinking about what he wanted to say. "I still need you now, and I'm not little anymore, am I?" he reasoned. "I wouldn't trust anybody else to steer me straight in the dark, in a strange area, behind the wheel of a very important car. Just you." He turned down several other roads, following Billy's quiet directions. Finally, the American immortal directed him to a stop before a nondescript house in the suburbs of what looked to be a very small town.
"Here we are," Billy said. He tousled Machiavelli's hair. "Thanks for driving us. You did a great job." He got a shy smile in return.
"Sorry it took so much longer."
Billy shushed him, putting up a hand in protest. "I liked the ride," he said simply, throwing the blanket off as he ducked out of the car. He folded it messily and called for Machiavelli to pop the trunk. There, he exchanged the blanket for their two suitcases. "There is one problem," he told the Italian as they walked up the darkened walkway to the front door.
Machiavelli used a small amount of his aura to light up the front porch as Billy took out a key ring with what looked like two dozen rings on it. "What?" he asked wearily as the Kid sorted through the keys.
Billy finally found the right one and fit it into the lock. "Well, with the cabin, I knew we were staying there for a week, so I turned on all the utilities again. But it seemed kind of pointless since we're just staying here for two days.
"So we have no electricity? Or water?" Machiavelli asked incredulously.
"We have water," Billy said dismissively. "There's a well in the back that works. And we can use our auras to light up the place. Let's order Chinese and we can watch something on my laptop."
"Okay," Machiavelli said, sounding very tired. The past couple of days on the road had taken a toll on both of them. "Where's my bedroom?"
Billy led him through the living room and down a hall. "This is the bathroom," he indicated, pointing to the first door on the left. "Let's see. This has always been my room, so we'll put you in here," he decided, opening the door at the end of the hall. They stepped in. There were a couple of bunk beds against the wall and an armchair in the corner. "Sorry. It's a really small house."
"I like it," Machiavelli said, setting his suitcase down. "But why the bunk beds?"
"I sometimes rent out my properties to earn a little cash. I think the last people to live here had a little boy."
Niccolò nodded. He'd wondered how Billy had supported himself. It didn't seem like the Kid had kept a regular job except for doing the occasional task for his master and even then, Machiavelli doubted that Quetzalcoatl had provided for him. "I'm just going to change into pajamas," he told the other immortal.
"Okay. I'm going to order food now. What do you want? Anything special?" He turned and waited in the doorway, his hand on the knob.
"I've never had Chinese food, at least not American Chinese food," Machiavelli said, ignoring Billy's dramatic gasp. He pulled a pair of sweatpants out of his case and wrestled with a long sleeve tee. "So just get whatever you think is good," he added, pulling down the shade in his window so that he could get undressed.
"I like spicy food, how about you?" Billy said, snagging the Italian's phone to look up restaurants in town.
"Until recently, everything had to be spicy so that I could taste it. That seems to have fixed itself so I'm fine with anything. Hit me with your best shot." He struggled into his sweatpants.
Billy nodded, dialing a number in his phone. Wandering into the other room, he could be heard ordering pork fried rice, chicken and beef teriyaki, boneless spare ribs, and an order of General Tso's chicken. "What are we going to watch?" he called through his door after he had hung up.
Machiavelli was already looking through the American's movies. He didn't really recognize any of the titles, never having watched a lot of TV before meeting the American immortal. He set aside Ghost, Schindler's List, and Shawshank Redemption. Coming up behind him, Billy added Field of Dreams, We are Marshall, and the Godfather. "We're not going to agree on a movie, are we?" Machiavelli asked as the American immortal not so subtly put away Schindler's List.
"Well, let's make it simple. Let's put back any movies that make us want to slit our wrists," Billy suggested. "Why don't we make a night of it? We can watch one of your movies, one of mine, and go from there." The doorbell rang. "There's dinner. Pick any of yours. I like them all."