The desert was, in his opinion, the ugliest part of America.

Now, he knew about the diverse wildlife and the delicate ecosystem and how everything was held in check, in balance, like the feather that Egyptian god used to weigh the dead's souls and how messing up just one thing sent everything else spiraling downhill. He knew it was a part of his legacy, part of the Wild West. Cowboys roamed the desert, chasing dreams across the red sands. Ladies had haughtily stalked down the streets of little nowhere towns, skirts held up daintedly out of the dirt.

But the desert was dry and the desert was endless. It was repetition of a boring song, a mixing of reds and oranges so close to each other in shade that they were nearly the same color anyway. The desert was bright blue skies hanging over dull dead dirt with fading flora and hiding fauna. It was cacti struggling for life off an inch or so of rain, coyotes looking to make a living off the remains of those animals stupid enough to wander during the daytime.

Alfred shades his eyes with his hand as he looks up from trying to fix his engine. Heat waves up off the endless black road, mirages giving the illusion of a possibility of water. Arthur glances up at him from fiddling with the engine on the other side of the car, choppy blonde hair plastered to his forehead by sweat. "See something particularly interesting?" His voice is just another pressing thing in the already oppressive atmosphere. He feels almost bad for thinking that, but it's hot out and he hates the heat, so he can think things now that'll regret once he cools down.

"Naw, not really" Alfred mutters, turning his gaze back to their mess of a car. He pours more oil in, then motions for Arthur to try turning the car on again.

The car sputters, sounding like she wants to give out again as she rattles back to life. Alfred grins and whoops as he throws himself into the driver's seat. Arthur looks pleased as he buckles himself into shotgun next to him, dragging his hand across his forehead to trail along the shiny sweat. "Hotter than hell out there," he mumbles, staring out the window.

"Not accordin' ta Dante, it's not," Alfred quips as he eases his old girl back onto the pathetic strip of asphalt that qualified for a highway in this hell scape. He feels Arthur's inquisitive, burning gaze fixing on him, so he keeps staring straight ahead because he doesn't want to see the shock in those green eyes. "Hell was cold. Movement, now tha' there was life, so it made sense that those who had sinned badly enough , well, they're prevented from ever movin' again. Second death; that's what it was. Being pinned in the crushing ice for the rest of eternity."

He sees a flash of black in the sky, like maybe a bird is moving out there. But Alfred doubts that anything would be stupid enough to willing go and endure that heat. The only reason he and Arthur are all the way out here was because Arthur's never seen the Grand Canyon before, and he'd volunteered to take him before his mind could catch up to his mouth. He'd grabbed him from a World Conference and they'd zipped westward with Yao screaming at the back of his car that if he didn't get his ass back there right that moment he was going to cancel all trading contracts with him.

He'd ignored him. His boss wasn't happy, but at least he'd bought the excuse that Alfred was trying to improve foreign relations with the United Kingdom.

"I..." Arthur trails off, seemingly trying to find the right words. He goes silent, then continues, "I had no idea you even knew who Dante was."

Alfred snorts as he pressed gently on the gas pedal, urging his old girl to speeds well above the limits posted. No one drives these roads enough to care, and the faster he goes, the faster he leaves behind all this dry depression. "No need tah sound so surprised, Artie. I'm not stupid and I can read real good."

"You're slipping. Your accent. Sounds more Southern than Western, though."

"Aw, shucks, sometimes they blend together so they're all the same thing anyway." He's doing this on purpose. The Southern drawl really pisses off Arthur, and it's funny to watch him redden as he struggles to understand what Alfred's spewing on about this time. Arthur can get what he's talking about when he has his Western accent on, but the thickness and the slurs of the South just confuse him. "But yeah, Dante."

He hears Arthur shifting around in his seat uncomfortably. He knows in a moment Arthur's be propping his elbow on the dashboard, resting his head on his fist – he's so predictable, so easy to read and understand. "I like his Inferno best out of that trilogy."

"Me, I liked Paradiso most." Arthur snorts, a surprisingly inelegant thing for someone so graceful, and Alfred knows it's because Arthur is believing him to be shallow again, picking Heaven over Hell. "Naw, really! Inferno was too creepy, Purgatory too depressin'."

"Depressing," Arthur repeats. It's a statement when he says it – he hates asking questions; he prefers the sureness of facts over the uncertainty that a question brings.

He turns on the rattling AC to try and lower the temperature from unbearable to the point where it'll just boil their blood. "Well, lookit thisa way, Artie. Nothin'. That's what purgatory is – a whole lotta nothin', from now 'til forever. Rather have the hell scape or the eternal happiness with all my loved ones and whatnot rather than a whole lotta nothin'. Plus, yer neither good nor evil there, so what the hell are ya? Nothin'."

Arthur's messing with the window, rolling it down and back up with delicate flicks of his fingers pressing on the ancient controls. "You seem to like that word a lot right now?"

"Wha' now?"

"Nothing. You keep repeating it." Arthur sounds tired, sleepy. Makes sense, really. He usually starts the day with a cup of Earl Gray, but the hotel they stayed at didn't have any at the mediocre breakfast buffet and the glee Arthur takes in refusing to drink coffee borders on religious zealotry. Alfred's still riding the buzz of three cups with heavy cream and no sugar, so he'll putter along pretty well for a few more hours until he crashes – probably long enough to get them to where they're going, but if not, they don't have any real timeline for this trip so it's all good no matter what.

Alfred brushes his bangs out his face, squinting out into the bright light that's making the road dance a jig. The dry endless expanse of dreary dead dirt whizzes by lightning quick, but not fast enough to really escape it. "Purgatory – now, that'sa gotta be a desert right there," he says before he can stop himself.

Arthur shifts again. "Thought every inch of your land was, and I quote, 'far more gorgeous than England could ever hope to be'." He's being snippy, sarcastic, and that'll mean his eyes will be flashing with that green poison they only hold when he's busy being snarky.

"Sure it is. 'sept for the desert. Empty as hell and hotter than it." Arthur hums and falls silent, staring at the cacti whizzing by and the slow pace of dull lives march on. Alfred has no idea how close they are to the canyon, how far they still have to travel to get there, how long he has to stay in this endless desert, this purgatory.

He starts when Arthur mutters, "Thanks...for hauling me all the way out here, you arse. Even if you didn't ask my fucking permission before practically kidnapping me from the conference and I didn't get my damn tea this morning, this is...pretty nice." It's the most thanks he'll get from him, and the only reason he got in it in the first place is because Arthur's on the verge of falling asleep and leaving Alfred to face the drive all by his lonesome.

But it's good enough, and it's more thanks than Alfred's gotten from him in a long time. So he grins, taps his fingers on his steering wheel to the beat of a song he can't name and says, "No prob, partner."

Arthur drifts off soon after, quiet snores the soundtrack for the movie of their life – at least until Alfred leans over and jiggles the ancient radio to life. A Glee song starts to play – he's watched a few episodes of it so he could understand what people liked about it. He likes the music, even though the plot's too corny and cliché for him.

"Oh, there's nothing to lose and there's to prove, so I'll be dancing with myself." His fingers beat out the rhythm of the song, his voice picks out the lyrics, and he keeps heading for the horizon, trying to escape his personal purgatory with his Beatrice at his side.

Author's Note

Anyway, for those who didn't get the Beatrice comment at the end, Beatrice was Dante's (the author of the Divine Comedy) love of his life, the one who was waiting for him in Paradise. Yeah...subtle shipping of USUK there (I made a clever!). So, implied romance, though nothing serious 'cause I hate writing outright fluff.

I cannot really see Alfred loving his deserts as the other parts of his country. Too dry and lifeless. He seems like the type to need people around all the time.

And the Southern accent part - I have a British friend, and if there is one thing he hates in this life, it's Southern accents. He says he can't understand a word they're saying and the slurs are too thick. Don't mean to insult no one here; just repeating what he said.

Title's lame. Came from the song Dancing With Myself, sung by the character Artie in Season One. Really has no connection to the story as a whole. Yes, I watch Glee, but I think Rachel's an idiot and I really just like the music.