Two

Alfred had seen his Pa angry before. But he'd never seen him this angry. His eyes were icy blue slits and his nostrils flared as he continued to shout over Alfred's protests, spittle flying from his mouth and veins on his neck bulging from the effort. They'd been arguing for nearly ten minutes and though Beth had tried calming Archer down, Alfred's incessant retorts had unhelpfully added fuel to his anger. Beth didn't know how the argument had escalated into a shouting match, but one of them must have said something that set the other off. Once Archer's carefully composed calm broke, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. Alfred, likewise, had reached his bursting point a moment ago and was matching his father, shout for shout.

Beth stood by, helplessly wringing her hands. She would have broken up the fight but she knew it wasn't her place to interrupt. The two had to work it out on their own or wait until one backed down. She was just thankful they hadn't started throwing punches. She didn't much fancy cleaning up bloody carpets.

In the end, Archer ordered Alfred to go to his room and stay there until he'd rid his head of ridiculous notions. Incensed at being treated like a child, Alfred opened his mouth to deliver a galling reply, but Beth caught his eye and silently pleaded for him to let it be. He snapped his mouth close, teeth clacking painfully, and shot his Pa another furious look before marching up the stairs, muttering things under his breath that the two could hear perfectly well. "..ma would've let me go…"

Archer fell to his chair in a defeated slump, wiping the spittle from the corners of his mouth with a grimace. Beth silently watched him, waiting for the sign that it was okay to approach. When Archer glanced at her and quickly looked away to rub at his neck like a guilty boy, she went to sit on the chair's armrest and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"Archer Ryland Jones," she said in a low voice. "Your boy finally wants somethin' for 'imself and you're keeping him from getting it."

The man in question sighed noisily.

"They all have to leave the nest someday, sugar, but that don't mean they're abandoning you forever."

"Tch. That isn't it…"

"Then what is it? 'Cause let me tell you, darling, all you done so far is convince us that you don't want him leavin' just 'cause you'll be a hand short."

Archer sighed again. "I just don't want him to—" he paused, seeming to find it difficult to speak. "He's in over his head," he eventually said, shaking his head. "I've seen him…when he started high school, he tried out for football. He was so excited. Kept skipping around like he's got wings attached to them shoes. Drove his ma an' me insane for a whole week, blabbing on about football this, football that. And when the list got posted, he weren't there…I never seen anyone cry so much for a dang football jacket." Archer attempted a laugh but it came out a little strangled. "That boy, he don't take failure well. And I don't want to see him fail again if I can help it…It'll just about break his heart."

Beth took Archer by the chin and lifted his gaze to meet hers. "Honey, he'll have failed before he even tries if you keep him locked up in here. Al really wants this and he'll work hard for it and I'm telling you he's gon' succeed. Ain't that the Jones way?" She pecked Archer on the nose with a gentle smile on her face. "Besides, he's as stubborn as a mule…much like you. There ain't no way whatever you say will stop him anyway. Might as well accept defeat gracefully now, while you still can."

.

.

.

Two days passed with not a word exchanged between father and son. Archer took to cooping himself up in his den after he finished working outside to avoid his son and Alfred hid himself away in his tree house to avoid his Pa. Meals became an uncomfortably quiet affair, in which father and son exchanged only stiff pleasantries when initiated by Beth. As the week wore on, the atmosphere in the house became more stifling and by the end of it, everyone was fed up with the row.

Alfred was returning home from gallivanting in town when his father confronted him in the living room. The stood facing each other with an uncomfortable silence straining between them until Archer spoke up. "Look, son," he began, shuffling closer. He tilted his head, sniffed the air, and promptly scowled. "Where've you been?" he asked, face morphing from contrite to suspicious within seconds.

"Town," Alfred replied, clearing his throat as he shifted his stance.

"Have you been drinking?" Archer asked, raising his voice.

Alfred averted his gaze and shuffled his feet.

Archer took a moment to compose himself, inhaled deeply, and muttered, "Go to your room."

"But—"

"Go to your room now."

Alfred glanced at his Pa's face, turned away, and fled. He passed Leanne's room on the way, thought about going in and confiding in her, but paused and hovered outside her door instead when he heard her talking to someone else.

"—I just wanta get out. The house feels so weird now ever since their stupid fight. Even Beth's getting fidgety…yeah, I know, I know. I wish I hadn't told 'im 'bout it. Now he's got all these wonky notions in his head and—well, yeah, but—" she laughed "—Christ, shut up. I thought he was cute, y'know, and besides, I was just jokin'. I had to distract 'im and keep 'im from ratting me out! But he took me seriously, and—" she laughed again, "Shut up, you. Be serious now. Who in their right mind would believe that load of bull? He's not a model. He's just a farm boy from Tennessee and that's all he's ever gonna be."

Alfred backed away from the door, ashen-faced. Leanne must have heard him because she appeared in front of the doorway a moment later and saw him just as he was turning the corner to his room.

"Shit! He heard us," she whispered frantically. Her friend's warbling voice responded from the phone in her hand. "No, sweetie. He heard you."

.

.

.

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system. Or maybe it was the quiet rage simmering under his skin. Whatever it was, it made Alfred do a terribly reckless thing.

He missed breakfast—Beth's special Sunday breakfast of fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, succulent ham, perfectly golden hash browns, and her special breakfast coleslaw. He also missed that morning's episode of Superboy. If the first thing hadn't clued Beth in that something was amiss, the second one certainly did. Alfred never missed new episodes of Superboy.

Beth put down the plate she was washing and dried her hands on a towel, before pulling off her apron and hanging it on its hook. She peeked in the living room to make sure Alfred hadn't sneaked in while she wasn't looking, and sure enough, it was empty. The sinking feeling in her gut didn't dissipate as she climbed the steps up to check Alfred's bedroom. She pushed open his door, breath catching in her throat when she saw he wasn't there either.

She calmed herself down by taking deep breaths. Surely, he wasn't as stupid as to do what she thinks he's done. No, Alfred wasn't that stupid. He was probably hiding away in his tree house. Or maybe he was out riding. Or—Beth stepped into the room and looked around, not sure what she was searching for until she saw the note tacked to the headboard of Alfred's bed. She read it quickly, cursing when her suspicions were proven correct. She hastily snatched the note before scurrying down the stairs to find Archer.

.

.

.

Alfred was roughly jerked from his sleep when the bus conductor hit him upside the head. He uttered a stifled protest and rubbed his head as he blearily looked up at the portly man. "Wha's goin' on?" he mumbled, wiping the crust from his eyes.

"We've reached the city. You gotta get off, sonny."

Alfred pulled himself to his feet with a wide yawn, grabbed his duffel bag, and jumped off the bus just as the driver floored the accelerator. "Fucking hell!" he cursed, quickly hopping onto the sidewalk. Nearby pedestrians shot him alarmed looks, so he quickly turned the other direction and marched away—with absolutely no idea where he was going. He fished his pocket for the ad he'd printed out that contained the address of the modeling audition and began his search.

Although his Pa had occasionally taken him to cities near their farm, they'd never had time to go sightseeing. As Alfred wandered around the city, he took in as much as he could, eyes shiny with awe and lips split in a wide grin. Standing in the middle of a crowd of pedestrians in a busy intersection, he began to realize just how small his hometown was, how small everything about his old life was, when put in perspective. Leanne had been right. But thinking about Leanne still stung so he banished the thought and kept on walking.

He saw the Parthenon in Centennial Park, gaping when he got close enough to grasp just how big it was. He also saw the outside of the Bridgestone Stadium, unable to move as he silently stared at its gleaming glass armor. Then he went to see other nearby landmarks, postponing his search for the audition venue in favor of making the most of his visit.

When he finally saw enough, he wandered through the business district and resumed his search.

He searched and searched to no avail.

It dawned on him, four hours later, that maybe coming to Nashville out of drunken impulse and with no game plan was a bad idea. He had no money after spending his entire savings on the bus fare, so he couldn't go back or even phone home. He also had no money for food, his grumbling stomach reminded him. With a weary sigh, Alfred plopped down on the nearby bench to rest his feet and think things through.

That was when the gravity of the situation crashed on him. He couldn't go home. He was stuck in the city unless he decided to walk the 300-odd miles home. He couldn't contact his family to come get him. Even if he did find a pay phone, he had nothing to pay it with. He had nowhere to spend the night. He had no food. He had nothing except the things in his duffel bag, which, as far as survival went, were little more than useless to him. So unless he whored himself out for the night—

Alfred got up, swiveling his head to and fro in a panic. Sitting down and "thinking things through" was a terrible idea, so he started walking again, determined not to think about his hopeless situation. Maybe if he found the audition place they could help him out. Or something.

It took Alfred another two hours to find the three-story building where the audition was being held. He went in, wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve, and was welcomed by a comely young woman sitting behind a desk. She looked him over, quirking an eyebrow, before gesturing at the sign-up sheet. Alfred hastily filled it up before being pointed toward the waiting area. He swallowed when he felt nearly all eyes zero in on him the second he entered. Then he took the only open seat available and tried to blend in with the chair.

You really should not have come here, whispered a malicious voice in the back of his head.

"You shouldn't do that, y'know," a low voice chided.

Alfred turned his head and faced a dark-skinned man with glittering eyes and a kind smile. "Shouldn't do what?"

"Try to blend in with your chair," the man said, as though he had sensed Alfred's intentions. "You want to stand out, y'know. Or you won't have a chance. See how everyone else is?" Alfred followed the man's gaze as he explained. "They all look confident and relaxed. And their haircut and clothes are emphasizing their good attributes. Like that one there with the really short hair. See how it defines his cheek bones? That one there with the brown shirt. See how it brings out the color of his eyes? And that one there with the muscle shirt. Damn, I wish I were that fit." The stranger gave Alfred a sidelong glance and said, "So? What have you got?"

Alfred looked endearingly confused. "I actually…I don't know," he answered honestly, eyes downcast. He thought, not for the first time, that he was completely in over his head. He was probably better off taking care of the farm for the rest of his life. At least there he knew he had a purpose. What was he doing here? Who was he trying to fool? He didn't belong here, in this room of pretty boys and Adonis incarnations. He was just Alfred. Just Alfred.

The stranger stood up gracefully and pointed toward the hallway. "Bathroom."

"Huh?"

"Come on." Without waiting for a reply, the stranger walked off.

Alfred hastily grabbed his duffel bag before loping after the stranger, eyeing the back of his close-shaved head uncertainly.

Once they got to the bathroom, the dark-skinned man sank his beautifully manicured hands on Alfred's shoulders and turned him to and fro, narrowing his eyes calculatingly. Alfred mutely allowed him to do as he pleased though he very badly wanted to blurt out the question: what the hell are you doing?

"Hm. I think I can work with this. Take off your shirt."

Alfred jumped back at that, shooting the stranger an incredulous look as he shielded himself with his duffel bag. "Dude, I'm not like that," he declared.

"Oh, for pete's sake. I didn't mean it that way. You're not even my type. Just take off the shirt. C'mon. Hurry up. We haven't got much time. They're going to start any minute now."

Eyeing the stranger dubiously, and slightly miffed at the 'not my type' comment, Alfred dropped his duffel bag and quickly unbuttoned his flannel shirt.

"Off with the undershirt too, please."

Alfred rolled his eyes good-naturedly but obeyed. "Now what?" he asked afterwards, self-consciously clutching his elbow with the opposite hand.

The stranger raised an eyebrow and wolf-whistled as he let his gaze roam Alfred's torso. "You're pretty fit. How old are you?"

Alfred blushed at the compliment and murmured, "Eighteen in four days."

With a nod, the stranger pointed at Alfred's clothes and said, "Now, do you have anything in your bag other than flannel shirts? A plain white shirt will do."

"Yeah, but—"

"Put it on."

"Wha—"

"Just do it."

Looking harassed, Alfred quickly pulled on a white shirt that the stranger assured him looked much better than the hideous plaid shirt he'd been wearing.

"Now, your hair." The stranger turned on the tap and made Alfred dunk his head under the water. Then he whipped up a comb from his pocket and combed back Alfred's thick blonde hair. Eyeing Alfred with a smug grin, he gestured at the mirror. "See what a little makeover can do to you?" As Alfred turned to look, the stranger added, "You don't need much to look good, y'know."

Embarrassed, Alfred only nodded and flashed the stranger a grateful smile.

"Well, come one then," the stranger said, briskly making his way to the door. "We're probably late!"

"W-wait!" Alfred stumbled to a stop behind the stranger. "I don't even know your name."

The stranger smiled and held out a hand. "Morgan."

Alfred beamed in return and firmly shook Morgan's hand. "Alfred."

.

.

.

When the preliminary screening ended, everyone was sent home with the hopes of being called back for the last judging. "We will contact you as soon as the results are available. Thank you for your time, gentlemen," the receptionist announced.

Alfred hovered in the doorway as he waited for Morgan. His newfound friend had offered him a place to stay the night after finding out about his living arrangements, or lack thereof. But Morgan said he had something to do before he could leave, so Alfred reassured him that he could wait. When Morgan came out, Alfred waved his hand to catch his attention and they descended the steps together. "I really can't thank you enough for this."

"Oh, don't thank me yet. You haven't met your roommates."

"My roommates?"

"Yeah. Can't really afford to room alone in big cities like this, y'know. But don't worry. They're good guys."

Alfred nodded. "Do you live with them?"

Morgan smiled. "I live with my lover."

"Oh." Alfred wanted to ask more but he Morgan's faraway look told him the other would rather keep the companionable silence so he kept quiet.

When they finally reached the apartment building, Morgan took Alfred up to the third floor and introduced him to his roommates. Alfred was tired so he said hello to all of them, said goodbye to Morgan, and retired to the bedroom, where he shed his clothes, threw himself down on the comfortable-looking bed, and promptly fell asleep.

.

.

.

"Well, Morgan? Found any favorites?"

"Oh, yes. His name's Alfred. I think he might be the last one on that list there."

"Why him?"

"Oh, y'know. He's got potential. And he's malleable."

.

.

.

It was warm, Alfred's sleep-addled mind complained. Too warm. With a huff, Alfred kicked off the covers and turned on his side, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt cool air caressing his sweaty skin. The room must be air-conditioned, his mind supplied. He hummed in contentment and almost lost himself to sleep again but the arm wrapped around his waist tightened and the body attached to it shivered against the sudden cold.

Alfred froze, all thoughts of sleep disappearing from his mind. All he could think of was that there was a hand rubbing his hip and someone was breathing down his neck and dear God he hoped whatever was poking his ass was not what he thought it was.

"Fuck, yeah, that feels so good," a husky, low, and distinctly male voice murmured against his nape.

With an undignified screech, Alfred shot up in bed and shoved the other guy away. His momentum pushed him in the opposite direction and he found himself tumbling off the edge of the bed. But instead of the cold, hard floor that he expected, he landed on something fleshy and warm that gave a pained grunt when they collided.

"Holy shit!" Alfred shouted, jumping up and stepping on someone else's hand in the process.

"Ow! Get the fuck off!"

"Christ!"

"You're on my hair!"

"Sorry!"

Voices simultaneously erupted across the room, shouting for them to keep it down, protesting against being woken up, muttering profanities, and complaining about it being too damn early for this. Alfred heard shuffling about, covers being thrown, bodies moving, the soft patter of feet, and then the lights were on. He looked around in confusion and five pairs of eyes stared back at him.

.

.

.

After Alfred was reintroduced to his new house mates and everything was cleared up about Dave's embarrassing morning episode, they all filed out of the room, some heading for the mini-kitchen and others racing to the bathroom.

Alfred followed George and Austin to the kitchen, trying not to seem perturbed by their lack of clothes. All the guys were in various states of undress. Alfred figured he'd just have to get used to it.

Austin, a handsome Texan with features and mannerisms that made him look a bit like a choirboy ("I did sing in the choir when I was in high school, thanks"), asked Alfred what he wanted for breakfast.

Alfred remembered that he'd eaten nothing the day before and replied, "Anything that's eatable."

"Alrighty. Chili it is."

George, the tall, dark-haired guy that Alfred had landed on, made a mock retching face behind Austin's back. Alfred stifled a chuckle, snapping to attention when Austin turned around and waved a ladle in his face. "Ignore him. Ol' Georgie over there's jus' jealous 'cause no one liked the clam chowder his momma sent." Austin glanced over his shoulder at George and flashed him a freckled smile. "Ain't that right, Georgie?"

With a snort, George crossed his arms and surreptitiously rolled his eyes. "Hurry up. The newbie's hungry. I can hear his stomach all the way over here."

Austin poked George in the stomach and nodded toward the bathroom. "Go make sure they haven't killed each other tripping over the mirror." George gave a brief nod and left, leaving Austin and Alfred alone.

Austin quickly engaged Alfred in conversation and Alfred was slightly surprised at how easily he shared his life story with Austin. In the end, he decided that it wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it felt a bit liberating. Austin, in turn, told him about his home life—of absentee parents, a pet dog named Lucy, an obsession with horror movies, and the restaurant where he worked before he was spotted by a modeling agent. They talked about inane things too and by the time the others got back, they were sitting comfortably in the living room with a bowl of chili, laughing over Superboy reruns.

"You two sure look cozy," Dave commented as he came in with Brandon, Eugene, and George in tow. He snatched the bowl from Austin's lap and squeezed himself between the two, earning an exasperated sigh from George. The others quickly took their seats around the worn out couch and then Alfred's interrogation began.

Overall, they were only a bit surprised to learn that Alfred was a complete newbie. "It's the way you smell, man," Dave said, leaning in to sniff Alfred. Before Alfred could do anything, George pulled Dave away by the scruff of his neck, saying, "Stop harassing the kid. I think you've scarred him enough." Brandon laughed at the reminder of the morning fiasco, while Eugene—the guy whose hair Alfred had stepped on—muttered something under his breath and sniffed haughtily.

They were in the middle of a heated debate over which superhero movie to watch when someone's phone rang. It was Eugene's, reminding him that he had a commercial shoot at ten. He got up and left a few minutes later.

The group decided to forego the movie and continued asking Alfred questions instead. Alfred escaped to the bathroom during a lull in the conversation and came back in a fresh change of clothes. Everyone but Austin had disappeared off to somewhere. Alfred ran a hand through his damp hair as he watched Austin talk to someone over the phone. He looked awfully happy. Alfred approached him when he finally hung up and smiled good-naturedly. "Wha's goin' on?"

Austin grinned and said, "We got a callback."

"What?"

"We got a callback! You an' me! So hurry up and grab your jacket. Morgan said he's coming by to pick us up in ten minutes!"

"Okay, okay," Alfred laughed, feeling giddy at the news. He'd been accepted! Or at least he was halfway there. "Do I need ta bring anythin' other than my jacket?"

"Nope. Jus' yourself."

.

.

.

The next few days passed in a flurry of activity. Austin and Alfred were taken to a studio for several trial photoshoots and by the end of the week, Alfred had become a tad addicted to the camera. He'd been a self-conscious at first, as expected, but a few shots in he revealed a natural ease in front of the camera that made the photographer positively ecstatic.

Outside the studio, he was still the painfully awkward teenager that hung around Austin and his friends, but on set, he befriended the photographer, charmed the crew, and wove a romance with the camera. It became obvious to everyone fairly quickly that Alfred F. Jones loved the camera and the camera loved Alfred F. Jones.

With Austin's help, Alfred auditioned for small-time ads within the area while they waited for the final results from the casting director. Alfred thought they were taking an awfully long time deciding on a model for such a simple campaign but Austin told him that the casting call had been odd from the beginning and that was why everyone was so eager to be chosen. "They think it's part of a bigger thing. And if it is, it could be one lucky fella's big break."

.

.

.

Austin and the guys had taken Alfred out for a drink on his eighteenth birthday. They'd all cleared their schedules so they could get themselves and Alfred thoroughly pissed and not care about the ensuing morning hangover. They stayed true to their word, and before midnight, Alfred was drunker than a skunk and his roommates weren't in much better shape. Brandon and George may or may not have embarrassed themselves trying to sing karaoke, Eugene may or may not have entertained them by trying to flirt with the barkeeper and failing spectacularly, he may or may not have shared a kiss with Austin, and Dave may or may not have groped him under the table, but for all its absolute ridiculousness, Alfred knew he'd never enjoyed himself as much as he had that night.

After the bar owner finally kicked them out, they'd stumbled home and collapsed on top of each other in their cramped room. When they woke up, they were a messy tangle of limbs, smelling like beer and morning breath. They cleaned up and crashed on the couch, nursing their respective hangovers.

Morgan came by and dropped off his birthday present: a cellphone ("You can't always be with Austin, y'know"). It was a simple model but Alfred had treasured it nonetheless.

(He once considered calling home with it, but the thought of having to talk to Leanne, or worse yet, his father, made him ill. He couldn't face them. Not yet. So he made sure to use the phone only when he really needed to—and by that, it means he used it whenever he needed Austin or George to find him when he got lost wandering around the city.)

.

.

.

It was the end of the week—only one week since he'd arrived in Nashville and met his roommates but it already felt as though he'd known them for far longer. Alfred was lazily sprawled across the couch with his head on Austin's lap when it rang. The phone was lying on top of the coffee table, vibrating self-importantly. Alfred quirked an eyebrow at Austin, who shrugged.

"Maybe Dave finally managed to get George to give up your number. It's probably a prank call."

Curious, Alfred picked up the phone and looked at it. It read: Unregistered Caller. Even more curious now, Alfred answered the call and turned the speaker on.

"Hello. Mister Alfred Jones?"

Alfred and Austin shared a glance. "This is, uh, Mister Alfred F. Jones speaking. How can I help you?"

There was a moment of silence before the caller's voice came through. "Congratulations, Mister Alfred Jones. You've been chosen to represent our spring fragrance campaign. We will forward you your airline tickets and travel itinerary within the next three days. Please report to our headquarters in New York at the appointed date. Thank you and have a nice day."

tbc

(A/N: Next chapter, Alfred runs into a familiar face and the super secret international supermodel competition conspiracy is uncovered in NY.)

Midnight Run inthe Rain:

I hope I don't disappoint!

RealityDreamsii:

I thought about that…And that was how this baby was born.

xXBlackPhantomXx:

*pulls you up* No need to beg, luv. I don't plan on abandoning this. Make sure you get some sleep!

Teenage Mouse:

I have to tell you that your question really made me think and pause, which is what made writing this a wee bit more difficult. I hope this chapter sort of answers your question... I'm glad you like him and thank you for your thought-provoking review!

Dolce Latte van Creme:

Thank you very much.

Symphonyk:

Nope, not Arthur. It was just some random bloke... *averts eyes, whistling*

XxTenshIxX97:

I hope this was worth the wait!

hexa:

I'm very glad you're enjoying it.

RainingPaperButterflies:

I was actually really nervous about posting it up. I thought three OCs were a bit much for the first chapter and then I started worrying about the plot being too predictable and…well, I'm glad that you liked it.

NG:

First of all, I want to apologize for the inaccuracies of my depiction of Southerners. I've never been down South before, and everything I know are based on stereotypes and whatever I can dig up on the internet. That aside, I'm glad to hear you're enjoying it so far. And as soon as the internationals start, the OCs will disappear, promise. Well, except Austin. I kinda need him for something.