~ Their Third Bikes ~

So much had happened this year. A lifetime's worth of worries and frustration, all crammed into twelve months. Arthur was exhausted and on edge all at the same time, and his mother just chalked it up to him being a teenager now.

And that was infuriating all on its own. To have people betraying him left, right and centre, and then being told they weren't doing anything wrong, it was just him being emotional. He could barely stand it. And yet the more he protested that it wasn't all down to his adolescence, that he really was hurt, the more people just rolled their eyes at him, and chuckled knowingly. Eventually, he just stopped talking.

He couldn't even remember what had come first, he was so disorientated and stressed. Was it Alfred abandoning him for Ivan, or had it been his mother's new fiancé? It had been so long since it all started – almost a full year. It was the start of summer once again, and the past school year (now over, thank God) had been the worst months of his life – bad enough to rival what he could remember of the war back in England.

It all started back in September. When school began again, it was clear that a lot of children had been listening to their parents talk about the "communists." (Although some children still insisted it was pronounced "commonists.") Maybe they hadn't even been listening to the grown-ups – they'd just heard things around the house all summer, and it sank in the way adult things sometimes do. Like last year when Ludwig kept hearing his older brother, Gilbert, talking about all the teenagers in high school racing for "pinks," and it became a fad at the local elementary to punch somebody's pinkie if they lost a game on the playground.

Now the big news on the playground was "communists". Apparently, America had an evil enemy, and anyone could be a hero if you just told your parents or a police officer that you knew a Russian person. Because, as far as the children at school understood it, a communist was a Russian person who was either living in America, or who worked with missiles back in Russia.

Whatever the case, there was a Russian boy at school named Ivan, so he stood no chance this year. Even though he'd been fairly popular before because he was big and strong, and had a funny accent and weird sisters. This year he was cast out without a shred of remorse. Nobody even knew why it had to be done, they just knew they weren't supposed to talk to him, and that they were even allowed to be mean if they felt like picking on someone.

Arthur didn't fall for any of it. Even though he still wasn't entirely what was going on with the whole "communist" business, he was pretty sure Ivan wasn't a bad person.

At least, that was until he stole Alfred…

You'd think that for his crippling obsession with heroes, and grand plans of being famous for "something heroic" one day, Alfred would have been the first one to turn on Ivan. You could be an American hero simply for something as easy as 'not being friends with a Russian person.' Everything Alfred had ever wanted was practically being handed to him on a plate.

And he had to go knocking the plate flying in his innocent rush to do the right thing.

Arthur knew Alfred was a good person. Fundamentally, intrinsically, deep down in his soul, Alfred was the best of the best. He was only twelve, and most kids weren't really evil at that point in time, like most parents and teachers and neighbours were. But still, it was obvious that Alfred was just a cut above "decent," for which most people settled. He was pure "good," and whenever the opportunity came to show that, he shone.

Which apparently meant that he had to ditch Arthur and spend an entire year with Ivan.

Arthur knew that being friends with Ivan was a brave and honest move, and he didn't blame Alfred for doing a good deed. But abandoning Arthur in the process? He would have understood if Alfred politely let Ivan join them in reading comics, drawing, playing sports, riding bikes, and so on. It could still have been the two of them, with Ivan tagging along because they felt sorry for him. But that's not how it was. Alfred just left him. He chose Ivan over Arthur, and never looked back. It wasn't because he felt sorry for Ivan: he just plain liked him better.

And that made Ivan a bad person in Arthur's books. Obviously he'd tricked Alfred into liking him more! Alfred was a good boy, he wouldn't drop Arthur just like that! It was too mean! Ivan had to be manipulating Alfred in some way, controlling his brain! Maybe…

Maybe he really was an evil communist! Pretending to be a normal kid, but secretly his family was helping their country destroy America from the inside! Starting with Alfred, the nicest person in the country!

It was the only explanation, so Arthur spent the entire month of October leading the snubbing of the Braginski family – turning a blind eye to the disappointed looks Alfred sent him across the school yard, because obviously the boy had been corrupted and didn't know any better.

Arthur would have kept it up as long as possible, until he found a way to save Alfred from Russian mind control. But after several stern 'talking-to's from his mother, teacher, vice-principal, the principal, and the librarian, he had to admit to himself…he knew Ivan wasn't a communist and that Alfred wasn't corrupted. He knew that.

Arthur was just a lousy human being and Alfred didn't want to be his friend anymore. It wasn't right to take it out on Ivan. It was all his own fault.

So that was the first two months of the year. Losing his best friend, turning on a perfectly nice family out of spite, and then coming to terms with the fact that he was a bad person and nobody could ever like him.

It was at this point that his mother brought home a man she'd been keeping secret for a year, and encouraged the three of them to act like a fake family. Because Arthur wasn't good enough for her, either – she needed someone else, too.

Eight long months passed. Arthur grew a bit taller, but was still one of the shortest in his class. So that was great. His fourteen-year-old classmates suddenly decided that appearance was absolutely the only thing that mattered about a person, which put Arthur at a disadvantage with his thick, dark eyebrows, scruffy scarecrow hair and gangly limbs. And if you didn't get a big allowance to buy new clothes or magazines or records then nobody had anything to say to you. So Arthur found himself being quiet a lot these days. The one relief he had was that he didn't feel bad about being poorer than the other students. He didn't blame his mum for the fact that they didn't have a lot of money: she'd been through a lot, and was a single mother, after all.

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise when she told him that she wouldn't be anymore.

"David" (or Mr. Holloway, as Arthur insisted on calling him) had the gall to decide he was going to marry his mother, and call himself his new father.

Everything about it…Everything about everything made Arthur sick.

So, naturally, he decided to run away.

And he'd do it on his mother and Mr. Holloway's fake wedding day (it couldn't be real because she was already married!), just to make them feel as betrayed as he'd felt all year. Then maybe they'd finally understand that they had hurt him. It wasn't just his body changing. It was everyone around him.

Arthur actually prepared in advance, he was so serious about this. He packed up some things that he would have to take with him, and put them in his small, sturdy suitcase. The trusty suitcase he had brought all the way from England when they moved to America. At the time, they hadn't been able to bring much from home. That suitcase had held all Arthur's most precious books and toys that he couldn't bear to leave behind. Now it was only essentials like clean underwear, toothpaste, and a raincoat.

He hated growing up.

He rode his bike out to one of his and Alfred's old haunts, hoping to God that Alfred had not brought Ivan there, because that really would be the last straw.

But why wouldn't he bring Ivan there? his mind cheerfully explained to him on the ride up there. It's not your special place anymore, it's theirs, he doesn't have to keep it sacred for you. It was nice that some part of him was trying to be logical, but it just sounded vindictive, and left Arthur feeling a burning poison eating away at him inside.

He left his suitcase in a dry thicket – almost trusting that it wouldn't be disturbed, but then with the year he'd had, he wouldn't be surprised if it were stolen – and went back to the little green house, empty handed. For the next few days he waited, silent as usual, glaring at everyone to give them a clue that he wasn't happy and maybe they should step in and say something if they actually cared.

But nobody did.

So as the sun rose up on his mother's special day, Arthur was out the door, tucking some dollar bills into his shorts' pocket, hopping onto his bicycle and tearing away as fast as he could.

If his suitcase was still there, that would be about the only good thing that had happened to him all year.

After a quarter of an hour or so through the quiet of Saturday morning suburbs, over some golden summery fields and round the corner of the little dry thicket, Arthur arrived at the small, deserted meadow he and Alfred used to come to together. It was nothing much, but it had a bit of everything. There was a cool stream running past the thicket for when they got hot, a small hill to sit on to watch over the town, a tree right at the top to lean against, and the slope of the hill was surrounded by other small hillocks and bushes to shield them from passing eyes.

It had seemed like such a magnificent find two years ago, and now Arthur wondered what the big deal was. It was just a patch of dry grass. He shouldn't let himself believe simple little things could bring him happiness. He was too old for that.

He kicked down his bicycle stand and headed to the thicket where he'd dumped his suitcase. And, of course, it was gone.

Arthur quite surprised himself by not crying. He was right at the end of his rope – all he had to clutch on to were the frayed edges, saving him from plummeting somewhere he couldn't name. But somehow he wasn't crying.

Maybe he was just that tired.

He crawled over to the genlte slope of the hill, and curled himself up in a warm patch of summer sunlight and just waited for the next horrible thing to happen. Maybe this time it would actually kill him and he wouldn't have to worry anymore.

"Arthur?"

He must be tired, because he couldn't even feel anything at the sound of that familiar voice. Maybe a hint of excitement and a dash of fear, but he certainly didn't find the energy to move.

"What do you want Alfred?" he mumbled into his arm, staying curled up on the grass.

"Huh? Can't hear you."

"What do you want, Alfred?" Arthur barked, sitting bolt upright and glaring up at his once-friend who was standing on the hilltop above him. He softened a bit when he saw Alfred's wide, shocked eyes and the suitcase he held clutched in his hands.

"I…I found this in the thicket the other day. I knew it was yours 'cause you showed it to me before. And just to make sure, I looked inside and your clothes have your name on."

Feeling angrily embarrassed that Alfred had touched his socks and underwear, Arthur's irritation flared up again. "Give it back then. I don't know why you were touching it in the first place if you knew it was mine."

He waited for Alfred to trudge down the small hill and hand him back his suitcase. But instead, Alfred swung it round behind his legs, where it bashed against the backs of his knees.

"No."

Arthur stared at him. Alfred stared back. And it was obvious that the boy had some stupid plan in his head. His ideas were always so innocent and naïve and it made Arthur's heart hammer in pain knowing he was too grown up for them, and sweet little Alfred couldn't save him now.

Arthur got up slowly, pushing himself off the ground with a lot of effort because he still felt tired, and now he felt everything else, too. He took a few steps up the hill towards Alfred, glaring him down the whole way.

"Give it to me."

"No," Alfred repeated, taking a step back this time.

All right, now Arthur was just angry. Maybe not at Alfred, but Alfred was here to take it.

Arthur launched himself up the hill, and Alfred wasn't quick enough to escape. He tried to turn and run, but the hard suitcase clashed painfully against his legs and made him stumble before he even got going. He'd only managed to climb a few steps before Arthur was on him, leaping to grab him round the middle so he couldn't escape. Alfred swung his arm wildly, and the weight of the heavy suitcase made him lose his balance, until he was falling backwards on top of Arthur.

The tumbled down the hill, the suitcase banging dangerously after them, stray rocks slashing at their bare legs, hands and feet hitting each other wildly – some by accident, some on purpose – all the way down.

They landed in a flurry of dead grass and limbs at the bottom of the hill, beside the path where Arthur had left his bike. They must have landed heavily, too, because the bicycle shook with the force of their collision to earth. It wobbled a bit, and just as they both looked up in fear, it fell on top of them: the bike on top of Alfred on top of Arthur.

"Ow!"

"Shit."

Alfred gasped so dramatically at Arthur's foul language that he inhaled a few blades of grass down his throat and began choking. It was such a funny sight that Arthur started laughing…and soon he found he couldn't stop. Even when Alfred glared at him, when he frowned, when he started smiling, when he playfully headbutted Arthur's shoulder and told him to shut up, when he started to laughed along, Arthur didn't stop.

After what seemed like forever – maybe just because he couldn't remember laughing like that for so long – Arthur calmed down. There were tears in his eyes that he couldn't wipe away because bits of Alfred and bike were pinning him down. He was covered in grass and dry dirt. He could see his suitcase burst open nearby, spilling socks and underwear all over the ground. He ached everywhere, and it didn't help that Alfred was still lying on top of him, pressing against all his new cuts and bruises from the fall, and resting his head on Arthur's pained shoulder as he recovered from their laughing fit. He was a mess. But Arthur didn't mind this mess as much as everything else that he'd gone through this year.

"I can't believe you said a bad word!" Alfred grinned somewhere near Arthur's neck. "Are you allowed to swear at home when you're fourteen?"

Arthur shook his head as much as he could in his awkward position. "No. I just don't care," he replied, very smugly.

Alfred raised himself carefully on his hands to hover over Arthur, bicycle wheel clanking against his head as he did so. He stared down at the older boy with bright, proud eyes full of admiration. And maybe a bit of the sky trapped in there as always, too.

And boy, did Arthur miss him. He wished he knew what to say to keep them like this. But he was too scared to apologise and get rejected, or to ask and hear why Alfred hated him these days.

Alfred's smile faded and he began to search Arthur's face with a worried frown, as if looking for an answer he was afraid to find out. Arthur waited, knowing exactly what was going to come tumbling out of the oblivious boy's mouth.

"Why was your suitcase in the thicket?"

Arthur wrenched his head away to glare at the grass, eyes falling on the very suitcase in question.

"Did you find it with Ivan when you were playing here?" he spat out.

Morbidly fascinated to hear Alfred admit it, he watched the boy's reaction out of the corner of his eyes. But Alfred only blinked at him, dumbfounded.

"I never brought Ivan here," he said, sounding surprised that Arthur even thought it possible. "We said this was our place."

Oh, God. Arthur almost wished Alfred hadn't said it.

He was the best friend. And Arthur was scum. He had doubted the American, thought that Alfred didn't treasure their friendship as much as Arthur did. But Alfred was a better person than him. And that wasn't Arthur being modest, it was just a fact. So if he held their friendship close to his heart, then of course Alfred would hold it ten times closer, ten times more carefully. He was just like that. With everyone…

"Right," was all Arthur could manage to say amidst the tumult of "sorry"s and "can we still be friends"es and "I miss you"s tearing around his head.

"I just come here by myself sometimes because I hope you'll be here. And then we can hang again."

Arthur winced, actually feeling the words pierce his heart. Alfred came here alone to wait for him. Just hoping he'd show up. God, he was so perfect. How was it possible that someone like him could exist outside of a happy fairy tale, and how was it that someone like him would stick around with Arthur?

"I left my suitcase here because I was running away," Arthur said, barely registering that it was in the past tense. Obviously he wasn't going anywhere now. He wasn't leaving Alfred ever again unless Alfred wanted him to. But he owed him the truth, so he might as well admit it.

"Why?"

"'Why?!' Bloody hell, Alfred."

Alfred's face shone with a lopsided grin for half a second, always excited to hear a swear word. But then his frown grew back. And what with his bright blue eyes hovering so close over Arthur, and his head blocking out the real heavens above, that frown made it look like the sky had been clouded over and the summer day turned dark and gloomy. Arthur couldn't stand that kind of look on the boy's face.

"Can I come with you?" Alfred asked.

Now it was Arthur's turn to stare in amazement. "Why do you want to run away?"

"I don't," said Alfred, looking ever so casual about the prospect. "I just want to go if you're going."

Arthur blushed, and suddenly realised that he should be more concerned about Alfred lying on top of him. It was just that it was nice having him so close after all this year spent apart.

"I'm not going anymore," he mumbled, then struggled to sit up. "Get off me now, will you."

Alfred reached up behind him and shoved Arthur's bike off his back. It clattered off to the side, and the American sat up gingerly, resting his weight on Arthur's legs. Arthur winced in pain, so Alfred quickly flopped off him and looked on worriedly as the older boy examined his gangly limbs carefully.

"Did you break anything?" asked Alfred, sounding equal parts hopeful and concerned.

"No. Just hurts."

"Mm, me, too," said Alfred, squeezing some cuts on his arms to make blood ooze out. He grew silent as Arthur stretched and tested his limbs and rubbed a few bruises. Once again, Arthur waited for him to speak up. It was only a matter of time, with Alfred.

"Were you running away because of your mom?"

"No. Because of Mr. Holloway."

Alfred nodded, a look of utmost understanding on his face. He must have been faking it, though, for Arthur's sake. Because Alfred had both his parents and didn't have to worry about what it felt like or what it meant when your own mother brought someone else into your home because you weren't important enough and she still needed more. And also because, if Arthur were honest…looking at it from Alfred's perspective, Mr. Holloway probably didn't seem that bad, anyway.

That was a funny thought, Arthur realised. Looking at others through Alfred's eyes…people must be so nice. He sat there quietly for a moment as he thought about his new revelation, the sun bathing him comfortably and Alfred, reading the atmosphere for once, giving him a moment's peace to think.

Yes, if he looked at the world from Alfred's view, Mr. Holloway didn't really seem that bad. He was an older gentleman, with a bit of a limp left over from WWII, but it didn't make him seem too scary. In fact, he was usually smiling, unless Arthur was being rude to him. He reminded Arthur a bit of his mother, actually. She was so lovely and patient, but he knew she had terrible memories of the war. Mr. Holloway must be like that, too: for all his smiles, he still had that limp as a reminder of what he'd been through. They were very kind for not talking about all the bad things they remembered, and just pretending to be happy for everyone else's sakes. Maybe they could talk to each other about terrible things nobody else understood, and Mr. Holloway could make his mother feel better.

Maybe…from Alfred's perspective…Mr. Holloway was actually a nice man. And Alfred looked at Arthur and thought he was strange and cruel for hating him – just because he wanted a new family.

Looking at things through Alfred's eyes just made Arthur see even more how awful he was.

But at least that was one problem down. He didn't have to worry about his mother having a horrible new husband anymore.

"Anyway. I've changed my mind. I'm not running away now."

Alfred looked up and sighed, unreservedly. "Good. I'd miss you."

Arthur was about to smile when he remembered he was still angry about the traumas he'd suffered this year.

"Unlikely," he spat out, venomously. "You have Ivan, you don't care about me anymore." He didn't even want to be saying these things! Even if he felt them, he didn't want Alfred knowing how bitter and twisted he was and looking down on him or being disappointed. But the words just tumbled out because, as he kept reminding himself, he was a bad person and bad people complained like this.

And once again, Alfred was staring at him in shock.

"I always care about you!"

"Then why did you…sodding…abandon me this year and only be friends with him?" Arthur exclaimed, struggling to find the words or get them out. They were too painful to admit out loud, made them even more real than just feeling around their edges in his head.

Alfred got on his knees and clutched the hem of his shorts tight in his hand as he stared Arthur down. Bless him. Any other boy or girl would have been hurt or scared by an older boy, a teenager, yelling at them and accusing them and just being a general grown-up about things. But Alfred had a very hard head, and sometimes it came in handy.

"That's not fair! You were the one who abandoned me!"

Arthur blinked at him, so taken aback that he could feel his mind actually grind to a halt like a rusty set of gears.

"What?"

Alfred huffed and frowned at him, but not a cold, unfriendly glare like the ones Arthur had been tossing his way. Just a stubborn sort of look that made Arthur want to smile for some reason. "When I started sticking up for Ivan, you didn't want to be friends anymore because you thought he was a commie!"

"I did not think Ivan was a commie!" he said, sounding insulted by the idea.

Alfred leant back a little, eyeing Arthur up as if he didn't quite trust his words. And, to be fair, he had reason to be suspicious, after the way Arthur had acted towards the Braginskis at the beginning of the year.

Now, there was no real way to explain himself to Alfred unless he told the truth. Which didn't sound too appealing because it was far too sentimental. But…Arthur did owe his friend an explanation, and if his explanation involved admitting how lousy he was, then so be it.

"I was just…jealous."

Sadly, Alfred didn't quite get all the implications of that confession on his own. He was pretty oblivious sometimes.

"…I don't get it."

Arthur groaned and turned himself gingerly to face Alfred. He pulled his knees up to his chest and linked his arms around them.

"You started hanging out with Ivan and just never talked to me again."

"Because you thought he was a commie!"

"No, I was just…angry that you didn't want to be my friend anymore, so I took it out on Ivan. I…know that was wrong. I'm sorry about that."

With an apology hanging heavily in the light summer air between, Alfred seemed to relax a little, realising he was not under attack. Or maybe just relieved that Arthur didn't hate him after all, and that maybe he missed Alfred, too.

"When I started hanging out with Ivan," he said, sounding unsure for the first time Arthur could recall, "and you started not to talk to me…my mom said it was because you were a teenager and didn't want to spend time with a little kid anymore."

Arthur watched as the boy tucked his legs against his stomach and encircled them with his arms, just like Arthur was doing.

"She said I should give you some space because you wouldn't me tagging along with you so much now, so I…started hanging out with Ivan more than I wanted so I didn't bother you. So…I'm sorry, too. I didn't know it would make you think I didn't like you. I was just trying to help in case you didn't want to be best friends anymore."

Arthur really wanted to crawl over and touch Alfred reassuringly, or at least to look him in the eye as he said this. But there was just something a little too nerve-wracking about that, so he settled for summoning the sincerest voice he could manage.

"Alfred. I will absolutely, 100%, always want to be best friends with you."

He knew he was probably blushing, but it wasn't until he felt Alfred's eyes looking up and settling on him that he felt the heat on his skin, hotter than the sun beating down on them from the summer sky.

"Me, too," Alfred said, and Arthur could hear the smile stretching across his face without having to see it. "And hey…um…"

At the nervous pause, Arthur did look up, and once again found Alfred fidgeting with his shorts and the grass. "The reason I started sticking up for Ivan in the first place…was because of you. Not because I thought he was really cool."

One of Arthur's impressive dark eyebrows arched up into his sandy fringe. "What do you mean?"

And now Alfred was blushing, and it was just adorable. Possibly in a way that Arthur wasn't supposed to notice – only girls really cared about when little children looked sweet and adorable. But…he couldn't help it. The thought just sprang to mind, and there it was for him to deal with.

"Well…At first I was scared he was a commie too," Alfred confessed. "Or maybe not him, but his little sister Natalia, 'cause she's really weird." He began tugging up the grass from the dry earth and Arthur could hear the ground stretch and tear under his fingers as the golden grass was ripped away and tossed aside. "But then I thought…what if everyone suddenly hated English people instead of Russians? What if England and America were fighting, and we were told we had to hate everyone from Britain."

He looked up and Arthur found himself snatched up into his bright summer eyes. "I would stick up for you, Arthur," Alfred said fiercely. "I know you wouldn't be bad, even if other English people were. So I realised it wasn't fair to hate Ivan just because he was Russian. I stuck up for him because it was the right thing to do. Because I would do the same for you.

"And…" The fire died in his voice, and he quickly looked down at the grass, embarrassed about something. "I should try to treat other people the same way I treat you, instead of treating you so different," Alfred admitted, wrapping his arms around his knees again and looking down into his lap, voice muffled. "I was happy to have the chance to treat someone else so special because…I kind of think it's weird how I only really care about you…"

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Arthur didn't realise Alfred was admitting a serious, troubling secret until he noticed the shine of the boy's eyes, like the tears would spill over the edge if Arthur judged him poorly now.

But it was the furthest thing from Arthur's mind. Because he felt the exact same.

It was weird how he, himself, only cared about Alfred. Weird how he cared about him so much. He didn't know any other best friends who were like them. And somehow, that didn't make him feel good about himself.

But, strangely, what did make him feel good was to hear that Alfred only cared about him. That Alfred treated him differently because he thought he was so special. How Ivan wasn't his best friend, Arthur was, and always would be.

For whatever reason, it seemed wrong the way Arthur cared too much about Alfred, but it felt wonderful the way Alfred cared too much about him. It was a little hypocritical, but so be it. Just another thought that sprang up uninvited which he'd have to deal with later.

"I don't think it's that weird," Arthur mumbled, not even aware of what he was doing with his hands, just knowing they were fidgeting uncontrollably whilst he focused on not smiling like a loon. "I only really care about you, so it seems fair to me."

He looked up to see a bright beam of sunlight light up Alfred's face – or it might have been his smile, it was rather hard to tell them apart sometimes. Either way, Arthur felt warmed and comforted, and was soon smiling back.

"Hey," said Alfred, brightly. Now that their serious talk was over and they were best friends again, he sat up and stretched his legs, releasing the tension that had been suffocating his body despite the wild, fresh air. "If you thought I hated you because I preferred Ivan, and I thought you hated me because you thought Ivan was a commie…which one of us is in the wrong? Who started it?"

Arthur cocked his head as he thought about it. That was a thought. Alfred hard started spending time with Ivan because Arthur started ignoring him because he was spending time with Ivan…It didn't really seem to make sense, but that was just what had happened, by all accounts.

"I think we both started it at the same time," Arthur said peaceably. He was the elder one after all, and had to be the one to allot blames, apologies and fresh starts. "Maybe we happened to wake up on the same day with a stupid idea in our head. And because the other had had a stupid idea, too, we couldn't talk to each other to sort it out."

"That's lousy and annoying," Alfred laughed. "Can't believe we wasted a whole year on a stupid mistake." He perked up with a bright idea, sending Arthur a crinkley-eyed smile. "Next time we fight…I'll apologise first right away, so this doesn't happen again. I'll tell you you're still my best friend and everything so we can just forget about whatever stupid thing happened."

"And the second time we fight, I'll take the blame, no matter what, so we can get move on," Arthur agreed, not even finding it in himself to be pessimistic and claim that it wouldn't work.

"Great! So the next next time we have a fight, I'll make sure it's my fault so you have to apologise to me for something I did," Alfred laughed, sending Arthur a cheeky grin.

"You're a bastard!" Arthur smirked back, watching victoriously as Alfred burst out laughing at yet another swear.

After a few minutes of putting off the inevitable, Arthur stuffed his clothes back into the suitcase as Alfred set his bicycle upright. It was a new one, because Mr. Holloway had ran over his last one a month ago. It made Arthur ashamed to admit he'd been using a bicycle that hadn't been christened on a ride with Alfred. It just felt wrong.

But Alfred soon cheered him up by confessing that his own bicycle had been stolen, and the one he was using now was an early birthday present. He looked relieved to get the news off his chest, as if he, too, felt bad about using a bicycle that Arthur didn't know personally.

Well, they may have started off riding these bikes apart, but somehow, knowing they'd never ride their bikes without each other again made up for all that.