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Artur can’t afford to repair his car right now. It’s all he can think about as he fades into the edge of the crowd in Eirika’s tastefully-decorated living room: the smell of gasoline, the dropping fuel gauge, the coughing and sputtering of the engine. The sights and sounds of the party blur together around him. Lute was right—he should have stayed home.
The day had started well, by all accounts. He made breakfast and headed to the temple to make last-minute preparations for the upcoming autumn festival. He must have caught something in that frantic air, with the few attendants who made time for the extra work running to and fro, wearing themselves thin in the name of holy celebration. He ought to talk to the leadership about that. But he put in the work and cleaned up the messes, and he made it out with barely enough time to make the party he’d been so nicely invited to. And that was when his car chose to give out on him. He made it to Eirika’s with the smell of gasoline clinging to his clothes and a gnawing anxiety clinging to his soul. The party would be a nice break, at least. If only he could bring himself to enjoy it.
“Are you alright?”
Artur looks up to find a face he vaguely recognizes: Cormag. He’s a friend of Eirika’s, a recent transplant from Grado with a quiet streak. Handsome, too. They’ve talked pleasantly a few times, but not much more than that. “What?”
Cormag makes a vague gesture at the crowd behind him. “You usually talk more at these things. And you seem distracted. Something on your mind?”
“Oh, no, I’m…” He trails off, drawing a blank for anything he is other than exhausted. “Well, maybe a little. I… think something is wrong with my car. I’m not even sure if it’s safe to drive home, really, and…” He pauses. Takes a breath. “It isn’t a good time for me to be without a car.”
Cormag frowns. “Do you want me to take a look?”
“No, no.” Artur smiles sheepishly. “Don’t let me distract you from the party. Eirika planned this all so thoughtfully.”
He shrugs. “I was thinking of getting out of here anyway.” He sounds so genuine, Artur almost believes him. “I don’t like crowds.”
Cormag emerges from the engine with grease on his hands and a frown on his face. “Your fuel line is leaking,” he says. “Looks like a broken connector.”
Artur fidgets with his coat, trying to stave off a fresh wave of fear. “That doesn’t sound good.”
He shrugs. “It should be an easy fix, but you shouldn’t drive home with it. You probably won’t even be able to, if you had trouble getting here.”
“Oh.” His voice catches even as he tries to force it steady. “Okay, then. That’s… alright.”
Silence in the autumn air.
“Look,” Cormag says, hesitant, breaking eye contact to watch the ground between them, “do you… want a ride home?”
“Really?” It’s such a relief, he can hardly help it. But Cormag seems uncertain about something. “Don’t let me trouble you, though. I’m really fine. It’s just… been a long week. You’re welcome to stop back by the party if you want.”
Cormag shakes his head slightly. “I wasn’t kidding about wanting to leave. It’s just…” Again, he doesn’t meet Artur’s eye. “How do you feel about motorcycles?”
It would be an overstatement to say Artur knows what he’s looking at as they approach Cormag’s bike. It’s certainly an impressive machine, and one with an old-fashioned air: white accents on a teal body, hanging over a mess of exposed chrome pipes and machinery. The metal looks worn but well-kept, the tires slim but sturdy. The effect is finished by a small, tasteful decal on the side reading Genarog. A strange thing to write on a motorcycle. He wonders if it means something.
Cormag looks at the bike with a glint of pride, and Artur makes a quick guess about who maintains it so nicely. “He may look calm now, but he’s got a dangerous side,” he says. “Like me.”
Artur laughs. “I don’t find you dangerous, Sir Cormag.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“It seemed fitting.” Silly, perhaps, but true. And hopefully not overstepping. “For chivalrously taking me home.”
Cormag chuckles. “If you say so. You live on the south side, right?”
“I’ll give you the address. But, um…” He glances at the suspiciously one-person-sized motorcycle. “How do you want me to…?”
“You take the helmet,” he says plainly. “I’ll get on first, and there should be room for you behind me on the seat. Just hold on tight once we start moving.”
Artur gulps. “Okay.”
It’s like Cormag says: the seat is big enough for the two of them. But that doesn’t exactly change the fact that it’s still one seat.
He slides onto the motorcycle—Genarog?—carefully, finding his place in the cup of the seat. It presses him closely against the solid curve of Cormag’s back. The position should be awkward, but after the day he’s had, all Artur can think is how warm he is against the autumn chill. With a silent prayer, he wraps his arms around Cormag’s waist.
Genarog growls and jets into the fading sun, and Artur hangs onto Cormag with a death grip. The sound must be louder without the thick helmet dampening it, but Cormag doesn’t seem to mind—nor does he flinch at the close-quarters driving. He stays perfectly calm as they flow past cars and trucks, through roundabouts and interchanges. He takes the route that skips the highway. The cool air plays around them, whistling through Artur’s coat and up into the helmet, and Artur wonders at how vulnerable it feels to move so fast without walls and a ceiling. It almost feels like flying.
Finally, they turn onto the familiar street of Artur and Lute’s apartment. Artur motions as they approach the building, and Cormag eases his motorcycle to the curb.
“Thank you,” Artur says, climbing on shaky legs from the saddle-seat to the waiting sidewalk. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Don’t mention it. But…” His gaze flickers away again, ever so briefly. “You can let me know if you need any more car help. I don’t know many people in the area, so…”
Artur smiles, a cool calmness spilling over him like the autumn air. He’s alright. And he knows what to do. “Why don’t you give me your number, then? We can get dinner sometime, once I have a working car again.” He looks once more at Cormag’s motorcycle, remembering the closeness of it. “Unless you’d like to pick me up again, of course.”
Cormag grins. “Works for me. See you soon?”
He nods. “Sounds perfect.”