Word Count: 1347

“I hate pikes,” Paris could hear Chris grumbling, his voice increasing in volume with each word. “I hate the ******** Jersey turnpike, I hate the ******** Mass pike. Anything with the word ‘pike’ in it can go straight to hell. I ******** hate them.”

Paris was glancing out the passenger-side window at the dense traffic surrounding them, trying and failing not to look amused. Thankfully he was able to hide his face as he teased, “Language, Pooh Bear.”

“Shut up.”

“You’d think you’d be used to traffic by now,” Paris commented calmly, “what with living in a city and all.”

“If we’d flown instead of driving, we wouldn’t have to be stuck here wasting time on the ******** Jersey turnpike,” Chris snapped back.

“I don’t think it’s so bad,” Paris said.

“You want a drive?”

Turning his gaze to his boyfriend, Paris widened his eyes to effect an innocent expression and blinked owlishly. “You want to let me drive your car in this mess?” he asked.

Chris’s mouth went very thin and his eyes went very narrow, his hands gripping tighter to the steering wheel, which Paris took to mean “******** no.”

They’d been in the car for a handful of hours by this point, and they’d been making good time, too, until they’d run into traffic and were reduced to a crawl. Paris could understand some of Chris’s frustrations, and it was actually sort of cute to see him get so worked up sometimes, but he generally knew when to draw the line. Chris was quickly getting to the point where any sort of conversation would be impossible unless Paris felt like being snapped at and potentially inducing one of those increasingly rare “Damn it, Paris”s. He wasn’t always so unfortunate as to witness Chris’s temper, but there were times, in the car especially, when it seemed almost inevitable.

For such a sweet guy, Chris had terrible road rage.

Sometimes it was funny. The rest of the time Paris wondered if it might actually be a bit dangerous.

They’d awoken early that morning—the Tuesday before Thanksgiving—before the sun was even up, and had tossed their suitcases into the car and began the drive to Boston.

They could have easily flown. That had been the original plan, to join Momma Gallo and Peter on a flight that very afternoon. It likely would have been more enjoyable for Chris that way, perhaps even for Paris, as they wouldn’t have had to deal with any sudden traffic jams, and Paris might have liked the new experience of flying on an airplane, but he’d thought—perhaps foolishly—that a road trip along the eastern seaboard with his boyfriend might prove to be just as enjoyable for the both of them.

Clearly he’d thought wrong.

“Why the hell are you so chipper?” Chris asked after another few moments of silence.

Paris turned in his seat so that he was facing his boyfriend, bringing his legs up to curl them beneath him. “Probably because I’m not the one driving,” he admitted, then added sweetly, “and because I’m with you.”

Chris looked as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to roll his eyes or melt.

“If people actually knew how to drive, s**t like this wouldn’t happen,” he snarled instead. “******** idiots. This better be more than a ******** fender bender or I’m going to be pissed.”

“You’re already pissed,” Paris chirped, smiling in amusement.

Finally Chris glanced over at him, but he obviously didn’t find Paris’s observation as amusing as Paris did. “You’re not helping,” he said.

“Want me to put on some music?”

“No. I want these people to get the ******** out of my way. We’re going to be late.”

“We’ve got plenty of time, Chris,” Paris told him. “It’s not like Thanksgiving is tomorrow.”

“Damn it, Paris, can you just—…” Chris began, sputtered, and trailed off when he couldn’t seem to think of a way to end the sentence, perhaps realizing what he’d just begun his comment with and liking it no more than Paris did.

Paris winced.

Alright. There was the line.

“Pull over for a little bit,” he said.

“No,” Chris grumbled, half in anger and half in remorse.

“Please? There’s a service station right up there.”

“I said ‘no.’”

“Chris, I have to go to the bathroom,” Paris lied.

With a few more muttered curses, Chris put on his blinker and practically forced his way over to the next lane in order to pull into the service station, refusing to spare Paris another glance as he did so and proving himself to be in an even worse mood than Paris had originally thought. Paris, for his part, wisely kept his mouth shut—as he probably should have done sooner—and waited until they’d come to a stop and Chris had turned off the car before unlatching his seatbelt and feeling around for the boots he’d pulled off earlier.

“Come with me,” he requested then.

“Just go to the bathroom, Paris,” Chris replied. His voice sounded strained when he made the effort to keep it calm.

“Please?” Paris tried. “Take a break for a little bit. Get out and walk around.”

With a frown, Chris did, though his movements would probably have been best described as “stalking” rather than “walking.” Paris pulled his boots back on over the leggings he wore beneath a comfortable sweater dress, grabbing his coat and forcing his arms into the sleeves on the way out of the car. He trotted after Chris, following him into the service station proper and watching as Chris stalked into the men’s bathroom while he quickly slipped into the line that had developed in front of the McDonald’s.

Normally Paris wouldn’t set foot into a McDonald’s unless he was heavily coerced, or feeling too poorly to appropriately care, but there weren’t very many other options and he figured a peace offering might help to dismiss some of the tension. It’d been a while since the air between them have been so charged in such a bad way. Paris wasn’t too worried, nor did he think it meant anything terrible was amiss beneath the surface, but he did feel bad that Chris had to deal with such frustrating circumstances simply because he’d asked him to and Chris had caved, while Paris himself got to sit and sleep and listen to music and basically be chauffeured around by a boyfriend who was often too kind.

When it was Paris’s turn in line, he ordered two Big Macs, a large and medium fry, a large coke, and a small milkshake, cringing as it was all tossed onto a tray and wrinkling his nose in disgust while he carried it to an empty table across the way. He’d managed to smooth out his expression and was sipping at his milkshake once Chris had finished his business, looking up just in time to see his boyfriend exiting the bathroom and waving him over with a rueful smile.

“I bought you some food,” he said once Chris had approached the side of the table.

“I thought you said you needed to go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll go when we’re done.”

Chris stared at the food like he didn’t know what to think, or what to do about it now that it was sitting in front of him.

“You don’t like fast food,” he mumbled.

Paris shrugged. “I can tolerate the fries when I have to.”

“You should eat more than that,” Chris told him, his previous anger melting into mild concern.

“There’s a little gift area over there. I’ll get some chips or something before we go.”

Chris didn’t look entirely appeased, but he sat down in the chair across from Paris all the same. Paris smiled and nudged the tray closer to him, watching as Chris opened one of the sandwich boxes and took a large bite out of his first Big Mac.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbled through a mouthful of food to conceal some of his guilt.

Paris just smiled and touched their feet together beneath the table.