Chapter Text
To everyone’s surprise Betty’s prediction turned out to be premature.
The first evening after Miles had left his neighbouring flat with a little mischievous smile on his lips, Al immediately phoned Betty to tell her all about his new neighbour: with capable hands, sylph-like figure, autumn-leaves-coloured bright eyes and the most charming smile on planet Earth — all according to Betty’s version of events which she recounted to Tara later.
However, against Betty’s best judgements, they didn’t announce their engagement the next day. It didn’t happen the day after that either, and not even a week later. Tara got really victorious, unlike her mother who was brooding with disappointment and plotting some plan of action, some boost to make her desires come true.
Meanwhile, for Alex everything was going just the way he felt it should be.
In hindsight, he remembered nothing and everything about that time. At first, he was terrifyingly, almost obsessively fascinated with his new neighbour. The day after they had met he found himself prowling his flat like a tiger in the jungle in search of prey, and nearly got himself a concussion when he bumped into his front door at the sound of the neighbouring entrance door opening. Alex winced and froze even though it was too late to sleuth — of course, Miles had heard the loudest thump! and chuckled, turning around and looking straight into the peephole.
“I’m off to work, love, and will be back late. If ya wait for me, you’ll get the most delicious dinner of yous life. And nice company, too.”
Alex made the low mumbling sound of a child caught red-handed with his sticky fingers in a jar full of chocolate biscuits, and opened the door a tiny bit, just enough to peek at Miles.
“I just got me wind up— Betty’s door opened and that. I kinda got used to her absence here,” Alex stuttered and cracked a bashful smile, pressing his flushed cheek to the cold of the door frame.
“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought, dear Al. Arrabbiata o carbonara, tesoro?” His Italian accent sounded amusing, rolling off his tongue so used to that lazy Scouse lilt.
“Arrabbiata, Miles. Or should I call you Messina Denaro?” Alex waved him goodbye with a good boy smile but his eyes were glinting with naughtiness. “Take it easy.”
“See ya when I see ya, love.”
Miles and his winsome smile left Alex anticipating dinner.
And it was indeed the best dinner of his life. The robust tomato base delivered smoothness which enveloped his palate in homelike comfort while a spicy twist of red chilly pepper and deep velvety tones of olive oil imparted the gentle warmth of a long-loved meal. Never eloquent enough, Alex got speechless and let his little gestures and groans speak for themselves, showing Miles that his Arrabiatta had struck a chord.
“I’ll pour me raptures into an ode to your blessed hands, Miles Kane.”
Later that evening Alex discovered one of the many of Miles’ superpowers — his ability to make a joke or a quip out of literally anything was astounding. Alex realised that a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth at all times, even when the jokes were cheesy and the puns were terrible.
If their friendship hadn’t been settled before, it happened right then and there, over a mouthwatering, once-in-a-lifetime Arrabbiata.
A few wondrous dinners later, Alex finally mustered up the courage to ask about Miles’ occupation — it had been whetting his appetite for quite a while since Miles seemed to do everything with great skill and flair: he wasn’t good at cooking only but had also refurbished a wonderful antique coffee table for his living room, not to mention his plumbing skills. Looking back it was a piece of cake to guess his profession based on his over-the-top culinary skills but Alex was far too infatuated with that soft look in Miles’ eyes he had while schmoozing him to put the pieces together: Miles was not just a simple line cook, not a baker or even a head chef, it would all have been to simple—he was all that simultaneously and more as he was a fresh-baked restaurant owner. His welcoming little osteria was snuggly tucked between a souvenir shop and a hip antique furniture boutique. The place was wafting veracity, at times it looked like an intricate casement window looking at an Italian family trattoria somewhere deep in the picturesque countryside away from all the threadbare tourist spots.
The first time Alex saw his restaurant he was minutely unmoored—he could suddenly notice all the tiny flaws and snags in the thread of reality; initially, it felt like he was strolling down Italian streets and then found himself standing at the threshold of an Italian osteria. But it was a bit too nippy for Italy and the souvenir shop next door was called “It’s Chewsday, innit?”. And only the moment he stepped in, he was jolted back from his reverie by the sound of the crackling furnace burning in the open kitchen, English chatter of visitors settled at small round tables of red wood on bright chintz chairs and lounge music by unfamiliar but obviously talented Italian artists.
“Lo Spirito di Baggio” was the reason Miles had had to search for a new flat and he had been lucky enough to find a homey place in a taciturn neighbourhood and it just happened to be free to rent two quarters away from his beloved brainchild.
Miles’ inescapable panache was one of the many reasons why “Lo Spirito Di Baggio” got instantly popular not only among local people but also among those foodies who could appreciate genuine taste and cosy charm.
As for Alex, he specifically appreciated the Wall of Fame which Miles had created at the entrance of his osteria. Alex would spend minutes at a time curiously eyeing the growing photo collection of Miles with his famous visitors. The crowning pictures were pinned in the middle of a large cork board drawing all customers’ stares.
The first picture was a bit dated and Alex really liked looking at it because Miles was obviously younger and his troublemaker nature was shining right through his toothy smile. Miles looked so unconditionally happy to be standing next to his childhood hero — the one and only Roberto Baggio. This image looked like a frame from a dream-lit film about the bittersweet childhood of the author sitting behind the camera and reminiscing about better times.
The second picture never failed to make Miles chuckle at the memory of the first time when Alex had seen it. His nearly pitch-black and usually droopy eyes had suddenly turned ferocious when he had glowered at Miles like a little feral cat. ‘This is photoshopped, isn’t it?!’ When he got a negative answer, Miles had watched Alex’s ever-faraway expression turn into a tizzy — he had started looking like a thirsty person with too much water pouring into his mouth at once. Miles couldn’t help but snicker at Alex’s shriek of excitement and jealousy because ‘it’s THE BLOODY MINA!!!’. Miles had been splitting his sides with laughter while Alex had nearly been jumping around him and asking to tell him abso-fucking-lutely everything!
The third photo of the Wall of Fame apical composition was of Miles and Alex himself and it startled him every time he noticed his own face among others — it was a bit unsettling to see himself next to Mina and Baggio and other - in comparison - moderately famous people. But Alex really fancied this photo. He was clutching onto his phone like a child, showing Miles something which they had apparently found extremely hilarious, and Miles kept on complaining that everybody was asking him what had made them laugh this hard. And none of them would ever find out they were cackling at Betty’s relationship advice which she would send Alex every morning as a newsletter.
The only thing that piqued Alex was a blood-red lipstick stain in the corner of the photo but Miles found it hysterical so he had to bear with it.
“Lo Spirito Di Baggio” was sumptuous and magnetic, and even such a recluse as Alex found himself popping in more and more often. At first, he started coming over after his futile editing sessions at the The British Library for a quick lunch, or right before his regular raid on the art supply shop for a cup of espresso with a salmon and spinach bruschetta. Then one beautiful autumn day he mustered up the courage to just come and visit Miles. And so it went — Alex even found himself a favourite spot in Lo Spirito — it was a booth at the back of the osteria where he would sit with his laptop and old trusty notebook, trying not to notice a silver stud glinting in Miles’ ear or a thin chain on his neck rolling over his collarbones when he was walking by. Disaster.
And just like that, the cumbersome editing process didn’t seem so complicated anymore because in between his sessions he could gaze at Miles and sometimes even go as far as talking to him. Even if not, Miles’ voice was lilting over him gently from the kitchen, soothing his thoughts. He could already discern the sound of Miles’ voice twanging distinctly over the chipper kitchen clutter. Alex would stop and just watch Miles humming to himself, swaying blithely and fiddling with yet another culinary delight.
Very soon Alex noticed how his Scouse cadence was creeping into his own open mouth to leave its imperishable footprint on his own speech.
One evening Miles joined him in the booth with two lilac cocktail glasses. It turned out to be a very special drink with bittersweet cherry notes and a sturdy base of violet-hued liqueur. Its name sparked a colourama of images and visions in Alex’s intoxicated mind and by night his notebook was full of memos which upon closer look would turn into “Aviation” — the first poem co-authored by Miles.
But no matter how enthralled Alex felt, his zest just couldn’t last long.
He found himself staying in bed longer and not even the prospect of seeing Miles’ bright eyes could persuade him to get up, brush his teeth and make himself presentable enough as to leave his humble abode.
The onset of a depressive episode was as surreptitious as ever and Alex once again found himself unprepared — it knocked him off of his feet and this time there was no Betty to pick up the ugly pieces. He was at his wits’ end, dallying with his drafts and making a wordbook for his future use, which was really just a jumble of every word, phrase, idiom, or even sound he had ever deemed curious. It was soothing to him, but deep down he knew it was all just a waste of time.
He fibbed to Betty when she called, as usual trying to persuade himself that he was just drained — he’d been editing the newest novella for ages now, constantly forgetting about sleep and food — and he just needed time to rest and sleep without the insistent anxiety and his agent breathing down his neck. This plan could’ve worked out just right except he kept finding himself in a quandary over Miles — Miles was the thought that made him ill-at-ease. Alex wanted to send him a message and explain himself — his absence, his disregard — but every time he picked up his phone, the trembling hand of distress would take it away.
And there was no need to excuse himself, they weren’t even friends, were they? Was Miles even thinking about him? Did he even notice his absence? And if he did, why would he care?
However, it turned out that Miles did in fact care.
He knocked on Alex’s door four or five days after the start of his reclusion. First, Alex had opened the door a few times in his sleep, growing more confused with every new series of knocks, before he finally got up and opened the door to reality.
Alex lied through his teeth without much thinking — it was just a habit of his as he preferred to hold his tongue about his roaring depression, though he immediately felt contrite; Miles' eyes were taking no shite.
He sighed at the baleful stretch of sadness hanging in midair and nodded at two containers full of food he was holding against his chest:
“Fancy a dinner?”
Since Alex hadn’t been eating much during his voluntary confinement, his belly didn’t hesitate to betray him with a hungry rumble once he got a whiff of green curry in the air.
“Off you go, Al, I’m gonna dine you, and you’ll tell me what is ailing you.”
For a moment Alex seemed riveted to the spot with the sheer force of the effervescent ring of Miles’ accent, but next thing he knew he was sitting in the kitchen, and Miles was clucking over him with Alex’s favourite bowl of Delft porcelain in hand and Miles’ very own boisterous charm.
“Not to be a prick, but your behaviour is absolutely reprehensible, Alexander. What would Betty say if she knew you incarcerated yourself here?”
Miles peered at him. The world stopped for a moment — Alex moved and the kitchen lights illuminated his features: he could easily pass for twenty; there even was an angry ruddy spot on his chin making him look even more unencumbered; his lush hair was unkempt and in a desperate need of a trim and a wash, but Miles had found himself favouring this dishevelled version of his neighbour lately. He might have been thinking about him too much. This thought broke that brittle moment and Miles continued with genuine concern in his voice:
“Oh boy, you really are vexed, ain’t ya? You look like you’re drowning, love.”
Alex flinched. His poor heart couldn’t take being seen this clearly, and he had to do his best to fight the urge to shove his fist into his mouth and scream. Instead, he tilted forward and let Miles put his svelte arm around his shoulders when he put the plate of curry on the table.
“You could’ve just called me, I’m just a chirp away, I promise.” Miles’ voice got quieter but didn’t lose its chipper tone. “Or could’ve just yowled like the ghost of a Victorian sick puppy and I’d’ve been here in a sec.”
Alex chuckled at that.
“A Victorian sick puppy, eh?”
Miles treated him with another grandiose dinner consisting of two courses: curry, where Alex could pick up the most fleeting tastes of ginger and coriander, and tiramisu as a cherry on top of the delightful meal. Alex could feel the way Miles’ vibrant energy was enveloping him in its warm embrace just from hearing his Scouse rise and fall.
“Darlin’, shall I try and find you some specialist to help ya out of this conundrum?” Miles asked while doing the washing up after dinner. He didn’t turn around, giving Alex a chance to pull himself together for an answer. “If me asking you doesn’t bother you too much, of course.”
Leaning against the wall, Alex felt his body going rigid at the implications that he needed help.
“Why would I need help, Miles?”
He turned his head so Alex could see the smirk on his otherwise strict face.
“Don’t try to play dim-witted, Alex Turner. We are not like chalk and cheese or something, dear Al, I’m generally quite placid as you might’ve already noticed, but I also have my highs and lows, and in those moments I always long for somebody to come over and lend me a helping hand. And luckily I have such people around me, so I wanna make sure that you’re offered the same treatment, too, you see?”
From Alex’s stare into the middle distance, it was obvious he thought it might have been a better idea to punch Alex right into his face and break his nose with the sheer amount of earnestness Miles had poured over his head in the hour since he had knocked on the door. Alex blinked as if he got possessed by a stupefied owl and still could not start talking. But he didn’t really need to.
“Also I was bold enough to call Betty this afternoon to confirm my suspicions, and truth be told, it made me feel extremely ignorant — I just left you over here, all alone with—
“-my insurmountable apathy.”
“-your insurmountable apathy, right. I was an ill-mannered neighbour and even a worse friend, so let me help you somehow now. What do you need help with? Except for food, that’s obviously on me, love. Have you been doing laundry? Have you been watering yous plants?” Miles looked at poor yellowed leaves of сhamaedorea sitting on the kitchen shelf and clicked his tongue. “Alright then, I’ll start here. But you’ll have a task, too — go round that cosy flat of yous and put everything that feels like it needs the wash into the laundry basket. Is it alright with ya, Al?”
“Alright,” Alex echoed but didn’t even move, clearly fascinated with Miles’ antics.
“Great, off you go then.” Miles clapped his hands as an overly vigorous nursery school teacher would but then suddenly gasped as if he had forgotten something pivotal. “Also, there’s an extremely private but necessary matter, you are free not to answer though — when was the last time you took a bath?”
“Oi, how dare you?!”
“How dare you keep your pretty self hidden behind greasy hair and an unshaven face? I see the dregs of sleep in your fathomless eyes, too, mister.”
Whatever Miles was aiming for, he got a deep beetroot blush from Alex.
“Have you been reading me poems?”
“I have, but you ain’t getting any comments from me until you’re back to your old self.”
“You’re such a nuisance, Miles, I had no clue.”
“Do excuse my unsolicited behaviour but it’s all well-meaning.”
“I know,” Alex smiled ruefully, picking at his thumbnail.
“Baby, don’t torture yourself, let’s better do something round the house, alright?” Alex was perplexed, to say the least, when Miles’ lissome fingers covered his hand to stop him from drawing blood. He looked up to meet Miles’ gentle eyes and found himself smirking.
“You know I don’t come along with Betty’s flat, don’t you?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Miles answered with a laugh, dragging Alex by the hand to make him stand up. “Go, go, go!”
About half an hour later Alex found himself with a laundry basket full of clothes he didn’t remember owning in the first place. It wasn’t the prime thought occupying his mind though — he couldn’t quite figure out why his flat appeared lighter now, why it was easier to draw a breath, and, most importantly, why the hell Oasis was blasting out of his speakers.
“I usually listen to nowt through my speakers,” he said as the basket landed on the bathroom floor.
“And that’s the exact reason why your place smells and looks like it belongs to some ol’ fart, Al,” Miles didn’t even bother to turn around to look at Alex; he seemed too engaged with cleaning the glass shower partition. “All done, love? Ta, wait a sec then, I’m almost there, too.”
“Whatcha doing anyway?” Alex crossed his arms on his chest, as if cold but in fact he just still couldn’t shake off the feeling of densely pressed cottonwood in his heavy head.
“In a minute you’ll take a shower and I’ll change your bedlinen so you can try and catch some Zs.”
Miles’ tone was practical and efficient, annoyingly so, it made Alex screw his face up right away. He had no desire to be bossed around and later feel like he owed Miles for his care and trouble taken — didn’t it always go this way with him and people who were all nice to him? Alex smoothed his greasy hair and the oily sheen left on his palm almost sent him into a full-blown tantrum.
“Don’t you mother me, Miles. Sod off, will ya?” He realised he sounded like a spoilt snot before the words left his mouth, but at least, they made Miles look at him — Alex could feel his stare on his blushing skin but didn’t dare to look back.
“Oi, don’t be a cock, accept that people care about those who are dear to them! Da fuck!” The usual vivacity of his Scouse cadence sharply evolved into a bristled up Liverpoolean cacophony of vowels and consonants. The gust of it bit Alex’s beet red cheekbones. He scratched his neck and moved the laundry basket into the corner of the bathroom to keep himself busy. From the way his lips were pressed together, it could seem he was on the edge of tears. “Al?”
But when he looked up at Miles, he looked quite the opposite; their eyes locked for one long moment — loaded with something intangible, something brittle — which was broken almost immediately when Alex stumbled over his thick woollen socks while trying to turn around and walk away. The air all but ruptured with their roaring laughter.
“You should get yourself a shrink degree or summat, smart-arse,” Alex huffed between shrieks of amusement.
“Maybe I will, what do ya know, greaser boy? But first I’ll get you some proper socks before you crack that pretty head of yous open. And I wasn't joking, go find youself a towel.” Miles went back to his bossy self as quickly as it had gone away but the remnants of giggles were apparent in his voice like bubbles in a glass of champagne. Alex watched him for another moment — his ring-adorned fingers clutching the shower-head washing off the pearl-white residues of detergent.
Choice of a towel was a big deal for Alex since some of the textures were his pet peeves and the others would give him the creeps — for an unknown reason very few of his bath towels were perfect, and he had a nagging feeling that all those precious strokes of luck were either not washed or not ironed. Alex sighed with a deepest despair carefully examining the shelves where he could see quite a selection of towels, none of which he deemed right at the moment: deepest shades of blue, green, grey and red; one pair of light blue articles gifted by his mum and one cozy pinkish towel coming from Betty with a stitched “to my beloved Aly” in the corner. A gentle smile tugged his lips and he went for it as the crumbling sound of the entrance door closing crushed freshly attained silence.
Alex frowned and stilled.
He tried to stop his immediate reaction with a small murmur of a hark! — Miles would come back in a minute, he didn’t just go away without a word, not his style. Right? Right?
Alex put his hands down, turning his back to the door and the world, the little corner of the towel spying on him from the neatly ordered heap of its kin.
The trick didn’t work, his mind started spiralling nonetheless. Why had he opened his heart so wide and welcoming again, the heart which had turned barren, menacing with age and pain it had endured but still craved the intimacy of friendship? Miles probably was just being nice after all. Maybe Betty or her daughter played their hand in it, beware of his behaviours and having no desire for their neighbour to rot away in his bed — it would be such a miserable image for the future tenants, who in their right mind would want to live next to the flat where a young man had kicked the bucket because of his damned lassitude? A damn poet, too.
Alex rubbed his face and snorted at the inevitability of the next thought: on the other hand, it could make this place popular among those ticktick lads who adored some of his cheesier poems. They could even create a museum and Betty would be the curator of it, telling everyone who wanted to hear the story of how they’d met and she’d managed to save him at first but destiny’d still found her way to take him.
“At least I don’t have to shower anymore,” Alex murmured to himself and sat down on the edge of the bed feeling like the heap of laundry he had just left in the bathroom. His eyes closed on their own accord tugging him down into the world of woolgathering and daydreams.