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He’s used to it by now, to all the travelling and the overflowing schedules. He’s done it for years and he’s become good at it. He knows how to handle interviews, how to be charming even if he has trouble putting his thoughts into words sometimes. It’s all part of it and that’s fine. He hasn’t signed his soul away; he hasn’t sold out. The band simply got more popular with time and he’s learnt to adapt. He’s good at that, at adapting. But lately, it seems like he’s not good enough at it anymore. He’s never not jittery. He’s never not nervous. And worst of all, the overwhelming enthusiasm he used to feel every night on stage seems to have seeped out of his bones. He’s not in the moment anymore. He never is.
Every hotel room gives him a temporary sense of security. A comfortable bed, a minibar stocked with brands he wouldn’t even consider buying for himself even now that he can afford them. He lies on his back, scrolls through texting conversations that are about as old as his career is by now, and drinks. And it’s so comfortable to give into that emptiness and the alcohol and those bloody texts. Even at times when he doesn’t feel anything at all, they sort of make him feel like he’s at home.
Sent: [IMG]
Miles: That’s what you wore on stage? You look like you were trying to outdo Oscar bloody Wilde. What is that shirt? It’s a good look on you though.
Sent: I only learn from the best. x
He doesn’t think Miles knows just how much they help him calm down, those texts. They make his highs bearable and allow him to breathe during his lows. Sometimes, when he’s lying on his back on one of those soft hotel beds, he and Miles will facetime each other and Miles will grin that toothy grin at him, and laugh at how out of it he is. He’ll laugh too, and they’ll talk music, or parties, or home. They usually talk about home. But he’s always out of it, whether it’s because he drank or because his brain simply doesn’t feel like cooperating that day. Nowadays, it’s usually the latter.
Miles: Watched the livestream. You looked like a vampire tonight, Al. Eat something, would you?
Miles: Brilliant show, by the way!
Miles: Also, eat. Srsly. Getting pissed doesn’t count.
Sent: Calm down. Had dinner. Going to bed now. Don’t meddle.
He doesn’t really get pissed anymore, anyway. Not with other people around that is, so it doesn’t really count. Still, he might have a drink or two when he’s alone in his room and feels the emptiness of it wrap around his throat like a strong, determined hand, drowning him in his fortress of duvets and pillows. He feels like he’s drowning a lot these days, and he wants nothing more than to feel their concerts again, than to feel the high notes he hits or the smiles he gives his audience. He’d be happy to even feel heartbreak at this point. Anything at all would do. Luckily, often just one strong beer will do the trick, and heartbreak is all his again. He only has to provoke it a little.
Sent: Miles. Miles look. i'll fly you out to bloody amasterdam. tomorrow.you'd better show.
Miles: We’ve been through this. Sober up, we’ll talk tomorrow.
Sent: I just offered to fly you out and you told me to sober u p. fuck right off, would ya.
It’s better that way. Better to fight and feel Miles’ anger than to go day in, day out without feeling so much as the excitement for a live show. But this time, it’s different. Alex doesn’t drink the day after he tells Miles to fuck off. He barely smokes and he goes through the concert on autopilot. His songs feel as if someone else is singing them. He wrote those songs. He wrote them himself, but he couldn’t tell you what they’re about for the life of him.
Miles: How’s Paris?
Sent: French. How’s LA?
Miles: Shite. Haven’t been able to write a single song since I’m back here.
Sent: You’re a bit far away, aren’t you.
Miles: Offering to fly me in again?
He doesn’t answer. He never answers when it gets even remotely serious. The fights and the banter over text make him smile; Miles bringing up possible reunions between the two of them doesn’t. Only Alex is allowed to do that, because he doesn’t mean it, anyway. Numb or not, intoxicated or sober, it wouldn’t happen. If he were to really fly Miles out to Paris, it would be the first time he’d have to face him in months and months. He doesn’t know what he’d say. There’s nothing he could say without putting more distance between them again, and that’s the last thing he wants. The thing is, Miles isn’t a cure for what’s happening to him. No one is. But fighting with Miles – properly fighting with him, in real life – won’t make his current situation any better. At least now that they’re continents apart they are mostly at ease with each other again. They’re constantly texting each other these days. And really, that’s all Alex wants for now, to feel at ease with Miles. It makes everything just a bit more bearable. He can’t let things get as far as them having to meet in person. He relies too much on their texts to do so. And even if he wanted to, he doesn’t have the time to come to terms with whatever happened between him and Miles back home in LA. He doesn’t have the time to think about how much he hurt them both. All he wants is to just drown out those thoughts. They’re the last ones that bring any sort of emotion with them. Might as well get rid of them.
Sent: I could stand on that stage and recite the dictionary, and people would still faint over it.
Miles: You say that like it bothers you. Don’t be dramatic. Enjoy yourself a little.
Sent: Stop being the voice of reason. You’re not. I know you. You know as little as I do.
Miles: Really, at this point? Pretty sure I know more, Aly. You sure you don’t need some company?
Sent: Fuck off.
They don’t talk for weeks after that. It’s all the same to Alex. He’s too out of it to notice the absence of the laughs he shared with Miles. His brain is foggy and his sight hazy, and he doesn’t miss those laughs, nor does he miss Miles. They simply fade out until they’re a distant memory, and once they have, Alex gives up completely. Once they have, he gets up the next morning and starts doing exactly what is expected of him. Routine might help. Who knows.
And so he goes through the routine of doing gigs and staying in hotel rooms and doing interviews and smiling at the camera and watching his words and watching his alcohol intake and watching his crazy fucking mind.
He’s afraid that sooner rather than later his brain might simply detach itself from the rest of him, and that he’ll feel like he’s floating for the rest of his life. It’s not a pleasant feeling. Hell, it’s not even a feeling to begin with. To live like that forever sounds like a very long time. He spends his nights reading pretentious poetry and staring at the ceiling. It’s all very glamorous.
He would have liked to think that Miles would be the one to give in, so he’s surprised when he turns out to be the one to crack first. Then again, Miles is right not to. It was Alex who fucked up all those months ago in LA, so it seems only fair that it is also Alex who breaks the silence this time. He still has a lot to make up for after all. When he does, he’s alone in his room, he’s sober and his head is spinning.
Sent: Remember Paris? Paris was good. We should write something new. Go back. Do it all again.
Miles: Shouldn’t be giving you the time of day. Are you drunk? High?
Sent: Nah. Just tired. Remember Paris?
Miles: Al.
Sent: Remember Paris? Remember LA? You’re a bit far away right now.
Miles: I remember LA alright. You made yourself very clear. Wouldn’t have kept texting you if I didn’t think that all you wanted was to get things back to normal again.
Sent: You told me to eat more because you wanted things to go back to normal again, huh.
Miles: Piss off. We would have gotten there eventually. We did it after Paris. We were friends after Paris.
Sent: Were we? We weren’t friends after Paris. I sent you pictures I wouldn’t send to my friends.
Miles: I remember those.
Sent: You’d better fucking remember those. I fell over my own feet trying to look sexy.
Miles: You succeeded alright. Why are we talking sexy pictures when you clearly just need someone’s attention right now?
Sent: Not someone’s attention. Just yours. Always just yours. I feel so fucking out of it, Miles.
It’s pathetic. It’s as close as Alex has ever come to telling Miles that he loves him and yet he still manages to sound utterly selfish whilst doing so. The days pass by as if wrapped in a thick layer of stinking, grey fog. They’ll just have a few more concerts to play and it should be manageable, but it doesn’t feel like it is anymore. He’s exhausted, his defences are down, and Miles knows it.
Miles: I’m flying to Rome tomorrow. Get me on the guest list for your gig?
Sent: Don’t be an idiot.
Alex gets him on the guest list, because of course he does. He watches Miles watch him from the side of the stage and wishes he hadn’t come. There’s a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach during the entire concert and he’s somehow grateful for it. That feeling right there means he isn’t entirely broken, after all. He actually feels some of the songs he sings this time, and he so wishes he didn’t. He’s not used to it anymore. By the time the final notes sound through the building, he’s not sure if his feet will hold him much longer. Miles all but pulls him into his arms when he finally makes it off stage. He murmurs something into his ear that Alex can’t quite make out, but the familiar rumble of his voice soothes him instantly.
“How was your flight?” he asks, but he doesn’t care. Miles doesn’t bother with a reply. He snakes an arm around Alex’s waist, his fingers digging into his hip, as if he knows. And this is Miles, so he probably does know. They shared too many sleepless nights together in the past.
“You’re an idiot for coming here,” Alex murmurs. “I’ll do the same thing to you all over again.”
Miles smiles stiffly. “Who says I’m going to let you this time?”
It is Miles who drives him back to the hotel, it is Miles who talks him into having a shower, and then into eating something. They eat in bed and get greasy pizza stains on the lush sheets. On their way home, Alex had the vague hope that they’d have sex on those sheets – just one last shag to get it out of their systems –, but he’s not sure he’s still in the mood for a last shag. Miles tosses the pizza box onto the floor once it’s empty and sprawls out on his back, pulling Alex with him. It is only then that Alex properly realises that Miles is really there. The bed smells like him already. He presses his nose into the man’s shoulder and closes his eyes. There are tears in his eyes, but they’re tears of relief, and he blinks them away before Miles can see them.
“You probably want to talk,” he mutters. His fingers dig into Miles’ expensive shirt. He feels like clawing it open. “Truth is, if I could swallow each and every single one of those texts we sent each other over the past couple of months and live my life by them, I would.”
Miles shakes his head. “You’re being dramatic again. I don’t want to talk. Not now. You sure you haven’t taken anything?”
Alex hacks out a dry laugh and shakes his head. “Nothing. Told you I was out of it.”
Miles brings a hand up to run long fingers through Alex’s hair. “I’ve been worried about you, Aly.”
Alex wants to say he’s been worried about Miles, too. But he hasn’t been, has he. He’s just been busy being absorbed by his own brain. He clings to Miles as if for dear life, something he’ll regret later. No matter how many nights they stayed up talking or writing or shagging, Miles has never seen him quite like this. He shouldn’t have come, but God, Alex is so glad that he did. He missed this. Miles presses a kiss to his hair, and Alex impulsively leans up to press his mouth against his. It’s brief and unromantic, but that’s fine. When he pulls back, he’s said everything he’s been wanting to say. He wants Miles. He wants him to stay. Miles’ tongue darts out to lick his own lips, and he watches Alex curiously for a moment. Then, he leans forward and catches Alex’s lips in a second kiss that is all teeth and chapped lips and anger.
“This isn’t an excuse, Alex,” he murmurs. They’re so close that Alex can feel the vibrations in his chest, and he shuffles closer without thinking about it. “You feeling like this isn’t an excuse to treat me like you did in LA.” Miles’ lips brush against Alex’s cheek. “I’m not going to let you do that anymore. If you wanted this entire thing out of your system, you shouldn’t have kept flirting. You’re always asking for my attention. Has it occurred to you that I’ve been trying to move the hell on from you since you threw me out of your house? You didn’t even give me a bloody explanation, Al. Nothing.”
Alex nods. His fingers dance over Miles’ shoulder, tracing invisible patterns on the soft cotton. He can feel the tension in that shoulder and it sends the tiniest pang of guilt through his chest, which in turn makes a small smile tug on his lips. Miles isn’t a cure, but God, he does make things a little more bearable. He helps Alex feel again.
“Scared me, you did,” he admits. “Got it into me head that I wanted to grow old with you.”
“So you cut me out of your life. Classy.”
“Very.”
Miles shakes his head. His fingers tangle themselves in Alex’ long hair and pull lightly. Alex lets out a sigh. Just like when Miles wrapped his arm around his waist earlier, the contact wakes something up deep inside of him. He can feel his scalp tingle. He can feel Miles’ breath ghost over his skin. He can feel his heart speed up and he can feel the stupid smile that tugs on his lips. He also feels more tears and this time, he doesn’t bother with hiding them. He lets them soak Miles’ expensive shirt.
Nothing happens. Miles doesn’t push him away; he doesn’t reassure him. They just stay silent and lie like that for a while, in a mess of tangled arms and legs and sheets.
“You’ll fly to Dublin with us tomorrow, right?”
Miles nods.
“And then home.”
“This is your last chance with me, Aly.”
Alex nods. It’s not going to be easy. He’s still feeling out of it and he’s going to need to work on getting himself out of his head, but maybe – just maybe – at least part of the damage he did back in LA can be undone. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly until he sees stars. Miles turns onto his side and pulls him closer. It makes everything feel a little lighter. Alex buries himself against his chest, takes a deep breath, and then he apologises. In hushed tones, he apologises for cutting Miles out, for reeling him back in, for all the insults and all the flirting and all the pushing Miles away. His chest feels like it might explode and it’s a feeling that Alex hasn’t been familiar with for a very long time. He’s genuinely sorry and it’s bliss. He rambles and rambles until Miles stops him with a gentle press of his lips to the corner of his mouth. “I understand,” he says. “You’re an idiot, but I get it. Let’s have a proper talk tomorrow, yeah? Sleep, first.”
Alex is too tired to put up a protest. He wraps the duvet around the both of them with his eyes closed and slips his fingers under Miles’ shirt, smiling when he feels the heat radiate off the taller man’s skin. “You’d better still be here tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Just saying. You'd better. Night, then.”
He barely hears Miles’ ‘Goodnight, Aly’ before he falls asleep. Even the idea of having to talk to Miles the next day doesn’t keep him up for a second. What matters is that he can make things right. He’ll deal with his head in time, but maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t feel obliged to put everything on hold in favour of the fog in his brain anymore. He hurt Miles. This is his chance to make things right between them, and he will. For once, he feels like maybe, he should let himself and Miles have this.