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I guess you're still the guy looking for any reason to walk away.
And you're still so good at giving them to me.
The words keep playing and replaying in Michael's head, a broken records of his most painful memories.
The trailer smells of sweat, as it always does. The metal walls soak up the desert heat, saturating the air with suffocating swelter. Michael's shirt clings to his clammy skin. The wind outside makes the door bang against the outside walls bang…bang…bang… Michael lets himself concentrate on the steady sounds. He should close the door, he knows. He doesn't want the papers strewn all over his bed to get sucked out, but he can't make himself move. A strong gust of wind, and the trailer door clacks shut.
Would it be such a bad thing if she knew?
Yeah.
Michael sighs, shakes his head and gets up to put his research away. He's not going to get anything done tonight. He gathers everything in the cardboard box he keeps hidden under his bed and tries not to dwell on the fact that all he is, all he has, fits in one tiny box he's been lugging around since high school.
I'm an airman.
Michael runs a hand across his face, rubbing the memories away from his eyelids.
You're wasting your life, Guerin.
What I want doesn't matter.
Every time you look at me, I feel like I'm seventeen again.
I can't be with a criminal.
Michael can feel his anger boil close to the surface. His blood rattles in his eardrums, drowning out everything else until the only noise he can hear is the swooshing of his speeding heartbeat. He can feel the air charge with electricity around him by the way the hair on his arms straightens and he knows that if he opened his eyes, he would see the content of his trailer floating dangerously in mid-air. He needs to calm down. He needs to lock away the memories until they are nothing but phantom pains in his chest. He needs to –
BANG BANG BANG
A loud, pressing knock on his door jerks Michael out of his stasis. Slowly, he breathes in, fighting against his constricted lungs to let the air in. The effort it takes to take only short, ragged breaths makes bile rise up in his throat. He gives his heart a few seconds to slow down before he starts lowering his furniture to the ground carefully. His back is shivering under the strain. Another loud knock makes him jump slightly.
"What?" Michael snarls viciously before looking at the intruder. The door smashes loudly against the side of the RV but Michael can't hear it. His ears feel clogged. He can only hear the ringing. In front of him, Alex stands, leaning heavily on his crutch.
"Can we talk?"
Alex looks tired and Michael hates himself a little for noticing. He wants to say no, that he doesn't want to hear what Alex has to say. Alex's words hurt and Michael had promised himself a long time ago that he would never let anyone hurt him again. Michael has never been able to turn Alex away.
"I haven't had time to hide all of my meth-cooking equipment," Michael quips while nodding his head towards the plastic chairs facing the cold coals of the fire pit.
The satisfaction he feels when Alex winces is bittersweet. Michael's words can hurt too. Still, Alex stays silent as he turns around to sit on one of the lawn chairs. His steps are small, Michael notes, and Alex is careful when he lowers himself into the chair. Michael steels himself for the rejection he knows is coming. He doesn't understand what Alex is doing, coming back here after so long. Michael heard him loud and clear at the drive-in.
Alex waits while Michael drags thee second chair a careful distance away from him. The sun is starting to set. The ocher hues of the sky make Alex's skin glow like amber. Michael forces himself to look away. Alex has always been blinding. Michael wishes he has his hat on, so that he could hide beneath its shadow when Alex's words inevitably stab him in the heart. The sun is low, it will be dark soon. Maybe the twilight will protect him from Alex's observant gaze. Michael has always preferred te solace of the night, when those who don't want to be seen go can unnoticed.
"What I said the other night…" Alex starts but Michael doesn't want to hear it. He knows what Alex said, he can't forget it. He doesn't want to hear it again, doesn't want fresh memories of it.
"Don't."
Michael wishes he had something to drink, if only to have something to do with his hands.
"I didn't mean it."
That surprises Michael. Alex has never been one to say what he doesn't mean. He laughs to cover up his surprise. It feels like chalk in his throat. He hears Alex sigh.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come here." He reaches for his cane to hoist himself up.
"Yeah," Michael's voice grates like sandpaper, "we wouldn't want you to be tarnished by being with a criminal."
It's the wrong thing to say, and Michael knows it. He should have let Alex leave as he always does but he can't seem to be able to let him go. Michael wants to hurt Alex just as much as Alex hurt him so many times before. He wants Alex to stay, to get angry. Anger is more familiar than apologies.
"I'm sorry, okay!" Alex rages but Michael doesn't feel any satisfaction. "I shouldn't have said what I've said. It was cruel and I'm sorry."
Michael doesn't know what to say to that. Alex used to always be angry, before. He used to vent to Michael about his father, about Kyle, about everyone, but he'd never been angry at himself. Michael remembers thinking that they could be angry at the world together. The thought doesn't seem as appealing now. Now, Michael thinks he could stop being angry if Alex did too.
"My father gets into my head," Alex sags, like the weight on his shoulders just became too much and he wants to lay it all on the ground. "After three tours, you'd think I'd have learn to stand up to him but no, I come back here and I end up running around looking for his approval again."
"What did he say?" Michael can imagine the answer already. Master Sergeant Manes was never shy about making his disdain for his son's preferences known.
"Conduct unbecoming of an airman," Alex answers in a perfect imitation of his father.
Michael can't help a smile from forming on his lips. He has always liked Alex's sense of humor and it is nice to see that ten years in the military didn't completely take it away from him. It has robbed him of too much already.
"Want a beer?"
Alex takes the offer as the olive branch it is meant to be.
"Yes, please."
Michael gets up. He can feel his knees crack and his back pop. His right leg is asleep but he doesn't pay it much attention. He needs to get away from Alex for a little while. His boots raise a cloud of dusty sand with every step. Inside the Airstream, Michael leans on the kitchen counter and just breathes for a second. His heart is hammering in his chest but his throat is tight. Michael wants to ask Alex why he's here, if he doesn't want to attract the ire of his father. He wants to ask Alex to stay, to turn his back on his father, the military, all of it, and just stay with him. He won't ask. Michael is not sure if it's because he's more afraid of the answer he wants or of the answer he'll get. He feels lie walking back out means flinging himself from a cliff hoping to get caught. Michael opens the fridge and grabs two cold beers before making his way out of the RV.
Outside, the moon casts its soft halo on the junkyard. Alex is barely visible. If Michael couldn't catch the light reflect on the crutch laying against a spare barrel he'd think Alex had left. He doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed that Alex stayed.
Michael hands one of the bottles to Alex before sitting back down. It's starting to get cold. Michael can feel the frigid air seeping beneath his flannel shirt, drying the film of sweat that always seems to coat his skin during the day. In a few minutes, it will be too cold to stay outside. The desert is fickle like that. Suffocating one moment, ruthlessly cold the next.
"Remember when we used to watch the stars from the back of your truck?"
Alex's voice is barely louder than a whisper yet it seems to echo in the stifling silence of the desert. Michael turns his head to look at him. Alex is watching the stars, his head thrown back against the back of the lawn chair. The wind makes his hair dance and the moon turns his skin to milk. Alex seems to be looking far away, farther than the stars. He has a slight smile on his face and the lines tightening his eyes have smoothed. Michael wants to drink him in, to never look away. Instead, he looks up to the sky. There are no clouds and the city lights are far enough away that the purple of the Milky Way is visible. He can guess what Alex is thinking about. Michael used to love watching the stars. He used to imagine that on one of them, light years away, there was a family desperately searching for their missing son. He used to wish he could make himself bigger and bigger until he would be noticeable from light years away. With Alex, watching the stars had been a way to share who he was without saying the words. "This is where I come from," he'd wanted to shout. "This is where I belong."
"What do you want Alex?" Michael murmured. He doesn't want to reminisce about their dark past as if their present was brighter. Nothing's changed, indeed.
Michael expects Alex to avoid the question, as he always does.
What I want doesn't matter.
"I'm sorry I freaked out the other day," Alex pleads instead.
"It's fine." Michael raises the beer bottle to his lips. He's going to need courage after what he says next. "You aren't the first person to be ashamed of me." He takes a long sip of his beer. The sour taste does nothing to parch his graveled throat.
"I'm not ashamed of you."
Alex sounds sincere but Michael doesn't know how to believe him. When he turns to look at him, he sees that Alex is already watching him. His brow is furrowed, as if he didn't understand where Michael is coming from. Michael snorts.
"You sure hightailed it out of there quick enough."
Alex diverts his eyes to the ground. Michael watches him as he unconsciously straightens his back and squares his shoulders. Alex is steeling himself and Michael isn't sure he wants to know the reason why. He remembers a time when talking with Alex was not so excruciating, when they didn't need alcohol and fortifying breaths to be honest with each other.
"Last time someone saw us together didn't end so well, Guerin," Alex grouches, as if Michael could ever forget to day that broke his hand and his heart.
"Isobel is not your father, Alex. She wouldn't have cared."
That's a lie. Isobel would have cared that Michael had someone. She would have warned Michael about shacking up with a military man, but she wouldn't have cared that it was Alex in particular.
"I know it's not rational," Alex protests. "It's like – I've been back for two months bur every time I hear a car engine backfire I am back in Iraq. I can't control it. Last week, I ducked under a table when a bottle smashed on the floor next to me at the Wild Pony. Maria had to bring me out of it."
Alex looks small now, his back curved, his shoulders rolled inwards protectively. He's balling his fists so tight Michael can see the fight of his joints and the red of his fingertips.
"Our coming-out resulted in you losing your hand, Guerin." Alex sounds like he is forcing the words out of his throat by sheer force of will. Michael realizes that he is, pushing against years and years of repression. "I know that I'm older now, that I can make my own choices, that it's different. But in my head, there's always my father's voice saying "Educate yourself on how to properly represent you country, airman." Every time we're in public I can hear the crack of the hammer breaking your bones and I can't shut it out so I panic and I – I…"
Alex starts to hyperventilate. Michael can see him struggle to let the air into his lungs, can see his eyes glazing over, his body start to tremble uncontrollably. Michael has never been able to withstand seeing Alex hurt so Michael grabs Alex's clasped hands and softly untangles his fingers. They are stiff and cold against his skin. His fingernails have left deep crescents in the meat of his palms.
"Alex, breathe," Michael soothes, trying to keep his voice calm and soft. "It's fine, you're fine."
Michael babbles nonsensical words that he hopes are reassuring. He doesn't pay attention to what he is saying, focusing instead on the quick rise and fall of Alex's chest and the tightness of his body. Slowly, Alex's breathing starts to calm down and Michael unwinds a little. Their knees are touching. Michael can't remember when they started facing each other. He runs his thumb on the back of Alex's hands. The skin there that used to be soft is now roughened by years spent crawling in the sand.
For a few moments, neither of them say anything. Only Alex's breathing breaks the silence. An incessant ringing fills Michael's ears.
"I'm sorry," Alex croaks out. His voice breaks through the haze is Michael's mind. Alex is averting his eyes, staring intently at the ground. Michael wonders what his father is telling his mind right now.
"Don't apologize for being traumatize," Michael grouches. He winces. He means to sound soothing, reassuring but the frustration he feels at himself seeps through. He should have understood Alex's situation better. He should have known that Alex would have trouble shaking off something as traumatic. Alex is still not looking at Michael and it bothers him. There was a time when Alex would trust him with everything. Michael doesn't like the idea that he lost that trust, and likes even less the realization that he was partly to blame for it. "We can keep it a secret."
That gets Alex to look up and focus all his attention on Michael. Alex's skin is clammy. Small beads of sweat glow just above his eyebrows. His wet hear is stuck to his forehead. His eyes are wide but Michael doesn't know if it's in surprise or disbelief. Both would be justifiable. Michael has always been clear on his disdain for hiding.
"That's not what I want," Alex blurts out. His eyes grow bigger. Michael suspects that that wasn't what he meant to say.
"What do you want, Alex?"
Michael knows he shouldn't ask. He knows that down that road only lies disappointment, but he can't help the spark of hope that Alex has ignited in his chest.
"I want to not be afraid."
"Everyone's afraid, Alex," Michael starts, but Alex fixes his eyes on him and continues talking.
"I want to not be angry all the time. And I want you to be with me while I figure it out."
Alex stops talking and stares at Michael like he's waiting for an answer when he never asked a question. Michael knows what he wants the question to be but he's been wrong before. There are fireworks in his chest and a knot in his throat. Michael thinks that is what trepidation feels like. It reminds him of that first kiss in the UFO museum, and how nervous he'd been then. Still, he flings himself off the cliff and hopes for the best.
"Slow?" He whispers.
"Slow," Alex catches him.
This time, Michael can't keep the smile off of his face and it only grows when he sees Alex's blinding grin in answer. Tantalizingly slowly, Michael bends forwards and presses a kiss to Alex's lips. It's chaste and simple, warm and sweet. When they pull back, Michael can feel Alex's shuddering breath against his cheek. It makes his skin tingle and a laugh bubble in his throat. Michael gets on his feet and helps Alex up. He leads him to the Airstream, their hands still tangled. Michael wants to never let go. In his chest, his heart is hammering, pushing and pushing against his sternum lie an overinflated balloon.
In a corner of his mind, as he presses his naked chest to a sleeping Alex's naked back, the soft light of the nascent sun bathing his skin in gold, Michael thinks that if he were any happier his heart would burst out of his chest.