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Alex isn’t sure when he decided that drinking his own body weight before going to see Miles would be the way to go, but he’s definitely drunk out of his mind by the time he reaches the hotel his friend is staying at. It takes him some effort to get out of the cab and then some to convince the hotel personnel that Miles really is expecting him, but he does make it up to the right room eventually. He leans heavily against the wall as he knocks on the door, using his free hand to clutch a bouquet of flowers against his chest. He’s dropped it twice already, once as soon as he’d paid for it and once whilst getting into the cab. The flowers look gritty and muddy now, which is a bit of a shame, because Miles likes bright colours. Alex plucks at a few of the grimiest petals mindlessly, watching them fall to the floor and onto his white trainers before knocking on the door again. Shouldn’t Miles have opened it by now? Granted, he’s late, but he’s always late and Miles was the one who insisted they’d meet in his hotel room. The least he can do is open the stupid door.
Alex briefly entertains the idea of just leaving. It’s not as if he wants to be here. He would have much preferred to meet at a pub, the more crowded the better, rendering all attempts at meaningful conversations useless. They would have sat down in a booth together, close enough for their thighs to touch. Miles would have resorted to half-shouting stories he knows will make Alex laugh into his ear and Alex would have bought him drinks as some sort of apology, although he isn’t too sure what exactly he’d be apologising for. He’d put his hand on Miles’ thigh, sneak in a cuddle or two, and a quick snog when no one would be looking. It would have been familiar and comfortable – a worthy reunion after them not having seen each other in four months (not that Alex has been keeping count). Nothing about meeting in a quiet hotel room says familiar and comfortable. Alex isn’t a fool and he’s very aware of just what possibilities it does open up, but he can’t be sure that that’s what Miles is after. It’s been four months, after all. Four months in which they’ve only been in touch via text and the odd phone call. They’ve both been touring, they've both been focussed on their own lives, Alex has been dating again. He simply can’t be sure if Miles will still welcome him with a kiss and his crooked fond smile, and if they’ll still move as naturally together as they should. He can’t be sure if Miles can still read him like an open book, or if he’s lost interest in even trying. The very last thing Alex wants right now is to be alone in a quiet hotel room with a Miles that might not be his anymore, scrambling for things to say, causing awkward silences and tripping over his own words.
Alex gives the closed door his best angry stare. With every second that passes, he grows surer that agreeing to this was a mistake. Part of him is annoyed with Miles. They’re supposed to be able to read each other’s minds, which means that Miles should know that meeting in a pub would have made Alex feel more at ease. Still, he insisted on meeting in his hotel room instead. The thought that maybe, Miles really has lost the ability to see through him makes Alex feel like he hasn’t drank enough to survive tonight by far.
At least Miles’ appearance hasn’t changed a bit. Alex can’t help but laugh when his friend finally appears in the doorway, wearing a pair of Fred Perry trackies, a chain around his neck and a fair amount of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He looks pale and tired, and if the frown on his forehead is anything to go by, he’s not at all amused. Alex quickly takes his weight off the wall and scrambles to put it onto his feet instead. He’s satisfied to notice that he doesn’t even sway. “Hello,” he slurs, extending the muddled bouquet of flowers. “I brought you these.” It was supposed to be a joke, a teasing reminder of what they used to be like together, but Miles just scowls at him and Alex immediately wishes he’d have gotten him a larger bouquet, a clean one with more colours than Miles could possibly count.
“You’re three hours late,” Miles says, but he accepts the bouquet that Alex is still holding out to him and steps aside to let him in. It’s strange to finally hear his real voice instead of the tinny version of it that Alex has sporadically heard over the phone over the past couple of months. He crosses his arms over his chest and – in an effort to seem playful and calm rather than nervous and downright pissed – he mutters: “Fashionably late, eh? I brought you flowers, Mi.”
Miles doesn’t grace that with a reply. He just turns around and disappears into the room. Alex follows on wobbly feet. He stops as soon as he’s inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, and takes in his surroundings from where he’s standing. The room looks pristine and impersonal, apart from a few of Miles’ belongings scattered out on the large bed and a worn pair of loafers that is sitting by the door. Alex remembers the shoes from when Miles bought them during their Puppets tour three years ago. He smiles wearily. Only Miles would use a pair of overpriced Gucci loafers as his destined travel shoes. The space smells like coffee and Miles’ shower gel, which grants Alex with the confidence to take another few steps into the room. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair, leaning against it as he watches Miles fill a pint glass with water. He tries to balance the flowers in it, but the glass wobbles dangerously as soon as he sets it down. Alex tries for a chuckle, but the sound that makes it out is a little too harsh to sound like one. “Look, they’re kind of like me,” he blurts out and, realising how stupid he sounds, quickly follows that up with: “Hey, come on, you don’t have to. Just toss them out. They’re disgusting.”
Miles ignores him. He carefully leans the glass with the flowers against the wall, making sure they won’t fall over this time. “It’s one in the morning,” he mutters, giving Alex a look over his shoulder. “I phoned you at least ten times. Jamie didn’t know where you were, no one knew where you were, I was this close to calling the police.”
Alex smiles. It’s all he can do. He holds on tightly to the back of the chair and just smiles this ugly little smile that hurts his cheeks. Miles’ nostrils flare. It takes a lot to make him angry, but Alex showing up plastered at his hotel room in the middle of the night, carrying a bunch of grimy flowers, clearly did the trick. Alex is painfully aware that now would be the right time to apologise an explain himself, but the room is too empty and bland and big, and he can’t think of the right words to fill it up with. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Miles looks at him expectantly, but Alex ends up just shaking his head. He has nothing. Just the jumbled mess of thoughts that usually resides in his mind. Every explanation that comes to him (“I was nervous”, “You sounded different over the phone last time we spoke”, “It’s been four months”, “I have a girlfriend now”, “Look, I’m letting my hair grow out again, do you like it?”) doesn’t even come close to what he’s really been thinking ever since Miles suggested they’d meet up in his room. None of the words are perfect, and he’s going to need them to be if he wants to explain himself to Miles properly. Ergo, he just doesn’t speak.
The worst part of it all is that Miles remains completely silent as well. He, of all people, isn’t supposed to let Alex get away with swallowing his words. He always presses Alex to speak his mind and over the years, he’s developed his fair share of techniques to convince him that whatever he has to say, whether it’s spot on and perfect or not, is important. Sometimes, he simply bugs Alex about it until he gives in out of pure annoyance, and just blurts out the first words he can think of in an attempt to convey what’s on his mind. Sometimes, he smiles that wicked grin of his that never fails to make Alex’ eyes darken, and proceeds to trail his lips over Alex’ throat, smiling against skin as Alex’ head falls back and he relaxes under Miles’ touch. Words always seem to come much easier after that. Sometimes they just sit in silence, shoulders touching as they sip their drinks, until Alex has collected his thoughts and slowly lays them out for Miles, word for word, knowing that his friend won’t let it go until he’s heard Alex’ newest idea, lyric or concept. No matter what method Miles chooses, Alex always ends up feeling at ease enough to talk. Most of the time his abstract musings don’t make much sense at all, but they never fail to give him the confidence to reflect on his own words and further explain this new song idea that he hasn’t been able to let go, or why he particularly enjoyed this film he saw the other day. He might write some of the good words down to incorporate them into a song later on, or he might replace them with the words that Miles suggests – usually those exact words that Alex had been scrambling for in the first place. It’s not like that with anyone else. Only Miles. They’re supposed to be able to read each other’s minds – to know when words are required rather than touch, and vice versa. So when Miles doesn’t say or do anything to convince Alex to speak, Alex's throat constricts and coming up with the right words becomes impossible. The silence is deafening as it stretches on, and Alex isn’t sure how to end it. He tightens his grip on the chair and silently curses himself for coming here in the first place.
Miles shakes his head. “Fine,” he says. “Don’t say anything, then. I’m going to bed. You can sleep here, but not before you’ve had a shower. You smell.”
His words cut like steel, but Alex supposes he deserves them. Still, there are always ways to make things worse, and Alex is feeling particularly self-destructive today. “We could have sex,” he blurts out. Somehow, to his drunken brain, that simple phrase seems like an alright summary of everything that’s going on inside his head right now, and part of him feels that Miles should understand exactly what he means by it; part of him feels like Miles should understand that having sex would fix everything. It’s what they do, after all. They hang out together, they kiss, they shag, they talk. It’s always been like that. But Miles looks at him incredulously for a second and then just shakes his head again. He gets into bed without another word, so Alex decides to quietly slink off into the bathroom. So far for his first few minutes of being reunited with Miles. He feels like the scum of the earth and, judging from one look in the large bathroom mirror, he looks the part, too.
*
The hot water wakes him up a little and makes him feel drowsy at the same time. His muscles, tight and sore after he’s been hunched over a bar for too long, relax slowly but surely. Alex carefully angles his head up to let the spray hit him right in the face. The liquor in his system is starting to feel like a definite ‘too much’, and he scrubs himself clean as well as he can, as if can get rid of all the toxins in his body by doing so. By the time he emerges from the shower his skin is wrinkled and his hangover has settled in early. He fills a glass with water and drinks from it eagerly, then groans as he starts making his way across the spinning bathroom, a fluffy towel wrapped around his waist.
Miles is sitting up in bed and his head snaps up when Alex emerges from the bathroom, steam billowing out after him. “You took your time,” he comments, and Alex presses his lips tightly together. Miles, despite his obvious anger, is exactly like Alex remembers. The way he’s sitting there, exuding confidence, long legs stretched out in front of him, makes him look so utterly unchanged that it suddenly seems odd to assume that things between them are different at all. In a way, it makes sense that Miles wanted to meet here. Maybe, if Alex hadn’t felt the need to get drunk and show up three hours late, they could have just been them. Maybe Miles would have kissed him hello. Maybe they’d be tangled up in those sheets that Miles is sitting on right now, their naked bodies pressed together. But that’s just the thing: ‘maybe’ isn’t enough. They never discussed the terms of their relationship and even though that has never stopped them before, Alex needs some kind of confirmation after their time apart. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and Miles arches an eyebrow. He probably thinks Alex is seconds away from throwing up on the carpet under his feet.
“I’m sorry.”
Miles has the grace to not look surprised. He nods, giving Alex the smallest of smiles. “I figured as much,” he says, and it’s the best, most perfect thing he could possibly have said. Alex laughs and his eyes prick with tears of relief, which he blames on the alcohol. He blinks them away without any trouble. Miles watches him curiously. His eyes rake over Alex’ body shamelessly and Alex lets him. He feels at ease under that gaze. He stands around uselessly, his brain whirring as he tries to think of something to say that would be just as perfect as what Miles just told him. Before he gets the chance to come up with anything, Miles gets up and out of bed. He walks over to where Alex is standing, bare feet on carpet, and halts right in front of him, a little too close for comfort. Personal space has never meant much to either of to them, but it’s been four months and Alex feels like a deer caught in headlights.
“Don’t I get a hug, Al?” Miles asks, and Alex breathes out a surprised little laugh.
“Right,” he says. “Right. Yes. Of course you’re getting a hug.” His accent sounds as thick as his tongue feels. He approaches Miles with much more caution than he ever has before, and not just because he has to focus on each step to make sure he won’t fall flat on his face. Without making eye-contact, Alex wraps an arm around him, fully intending to just give him a quick hug from the side, but Miles is not having it. He pulls Alex flush to his body with one arm and puts his other arm around his shoulders. Alex lets out a surprised puff of air. His own arms snake around Miles’ waist and Miles’ shoulder is right there, so he rests his chin on it and closes his eyes for a second. “You’re skinny,” he points out thoughtlessly, resting careful hands on Miles’ hips. “Skinny and brawny. Interesting.”
Miles shrugs. “And you’re still drunk,” he mutters, squeezing Alex’ shoulder a little too tightly for it to be comfortable. Alex hums in response. He feels very tired. Miles pulls back from their hug, then, and Alex almost whines in protest. He manages to keep his mouth tightly shut, but the look on Miles’ face tells him that he’s not fooling anyone. “This wasn’t really what I imagined our reunion to be like,” he says, steadying Alex with two hands on his upper arms.
Alex narrows his eyes. He can only see one of Miles, which is a very good sign, but it’s a blurry version of him. “I like your face better when it’s in focus,” he complains, reaching out a hand to touch Miles’ cheek. He feels silly saying it and he briefly wonders just how silly he’ll feel in the morning, upon waking up with the memory of those words still fresh in his mind. He flinches at the mere thought. Still, he can’t bring himself to pull his hand back. He carefully traces the pads of his fingers over the stubble on Miles’ jaw. It feels really nice. Miles gently bats his hand away. “Right,” he says calmly. He doesn’t seem all that angry anymore. “Let’s get you into bed.”
Miles fills another glass with water and sets it down on the nightstand next to Alex’ usual side of the bed. Alex just stands there and watches. It’s only when Miles rounds the bed again and gets under the covers that he realises that he should probably move, so he does. He stands next to the bed for a few seconds, wondering what to do with the towel around his waist, then lets it fall to the floor, not wanting to make a fool of himself by trying to keep it on as he gets into the bed. He quickly gets under the duvet that Miles is holding up for him. A contented sigh makes its way past his lips as the thick sheets engulf him and glide across his skin reassuringly. He turns onto his side. Miles does the same, leaning on an elbow and propping his head up on his hand. He reaches out to trace a thumb over Alex’ cheek. “What’s going on with you?” he wants to know. “I know it’s been a while and I knew it’d take you a while to warm up to me again, but I didn’t expect you to be all – ” He makes a vague gesture with his hand before settling on: “First you’re all adamant that we go to a pub, then you show up three hours late, completely pissed. And what’s with the flowers, anyway?”
Alex blinks and steals a quick glance at the flowers on the table, propped up against the wall. They look just about as pathetic as he feels. “It were a stupid idea. The flowers, I mean. They were supposed to make a point of some sort.” He clears his throat and studies Miles' face, with its curious eyes and the concerned frown. He despises himself for putting that frown there and what’s even worse is that he can’t for the life of him figure out how to explain himself. His mind is still buzzing, but there’s nothing there that he can put his finger on. Nothing he can find the right words for. “I just wanted have sex with you,” is all that makes it out once again, blunt and only half true. It’s frustrating that he can’t just get to the point, but Miles laughs quietly.
“How remarkably straightforward of you,” he murmurs, and Alex knows he’s doing him a favour by not just laughing in his face. “Tomorrow, alright?” Miles says. “When you’re sober.” He runs his fingers through Alex’ hair, pulling softly. Alex hums lowly in the back of his throat. His eyes flutter closed.
“Wouldn’t ‘ave shaved me head if I’d remembered that you do that sometimes,” he muses.
“That’s why it’s been four months, hasn’t it,” Miles grins. “You secretly just wanted to grow it out before seeing me again. Busted, Turner.” He pulls again, ever so gently, and smiles as Alex’ face goes slack.
Alex doesn’t bother with a clever reply of his own. “Got it into me mind that I could only survive tonight plastered,” he admits instead, still looking for what he really wants to say. “I don’t know what I mean by that. I’m probably just an idiot. Let’s just pretend this never happened, yeah?”
Miles hand in his hair doesn’t still, calming him down further. “No, come on, Al,” he mutters. “You don’t get to play that trick on me. It’s as if every time we don’t see each other for a while, you just draw back into that beautiful head of yours again. It’s only me. I can’t read minds, but this is as close as I’m ever going to get. Don’t take my only superpower away from me, okay?”
“I didn’t want to talk to you.” Alex turns onto his back, opening his eyes again and staring at the ceiling. “That’s why I figured we could go to a pub. I wanted to spend time with ya, not trip over my own stupid tongue and make you despise me. It’s been ages. And it’s a big room, this is. Too fuckin’ hostile an environment for talking.”
Miles shrugs his shoulders. “I know it’s been a while, but I wasn’t aware that we had anything serious to discuss.” He hesitates, pulling his hand back and turning onto his back as well. “Do we? Is this about your girlfriend?”
Alex shakes his head. “No. But would it even matter if it were?” he asks. He’s painfully aware of what that makes him sound like, but it’s true. It wouldn’t matter. He’d choose Miles and their strange best friends to lovers arrangement over anyone, in a heartbeat. “Most relationships don’t last. Ours has. That’s daunting to me,” he admits, speaking slowly and carefully as he attempts to untie knotted thoughts.
Miles turns his head to look at him. “So let me get this straight, you were nervous because we’ve been pretty damn great together?” He arches an eyebrow, then laughs. “You really need to get out of that head of yours more, Al. It sounds like a stressful fucking place to me.”
“Hm,” Alex murmurs, blindly swatting a hand against Miles’ chest. “I suppose I just let it get too serious sometimes.”
Miles picks up his hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “You’re worried we’ve changed,” he murmurs. “Which I’m sure we have. But that doesn’t mean this has to change. Has it ever? We’ve gone for longer than four months. I’m used to it taking a while before you’re comfortable with me again, but I’m not used to you fooling yourself into thinking you have to be pissed to feel brave enough to face me. I’m still all yours. And I like to think that you’re still mine. Despite the time apart, despite all the different haircuts, and despite me wearing makeup if I fancy it. Despite the fact that we often sleep with other people. You’re still mine. You’re not getting rid of me by simply cutting your hair, or wearing clothes that don’t fit you, or even by dating beautiful women.”
And there it is. All Alex can do is listen as Miles neatly and efficiently summarises his worries and soothes them all at once. The man deserves a bloody medal for that. He laughs, relieved, and squeezes the hand that is still wrapped around his own. “My clothes do fit,” he murmurs. “Just because you tend to wear things that are so tight that they don’t leave anything to the imagination doesn’t mean I should.”
Miles laughs quietly. He reaches back to turn off the lamp on his bedside table, enveloping the bleak room into a comforting darkness. Alex inches closer, pressing his naked legs against Miles’ sweatpants-clad ones. Miles tangles their legs together and wraps an arm around him, and Alex all but melts into the embrace. “I’m not sure if I’m drunk or hungover, but I feel like absolute shit,” he complains, and Miles chuckles.
“That’s what you get,” he teases, ruffling his hair affectionately. “You’d better make it up to me tomorrow. I have it on good authority that you’ll be buying me breakfast after we have mind-blowing sex.”
Alex chuckles. Warm, welcome relief is flooding his veins and he has half a mind to roll them over and snog Miles senseless as a thank-you. Instead, he just nips at his chin and presses a kiss to Miles’ lips. “I wouldn't be so sure about that. I already brought you flowers,” he reminds him with a smile. “But remind me again when your face is less blurry and I'll see what I can do.”