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There's blood. He can tell that much, congealing in thick clumps, drying into flaky patches as he sits on the curb and shakes. He can't feel his face, except for the distant burn of pain shooting behind his eyes, sharp little needle pricks every time he moves too fast, twitches his head, blinks his eyes. It's all his blood, streaming out of his nose, oozing out of his lip, collecting under the thin skin of his eye in deep hues of purple and brown. His scalp hurts too, clumps of matted curls coming out in his fingers as he runs a hand through it, wincing more at the memory of it being yanked as he was dragged along the road than at the actual sting of touching it.
He hadn't done anything. Not a single damn thing, except be himself. And look at where it got him. Curled up on the floor of some dirty alley, beaten to a pulp, the same colour and temperament as a mashed beetroot.
His eyes drift close of their own volition, as if squeezing them shut for long enough might make it all go away, make this just a horrible dream he can wake up from. Instead his mind helpfully replays everything, projected onto the back of his eyeballs, flashes of fists and feet, raining blows down on him, endless painful kicks and punches drowned out by jeering and shouting. A noise escapes him, some pathetic sound half caught between a whimper and a wail, and slowly he pushes himself up off the ground, hand steadying him until his back finds the wall. One of his legs is twisted awkwardly, and a new round of pain blossoms as he straightens it carefully, slowly, hissing as his knee rights itself into a less grotesque position. He runs a hand over his face, light as a feather, trying to assess the damage there, the tender lumps swelling up, the deep gouges, the scab forming already forming around the hole in his lip. The cold and damp from the concrete seeps eagerly through the seat of his trousers, sending bitter shivers down his spine.
Distantly he thinks that the suit must be ruined, shredded at the elbows and knees, covered in grime and sweat and blood. He liked this one, a deep, seductive red, that clung to him in all the right places. At least it won’t show the blood. That thought makes him laugh, hollowly, the sound cutting miserably through the air before it twists itself into a wracking sob, body shaking with the intensity. Hot, thick tears splash out of his eyes, only serving to make the stinging worse, as they slide saltily over his split lip and grazed cheeks. He wraps his arms around his knees as he curls up tighter, a vague attempt at protecting himself against the horrors of the world.
What had he ever done to deserve this?
Miles is in a scrape again.
They’d followed him, out of the dim passageways of the smokey little bar, picked him out, chose him, maybe even knew his name from one of those dreadful articles. Mama would be terribly cross and probably bully the police into a countrywide search for the perpetrators. She wouldn’t listen to him begging, pleading for it to be kept quiet, that making a fuss would just make the whole beastly thing worse. It’s not as if Miles has ever gone to a great deal of trouble to hide his proclivities, but he can see the headlines now, the scandal of it all. MAITLAND HEIR FOUND GUILTY OF SEXUAL OFFENSES. She doesn’t have to know, he decides in a churlish fit of stubbornness. No matter how much he wants to just go home, curl up in her lap and cry, have her stroke his hair like she used to when he was a child. She can’t know, and that means Miles is just going to have to deal with this by himself.
He stays there too long, long enough that he feels truly dreadful, long enough that the first hint of dawn starts to tint the horizon a pale blue, fighting against the dreary orange halos of the street lights. His head throbs, enough so that he can barely gather his thoughts, but something sensible emerges from the incoherent haze, reminding him that he can't exactly sit here until he's discovered in the morning. If the bloody photo rats catch him like this, he'll never be able to step out into dignified society again. He hauls himself to his feet unsteadily, one hand gripping at the wall behind him,
That only leaves one problem. Where to go.
He can't exactly turn up at the nearest police station. They'd laugh, tell him it serves him right, and probably lock him up for good measure. Nina? She'd be utterly useless, a squawking mess, flapping at him, without the first idea of how to find her way through a first aid kit. It'd be even worse if Adam was with her, as he probably was. Hertford Street would mean drawing attention to himself, Tiger wasn't talking to him anymore, and Aggie was quite out of the question - she likely wasn’t home, even at this hour, and if she was it would take a marching band to raise her. It needs to be somewhere close, somewhere inconspicuous, somewhere with rubbing alcohol and bandages. The name comes to him too easily. It’s a terrible idea, a complete disaster really, and he likely won’t be able to face the man ever again after this, but he has to go somewhere, for God's sake, and it’s the best his battered brain can come up with on short notice.
It’s not far, and even still it takes him much longer than he had considered, hobbling down quiet Mayfair streets, tears spilling over his lashes as he does his best to muffle the pained gasps at every wrong step. One of his eyes is bleary, unwilling to focus properly, and he misses the turning at least twice before he finally collapses on the right doorstep, trembling fingers jamming at the doorbell. He hears it ring faintly inside, sees a light come on in one of the upstairs rooms, and bites back a relieved sob as the door opens a crack, a familiar face appearing around the frame.
The pause is unbearable, and then there’s a vague spark of recognition (does he really look that bad?).
“Miles?”
“Hullo Ginger. Sorry for waking you.” The words tumble out, cracking as they hit the air.
Ginger opens the door wider, and stands there gobsmacked. Even like this he’s so damnably handsome, face caught somewhere between looming shadows and the hallway light, features even more pronounced by the contrast.
"Miles?! Good grief, what the bloody hell happened to you?"
There's a sleepy air about him, even as his eyes focus with shock, dressing gown softly framing his thin shoulders, hair feathered over his forehead, lacking its usual meticulousness. Ginger is always so neat, so put together, and in any other circumstances Miles would delight at seeing him unprepared, unpolished, cosy and dreamy. As it is, he just starts crying again, making ugly noises as his knees buckle and his head aches, staggering further forwards on to the porch. Strong arms embrace him carefully, holding him up, tugging him inside, pushing the door shut.
"There, there, it's alright now." He grips at worn flannel, well aware of the state he's in, blubbering wetly into Ginger's shoulder, but finds he's completely incapable of stopping. And Ginger, well, he just stands there and lets him. "It's alright, I've got you." And he does, Miles realises, arms tightly wrapped around his waist, gently guiding him further into the house, soothing noises dripping from his lips.
“Here, let’s get you sat down, shall we?” He’s deposited carefully into a plush armchair, and when Ginger moves away Miles grabs for him pathetically, fingers twisting in his gown, anything to stop him from leaving. “It’s alright, it’s alright, I’m just going to turn on the light. Just the other side of the room.” Somehow his voice is still patient to a fault, and the thought only makes Miles start crying again, in ugly, snotty heaves that don’t go away even when the light is flicked on. His eyes burn at the sudden brilliance, squinting in pain, and then there’s just Ginger again, the delicate scent of yesterday's cologne, cotton pyjamas and feather-light touches as he brushes Miles’ fringe out of the way.
He almost misses the Good God that is breathed out, and manages a feeble laugh in response, turning away from the tender gaze.
“That bad, is it?” He’s aiming for funny, for that usual quick Miles wit, so infallible, a foolproof mask against however he’s really feeling, but there’s too much emotion in the words for it to be funny, and trying to smile only causes his lip to sting more.
“Not at all, you’re still dashingly handsome.” Ginger’s kind, too kind, and it makes Miles ache, the way he smiles shyly, the way warm eyes skim over his bruised features. Miles knows full well he won’t be tempting any pretty young things any time soon, but Ginger still says the words, still looks at him as though he isn’t a pulpy mess. “What happened Miles? Damnit, who- who did this?”
He aims for an airy wave of the hand, and completely ruins it with a wince the moment he moves his sore shoulder. Ginger’s starting to look pale, ashen, and if Miles didn’t know better he might think he was actually angry about all this, was actually more than just a decent chap to a friend in need. That Ginger might actually care. “I’m sure it was all just a misunderstanding, darling, just a boisterous evening gone sour.” The look Ginger gives him reeks with disbelief, but he doesn’t question Miles’ response, mouth setting in a thin, tight line, brows furrowed together.
“Right- Right, well- Right.” Miles doesn’t push, doesn’t tease for once in his life, because Ginger looks so horribly conflicted, completely uncertain of what to do next, and Miles thinks the sound of his voice might cause him to fall apart completely, shatter in front of him into a thousand tiny shards. “Right. We’d better get you … Better get you undressed.” Miles laughs, not unkindly, ignoring the pain it causes in favour of watching a delightful blush creep up from the collar of a dressing gown, colour the tips of ears and pink at stubbled cheeks.
“Ginger, darling, I’m flattered, but I hardly think now is the time for-”
“Not- Not like that, damnit.” It’s snapped at him a little too harshly, and instantly Ginger looks remorseful, long fingers coming to clasp at Miles’ apologetically. “I need to … Check you over. Put you in a bath. Patch you up. It’s what we used to do in Ceylon.” The words come in short bursts, and with every step Ginger sounds a little more sure, a little steadier.
Of course it was, Miles could say, slyly, tongue peeking out between his teeth, eyes demure. Of course you all stripped down naked just to check each other over. Instead he says “Alright.” through a tight lipped smile, and stands precariously. He can’t exactly justify flirting in this state. And the last thing he needs is to scare Ginger off.
“Bathroom’s this way.” He lets Ginger lead him silently, propped against his side as they shuffle down the narrow hall, doesn’t say a word as he’s brought into the room and perched on a vanity stool, as he watches the other man twist brass knobs and steam start to fill the room. Mutely, he stares as Ginger folds up his sleeves to test the water quickly filling the large claw-foot tub, all elegant hands and thin wrists. The ache in his head worsens. "Right."
"Right." He echoes. Ginger takes a hesitant step towards him, and then stops, fingers fidgeting uncomfortably at the hem of his pockets. The blush is back in full force, and it only worsens as Miles raises shaky fingers to his shirt, slides buttons undone, a deep crimson flush that pours down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his gown. And then he turns, gentlemanly as ever, waiting for Miles to pull off the tattered remains of his suit. It's a sorry state, what's left of it, and his shirt hasn't fared much better, large rusty patches already drying into the threads. What a terrible shame. He'd really liked that suit. His reflection in the long mirror in the corner mocks him quietly, marred horribly. His left elbow is weeping, dark lumps of grit embedding in the skin and his face is … well, barely recognisable.
He's grotesque.
"Are you … That is to say, should I- Do you want me to-" He makes the mistake of glancing over his shoulder, and Miles, who has never once been ashamed of himself, suddenly finds the need to cover himself up and hide away, as undignified as Eve in the Garden of Eden. The way Ginger snapped his gaze around - he really must be hideous. So ugly he can't even stand to look at him. "D-Do you need help getting in?"
He shakes his head, before realising Ginger can't see that gesture, and manages to croak out a quiet no, before limping over to the cool ceramic. He lowers himself into the foam and hot water, and for the first few moments it's glorious, every muscle in his body relaxing, tension he hadn't even known was there melting away. And then it begins to hurt. His teeth find his tongue and bite down, hiding anything but the sharp inhalation as blinding sparks of pain explode in his head.
"Are you alright in there? The water isn't too hot, is it? Is there enough in there? I can always pour out some more if you'd like. Or I can fetch some Epsom salts? Or, or I can …" His words fade away. Miles shakes his head.
"Everything's fine, darling."
"I'll fetch the first aid kit." Retreat. He can't stand to be in the same room as him. Don't leave me, he wants to say. Stay please, I can't bear to be alone. Instead he draws his knees up to his chin, hunches down, and tries to ignore how everything smarts so very badly. The water turns a muddied pink and Miles squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the door open, willing away the tears that are brimming up, threatening to spill down his cheeks again. The door opens, closes, and a cool rush of air tickles across his shoulders. He can hear Ginger pottering around him, setting things out, eyes no doubt trained carefully on the ceiling, anywhere but Miles. He doesn't dare open his eyes, doesn't dare look at Ginger studiously avoiding the sight of him, doesn't do anything but flinch as cool fingers touch carefully around the lumpy bruises littered over his ribs, fluttering over his nose, his elbow, his knees. He wants more than anything to lean into those hands, rest his head in calloused palms and cry his heart out, but he's already caused enough of a problem turning up in such a state at the most ungodly hour, so instead he stays still. Something splashes into the water and is rung out. A flannel perhaps. How quaint.
"This might sting a little, I'm afraid." His voice is laced with a calm quiet, as if he's talking to an injured animal, something wild and dangerous and hurt. Miles nods jerkily, and hisses out a breath as Ginger begins carefully, oh so carefully, patting at his skin, cleaning out wounds and washing away dried clumps of blood. He doesn't dare move, if he does it might not be real anymore, and the soft swish of water and gentle motions of the fabric lull him into a drowsy peace. For a while he is just content to exist, to be bathed intimately without any quips, without the innuendo, without pulling Ginger into the tub for wet, ridiculous kisses. His lips are too swollen to kiss without it being painful - isn't that the most miserable thing. Eventually the spell breaks, and Ginger says here and guides him gently out of the water, wraps him in a towel, sits him down like a naughty child. And Miles lets him.
Something is pulled from a battered tin, a small bottle of brown liquid, which Ginger generously applies to some gauze. His eyes bore into Miles' with a terrifying intensity, hands at the ready to press the wad of fabric against the sickly looking scrape on his elbow.
"I need to disinfect this. And, well, I'm warning you it's going to hurt like ... damnit, like Hell. Worse than Hell maybe. You might wish you were there." Grimly he offers his free hand to Miles, who takes it cautiously. "Try not to scream. It'll be awful trying to explain that to the neighbours." And with that he presses the bandage to the raw skin.
He might have screamed. He's not entirely sure. He might even have blacked out for a moment, white hot agony so acute that his mind can't cope, drifting away to protective unconsciousness. Ginger's hand has deep purple crescents scratched into it, and it takes Miles a while to realise that his nails did that, still coated in chipped scarlet polish. He tries to form an apology but Ginger just continues patching him up with brisk efficiency, two stitches in his forehead, a bandage on his knee, a cold compress for his swollen eye. The kettle whistles from somewhere in the house, and Ginger leaves him with a clean change of clothes to go and make tea, as though a cup of hot liquid will solve everything for Miles.
He hates how wonderful it feels to put on one of Ginger’s soft cotton shirts. It smells like him too, of detergent and the barest hint of musky perfume. The sleeves are too long, and Miles is too tired to push them up his arms, letting them flap ridiculously around his hands as Ginger returns. The corner of his mouth quirks as he helps Miles stand, guides him back to the safety of the sofa, and it’s still there when Miles looks up at him under his lashes, sipping carefully at his tea. It stings. Ginger sits next to him. His eyes droop, and Miles remembers that it’s obscenely late now (or early, depending on who you asked).
“You ought to go to the police you know.” With his head tipped back like that, Miles is given a front row seat to explore the sharp angles of Ginger’s face, the plane of his nose, the ridge of his Adam’s apple. His eyes lap everything up greedily, don’t stop even when Ginger forces his eyes back open, stares at him glassily. “It’s a crime, damnit, Miles, they can’t just- Well, They can’t do this to you. Doesn’t damn well matter what you get up to in your spare time. It’s a crime.”
If only it were so simple.
They drink their tea in silence. Ginger’s words ring loud in his head, a welcome distraction from the dull aching thud of pain. Doesn’t damn well matter what you get up to in your spare time. He’d never thought of Ginger like that - Oh he’s pally alright, but Miles had just sort of assumed that he’d be friendly and nothing more, turn a blind eye when the situation suited him, always keep a careful distance from anything scandalous. Their thighs are very warm where they’re pressed together.
Even expressing things like sympathy could get you in trouble. People might talk, might draw their own conclusions, if you were sympathetic.
Ginger’s head has drooped again, and Miles almost doesn’t want to disturb him, but he stirs when he places his cup down on the low table in front of him anyway, an awfully sweet smile spreading over his lips. Miles shouldn’t be looking at his lips. Perhaps Ginger shouldn’t be smiling with them.
“Come on then, let’s get you to bed. I can’t say that the swelling will be any better in the morning, but rest will do you good.” He stands, offers a hand to Miles, and Miles, well he just stares at it like it’s a cobra ready to strike.
“I thought-” The words are carefully chosen, slowly formed in his mouth, as though saying too much might shake Ginger to his senses, retract the offer as quickly as he had extended it. “It’s for the best if I take the sofa tonight darling.”
“Miles-”
“For the best.” The headlines would be devastating. He doesn’t give a damn about himself, but to drag Ginger down too? He’s not that cruel.
But Ginger is endlessly stubborn when he so chooses.
“Miles, I’m not- You can’t sleep down here in such a state. I’ll take the sofa. You- You need a proper bed.” Oh. Oh, of course, of course that’s what Ginger had meant. There he goes again, getting carried away, reading into things that aren’t there.
“I- Thank you.” There’s still a pain when he stands, sharp and shooting, and he has to lean rather heavily on Ginger to get up the stairs, limbs weighted with a tiredness he hadn’t even noticed until Ginger had mentioned a bed. Now it’s all he can think of, the blissful emptiness of sleep, somewhere to escape to away from all the beastliness. The sheets are rumpled and creased - Miles can see it now, Ginger jumping up at the first chime of the bell, still armed with his military reactions. The room is plain, a little empty, devoid of anything truly personal, the only thing making it distinctly Ginger’s is the little ivory pipe propped neatly on the bedside table, right beside a picture of Nina, frame tarnished from humid seasons. Her big doe eyes watch him balefully as he collapses into the mattress, sinks and sinks and sinks into its welcoming embrace. He curls up like a child, eyes closing gratefully, almost asleep already as sheets are arranged over him, tucked around him with efficient motions. The light switch is flicked off and he barely notices, letting the bone-aching weariness wash over him in slow waves. He doesn’t fight it anymore, warm from the bath and tea, bandaged and disinfected, safe in Ginger’s bed. He’s already asleep, possibly, unable to tell the difference, unable to hear any motion in the room around him. He’s wrong. He’s not asleep. Or at least, not asleep enough.
Not asleep enough that he can’t feel the dry brush of something soft over his stitched forehead. Not asleep enough that he can’t feel the quiet exhale of breath tickling over his skin. Not asleep enough that he can’t tell what a kiss is.
He could pretend he is of course, save both of them the trouble of acknowledging this moment, which was, in all likelihood, a mistake. They’re tired, exhausted, bound to slip up, repeat an old habit in new company, barely conscious of the motion until it’s over. Maybe Ginger won’t even remember doing it, more than half-asleep by now, eyes already shut in anticipation.
He could pretend he’s asleep.
But something warm is fluttering inside of him, something that really ought to quiet down and go to sleep like the rest of him, that is instead bouncing around inside his rib cage, making his heart pound and his breath catch.
He should pretend he’s asleep.
“Ginger?” It’s tentative, quiet enough that he doesn’t have to answer it at all, if he doesn’t want to, if he wants to forget this ever happened and carry on with their fledgling friendship. The shuffling towards the door stops abruptly. He should have pretended to be asleep.
“Miles? I- I thought you were …” Even in the dim light the can see the tension bunching gowned shoulders, hear the falter in his voice as it trails off. Ginger had thought he wouldn’t know, that he was asleep. And now Miles has gone and blown it all.
If he’s going to lose Ginger, he might as well milk what he’s got left for all it’s worth. Ginger won’t talk to him after this, and Miles can see him, carefully ignoring him at the gatherings, eyes skimming over him as though he were invisible, much easier to deny than accept. If Miles only has one night left before he’s shunned, then he damn well deserves to get whatever he can out of the other man.
“Come to bed, darling.” It isn’t a question, but even still his tone is light, gently, one final out for Ginger to use, make his excuses and escape. “Come here.” If Ginger responds then he can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, deafeningly loud. The pause gapes like a chasm, infinitely long and endlessly short, all at once. Then he turns, takes a few hesitant steps back towards the bed and stops again. But he can’t force this, rush Ginger only to scare him away, further than ever, and even as he tells himself that, his traitorous arms sneak out of the covers, searching for something to touch, hold, as if that will convince him, not send him scurrying away. His fingers curl into fabric, gripping, too tight, too revealing of how badly he wants, and he feels Ginger tense, lean back, pulling away.
“Please.” It almost sounds like begging. “Don’t leave me.” Miles has never begged for anything in his life, has never stooped so low as to sound pleading. He lets people beg for him - his attention, his smiles, his time. Is this how they feel? As pathetic as he does in this moment.
"Alright." Comes the response, quiet and unsure at first, but then repeated, stronger. "Alright."
Ginger slips from his grasp, and a cold sense of panic shudders through him, wrapping icy tendrils around his heart, until he sees long fingers unravel the knot at the dressing gowns waist, neatly hung back on its hook on the door. The movements are slow, methodical, and even still there's a hesitation. When Ginger peels back the covers and lays down, he's as stiff as a board. There's a careful inch left between them, and it's intoxicating, feeling warmth leech into cool sheets, the soft rise and fall of a delicate rib cage, the dip in the mattress daring Miles to roll closer, fall into the sharp lines of hips and elbows.
He twists away from it all, turning his back as though that will ease the longing he feels.
"Goodnight, darling."
"Goodnight Miles."
-
The first thing he notices is how warm he is. There's someone in his bed, which is a positively scrumptious thought, and he wriggles closer, stretches an arm over a thin chest and waits for sleep to lull him back into its soft embrace.
He aches too, and although that's normally not unusual, there's something different about this. His head pounds, but not with the typical feeling of too much gin, his lip stings as he runs a tongue over it. So it was rough then. Nothing he can't cope with - nothing he hasn't coped with before. Some men like it that way, and Miles is nothing if not accommodating.
Weak sunlight tickles at his lids, tempting him to open them, but he stubbornly squeezes them closed, burrows deeper into the comfortable tangle of limbs and covers, presses his head into a pyjamaed shoulder, tucks his gaze away from the sun's obnoxious brightness and into the crook of a neck. The pyjamas too are unusual, and belatedly notices his own state of dress, but men are funny in their habits. Miles sometimes doesn't make it out of his clothes in time, and perhaps this chap's the sort who doesn't like feeling vulnerable, even in sleep. It's all perfectly explainable.
He could stay like this forever, perhaps, if allowed.
The man shifts, wrapping himself around Miles as he turns, shielding them both from the light and sliding a delightfully firm leg into even more delightful places. A hum escapes him, grinding his hips down, feeling the straining wanton stiffness greet the motion eagerly. It was quite a wonderful thing to wake up to, and he's sure of how to repay it back, to ease his bedfellow out of the depths of sleep with a sweetly aching pleasure. He leans up, lips well practised in finding their target, at laying sweet kisses along a sharp jaw, at enjoying the gentle tickle of facial hair, prickly stubble fading into the silken strands of a moustache.
A moustache, how intriguing. He can't remember the last time he had a fellow with facial hair.
Then, quite suddenly, hands are shoving at him, fiercely pushing him away as legs scrabble in the opposite direction. Which isn't the behaviour he's come to expect of his companions, no matter how shy they were. He sidles in closer again, determined to prove that there's nothing to be afraid of, his most alluring smile curling at his lips. Surely a man with such a firm response to him could hardly be worried about what might happen - what had already happened last night judging by the state of his aching limbs.
"Miles!" It's hissed viciously as a foot kicks at him again, another flimsy effort to keep him as far away as possible. There's no stopping him now.
"Darling." It's a purr, dripping lewdly off his tongue, velvety in a way that has never failed to work before.
"Miles, damnit, open your bloody eyes!" He doesn't see why he should, more than happy to feel his way around things, but he does so at the familiar voice's insistence, wincing as the light pierces through the crack in his lids and the world swims blurrily into view. He squints, focuses, adjusts, and Ginger's handsome features appear out of the haze, ruddy with a fierce blush. Oh. Now he really had struck lucky last night.
"Ginger." He doesn't let the surprise colour his tone, still that same low, lecherous murmur. Inching forward, his hands find their way back to slender thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles through thin fabric. Those deep brown eyes widen for a moment, and then he's scrambling away again, leaving Miles bereft of his warmth.
"Damnit, stop, stop this and just think." There is something, nagging at him, telling him this scenario isn't quite right. "Do you- Do you remember last night?"
Last night. He'd gone to Lottie's, run into Charlie and his handsome young beau who'd persuaded him to come back for drinks, then they'd all piled out to the Caravan, and then-
It comes flooding back in a painful mess of flashes, intersected by large black holes in his memory. He'd been attacked.
Ginger, he'd come to Ginger's and- A horrified hand flies up to his face, feeling over his warped and swollen features. No wonder he'd been so eager to escape Miles' embrace, waking up next to such a hideous creature. How frightfully embarrassing, to impinge on the other man like this, while he looks like this. His legs wobble dangerously as he climbs out of the bed, but it’s not enough to make him pause, quickly gathering up his shoes and the keys laid out on the bedside table. He has to leave, has to get out of this awful, awful situation, and then, maybe he can pretend it never happened, swallow an aspirin down with a martini and hide away in the quiet safety of Hertford Street.
What would Tiger think of him, if he saw him like this?
There are tears welling up behind his lashes, hot and ashamed, threatening to spill out any moment, but he wills himself not to cry, plasters a guileless smile over his lips, and turns to face Ginger again.
“I don’t suppose you have a pair of sunglasses I can borrow, darling? It’s just, well going outside like this, might catch a few stares, might even cause a scandalous article to be written, and I’d rather avoid that if possible, Mama was so upset after the last one that beastly little Simon Balcairn wrote about me, and-”
“Miles- Miles, I-”
He charges on regardless. “I suppose I should say thank you really, very kind of you taking me in last night. We’ll go to lunch sometime, I promise darling, the Ritz maybe.” Ginger’s gaze is filled with something so pitiful that he can’t bear to look anymore, flicking his eyes over to the safety of a barren corner of the ceiling. “On me, of course. Just to say thank you. You deserve it, putting up with my antics. But I really ought to be going now, no point in ruining your day any longer.”
Sunlight dapples at the silent air once he trails off. He doesn’t dare look at the other man.
“You can,” Ginger’s voice is so quiet he has to strain to hear it. “You can stay, if you’d like.”
A laugh escapes his lips, surprised and sudden, and a hand rises to wave it away, clear it from the air as quickly as it had appeared. “Wonderfully polite of you, but I shan’t be an imposition a moment longer-” He misses the movement, would have dodged away from it carefully if he had just been looking at him. Something deep inside him is glad he wasn’t, as slender fingers wrap around his wrists, holding him steady, preventing him from escaping.
“Stay. I want- You’re not an imposition, Miles.” And now it’s Ginger’s turn to look away, eyes darting about anywhere but Miles’ face. His voice is earnest, scarily so, before he gathers himself, and the tone turns light, jovial. “And besides, you can’t go out looking like that, you’ll be the talk of the town. We can’t let Simon or Van catch you like this.”
For a moment, a brief, glorious moment, he almost believes him. Ridiculous really, letting his heart run away with the idea, and then he’s tugging against the vice-like grip on his hands, desperate to escape before he does something even more profoundly stupid, something that couldn’t be passed off as the actions of someone injured or sleep-deprived.
“I appreciate the thought, darling, but,” But Ginger isn’t letting him go. But Ginger isn’t backing down. But Ginger is pulling him in closer, keeping him pressed against his slight frame. “What will people say if they find out I stayed here all night? It would ruin your reputation.”
“I don’t care.” If only that were true, but Miles is like a walking scandal, and anyone who gets too close to him gets dragged through the mud too. “Damnit, I don’t care. Please, don’t leave me.”
It’s his own words, Miles knows. Can hear them being thrown back at him with the waver of Ginger’s voice, can hear the mirrored wants and needs there. Except he doesn’t have the darkness to hide in now, bared before the intensity of the sunlight and the wild look of sincerity plastered on those sharp features. It’s a mistake, it must be, something brought about by the loneliness of a man recently returned from the Tropics, thrust into a careless society, a man who hasn’t slept well, who might be ill for all Miles knows, feverish, frenetic. It’s a mistake, but he’ll play along with it, give his heart what it desires, string it out for as long as he can get, savour every moment before reality comes crashing down around them, wakes Ginger from his reverie.
“Alright.” He echoes, just as unsure as the man standing before him. “Alright.”
When Ginger leans in and kisses his forehead, he doesn’t pull away, instead tilting his chin up until he can slant his lips just right, steal the kiss away for himself. His heart is threatening to jump out of his throat. And then Ginger smiles at him, bright and brilliant, as blinding as the sun itself.
“What would you say to breakfast?”
His lips twitch, and then stretch past the pain, incapable of not smiling back, matching that incorrigible grin.
“I rather think it’d be closer to lunch by now, darling.”
He bathes in the laugh it pulls out of the other man, committing every note to memory.
He’ll savour every moment.