Chapter Text
After spending countless months on end tugging along his four-wheeled luggage and meticulously stickered instrument cases around the world, the abrupt stop to Alex’s busy lifestyle wasn’t appreciated. It didn’t matter how many years he’s done this for, there was always some mourning cloud that hung high over Alex’s head post-tour. He’d grieve the death of who he was then, in those compiled nights he shared cigarettes with strangers, and those almost-sober midnight phone calls always made the perfect concoction to bring him some form of emotional disaster. Usually, this prompts Alex to disappear off of the face of the Earth, where he forgets to ring up his mum and tell her that he’s in town again for a while, but instead spends the time in his abandoned flat, reading books and their film adaptations soon thereafter.
He knew that he could sum it all up if he could just put his words together, organise them exactly where he needs them to be so they could speak for him. There was never an explanation behind his so-called ‘eloquent’ thought process of his that was easy enough to break down. When he’s lucky, Alex could set aside a cluster of words and attempt to form a sentence, but that hasn’t happened in too long. His words are grieving too, Alex is not himself.
All of it happened too fast for Alex. The world didn’t grant him a moment of silence for him to realise what had happened, and what that would mean from that moment on. He still has the voicemail, where he can feel the Ibiza summer heat, and smell the suntan lotion on Miles’s skin. He couldn’t even bring himself to be upset over how it happened; his (ex) boyfriend called him thousands of miles away—maybe holding onto the hope that he’ll answer and somehow prove him and his doubts wrong—because he can’t stand it anymore, but Alex wasn’t there to answer. He was. He remembers watching his phone vibrate on the table of his hotel room, Alex’s favorite picture of Miles wearing a green bucket hat, with a smile unlike no other. Alex had spent the entire day with this dread in his heart and fear in his stomach because he walked past a mirror and found himself unrecognizable. All he could do was watch.
Miles was never wrong. It was many things that had happened, never the distance, the time differences, how could Miles see that as a problem? Alex changed too much and was never true to himself when he wanted to, needed to. Miles knew that it was his fear of acceptance, more so on his behalf rather than the millions of fans worldwide that speak of him in their daily routines. It did something to Alex, watching Miles get on with his life, Liam Gallagher was now his friend, Fred Perry collaborations called his name, and maybe the one girl from the Liverpool flagship store did too.
At one point Alex thought he had to break in the record as you do with a new pair of boots, that he had to adjust to Miles' new sound, that he'd have to schedule ten minutes a day for a quick 'hello' so things wouldn’t change. But nothing cured the loss of who Alex had become, the beard, the hair, the rose-tinted aviator sunnies. A new person, who finally came to terms that he loved a man and felt good about himself when he declared his love while wearing pearl jewelry, he couldn’t accept it yet.
Everywhere reminded him of Miles. The only place that remained his were airplanes, where he could spend hours alone without the memory of him and Miles doing something somewhere weighing down his consciousness. He supposed the only reason airplanes remained his was because the flights are easy to forget, having spent them mostly sleeping, recovering until the next show.
Soon after the tour, after the breakup, Alex got used to mumbling a tired greeting when slumping onto a red-eye flight, tucking away his current read between his legs and feeling the slight pull of his lashes every time he put on his eye mask. Long-haul flights became a guilty pleasure for Alex, acting as a reminder of sorts that he had something to look forward to when the cloud over his head became particularly dark and gloomy. Whether it was a plan, a meal, or sitting on a chair in that one café where he first tried coffee with oat milk a few years back. Costly distractions they were, and he knew he was fortunate to treat himself this way.
He was snapped out from his thoughts when the air hostess spoke.
"What would you like to drink, sir?" He looks up at her, smiling down at him with red lips. He looks around, stumbling over his words. It is then he realises how many years have passed since he last remembered his true self. He likes to avoid the truth.
He felt helpless, having forgotten his favorite drink. But he knew Miles’s.
"Have you got champagne?"
Stretching his legs out in front of him, Alex swirls the champagne in its flute. He always found it bitter, knowing he chose it more because he missed the togetherness and stability. Whenever Miles would stay with Alex, there was always at least one bottle of champagne in his cupboards.
He took a sip, mouth curling upwards at the fizz. There was a purpose for this flight, for once it wasn’t pointless. He was flying to regain a piece of himself. It was time to stop living the loss of his past self, by breaking his invisible streak.
Those days were planned, spending hours the night before thinking of where his shoes should take him once light fills his room. His sunglasses would be left atop the dresser and he'd step out with a plain outfit, a fresh canvas. This was all in the hope that Miles would remember the early mornings on the Parisian rooftops with the smudged glitter streaks across his face and the faded lipstick on Alex's lips should a picture of him with a fan appear on his feed.
All so that Miles can never forget who Alex was, and maybe can still remember that the true self Alex is was only seen through his eyes. Deep down, Alex knew Miles was the only person capable of saving him.
When they were together, life was soft and quiet. Much like the silk bedsheets from Miles’s bedroom that will always smell of the sun and the pack of reds he leaves behind wherever he goes. If Alex forgot himself, Miles would kiss him, tell him it is okay, and teach him to forgive himself. But apart from each other, Miles is loud and makes his presence known. Captivating. With ease, he catches the attention of the femmes and hommes in the room with every step he takes, leaving room only for the ‘what-ifs’ to fill the air. It made, and makes Alex want to tear out his hair, strand by strand, because alone, Miles is the epitome of being ‘it’. By himself, Alex found that he was just Alex. A four-letter word, without a breath or sigh attached.
The thread that held their relationship together ripped at the seam when Alex realised there was more to co-existing, and it was unfair of him to rely on Miles without offering him a drop of love in return. By the time Alex grew his hair back and tuned his guitar for the final few shows, Miles was suntanning on Spanish beaches without the drag of Alex’s heart, marking the day that remembrance was forgotten.
Missing isn’t like forgetting. Forgetting is locking memories away in his heart with the hopes that they’d never see the light of day because he dropped the key down a drain somewhere in Sheffield’s City Centre. Missing, is holding onto that key tight.
Through the dim purpled lighting, the memories began to pile on, pushing against his throat. Taking a flight every two or three weeks was never meant to be an attempt to escape from his reality, more of one to relive it. He wasn’t fond of living this way and soon learned that loneliness was an oddity, one that depended on the day.
If Alex was alone on a Sunday, he’d lay on his bed with his body warm and hair tousled until he finally forgot the scent of his temporary lover. On a Tuesday, he’d walk through grocery store aisles with a pad and pen in hand, and make a meal meant for two, just for one. But, no matter the day, if he was alone and on an airplane, it meant he could be at peace and actually sleep. Never did it mean it was time to think because to Alex, thinking was selfish. It made him wonder and dream of places too far to reach and catching those glimpses of who he was meant to be would do him more harm than good. He only dreamt when he needed to create.
His kisses, his touch, his words, fell onto Alex's lap where the imaginable danced around him. Will he be stable for once? Or will his foolishness lead him into another mourning? His chest heaved, the sanctuary where he could ignore the mistakes of his past self and rejoice in the victories is changing.
What if he’s forgotten himself completely?
No one knows. So he doesn’t cry, even though the tears press behind his eyes and threaten to spill. He won’t let them, not here, in his safe haven. He finishes the champagne and sinks into his seat, pulling his eye mask over his eyes.
In a few hours, the plane will land and someone will ask for a picture. With a hand around their waist and something that looks like a smile, he can tell the world—Miles, his world, who he could never give it even if he wanted to. At least, not like this—that he exists. He’ll no longer go to the half-furnished home he bought a few years back, a pack of reds sits on the kitchen counter and the memories of what he had live as if they were made yesterday. He’ll check into the Chateau Marmot and spend his days practicing his pas-mal French in the mirror beneath the Hollywood sun. Alex will hide his pearl ring and find his neck enveloped by the thighs of a woman who will now lead his life. Maybe she can piece Alex together until Miles can.
And only at night, when he looks out his window to watch the airplanes flying amongst the clouds, Alex will let himself remember the men he lost.