Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Miles notices Alex from far away.

It’s hard not to notice him. Every person who’s slightly knowledgeable of the Brit music underground has heard of the infamous Arctic Monkeys, and Miles, being a part of said Brit underground, noticed Alex before him and his clever little band became stars.

Alex always stands out, not in a sore thumb way, but not in a main-character-in-a-coming-of-age-movie way either. They go to the same pub, the same gigs, and Miles' eyes somehow manages to land on Alex’s easily recognizable curly wolf cut, every time.

It doesn’t take long to observe that he always tries to get away, Alex does. Whenever Miles steps outside for a smoke, he will see Alex trying to sneak off in the middle of a night out and hail a cab home, despite being sober enough to run on his feet. He wasn’t stalking Alex Turner, although he will admit it’s weird, how he’s so attuned to Alex when he doubts whether or not Alex even knows his name. He always shrugs it off, though, calls himself observant and re-enters the pub with the intention  of getting absolutely plastered. He doesn’t think about Alex for the rest of the night.

He doesn’t think about Alex Turner often, and he doesn’t see Alex Turner often (affording drinks every week is tight, considering his indie-band-no-one-cares-about-with-not-a-single-record-out-yet budget), but he knows him. After their legendary demo tracks, though, Arctic Monkeys aren’t exclusively underground anymore. Everyone has got a hold of their CD since they hand them out without fail at every gig they play (the Flames own six, collectively). Suddenly, everyone knows him. Miles would usually be mad jealous, blowing up a house in all his bottled-up envy about how that should be him and his band, the bitter man that he is, but somehow there is none. He’s quite pleased for Alex, even, which is. Strange. 

Miles doesn’t usually drink alone, but today he does. His band mates are all busy with dates, families, etc., and he’s happily nursing a beer in his hand, chatting with strangers around him. When his beer goes lukewarm and he feels a little too fuzzy, he steps outside for a smoke to enhance it, to reel the sensation in quicker. When he rounds at the spot where he usually stands at, someone is already there, lighting a cig of their own.

Alex’s soft but stoic face is lit by the snap of his lighter in the dark alleyway, curls dangerously close to the white flame. Deciding fuck it, Miles comes closer and stands right next to Alex, rummaging through his jacket’s pockets for his pack.

“Shit.” His pockets are empty. As soon as he’s said that, a cigarette is held out in front of him. Alex Turner is staring expectantly at him when he turns to look.

“Well?” He says, when Miles takes too long to respond. “Aren’t you here to smoke?”

“Yeah.” Miles clears his throat. “Yeah, I am.”

“And you forgot your pack, so here you go.” Alex wiggles the cigarette in front of him to take, a dark eyebrow raised. Miles takes it, and sees Alex stuffing away his pack, catching the light packaging. He only smokes reds but he keeps silent, pulling out his lighter and lighting the end of his gifted cigarette instead. He takes the first drag when Alex speaks again. “You’re Miles, yeah?”

Miles blinks, surprised. “Yeah.”

“I’ve seen you around a lot. Don’t suppose you know who I am, though.” Alex inhales. “I’m Alex. Turner.”

“I do you know who you are, Alex. Turner.” Miles tacts on at the end, mimicking. Alex frowns, he probably doesn’t find that very funny. “Heard of you lot. Arctic Monkeys, innit?”

Alex lifts his head and blows at the moon, a puff of smoke he carefully aims to avoid wafting into Miles' face. “Yeah.”

“You’re smashing it.” Miles says. “The demo. It's sick.”

Cigarette between his fingers, Alex turns to him, his face blank. Miles stops in the midst of taking a drag. A rush of the wind, and Alex says, his eyes empty and staring, ignited by the moonlight. “You think so?”

Miles, for one second considers the possibility that Alex might be high as a kite or just has a high as a kite default. He sincerely hopes it isn't the latter. He weighs the things he can say and settles for what he thinks Alex needs to hear the most (an impossible task when this is his first conversation with him, but Miles has always been good at reading people who are hard to read). “No,” he says finally, watching the subtle shift in Alex's face carefully. “Some of it I like. Dancing Shoes, for example. Good CD, in general, but . . . a bit overhyped. I think Dancefloor is alright, not too special. Don't get why everyone is so inane about it.”

It’s silent for a second, and during those three beats Miles dreads the outcome of tonight, if it does turn South. It doesn't, and he takes a much-needed drag when Alex's straight face crumbles into a pleased smile. “Yeah,” Alex says, looking as elated as a cat. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

“Actually?” Miles doesn’t hide his surprise, doesn’t try to. He was half expecting to see how great of a right hand hook Alex has. 

“Mm-hm.” Their cigarettes stripped to the filter and Alex drops his first, grinding the hopeless light out with the heel of his boots. Miles follows after one last exhale. Alex bounces off the wall and looks behind him, addressing Miles. “You done?”

“Go on. I'll just…” Miles trails off, and Alex nods, as though he understands. Miles is sure he doesn’t. “Thanks for lending me your light, mate.”

“Cheers.”

***

Alex is there when Miles shows up at the pub again after two weeks of no-show, in arm with his band's singer, Eva.

He’s recently discovered an addictive tick in songwriting and has spiralled in a storm of balled up notebook paper and out of ink pens. His calluses have toughened up even more when he thought they were going to stop, and he's been calling Gregory at the most unfortunate of hours asking for tips. He feels bad for the guitarist and Little Flames' main songwriter, but he can’t help it. His pitiful flat is littered with broken pencils and knotted wires, the skin on the tip of his fingers is flaky and his hand is stained with ink from exploding a handful of cheap pens. He'd holed himself up like a hermit, writing and barely sleeping and there are circles under his eyes dark enough to be mistaken for a horrid attempt at eyeshadow but he's never been so happy.

Eva had noticed his not very healthy behaviour and dragged him out. He’d strongly opposed the idea until she offered to cover all his drinks for the night. Now, he's planning to get absolutely shit-faced.

And there Alex is, dressed in a wrinkled grey t-shirt and a shark teeth dangling from his neck. He has sunglasses on even though it's 8 in the evening and they're indoors. But then that's every rock band frontman ever.

Aside from Alex, Miles spots a handful of familiar faces too. He turns to Eva. “Grab a round, will you, love? I’ll find a table.”

Eva rolls her eyes but starts drifts away nonetheless. “Ever the gentleman.”

It just so happens to be coincidence, how Miles manages to find a booth situated next to the table Alex occupies.

“Hullo, Miles.” Alex greets him as Miles seats himself, beer halfway to his lips.

“Alex.”

“Join us,” Alex says, pleasantly. “It's just me and Helders. Spare the booth for the next pair of lovers.”

Helders snorts, but quickly becomes self-conscious when all eyes round on him. “Rhymes.” He defends himself indignantly. He scoots slightly over, making room as Miles retrieves two chairs from the empty table before them, for him and Eva. He sees Alex's eyes lingering on the second stool.

“I suppose introductions are in order.” Alex waves his hand at Helders. “Matt Helders. He’s the—“

“Drummer, yeah?” At the absence of distaste on Helders’ face, Miles takes it as a yes. “Saw you lot at multiple gigs. Mad talent.”

Helders’ lips quirk up at the corner, seemingly pleased by the slight ego stroke. “Observant thing. No one ever sees the drummer.”

“Shame.” Miles holds his hand out. “I’m—“

“Miles!” Eva swoops in like a thunderstorm, in all Eva-like fashion. She hands him his beer and settles in the stool Miles has decked out for her, completely oblivious to the company as she starts to complain. “How can you frequent this place so often and not be sick of it?” She takes a sip. “They don't have the kind of Margarita I like.”

“That's because no one knows how to make the kind of Margarita you like except for you,” he reminds her. She pouts and takes another swig, wiping the foam shimmering on her lips with the striped sleeve of her shirt. Her bottle is halfway finished and Miles hasn't even started.

“That's not true,” she says before pausing, staring at Alex and Helders like she has just noticed them being there. Knowing Eva, she probably only did then come to that realization. “Oh. Sorry, hello!”

“Hi.” Helders smiles, no teeth. Alex only nods his head.

Eva smiles and pastes on her charming side, but Miles can tell from the light blush on her cheeks that she's hung up on how she’s just bounded to the table without any sort of proper acknowledgment. Eva's all about first impressions and that sort of thing.

She hasn't made a bad impression on Helders, though, who's furiously making heart eyes and even going as far as planting his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his fist. Eva is aware of it too, retaliating by making an obnoxious show of her lashes and puckering her lips. Miles resists rolling his eyes.

Ten minutes roll by, the flirting only gets heavier and Miles is only a man this strong. He excuses himself and makes way to the alley. No one noticed, Helders and Eva are blind on the chance of scoring each other for the night, and Alex, Miles notices, always looks as though he's deep in thought. He probably is.

He flicks at the ripped opening of his pack once he rests his back against the cool brick wall, thumbing out one red from the second row. He hears a slight sound of shuffling when his lighter goes off, but doesn’t think too much about it. He knows who it is, anyway.

Sure enough, the moment his flame flickers off, Alex is there, another shadow underneath the moonlight, untucking a cigarette from behind his ear.

Miles wordlessly offers him his lighter since he already has it out, and Alex takes it, bringing it close to his face. Two snaps on the thumb wheel, and only the dissatisfying wheeze of smoke comes out. “Out of gas.” Alex shrugs and hands it back. Miles aims it at the nearest trash can

“Our luck.” He laughs. “Sorry. Least you got yours on you, right?”

Alex pats on the pockets of his coat, coming up with a bright orange BIC. Several snags at the thumb wheel; same results. “What are the fucking chances,” he grumbles, tossing the lighter to the same trash can with a full arm swing. He misses, and a pout immediately falls between his cigarette clad lips, eyebrows scrunching up to match the look.

Miles isn’t sure if he’s ever been so endeared by anyone so much ever before. “Here, come closer,” he beckons, and waits. Alex’s eyes are wary, and Miles can tell that he’s nibbling on the filter from the slight bounce of it. He finally complies, shuffling closer until the toes of their shoes are touching.

The end of Miles’ cigarette is still well lit, the fire hasn't gone out yet and he bows his head a little, connecting the end of his smoke to Alex’s unlit one, until the fire sweeps and soaks into the paper, the ash crumbles and the fire goes out.

Miles pulls back the moment he sees that Alex’s end is lit. “There you go,” he says cheerfully, inhaling and blowing off a short breath of smoke. Alex barely makes any noise as he turns to face forward and lean against the wall, face deep in thought again, cigarette between his fingers to shake off the excess ash.

They are silent, until, “Sorry ‘bout that."

Miles turns his head. Alex has his head raised at the sky, resolutely refusing to meet his gaze. “About what?”

“Matt. He does that, sometimes, randomly picking someone for the night without thinking too much about it. He never realizes, so yeah. Sorry.”

“What?”

Alex finally meets his eyes, seemingly as confused as him. “The girl? Eva? She’s yours, isn’t she?”

It takes him a moment to process what Alex just said. Then it takes him another moment to think about how Alex even reached that conclusion. “No—mate, no. I—no.” Alex looks even more confused now. “She’s just a friend. Colleague, technically speaking. Eva, she’s nice and all but—no.”

Alex tilts his head slightly to the side, like an owl. “Colleague?”

“Singer of my band.”

“Band?” Alex repeats, then again. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah, played after you guys loads. Everyone has a CD of yours stashed somewhere in their car, actually.”

He looks incredulous. “How come I’ve never seen you play? Right after us?”

“Well, you always boot out the moment you’re finished, though.” Miles smiles at the troubled frown pasted so obviously on Alex’s normally stoic face. “It’s alright, do what you have to.”

Their gaze holds for a solid five seconds and Alex is the one who looks away first. He turns to stare at the sky instead, fag between his lips. “I want to hear you play,” he muses.

“I want to play for you,” Miles responds simply, eyes on Big Dipper. They put out their cigarettes when nothing is left but the brown of the filter, and they don’t re-enter the pub. Instead, they drag themselves back to Miles' flat, where everything spirals out. Alex is a little genius, a tune already on his mind the moment Miles hands him his Bronco.

They write two songs. Miles is happy, and Alex never says a lot, but from his grin, Miles would assume that he's happy, too.

***

Their friendship feels like a load of bricks falling from the sky.

Miles has always been a people person, but he never really has a ‘person’. He doesn’t understand the concept of best friends, and how people can survive it. It’s tedious, lacking the spontaneity Miles desperately searches for wherever he goes. He doesn’t get the appeal of knowing a person for so long, knowing their instincts and thoughts front and back and not be bored. It’s like a puzzle that has been solved a million times, but the person keeps coming back to it just to solve the same mystery. Over and over and over. It’s Miles’ worst nightmare.

Alex, though. Miles doesn't think he can ever finish solving Alex.

It does nothing to improve Alex’s already stereotypical mysterious rockstar persona, but it’s true. Alex is like a six-thousand-piece single block colour puzzle, and Miles just happens to be shit at solving them. He’s intriguing, underneath the big hair and the long face, the hands tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket and the puff of smoke directed at the sky.

It’s been three months. Miles is in constant amazement. He even briefly contemplates making a list of new things he discovers about Alex every time they hang out, but then shoots down the idea just as quickly as it comes, because he isn’t that desperate. And it turns out he doesn’t need no list to help him keep track, any little titbit of himself Alex lets fly, Miles grasps it and it’s automatically stored in a hidden compartment in the back of his mind. The things in it include:

1. Alex is clever,  cleverer than most people think. Nothing slips past his eyes, not if he can help it.
2. But he is equally as oblivious. He notices small things and is observant enough to get trapped into the complexity of details, but if he sees a sign in the middle of the road that says, ‘Do Not Enter! Youll Die!”, he’ll probably be more caught up on the fact that the word ‘Youll’ is spelt grammatically incorrect than worry about how he’s approaching dangerous territory. Miles doesn’t know how he feels about this.
3. If the Arctic Monkeys end up being short-lived, Alex plans to go to uni for English or Literature and work on a novel while he’s there. He doesn’t know what the novel is going to be about yet.
4. Alex is pretty. Like, really, really pretty. Miles is sure he knows it, too.
5. Despite the grainy, rough sound he produces, most of the music Alex listens to is the kind of stuff that’s heavily dependent on synthesizers and vocals, written and executed by old men in bright suits and eccentric hair and bad goatees. Miles sometimes wonders if Alex sees himself in them. Miles sure hopes not. They terrify him a little.
6. Alex is more or less obsessed with the idea of romanticism. He buries his head in outdated anti-pastoral poetry and Shakespearian plays, Wilde novels and books that no one cares about outside of English classes, and chews through every word until he could recite it in his sleep. He doesn’t have a favourite, though, preferring to read and absorb them in bulks and then recreate his own takes out of his amp and Telecaster.
7. He’s good with words, can write several pages on something he’s passionate about without a halt in his pen, but he can’t, not for the life of him, answer a publicist’s question as the band’s frontman.
8. Fame terrifies him. Miles once joked that if fame wasn’t Alex’s thing, Miles would gladly hoard all of it for him, and Alex responded, not very jokingly, that he could have it all, if he wanted. It’s probably the most serious conversation they ever shared.

The list goes on.

***

Alex is outside the door to his flat, a brown messenger bag in his hand instead of slung over his shoulder, trying so blatantly hard to tame the large smile threatening to crack on his face.

“It's done.” Was the first thing Alex said when Miles went to let him in. “The album. It's done.”

Now, they're in Miles' messy living room, littered with  takeout boxes and newspaper clippings. Miles has pulled out his grandfather’s cassette player since Alex only brought over a taped version of the recordings instead of one on a drive, but Miles doubts Alex even knows how to download things on a drive anyway.

When the damn thing finally turns on, Alex hands him the tape and says, “I should leave.”

“What?” Miles frowns. “Why?”

“‘Cause. ‘M not gonna sit ‘ere listening to you listening to my voice for forty-five minutes.” Alex stands up from the couch, and flicks at the visible dust on his overcoat. “Text me what you think.”

“As if you even know how to get into your phone.” Miles slips the cassette in. “Stay.”

“I know how to use me phone, Mi,” Alex shoots back. “And can't. Have somewhere to go after this.”

“Oh yeah?” Miles cranes his head to look at him, then adds on, jokingly. “Date with a girl more important than me or summat?”

“Actually, she's quite lovely,” Alex replies, the corner of his lips turned upwards to form a smirk. Not a joke, then.

“Should I ask?”

“A girl from the studio. Tech assistant.” Alex lets himself out. Miles watches him. “Be harsh on the criticism too, please. I'll phone you later.”

That night, Alex shows up outside his door again, banging to be let in while Miles is getting ready for bed.

“It were miserable,” He groans into Miles' pillow, still clad in nice clothes, shoes discarded outside the bedroom. Miles is sure Alex would be lying on his bed with shoes on if Miles hadn't yelled at him to take them off.

The bathroom door is open, yellow light spilling out into the darkness of the room. Miles is standing in front of the mirror, watching himself floss his teeth. “That bad?”

“She was…loud. Really loud,” Alex mumbles, his voice muffled. “I don't wanna talk about it.”

“Alright.” Miles snaps his case of floss closed and stashes it in its usual cabinet. He stalks into the bedroom and hauls Alex up by his shirt. “Brush your teeth if you wanna bunk here for the night.”

It takes a long time, but eventually they're comfortable, lights out and the window propped slightly open. They've discovered today that they’re the same size, so Alex is sporting a white tank top Miles dug out from the back of his closet and borrowed trackies as he’shanging out the window, counting the stars or something equally as nerdy and Miles is on the right side of the bed, watching him.

He finally recognizes the mysterious tune Alex's been humming.

“Ritz to Rubble?”

The humming stops. “Yeah.”

Miles watches the outline of Alex hanging out his window closely, watches how it barely moves. Alex, the cinematic bastard that he is, loves to soak in the view of midnight streets and the loud silence of party people venturing out. Sometimes, he will fall asleep right on the windowsill and wake up with a runny nose, and Miles scolds at him to stop but he never does (“The view is too good to pass up, Miles!”), which Miles supposes to be true, considering how Alex’s own windows opens to the lovely overview of an air system.

“I like it,” Miles tells him. “The album. ‘M proud of you.”

Alex's silhouette doesn't move. “But?”

“There's no but. Not everything has to have a but attached to it, Alex.” He pauses, and he hates this part, but Alex seems to love it, and, well. Anything that Alex likes, goes. “But the names are long as fuck. There's one, track five, I think. Banger, but a proper mouthful. I sat starin’ at it for five minutes, still can't remember it.”

“You Probably Couldn’t See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me,” Alex supplies promptly, his tone unreadable. “I do suppose it is quite excessive.”

“No, you don’t,” Miles points out. “You’d add more to it if you could.”

“I would,” He admits, honestly.

“I’m proud of you,” Miles repeats. Alex replies with a blank “okay”, and Miles knows better than to take Alex’s sudden detachment personally, because he knows that whenever Alex looks and stares at the horizon, he actually gets lost overanalyzing the distance between stars and the flaws in the sky. “Don’t fall asleep hanging out the window again,” He warns, before fluffing out his pillow and laying down, turning to face away from Alex’s dark outline.

But of course Alex falls asleep hanging out the window. Miles has to carry his freezing body back to bed, frosty fingertips and all, rummaging through his drawers for an extra sheet in the middle of the night. Looking at Alex’s fluffy curls splatter all over the pillow, Miles hates waking up at obnoxious hours and having to fall asleep again, but he’s too far gone for this ridiculous Sheffield starboy snoring softly next to him to be annoyed about it.

***

“Come on tour with me.”

It’s Wednesday and it’s lovely, the night is still and the stars are bright, and it’s a shame how instead of lounging on someone’s balcony with a smoke outside at a party, Miles finds himself sandwiched between Alex’s pliant body and his comforter, staring at the bland ceiling.

He’d much rather have Alex press all up against his space than have his usual existential smoke, though.

Alex has been avoiding scissors for a while, letting his curls grow out and frame his face, and Miles is nothing but on board with the idea. Alex’s hair is soft and silky from that one specific shampoo he uses, the light curls bounce back when you pull on them and they serve for a therapeutic distraction on nights like these, when it’s just the Sheffield streets ringing through the open window and the shorts of their breaths. Miles can get lost in his head for hours, running his fingers through Alex’s hair, and Alex is the same way too, tranced in that complicated mind of his working out metaphors and pieces of poetry. They’re silent, and initiating a conversation is never important.

Which is why Miles missed what Alex just said. “Hm?”

“Come on tour with me,” Alex repeats, stirring in his arms. He drags himself up by his elbows and rearranges himself into a sitting position, legs crossed on the bed. He’s close, radiating warmth but Miles is greedy. He wants him closer.

Miles starts to sit up too, because he feels as if this is the kind of conversation Alex had to overthink multiple times before bringing up. He leans against the wooden headboard, eyes on Alex’s shadow. Even in the dark, he can still feel Alex’s intense gaze, boring into his skull the longer the silence drags on. He’s waiting for Miles to speak, for Miles to forfeit because he can’t deal with awkward silences, and he’s right. Miles sighs. “Alex…”

“I don’t see a problem with it,” Alex says without missing a beat, as if he’s rehearsed his lines a million times before this conversation and has got a script down for every scenario. Knowing Alex, he probably does. “Unless you don’t wanna spend that much time stuck with me and the band, which I’m assuming isn’t the problem, because I think you like me, or like me enough at least to be here. And the band, you like them. You won’t even have to spend that much time with us on tour anyway off stage if that’s an issue—“

“Alex.”

“Say yes, Miles, please?” Alex has the best case of puppy eyes known to man and he never pulls it out, but he's doing it now. “I've been thinking about it, your Flames can be the Monkeys' opener. Or you can share the stage–we can share a stage if you want. Anything you'd like.”

Alex looks troubled and uncharacteristically anxious as he shuts his mouth and waits for an answer, and he looks small. Small and naive, naive for thinking that Miles could ever reject him.

He does the next reasonable thing, and that's spreading his arms open and watching as Alex hesitates for a second before leaning forward,  falling into each other's space again. Their faces are close, close enough for Miles to move forward just a little and their lips would touch, so he does just that.

It's a short one, though; they can't afford longer kisses without a thorough talk about feelings and ‘discovering different sexual orientations’, and Miles would rather eat sticks than that. He's sure Alex feels the same way.

“Did you do that to distract me?” Alex accuses, automatically going to pull away but luckily Miles has the gifted ability to read minds, Alex's specifically, and has intertwined their fingers beforehand (pun totally intended), preventing him from drifting away.

“No,” he responds, wrapping his arms around Alex's scrawny frame and burying his face in the crook of Alex's neck so he doesn’t have to see and work out all the complicated equations that are Alex's facial expressions. “Did it for you to stop worrying, love. I'd follow you anywhere, just say the word.”

He can't see him, and Alex doesn't say anything, but Miles knows that Alex is smiling.

***

“Wanna do something stupid?” Alex asks suddenly. Miles glances at him. Sheffield is pouring down its usual flood that afternoon, destroying their Friday evening plans (not that they have much of a plan), leaving only shitty internet and insufferable weather in its wake. They're both trying miserably to entertain themselves, first with the telly and then with the weed, but now they’ve resorted to each of their own, Alex lying flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling with his arms waving mindlessly to The Smiths record spinning on the player. Miles is lazily plucking at his borrowed acoustic with his palm muting the strings. Rainy days always make him feel lazy.

“Okay.”

“You’ve got to come here.” Alex has dragged himself upwards to lean against the massive gig amp he has somehow managed to drag up to the second floor of his flat, beckoning with only his voice. And it’s bloody convincing.

Miles makes a protest in the back of his throat, just to let Alex know how much he is against the idea of moving at all, but he does it anyway, slithering across the room in lieu of standing up. Alex is staring when Miles plops down opposite him, his pupils massive and face dazed. He smiles.

“Hi, Mi.”

“You made me do all of that just to say hi to me?”

“No, ‘course not. That's stupid.”

Miles raises his brows. “Like what you’re suggesting we’re about to do?”

Alex pauses for a second. Then, “yeah.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Go ahead.”

For a very long and dreadfully boring second where Miles sits and anticipates, Alex does absolutely nothing. It goes on for several more uncomfortable moments, and right before Miles decides he should probably wave his hand in front of Alex’s face to bring him back to Earth, Alex finally moves, surging forward and plants a fat kiss on his mouth. He lingers, locking their lips together instead of moving away like their fleeting kisses have been, and Miles prods at him with little nips to continue.

Alex falls for all the old tricks, Miles learns, his mouth dropping open at just a single swipe of tongue at his bottom lip, granting Miles his entrance, and his kisses are slow, languid compared to the frenzied way in which Miles moves. And he’s submissive enough, pliant, and happy to be pressed against his amp without any pressure, although Miles does avoid pressing him too hard against it. They make out for hours, only stopping when their jaw aches (and when Alex needs to get up and take a wee). Miles asks no questions and Alex explains nowt, and it becomes their thing, their de-stressing tool and their blissful solution to pass the time. They don’t stop.

They probably should. Alex was right when he said it was stupid, Alex always has to be right about everything.

***

“You should come out with me tonight,” Alex says casually, picking out a polo from his suitcase.

“It’s a Tuesday, love.” Miles is flat on Alex’s bunk, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the chapped skin of his calluses. Gigging with the Monkeys nearly every night is possibly one of the best things to have happened to him yet, but the post-show aches get him like a bug without fail every time he steps off the stage. “And I don’t particularly fancy being hungover for sound check tomorrow morning.”

“We won’t get that pissed.” Alex says, too suasive. Miles doesn’t respond, so he continues. “Please?”

Miles sighs, exasperated. He abandons comparing the pads of his fingers on both hands in favour of looking at Alex’s back, dipping up and down as he tries to search for a pair of trousers. “You’re always the one skipping parties and bars and shit. What is it with you today?”

“Nothing,” Alex responds, and then cringes, because he knows Miles knows him better than that. “It’s just–ah. I, hm.” He turns around to face Miles, who’s still spread out on the small bunk that isn’t his. Clears his throat. “I have someone I want you to meet.” 

“It better be the bloody Queen of England if you want me to get out of this bus.” Miles pauses, considers. “Not even then, actually. It’s got to be George Harrison, but that's obviously not possible anymore…Gordon Ramsay, maybe, would kill for that guy's scrambled eggs. They look so soft and–”

“It's me girlfriend.”

They both freeze. Miles has a hysterical laugh bubbling up his throat, ready to spill because that's got to be a joke. ‘Alright, what's the real reason, really?’ is already at the tip of his tongue when Miles looks up and sees Alex's face, eager for a reaction and eyes so big, he thinks that maybe this isn't really joking territory anymore.

He flips through his stack of memories. When was the last time Alex went out that Miles wasn't there accompanying him? Most nights after gigs, Alex’s first instinct is always to wallow in his bunk, clutching the dictionary or something equally as ridiculous and boring and Miles is always the one to drag him out, to encourage one shot and then two and then three, and then the numbers blur and they smoke, and then full on both alcohol and tobacco, they'll resort into doing something they shouldn't even consider doing in the first place like wandering their hands and busying their mouths. Or breaking into someone's flat–that happened once; it wasn't very pleasant. Coppers were involved.

When did Alex have the time to chat up birds, much less pulling them? A ray of questions floods his brain like water does a tub, but he shoves them away. Toxic. Bad. Bad bad bad bad.

“Mi?” Alex sounds hesitant now, still stood firmly by his suitcase, trousers and a nice shirt clutched in his hands. And, well. What else is Miles supposed to say?

He's supposed to say no. But he tends to never head in the better direction, and he ain't  gonna start now.

”Fine.” Making it seem like great effort, he hauls himself up from the bunk bed. He glares at the blossom of a smile, obvious on Alex’s face. “But you’re payin' for me drinks.”

Chapter Text

Despite flunking all his French credits in high school and resolving that he'd never need French in his life, Miles loves France.

He knows the moment he steps foot off the train that it will be hard to drag himself back to Birkenhead. The station is packed and loud, Parisians and tourists alike blubbering the most in-cohesive sentences Miles has ever heard and it's brilliant. He knows no one, he speaks nowt and he's here to record an album with his best friend. He's delighted.

But obviously there are downsides, the downsides being it's really fucking awkward watching a football match against England in a pub full of local Frenchmen. That, and the heat. Not only does the sun bothers the shit out of him, can spawn the most vicious Miles to ever exist, it also drives him to do completely reckless things out of pure irritation and lack of...control? Thought? Anything. The sun can make him change his entire perception of France sometimes, make him hate it, despise it, can't fucking wait to ride back to England. Sometimes, unfortunately, being now.

He's lying in bed alone, and the fucking sun is back, shining through the blinds and bleeding onto the white of his sheets. There's a human indent on the right side of the bed, vacant but still warm, still smelling like Alex's stupid cologne. The room reeks of sweat and Alex and them, and it's not worth it. It's not fucking worth it, not fucking fair. Miles hates France. Hates the sun, all of it.

Though it isn't the entire thing that is to blame. He curses at the empty bottle of champagne probably still laying discarded where they left it last night by the lake.

***

They talk about it, which is, yeah. Good. Better than avoiding the entire thing and dancing on tiptoes around each other for weeks, but Miles would rather chew on his toenails. 

"It can't happen again," Alex says, when Miles bumps into him in the empty kitchen at arse o'clock. Alex's never been a morning person. "I have a—"

"Girlfriend, got it," Miles fills in for him, wishing he could sound a bit less bitter. He understands, but it hurts, whenever someone walks out without a word, but then again, it was unrealistic in the first place to hope that Alex would hold out the other end of the string when he’s better at dodging situations he doesn't like. "I get it."

Alex is frowning. "Do you?"

Miles grind the next set of words through his teeth. "Yes, Alex, I do."

"Then why are you upset with me?" His tone is demanding, but his face is scared. It’s confusing. Miles inhales sharply.

"You know why."

"I don't."

"Don't act a fool, Turner. Piss off."

"Fuckin' Christ, Miles!" Alex pulls at his hair. Miles’ blood boils. "This might come as a shock to you, but I can't read your mind all the bloody time!"

"You don't need to read my mind, it's simple fucking etiquette!" They weren’t screaming at each other yet, but they are now. "Really know how to make a lad feels great, Al, getting a fuck out of it for one night and leaving without a word the next morning. Cheers."

Alex looks affronted. "What do you reckon I do? Did you even try to look at it from me lens? I felt like an arse, I cheated on the fucking love of my life with my best friend 'cause I got a little too tipsy on champagne—rich, innit? I was scared shitless, don't suppose you'd stay if you were in me shoes."

"I would! We ought to talk it out sooner or later, I'd rather a nice fucking conversation over breakfast than havin' a row in a joint cabin shared with two other people—"

"You're so fucking dense, Miles!" Ales yells. It isn’t a pleasant sound. "I fucking liked it, alright? It's wrong and I shouldn't, but I liked it and I'd do it again." He's being too honest, too blunt for an 8 o'clock shouting match and Miles wishes that he would shut up because it's too goddamn much, and Alex wishes he could shut up too, but he can't. "I have a girlfriend–" Miles barely resisted holding in a snort and a 'so you've said.' "–and that–last night–scared the living shit out of me and I don't know how to break it to Alexa or not break it to her at all, so pardon if I accidentally hurt a fraction of your feelings. You don't understand half the shit going on in me head right now–you're supposed to be the one better at it, so read my mind." Breathing heavily, he doesn’t wait for Miles' response before turning and walking right out the door.

It is then that Miles realises that everyone has probably heard everything. Sure enough, James emerges from the kitchen, two steaming cups of coffee in his hand. He offers one that Miles doesn't take. "You two make for an excellent alarm clock," he comments nonchalantly, patting Miles twice on the back before leaving to go upstairs. His eyes are full of pity.

They don't speak. It's not how Miles imagined how their trip would go.

The entire crew is sick of it, of the tension that drags out, as thick as fucking custard, and of the atmosphere that messes with their heads. Spite runs deeper than logic, however, and Miles is willing to sit through however many awkward walls of silence if it gets Alex to cave first.

There’s a little flaw in his plan, though, for there’s no chance that he can out-stubborn Alex. They’re probably going to go on forever if Miles doesn’t do anything about it, which only serves to make him angrier; it’s always him who’s the one sticking an obnoxious amount of duct tape over their friendship (questionable) every time things get rocky. It’s about time someone else does the work.

He's suddenly always on the phone, too, Alex. Texting, mostly, but calling when he can, and by the soft greeting Miles has the misfortune to overhear every time, it's Alexa. He's always on the bloody line with her, as if trying to get summat back. Miles supposes he's looking for some sort of redemption; Alex's always been self-deprecating and righteous in that aspect. He also seizes any chance he has to talk about Alexa and then takes off with it like a celebrated Olympic cross-country runner, talking to James about her shoot for a cover frontpage and how that's going at the moment, to Josh about how they're planning to buy an apartment in New York when Age of the Understatement is finally released. They both indulge him as if they didn't witness the fiasco that went down three days ago.

Miles tunes most of it out after the first two days.

***

Halfway through the album, they still don't speak. The only time they do is when they share a mic, and when the tape they need is recorded, Alex will spring away, like Miles carries some sort of infectious disease.

Miles doesn't like France anymore.

***

He doesn’t know whether to feel annoyed or pleasantly surprised when Alex ends up being the one to crack first. It’s 10 o’clock when Alex waltzes into his room as if it were his (technically it is, since they used to share beds and all), in a white tank top and sweats, hair mussed up and ready for bed. “We should talk,” he says plainly, after a beat. That’s it. Nothing else. Miles cannot believe his nerve.

He pretends to think. “Hm. No.”

Alex cringes. “Mi, I–”

“You’ve got some big guts, Turner. Goodnight.”

“Hear me out first, at least!” There the puppy eyes go again. Miles falls for them every time. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s kind of you.” He moves to switch off the lamp. “Goodnight.”

“No, wait!” Miles watches, waits (he always does what Alex says, one could say he’s whipped) (he is) as Alex takes a massive gulp of air. He begins to talk, his words rushed and urgent, like he’d just swallowed a handful of Mentos and his mouth were coke. “I’m sorry, I’m stupid, and this situation is messed up and I’m messed up and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t–this week’s been the worst one of me life, I don’t want to have it–this . . . space–between us anymore, it’s shit and I’ve been right miserable. Sorry I sort of reacted badly and all that, knew you took a pretty bad hit too but…I didn’t think about that bit, I guess. I’m one hell of a friend, aren’t I?” He laughs. It’s humourless. “I’m a selfish fucking bastard. I talked things out with Alexa and–yeah. You probably don’t want to hear about that.” His inhale is sharp and his exhale is heavy. It would be comical if Miles wasn’t feeling like complete and utter shit. Now that he’s said everything he wanted to say, Alex looks awkward, pillow still under his arm and words drained out of him. It takes a lot for Alex to say a lot. “If you don’t want owt to do with me, you have to say summat, Miles,” he adds, a little dejectedly. “‘Cause I’ll stay here if you don’t.”

Miles moves to switch off the lamp, and the entire room goes dark. Wordlessly, he collapses on his side of the bed, the one closer to the window and a minute later, the bed dips, followed by the noise of Alex punching at his flat pillow before laying down. Miles breaks the silence when it starts to sound a bit too loud, obligated. He knows Alex feels he has given too much of himself in one night to feel comfortable saying anything more, so he does the talking for him.

“Never knew you’re capable of that many words, to be honest.”

Alex doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reaches out, hesitant, and Miles offers him his arm, pulling him in. Alex is all warmth and niceness and Miles realises now that he smells more of toothpaste and store shampoo than of Johnnie Walker. “Me either,” he says finally. “All true, of course, I’m not just saying it ‘cause I want us to, like, patch up for convenience, or summat. I’ve been thinking about it fo–”

“Shut up, Al.” He shuts up. “Glad you managed to work up the balls, coming over ‘ere.”

“Took me enough fucking shots for it, too,” Alex mumbles. “Bit embarrassing. Thought it would take another two, and maybe a cigarette, but…”

“Planning a whole party, weren’t you?” Miles’ hand finds its way into Alex’s hair, pulling at his springy curls. “Without me?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Alex scoffs but he’s preening, pushing at Miles’ palm with his head like some needy animal. “You’re always invited.”

Miles pretends his heart hasn’t just travelled several wavelengths at that and continues to scratch at Alex’s scalp, and he has his face pressed against Miles’ chest so the sounds he’s making are muffled, but they both know he’s purring. Like a fucking cat. Miles loves him so damn much.

It hits him then that he should be more concerned with the weight of those words, but Miles convinces himself it’ll blow over. They’re in France, they’re recording their debut album and it’s just them, no English press and no additional bandmembers so it’s only logical that Miles feels as if he loves Alex a little extra on their getaways like this, even though they’ve just gone through that. They’re best mates, and Miles can’t name a person who can substitute for his favourite person other than Alex. It has to blow over.

“Can we talk tomorrow?” Alex’s voice is muted by Miles’ shirt. “Tired. My bed's shit.”

“Don’t run out on me this time,” Miles responds. He feels Alex smile against his skin, and they fall asleep to the sound of the ceiling fan.

***

They talk it through, like they said they would. It's early morning and they sneak out of the house to the lake, where they watch the sky turn from bright red to pinkish purple. Alex is talking of Alexa. “She's fine with it, I mean,” he swallows. “Not like that. She's not fine with me not being able to keep it in me pants for two weeks—”

“Get on with it, Alex.”

“—but she understands, like. We made this agreement over the phone. We agreed that, uh, we get the freedom. To . . . mess around and stuff, now. ‘Cause she's in Milan and there's these beautiful people and you only live to go to Milan at 22 once, right, so she should have the freedom. And I should too. So we—yeah. We agreed.” Miles takes a moment to respond, and Alex tries to cover it up, quickly. “I–we're still in, like, a relationship. But the distance thing is…she doesn't mind me, you know, doing, uh, things, when we're away, and I don't mind her doing the same either, so–”

“So you two agreed to allow each other to goof off with other people when you're apart? And have it not be a problem?”

Alex looks lost. “I…yeah.”

Miles laughs, a little. “That's great, good for you two. I'm assuming you didn't come up with that idea, though, did you?”

“‘Course not, were too busy tripping over me words like an idiot. Alexa, she just sighed this huge breath and went crazy mum on me. ‘Alexander.’” He starts in a shrill voice that sounds nothing like Alexa's calm, cool drawl but Miles laughs anyway. “‘You are 22, in France recording an earth-shattering record with your best friend. You're supposed to be having fun blah blah blah’, and all that.”

“She's too good for you.”

“She is.”

They’re silent for a while, watching the glittery surface of the lake as dawn pierces through it with the day’s first ray of sun. Miles interrupts the silence again. “Hypothetically,” he starts, casually. “If I were to kiss you right now, hypothetically, you could kiss me back and it’d all be alright?”

Alex stares at him, his gaze scrutinizing. Miles likes to think he can hear the clockwork in Alex’s brain whirling around when he looks like that, when he looks at Miles like he’s just a test subject under the microscope. “For the most part,” he says slowly, his voice careful. Miles nearly smiles. Alex is overanalysing things again. He does that way too often. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

Pause. “‘Kay. Good to know." He’s about to leave it at that, and then adds, as an afterthought. Or maybe a vow for himself. Or maybe something to infuriate Alex a little. “I wouldn’t do it, though.”

As predicted, Alex breaks his stare immediately to roll his pretty, pretty eyes. His fingers grab at a handful of grass and rip it off the ground, aiming it at Miles, who dodges it all without a break in his grin. “Bastard.” He dusts at his dirtied palms, looking equally as annoyed as he is flustered. “Got me heart racin'.”

“I would,” Miles reassures him, as if it helps. “But it'd be kind of stupid, so.”

Alex is silent for a bit. “Okay.”

Josh is the first to greet them when they stumble back home around 9 o’clock, promptly delivering Miles a pat on the back the moment he reads the room. They pretend they didn’t hear the “fucking finally” Josh mumbles to himself when he makes his way to the studio and starts the coffee machine. They fall back into the groove easily. A little too easily, as if they never left it, sharing mics and entirely disregarding the concept of personal space. Alex leans over his lap to snatch a croissant from his plate during breaks, and Miles sends him a thumbs up and a pleased smile from the control room when he nails a particularly hard note while recording. They’re back.

It’s nice. It’s really fucking nice.

***

Alex abandons his room in the third week, rolling his suitcases and bags over to rest against the wall in Miles’ room.

They do more than sleep. With the drawn line being established and erased, there are hardly any boundaries that say they need to keep their hands to themselves, so they don’t. Miles still can’t quite believe it; he has Alex to himself now. Alex is his, to touch and to love and to kiss, and he knows he’s not going to have him for long, but Miles tries not to get too hung up on that; he never did sign up for permanency in the first place. If he did, he’d be at home playing a local gig with the Rascals, or, hell, stuck in that goddamn recording studio with the Flames and operating under a shitty manager. He’s in neither of those places, he’s out of the fucking country working with the first, second and third most talented people he knows on a risky record that no one gives a shit about, not if Alex’s name isn’t plastered in a big, bold font on the record.

But he’ll admit, Miles has moped for a bit about the uncertainty of it all, once. Maybe twice. Thrice, but it doesn’t count when he’s sober. He likes the idea of betting on the dice that haven’t rolled and taking things with spontaneity, but it’s hard, even for him, to keep a straight mind and not fall down the spiral of ‘what-if’s when there are so many of them. What if it doesn’t work out? What if this is the last time they’re doing this? Is it? What if the Puppets’ discography ends with one EP and two singles? What if this production does nothing but empty out the change sitting at the bottom of his bag? What if James, what if Josh, what if the Rascals, what if the Monkeys, what if Alexa, what if Alex, what if he—

But then everything is good again, once the day ends and Miles falls into bed and sees Alex right next to him, propped against the headboard and leaning towards the lamp like a sunflower does the sun, trying to shine light on the entire page of his poetry anthology. Nights like this are when Miles couldn’t care less about the EP, about what waits for him back in Birkenhead, about how the planets revolve around the sun. He shifts until he’s comfortable and then turns to watch Alex, watch how his eyes dart line to line with the hyperfocus of a mad scientist, and he watches until he gets bored and hides his yawn in the pillow but Alex sees it anyway and closes his book and turns the light off and they go to sleep.

It’s the end of a good day.

***

It’s still dark out when he wakes up. His eyes are bleary, heavy with sleep but they manage to zero in on the yellow strip of light under the closed bathroom door. Alex’s voice is audible through the thin walls but it’s incoherent, and it takes a few moments for Miles to work out that he’s on the phone.

He doesn’t know how long he stays awake, staring at what looks like TV, trying to lure himself back to sleep. He’s a bit irritated, always is whenever he finds himself awake at arse o’clock for no reason. Suddenly, the bathroom door gets pushed open, and he hears the light being switched off. Instinctively, he closes his eyes.

Alex is still on the line, his voice lower than a whisper but Miles can hear him now, without the door muffling his voice. “I’ve got to go. Me phone’s near dead, had hid in the loo the entire time.” A slight pause. “Would get killed if I wake Mi up…right, pipe down. It ain’t that big.” A bit of shuffling, and Miles cracks open half a lid to spot Alex’s shadow slither from the doorframe to the drawers. He stands. “I’ll phone you in the morning, love. Get out there, grab one for the evening, dunno. You’re good at it. Got me.”

Miles doesn’t remember catching the rest of the conversation. He thinks it’s because he fell asleep.

***

Miles manoeuvres through a string of people, the necks of three beers and one Smirnoff Ice (Josh, that pretentious bastard) held in between his fingers. He finds their producers in an animated conversation when he nears their table with Alex sitting opposite of them, his palm cushioning his chin and a detached expression on his face, looking like he’s doing everything in his willpower to not fall asleep. He sticks out like a sore thumb against the pub’s relentless energy.

“Took you long enough,” Josh crows, reaching for his pinkish-red drink with grabby fingers. “Gimme.”

“Settle down, lads.” Miles laughs, sliding into his seat next to an unresponsive Alex and divides up their drinks. “Don’t go on spillin’ shit now. God knows you got ‘em bloody butterfingers, Ford.”

James sputters. “That was one time!” he says, indignant. Josh doesn’t waste a singular second before launching into the exact details of what happened the day James managed to flood the sink, and eventually the whole house while trying to make Bellini’s. It doesn’t take long for them to get lost in bickering with each other like a married couple, and that’s when Miles turns to Alex, who still looks as broody as he did ten minutes ago, an obvious thundercloud perched atop his halo of curls.

“Perk up, la.” Miles nudges him with his elbow. Alex shoots him a stoic look, unimpressed, then goes back to staring at the tabletop again. Any sane person would take the hint and back off. Miles would be insane to do that. “Mard arse.” He says, fondly. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“’S nothing.” He doesn’t even look up at him.

Miles needs to aim further. He nods towards Alex’s beer, even though Alex can’t see.

“Barely touched your drink.”

“Don’t want to be feeling like shit on a five-hour train ride tomorrow.” He looks up now at least, to redirect his glare at two full bottles of beer in front of him, both untouched and one lukewarm.

“Come on, what kind of lightweight are you t’ let two bottles get to ya?”

Alex frowns. “A bad one.”

Miles sighs, leans in closer so that Alex’s eyes are forced to zero in on him. “Are you alright?”

Alex scoffs. “’ Course ‘m alright. Do I look that ill?”

“Not what I meant, Al,” Miles chides, with the patience often reserved to those of ages five or below. “And you know it. If you’re nervous about tomorrow—“

“I’m not nervous about tomorrow,” Alex bites. He’s one angry pout away from transforming into a toddler.

“Not saying you are, love. That’s why I said if,” Miles tells him. “I said if you’re nervous about tomorrow, I am too. Very.”

Alex stares at him, and Miles stares back. It’s meant to be a staring contest to see who is more stubborn, but Miles notices how Alex is glowing under the dull lights in the pub instead, and how the wave of his curls has a purple-ish tint to them from the cheap LED lights projecting from the ceiling. He looks unreal, breath-taking and pretty despite the unhappy furrow of his brows and the thin line of his lips. “Can we leave?” Alex asks suddenly, breaking eye contact and looking away. The thunderstorm looming above him is replaced with a grey cloud now, and he looks very small in his seat, his hands intertwined in his lap under the table.

Miles doesn’t have to think twice about his answer. He looks around; both James and Josh have long abandoned them, mingling with a table full of blondes across the room. He and Alex won’t be missed if they leave without a goodbye. “Yeah,” Miles says. “One sec.” He knocks his beer back in one go and wipes the foam off his lips with a napkin Alex offers him (he’d be damned to use the sleeve of his Fred Perry). “You sure you don’t want your beer?” Alex shakes his head. He’s already out of his seat. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.” 

***

They get ice-cream from a little shop that’s minutes away from closing, lit by flickering light bulbs and sundae-shaped neon strings. The employee who serves them does it with an ugly scowl, annoyed by the late hours, and Miles’ broken French doesn’t exactly do them any favours. They wander through vacant streets with ice-cream dripping down the balls of their fists, and Miles fills in the silence between them with all sorts of bull when Alex doesn’t.

“—and I said to ‘im, sorry, lad, but nah, and I had thought we’d leave things there, but the fucker, he kept bugging me ‘bout it. It’s only in Doncaster where they sprout arseholes like that. Right when I was bouta go, he—“

“Can we go in there?” Alex points to a shop in the corner. Miles squints. The sign says du son, but the only letter that’s lit is the ‘s’.

“What does ‘du son’ mean?”

“Sound,” Alex answers curtly, taking Miles by the arm and pulling him into the shop before he can ask more questions. It’s a record shop, and the only light source there is from lanterns (lanterns, as if they’re living in the 17th century). It looks as though the whole place is built from vinyls, with massive collections of them hung on walls or stacked on wooden shelves that reach the ceiling. Miles spots some stored in what looks like plastic trash bags.

“Pas de nourriture,” the front clerk says. His eyes drop to the ice cream cone in Miles’ hand, his face full of distaste. Miles battles the urge to roll his eyes. Everyone in France has to be so mysterious and moody. Maybe that’s why Alex blends in so well. “La poubelle est la.”

“Pardon.” Alex bows his head apologetically, finally saying something Miles actually understands. He drops his practically untouched ice cream cone into the trashcan. “Can’t have food in ‘ere. Bad for the records,” he translates. When the clerk sees Alex trying to wipe the sugar off his palms onto his jeans, he pushes a box of tissues forward, nose still stuck haughtily into the air. Alex swipes out two with a smile and a polite, “Merci.” He hands Miles one.

“What?”

“Your ice cream, Miles.” Alex waves the tissue in front of him when Miles doesn’t take it immediately. “Here, for you to wipe your hands.”

“You’re telling me I need to throw away my ice cream?” Miles doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so stubborn about this. Maybe it’s because of how much he doesn’t like the Goatee Cashier, who’s watching their conversation with beady, calculating eyes. Miles is sure he understands English (he doesn’t). “No chance, mate. I paid nearly four euros for this.”

Alex stares at him incredulously. His hand is still outstretched, the tissue still between his fingers like some sort of awkward reminder. “Miles.”

“I’m not even halfway finished!” He tries not to sound whiny. He sounds whiny anyway.

Alex’s eyes are like steel. His face is passive but shocked, as if he can’t believe that Miles is choosing to start an argument right at the entrance of some innocent record shop on the side of the road over some damn ice cream. “Alright,” he says. His voice is strangely (scarily) calm. “Would you rather wait outside, then? Finish it up?” Alex lowers his arm, the one offering the rejected tissue. He crumbles it in his fist.

“That’d be ace, actually.” Miles’ gaze darts to the cashier, who’s hiding behind the front cover of his magazine. He turns to go. “See you outside, love.”

Miles doesn’t have to wait for very long. Alex exits the shop not even ten minutes later right when Miles finishes up his waffle cone, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed. He doesn’t offer any words so Miles doesn’t, either, and they continue to trudge further down the alley in silence, eyes on the barely lit or closed shops instead of each other. Alex notices a lot more than everyone (Miles) gives him credit for, though, as per usual.

“Miles,” he says. His eyes stray anywhere but Miles’ face. There’s a tissue in his hand, one that doesn’t look like it’s been crumpled up in his hand earlier. Alex must’ve grabbed a new one on his way out of the shop. “’S your face. Got a bit of, uh.” He clears his throat, showing great fascination for whatever it is that stands behind Miles, his eyes trained on it.

Miles accepts the tissue this time and doesn’t bother entertaining the thought of how Alex could possibly know there’s ice cream on his face when he hasn’t looked at Miles’ face once. “No, the other side.” Alex is finally looking at him now, gesturing towards the left of his chin, but Miles mistakes that Alex’s left is his left when really, it’s his right. “No, it’s—“ He cringes when he sees Miles dabbing at nothing. “Hang on, I can—“ He reaches for the tissue that Miles is pointlessly rubbing at his chin, completely off the mark. He doesn’t lean in further than necessary and dutifully wipes the corner of Miles’ mouth, pulling back when he’s finished. It isn’t anywhere near as romantic as it's portrayed in the movies.

“Thanks.”

Alex shrugs, tosses the tissue in a nearby trashcan and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. They walk another block, then another. Alex attempts to start a conversation with an intelligent, “Um.” He looks desperate to say something, but nothing comes out. He’s having trouble translating the jumbled mess that is his thoughts into cohesive sentences again; sometimes Miles really wishes he could read minds to make it easier for the both of them.

“Maybe start with sorry,” Miles offers, not unkindly. “’ Sorry, Miles, for being all grumpy and weird this evening and making it shite for no reason.’ Sounds solid to me.” Maybe it’s too harsh, but Alex is the one who demands harshness all the time.

“Sorry, Miles, for being all grumpy and weird this evening and making it shite for no reason,” Alex parrots. Then he frowns, looks down at his shoes. “’M making a right mess of our last day, aren’t I?”

“Don’t call it that, like we’re ‘bout to die tomorrow.” Miles tuts. “You are, though, a little bit. It’s alright, though. I don’t really mind.”

“Yes, you do,” Alex says, looking disappointed with himself. And angry, too, but that part’s faint. “You’re supposed to be tanked up by now in that pub havin’ a proper celebration, not here goin’ absolute fuckin’ nowhere.” His hand thrashes around in his pockets, anxious.

“Stop your it with your pity party.” Miles knocks the square of their elbows together. Alex glances at him, tight-lipped. “Rather be here with ya than getting sloshed anywhere else.”

Alex snorts. “Right. Bet you use that line on all the girls.”

“Actually,” Miles smirks, moves his hands from the pockets of his leather bomber and keeps them by his side as he walks. It takes Alex longer than usual to catch on but when he does , the blush on his face is worth it. “Me Judy fell right for it once.”

“Yeah?” Alex laces their fingers together. Miles grins. “Who’s this Judy of yours?”

“She were an old one, really old. It don’t matter no more, obviously, haven’t seen her in years.” He pauses. “She weren’t that exciting, now that I think about it.”

“That’s flattering. Keep going, Kane.” The smallest hint of a smile is on Alex’s face. Miles is aiming for a laugh or something greater, something that would create little lines by his eyes to cancel out the unusual sadness, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Maybe don’t go telling your latest fuck about your previous one, for future reference.”

“Noted,” Miles starts to swing their intertwined hands to match their steps. A tiny laugh bubbles out of Alex’s mouth. It’s progress. “Though don’t worry, darling. There’s no challenge if you’re in it.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls, too.” Alex stops the swing of their arms and moves closer, attaching himself to Miles’ hip. “Cold,” he mutters as an explanation. When Miles goes to wrap an arm around him, he can feel the warmth radiating off Alex through the wool of his coat as if he’s a fucking heat transmitter.

 “No, that one’s new,” Miles tells him. “Wanna turn around?”

***

9:31 PM, Josh: habe fun w thehouse 2 ursekeves 2nite;) drunk as shit rn, wil be out late..,,, proabbly wotnt be returnin til u 2 finsnish doin the deed if ykwim…… don’t wory abut us ;)))))))))))))))

9:32 PM, Josh: use protection

***

“How d’you reckon the record’ll do?” Alex sandwiches Miles’ face between the flat palms of his hands, the Death Ramp ring cool against the drunken flush of Miles’ skin. “Well?”

He’s sitting on top of Miles, sort of, with his legs on either side of Miles’ torso, pressing insistently close as if he’s trying to meld them into one. Miles has got his arms wrapped around Alex’s waist to secure him from slipping off, his hands intertwined at the bottom of Alex’s spine. “’Course,” he knocks their foreheads together when Alex lets go of his face. “Don’t be daft.”

Alex is unusually jumpy, out of breath from just about a minute or two of kissing and he just can’t seem to keep still. He’s panting lightly, and his breath smells of James’ prized Cognac and peppermint. His head lolls from where it rests against Miles’ forehead to the crook of his neck, burying his face there. His heartbeat’s rapid.

Miles chuckles. He enjoys this too much, seeing how riled up he can get Alex with just a nip at the right place, seeing him get feverish with need and shameless with want. “All right?”

“Yeah,” his voice is muffled against Miles’ skin, but he still manages to sound annoyed, nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I be all rig—“ his sentence cuts off with a full-body shiver when Miles slips his hand under his shirt.

“Christ, Al.” Miles presses a kiss (though it’s more of a smile) against his nape. Alex lifts his head and they see each other again, though there isn’t much to see. The room is shrouded in darkness and Miles can’t see but Alex’s always been the moon’s favourite child; the silvery light slipping through the cracks in the blinds lands on his face, providing Miles with a clear view of his glassy eyes and blown out pupils. Miles reaches up to grab a handful of Alex’s curls. They’ve gotten longer. He yanks, pulling Alex’s head back to expose the line of his neck, pale skin even paler under the moonlight. Miles latches his lips there.

“Don’t make it too big,” Alex warns, but he doesn’t sound like he cares too much. “I’m, uh... Hhhrrg . . . seein’ Alexa tomorrow.”

Dutifully, he ignores what Alex had just said, baring the front of his teeth to slightly dig into the bop of Alex’s Adam apple, feeling him swallow under his mouth. “Hey,” Alex says, a second warning, but he bares his neck to the side, giving Miles more room to work.

“We can get you one of those concealer bottles on our way to the station tomorrow,” Miles assures him, though they both don’t give a shit. Not right now, at least. He runs his tongue over the bite marks, soothing them. Alex squirms. Miles doubts he’s even listening.

Alex gets up in the middle of the whole thing, cracks open the windows and then returns to bed, where Miles is waiting for him. A breeze of summer wind swoops in when Miles pulls Alex in for a kiss the moment his knee hits the mattress and they kiss until their mouths get too tired, swollen and puffy.

Miles pins him against the bed and takes his time while Alex sobs into the pillow as Miles scissors him open at a deliberate pace, watching the change in Alex's expression with every flick of his fingers closely like a favourite film. They both don’t last very long, Alex coming with a dragged-out whine and Miles with his head tucked in the safe space between Alex’s jaw and shoulder, planting yet another bruise there as they come down from their high. Alex has tears staining his cheeks but his eyes have crinkles next to them, finally, and Miles counts tonight as a win. A very big win.

He grows sleepy soon after that, though, and Miles ends up doing all the work; leaving the comfort of their bed to fetch a cloth from the bathroom to clean them both up, then goes to wash and hang it up. He opens the windows wider for the scent of sex to leave faster and closes them later so Alex won’t be stuck with a stuffy nose when he wakes up in the morning. Alex barely has his eyes open when Miles returns to bed, attempting to blink his grogginess away and, bless him, failing horribly.

“Fanks,” he mumbles, the thick of his accent making him sound near incoherent. If Miles weren’t Scouse, he’d have trouble understanding Alex’s post-sex dialect. “Mi. Love ya.” Then he gurgles out a bunch of nonsense Miles doesn’t catch, a long sentence composed of pretentiously long words he has adopted from the dictionary.

Miles laughs quietly, and runs his fingers through Alex’s tangled mess of curls, matting them down a little so that he wouldn’t find himself with a bird’s nest for hair tomorrow morning. “You’re fucked stupid. That good, eh?”

Alex doesn’t say anything, eyes open by mere millimeters. Miles cuts him some slack. “Sleep,” he says, too fondly. Alex stares at him strangely, as if he’s speaking another language. “I love you, too.”

Alex seems to understand this and smiles, closing his eyes. A minute later, Miles hears the front door bang open. He leaves the bed, throws on a random t-shirt from the floor and finds James and Josh hanging onto each other in the hall, intoxicated, like they said they would be. It’s a miracle they managed to get the key to fit in the lock.

“Lads.”

“Kane!” James exclaims. He hiccups. Josh is talking to a plant.

“Get your sorry arses to the couch.” Miles doesn’t sound pissed, even though they’ve just disturbed his already late night. He’s in a spectacular mood. “I’ll get youse water.”

“Bless ya, Miles!” James flings his arms open wide, pulls Miles into a hug. He smells disgusting, and Miles has the flattering responsibility of tucking two grown men into their beds like a bloody mother. When he returns to his room, he finds Alex sitting upright on the bed, looking confused.

“Mi.” He frowns, clearly displeased. “You left.”

Miles nears the bed, collapses on it. “You shouldn’t be up, Al.”

“You left,” Alex repeats. Miles can hear the pout in his voice.

“I’m here now,” Miles says. It doesn’t take long for Alex to get comfortable again, latching himself onto Miles like a human octopus and mistaking his arm for a pillow. Miles is going to wake up with his arm unresponsive and asleep in the morning but he lets Alex be, presses one last kiss to his forehead before drifting away.