Work Text:
Solitude. It was the one thing that Alex could never seem to find on tour; there was always someone hovering outside the bathroom on the bus, hanging around to ask a question, eavesdropping on a private conversation.
Alex had plenty of solitude back in LA – he found himself rattling around his house, never able to sit still or knowing where to focus his attention. He much preferred to be cocooned in the cosy studio space or smallest bedroom converted into a study surrounded by his old favourites.
Alex’s studio housed his very first guitar and amp – battered and bruised beyond use, although Alex couldn’t bear the thought of being parted from them. His study was stuffed to the brim with books full of dog eared pages and bent spines from years of re-reading and being tossed into backpacks and suitcases, travelling the world over “just in case”. But when he was too tired to commit an abstract train of thought to paper, in an attempt to extract something he could shape into a lyrical concept, and the faded words of his favourites swam senselessly in front of his eyes, Alex was forced back into the wide, open spaces of his house. There were no illusions of company here, no pretence that loved ones were just on the other side of the door, waiting to greet him with outstretched arms and the soft press of lips. Despite the gifts from friends and family, a cupboard full of British specialities from the world foods aisle in the supermarket, and the High Green sign above the pool, this house had never felt like home. Not until Miles came to visit anyway.
The solitude Alex often craved when he’d been with his exes swiftly turned to loneliness when there were no more tears; their sadness becoming anger at his sheer indifference as they went their separate ways. The last of their belongings would be painstakingly swept from the place by his diligent housekeeper like fingerprints from a crime scene – she really was more perceptive of Alex’s needs than he was – lest Alex become maudlin at the failure of another relationship, or more likely, the loss of a part of himself to someone he’d stopped caring for shortly after they’d found their way into his bed.
Alex’s loneliness would consume him with the studio no longer his safe haven – every fretted note sounded too sharp or buzzy, every chord sequence too sombre or playful – and nothing more than a harsh reminder of his musical shortcomings. Similarly, the study became too claustrophobic; Alex felt bricked in by thousands of pages of the world’s greatest poetry and prose whilst his notebook sat before him, the blank pages a rustling reminder of his lack of fruitful ideas and the emptiness he felt inside. Alex would ruminate that this was the price he was destined to pay for his success; to be truly tortured in his private life in exchange for critical and commercial acclaim.
In a fit of pique after hours of pacing the floorboards, Alex would throw on his leather jacket and tightest jeans and head to a nightlife hotspot to draw the eye of the prettiest people there to prove he still had “it”; although whatever “it” was, Alex had never been quite sure. Inevitably, each night would end in too many drinks, a heated fumble in a shadowy corner, and a borderline pornographic cab ride to his house; a large stack of notes left on the back seat in exchange for discretion and as compensation for the smear of handprints and hair gel on the fogged glass.
So after a long night of whispered questions and moaned promises, the new object of Alex’s affections would stay for a few days, a few months, sometimes even a couple of years. Until he’d wrung them of lyrical potential. When their endearing quirks turned to pricking irritation and their neediness became stifling, they forced Alex to seek the solitude of his studio or study more and more. In rare moments of honest and insightful self-reflection, Alex would apologise and promise to do better. But by then, it was inevitably too late; their embers of sadness were a prelude to the blaze of anger and the smoulder of resignation before they left for good, whilst Alex returned to his carefully crafted state of blank indifference in an attempt to protect the fragile walls of his heart.
But that was back at home, or rather his house, in LA. Today, on tour, everyone was enjoying a rare night off; a chance to explore the city and soak up the atmosphere. Alex had opted to stay behind citing tiredness and overwhelm, for which he’d been ribbed mercilessly by Loren and Zach, until Caroline took pity on him in her motherly way and distracted them with the promise of buying the first round. Miles had hung back, wordlessly gauging Alex’s state of mind with a raised brow and before he knew it, Alex had shrugged on his leather jacket and was on his way out to the bar after all.
After his second beer, Alex had found himself tuning out of the conversations around him – the laughter and alcohol casting a Gaussian blur across the thoughts he’d hoped to spend the night organising. Alex had made his excuses and left, slapping far too much money down for the next round as he squeezed past Bill their driver, who had relented after weeks of being asked, and joined them for his caffeine fix before he drove them onwards through the night. Miles had been in the bathroom and Alex had known he only had a narrow window of opportunity to escape; Miles would either unknowingly convince him to stay with the soft flutter of his gaze or end his own night out early, intuiting that something was wrong. But Alex needed to be alone. He needed solitude.
The walk back to the bus had been unassuming at first; Alex had allowed his eyes to be drawn to the sparkle of the overhead streetlights rather than the illuminated shopfronts and warm glow of the bars and restaurants – patrons chatting and laughing over glasses of wine and olives were too much of a reminder of the life he could have had. Far better to focus on the intangible and the abstract, rather than the relentless thud of his heart and the humidity of the air that were causing Alex’s breaths to come in little gasps. Just a few more minutes until the safety of the secluded parking spot and Alex could calm his spiralling anxiety with a smoke, and settle into his moment of solitude.
Finally arrived, Alex placed a steadying hand on the side of the bus. The metal was slightly cool beneath his fingers, the shiny black surface now marred with his fingerprints. A tangible reminder that he was here, in his body and not floating off into the ether where his anxious thoughts threatened to take him. Alex rhythmically patted his pockets for cigarettes and lighter, finding them as always when he wore this jacket in his front right pocket, though the ritual was soothing nonetheless. Alex briefly considered checking his phone; he half thought he’d felt it vibrate since he left the bar, but… It was better not to get drawn into that now. There’d be plenty of time for that later and plenty of it to come tonight, no doubt.
Alex thumbed the edge of the cigarette packet, eyes glancing past the warning on the front – he knew he was killing himself, slowly, inevitably, but at least the smokes he bought in LA didn’t ceaselessly remind him of that fact – and opened the flap. Alex grasped the middle cigarette between thumb and forefinger and slid it out, shuffling the remaining smokes towards the centre of the packet. He rolled the edge of the chosen cigarette gently across his bottom lip before placing it in his mouth, tucking the packet back safely, once again nestled in the silky lining of his pocket.
Back in the early days, when the idea of playing anywhere bigger than a tiny club to a handful of people had seemed an impossibility, Alex had smoked roll ups. He had Miles to thank for that one. It was cheaper to go halves and buy the components in bulk – tobacco picked up at duty free by Miles’s mum’s mate who was always going on holiday – and they’d sit, side by side on the tour bus like a miniature nicotine factory line: open the paper, slide in the filter tip, sprinkle the tobacco, roll, moisten the edge with a swipe of tongue, and onto the next. Alex’s first few attempts had been clumsy; too fat, or too thin, or too loose – spilling precious tobacco from the end onto the weathered carpet of the bus. Miles had instructed him to watch closely, lest they squander any more of their hard earned supply and Alex had found himself mesmerised as long, elegant fingers rolled a cigarette gently and delicately, a far cry from the way they shredded the strings of a guitar night after night on stage. Miles had sealed the edge of the perfectly proportioned cigarette by stroking the seam of the paper against his moistened lower lip and had placed it onto the table in front of Alex.
“There. Use that as your guide. Have another go.”
Alex’s hand had fumbled then under the scrutiny of Miles’s gaze; the filter tip skittering across the smooth table top to be joined by another, and then a third, followed by a small grunt of exasperation and embarrassment.
“‘S fine, long as you’re not wasting the ‘baccy.” Miles had smiled, eyes crinkling and Alex had instantly relaxed and rolled his first acceptable smoke, placing it down next to Miles’s perfect specimen.
And so they’d gone on; Alex had settled into the soothing repetitiveness of the task, watching the pile before them grow until their supplies were depleted. Alex had realised as he surveyed the heap of cigarettes in front of them, that many of his later attempts were basically indistinguishable from Miles’s, and all of the smokes would be jumbled together before they were divided between them, stored safely in garishly decorated cigarette tins they’d picked up from the rag market in Birmingham. Miles had opted for Bob Marley because he was “cool,” and the colours were “boss”, whilst Alex was drawn to Che Guevara, noting his impressive ability to “wield the pen and submachine gun with equal skill”. Miles had ribbed him for swallowing Wikipedia before passing comment on Che’s similarities to Alex; “swap submachine gun for guitar Al, and that describes you”. Alex had immediately committed to buying their tins as an odd flush crept up his neck and onto his cheeks at Miles’s casual yet earnest observation, his words echoing in Alex’s ears for the rest of the day and well into the early hours of the morning.
Alex had calculated, roughly, that there was around a forty-five percent chance that any given cigarette he smoked would have been made by Miles; the crisp seam moistened and sealed by Miles’s lip or a flick of his tongue. Rather than finding this odd, or repulsive, or even treating it with the casual indifference it probably deserved, Alex was fascinated by the thought.
On that day, when Miles had given Alex a cigarette-rolling masterclass, the bus had stopped for a break and they’d hopped off to smoke. Alex had studied his cigarette closely before lighting it; Miles had watched him curiously, brows quirked, and lips curled into an indulgent smile as he smoked his own cigarette, seemingly unperturbed by who had licked what. But Miles was cool and confident and didn’t care what anyone thought. Apart from Alex, though Miles had never expressed that fact in words. It was merely something that Alex felt intrinsically, in the same way that his own feelings of admiration towards Miles were vividly clear to him and not obscured in the clutter of the rest of his thoughts. Alex’s mind was a jumble of scraps of lyrics lumped together with flashes of pretty girls making eyes at him in the front row of shows, a catalogue of riffs, and whether he should call his parents to let them know he was still alive. Alex had wisely kept his cigarette related musings to himself, and was soon drawn into their usual easy chatter.
On every shared smoke break from then onwards, Alex would try to decipher if his cigarette was one of his own or if he could taste the remnants of Miles’s work between his lips. The thought that Miles may also have been smoking a cigarette of Alex’s own creation sent a tiny ripple of something up Alex’s spine – a feeling which he hadn’t dared contemplate too closely, lest it complicate their friendship or cause any disruption to their life on the road. But Alex had blindly relished in his confusingly illicit thrill each time they smoked; he knew they were sharing a small part of each other in the same way that they shared ideas, fingering techniques on their fretboards, and a slightly off-beat perspective of the world around them.
Once the tour was over and Miles was no longer a daily fixture in Alex’s life, with performance and recording commitments separating them, Alex had initially continued to roll his own cigarettes. But he soon found without the rumble of the tour bus and the quiet and considered companionship, it became just another unwelcome chore. So Alex had reverted to the ease of buying packets over the counter now that nicotine had well and truly got its claws into him. Alex had later wondered if nicotine was really the only addiction he’d sustained during that time in his career.
The Che Guevara tin had accompanied Alex everywhere for a while, as a reminder that at least one person in his life liked him for him rather than his ability to sell records. But before long, the tin became a cause of sadness rather than comfort as it sat empty and devoid of its purpose, merely drawing more attention to Miles’s lack of physical presence in Alex’s daily life. They were, of course, in frequent touch over phone calls and messages but nothing could compare to that precious time spent on the road together. The cigarette tin was now stored safely in Alex’s studio in LA, in pride of place on the shelf above his guitar rack; a gentle reminder when Alex felt lost that he was still that nineteen year old lad who Miles had held such earnest admiration for, and maybe occasionally, Alex was worthy of his affection.
As with so many of the important things in his life, Alex had Miles to thank for taking up smoking in the first place. Miles had offered him a cigarette on the very first night of rehearsals for their first tour, when The Little Flames had supported the Monkeys. Alex had got the impression that Miles didn’t like him, and he didn’t want to seem offhand and upset Miles any further by refusing. Alex could still recall that first cigarette so vividly; after choking through the first couple of lungfuls of smoke, with Miles eyeing him suspiciously as if to say, I thought you were a smoker, Alex had relaxed into the burn at the back of his throat.
Alex had studied Miles closely; the slight hunch to his shoulders, the way he grasped his cigarette between his index and middle fingers and how they curved slightly as his hand moved closer and away again, each exhale through pursed lips producing a flutter of smoke that billowed around him. Miles was confident, self assured, calm. Everything Alex desperately wished he could be. Smoking seemed to be an integral part of Miles’s life, so to Alex, cultivating the habit himself had been the next logical step.
Following that first day, Miles had quickly warmed up to Alex and they could often be found smoking together after soundcheck, before the show, after the show, behind the tour bus during a quick stop to stretch legs and grab refreshment. Smoking had felt like something that was theirs. A private moment to discuss a new lyric idea, or the state of the Premier League, or the varied price of beer in each city. It didn’t matter what they spoke about, or where in the UK they happened to be, but during these moments of downtime, Alex was “it”, whatever that was. He wasn’t a shy, scrawny lad who didn’t know what to do with his hands when he spoke. He was Al, a front man who could wield a guitar just as effectively as his pen, cheeky barbs rolling off the tip of his tongue to make Miles screw his eyes shut in laughter, and the crinkling lines of Alex’s work disappear beneath the curled flicks of Miles’s hair. It had been then that Miles had suggested they go halves and share supplies, rather than Alex spending a small fortune of his limited funds from service stations and corner shops on packet after packet.
Alex rolled the cigarette gently along his lower lip for a second time, in an effort to coax his thoughts back to the present. Alex clicked the lighter – the lurid, orange plastic tauntingly bright against the darkness of the slightly overcast sky up above – and it failed to spark. Alex had several nice lighters: engraved Zippos including a silver one bearing Suck it and See – a merchandising gimmick released alongside the album, though in hindsight, perhaps encouraging young, impressionable fans to smoke hadn’t been the best moral decision regardless of the financial benefits – S.T. Dupont, and even an Yves Saint Laurent one that he’d been gifted after he’d attended a fashion show with Miles. Their reputation as heavy smokers had clearly preceded them and they’d carried those matching lighters with them on nights out, for a time. But Alex was careless; his suitcases were always a jumble of washed and unwashed clothing, his dog-eared favourites hand picked from his study in LA, notebooks, and leaking pens, and hair products. He couldn’t trust himself that anything precious would return from tour in one piece. In any case, none of his nicer lighters held any sentimental significance, save perhaps the one from the fashion show. As far as Alex was concerned they were just tools to feed himself with nicotine; a fifty pence disposable lighter was as effective as one sold at an exorbitant price. Until, of course, it failed to light.
Alex clicked the lighter again. Nothing. He took a deep breath, irritation and anxiety spiking at the thought of having to rummage through all of his belongings in a desperate search for another lighter. Miles would have one, in his luggage.
Miles always had spares of everything; underwear, outfits backstage in case either of them split their trousers during a particularly provocative move, lounge clothes for relaxing on the bus, toiletries, phone chargers, tea and coffee supplies. And patience.
Miles had always been more than willing to share everything with Alex over the years, without hesitation, but nothing more so than his patience. When Alex was battling a down day, a depressive episode, or a negative spiral, Miles was there without question. Some of those days inevitably ended in an identity crisis and an extended bout of self-loathing, if Miles couldn’t quite drag Alex from his mental precipice. But Miles would wait and do whatever he could to coax Alex back to baseline.
Similarly, Miles had endless patience when Alex was being a prick; either wanting his own way in the studio, hungover, in a bad mood, or some combination of them all, or had simply managed to be as irritating as possible – being clingy and coy one moment and surly and standoffish the next.
Miles seemed to have an inbuilt ability to cut to the heart of whatever Alex was feeling and guide him through it with a hand around the waist, an affectionate ruffle of his hair and a silly joke, or even some tough love when Alex really needed it. God, why was Miles even friends with him at all? He was a nightmare. But even though Alex knew Miles wouldn’t mind – had never minded when Alex had rummaged through his belongings – there was something discomforting about it, almost as if it were a continued invasion of Miles and his privacy, when he was already ever-present in Alex’s thoughts without permission.
Alex clicked for a third time, and thankfully, it sparked. The lurid lighter would live to see another day. He cupped the flame with his free hand and edged his face closer, introducing the cigarette to the singular thing that gave its life meaning, but also caused it more pain than anything else imaginable. And wasn’t that just ironic. Smoke finally ablaze, Alex slipped the lighter back into his pocket to join the rest of his cigarettes, a pointed reminder to them that they were soon to meet the same fate as the current chosen one between Alex’s lips.
Alex took a deep drag from his cigarette and felt a sense of calm wash over him as he pictured the nicotine flowing through his bloodstream, infiltrating every cell in his body, dulling the continual ache in his brain just enough to cope with a few more hours of wanting. The exhaled smoke drifted skywards and Alex watched it dissipate from a cloud into minuscule puffs and further into infinitesimal specs, like it had never existed at all. Did things really, truly exist if they couldn’t be seen? No one, save for Alex, would know of the smoke’s existence, unless he chose to share. But who would want intricate details pertaining to one stream of smoke from one cigarette? It was hardly discussion worthy, or of lyrical significance. Speaking it into existence wouldn’t accomplish anything. It wouldn’t change lives, or spread joy, or stop the flutter of Alex’s heart after one too many drinks. If anything, it would cause conversation to falter, raise further queries – why now and why at all? – and create an uncomfortable shift, perhaps even a divide where currently, there was balance. An equilibrium. Everything in its place.
During restless nights, Alex was consumed by the need to verbalise his feelings; fumble them down the crackling line of an early hours phone call, or scrawl them onto a page, his handwriting as increasingly erratic as his exuberant metaphors. But just as the overwhelming urge peaked, and Alex found himself phone in hand, finger hovering over that precious name, or grasping a pen poised over smoothly-ruled cream he would falter. Words spoken could never be reclaimed; they would only linger in the atmosphere, ringing louder and louder in Alex’s ears along with the relentless thud of his heart, mocking him for having the gall to think his love would ever want to hear such sentiments from him. Written words could be left unsent; crumpled, torn, even scorched if necessary. But the mere act of putting pen to paper gave a physicality to any feeling, and no matter how thoroughly any words were scoured from tangible existence they had still been unleashed into the world. Something could not cease to be, without first existing.
Yes, Alex decided. Things did truly exist even if they couldn’t be seen. The pain in Alex’s heart was just as visceral as any physical ailment he’d ever sustained, whether a jagged gash or broken bone, or perhaps even more so – unrequited love couldn’t be healed with stitches, or Plaster of Paris. Unlike the wounds of his youth caused by curiosity, and uncharacteristic bravery bordering on recklessness, the ache of wanting was fuelled by secrecy and feelings shrouded in darkness; fear that everything Alex had wanted desperately for years was definitively unobtainable. Except it wasn’t quite definitive. The ache in Alex’s brain thumped into his temple.
Alex took another drag of his cigarette, savouring the rush of oxygen and nicotine-laden smoke filling his lungs. The second inhalation calmed him slightly, and as the smoke unfurled before him, he returned to his familiar, plaguing thought.
Alex’s feelings were almost certainly unrequited – why on earth would someone like him show the slightest bit of interest? – but without openly voicing them directly to the object of his affection, Alex would never have irrefutable proof. This safe uncertainty allowed Alex, at times, to live under vain illusion that one day, he would approach Alex with a confession of his own; a sincere smile, nervous utterances, and honeyed eyes widened in anticipation and hope. Perhaps it could even be on a night like tonight; the overhead street lamps and the glimmer of the moon their only company as kisses were exchanged as freely as words. The whole trajectory of Alex’s life changed in the course of one singular cigarette, as it had been all those years ago after their very first day of rehearsals. The day that Miles had fluttered his lashes in jest, drawing Alex’s attention to the soulful depth of his eyes – golden sunlight on a cloudy day – before belting out a raucous laugh in response to a silly quip Alex had thrown out, desperate for Miles to like him.
Alex knew that to gain any sort of closure, he really should lay himself bare to Miles; be let down gently and allow their friendship to adjust to the detonation of a hand grenade packed with eleven years of pent up feelings. Miles was the kindest person Alex knew, and he was certain that Miles would know exactly how to navigate the uncharted territory of one-sided romantic feelings without causing awkwardness, or shame, or discomfort. But as desperate as Alex was for a heartfelt declaration of love from Miles, he was equally as desperate that nothing else change in their current relationship. No matter how much Miles would undoubtedly reassure Alex that everything would stay the same, Alex would forever be plagued with thoughts that Miles was protecting him, treating him with extra care, pitying him. They’d no longer be on equal footing – Alex would always be at a disadvantage caused by the foolishness of his mouth and heart.
Alex watched a trail of ash skitter off the end of his cigarette, eyes following its fluttered trajectory into the atmosphere. He took a third drag – the third was always better than the second for soothing his mind – and as if summoned by thought alone, Miles appeared, lean figure slightly obscured by the swirling cloud of smoke, long legs striding towards the tour bus with both grace and purpose.
Alex thought Miles might question why he’d slipped away from the bar without a word, or try and get Alex to share what was on his mind. Miles seemed to sense, as always, that Alex needed a few moments to compose himself, so simply stood and waited. Miles’s right shoulder was nudging Alex’s left imperceptibly in comfort. A minute or so passed in silence, save for their steady breathing falling into sync.
Alex took a fourth drag, a long, drawn out inhale and exhale to dull the painful squeeze in his chest as much as possible before he spoke. “Get bored of the bar then?” Alex turned to look at Miles and couldn’t contain the smile blooming across his face despite the resigned thump of his heart. It was impossible to look at Miles without smiling.
“No, but seems you did. Didn’t answer my call so came to see if you’re alright.” Miles didn’t look annoyed; his gaze held its usual warmth as he studied Alex, waiting for his response.
“‘M fine. Go back if you like.” It wasn’t true, and as much as Alex had craved solitude to organise his thoughts, now that Miles was here beside him, Alex was desperate for him to stay.
Miles shrugged. “I’m here now.”
Alex nodded wordlessly and reached into his jacket pocket for his smokes and lighter, holding them out to Miles.
“Ta.” Miles plucked a cigarette out of the packet, long fingers sliding it artfully into place between his lips and he clicked the lighter, which worked first time. But of course, who wouldn’t immediately spark to life in the presence of Miles Kane?
Alex discarded his cigarette and took packet and lighter back from Miles, again choosing the middle smoke and shuffling the others into the centre, before turning his attention towards the lurid orange. It sparked first time for Alex too, and supplies safely tucked away, they each took a long drag of smoke, two exhaled clouds mingling into one to become indistinguishable – just like their shared roll ups all those years ago – as the smoke melted away into the atmosphere.
“Alright?” Miles was studying Alex again, eyes searching for something deeper than his simple, casual question suggested. Alex knew they had the uncanny ability to sense what each other was thinking, and the more time they spent together listening to the same records, watching French films on the tour bus, riffing silly one liners from old films, and quoting in-jokes from the past, the more refined their shared skill became. Alex turned his head away, eyes fixed on the iridescent shimmer of the moon for fear that Miles could pluck the tortured musings straight out of his brain.
“Fine. Just needed some time on me own. Just to think.” Alex took another drag of his cigarette to curb his reckless impulse to divulge anything further. Miles followed suit.
“Dangerous, that. Want me to go?” Miles’s head was tilted in concern; Alex could sense it in his periphery, could sense Miles knew what he’d been thinking about and what he was thinking now, no matter how painstakingly Alex tried to obscure it from view.
Alex shook his head. I always want you here. I never want you to leave. I need you. You have no idea how much. He swallowed the lump in his throat of everything he desperately wished he could say. “No.”
“Okay.” Miles nudged closer to Alex; shoulders, arms, and elbows of their non-smoking hands now brushing. Alex could feel the warm line of contact between them shift with every breath he took and he was sure Miles would be able to feel his accelerated pulse, heart thumping in his chest. Could this be it? A heartfelt moment where Miles would take Alex’s hand and ask him to be his. To erase years of pining with the tender brush of his lips, lead Alex to bed, and allow them to share their bodies; their physical beings finally in harmony as seamlessly as their hearts and minds had always been.
The silence stretched on; Miles took another drag of his cigarette, eyes closed and cheeks hollowed, his beautiful face bathed in the glow of moonlight. No words came. It was nothing more than an elaborate fantasy. Alex brought his own cigarette to his lips, desperate to stop the unreasonable disappointment pricking behind his eyelids.
Cigarette and lighter, Alex and Miles. The latter gave the former meaning, sparked them to life, unleashed their potential. Made them shine. Had the power to set them ablaze or burn them down, leaving nothing but a pile of ash in their wake. Cigarettes had no purpose without a flame. And Alex was surely nothing without Miles in his life.
Alex felt long fingers slot between his own, felt the cool metal of rings, and the flutter of a pulse through a delicate wrist.
“Come on,” Miles said. “Let’s go in. I’ll make you a brew. Even let ya put on one of those sci fi films you’re always dyin’ for me to watch. Alright?”
Alex smiled at their joined hands and discarded his cigarette, crushing it under the heel of his boot. “Okay, yeah.” And he was. Would be. Alex would never reveal the secrets of his heart or risk jeopardising their eleven year friendship. But with Miles in his life in some capacity and their moments of shared solitude, Alex knew he would never truly be lonely.
Alex took one last look at the shimmer of the moon reflected in Miles’s eyes and let himself be led onto the tour bus.