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Miles woke to the unmistakable smell of fire.
His first instinct was to bolt upright in the large four-poster bed (the one he’d insisted they buy on account of its exquisite Venetian spires), one hand flying to his chest as his heart thundered beneath his silk nightshirt. His second instinct, once he registered that the left side of the bed was conspicuously empty, the sheets rumpled and abandoned, was to exhale in relief and let his shoulders sag. This was accompanied by a dramatic roll of the eyes that, regrettably, went entirely unappreciated in the absence of an audience.
“Campbell, darling?” he called toward the bedroom door, now ajar, the smell growing stronger by the second. “Is that awful stench something to do with you?”
From somewhere beyond the threshold came the clatter of ceramic meeting metal, followed by a string of vividly inventive curses. Then, with infuriating calm, “Aye.”
Miles tutted, pursing his lips as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “And what, pray tell, is happening out there?”
“It’s a surprise!” came the cheerfully unrepentant reply.
Living with Campbell was, by and large, the most liberating and delightful period of Miles’s life. When they’d first moved in together, he’d briefly feared he was trading excitement and impulsivity for domestic complacency, that settling down meant settling quietly. Those fears had been laid to rest with astonishing speed. It turned out that cohabiting with a manic depressive was not only thrilling, but frequently alarming, and often involved a degree of chaos that bordered on the theatrical.
Which brought him, rather neatly, to the present moment: barefoot on polished floorboards, wrapped in his dressing gown, inhaling acrid smoke while tetchy Scottish expletives echoed through their small flat - apparently in service of a surprise.
What greeted him in the kitchen was entirely unexpected. Campbell stood at the stove in an oversized grey T-shirt and a pair of black boxers, his long, lanky legs bare, his hair still sticking up at odd angles from sleep. He was all elbows and sharp movements, hunched over a frying pan in which something that might once have been eggs was being aggressively stirred into a pale, unrecognisable gloop. Nearby, the toaster belched smoke with alarming enthusiasm, filling the room with a thick, miasmic fog.
The chaos extended beyond the appliances. A handful of batteries lay scattered across the counter, and the fire alarm - unscrewed from the ceiling and clearly disabled - sat beside them like a silent accomplice. Next to that was a plate of charred, blackened squares that Miles could only assume were meant to be toast. He cleared his throat as he stepped fully into the room. Campbell spun around, eyes bright and smile dazzling, the kind that could power a small city.
“I’m making breakfast!” he announced, gesturing broadly at the gloop in the pan, then the ruined toast, before offering a sheepish half-shrug. “Well. I tried, anyway.”
“It may be a lost cause,” Miles winced, crossing the room to the windows. He shoved them open and began fanning the smoke outside, the cool air doing little to disguise the lingering smell of burnt toast. “Although I do appreciate the sentiment.”
Campbell’s expression fell, just for a moment - his shoulders dipping, brows knitting together as the words landed. It was subtle, fleeting enough that it might have been missed if Miles hadn’t been looking. Then Campbell ran his tongue along his teeth, inhaled, and seemed to shake the disappointment loose with practiced ease. “Aye,” he said lightly, gesturing toward the carnage on the counter. “Didnae go exactly as planned.”
Miles let his attention rest on Campbell, on the long lines of him and the wreckage of good intentions scattered across the kitchen. The smile had returned, relaxed and unbothered, as if it had never left, but there was something just a shade too quick about it, as though it had been summoned rather than felt. It wasn’t much, not on its own, but he knew how easily moments like that could grow teeth if left unattended.
“Did you take them?” he asked gently, nodding toward the medicine cupboard rather than saying it outright.
Campbell blinked, then let out a quiet huff of a laugh. “Straight to business, eh?” He padded across the tiles, opened the cupboard, and retrieved a small orange bottle, giving it a little shake so it rattled. “Aye. This morning. With water. Like a good boy.” He paused, then added more softly, “Promise.”
Miles watched him for a beat longer than strictly necessary, something in his shoulders easing once the words had been said. He crossed the space between them and reached out, thumb brushing absently against Campbell’s wrist.
“I trust you,” he said, meaning it. Then, because he couldn’t seem to help himself, he leaned in and pressed a brief, warm kiss to Campbell’s mouth, tasting smoke and toothpaste and something unmistakably Campbell.
Campbell grinned into it, hands coming up automatically, fingers curling into the hem of Miles’s shirt. “See?” he murmured when they parted. “Perfectly functional sort-of-adult.”
“That remains to be seen,” Miles said dryly, glancing at the blackened toast. “But today, at least, you don’t have to be.”
“Day off,” Campbell agreed with satisfaction, bouncing lightly on his heels. “No studio, no schedules. Just us.” His eyes lit up. “We could go out somewhere! Maybe that wee café near the river? Or the pictures - there’s bound to be something ridiculous that we could have a good laugh at. Or we could stay in and listen to records and do that thing where we pretend that we’re very serious men with very serious opinions.”
Miles smiled, a slow, pleased thing, at the way Campbell could conjure entire days out of nothing at all. “All excellent suggestions,” he said. “Truly inspired.” He let the praise land before adding, with deliberate casualness, “Although I do rather fancy a bit of window shopping. Perhaps trying on something outrageous…?”
“Aye,” Campbell said, brightening. “That could be fun an’ all.”
Miles leaned in, resting his forehead briefly against Campbell’s, voice dropping into something fond and conspiratorial. “Splendid.” He pulled back, executed a theatrical twirl, and swept his fluffy robe dramatically around himself. “Now. We should get you dressed first - before you set fire to the flat again.” A beat, then a glance down at himself. “And I,” he continued gravely, “must put my face on. I simply cannot be seen in public looking this tragically authentic.”
The bell above the shop door chimed as they stepped inside, letting in a rush of cold air and street noise before it all fell away again. It was narrow but airy, with high ceilings and tall, slightly wobbly shelves that gave it a quirky feel. Sunlight spilled through large front windows, catching on polished wooden floors and glinting off brass fittings. Racks of clothes hung in careful clusters: vintage jackets with sharp tailoring, soft cashmere jumpers in muted pastels, and skirts that swished over the floor like something out of a magazine. Mirrors leaned against the walls, gilded or scratched at the edges, reflecting the warm glow of overhead lamps and the occasional flash of street outside. A faint scent of cedarwood and old perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp rustle of fabric as customers moved between racks.
At the back, a small corner had a sofa that looked impossibly comfortable, and a low table stacked with glossy magazines and a few forgotten scarves. The overall effect was one of cultivated charm, like the shop itself had personality, and was quietly judging, approving, or coaxing everyone who entered to try something daring.
Miles went first, as if it were only natural. He was dressed with deliberate ease: wide-legged trousers in a soft dove grey, pressed within an inch of their life, a silk shirt the colour of clotted cream left open just enough at the throat to suggest. A long wool coat hung from his shoulders, impeccably cut, and he’d added a scarf purely for effect. His hair had been coaxed into glossy, precise waves, not a strand out of place, and his face bore the careful artifice of someone who understood exactly how much was enough; powder to soften the shine, subtle pink colour at his lips, eyes slightly defined with charcoal so they looked effortless while being anything but.
Campbell followed a half-step behind, hands shoved into his pockets, taking it all in with open curiosity. He’d gone for comfort over presentation: a worn bomber jacket over a soft jumper, faded jeans that had seen better days, trainers scuffed and unapologetic. His hair was still a little unruly, waves refusing to be fully tamed despite Miles’s best efforts earlier, giving him a perpetually windswept look, as though he’d stepped straight out of the morning rather than prepared for it. There was something endearing about the contrast - Miles all polish and intention, Campbell all ease and unselfconsciousness.
Campbell glanced sideways at him, mouth twitching. “Everyone’ll think I’ve just stumbled in by mistake.”
Miles smiled, radiant and unrepentant. “Nonsense,” he replied, linking their arms. “You’re with me.”
Miles didn’t waste a moment - he strode straight to a rack of jackets, hands flying over the fabric as if he could sense what would suit him before he even touched it. Campbell trailed close behind, fingers brushing against scarves and soft jumpers, eyes alight with mischief. They were giggling before the first coat even made it onto Miles’s arm, little bursts of laughter that echoed off the polished floors, mingling with the faint rustle of hangers and the occasional tinkle of the doorbell. Miles held up a pale blue and green paisley blouse against himself, pouted theatrically, and spun, hair catching the light. “What do you think?” he asked, one eyebrow arched perfectly.
“Ha! Looks like a peacock,” Campbell teased, doubling over with laughter.
Miles feigned offense, then snatched a pair of trousers off the next rack. “Very well. I shall redeem myself!”
Eventually, Miles slipped into the changing rooms, disappearing behind the thick curtain with a flourish. Campbell leaned against the wall outside, arms crossed, smirking to himself as faint thumps and swishes of fabric came from within. The first outfit was a tailored cream suit, sharp lines, and a silk scarf tied at the neck. Miles emerged from the curtain and posed like a model on a catwalk, one hand on his hip, the other dragging the scarf dramatically across his chest. Campbell whistled low.
The second outfit was a soft velvet jacket over a patterned shirt, trousers loose and elegant. Miles spun, bowed, and struck another impeccable pose. Campbell’s laughter bubbled out, warm and delighted, eyes sparkling.
The third outfit was something daring, a deep jewel-toned coat, trousers cropped just above the ankles. Miles stepped out, striking one final pose, head tilted, lips just so, and then collapsed into giggles as he noticed Campbell. He was wearing a ridiculous oversized hat, huge round sunglasses, and was performing a fully committed, absurd little dance, arms flailing, knees bent, spinning in tiny circles… all just to make Miles laugh.
Miles couldn’t suppress his delight. “You absolute-” he said, voice breaking a little from how full it was. He closed the curtain behind him and crossed the few steps to Campbell, arms going around him, tugging him close. “I love you,” he murmured into his chest. “Completely mad, unpredictable you.”
Campbell nuzzled into his neck, head bowed. “Aye, and I love you too. All of you.”
Miles pressed a quick, fierce kiss to Campbell’s mouth, then swept him up into a pirouetting hug. Fingers interlaced, they spun round and round, laughter spilling from them, echoes bouncing off the walls, the absurdity of the moment magnified by the ridiculous hats and scarves strewn across the floor.
That was when a shop assistant, unamused and firmly clipped, cleared his throat. “Unless you’re paying for those clothes, you’re welcome to leave.”
Instead of shame, the words hit them like fuel. Their laughter doubled, breathless and bright, spinning even faster, heads thrown back, tears pricking their eyes.
By the time they made it back to their flat, the day had softened into golden afternoon light streaming through the windows. Campbell dropped his jacket by the door and wandered over to the record player, fingers lingering over the well-worn sleeves before selecting one with a smirk. A scratchy, upbeat track filled the room, bass and piano mingling in a way that made both of them sway just slightly as they moved. Miles settled on the sofa, notebook balanced across his knees, pen poised, a single curl bouncing against his forehead as he wrote. Campbell perched nearby on the armrest, sketchpad in hand, pencil already scratching over the paper as he tried to capture Miles in mid-thought, hunched and serious, though his expression kept softening with amusement.
Minutes passed in comfortable silence, save for the music and the occasional shuffle of pencil or scribble of pen. Then Miles looked up, a slow, mischievous smile curling at his lips, and read aloud the lines he’d just written, voice low and teasing. “…and if I dared, I’d trace the line of your collarbone, just to see if you’d shiver, or laugh under my fingers. And the curve of your waist, the tilt of your hip, I might have to draw maps to remember them later.”
Campbell’s cheeks flushed pink, though he grinned, lifting his sketchpad to reveal the results of his own efforts. It was… chaotic, to put it kindly. Limbs were twisted into impossible angles, the head leaned in a direction that defied gravity, and the features were exaggerated almost cartoonishly. But that was the beauty of it - Campbell’s ridiculous style made the absurdity hilarious rather than offensive.
Miles blinked, caught between amusement and desire. “That… is spectacularly terrible.”
Campbell’s jaw dropped, mock-offended. “Art’s subjective, isn’t it?”
Miles leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from Campbell’s forehead. “Subjective, perhaps. But you also have a gift for making me laugh - and think thoughts I really shouldn’t be thinking in public.” He bit his lip and glanced back down to his page. “I imagine your shoulder pressing against mine, warm and solid, and the way your thigh brushes mine, well, it’s a miracle I can keep my pen on the page.”
Campbell snorted, nearly dropping his pencil. “Doesnae even rhyme!”
“Poetry needn’t rhyme, darling, it’s art.”
“Aye, like this?” Campbell’s grin widened, and he held up his sketchpad with mock pride. His latest drawing was even worse than the last; Miles’s features were all stretched out, arms impossibly long, legs bent in directions physics would never allow.
“Oh!” Miles cried, leaning back to study it, trying to keep a straight face. “You’ve turned me into… a Picasso nightmare. I don’t even know where to begin!”
Campbell chortled, hopping slightly on the sofa armrest. “Aye, but at least I’ve captured your essence!”
When evening fell, the apartment was bathed in the soft borrowed glow of the rising moon, and they were both tangled on the sofa, limbs entwined like they’d been designed to fit together. Campbell stretched, hair tumbling into his eyes in a deliberate messiness, and reached for the remote. “Right then. I think it’s time for a proper film. None of that modern shite - give me horses, hats, and a bit o’ drama.”
Miles arched an eyebrow, his hand drifting along the back of the sofa until it brushed against Campbell’s, sliding teasingly. “Ah, so by ‘proper film,’ you mean delicious men on horseback, trotting across deserts, slow motion in chaps and bandanas?”
Campbell’s grin was mischievous, the corners of his lips curling as he tugged Miles’s hand into his lap, holding it there like a prize. “Aye… and a few shootouts wouldn’t go amiss. You might pick up some cultural knowledge.”
Miles pressed a quick kiss to Campbell’s temple. “Of course. Culture, yes. I’m sure it’s entirely academic. I shall watch for… historical accuracy.” He paused, eyes glinting. “Though I daresay the cavalry are often well-endowed… with heroism.”
Fifteen minutes into A Fistful of Dollars, and Clint Eastwood might as well have been performing in an empty room. Miles was straddling Campbell now, hands resting lightly on his shoulders as he traced teasing paths along his neck, gliding his tongue along the seam of Campbell’s lips in a slow, tantalizing dance. Campbell tilted his head up, capturing Miles’s mouth in a kiss that was both deep and languid, a slow burn that left them both shivering in the soft haze of their own world; everything else has faded into nothing more than background noise.
They moved together in a natural rhythm, chuckles slipping into soft sighs, smiles brushing against lips between lingering kisses. Miles traced careful, deliberate lines along Campbell’s jaw, while Campbell’s fingers tangled in his curls, tugging gently as if to anchor both of them to the present moment. Every brush of skin and gentle pull of hair was a conversation, wordless and intimate, threaded with warmth and trust. Miles shifted slightly, pressing his chest against Campbell’s, feeling the steady beat of his heart in sync with his own. Campbell responded with a soft groan, tilting his head back so Miles could trace the line of his throat with delicate, teasing pecks and licks.
Somewhere in the background, a cowboy tipped his hat and rode off into the sunset. And somewhere closer, right here, Campbell and Miles laughed, kissed, and held onto each other, lost in the perfect chaos of their own story.