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Autumn
When Alex opens the front door to let Miles out of his flat, he does it with the weird, albeit not unusual feeling of already missing him – even as he’s standing right there, beside him, casually chatting with him as he steps out into the cold air of a late October evening.
“Text me when you get home, alright?” Alex urges as they both hover in the doorway, his arms crossed against his chest to try and defend himself from the icy gusts of wind blowing ruthlessly through the streets.
Black leather jacket zipped all the way up, Miles smiles. “‘Course I will, Al,” he nods, and the smile slowly but surely turns into a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to make a mother hen worry.”
He winks at him, delightfully smug, and Alex has to put all his determination into not blushing. He’s not sure he succeeds, though. “Shut up,” he mumbles with a tinge of sudden shyness, hitting his arm playfully and unable to stop a small smile from forming on his lips.
Miles laughs then, a crisp laugh, crisper than the fallen leaves covering the sidewalks in all shades of red, orange and yellow. A laugh that makes Alex forget about everything else – the cold weather, the dampness in the air, the dark clouds hovering in the night sky with the ominous promise of a thunderstorm. Everything else disappears in the warmth of Miles’ presence.
And God, Alex has missed this.
He’s missed him.
They’ve recently talked it all out. Everything that happened and everything that did not happen. Eventually, they’ve decided they’re better off as friends, keeping their hands to themselves instead of jeopardizing what they had even further. In the past, they came close enough to ruining it all, and eventually they were left with a choice of two: either destroy their friendship for good, or get it together, get over themselves and each other, and find a solution that would allow them to save the bond that – no matter what happened – still tied them together.
That’s why they’ve come to the conclusion that it’s much better for everyone involved to forget about everything that happened during that fateful summer on the road, and mend the broken pieces of their hearts by being there for each other – as best friends, once again.
Yes, Alex has missed this. He’s missed this so much. Having Miles as his friend without every conversation turning into a bitter argument where there were no guilty parties, just two people hurt by the one they loved most. Hanging out with him at each other’s houses, spending the whole day together just strumming on their instruments, watching reruns of wrestling matches or obscure Nouvelle Vague films. He’s missed their intimate dinners, ordering Chinese food and eating it on the sofa, and the both of them giggling foolishly at everything the other says just because they’ve drunk one too many glasses of red wine.
Everything feels lighter, when Miles is there with him. Everything feels better, as if more colourful, when Miles is there with him. If the cost to be paid for the sake of their friendship is for Alex to ignore the loud beating of his heart whenever he catches the other looking at him for a second too long, and for Miles to force himself to look away once that damn second has passed – then so be it.
He’s just glad that they’re okay again. He’s glad that they’re back to being friends, back to how they were before.
“I’m off, then,” says Miles, pulling Alex out of his thoughts. They hug as they usually do, holding each other tighter than they would anyone else. Inhaling Miles’ scent, he allows himself to bask in it for a moment, and quickly finds himself wishing he could stop time – stop it right there, make the contact linger for much longer than the boundaries of friendship would normally allow.
As they part, he leans forward one last time to place a light kiss on Miles’ cheek. He doesn’t even think about it; he does it out of habit, automatically, like muscle memory of his most natural reflex.
And yet, perhaps he should have thought about it, because at the brief contact, Miles hesitates for a moment and then reluctantly pulls away, flushed and seemingly dazed.
Seeing his reaction, a sudden rush of anxiety dives into Alex's stomach. “Sorry, was that too–”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I didn’t mean it like–”
“I know you didn’t,” Miles reassures him, almost too quickly, with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Alex doesn’t say anything, looking away with the uncomfortable feeling of having done something stupid. Sometimes the wound feels like it’s still open, still bleeding despite the stitches they’ve scrambled to put on it.
Miles clears his throat. “I’ll text you,” he repeats. “Goodnight, Al.”
Alex nods again. “Goodnight,” he mirrors him, and there’s a brief moment when neither of them seems to be willing to move, instead looking at each other as if wishing one of them would say something else.
Something more.
But neither of them does, and so Miles finally walks away.
Alex stares at him the whole time, secretly hoping he’ll turn around to give him one last wave of his hand. When Miles does it, coupling it with one of his toothy grins as if nothing awkward has just happened between them, Alex’s heart skips a beat.
Stoically ignoring that stubborn muscle’s reaction, he waves back at him with a smile of his own.
Winter
“Oh, come on, Miles, I’m not that sick,” Alex drawls for what feels like the millionth time that evening.
He’s lying on the sofa with his forearm draped over his eyes, sealed shut as they are, lips pursed and brow furrowed in hardly concealed exhaustion.
He’s been plagued by an annoyingly persistent cold for a few days now, accompanied by a raging headache that’s been slowly eating away at his energy – and patience. His body feels terribly sore, the lights of his living room are much too bright for comfort, his head is floating and he feels cold, so damn cold, but he’s fairly sure he can manage a few hours out for drinks with Matt, Nick and Jamie.
It’s the middle of January, and he reckons it’s normal to get a cold every once in a while – no need to freak out and cancel their plans. Besides, he could really use a drink right now.
However, for some reason Miles seems determined to prove that he’s wrong, that he’s going to get worse if they go out in the freezing temperatures of the evening, and that he should get some rest instead of pushing himself past his limit as he usually does.
On the verge of dozing off, Alex distantly hears him saying something from the other room, but it’s muffled and he can’t for the life of him make out what it is, busy as he suddenly is fighting against a particularly rough coughing fit.
“Wha’?” he croaks once the worst is over, but the soreness of his throat makes it come out as more of a strained yelp. He grimaces at himself.
“I said,” – he hears Miles padding down the hallway, his voice coming closer until he’s making his entrance in the room – “that you definitely have a fever, and that I actually can’t believe you don’t have a thermometer in your house. I’ve looked in every single room! How is that possible?”
Alex shrugs. “Never needed one of those,” he says, matter-of-factly.
Hands on his hips, Miles lets out a deep sigh. “You’re unbelievable. How do you even look after yourself?”
“Maybe I don’t,” Alex replies casually. He meant it as a lighthearted joke, but Miles pauses for a second, as if taken aback by his bluntness.
“Don’t say that,” he mumbles then, serious. Alex hears him walking closer, and then he’s sitting on the edge of the sofa with a dull thud. “Here, let me check.”
Letting his arm fall from his eyes, Alex winces the tiniest bit at the blinding intensity of the living room lights.
Miles is right at his side, a worried frown etched onto his forehead. He’s attentive enough to grab the remote – lying abandoned on the coffee table – and gradually lower the lights until they’re reduced to a warm glow, much kinder to Alex’s worn out brain.
When Miles tries to place his hand on his forehead to check his temperature, Alex half-heartedly shoos it away. “Come on, Mi, there’s no need to–” he starts, only to be cut off by a mighty sneeze.
“You were saying?” Miles says, raising an eyebrow, looking at him with equal parts amusement and concern.
“Alright, alright,” Alex concedes, crossing his arms and looking away with a pout, because Miles has a point, and he hates when he has a point despite his vain attempts at denying that he does.
When Miles places his hand against his forehead, it’s with the utmost subtlety – carefully, as if afraid he might hurt him. When Alex looks at him again, intently studying him as he formulates his diagnosis, Miles gives him a tiny, reassuring smile, at which he averts his eyes again.
Sometimes, he wishes Miles wouldn’t be so kind to him. Sometimes, he even finds himself thinking Miles should be mean to him. He would certainly feel like he deserves it more than he does his kindness.
“I think you might actually have a fever,” Miles decrees, letting his hand fall. “I mean, I’m not completely sure, but I think you do.”
“I don’t,” Alex begrudgingly complains, although by now he’s fairly sure the other is right.
Miles stares at him with a quizzical expression. He seems to be thinking of something, but for some reason he hesitates. Then, after a moment of deliberation, he starts again, “Hold on, let me just…”
Before Alex can even register it, Miles is leaning forward and placing his lips on his forehead as an alternative way to gauge his temperature.
As his lips linger against the burning skin, time seems to stop. Despite his initial shock at the unexpected contact, as soon as Alex realises what’s happening he finds himself unconsciously leaning into his touch, letting his eyes slip shut in a sudden wave of somehow comforting longing. He allows himself to revel in the memory of it all – blissed out in the soft touch of his lips, the same touch he used to know and crave.
Now he truly feels like his head is on fire, and when the other finally retreats he can’t prevent a disappointed grimace from appearing on his face and mentally blaming it on the fever.
“Yeah, you’re burning up,” Miles declares, strictly focused on his wellbeing, as if unaware of the minefield of repressed thoughts he’s just awakened in Alex’s mind, on which the latter is desperately trying to avoid stepping on. “I’ll text the others, alright? I’ll tell them we can’t make it tonight, and that we can reschedule for another day.”
Alex doesn’t reply, wordlessly accepting the verdict, but when Miles tries to stand up, most likely to go find his phone, he can’t stop himself from reaching for his wrist and keeping him right there.
“Miles, wait…” he drawls, looking up at him with anxious eyes. In his state of mental confusion, his irrational fear that the other might leave haunts him.
Miles gives him an inquisitive look, as if wondering what’s wrong, and even though Alex fails to say something, his eyes soften. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers, kind and reassuring as only he can be. “Just try and rest a bit in the meantime.”
So Alex lets go of him, watching as he disappears into the other room.
As he slowly but surely falls into a feverish slumber, he wonders what he would have said if his rational mind hadn’t stopped him right in time.
Spring
They’re sitting at an outdoor cafe after a lazy stroll in the park. The sun is shining for once, and while the occasional cloud passes by every once in a while, the warm light is persistent enough to make Londoners forget about the potential threat of rain. A gentle breeze flutters through the trees and the flowerbeds, carrying along the intoxicating scent of wild freesias and blooming jessamine.
It’s spring after all, and winter feels like nothing but a distant memory.
Alex talks at length, trying to explain himself, trying to make sense of the jumble in his head. From across the table, Miles listens attentively, nodding along to encourage him whenever he risks losing his train of thought.
“So you want to move back to London,” Miles says after taking a sip of his iced coffee, once Alex is done talking. “But you’re still not sure what to do?”
Alex sips on his caramel macchiato before leaning back into his seat. “Yeah,” he replies then. “I just… don’t know if it’s the right choice, that’s it.”
“Why?”
He’s been thinking about this for a while. A few months, at the very least, ever since he and Miles have talked things out, more or less. He’d be lying if he said that didn’t influence him – Miles moved back to London about six months ago, sold the LA house and everything, and while Alex has numerous work commitments in the US, he’s been spending more and more time in Britain. He figures it would only make sense for him to officially move back, too. Still…
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve mostly been staying here anyway, plus I’d be closer to my parents, which is good,” he reasons. He pauses, inhales, then exhales loudly, as if considering what to say next. Then he continues, “I guess I’m just afraid moving back would mean letting go of something, if that makes sense.”
There’s a moment of silence between them as Miles registers his words. He takes another sip of his coffee before asking, “Like what?”
Alex hesitates.
Of our summers, is the first thought that comes to his mind.
Of the kisses, and the laughs, and the humid nights in Malibu when they crossed one too many lines – when everything seemed so simple, and every touch came so easily, so naturally.
Of the way it all made him feel – loopy, overwhelmed with something he didn’t quite understand yet.
Of the courage he thought he had.
Of what could have been.
“I don’t know,” he lies in the end, feeling weirdly breathless all of a sudden. “‘S just a big change, that’s all.”
Seemingly not noticing his phony attempts at hiding the truth, Miles gives him a sympathetic smile. “Well, that’s true,” he concedes, nodding. “And it’s your decision after all. But you’re still keeping the house, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” Alex replies. Selling was never in his plans.
“Then I think you shouldn’t worry about it too much. If you feel like it’d be better for you, then why not do it? You’ll still be able to stay in LA whenever you want to.” He pauses for a few seconds, seemingly deep in thought, as if weighing his words before speaking again. “Plus, the memories you have from the time you spent living there won’t be erased just because you moved back, y’know? If that’s what you’re worried about.”
For a moment, Alex stares at him in awe, wondering if his friend is just really good at guessing or if he can actually read his mind.
“Besides…” Miles busies himself with pulling out his trusty packet from the back pocket of his jeans, offering him a cigarette and then fetching one for himself. Neither of them lights it, though.
“What?” Alex asks, curious.
“I mean, to be honest, I’d love it if you moved back here,” Miles says casually, shrugging, and Alex’s heart flutters despite himself. He hopes he’s not actively blushing, but he wouldn’t bet on that.
He doesn’t say anything, speechless as he was left by his friend’s honest admission, but as Miles gets up from his chair Alex sees his smirk widening, satisfied with himself as he must be for the reaction he managed to get out of him.
“Come on, let’s go,” Miles urges now, changing the subject, leaning forward and ruffling Alex’s hair before pressing a kiss to the crown of his head – messing with him, leaving him dizzy, with that stupid grin still planted on his stupid face. “I’m dying for a smoke!”
Alex blinks dazedly a couple of times, trying to regain a semblance of dignity before standing up and rushing to follow his friend down the street. Over that time, he’s already made up his mind.
He’s definitely moving back to London.
Summer
It’s an ungodly hour of the night, mid-July, but neither of them seems to be ready to go to sleep just yet.
They’re hanging out in Miles’ backyard, which he has recently redecorated, and between the small table for two they now use for their dinners whenever Alex visits and the fairy lights running along the fence – he must admit his friend has outdone himself with the cozy atmosphere.
He’s made him penne all’arrabbiata, which is undoubtedly Alex’s favourite dinner in the entire world – provided it’s made by Miles, of course. He makes the best arrabbiata, and they’ve had a couple of glasses of red wine with it, which – along with the company – made the pasta even better.
Now they’re lying side by side on beach chairs that they’ve pushed together to create one big lounger, and as they share a glass to sip on the last remnants of wine – somewhere along the way, they’ve lost the other glass – they bump elbows and share passing thoughts, the distant sound of cicadas a soundtrack to their stargazing.
Alex feels tipsy, but the good kind, the giggly but lucid kind. And he feels happy, too, happier than he’s felt in a long while. The wine is good, the light breeze feels refreshing against his skin, his beautiful best friend is lying right next to him and his eyes shine with a special kind of endearment whenever he turns to smile at him, and Alex just feels happy – truly, genuinely happy.
They’ve been hanging out so much lately, almost as much as they used to before everything that went down between them. Rekindling, reconnecting, getting used to each other’s daily presence again, as if nothing has ever come close to ruining their friendship.
There have been strange occurrences, too. Unintentional staring contests, whispering dirty jokes in each other’s ears and reading each other’s minds, back to their easy chemistry; but also lingering touches, playing footsie under the table, or sitting on the sofa turned cuddling turned Alex falling asleep on Miles’ chest. They’ve both been pretending it’s not happening – but it is, and neither of them has actively been doing anything to try and stop it.
It feels like deja vu, like a death sentence hanging over their heads. It also feels like everything Alex has ever wanted.
“Look, there’s a falling star!” Miles exclaims, pointing at the sky and pulling Alex out of his trance. “It was right there– Did you see it?!”
Alex stares at him with a foolish grin. “You did not just see a falling star, Mi.”
“‘Course I did!” the other counters. They’re both slurring on their words a bit, and Miles’ voice sounds deeper than usual. It does funny things to Alex’s stomach. “It was right there, you just didn’t see it.”
“Through London’s atrocious light pollution?” Alex giggles. “You sure about that?”
His grin is just as wide as Alex’s now, because he must be aware of how absurd that sounds, and yet he insists. “I am sure, thank you very much. Perhaps the star just didn’t want to show itself to you, you man of little faith.”
He’s using that posh, know-it-all accent they use to make each other laugh, and Alex can’t help but play along. “Oh, am I, now, Mr Kane?”
“Indeed you are, Mr Turner. Perhaps falling stars only show themselves to special people who believe in them.”
Alex raises his eyebrows, amused. “And that would be you, right?”
“That would be correct,” Miles nods with a mock-savvy expression. They’re barely holding back boyish giggles as they turn to lie on their sides, now facing each other, mere inches apart.
“Indeed you are,” Alex drawls, suddenly serious and never looking away, enchanted by the way Miles’ eyes follow his features’ every movement. “Indeed you are, Mi.”
The compliment makes Miles’ cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. His eyes soften, too, shining with something Alex can’t decipher, and as they stare into each other’s pupils – perhaps trying to exchange telepathic messages – they both let out pensive sighs.
Something in the air seems to have shifted. Oxygen crackling between them, the deafening sound of hearts beating in sync.
“Remember when we went stargazing back in France, on one of the last days we were there?” Miles whispers after a while, barely audible.
Alex nods, unable to hold back a smile at the fond memory. “Mosquitoes ate us alive and we were so drunk we could barely ride our bikes in a straight line on the way back.”
They both giggle at that, before falling silent once again.
Miles turns to lie on his back again. He lets out a rueful sigh before declaring, solemnly, “Sometimes I wish we could go back.”
He’s looking up at the sky as he says it, apparently lost in thought, and Alex – who’s still lying on his side, still looking at him – blinks a few times and doesn’t say anything, astonished by the candid admission.
“Don’t you?” asks Miles, throwing him an almost bashful look.
Despite feeling quite dazed, Alex doesn’t even have to think about his reply. “I do,” he says, frank, blowing out the syllables in a dense breath. “You have no idea how much I wish we could do that.”
Neither of them says anything for a long moment. Miles seems to be stunned, perhaps not having expected Alex’s confession. They stare at each other, and time seems to stop; Alex swears he can hear his own breaths, swears he can feel his own blood running in his veins.
Then, unthinkingly, he leans in and kisses him. Quickly, a brief brush of lips; lightly, so delicately he almost doesn’t even realise it when he retreats.
Miles stares at him, still, lips parted in silent shock. Alex feels flushed, and hopes with his whole soul the other will read his mind, understand him, see right through him. Know that if he wasn’t ready before, that is in the past; know that he’s ready now, fully ready – for them, for their future, for everything they had and everything they thought they would never share again.
And Miles understands.
Of course he understands.
It’s Miles, after all.
He shoots forward and cups Alex’s cheeks with his hands, pulling him in for a kiss that makes him loopy; the gentlest, yet most urgent kiss he’s ever given him – and he’s given him plenty, over the years. Alex grabs his wrists to keep his hands right where they are, and Miles in turn deepens the kiss, letting their tongues slide against each other.
They explore each other’s mouths with wistful hunger, the shared desperation of lovers who haven’t tasted each other in too long a time. Miles holds him in place, and Alex melts against him.
They kiss, and kiss, and kiss until they’re out of breath; and then kiss some more, for what feels like Alex’s whole life condensed into a white-hot moment of pure bliss – soft sighs, hands roaming freely, hearts longing for the comfort of coming home.
By the time they’re rushing back inside and falling into bed, drunk on each other more than anything else, the shared glass lies there forgotten, wine spilling on the grass to the peaceful sound of cicadas in the distance.
Summer, a year later
In the heat of the morning, Alex feels strong arms wrapping around his middle, and a radiant smile immediately blooms on his lips.
“Good morning,” drawls Miles in his ear, pushing their naked bodies flush together – his chest against Alex’s back, legs intertwined in a tangle of bedsheets. His voice is deep, still heavy with sleep, and his breath hits his neck in a way that sends pleasant little shivers down Alex’s spine.
“Mmh, good morning,” he whispers, scooting back into Miles’ hug despite the hot temperatures of their bed, their room, their house.
“Happy anniversary, love,” he hears Miles say, and his smile grows wider, turning into a foolish grin.
“Happy anniversary,” he answers, taking Miles’ hand and bringing it to his lips, placing a lingering kiss on his knuckles before guiding him back to his waist.
He feels the smile on Miles’ lips as he kisses the sensitive spot between his ear and neck, making him quiver with something visceral and unexplainable.
“Can’t believe it’s been a year already,” Alex muses, letting his eyes slip shut as his love moves to kiss his nape, his jaw, his shoulder. “Feels like yesterday.”
“I know,” Miles says, behaving himself by stopping the kisses and burying his face in Alex’s hair instead. “Feels crazy to think that barely more than a year ago I was so convinced I’d never get to hold you like this again.” He pauses and takes a big breath, inhaling Alex’s scent. “God, I’m so glad I was wrong.”
Alex’s heart lurches in his chest, because neither of them deserved what they went through. He wishes he could turn back time and do it all again – the right way, with no fears or stupid doubts preventing them from being happy for so long.
But the only time they have is now, and so he turns to face him, places a hand on his cheek, stares deep into his pupils. “I thought the same. Now I can’t think of a universe where I don’t get to wake up next to you every day.” He leans in for a kiss, and Miles dives right in as his hold around his waist grows tighter. They move against each other’s lips with slow heed, until Alex pulls away to whisper, breathless, “I love you. God, I love you and I’m so lucky I get to tell you every day.”
Miles rubs their noses together, a tender smile pulling at his lips. A wayward strand of hair falls on Alex’s face, and his man tucks it behind his ear with the careful attention reserved to great treasures, as if handling something precious and infinitely delicate. “I love you too,” he says, kind and soft and absolutely perfect. “And I’m luckier. I love you so much and I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
Alex giggles at that, so enamoured with him it makes his heart ache.
Miles looks at him with liquid devotion shining in his eyes, and when he finally kisses him again, slow and deep and burning like a thousand suns, Alex thinks he loses his mind a little.
When Miles moves to kiss his jaw, his temples, his eyelids, he does it wish such familiarity that Alex feels tears pricking at his eyes; and when he moves to his neck, his collarbones, his whole body and soul, he feels as if everything they went through has led them exactly to this moment. As if the universe has always had a perfect plan laid out for them, and the blinding joy bursting in Alex’s chest is its way of telling them that they’re together at last because, in the end, they were always destined to be.
He’s too distracted to focus on that right now, though, as Miles kisses him silly like that.
In the heat of the morning, at the start of forever, Alex gladly lets him.