Chapter Text
“Are we gonna talk about it Miles?” Alex asks. His voice comes low and hesitant.
The wind is certainly loud enough that Miles is sure he could just pretend he hadn’t heard, force a smile and point out at the horizon and comment on some imaginary bird or something. Instead tears prick at the back of his eyes that he’s not 100% able to blame on the salt air. Seeking some comfort that he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle, he leans closer and sighs.
“Not much to say, is there?”
Alex is watching him. He can feel the weight of his burning gaze all while he pouts, avoiding eye contact and scratching at the back of his hand hard.
He could just swallow that heavy set lump in his throat, find a smile to paint on, loop an arm around Alex and thank him for being so understanding, assure him that he doesn’t need to talk, that he’s “fine, really” and maybe threaten him loosely that he’d better not tell anyone about the earlier debacle. Somehow though, the energy to do any of that fails him. The headache clinging on from his miserable hangover is back with a vengeance and the 20 minute walk has barely helped beyond its promised fresh air.
Then there’s Alex, he’s notoriously bad at this sort of thing, talking that is. He’s surprisingly good with physical comfort, always has been quite adept at subtlety and gentleness, always ready with the right combination of hand in hair and brusque hug. But words… for someone so good at forming clever lines and poetic phrases he really does stumble over the complexities of emotion.
Currently he’s floundering a little, Miles can tell and he’d love to put him out of this particular misery, to maybe just crack a joke to diffuse the tension but that same lack of energy arrests him again and before he can summon any up Alex’s calloused hand reaches out to take his, to still the overflowing energy that he hadn’t realised was apparently being stored there, in his twitching fingers where they grasp at the skin of his knuckle in a desperate unthinking scratch that comes a little too close to breaking the skin.
Apparently his hands are freezing. Or maybe Alex’s are just warm. Either way the contrast makes him flinch.
Unfazed by his skittishness and ignoring his shuddering intake of breath, Alex’s hand closes around his palm and Miles legs his fingers act of their own will to squeeze gently like an effort to leech out some of Alexs warmth. If only he could absorb some of that internal warmth too.
Earlier, in his mum’s living room, with Alex’s arms draped uncertainly around him he’d felt it, some glowing bubble that Miles fancied was fixed deep within Alex’s chest, golden and radiant and cozily cocooned there until it was needed. That sentient golden orb waited until it knew Miles’ resistance was low and his mood even lower, the pulsed softly with its yellow-y tinge to bathe everything around it in some golden hue, rosy fingered dawn over frosty landscapes, honey soaked afternoons and an evening of fireside glow.
He hated that he felt that so intensely but he had, he’d felt the thick blue-grey haze around him thawing, evaporating in the tenderness and before too long the tears he’d kept bottled up and forced down deep where he could barely even feel the threatening to overflow, had done just that, coaxed out by the warmth, it’s duplicitous mockery of promised comfort.
“Okay, okay… you don’t need to say anything, not now, but…” Alex hesitates.
Miles wishes halfheartedly that he’d stop, stop trying to help because it only makes him feel more guilty about it all. Maybe deep down he recognises that beyond the pain threshold, beyond that unspoken line where everything hides there’s some sort of peaceful existence waiting. But for now, all that’s in front of him is suffering, hardship first with none of that tempting peace to be seen. Speaking of suffering, Alex’s features have adopted a look of anguish that’s as much to do with Miles as anything else and he wishes he could take all that away too.
“Uhm…. I just want you to know that when you wanna talk — if you wanna talk, I’m here, you know that already but please, please take me up on it yeh?”
Miles nods, still avoiding his eyeline.
“Miles?”
Finally his underslept gaze finds Alex’s. He’s sure that he’s a picture. Honestly he feels messy and his limbs have stopped bothering to cooperate with his tangled, exhausted brain. If only Alex wouldn’t pin that look of concern on him, the tender look that says “let me help you” so loudly that Miles almost winces.
Alex hesitates like he’s afraid lest the words he chooses next should lower Miles’ mood further. He takes a breath and steadies himself to continue.
“I luv ya, yeh?”
There it is again. Like a keyhole in an old fashioned heavy oak door with warm white light peeking through it and the gap at the bottom, spilling out to cast into sharp relief just those things closest to it. A tiny glimpse of something that offers salvation for a weary traveller on a cold, dark night, the promise of candlelight and a homely hearth, the subtle delight of companionship after a lonely journey.
Miles tells Alex he loves him all the time. And Alex, bless him, can never find the words, simple though they are. Instead he shows him. He’ll whisper and million and one other sentences, a million and one ways he’s enjoyed Miles’ company, or wishes he wouldn’t leave, but never those three like that in sequence. He’s offered a particular kind of smile and he’s made him tea or draped an arm round his shoulders or met him at the train station or told him a joke and every time it’s meant the “I love you” that he couldn’t say.
Now Alex sounds gruff and mumbly like maybe he’s hoping that the wind will actually carry his flimsy statement with it but then he clears his throat and repeats the words more firmly so that Miles can’t worry even slightly about whether or not he means to have said them or meant for them to have been heard.
“I know.” He manages, squeezes Alex’s hand again. “Thanks Al.”
He even managed a small smile, one that doesn’t even need coaxing because Alex’s warm thumb tracks softly back and forth over his knuckles.
“Now, c’mon, you’re freezing,” Alex pulls him to his weary feet and doesn’t let him stray too far.
Miles imagines them a sight on the misty shoreline, two dark figures against the horizon bundled in scarves and coats but lanky as both their statures naturally afforded, maybe like some Lowry painting. He thinks about voicing it, just because Alex always fixes him with a studying look and raises one eyebrow in amusement if ever he talks about art, not so much in surprise as some kind of admiration, a glittering in his eye that says he’s listening intently. Instead though, Miles licks his dry lips in preparation and forces his tongue to string together a couple of words.
“D’you remember filming age of the understatement.”
Alex laughs, a surprised sort of laugh, the kind that startles you because it’s come from absolutely nowhere and with absolutely no warning. Like he’d not expected miles to say anything and even if he had it wouldn’t have been that. A similarly surprising flicker of cheer rolls over Miles in turn just from the noise. It’s radiating from the place in his chest where everything starts. Where the pulsing ache that’s dully surfaced at inopportune moments for weeks now always starts. Where all his unshed tears gather just waiting to spill. For fleeting moment he feels it like a hollow space neatly filled up, just buzzing like this time it’s storing some joy instead of the sunken depth of vacuous despair it had been before.
Alex’s boots are covered in sand and he squeezes Miles’ hand again like he’s just reminding him that he’s still holding it. His cheeks and nose are going pink from the biting wind and his hair has long been messy. If Miles really takes him in, which he finally does for the first time all day, he realises that Alex looks sleepy and unpolished which moves him somehow. Just the thought that after a long night and little sleep, Alex woke up early and washed his hair and didn’t bother to style it, and made his way over to Moels just to see him early like he’d promised.”
“Okay, drama queen,” he says around another of those soft giggles. “It’s not that cold!”
The name calling makes that smile return, the easy one he doesn’t have to think about. As usual, Alex is right. It’s not that cold, because the weird little ball of warmth in at the base of his throat is vibrating again and banishing the chill for a moment longer.
Alex laughs again and Miles thinks about ruffling that so soft looking hair. Instead he huddles a bit closer and complains — despite his lingering hungover nausea — that Alex had dragged him out for this walk with the promise that he’d buy him chips from the cafe.
Maybe he’d been expecting another little laugh or some teasing about being demanding. He could’ve handled that better probably because he’d been prepared for that. When instead Alex’s voice sounds again it’s softer, that special tone that reads as mildly concerned, tender and ever so slightly over the line of best friend. He’s trying to meet Mikes’ eye as he asks with fondness and a little too much affection if he’s feeling a little better for the walk. Miles can’t help it, in the suddenness of feeling overwhelmed he just blinks at the tears threatening to spill and he hopes he can blame the wind if Alex does see. Like he’s not already watched him sob helplessly once already today.
“Yes, loads,” he mumbles and despite everything, he really means it. They’ve gone beyond talking about a portion of chips and they both know it but Miles can’t stop thinking about that lambency in his rib cage radiating gradually outward. It’s still just a tiny ember right now but it’s stuck around for at least an hour and Alex, with expert skill, has so far stoked it carefully an not only kept it aglow but surely strengthened it too. For the first time in a while Miles feels himself able to trust entirely, knowing that under this watchful eye he might finally be able to rekindle what was once a far more powerful glow.