Work Text:
Alex can’t breathe.
He isn’t entirely sure how he wound up in such a predicament, but the reality is undeniable. An invisible band ensnares his chest like a belt being pulled impossibly tight, squeezing his lungs until only weak gasps make it past his throat.
Opening his eyes brings little relief. No sooner has the darkness been banished than he’s forced to squint against the harsh glare of a lone spotlight. A trickle of sweat trails down his cheek as he bathes in the fearsome heat of a laser-focused beam, and he’s suddenly all-too aware of his t-shirt sticking mercilessly to his clammy skin. An acoustic guitar rests in his trembling hands, but as he looks down at the familiar instrument he finds he possesses no memory of how to play it. Even if he could trust himself to sing in an effort to break the silence, the words of every song he has ever written collide and scatter and turn to mulch within his mind like confetti unleashed in the rain. His tongue feels dry and his lungs refuse to fill and only a strangled whimper emerges as he opens his mouth...
Far too late, his mind concludes that he is standing upon a stage. He is in the middle of a show – or at least he can only assume as much seeing as he possesses no recollection of how he got here. A glance down at his feet shows a tangle of trailing wires leading to a steep drop into a bottomless abyss; the light refusing to penetrate what he can only assume is the orchestra pit.
Beyond that pitch-black void sits an expectant, silent audience. The spotlight’s glare obscures the sheer magnitude of the crowd, but that doesn’t stop Alex from feeling every single gaze resting upon him like needles pricking his skin. The few individuals he can make out in the front row are statuesque, their faces morphed as though someone has carelessly dragged a brush over a drying Picasso painting. And yet, their eyes remain clear as day. Blues and browns and greys and greens all dissect him with silent indifference, waiting for a chord to be strummed or an expertly crafted lyric to rouse them from their stupor.
Nothing breaks the silence. Alex can only gulp, biting back tears of frustration as his hands refuse to follow his simple instructions. His brain continually fires synapses which travel along his winding nerves towards his hands, yet not a single joule of that electricity succeeds in stimulating his fingers. He can’t play and he can’t sing and he can’t breathe and the only thing he can do is stand here in the stocks, awaiting judgement as thousands of eyes bore into his soul.
A glance to either side of him confirms his worst fears. On any other night he would have the reliable presence of Matt and Jamie and Nick – or even Miles – to reassure him that he isn’t alone. That his burden is shared and that there’s a safe place to hide should he need one. No such comfort greets him today. On the floor by his side, an unplugged electric guitar lies dejected beside a lone bass – the latter broken at the neck – while Matt’s drumkit is carelessly strewn around in an undignified heap.
Have the others deserted him? Have they anticipated disaster and abandoned ship, leaving Alex to pick up the pieces? He doesn’t think they would be so cruel, but it’s difficult to listen to logic when his heart is pounding at a million miles an hour.
Lost for any better solutions, Alex closes his eyes again. On any other occasion that would help him. Closing his eyes to dampen the assault of sensory overload led to him surviving many an amateur gig in his teens.
Now, however, the sudden darkness only serves to emphasise the tightness in his chest and the ache of his heart trying to burst through his ribcage and the cool sweat trailing down his spine as shivers wrack his frame. The harshness of his own gasps is soon replaced by a piercing laugh and a chorus of jeers as the audience are finally reanimated, and it takes all of Alex’s willpower to avoid cradling his head in his hands and unleashing a strangled scream.
He’s vaguely aware of his feet guiding him towards the baying crowd, yet before he can will himself into forced stillness, his stomach gives a sickening lurch as he trips over a stray wire and stumbles into a sea of nothingness.
Within a heartbeat, the barrage stops. Alex’s eyes fly open and precious oxygen fills his lungs as he finds himself flat on his back, entangled within damp sheets. It’s still dark outside and he can make out little of his surroundings besides a familiar crack in the ceiling, but tears escape his eyes nonetheless as blessed relief washes over him like a warm tide.
Only to be replaced with ice in the blink of an eye as he realises he can’t move. The sheets encasing his frame may as well be pythons constricting his chest. The belt-like tension returns with a vengeance as an invisible weight settles over his ribcage, squeezing the life from him while he can do nothing to stop it. Try as he might to wriggle his fingers or free himself from his restraints, his muscles refuse to listen to his commands. Even when he opens his mouth to cry out, all he can manage is a pathetic whimper as more tears trail down his temples and into his sweat-soaked hair.
Perhaps everything he dreamt has come to pass. Perhaps he truly did fall from the stage, only to be paralysed once his body crumpled at the bottom of the endless pit. Perhaps his fate is to be frozen here, forever, forced to listen to the echoes of piercing laughter and harsh jeers and a frightened call of his name...
Come to think of it, that latter sound is new. Alex clenches his eyes shut - choking on a sob as his chest aches with exertion – and does everything in his power to narrow his focus down to that singular voice. It seems clearer than the others, more familiar. A ghost of comfort in a dream where such kindness is a forgotten luxury.
“Alex?”
The voice sounds scared. Alex doesn’t want that voice to sound scared. That voice is supposed to be joyful; rich with laughter and enthusiasm. It’s supposed to ease him out of his own head whenever his thoughts become too loud for him to process. It’s supposed to greet him in the morning accompanied by a smile that shines brighter than the sun.
“Al? You’re okay,” the voice says, the words trembling with uncertainty even as familiarity convinces Alex’s heart to calm a little. “You’re going to be okay. I just need you to wake up love, can you do that? I just need you to open your eyes for me.”
Love... Has the owner of that voice ever called him that? Alex doesn’t think so, but then as far as he knows he’s still dreaming. It’s only when a warm hand comes to rest on his cheek that Alex allows himself to believe he may finally be waking up. He’s sore and shivery, and his limbs still feel unbearably heavy, but the lingering sensations from that lonely stage are beginning to make way for the more familiar discomforts of the waking world.
More specifically, the scratchy bedding and muggy heat of an isolated farmhouse in rural France.
“That’s it,” Miles – for of course Miles would be the one to save Alex from himself – soothes, a stubborn trace of fear stealing the usual lightness from his tone. “It’s all over now, see? Just a bad dream.”
Alex lets his eyes crawl open as he takes what feels like his first proper breath in hours. His lashes are wet and sticky as he blinks away exhausted tears. It takes a moment for the broken image of Miles to coalesce into a beautiful whole, but when it finally does, Alex has to fight off the temptation to tackle him in a crushing embrace. Not that he has the energy to succumb to such desires. His limbs still possess the consistency of jelly and his chest still burns with the effort of inhaling precious air, but the sight of Miles hunched beside him – his fluffy hair sticking up at all angles and his warm brown eyes wide with alarm – brings a tired smile to Alex’s lips all the same.
“Hey,” Miles says, releasing a sigh of relief as his smile matches Alex’s own. His thumb diligently swipes at the stray tears trailing down Alex’s cheek, and his touch is so gentle that he lets his eyes flutter shut with a sigh.
It isn’t lost on Alex that Miles still looks spooked – his lingering concern highlighted by the cool glow of moonlight – and his cheeks flare with shame. He can’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be so vulnerable in front of another human being. Not since he was a child, most likely. His fleeting nightmares have been endured in solitude of late.
“Hey,” he croaks, opening his eyes with a weak smile which he hopes conveys carefree sheepishness rather than guilt. It’s still early and they have a long day of travelling ahead of them. Miles should feel free to go back to his own bed and rest before sunrise creeps up on them.
Miles' hand ceases its gentle ministrations for a moment, and Alex can only hold his breath as he anticipates the pain of its absence.
“Can I...” Miles starts, hesitating for only a moment before holding his nerve, his voice a steady anchor in the dark. “Is it okay if I hug you?”
The request barely has time to register before Alex starts nodding as enthusiastically as his knackered body will allow. Even in the dark his desperation must be obvious, for Miles wastes no time in lifting the sheets and climbing in beside him, carefully gathering Alex in his arms and letting him rest his head on his chest as they fight for space on his narrow bed. Without prompting, Alex drapes an arm lazily across Miles' waist and settles his head over his heart, feeling his own pulse quieten as he’s soothed by the steady ‘lub-dub’ beneath his ear. Their position feels strangely intimate, despite the layers of clothing separating their skin, but Alex lacks the energy to dwell on that. All he can do is focus on taking deep, even breaths as his body crawls into reluctant wakefulness, trying to banish the ghost of shame itching beneath his skin.
Their French escapade had been going so well until now. Their time at Black Box studios had been heaven; a refuge from the demands and scrutiny awaiting them at home; a place where the sun always shined and music flowed through their veins like a calm river. Beyond the confines of the studio, Alex and Miles had gleaned profound joy from exploring the grassy fields and quaint villages surrounding their temporary home, racing along winding single-track roads on twin bicycles as the sun bronzed their skin and kissed their cheeks. They’d spent their evenings eating delicious food and frequenting Noyant la Gravoyère’s lone pub with James in tow, charming the locals with their broken French as they indulged in pint after pint.
On the rare nights where they were feeling less adventurous, Alex and Miles would simply retire to their shared bedroom with bottles of wine from the local vineyards, losing themselves in childhood memories as classic records spun on a borrowed turntable. As their deadline had drawn ever closer, Alex had found himself craving those nights far more than their drunken expeditions into the village.
It had been easy to fall for the delusion that such peace would never end. It had been easy to pretend that they could stay here forever, in this place where nobody knew or cared who they were.
Despite Alex’s best wishes however, delusion had failed to slow the steady advance of time. Their conversations over mugs of morning coffee had turned to the subject of booked flights and a need to start packing far too quickly for his liking. With each day that passed, the list of songs they had to record grew shorter and shorter until they had the bare bones of a completed album on their hands. Their last supper the night before had been leaden with a sense of finality that had left the appealing dish of chicken confit tasting like ashes on his tongue.
Even as Alex had rested his head on his pillow and surreptitiously watched Miles succumb to exhaustion, he’d still fought desperately to convince himself that they wouldn’t be forced to leave in the morning. Clearly such efforts had been in vain. His subconscious had seen fit to express its dismay by tormenting his sleeping mind, rousing Miles in the process and destroying any hope of their last night being as peaceful as those that came before.
“Sorry,” Alex utters, his hand weakly toying with the fabric of Miles' t-shirt as his cheeks burn. In all honesty, he isn’t sure what exactly he’s apologising for. All he knows is that uttering that single word feels woefully insufficient in the face of the stinging regret piercing his heart.
“Don’t be daft,” Miles says, not unkindly, as he brushes a wayward curl behind Alex’s ear. The action forces Alex to direct his gaze upwards, and his heart performs a little flip as he beholds the earnest smile resting upon Miles' face.
Alex has often tried to write a lyric about that particular smile, only to find himself incapable of summoning the words required to capture its magnificence. Or rather, the words do exist and he can almost taste them on the tip of his tongue, but he knows that putting them down on paper will risk exposing far more of his heart than his audience is entitled to.
Miles' hand soon returns to his hair, and Alex groans as talented fingers start massaging away the remaining tension from his scalp. His clear enjoyment elicits a soft chuckle from Miles' lips, which may well be the most beautiful sound Alex has heard all night.
“You wanna talk about it?” Miles asks, softly as though afraid of the answer, and Alex fights off a shiver as the echo of high-pitched jeers and broken gasps sends ice careening through his veins.
“Not really,” he admits. “Were just a stupid dream.”
Miles seems to accept that, for he leans down to press a soft kiss to the crown of Alex’s head before dutifully resuming his gentle massage. Alex returns his head to its perch, letting the steady drumming of Miles' heart and the tingles racing along his scalp soothe him into a pleasant doze. He feels floaty and warm as his toes dip back into the realm of slumber one by one, and perhaps he would allow himself to become fully submerged if said stupid dream weren’t so fresh in his mind. Enough lingering fragments remain that he blinks back the spectre of sleep with a sudden desperation, feeling his heart leap into his throat as he relives his fall into the void and the state of paralysis that followed.
Miles' hand stills as a shuddering breath tugs free from Alex’s chest, but before he can express his concern, Alex finds his lips moving without permission.
“I were on a stage on me own,” he explains, his voice soft and faraway as though his feet are still planted upon that stage and Miles is one of the many expectant faces gazing back at him. “The audience were waitin’ but I couldn’t... I couldn’t sing, couldn’t play me guitar. I couldn’t even breathe. I could feel everyone in the audience waitin’ for me to do somethin’, but I couldn’t fuckin’ move.”
As the words fill the room, Alex feels some of his fear begin to slip away. The dream fades, the grotesque faces of the audience dissolve only to be replaced with the lively, enthralled expressions he is accustomed to seeing whenever he dares face a crowd. The empty stage is suddenly occupied in his mind by Matt hammering away on the drums, as Jamie’s guitar harmonises with his own and Nick’s bass rumbles out a riff that Alex can feel in his soul. Pleasant memories of Miles joining them onstage calm his nerves and elicit a smile, and he envisions himself glancing over at Miles from his humble perch, watching in awe as his fingers work their magic and bring 505 to life.
Alex will never be alone onstage. Not truly. His mind may trick him into feeling that way sometimes, especially at gigs where everyone only seems to want a piece of him – the reluctant frontman of the hour – but even then he will always have his friends around him, shielding him from the madness lurking beyond their bubble.
“I’ve had dreams like that before,” Alex concludes, trying to sound dismissive though he doubts he succeeds. “Back when we were startin’ out. Thought I’d gotten over ‘em years ago but apparently not.”
A comfortable silence drapes over them, to the point where Alex wonders if Miles has fallen asleep. That would certainly raise a new dilemma. While they’ve spent many an evening cooped up in each other’s childhood bedrooms - sat shoulder to shoulder in bed as they compose songs on their acoustic guitars - they’ve never really slept together before. Their mothers have developed a habit of knocking on their doors with mugs of hot tea and offers of a guest room before exhaustion can snatch them away, but the threat of similar interruptions no longer exists. Not tonight anyway.
A forbidden thrill tingles along Alex’s spine as it occurs to him that he’s far from opposed to the idea of sharing a bed with Miles and waking up in his arms.
A glance upwards reveals moonlight reflected in hazel eyes, however, and it isn’t long before Miles' comforting embrace tightens in an offer of unspoken reassurance.
“I used to have those dreams too. When I were startin’ out like, same as you,” Miles admits eventually, the words hushed as though he’s afraid someone might be listening in through a crack in the door.
The thought of Miles – his confident, wonderful, invincible Miles – ever feeling lost and hopeless onstage strikes Alex as ludicrous. Few men have belonged in the spotlight with a guitar in their hands more comfortably than Miles Kane after all (in Alex’s unbiased opinion). And yet there’s a sincerity in his tone that betrays the truth of his confession.
“I still get ‘em now and then, but not as much as I used to,” Miles continues, glancing down at Alex with a weak smile. “Not since I met you.”
Unspoken implications linger like dust motes in the silence that follows. Alex’s heart quickens and his breath catches in his throat as his mind burns with questions he wants to ask but knows he never will.
Miles' admission shouldn’t surprise him. Of course things changed for Miles after they met each other. Hadn’t Alex experienced the same sense of overwhelming relief in the wake of their very first conversation? Hadn’t he felt a surge of electricity flow through his veins when they shook hands for the first time? Hadn’t his very first glimpse of that crooked smile set his soul alight? Hadn’t he felt truly complete for the first time when they finally sat down to write a secret album together; the words and melody flowing so naturally it was like the ideas had been imprinted within their DNA?
Haven’t these two weeks in France been perfect solely because they mark the first time Alex has ever had Miles to himself, away from prying eyes and distractions who may tear him away?
That bliss will be taken from him soon. Once morning arrives, a plane will steal them away from this haven and they’ll be forced to sleep in different apartments, without the comfort of knowing the other is within easy reaching distance.
“I don’t think I wanna go home tomorrow,” Alex confesses, the words catching painfully in his throat.
He knows how childish his wish to stay is. He knows that reality was always looming in the background, threatening to shatter his happiness with the pull of a trigger. He just wishes they could have had more time.
A soft inhale draws his attention towards Miles' face, and his eyes sting as he spots what might be a tear glinting in the moonlight. It slides down Miles' cheek uninterrupted before lingering on his top lip, and for a split second Alex is gripped by the foolish urge to kiss him and erase all trace of sadness from his face.
“I don’t think I wanna go home either,” Miles says, a sad smile resting upon his lips as he wipes another tear from his cheek.
For a moment it looks like he’s going to say something else or crack a joke to lighten the mood and reinstate a sense of normality, but the words don’t come. It’s too late for reassurances and they’re both too tired to pretend their hearts aren’t breaking.
“Could you stay with me?” Alex asks, suddenly desperate even though Miles has made no attempt to return to his own waiting bed. “Just until I fall asleep?”
“Course I will,” Miles promises with zero hesitation, before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to Alex’s forehead. The action somehow feels even more intimate than the sensation of their limbs tangling together, and Alex’s breath hitches as his eyes flutter shut. “Y’don’t even have to ask.”
With the warmth of that stolen kiss still tingling beneath his skin, Alex rests his head over Miles' heart once more and marvels at how well its drumbeat harmonises with his own. He can feel sleep creeping up on him as exhaustion settles in his bones, but he no longer fears the dreams that await him. In Miles' arms he feels safe and warm, protected from any horrors his mind can conjure. Not even the prospect of their upcoming separation can frighten him now. Their severance will hardly be everlasting after all; Miles will always be there, on the end of a phone or mere blocks away from his apartment, or by his side in the studio. One day they may even share a stage again. No doubt having Miles by his side as he faces a large crowd will extinguish any anxiety residing within Alex with breathtaking ease.
The depth of his affection for Miles threatens to drown him. Alex knows there’s a particular word that describes how he feels perfectly, but it’s a very big word and he cannot deny the fact that the weight of it frightens him. He indulges in those emotions for now though; lets the beauty of Miles' presence lull him into a sweet slumber, and he tries not to dwell on the fact that Miles will likely return to his own bed the instant Alex’s breathing settles into a regular pattern.
As all vestiges of wakefulness abandon him, Alex thinks he hears a whispered “I love you” uttered like a broken confession above his head, but he concludes – with his last conscious thought – that it must have originated within his own exhausted mind.
(He will forget ever hearing those words by the time morning arrives, but sweet contentment will fill his heart regardless as he finds himself still safely ensconced within Miles' embrace.
And as he watches his best friend’s lashes flutter in protest against the rising sun, Alex will allow himself the indulgence of wishing he could wake up to this sight every morning from now until the end of his days).