(no subject)
better than none
the last shadow puppets. alex turner/miles kane // (5.049) // PG-13
:: sequel to i love the bones of you // more nothing happens.
listen: florence and the machine - kiss with a fist
Miles didn't sleep much after what had happened. He spent most of his nights just lying in his bed - or slumped in his seat in the van, his hat pulled down over his eyes - unmoving, thinking. Not even trying to sleep, because he knew it wouldn't work. He just kept thinking, mulling it over in his mind; going through all the possible scenarios to see if there was any way he could have prevented it, any parallel universe in which it may have happened differently - in which him kissing Alex could have had a positive outcome.
He was starting to look a bit like Ronnie Wood, partly due to the insomnia, but mostly due to the stubborn refusal to sleep. He'd stopped checking his phone for calls from Alex two days ago, after a week had passed since they'd last seen each other. He saw no point in calling him - Alex said it would be best if they didn't contact each other until he'd managed to smooth everything over. All that was left for Miles to do was to wait.
And wait he did. The number of cigarettes smoked per day increased exponentially - and so did the number of hours he spent awake each night. After five days of lying awake, Miles didn't even bother going to bed anymore - he spent his nights sitting on whichever hotel balcony he found himself, smoking and thinking. The Rascals were on tour, so he didn't get to think how badly the sleepless nights were going to affect him: time had to be spent doing sound checks in venues all over the country, putting together setlists, giving their best on stage, and getting smashed out of his mind on alcohol, just so he could forget, just for a couple of blissful moments, when the only important thing was whether his glass was full.
Joe and Greg sensed something was wrong, but they stayed out of it for the time being - for which Miles was eternally grateful. It would be far, far too complicated to lie to them, and Miles hated lying to his friends. He could see no other solution: telling them the truth would be absolutely out of the question - besides, Miles didn't even know where he should start. They already found his and Alex's friendship a bit peculiar: especially Joe, who was keen to rip the piss out of Miles almost on a daily basis.
One night, they had just done a surprisingly good gig in Southampton - surprisingly good because Miles had been feeling especially grumpy for the better part of the day - and they'd settled into their room, in a tiny hotel only a couple of streets away from the venue where they had played. Miles had settled into a wicker chair on the small balcony and was on his fifth cigarette of the night just as the balcony door slid open and Joe walked out to join him.
"Hey," said Joe, leaning against the railing. Miles nodded in greeting. "Can I bum a fag?"
"Sure," said Miles, handing him one.
"Cheers," said Joe, taking a lighter out of his pocket. There was a crackle and a hiss of gas as the flame sprang to life. The cigarette tip burned red as it was lit, and Joe took a drag on it. There were a few moments of silence - Miles was looking down onto the street, and Joe was busy smoking his cigarette. Then Joe spoke, like he was continuing a previously started discussion.
"What's bothering you?" he asked. "'Course, you can tell me if I'm being rude here, but I was just wondering."
"What makes you think that something's bothering me?" Miles said, trying to avoid immediately giving a direct answer.
"Let's see," Joe began. "You've been a right spirit-dampener when you're usually a hysterically giggling idiot, you've smoked enough cigarettes to give your grandchildren lung cancer, you keep drinking yourself to the ground every other night, and not to mention that you haven't slept in days." He counted all of these on his fingers, and then grinned broadly at Miles. "Tell me if I'm leaving something out," he said.
"Nah, you're right," said Miles solemnly. "I haven't been myself lately."
"What's the problem?" Joe asked, and then, as if he'd figured it out, made a sympathetic face. "Aw, Miles, is it a girl?"
"It's not a girl, Joe," said Miles, sounding all too much like the very idea was preposterous.
"What is it, then?" Joe asked. "Have you and Alex 'ad a tiff or something?"
"Sort of," said Miles, guessing it was the closest to the truth he could get.
"Oh no," said Joe, assuming a motherly tone. "What did he do?" Miles had to laugh, both at the question and at Joe's expression.
"It weren't his fault," he said.
"Is it because that girlfriend of his broke up with him?" Joe asked.
"What?" Miles said - too quickly, too quickly. A suspicious expression crossed Joe's face for an instant before he replied:
"Yeah, Greg said he'd read it in The Sun yesterday. Not that Greg reads The Sun - his auntie's in it, some rubbish article about her decidin' to become a bloke. Anyway," Joe said, feeling he was digressing a bit too much, "you didn't know? It might just be a load of bollocks - it's The Sun, after all." He shrugged. "Never liked her, anyway. Always thought you were a better catch, mate."
As Joe ducked the cigarette he had thrown at him, laughing, Miles couldn't help but be inwardly thankful for having friends that would jump to his aid: even when it meant shamelessly ripping the piss, he was still glad he had them.
*
Alex didn't cope with it well. He didn't cope with it at all - he did his best, he tried, he really did. He got on like nothing had changed: he went back into the studio with the Monkeys, he ignored all the stupid questions that the NME were asking and he didn't read the papers. He was rid of the paparazzi, at least there was that. They no longer followed him down the street, probably because there was no Alexa on his arm anymore.
He tried to settle down, tried to pretend he and Alexa had just had a friendly, sensible break-up. But he kept seeing it everywhere, even when he wasn't looking - in the headlines of papers the commuters were reading on the Tube, in the faces of the couples kissing in train stations. At every pair of held hands he felt his gut clench, and at every kissed cheek he felt his fist itch, like he had a strong desire to punch something. He was grateful for the hours they spent in the studio - at least in there he was safe from distractions, and the lads were smart enough not to ask questions.
Every time he thought about it, he thought how much he regretted it. Every time he flicked on the telly and saw her face (immediately changing the channel because he didn't want to get too absorbed in trying to figure out whether it was bothering her as much as it was plaguing him), he thought how he'd like nothing better than to undo it.
He kept going back to the picture she'd thrown at him - he took to carrying it around with him, and would take it out of his pocket every once in a while, looking at it and thinking. Once, Matt caught him doing it.
"Why don't you just call, Al?" he said.
"It's not that simple," said Alex. For one, he hadn't the faintest what to say.
"Of course it is," said Matt. "It's always that simple."
Against his better judgement, Alex picked up the phone. It rang three times and then went straight to voicemail. He didn't know what to say - the silence on the other end of the line wasn't at all as comforting as he thought it would be: it made him feel anxious and it made his throat constrict, but Matt was listening so he cleared his throat and said:
"Can we... can we see each other?"
There was a click on the other end of the line and a faint "Al-" before Alex hung up and immediately reached for his cigarettes. Matt grinned reassuringly at him.
"See?" he said. "That wasn't too bad."
Alex just lit a cigarette, looking at his phone; daring it to ring.
*
"What is it? What is it?"
"Joe-"
"Miles."
Miles held the phone loosely in one hand, frowning at Joe. He'd just gotten an unexpected phone call, and even though he loved Joe as dearly as he would a brother, he didn't really feel like telling him what the call was about.
"It was Alex, wasn't it?" said Joe, lightly punching Miles on the shoulder. "I heard you say his name, what did he want?"
"Do you have to run in every time the phone rings?" Miles asked, trying to remain annoyed by Joe instead of amused by him.
"It could've been for me, you never know," said Joe. "I give my number to a lot of attractive girls, it could have been any one of them." He grinned. "So what did he want?"
"Just said he'd like to see me," said Miles, not entirely sure what to make of that. "He hung up before I could get to the phone and talk, though." He thought it was for the better: he wouldn't know what to say. I'm sorry I snogged you in front of your girlfriend somehow didn't sound too appropriate or reassuring.
"So go and see him then!" said Joe.
"But I'm in Liverpool," said Miles.
"So?"
"And he's in Sheffield."
"Not exactly," said Joe.
"What?"
"The Monkeys are in Liverpool too," said Joe, picking at a thread on his shirt, trying to avoid Miles' eyes. "Having a gig soon or some such, Cookie said."
"They're here?" said Miles. His heartbeat picked up and an uncomfortable weight landed into the pit of his stomach. It would, of course, be amazing to see everyone again - he hadn't talked to the rest of the Monkeys in months - but the thought of Alex being here, in the city, made him feel incredibly uneasy. He didn't think he was able to cope with seeing him yet, at least not without considerable preparation. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I knew you'd react like this," said Joe.
"React like what?" said Miles, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm not reacting like anything." Joe chuckled.
"Whatever," he said. "Greg and me arranged to meet the lads in the pub tonight, and you're coming."
"Joe-"
"We'll distract Nick, Cookie and Helders while you and Al catch up." Joe winked. "Get ready, Kane. We're painting the town red tonight."
*
Sitting in the pub was incredibly awkward for Miles. The first half an hour was alright, though - seeing the rest of the Monkeys after so long felt amazingly good, and for a while he just sat, listening to Cookie, Matt and Nick shouting over each other, trying to retell every single event that happened to them in the amount of time they hadn't been in touch with The Rascals. Greg kept running to the bar and ordering drinks for everyone, but Miles tried to keep his alcohol intake to a minimum: he didn't want to end up saying something he'd regret.
As much as he didn't want them to, his eyes kept darting back to Alex. He searched Alex's face for as long as he dared, trying to find some of the things that bothered him. He couldn't find anything, though - he couldn't tell if Alex was feeling as he was. He was quieter than usual and kept to his drink, but he smiled enough at Greg's stupid jokes and at Cookie's bad impression of a Welsh accent: which was more than Miles could do, anyway. He grinned as much as he could, but it never felt sincere enough, because his thoughts kept coming back to Alex and him, eating through his insides like acid, up to the point where he felt too ill to even look at his drink.
"I'm just going to go out for a fag," he said to Greg. He pushed past him before Greg could answer, and walked out the pub.
Outside, he exhaled heavily. It felt as if a gigantic weight had lifted from his chest, alleviating all the pressure as he put the cigarette to his mouth, holding the lighter to it. The end of the cigarette glowed orange and Miles relished that first inhale, breathing in until the smoke completely filled his lungs and the orange glow turned into an angry red. It felt better being outside - he'd found a spot a bit further away from the door, away from the groups of people huddled around their cigarettes and their drinks in plastic cups.
"Hey, got a light?"
Miles looked up and his stomach turned into one huge, painful knot. It was Alex. He was standing in front of him, cigarette dangling idly out of the corner of his mouth, looking apologetic. "Left me lighter inside," he explained.
"Sure," said Miles, handing the lighter to Alex. He watched him while he lit up, his cheeks hollowing as he tried to keep it lit. Alex handed the lighter back to Miles.
"Thanks," he said.
"That's alright," said Miles, that knot in his stomach starting to loosen. "Bet they made you follow me, didn't they?" he said, forcing a smile.
"Yeah," Alex snorted with laughter. "They practically threw me out. I think Joe had me in an headlock at one point."
"Yeah, Joe's like that," said Miles, shaking his head. He wanted to tell Alex everything that had been on his mind for the past couple of weeks, but he had absolutely no idea where to start.
"Miles," said Alex, making the move for him, "that what happened-"
"Al-"
"-No, wait," said Alex, raising a hand to stop Miles from speaking. "Let me fucking finish this, okay? We shouldn't have done that. Don't get me wrong, though - it's my fault as much as it's yours. Let's just - let's just move on. It didn't mean anything, anyway."
"What the fuck," said Miles. The knot in his stomach combusted in an explosion of rage. "How the hell can you say that?" Miles' fists clenched. He wasn't even sure why he was getting this angry, except that this wasn't fair of Alex - it didn't seem like something he'd say at all. His voice was absolutely deadpan, and he tried avoiding Miles' eyes.
"Why can't I?" said Alex. "What's your fucking problem, Miles, you think you're such a great kisser or something? You think I'd drop everything and fucking come running to you just because of that one kiss? Sure, it might have been fun while it was happening, but get over yourself, Kane: you're not that fucking important."
"I was fucking important enough for your girlfriend to break up with you!" said Miles before he could stop himself, his insides bubbling with anger.
The first punch came so fast he missed it - all that he felt was a dull, throbbing pain in his cheek. Not thinking, just fuelled by blind rage, Miles struck back, his fist meeting Alex's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Even though he hadn't been in a fight for longer than he could care to remember, he still found that he could throw a satisfactory punch - and that it made his blood race faster and made him feel better about himself. He didn't know how else to cope, so he punched every bit of Alex he could reach, and with extreme gusto: it helped relieve the frustration, it felt like he was finally able to achieve something, get out of his own head and channel all the dissatisfaction, all the helplessness into his fists. A crowd had formed around them, watching with interest - there were some drunken cheers and even some protests from the women, but nobody moved in to stop them.
Alex's next punch hit Miles square in the nose - the pain seared through his entire face and he briefly saw stars swim in front of his vision, and then the blood started flowing profusely. Miles groaned, bringing the sleeve of his shirt to his nose, trying to stop the blood, which was already dripping from his nose down to his chin and onto the pavement.
"Shit," said Alex, only now seeming to realise what he had done, "fuck, Miles, are you okay?" It didn't look good at all from where he was standing - Miles had gone pale in the face and his shirtsleeve was soaked with red. He stepped closer to him, trying to move Miles' hands away from his face to try and see the extent of the damage, to help him - because despite everything, they were still best friends and it made Alex sick to the stomach to see Miles being hurt like this. But Miles just tried to push him away, flailing his arms violently and swearing at him. "Let me fucking look at it!" Alex yelled, grabbing one of Miles' hands and swatting it away. His fingers rested on the nape of Miles' neck, and he brought his thumb under Miles' nose, wiping the excess blood away. The bleeding seemed to have stopped - Alex was surprised to feel relief when he found that it wasn't as serious as he'd thought. Miles was looking at him rebelliously, his brown eyes still flashing with resentment.
"You're bleeding too, you fucking twat," said Miles. He fought Alex's grip away, bringing his fingers to Alex's lower lip - there was a cut there, forming a tiny trickle of blood down his chin. He wiped it away, the blood still warm and sticky on his fingers. They should have broken apart them - the crowd at least seemed to think so, because they were all returning to their previous conversations, deciding that there wasn't going to be that much of a fight after all - but Miles found it wasn't as easy as he thought. As he held his hands on Alex's face, everything came tumbling back again: over the antipathy he still felt towards Alex, there came the recollection of how it felt to be kissed by him, and Miles cursed himself for wishing he could be able to kiss that split lip better. He thought he'd imagined it - he must have imagined it, but for a second it seemed like something had changed in Alex's posture as well, like he had stepped that much closer, just enough for Miles to think he could feel Alex's breath on his lips.
There was a loud exclamation as the pub door opened, and the rest of their bands burst out. Joe had his arms around Nick and Greg, and Cookie was laughing at some joke Matt had just finished telling. Miles quickly broke away from Alex, as if burned.
"Hey, lads!" said Cookie. "Alright?" He was grinning brightly, but then he noticed the bloodied sleeve of Miles' shirt and Alex's split lip. "What the-"
"What have you two been doing?" said Nick, looking from Alex to Miles and back again. "Alex, what-"
"Never mind that now," said Alex. With one last furious glance at Miles, he said: "Jamie, I think we've overstayed our welcome. Let's get a taxi."
"Al-" Matt tried, but Alex just brushed past them and went towards the taxi stop, not giving them a second glance.
"Uh, well, guess we'll see you around then, lads," said Cookie, waving an awkward goodbye at them and rushing to catch up with Alex.
"What was that about?" asked Greg after Matt and Nick disappeared out of earshot.
"It doesn't matter," said Miles. Alex was right, in the end: a kiss could never solve anything. He was a fool to have tried it in the first place.
*
Miles was startled awake by his doorbell ringing. It took him a couple of seconds to realise where he was - he'd dozed off in front of the television, remote control in hand. There was nothing on the screen but scrambled signal snow, and the fluorescent hands of his wristwatch told him that it was a quarter past three in the morning. He'd managed to shake off Joe and Greg after they'd left the pub without revealing too much detail - the explanation that he wasn't feeling well seemed to be enough for them. He'd spent the rest of the evening watching mind-numbing television programmes and contemplating the vodka bottle in his fridge, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his nose which had the annoying habit of coming back in waves.
The doorbell rang again. With a heaved sigh, Miles went to the door and opened it without looking through the peephole - and in came none other than Alex, stumbling past Miles into the flat. Miles looked at him and saw that his friend was way beyond drunk - past the point of coherent speech, past the point of rational thought and then some.
"Miles," said Alex with a heavy slur as Miles locked the door behind them, looking aghast, "Miles. I'm-I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Miles. It were not on, acting like I did."
"Al, what have you been drinking?" Miles had never seen Alex in such a deep state of inebriation. He had no doubt in his mind that it must have happened before, but he couldn't recall such an occurrence because he was usually right beside Alex, getting drunk with him.
Alex appeared not to have heard his question - instead, he went closer to Miles, limply taking hold of his upper arm in a lame attempt to pull him closer. "Sorry," he said again, "so sorry, I'm-I'm gonna make it up to you, yeah?" He closed his eyes, leaning in as if to kiss him, but Miles pushed him away: taking care not to do it too forcefully, though, because he wasn't confident in Alex's ability to keep himself upright.
"Get away from me," he said, side-stepping Alex and heading into the kitchen, hoping he'd take the hint. Predictably, Alex didn't. He followed Miles, almost tripping on the doorstep but determined on reaching his goal.
"Does your nose still hurt?" he said, sounding genuinely concerned under the heavy, drunken slur. He reached for Miles' shoulder, attempting to make him turn around ."Does it hurt? I can help you make it feel better-"
"Alex," Miles interrupted him sharply. "Fuck off." He shook Alex's hand off his shoulder, turning around to face him with an annoyed expression. "I can't deal with you right now. Especially not when you're," he gesticulated, encompassing the kitchen and Alex in it, "like this." Miles felt he didn't have enough alcohol in his bloodstream to handle Alex when he was this drunk. Longingly, he thought of the bottle of vodka sitting in his fridge. As if reading his mind - which Miles had increasingly begun to suspect in the course of their friendship - Alex's face spread into a grin.
"Have you got any booze, then?" He pushed past Miles to get to the fridge, opening the fridge door and quickly producing the vodka, like he'd know it was there all along.
"Oh no you're not," said Miles, going to wrench the bottle away from Alex's grip. It didn't prove to be as difficult a task as he thought - Alex's fingers around the neck of the bottle were slack, just like he was expecting Miles to take it from him. Miles didn't hold that against him, though - mainly because he was too busy holding the bottle against his own lips, swigging heartily from it. Alex stood there, watching him as Miles winced from the strength of the alcohol, which burned his throat as it made its way down.
"Fuck off," said Miles again, for good measure: said it to Alex's blank expression, to his hands which were still raised in the air as if holding the bottle, and especially to that stupid cut on his lip.
"Hey, you're not drinking it all by yourself, mate!" protested Alex when he finally realised what Miles was doing. He groped the air to reclaim the bottle from him, but Miles moved to hide the bottle behind his back, a part of him amazed by his own swift reaction. Alex probably wouldn't have managed to take the bottle even if it wasn't behind Miles' back, though, since his balance was completely off. Miles was immediately convinced of this when Alex, still reaching for the bottle, managed to stumble on flat ground and towards him. Their chests bumped against each other and in a horrifying moment, over the sound of his heart beating frantically, Miles could hear Alex's breath against his ear. He then realised that Alex was only in such a position because he was still trying to steal the bottle from him - his fingers had closed themselves around one of Miles' wrists and were trying to pull the bottle away.
"Jesus wept, Al," said Miles, pushing him away for the third time in the evening. "If you want it so badly, let's do it right." Making sure that Alex was at a safe distance and wasn't trying to snatch the vodka anymore, he turned his back to him and opened the kitchen cabinet, looking for shot glasses.
"Miles," said Alex, and Miles froze, glasses in hand and halfway to the counter. Alex was pressing up against him, his chest touching Miles' back. One of his hands was on Miles' shoulder, and he stroked his way down the side of his arm. Slowly, Miles lay the glasses down. He closed his eyes, biting down hard on his lower lip. Alex's breath was warm on the nape of his neck, and he could almost feel his lips run against his skin - the softness only broken up by the jagged surface of the cut. Alex's other hand was on Miles' stomach, his fingers bunching on the fabric and pulling Miles closer, pressing him flush against him. Miles took a deep breath - and then felt the powerful smell of the alcohol on Alex's breath, reaching him even though they weren't even facing each other.
"Alex," he said, trying not to make his voice sound like a hushed sigh as Alex's lips connected with the crook of his shoulder, "don't." He opened his eyes, taking the hand which was on his stomach, moving it away. "Not like this."
He didn't need telling Alex again. Alex threw his hands up in the air, stepping away from Miles as far as he could. "Fine!" he said, voice raised. "I'll fucking leave then, when you seem to want that to happen so much!" He wiped his lips on the back of his hand. "Fuck you, Miles Kane, fuck you," he said, turning around and walking out the kitchen. He stumbled so badly in the doorway again, though, that he had to hold on to the doorframe to regain his balance.
Although furious with his behaviour, Miles realised he couldn't let him go out alone when he was in this bad a state. He went after him, catching up just as Alex had reached the front door and was uselessly rattling the doorknob.
"Alex, wait!" said Miles, taking hold of Alex's wrist in an attempt to ply him away from the door. "Get a grip! What the hell do you think you're trying to pull?" Alex tried to shake him away, but ended up failing and just stumbling into Miles. For a second, as Alex's head snapped forward and he nearly collapsed into him, Miles almost gave in - he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then pushed Alex away from him.
Still holding onto his wrist to make sure he wasn't going anywhere, Miles led Alex into the living room, manoeuvring him towards the sofa.
"I've had it with you," said Miles. "You're sleeping here tonight. I don't want to risk you getting hit by a car out there just because you'd had too much to drink. The fans would kill me," he said, giving a dry smile.
"I'm a wanker," said Alex suddenly, bowing his head. "You shouldn't be nice to me."
"Yeah well, I'm a moron," said Miles, throwing Alex a blanket. He caught it, but only just. "Always have been. Now lie the fuck down. I don't want to hear a word out of you until you sober up." He turned his back to Alex without another word.
As he closed his bedroom door behind him, Miles slumped against it, his frame sagging. He gave a deep, frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Only bothering to take his trousers off, he collapsed onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling, listening for sounds from the other room. There was nothing - the only thing he could hear was the ticking of his bedside clock and the quietened drone coming from the traffic outside. He didn't count on sleeping tonight - but the vodka in his bloodstream was beginning to kick in, and even though he was trying to fight the sleep which was starting to push his eyes closed for ever longer intervals, soon he found himself drifting off into a doze, only dimly aware of the tick-tocking of his clock and the sounds of the flat around him, the faint creaking and whistling.
The bed squeaked just as Miles was slipping out of consciousness. The covers were lifted and the side of the bed bent under Alex's weight as he lay next to Miles.
"Alex," said Miles exasperatedly, not opening his eyes. This had almost started to look like the first bit of sleep he was going to get in weeks, and he didn't want to contribute to its ruin.
"Mmm," said Alex somewhere in the vicinity of Miles' shoulder blades.
"Look, Alex, you can't-" Miles tried. He was interrupted by soft snoring. He let out a discontented sigh, hoping Alex would hear him. When there was no sign that he had, Miles just pulled the covers tighter against himself: hoping all of this won't be too awkward to face in the morning.
end: sometimes, collide.
the last shadow puppets. alex turner/miles kane // (5.049) // PG-13
:: sequel to i love the bones of you // more nothing happens.
listen: florence and the machine - kiss with a fist
Miles didn't sleep much after what had happened. He spent most of his nights just lying in his bed - or slumped in his seat in the van, his hat pulled down over his eyes - unmoving, thinking. Not even trying to sleep, because he knew it wouldn't work. He just kept thinking, mulling it over in his mind; going through all the possible scenarios to see if there was any way he could have prevented it, any parallel universe in which it may have happened differently - in which him kissing Alex could have had a positive outcome.
He was starting to look a bit like Ronnie Wood, partly due to the insomnia, but mostly due to the stubborn refusal to sleep. He'd stopped checking his phone for calls from Alex two days ago, after a week had passed since they'd last seen each other. He saw no point in calling him - Alex said it would be best if they didn't contact each other until he'd managed to smooth everything over. All that was left for Miles to do was to wait.
And wait he did. The number of cigarettes smoked per day increased exponentially - and so did the number of hours he spent awake each night. After five days of lying awake, Miles didn't even bother going to bed anymore - he spent his nights sitting on whichever hotel balcony he found himself, smoking and thinking. The Rascals were on tour, so he didn't get to think how badly the sleepless nights were going to affect him: time had to be spent doing sound checks in venues all over the country, putting together setlists, giving their best on stage, and getting smashed out of his mind on alcohol, just so he could forget, just for a couple of blissful moments, when the only important thing was whether his glass was full.
Joe and Greg sensed something was wrong, but they stayed out of it for the time being - for which Miles was eternally grateful. It would be far, far too complicated to lie to them, and Miles hated lying to his friends. He could see no other solution: telling them the truth would be absolutely out of the question - besides, Miles didn't even know where he should start. They already found his and Alex's friendship a bit peculiar: especially Joe, who was keen to rip the piss out of Miles almost on a daily basis.
One night, they had just done a surprisingly good gig in Southampton - surprisingly good because Miles had been feeling especially grumpy for the better part of the day - and they'd settled into their room, in a tiny hotel only a couple of streets away from the venue where they had played. Miles had settled into a wicker chair on the small balcony and was on his fifth cigarette of the night just as the balcony door slid open and Joe walked out to join him.
"Hey," said Joe, leaning against the railing. Miles nodded in greeting. "Can I bum a fag?"
"Sure," said Miles, handing him one.
"Cheers," said Joe, taking a lighter out of his pocket. There was a crackle and a hiss of gas as the flame sprang to life. The cigarette tip burned red as it was lit, and Joe took a drag on it. There were a few moments of silence - Miles was looking down onto the street, and Joe was busy smoking his cigarette. Then Joe spoke, like he was continuing a previously started discussion.
"What's bothering you?" he asked. "'Course, you can tell me if I'm being rude here, but I was just wondering."
"What makes you think that something's bothering me?" Miles said, trying to avoid immediately giving a direct answer.
"Let's see," Joe began. "You've been a right spirit-dampener when you're usually a hysterically giggling idiot, you've smoked enough cigarettes to give your grandchildren lung cancer, you keep drinking yourself to the ground every other night, and not to mention that you haven't slept in days." He counted all of these on his fingers, and then grinned broadly at Miles. "Tell me if I'm leaving something out," he said.
"Nah, you're right," said Miles solemnly. "I haven't been myself lately."
"What's the problem?" Joe asked, and then, as if he'd figured it out, made a sympathetic face. "Aw, Miles, is it a girl?"
"It's not a girl, Joe," said Miles, sounding all too much like the very idea was preposterous.
"What is it, then?" Joe asked. "Have you and Alex 'ad a tiff or something?"
"Sort of," said Miles, guessing it was the closest to the truth he could get.
"Oh no," said Joe, assuming a motherly tone. "What did he do?" Miles had to laugh, both at the question and at Joe's expression.
"It weren't his fault," he said.
"Is it because that girlfriend of his broke up with him?" Joe asked.
"What?" Miles said - too quickly, too quickly. A suspicious expression crossed Joe's face for an instant before he replied:
"Yeah, Greg said he'd read it in The Sun yesterday. Not that Greg reads The Sun - his auntie's in it, some rubbish article about her decidin' to become a bloke. Anyway," Joe said, feeling he was digressing a bit too much, "you didn't know? It might just be a load of bollocks - it's The Sun, after all." He shrugged. "Never liked her, anyway. Always thought you were a better catch, mate."
As Joe ducked the cigarette he had thrown at him, laughing, Miles couldn't help but be inwardly thankful for having friends that would jump to his aid: even when it meant shamelessly ripping the piss, he was still glad he had them.
*
Alex didn't cope with it well. He didn't cope with it at all - he did his best, he tried, he really did. He got on like nothing had changed: he went back into the studio with the Monkeys, he ignored all the stupid questions that the NME were asking and he didn't read the papers. He was rid of the paparazzi, at least there was that. They no longer followed him down the street, probably because there was no Alexa on his arm anymore.
He tried to settle down, tried to pretend he and Alexa had just had a friendly, sensible break-up. But he kept seeing it everywhere, even when he wasn't looking - in the headlines of papers the commuters were reading on the Tube, in the faces of the couples kissing in train stations. At every pair of held hands he felt his gut clench, and at every kissed cheek he felt his fist itch, like he had a strong desire to punch something. He was grateful for the hours they spent in the studio - at least in there he was safe from distractions, and the lads were smart enough not to ask questions.
Every time he thought about it, he thought how much he regretted it. Every time he flicked on the telly and saw her face (immediately changing the channel because he didn't want to get too absorbed in trying to figure out whether it was bothering her as much as it was plaguing him), he thought how he'd like nothing better than to undo it.
He kept going back to the picture she'd thrown at him - he took to carrying it around with him, and would take it out of his pocket every once in a while, looking at it and thinking. Once, Matt caught him doing it.
"Why don't you just call, Al?" he said.
"It's not that simple," said Alex. For one, he hadn't the faintest what to say.
"Of course it is," said Matt. "It's always that simple."
Against his better judgement, Alex picked up the phone. It rang three times and then went straight to voicemail. He didn't know what to say - the silence on the other end of the line wasn't at all as comforting as he thought it would be: it made him feel anxious and it made his throat constrict, but Matt was listening so he cleared his throat and said:
"Can we... can we see each other?"
There was a click on the other end of the line and a faint "Al-" before Alex hung up and immediately reached for his cigarettes. Matt grinned reassuringly at him.
"See?" he said. "That wasn't too bad."
Alex just lit a cigarette, looking at his phone; daring it to ring.
*
"What is it? What is it?"
"Joe-"
"Miles."
Miles held the phone loosely in one hand, frowning at Joe. He'd just gotten an unexpected phone call, and even though he loved Joe as dearly as he would a brother, he didn't really feel like telling him what the call was about.
"It was Alex, wasn't it?" said Joe, lightly punching Miles on the shoulder. "I heard you say his name, what did he want?"
"Do you have to run in every time the phone rings?" Miles asked, trying to remain annoyed by Joe instead of amused by him.
"It could've been for me, you never know," said Joe. "I give my number to a lot of attractive girls, it could have been any one of them." He grinned. "So what did he want?"
"Just said he'd like to see me," said Miles, not entirely sure what to make of that. "He hung up before I could get to the phone and talk, though." He thought it was for the better: he wouldn't know what to say. I'm sorry I snogged you in front of your girlfriend somehow didn't sound too appropriate or reassuring.
"So go and see him then!" said Joe.
"But I'm in Liverpool," said Miles.
"So?"
"And he's in Sheffield."
"Not exactly," said Joe.
"What?"
"The Monkeys are in Liverpool too," said Joe, picking at a thread on his shirt, trying to avoid Miles' eyes. "Having a gig soon or some such, Cookie said."
"They're here?" said Miles. His heartbeat picked up and an uncomfortable weight landed into the pit of his stomach. It would, of course, be amazing to see everyone again - he hadn't talked to the rest of the Monkeys in months - but the thought of Alex being here, in the city, made him feel incredibly uneasy. He didn't think he was able to cope with seeing him yet, at least not without considerable preparation. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I knew you'd react like this," said Joe.
"React like what?" said Miles, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm not reacting like anything." Joe chuckled.
"Whatever," he said. "Greg and me arranged to meet the lads in the pub tonight, and you're coming."
"Joe-"
"We'll distract Nick, Cookie and Helders while you and Al catch up." Joe winked. "Get ready, Kane. We're painting the town red tonight."
*
Sitting in the pub was incredibly awkward for Miles. The first half an hour was alright, though - seeing the rest of the Monkeys after so long felt amazingly good, and for a while he just sat, listening to Cookie, Matt and Nick shouting over each other, trying to retell every single event that happened to them in the amount of time they hadn't been in touch with The Rascals. Greg kept running to the bar and ordering drinks for everyone, but Miles tried to keep his alcohol intake to a minimum: he didn't want to end up saying something he'd regret.
As much as he didn't want them to, his eyes kept darting back to Alex. He searched Alex's face for as long as he dared, trying to find some of the things that bothered him. He couldn't find anything, though - he couldn't tell if Alex was feeling as he was. He was quieter than usual and kept to his drink, but he smiled enough at Greg's stupid jokes and at Cookie's bad impression of a Welsh accent: which was more than Miles could do, anyway. He grinned as much as he could, but it never felt sincere enough, because his thoughts kept coming back to Alex and him, eating through his insides like acid, up to the point where he felt too ill to even look at his drink.
"I'm just going to go out for a fag," he said to Greg. He pushed past him before Greg could answer, and walked out the pub.
Outside, he exhaled heavily. It felt as if a gigantic weight had lifted from his chest, alleviating all the pressure as he put the cigarette to his mouth, holding the lighter to it. The end of the cigarette glowed orange and Miles relished that first inhale, breathing in until the smoke completely filled his lungs and the orange glow turned into an angry red. It felt better being outside - he'd found a spot a bit further away from the door, away from the groups of people huddled around their cigarettes and their drinks in plastic cups.
"Hey, got a light?"
Miles looked up and his stomach turned into one huge, painful knot. It was Alex. He was standing in front of him, cigarette dangling idly out of the corner of his mouth, looking apologetic. "Left me lighter inside," he explained.
"Sure," said Miles, handing the lighter to Alex. He watched him while he lit up, his cheeks hollowing as he tried to keep it lit. Alex handed the lighter back to Miles.
"Thanks," he said.
"That's alright," said Miles, that knot in his stomach starting to loosen. "Bet they made you follow me, didn't they?" he said, forcing a smile.
"Yeah," Alex snorted with laughter. "They practically threw me out. I think Joe had me in an headlock at one point."
"Yeah, Joe's like that," said Miles, shaking his head. He wanted to tell Alex everything that had been on his mind for the past couple of weeks, but he had absolutely no idea where to start.
"Miles," said Alex, making the move for him, "that what happened-"
"Al-"
"-No, wait," said Alex, raising a hand to stop Miles from speaking. "Let me fucking finish this, okay? We shouldn't have done that. Don't get me wrong, though - it's my fault as much as it's yours. Let's just - let's just move on. It didn't mean anything, anyway."
"What the fuck," said Miles. The knot in his stomach combusted in an explosion of rage. "How the hell can you say that?" Miles' fists clenched. He wasn't even sure why he was getting this angry, except that this wasn't fair of Alex - it didn't seem like something he'd say at all. His voice was absolutely deadpan, and he tried avoiding Miles' eyes.
"Why can't I?" said Alex. "What's your fucking problem, Miles, you think you're such a great kisser or something? You think I'd drop everything and fucking come running to you just because of that one kiss? Sure, it might have been fun while it was happening, but get over yourself, Kane: you're not that fucking important."
"I was fucking important enough for your girlfriend to break up with you!" said Miles before he could stop himself, his insides bubbling with anger.
The first punch came so fast he missed it - all that he felt was a dull, throbbing pain in his cheek. Not thinking, just fuelled by blind rage, Miles struck back, his fist meeting Alex's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Even though he hadn't been in a fight for longer than he could care to remember, he still found that he could throw a satisfactory punch - and that it made his blood race faster and made him feel better about himself. He didn't know how else to cope, so he punched every bit of Alex he could reach, and with extreme gusto: it helped relieve the frustration, it felt like he was finally able to achieve something, get out of his own head and channel all the dissatisfaction, all the helplessness into his fists. A crowd had formed around them, watching with interest - there were some drunken cheers and even some protests from the women, but nobody moved in to stop them.
Alex's next punch hit Miles square in the nose - the pain seared through his entire face and he briefly saw stars swim in front of his vision, and then the blood started flowing profusely. Miles groaned, bringing the sleeve of his shirt to his nose, trying to stop the blood, which was already dripping from his nose down to his chin and onto the pavement.
"Shit," said Alex, only now seeming to realise what he had done, "fuck, Miles, are you okay?" It didn't look good at all from where he was standing - Miles had gone pale in the face and his shirtsleeve was soaked with red. He stepped closer to him, trying to move Miles' hands away from his face to try and see the extent of the damage, to help him - because despite everything, they were still best friends and it made Alex sick to the stomach to see Miles being hurt like this. But Miles just tried to push him away, flailing his arms violently and swearing at him. "Let me fucking look at it!" Alex yelled, grabbing one of Miles' hands and swatting it away. His fingers rested on the nape of Miles' neck, and he brought his thumb under Miles' nose, wiping the excess blood away. The bleeding seemed to have stopped - Alex was surprised to feel relief when he found that it wasn't as serious as he'd thought. Miles was looking at him rebelliously, his brown eyes still flashing with resentment.
"You're bleeding too, you fucking twat," said Miles. He fought Alex's grip away, bringing his fingers to Alex's lower lip - there was a cut there, forming a tiny trickle of blood down his chin. He wiped it away, the blood still warm and sticky on his fingers. They should have broken apart them - the crowd at least seemed to think so, because they were all returning to their previous conversations, deciding that there wasn't going to be that much of a fight after all - but Miles found it wasn't as easy as he thought. As he held his hands on Alex's face, everything came tumbling back again: over the antipathy he still felt towards Alex, there came the recollection of how it felt to be kissed by him, and Miles cursed himself for wishing he could be able to kiss that split lip better. He thought he'd imagined it - he must have imagined it, but for a second it seemed like something had changed in Alex's posture as well, like he had stepped that much closer, just enough for Miles to think he could feel Alex's breath on his lips.
There was a loud exclamation as the pub door opened, and the rest of their bands burst out. Joe had his arms around Nick and Greg, and Cookie was laughing at some joke Matt had just finished telling. Miles quickly broke away from Alex, as if burned.
"Hey, lads!" said Cookie. "Alright?" He was grinning brightly, but then he noticed the bloodied sleeve of Miles' shirt and Alex's split lip. "What the-"
"What have you two been doing?" said Nick, looking from Alex to Miles and back again. "Alex, what-"
"Never mind that now," said Alex. With one last furious glance at Miles, he said: "Jamie, I think we've overstayed our welcome. Let's get a taxi."
"Al-" Matt tried, but Alex just brushed past them and went towards the taxi stop, not giving them a second glance.
"Uh, well, guess we'll see you around then, lads," said Cookie, waving an awkward goodbye at them and rushing to catch up with Alex.
"What was that about?" asked Greg after Matt and Nick disappeared out of earshot.
"It doesn't matter," said Miles. Alex was right, in the end: a kiss could never solve anything. He was a fool to have tried it in the first place.
*
Miles was startled awake by his doorbell ringing. It took him a couple of seconds to realise where he was - he'd dozed off in front of the television, remote control in hand. There was nothing on the screen but scrambled signal snow, and the fluorescent hands of his wristwatch told him that it was a quarter past three in the morning. He'd managed to shake off Joe and Greg after they'd left the pub without revealing too much detail - the explanation that he wasn't feeling well seemed to be enough for them. He'd spent the rest of the evening watching mind-numbing television programmes and contemplating the vodka bottle in his fridge, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his nose which had the annoying habit of coming back in waves.
The doorbell rang again. With a heaved sigh, Miles went to the door and opened it without looking through the peephole - and in came none other than Alex, stumbling past Miles into the flat. Miles looked at him and saw that his friend was way beyond drunk - past the point of coherent speech, past the point of rational thought and then some.
"Miles," said Alex with a heavy slur as Miles locked the door behind them, looking aghast, "Miles. I'm-I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Miles. It were not on, acting like I did."
"Al, what have you been drinking?" Miles had never seen Alex in such a deep state of inebriation. He had no doubt in his mind that it must have happened before, but he couldn't recall such an occurrence because he was usually right beside Alex, getting drunk with him.
Alex appeared not to have heard his question - instead, he went closer to Miles, limply taking hold of his upper arm in a lame attempt to pull him closer. "Sorry," he said again, "so sorry, I'm-I'm gonna make it up to you, yeah?" He closed his eyes, leaning in as if to kiss him, but Miles pushed him away: taking care not to do it too forcefully, though, because he wasn't confident in Alex's ability to keep himself upright.
"Get away from me," he said, side-stepping Alex and heading into the kitchen, hoping he'd take the hint. Predictably, Alex didn't. He followed Miles, almost tripping on the doorstep but determined on reaching his goal.
"Does your nose still hurt?" he said, sounding genuinely concerned under the heavy, drunken slur. He reached for Miles' shoulder, attempting to make him turn around ."Does it hurt? I can help you make it feel better-"
"Alex," Miles interrupted him sharply. "Fuck off." He shook Alex's hand off his shoulder, turning around to face him with an annoyed expression. "I can't deal with you right now. Especially not when you're," he gesticulated, encompassing the kitchen and Alex in it, "like this." Miles felt he didn't have enough alcohol in his bloodstream to handle Alex when he was this drunk. Longingly, he thought of the bottle of vodka sitting in his fridge. As if reading his mind - which Miles had increasingly begun to suspect in the course of their friendship - Alex's face spread into a grin.
"Have you got any booze, then?" He pushed past Miles to get to the fridge, opening the fridge door and quickly producing the vodka, like he'd know it was there all along.
"Oh no you're not," said Miles, going to wrench the bottle away from Alex's grip. It didn't prove to be as difficult a task as he thought - Alex's fingers around the neck of the bottle were slack, just like he was expecting Miles to take it from him. Miles didn't hold that against him, though - mainly because he was too busy holding the bottle against his own lips, swigging heartily from it. Alex stood there, watching him as Miles winced from the strength of the alcohol, which burned his throat as it made its way down.
"Fuck off," said Miles again, for good measure: said it to Alex's blank expression, to his hands which were still raised in the air as if holding the bottle, and especially to that stupid cut on his lip.
"Hey, you're not drinking it all by yourself, mate!" protested Alex when he finally realised what Miles was doing. He groped the air to reclaim the bottle from him, but Miles moved to hide the bottle behind his back, a part of him amazed by his own swift reaction. Alex probably wouldn't have managed to take the bottle even if it wasn't behind Miles' back, though, since his balance was completely off. Miles was immediately convinced of this when Alex, still reaching for the bottle, managed to stumble on flat ground and towards him. Their chests bumped against each other and in a horrifying moment, over the sound of his heart beating frantically, Miles could hear Alex's breath against his ear. He then realised that Alex was only in such a position because he was still trying to steal the bottle from him - his fingers had closed themselves around one of Miles' wrists and were trying to pull the bottle away.
"Jesus wept, Al," said Miles, pushing him away for the third time in the evening. "If you want it so badly, let's do it right." Making sure that Alex was at a safe distance and wasn't trying to snatch the vodka anymore, he turned his back to him and opened the kitchen cabinet, looking for shot glasses.
"Miles," said Alex, and Miles froze, glasses in hand and halfway to the counter. Alex was pressing up against him, his chest touching Miles' back. One of his hands was on Miles' shoulder, and he stroked his way down the side of his arm. Slowly, Miles lay the glasses down. He closed his eyes, biting down hard on his lower lip. Alex's breath was warm on the nape of his neck, and he could almost feel his lips run against his skin - the softness only broken up by the jagged surface of the cut. Alex's other hand was on Miles' stomach, his fingers bunching on the fabric and pulling Miles closer, pressing him flush against him. Miles took a deep breath - and then felt the powerful smell of the alcohol on Alex's breath, reaching him even though they weren't even facing each other.
"Alex," he said, trying not to make his voice sound like a hushed sigh as Alex's lips connected with the crook of his shoulder, "don't." He opened his eyes, taking the hand which was on his stomach, moving it away. "Not like this."
He didn't need telling Alex again. Alex threw his hands up in the air, stepping away from Miles as far as he could. "Fine!" he said, voice raised. "I'll fucking leave then, when you seem to want that to happen so much!" He wiped his lips on the back of his hand. "Fuck you, Miles Kane, fuck you," he said, turning around and walking out the kitchen. He stumbled so badly in the doorway again, though, that he had to hold on to the doorframe to regain his balance.
Although furious with his behaviour, Miles realised he couldn't let him go out alone when he was in this bad a state. He went after him, catching up just as Alex had reached the front door and was uselessly rattling the doorknob.
"Alex, wait!" said Miles, taking hold of Alex's wrist in an attempt to ply him away from the door. "Get a grip! What the hell do you think you're trying to pull?" Alex tried to shake him away, but ended up failing and just stumbling into Miles. For a second, as Alex's head snapped forward and he nearly collapsed into him, Miles almost gave in - he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then pushed Alex away from him.
Still holding onto his wrist to make sure he wasn't going anywhere, Miles led Alex into the living room, manoeuvring him towards the sofa.
"I've had it with you," said Miles. "You're sleeping here tonight. I don't want to risk you getting hit by a car out there just because you'd had too much to drink. The fans would kill me," he said, giving a dry smile.
"I'm a wanker," said Alex suddenly, bowing his head. "You shouldn't be nice to me."
"Yeah well, I'm a moron," said Miles, throwing Alex a blanket. He caught it, but only just. "Always have been. Now lie the fuck down. I don't want to hear a word out of you until you sober up." He turned his back to Alex without another word.
As he closed his bedroom door behind him, Miles slumped against it, his frame sagging. He gave a deep, frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Only bothering to take his trousers off, he collapsed onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling, listening for sounds from the other room. There was nothing - the only thing he could hear was the ticking of his bedside clock and the quietened drone coming from the traffic outside. He didn't count on sleeping tonight - but the vodka in his bloodstream was beginning to kick in, and even though he was trying to fight the sleep which was starting to push his eyes closed for ever longer intervals, soon he found himself drifting off into a doze, only dimly aware of the tick-tocking of his clock and the sounds of the flat around him, the faint creaking and whistling.
The bed squeaked just as Miles was slipping out of consciousness. The covers were lifted and the side of the bed bent under Alex's weight as he lay next to Miles.
"Alex," said Miles exasperatedly, not opening his eyes. This had almost started to look like the first bit of sleep he was going to get in weeks, and he didn't want to contribute to its ruin.
"Mmm," said Alex somewhere in the vicinity of Miles' shoulder blades.
"Look, Alex, you can't-" Miles tried. He was interrupted by soft snoring. He let out a discontented sigh, hoping Alex would hear him. When there was no sign that he had, Miles just pulled the covers tighter against himself: hoping all of this won't be too awkward to face in the morning.
end: sometimes, collide.