Chapter Text
Miles felt like shit.
Complete and utter shit.
His skin was prickling with cold sweat, his limbs were aching and his muscles strained with every move he made.
He struggled to swallow. His throat was aching and it stung all the way down into his lungs.
His voice cracked.
He hoped the mic didn't pick it up.
He tried to swallow again to sing the next verse and it felt like shoving gravel down his throat.
He looked out over the sea of dancing bodies, all those smiling faces looking expectantly up at him.
Feeling like shit in the middle of a massive London crowd wasn't ideal. Miles had to pull himself together.
Stopping the show and letting everyone down wasn't an option. As long as he was still standing on his own two legs, no one could get him off this stage.
His fingers were shaking where they were gripping the neck of his guitar.
He tried to muster a smile as he strummed his next chord. It felt forced and he was certain it looked it too, but at least he was trying. This was his stage, and he'd be damned if he didn't shine on it.
He would deliver no matter what. His show. His songs.
The solo came up and he struggled to place his sweaty fingers correctly on the frets and he nearly dropped his pick.
He was dizzy as he bent down to fetch it from the sticky stage floor, and he quickly gripped the mic stand to right himself and not to trip over his own feet.
Taking a deep breath, he gazed out over the crowd.
Everyone went wild as the song ended with a striking chord ringing out across the room and he held his pose, hand held high in the air for a moment, even though his arm was shaking badly, and soaked up their applause.
There was nothing quite like it, and nothing – not even his own body – would stand in the way of him connecting with these people. His people.
He caught the eye of a few lads dancing up front, shoving each other and having a right laugh, and this time his smile felt more genuine.
He took another deep breath. And though it felt like the air was being brutally forced through his airpipe, Miles gathered all of his remaining energy and poured it all into the last few songs of the performance.
He'd give it his all. He'd let them have it, larger than ever before.
Harder and louder and more magnificent than anything he'd ever done before.
His guitar sounded across the stage, its warped and distorted sound reverberated through his bones.
Everyone cheered.
He could do this.
Only a couple more songs. It was just a matter of trying to hold on until the end of the encore.
He was sweating. And freezing. His fingers were shaking and his head was pounding. The blinding lights stung in his eyes.
But he had to do this for them.
Had to do it for himself, too. He'd made himself a promise to never ever let these people down, the ones who'd been there for him every step of the way, always supporting him in his dream.
Just a couple more songs.
Trying to focus and center himself, Miles took another deep breath. He allowed the waves of excitement and warmth and passion to rush from the crowd and wash over him where he stood in the spotlight. Let it fill him up and give him the power to push through.
To feel their love and support. To seek the excited eyes of his loyal fans in the crowd. He couldn't let them down, he had to get through this. He had to sing and play for them.
He could do this!
It was his show and his songs and no one could take that away. These people had come for him and he would never do anything to disappoint them.
He announced the next number and threw himself into the performance head first.
Because Miles was fine. Absolutely and completely fine.
Really, it was just a scratch in his throat. Perhaps he'd eaten something that'd upset his stomach.
Nothing he couldn't deal with.
He was just a little bit tired. Worn out from a few too many gigs too close to one another. Too much excitement and not enough sleep.
It was probably just a cold.
Besides, he had a day off tomorrow, and he'd rest up and relax then, that would do it.
Almost an entire, full day off.
No gigs, only a brief radio performance of a few tracks and an interview. He'd need to get up early, but he was in for a good night's rest. That'd be good. Should fix him right up. He'd be fine.
Just a quick interview with one of the usual radio hosts, one of the guys he liked, who'd be up for a bit of banter and he'd quickly get it over with so he could spend the rest of the day in bed.
Tomorrow. He'd sleep then.
Right now Miles had a show to do.
"I've only got one more for ya tonight, London! Have ya had a good time?" he called across the audience, trying his hardest to bring some excitement into his tired vocal chords.
The crowd responded in a thunderous choir of excitement and applause.
He hated how croaky his voice came out, but he powered through.
"I said, have ya had a good time?!" he shouted even louder and felt his throat protesting, cutting off at the end, but he didn't care.
The crowd yelled their agreements even harder back at him. Screaming for him to keep going. And he couldn't help but smile, even exhausted as he was.
This was what he did. This made it all worth it. He loved it. This was his life. His bread and butter. His one true calling. This right here.
The connection with the audience, an intense experience surrounded by music, shared by hundreds and hundreds of people feeling the exact same thing at the same time. People singing his own words right back at him, dancing and having a good time, rocking out to his tunes, getting lost in the music and letting him bring the party.
They were here for him and nothing would stand in his way.
He'd show them a bloody good time, sore throat be damned. He'd gone through worse.
And he'd be damned if he didn't give it his all for the last song.
He tried to focus one last time, block out the dizziness and the aches and the pain, and he threw himself into the last number, strumming and ripping at the whammy bar and not giving a damn if it felt like he was being torn in half.
He could barely breathe by the end, could barely see from the fogginess clouding his mind and the sweat dripping from his forehead. His voice finally gave out as he shouted the final words across the stage.
The last chord rang out across the venue, an everlasting echo of the magnificent performance, and he was shrouded in applause and praise from the screaming crowd, but he barely heard it.
Miled was struggling just to stay on his feet.
Pushing his long, sweaty hair out of his face, he staggered back to quickly put the guitar back in its stand and he faced the crowd to do a swift bow-out.
But everything hurt.
He struggled to put one foot in front of the other and if it hadn't been for Dom's strong arm gripping him and holding him up for the final bow, he was sure he'd collapsed right there on the grimy stage floor.
####
He let the steady hands of his bandmates guide him back to the dressing room where the excitable chatter from a gig well done soon erupted all around him.
It had been one of the biggest gigs of the entire tour, back on home turf in London, and everyone had been so excited for it, the place enormous and packed to the brim with fans. Of course it was a cause for celebration!
Someone popped open a few bottles of champagne, and soon music erupted from the speaker in the corner to accompany the endless bouts of laughter and chatter from his band and their friends and techs.
But he didn't hear it.
Their voices were far away and were being drowned out by the pounding in his head and the rushing of blood in his ears.
His head felt like it was about to split open, and the constant ache had him slamming his eyes shut for a brief moment of relief.
He soon found himself dozing off curled into the corner of the little couch in his dressing room. And before he even noticed he'd been off, he was being roused from his slumber and brought outside by gentle hands and shushed voices to a taxi waiting for him.
"There you go, get on in," Nathan's gentle gruff sounded.
"Got your bag, mate?" Vicky asked with a slight squeeze to his elbow.
He nodded.
"Sure you're alright to get home by yourself?"
Dom sounded worried as he kept a steady grip around his waist.
Miles nodded again, but quickly stopped because it hurt too much, feeling like his brain was sloshing around inside his skull.
Miles paused for a moment and blinked a couple of times, just to let the dizziness wear off.
"Maybe I'd better go with you," Dom offered, but Miles shook his head and tried to clear his throat. He winced.
"I'm fine, you guys. No need to fuss. Really. 'm just tired, is all. I just need to get home, take a shower and jump into bed. I'll be good as new in the morning. Don't worry. Thanks for a banging show. Love ya lot."
Miles tried to muster a reassuring smile as he felt kisses pressed to his forehead and cheeks.
"Let us know if it gets any worse overnight, you hear me?"
He promised he would as he climbed into the black car and the door slammed shut to conceal him from their worried gazes.
He was fine. There was no need for all of this, and though he appreciated the gesture, their caring thoughts and effort, it wasn't necessary. He just needed some kip and a hot cuppa and he'd be fine in the morning. They didn't need to go to all that trouble for him.
Now he just needed to find a bed and lie down. And he'd be just fine.
Miles mumbled off the address and soon he was rumbling along the dark, busy streets of London in the backseat of the taxi on his way back home.
Or, not home, exactly.
Not his home at least.
It was Alex's home.
Alex's house in London.
Alex's townhouse, where Miles was staying whilst Alex was away on tour in America.
It was just temporary, really. Somewhere to stay after he'd moved back to London from LA, just until he was settled and had found a place of his own. And so when he'd returned to London after his stint in America a couple of months ago, without a permanent residence, Alex had offered his house as his temporary living space.
Miles'd barely let Alex finish his suggestion before objecting, because the offer was much too grand and generous, and surely Miles couldn't accept, but Alex wouldn't have it.
Alex'd had to go and be all pragmatic about it, claiming he wouldn't be needing the house anyway, as the Monkeys would be away on tour for most of the year, and that he'd actually prefer it if it wasn't left empty for such a prolonged period of time.
And with a knowing smirk he'd added that he knew Miles would take good care of it, and since he was in need of a place it'd be the perfect arrangement for the both of them.
His best friend had clapped his happy little hands, satisfied and smug with his clever solution to their problem. And Miles'd grumbled stubbornly, because Alex did have a point, and only a few, short weeks later his stuff had been brought over from his place in LA and his plentiful belongings were quickly filling up Alex's guest room instead.
Once Miles himself had gotten settled, it'd taken him some time to get used to being there without Alex. He had to admit it was a little odd to be walking around the house, quiet and void of his best friend's presence, but it wasn't long before the gorgeous townhouse began to feel more like home.
Alex had told him to make use of the space as he pleased, to be at ease and act as if it was his own, and it wasn't as though it was a particularly difficult task.
It was calm and peaceful, a reprieve from the bustling business of LA. They had similar tastes in terms of decorating, the living room was cozy and inviting, and the kitchen was a dream, untouched and pristine and ready for him to explore the many dishes he'd been dying to try out. Their record collections matched impeccably and he'd only needed to bring a few essentials out of storage to supplement Alex's already comprehensive stash.
He'd taken up an entire section of the walk-in closet for his shoes and jackets, and another for his fitted suits.
And he had to admit, he was enjoying Alex's studio down in the basement, the perfect location to toy around with both his own and Alex's rather extensive amount of exciting guitars and other recording gear.
He'd even managed to squeeze in a bit of writing here and there between travels and gigs of his own. Alex's space was just inspiring to him.
He found himself constantly in the mood for creating, humming and coming up with new riffs and melodies.
He enjoyed strolling through the cozy rooms, surrounded by memories and the countless little telltales and reminders of his best friend strewn all around him.
It made it slightly easier to be apart as well, being surrounded by Alex's belongings, his smell, his books and guitars.
It felt like they were still as entwined as they'd ever been, even if they were miles and oceans and crooked time zones apart.
And it wasn't like he wasn't used to staying with Alex.
Miles had previously been with him in his house in America as well, briefly last summer for a few weeks, before he'd found a place of his own to rent a mere five minutes away.
But those weeks had been incredible. It'd been the most fun he'd had in years, spending their every waking moment together in the sunshine, feeling like a holiday, going out late at night and sleeping in, dozing beside the pool and jamming together whenever the mood struck.
Those days had reminded him of that blissful summer they'd spent together on tour with the Puppets a few years back. Endless laughter, warm cuddles and lazy afternoons and wonderful gigs in the evenings. It'd been perfect.
That summer contained some of his fondest memories, and when he'd been allowed back into Alex's orbit for a few weeks of careless fun in LA, it felt like they'd been granted a tiny glimpse back in time. A few weeks of bliss to hold on to for the cold winter of separation that would soon be upon them.
They'd both cleared their schedules and huddled up together in Alex's little house, the two of them hiding away from the outside world for a couple of weeks and Miles could barely remember any other time he'd been happier.
The memories of those hot summer days in America still kept him warm during the long, dark London nights, especially when Alex himself was so very far away.
What he'd give to have his friend here with him right now.
To hug him and hold him in his arms and catch the scent of his hair, to feel the shape of his body under his fingers. His shoulders, his waist, the brush of his elbow as they sat pressed together on the couch watching silly old movies. To hear the sound of his laugh, to hear his voice as he told one of his many stories or dumb jokes. To see his beautiful smile, his eyes crinkling brightly in the sunshine–
Stop it! Miles scolded himself.
Not now!
Those kinds of thoughts didn't help. Definitely didn't help in any way, and he really didn't need to be thinking about them right now.
Those thoughts and feelings had never been helpful, not when they'd been muddling around inside his brain in the past, and definitely not now, at this very shitty point in time either.
But there they were, meddling with his brain, those damn thoughts.
And they'd been there for a long time. Always hidden in the back of his mind, waiting to pounce whenever he least expected it to wreak havoc on his poor soul.
He wished he could forget that they'd ever existed, that he could forget that he'd ever felt anything but platonic love for his best friend, but he couldn't. No matter how much he wanted to bury it all deep down inside and never feel the punching ache those thoughts always brought with them, he just couldn't. He'd tried. They wouldn't go away, and in the end he'd had to accept their presence in the back of his mind as a constant ache, a scratch he couldn't itch.
Because he felt something.
A longing of sorts, a hole deep in his chest he ached to have filled by something he could never have. That could never be his. It felt like a twist in his gut. A constant warmth in his chest. And it'd been there for a long, long time.
It'd begun when he'd felt the first flutter in his stomach so many years ago, as their eyes had met across a crowded dressing room in the back of some shitty venue.
It'd been there when they'd been sitting with their knees pressed together on a couch, jamming on their acoustics until far into the night and had discovered their shared passion of music and performing.
It'd been there when he'd watched Alex's eyes light up and his lips curl into a blinding smile when Miles'd shown him his careful first try of Standing Next To Me.
It'd been there whenever they'd been pressed close in a booth in a bar somewhere, thighs touching and breaths mingling as they giggled their way through another drunken night out.
Through every nap on the couch, every shared cigarette, every night spent together on a stage.
And they'd been there when Alex had curled up next to him on the tour bus, blaming nightmares on his need for company, and how he'd found space for himself in that cramped, humid bunk and had drifted off to sleep nestled in Miles' arms despite the heat.
They'd been there every step of the way. And they never really went away.
And the longing only intensified whenever they were apart.
Like they were right now. When missing Alex felt like missing a limb. Like some part of him was gone.
When Alex had been away for months and months on the long Monkeys tours and the distance between them had seemed endless.
When the time zones didn't add up and they kept missing each other's calls. When the tour with the Puppets had ended and they'd both mourned the end of a perfect summer. When they'd allowed the grief of a painful goodbye to grow stale between them, and gone their separate ways. When Alex had hidden himself away and Miles had busied himself with the tour. And when they'd finally closed the space between them in America and found each other again.
Those thoughts and that longing was there. And it had never helped him in any way. Not then, and definitely not now. And he wasn't equipped to deal with it.
Especially not now, when he was achingly tired and worn out and dizzy, and maybe feeling a tiny bit vulnerable and sorry for himself on top of it all.
Those secret longings he carried deep inside usually came out to ruffle his feathers at the worst times possible, always hitting him hard right in the center of his chest, but never really surprising him.
They were familiar, after all. He'd felt them for so long they'd simply become an ingrained part of him, part of his build and DNA.
The yearning for his best friend was just something that was there in the background, poking around and usually making a mess of everything.
Those thoughts were hard enough to keep at bay at the best of times.
And these times he was having right now certainly weren't his best.
He couldn't allow those thoughts to enter his aching head, not when his guard was down. He wouldn't be mindful enough to get those pesky curious wonderings to pipe down in his current state.
No.
Best not to think too much of his best friend who was so very far away.
All the way in America on his big tour.
How he'd love to see him up on that big stage, see Alex do his thing and wow all of those thousands upon thousands of adoring fans, watch him sparkle brighter than any other person Miles'd ever met.
He missed him so much and he wished he could–
No!
Stop thinking!
It was better this way.
It was better that Alex wasn't here with his warmth and his enticing scent and his soft hair and even softer eyes. Those dark, gorgeous, twinkling eyes.
Miles was better left alone.
If Alex'd been here Miles wouldn't have been able to resist, and he would've given in to those thoughts and feelings. He would've ended up cuddling up to him and falling asleep on his shoulder, unable to resist the temptation, breathing in his familiar scent, with the soothing low timbre of his voice lulling him off to sleep.
And he couldn't have that. It'd ruin them for good. He'd lose their friendship if he ever acted upon those thoughts and longings he carried in his chest like a branded mark.
No, best not to think of Alex at all.
It wasn't safe.
####
Miles dragged himself out of the taxi when it stopped, and just barely remembered to grab his bag on his way out.
"Thanks, mate. Have a good one," he mumbled as he paid the fare.
The driver tipped his cap at him.
Miles tried a polite smile, but he could barely stand on his legs any longer. He was just so tired.
"You too, lad. Get in safe, now. Ya look half asleep already!" the cabbie bantered and chuckled to himself as he drove off, leaving Miles standing by himself on Alex's dark, quiet street.
He staggered all the way up to the front door, up the little steps and shoved the key into the keyhole with shaky hands and finally managed to find way inside.
He let the door snap shut behind him and turned the lock.
He was shivering from the brief encounter with the cool winds of autumn and he dumped his bag and boots by the door.
Not bothering to turn on the lights, he walked through the hallway in darkness and flopped onto Alex's massive, plushy couch in his living room, still in his sweaty stage gear.
He should've changed and showered. He should've had a drink. Some water. An aspirin, perhaps.
He should've gone upstairs and climbed into that big, soft bed that was waiting for him.
He should've eaten something.
But he couldn't find the energy. He couldn't move.
He was fucking exhausted. His body was aching and his head was swimming. His teeth were chattering and his temples kept pulsing with pain and his mind was dizzy with fever.
He could barely think straight.
Miles sighed as his eyes slipped shut for the second time tonight, blissful darkness and quiet finally washing over him. And for a moment he let the familiar scent of the room and the soft cushions envelope him in calmness as he drifted off.