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Alex is on the brink of genuine delirium by the end of it. Greg knows the toll—he’s seen Alex push his limits before, in many different ways, but this is… extreme. He’s never done anything like this.
Alex is a man who averages six hours of sleep a night, which seems to keep him functioning, most days. But with the sound check, the late start, the time it took to get to the studio… it was more than what he anticipated.
When it’s finally over, the band disperses after sluggish hugs and clumsy pats on the back, breaking into hysterical laughter as the weight of what they’ve accomplished finally settles in. Twenty-four hours of complete madness. Greg still can’t believe Alex actually did it—the stupid, incredible bastard.
He’d known Alex setting this goal was ambitious. There had been a moment, right at the start, when Greg had almost said something—tried to convince him to come up with another idea, to be realistic. But Alex loves to push himself, to see how far he can go without breaking, sometimes to a fault, no matter the challenge. And he’s always been like that, whether it was a dare from the other boys at his boarding school or a task on an extraordinarily successful television programme that he devised.
Greg had tuned into the stream whenever he could, checking in between traveling across the city, during breaks, late at night when he should’ve been asleep. Watching Alex literally unravel in real time had undeniably stirred something in him. Hour by hour, Alex’s voice grew rougher, more hoarse, his words slurring at the edges as exhaustion crept in. He laughed too hard at nothing, nearly lost his shit over Rice Krispie treats, and still he kept going—pushing back whenever his energy dwindled, holding himself together for the audience and for a damn good cause.
It was noble—and, admittedly, quite hot.
But it was also worrying. As amusing as it was for Greg to watch Alex suffer, he couldn’t do anything about the concern tightening in his chest. He kept wondering what would happen after everything was over, when that fucking song finally stopped and the last note rang through the studio. There were medics, yes, but Alex clearly needed to be looked after in ways they couldn’t offer.
So when it’s finally just him and Alex alone—when the music inevitably ends and the donations are tallied—Greg doesn’t say anything at all. He just steps in close, wraps his arms around Alex, and doesn’t let go.
Alex buries his head in Greg’s chest, a bleary, half-there smile pressed into his shirt. “I can’t believe we really did it,” he says, the words sounding muffled.
Greg chuckles with a fondness he can’t deny, gently carding his fingers through Alex’s short hair while he pets him. “Yeah, you did, you silly boy. Raised a fortune. Now let me take care of you, yeah?”
Alex nods against him. His wife has an early start tomorrow, and it’d take over an hour and a half to get him back home. In the state he’s in—crashing from adrenaline, barely able to keep himself upright—it would be impractical at best for him to make the journey back to Chesham. There’s no real discussion to be had. It only makes sense for him to go back to Greg’s.
When they get outside, the December chill does nothing to revive Alex from his lethargic state. Greg helps him into the back of the car, steadying him by the elbow as Alex trembles from exhaustion. For a moment Greg fears he might simply fold in on himself right there, collapse bonelessly onto the seat where he’d remain for the next fifteen hours, sound asleep. Thankfully, he manages to get him in, buckled up and situated.
They don’t make much conversation on the way to Greg’s. It’s difficult to, with Alex’s responses delayed and mostly nonsensical. His head is resting against the window, mouth parted as he dozes in and out of sleep, and Greg feels a sudden, sadistic sort of urge to reach over and tap at his cheek, say his name. Keep him awake.
Because he knows as spent as Alex is, he would endure more if Greg merely asked, let alone demanded.
He shakes off the thought as quickly as it comes to him. As much as Greg enjoys seeing Alex suffer, he’s never seen him like this before—not just wired from a long, demeaning shoot or undone by particularly rough sex—but absolutely gutted. And it seems that this time, at least, there’s nowhere left for Greg push him to even if he wanted.
By the time they reach Greg’s flat, he can barely get Alex into the lift. He has to guide him the whole way up as Alex leans into him, heavy and pliant, mumbling half-coherent nonsense against his shoulder.
“Kept almost passing out on that bus,” he slurs while Greg fumbles for his keys, trying to unlock the door one-handed and keep Alex upright at the same time. “Every time I closed my eyes… I’d see him.”
Greg stills. “Him?”
“Mr. Blobby.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing the door open with his foot and hauling Alex inside, “I think he might’ve concussed you with that guitar, mate.”
It’s dark when they step inside, save for the soft spill of city light through the windows. Alex sways as the door shuts behind them, momentarily disoriented, and Greg tightens his grip instinctively.
“Easy,” Greg tells him, steering him toward his bedroom. “Let’s get you out of these clothes. You’re filthy from that box you were holed up in.”
“Mm,” Alex hums as he’s slowly eased onto the bed, guided carefully until he’s flat on his back. He smiles up at the ceiling, dazed. “I’m a filthy boy.”
Fucking hell. Greg rolls his eyes even though Alex can’t see it, and his hands are already hovering over him. “You’re a ridiculous boy,” he corrects. “Now come on, Alex.”
Greg pauses then, looking down at Alex splayed across his sheets, and it’s like he’d let him do anything—but not tonight. Jesus Christ, not after all of that.
“Want a shower?” he asks instead.
Alex slings an arm over his face, shielding his eyes. “Too tired. Want you.”
Greg shakes his head affectionately. There’s no way Alex would have the energy for everything he’d like to do to him. ”I don’t know about that.”
He climbs onto the bed anyway, carefully positioning himself over Alex to straddle him. Using one large hand, Greg gently pins Alex’s wrists above his head, mostly out of habit than any real intention of starting something.
“My good boy,” he says softly. “You were brilliant.”
Unable to resist, Greg ducks down to kiss him, deep and urgent, the way he’s been thinking about this entire time. He had to watch Alex as he slowly came apart, aware of the fact that there were still many gruelling hours to go before he could touch him like this, and now here’s right here. He needs something, even if he can’t have him properly.
Alex kisses back, messy and uncoordinated as he arches up into him automatically. Greg splays his hands across his chest and pushes him back into the mattress.
”Alex,” he warns. “That’s not why I brought you back here.”
He groans into Greg’s mouth, letting out a small, broken litany of please and Greg and more soft babbling he can’t make out.
Greg sighs and cups Alex’s jaw, holding it still as he studies his face. He can tell Alex is fighting to stay awake, heavy-lidded eyes looking up at him. He genuinely can’t tell what that soft, pleading look means—whether it’s please fuck me now or please just let me sleep—and since he’s not entirely sure Alex could articulate it even if he asked, he’s not willing to take the chance. Not with Alex’s head lolling into his palm, his mouth slack and body weightless beneath him from holding itself up for so many hours on end.
It does flicker through Greg’s mind, though, dark and tempting—all the things he could do to Alex right now, how easily he could take control of him, see those tired eyes tear up for real, not just from being forced open for so long with an aversion to eyedrops.
But he pulls back, readjusting to lay at his side, tugging the comforter up and over them both. “Not tonight,” he whispers. “You need to rest.”
Alex doesn’t respond. His eyes are now fully closed, chest rising and falling in a deep, even rhythm. He’s out cold, just like that.
Greg presses his lips to Alex’s temple. “Sleep, love. You’ve earned it.”