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1: With Gifts
Crisp air.
The dewy smell of early morning rain wafts through the tiny vents in the trailer. A tiny sparrow flies past the misty window and bleary eyes blinks, momentarily distracted by the flash of movement, and then continues to stare at the sky.
The door creaks open behind him.
Miles knows it's rude not to greet the person, not to look up, (or at least to make a sound pass his lips), but it's too fucking early. He wonders if he looked asleep, slumped over the settee as he currently was, chin propped up on the back and a blanket draped over his shoulders. It wasn’t the best position for sleep, but it would do. The blanket was a luxury in itself, no-one wanted to carry their own in their hand luggage, so gig sourced ones were begged and fought dirty over. Miles would fight dirty to keep this one. It was the nature of trailer life after all.
He's spared from the draft of the open door—another reason why he holds on tighter to the edge of the blanket—and tries not to sigh too loudly when the door clicks shut.
A snort, one between a laugh and a huff, accompanies the sound of approaching boots.
“Miles.”
He imagines how effective it would be if he had the vampiric skills to hiss, laments at not being proactive enough to have slapped a sign on his head reading in big capitals ‘DO NOT DISTURB’. He wants to grumble, but that would require using his voice which was—again—too fucking early to do.
“Ground control to Major Miles,” it drawls, deep and thankfully quiet enough to fit the subdued hours. Granted, it was ten am, but the details hardly mattered when the outside looked the same at ten as it did at six for soundcheck.
Miles entertains the thought of raising his hackles, like a cat would do. A cat would be better actually, he thinks lazily. They could purr. Vampires couldn’t. Watching the corners of the windowpane condense to wet patches from the cold is an entrancing sight, almost hypnotising. As a drop catches the smooth edges and gradually rides its way down the side, he decides that vampires win. They were sexier.
Fingers slide into his hair.
“Right, sleepy bum.” Alex rubs at his scalp, applying enough pressure to avoid being ticklish. It's good, and bleary eyes droop closed. “Got summat to perk you up.”
Miles pauses his mind ramblings, interested, but keeps quiet as Alex shifts behind him. The head massage stops but the hand stays, cupping the back of his head gently.
“Had to stop Zach from stealing a taste.”
That's when Miles catches a whiff of something new in the trailer. Warm spices, a dark roast. He lifts his head off the settee to take another sniff. “Coffee,” he croaks.
Alex laughs, hand momentarily squeezing at his head, “You’re quite right there, Miles, but this ain’t no normal coffee.”
Chocolate, Miles knows. He can smell it, but he feigns ignorance. “Whats’init?”
“Pure fuckin' snow." He can hear the smirk in his voice, and that eye roll. "Turn around and try it, need you in working shape.”
Miles holds the blanket in place as he shuffles around, blinking at the insulated paper cup Alex holds in his hands. He offers it up to him like a peace offering and Miles stares, surprised.
“Where did ya get whipped cream from?” He quirks a brow at Alex but takes the cup in his hand, careful with balancing the swirly top of whipped cream that someone artfully coiffed—and was that chocolate sprinkles? Fuck, it was. Miles curls his cold fingers around it and brings it to his lips.
“Begged some off Jane, didn’t I? The drink is all Claudia, asked her to make another for ya.” Alex watches him take a sip, a pleased smirk growing on his face as Miles delicately tips the drink back. It was just the right temperature to slide pleasantly over his tongue and warm the cold bones of his body. Definitely a mocha, and a damned good one at that. Miles licks his lips. Alex's still watching him, and seemingly content to carry on with it, so Miles pulls a funny face, feeling the wet mark of a cream moustache complement the act nicely. The smirk tugs up—Miles counts that as a win—and the hand cradling his head goes back for a couple more rubs.
“How’sit then?”
Miles nods, distracted by the need to take another sip. When he finishes licking the whipped cream off his lips he leans back against the settee. “Fuck me, tell Claudia I love her.”
“We’ll buy her a little cake on Friday.” Alex’s fingers are bloody good, and Miles feels his eyes slipping shut. He nods, acquiescent, because when Alex gives head rubs agreeing to whatever he said was just Miles' default setting.
“Yes. A little cake on Friday. Those nice…fancy ones with the cursive icing.”
“Yeah?” The fingers became light, ticklish, and Miles unsuccessfully hides a smile in the cup. “Let’s buy her a violin cake. She’ll like that.”
Miles hums into his next sip, “In what flavour?”
Alex's quiet for a second. “Chocolate resin,” he decides, and chuckles as Miles bursts into a startled laugh. His abrupt movement almost sends the drink spilling over his hand and Alex tuts at him, already about to catch it in case Miles hadn't. One could never be too careful with Miles and liquids.
“With a gin and tonic icing,” Miles says once the drink wasn’t going to leak out of his nose.
“Peanut butter…marzipan…liquorice sprinkles.” Alex was off now, and Miles watches him over the rim of the cup. The blanket had fallen off his shoulders, and even though outside remained unchanged, it looked to be a much more inviting morning than before.
Miles lingers between the next sip, smacking his lips a little, and then blurts out, “Is there ginger in ‘ere?”
A flock of sparrows whiz past the window, dipping out of sight to join the sounds of a festival building up in the distance.
2: With Your Electricity
Muscle memory.
Strumming patterns, chord changes, they all fit together nicely in the corner of Miles’ brain that lets the electricity spark and crackle and he breathes it in, letting it trickle through his spine. There’s power in his fingers, he can feel it. And as the roar of the crowd settles, as he gazes over the thousands of people that came here for a good time, he knows that he’ll give it to them.
Alex is serenading the microphone, and he’s got a hand wrapped around the stand, tipping it towards his crotch as he sings about dreams so tender sweet. The mix sounds class in his ears, the balance is good. The day had brightened up from the dewy morning and Miles can take it all in with an exhilarated smile because muscle memory, baby.
They glide through the first and Miles finally gets to explore the neck of the guitar the way he’s been itching to do since stepping onto the festival stage. Marching into Age of the Understatement is a fucking rush and Loren is a bloody soldier on the drums. The riffs run over his fingers and he absorbs the spike in energy at the higher tempo along with the crowd they sing into.
Alex is finding the right position to play and sing at the same time, and Miles can see him in his peripheral, still strumming away like the lightning he is, head craned to the mic to viciously sing about how there’s affection to rent. It’s class, it’s everything he wants to do, and he almost fucks up—no he does. He's hyper-focused on the electric weaving through the song that he misses the start of his vocal cue. It’s fine, because he carries on, soldiers on like he owns it all. He wants it.
He loves the anger in this, the way it lets him stand tall and strike his power into the whirlwind of music that he can see people jumping to. It does something to Alex too, because the man had changed position again. He's angled himself towards him now, dark eyes digging into the side of Miles’ face.
Even with the swell of noise around him, the distraction of the stage they're on, Miles can feel it like it were a physical pressure. It’s another cue, a come on, Mi that Alex emphasises with a step towards him, away from the mic and into the middle where Miles meets him, their guitars strumming away. Muscle memory is an unsung gift.
They crackle, two wire ends of a pulsing circuit, and part to catch the vocals of the verse again. They have thirty minutes to ride this wave, and it’s going to be fucking bliss.
3: With Your Eyes
The quartet are a beautiful bunch, and the tremolo they play washes over the stage in the familiar Major key for a song that reads with a pang of nostalgia. Miles can’t feel that now though, just another rush as he strums out the crisp chords on the acoustic. This one is sweet, and he softens his voice to match. The call and response on this one is always fun to do, a story they can recite, tune or not. He lets his voice trail away as Alex responds, crooning into the mic. But this time it’s different.
Miles can sense the difference, the languidness that lets Alex strut across the stage with a caress to his mic. He’s getting romantic with it, and Miles knows he’s right in the danger zone. When it’s his turn to recite the bittersweet love story of The Meeting Place Alex is suddenly there in front of him. His back is to the crowd, and he sits, listening attentively sweet that Miles can’t deny him. In no effort at all it becomes just the two of them. Miles focuses onto him and tells him how they knew that time would come, and that time would be cruel.
He gets a smile, a content, pleased one that Miles sees even as he turns away from the mic. He focuses his strumming to stay in time with Loren, catching Zach’s eye as the bassist plucks away. They sound good, it’s a tune like it always was and Alex is singing into the crowd again, twinkling like a gem.
Coming together again is a joy that Miles relishes in.
He’s on a cloud, one that turns him softer than that whipped cream when Alex returns up the steps to finally serenade him. It’s something they do, maybe not as overtly, not as brash, but it’s the nature of the thing. Sometimes you can have a crowd of ten thousand, sometimes five, sometimes one, and that can be enough. Alex is, Miles thinks, and as they recite the rest together in the crowd of one another, it’s enough.
4: With Your Touch
Sweetness clings to him for a while, augmented by the strings’ coda that sneakily gives them the time needed to reset the stage for the next ride. Alex is fiddling with Miles’ mic stand and right before he grabs the electric Alex meets his eye and he gets another cue. Taking it, he strides forward and lets Alex mutter into his ear, leaning in close. Miles' hand rests over that black tee, fingers pinched around a guitar pick.
“Getting you nice and ready, Miles.” Alex says, and Miles laughs, tightening the grip that keeps the stand upright. “Show ‘em how we do it.” His eyes flicker up to his and Miles is thankful that he took out his earpiece, but even more for the proximity to catch all these gifts. “You gonna give ‘em a show.” He’s smirking, stoking the flame Miles feels in his belly. “Right here, yeah?”
Miles knows what’s next, knows the energy he’s going to give, already feeling high on it. He leans into the touch, a giddy laugh bubbling over the words. “I’d love that.”
When Alex moves away the smirk spreads into a smile. “Right here Mi, fucking give it to ‘em,” he says, and something else, but Miles can’t hear him anymore with the coda swelling to its finale. It’s visceral now, a wound ball of energy surging up, sparking, up and up, finally—finally he lets his guitar growl, a revving drive that soars over the crowd along with his voice.
“Glastonbury!”
Noise is all around him now. Miles lets his guitar rip another—as taste of what’s to come—accompanying it with a howl of his own. They’re singing, crying out to the hype he wants to infect everyone with. Right here. Right fucking now. Zach’s feeling it, the shoulder tassels are dancing now as he bounces on his heels. The bass sounds good. Zach's hyping up, he’s ready. Miles is already there.
It comes and he rides the wave. He’s going to fly high, and he is, buzzing with the rush. His fingers itch to let his guitar sing again but Alex is crooning the countermelody now. He listens to it. It’s gorgeous the way he sings that, and lets everyone know he’s knee deep.
Then again, he’s off, not coming back down for a while. It sounds good and he wants to dance so his fingers do it for him, up and down the frets, pushing with the whammy to get it just how he wants it. He’s harsh with the mic now, the sweetness has faded to the pits of lust, sex, anger. Fucking rock and roll, that’s what it is. They’re both singing, the guitar and him, in the throes of a dance and a fight. He lets it take him, lets the lightning bolt through him.
Alex has the acoustic now, crooning so beautifully again. He’s into it, and Miles is softening his own voice to sing the delicious, letting every syllable drop off his tongue before the wave comes, high and dirty. They jump in to ride it again. Miles releases a howl as he shreds the riff and controls the anger so he can be as harsh as he needs to scream if they should come back down. It’s a whirlwind and he loves it, the feel of the strings digging into his fingers, sliding over the metal frets as he digs into the solo to make it fucking fly to the edge of the field. He wants the whole country to hear it.
It’s angry, it’s rock and roll, and it’s fun—the most fun he’ll have all day. He picks up on Alex down the stage, moving with the guitar in crazy shapes that Miles loves—he loves it when he gets wired up like that. They meet once more, and its like those two sparking wires, a fire’s going to start, and they’ll be the fucking prodigy of it all. It’s only fleeting, because they go back to the mics to sing, but Miles keeps Alex's look, that intensity, behind his eyelids as he and the guitar rip out another bad habits. The band is behind him now, egging them on, and they’re going to reach this peak the best way they can.
Bad habits, and Alex is rushing up to him now, precarious as he leans in to steal mic space from Miles then lean away again. If they were any less experienced their heads would have collided, another thrill. If they were any less in tune with each other this wouldn’t work. Bad habits, and Miles accepts the invasion to make space for Alex to slip into.
He probably didn’t even realise it, but he responds so easily to these little changes that it’s perfect when they rush in again for the last bad habits. Alex lingers, sweaty hair falling into his face and they work like one perfect unit as they stare at each other and then with the climax of the wailing electric the distance is closed for a brief forehead touch. Alex pushes into it, a promise in those dark eyes, and Miles whirls the guitar away, riding the lightning back to land.
It’s a buzz, even in the lull. The strings are harsh in their dissonance and Zach is on the beat, keeping the train moving with Loren for the next scene. They’re not done yet.
The mic has ended up on the floor, of course, so he fixes that. He fills the lull with more revving of the guitar, the gaps filled just as well by the pleads of the crowd. They want more? He can give it to them. He makes it sing, right over to the hills and they scream for it, he can hear it.
He does it again, then sees Alex standing there, waiting with those hazy eyes he gets when he’s really in it. He’s a passenger on this train, and Miles plans to give it to him too. First class, baby. He rocks up to him, guitar slung low on his hips and as he rings out a dirty chord Alex responds just as he knew he would.
Miles can feel the power surge in his bones. It’s a wild dominating feeling that he gets when he does these solos, even more so when Alex acts the way he does to it. He backs off, hands raised to block the coming storm Miles knows he is at that moment. He’s coming for 'im. Another dirty one has Alex to his knees, eyes clenched shut and theatrically overwhelmed, shaking hands up to his face as if that could ward off the hurricane. He always loves it when he does that, and he always looks gorgeous doing it too. Miles feels himself nodding, satisfied. The buzz whirring through him is rapid, aftershocks of the high, so he reigns it in with a deep breath. The next scene is coming soon.
The hurricane doesn’t sweep Alex away. It blows over and back, but leaves him there on his knees to return to the mic. The crowd are saying his name now and it’s a deep sense of satisfaction knowing he’s got them too. It’s better than any drug, hands down. Nothing really compares to this.
Alex is getting up now, that dreadnought acoustic still strapped across him. He grabs the neck of it and gets to his feet. Miles stays where he is, still looking over at the crowd that knows how to use his name. He can see Alex moving towards him, sees Zachary’s tassels bouncing, sees that muscled arm of their percussionist ready on the tambourine. Everyone’s ready.
Alex eyes him, close to him now, and all Miles needs to do is move his electric to the side and Alex slots perfectly into his personal space once more. They have a few seconds before they need to start singing again so Miles curls an arm behind Alex’s neck to bring him closer. His hand hangs over Alex's chest and it gets grabbed, wrist held gently in Alex's warm hands. He breathes, feels the rise of Alex's inhale, and in the next moment they’re singing, crooning on how they should have known little girl that you’d do me wrong.
It’s good.
Alex’s hair is sweaty, but still soft against the side of his face as they move in again to repeat the lyrics. The darkness that was there is gone, the layer stripped off to a softer underbelly that melts into his side. He's receptive and demure now, up with the train commander. He’s riding this right beside Miles. Alex lets him slip his hand free to begin the scratching notes on the electric, building the tension up to the final peak of their journey. They part, the lull in the story, and then when they connect once more it’s closer than they’d been for the whole show.
They sing that they should have known, little girl, that you’d do me wrong. It’s the sweet relief before the finale, and Miles can feel the contours of Alex’s face slot right into his. His nose graces his cheek. This is it, the caress of the lover who should have known by the way you were showing off…
Zach slides them in with the bass, the drums kick off, and they’re back in. They're still sharing the same mic, the yin and yang colliding so beautifully. Miles is unforgiving, a wrath on the guitar that growls out the riffs as he sings out bad habits and Alex, in the eye of the storm, is unchanged in his malleability. He’s calm, out of it in the best way as he continues—eyes closed—to croon how he should have known little girl that you’d do me wrong right into the storm of Miles’ severity.
Bad habits, and Alex is strumming away now, letting the rhythm rock him. Miles is the anchor and the storm. Miles knows he is.
Bad habits, and Miles feels that damp forehead rock against his, letting it rest there as the rest of him moves, he’s showing him now. Show me Al, baby.
Bad habits he’s sidling up closer now, falsetto voice rising to that breathless edge and Miles still sings over him, making all the sounds he wants into the mic. We’re gonna climb that mountain. Gonna get to the fucking peak—
Bad habits, yeah! Miles grabs the mic, because it'll fly off the stage if he doesn't. He keeps the guitar going, and it’s racing to the end but he’s going to let it sing dirty until it does. Alex is right up into his space and Miles howls towards the end. The final scene is on them. It’s so good.
Bad habits!
As one they part, spinning away from the storm that’s suddenly dissipated. The aftershocks remain, and the energy gets transformed into exhilarated smiles of relief. The mic didn’t quite survive it, but that’s OK. It’s all good.
It’s good.
5: With Your Generosity
“How much you got on ye, Mi?”
Miles, distracted by the big screen off to the side showing one of the acts on the B stage, turns with a half-interested hum. “Huh?”
“Money.”
Miles frowns, chewing absently at the gum in his mouth. He nods, half hearing Alex amongst the festival noise surrounding them. Nodding was safe, but it must have irritated him because Alex huffs and suddenly hands dig into Miles’ pockets, fingers wiggling where they shalt not go.
“Oi—these are skinnies!” he yelps, twisting away from the assault. Alex laughs at that, head jerking hair out of his eyes. A lone finger travels to Miles' waistband, and it really is shameless the way his hand flattens to stuff itself down Miles’ back pockets. Miles grabs at it, and almost chokes on his gum as Alex digs around until he’s found what he wanted. He pulls back and looks at his looted treasure.
“Four quid, really Mi?”
“I’m not the bloody Queen, am I?”
Alex snorts, slinking closer to be heard over the booming amplifiers. They’ve tried to go undercover to experience a bit of Glasto’ fun for themselves before the gig and it’s worked so far. No-one has asked for a photo yet, but that may be because the crowds were concentrated near the A stage where the first headliner is playing.
“I’m peckish,” Alex says, affecting a pout with it, but his eyes get drawn away to the screen behind Miles. There’s a woman dressed up in a full Bjork-style swan outfit, triangle sunglasses and a funky looking keyboard guitar slung over her body. Miles looks back too, and they watch it for a few seconds in amused silence. She gives off an interesting vibe—like one heard on 6 Music—despite the getup. Miles laughs when the act does some version of an interpretive dance and Alex squeezes his hand, feeling them automatically curl over his.
“Mi…Miles!”
“Bloody-okay. Alrigh' let’s get some food. You know m'still wired on that mocha from this morning,” he says but Alex's stopped listening at the first few words. He lets himself get dragged away from the screen towards the refreshments, hand still caught in his warm grip.
“We’re not going to get a lot with four quid between us,” Alex says, frowning. He scans over the stalls for the shortest queue possible, perks up when he finds one and then starts dragging Miles towards it. “Ever had a Jamaican patty? These look massive. Let’s fucking rate these." He looks back, brown eyes wide, twinkling and alive in the best way. He smirks. "Think I can beg for a free drink?”
“I’d be surprised,” Miles laughs and lets himself get dragged along. They don’t drop hands until they’re breaking up half a warm patty in the greasy brown paper. The flaky pastry is golden and the spicy filling warms his mouth. It’s good. In the end they have enough for a can of Rubicon, and they share that too, necking it down with freezing fingers.
It’s the nature of the thing. Festivals.
6: With Your Royal Hands
The buzz remains after Bad Habits, all through My Mistakes Were Made For You. Miles jams through it, conserving his energy for the bigger songs soon to come. Alex is taking it easy, gliding effortlessly on the acoustic. Muscle memory is a forever friend, and they chill out for that one. Bowie is a thrill, with Alex being a little star that he is, shining out to the crowd that rightfully adore him. Miles catches his eye frequently during that, and he gets his own special ‘reaching out for you’ gesture as Alex belts out how he wants his lover to rest your space face close to mine.
Miles still remembers that time in Alex’s home studio. It was him reclined on the settee with that shiny Gibson in his lap and Alex cushioned on the floor next to him, an acoustic laying on his chest. Miles had played a D barre chord—loud, brash and bright—and Alex had shot up like he’d just been shocked. His eyes had met Miles' when the chord faded away and he’d smirked, then just said, “Fucking Bowie. Yes.”
How many shows later and Miles still loves playing it. He puts his own mark on the solo when it comes his way, catching the light Alex throws his way as he rips into those trills, sending them to the moon and back. Cameron is his own mini storm, and they get drawn into each other’s orbit time and time again. It’s fun, a thrill that never dies as long as music lives, and they all freak out in a moonage daydream. It’s good.
They end, unofficially, on that song. Alex does his lap of the backstage in time for the encore for which officially wraps things up. The quartet are on top of their game, Zach is a beast on the bass, Loren is keeping everyone in check and Tyler is as slick as ever on the keys. Then there’s him and Alex, mics angled towards each other, belting on about how they’re turning the tension round, making tiger sounds. Miles wants to laugh. It’s fun and a feeling that bubbles up, up and up, with the perfect release.
In My Room gets them animated like nothing before. Miles can let loose as much as he wants because he knows the rest of the day won’t be as important as this, no other song needs his voice after this so he can shred it. He howls into the mic, they bash their guitars probably—definitely—too hard, but that’s the nature of the thing. That's rock and roll, baby.
They sing until the end. Alex loses himself. Miles sweeps him up and they ride gleefully into the final cadence. It’s good, it always is
7: With Your Light
“Love ya, Mi.”
Miles would return the sentiment, but the arm around his neck has stopped his oxygen. “Eh,” he manages. Alex pulls back, still sweaty from the set they'd just come off from, and his smile is so gorgeous Miles can forgive him for the brief suffocation.
“You showed ‘em. Fuckin' nailed it. Everything.” He gestures quickly, the excitement still keeping him on the high. Air rushes in, expanding his chest as he breathes it in with eyes that move over Miles in front of him. They're both sweaty, giddy, and Alex quirks a challenging brow at him. Miles, thinking he's interpreted correctly, twists his hand into Alex's and leans in to plant a wet kiss on that smooth cheek.
“Ta, love. You're my ball of lightning out there, you know? Fuckin' light up the stage, couldn’t stop watching ya,” he says, and Alex takes the compliment as well as he expects. He narrows his eyes, mouth fighting a bigger smile, but it doesn't hide the pleased flush that rides high on his neck. He opens his mouth, probably to say something witty, but the words become a rush of air as they pass his lips.
It's painfully endearing, and not an uncommon occurrence in these kind of situations. Miles takes him in, the strange backstage corner they’ve sequestered themselves in, takes in the glassy eyes, knowing his own aren’t far off. They’re so close now, enough that Miles can skim his nose along Alex’s, and he does with a soft breath of words he wants to say. Alex squeezes his hand, and the slow tilt of his head is the cue Miles was waiting for. He turns his face, orienting himself so Alex can reach up to rest his hand on the back of his neck. Fingers press over his damp skin, bringing him in closer and Miles opens his mouth as their noses slide and mouths join together for a decadent kiss.
The rush of blood is hot in his ears.
Miles thinks about energy transference. He wonders where all the electricity goes after a gig like that, or any really. He drags his lips along Alex’s and wonders if he can taste that storm, the debris left behind, the burning embers. He wonders, as he leans in further to cage themselves against the wall, taking Alex’s mouth deeper with a hunger that’d been growling ever since they stepped on that stage. He wonders, with each press of Alex's tongue, if he can taste that energy transferring to him now. It's an ever giving gift, blessed from the buzz of the crowd, of his number one fan standing right there next to him, in front of him, serenading him like a character from a Shakespeare’s play.
Alex makes a soft sound against him. A hand slips down to grip the collar of Miles' white shirt and he kisses him so sweetly Miles tilts his head to slow down and savour it. An adventurous hand slides under the untucked 'Give a Damn' tee and he palms at the warm skin there. Shit he couldn't do on stage, but longed to every time Alex teased him with it, pressing close into his side. He smiles now, knowing how badly Miles wanted to touch. Alex wriggles under his hands, and the smile makes his lips turn slack as he laughs into it, “Mi, fuckin'…tickles there.”
Miles grins into his panting mouth and digs his fingers into the jumping skin, chuckling when he gets the laugh but also an elbow to the ribs. It was a weak one anyway. He ceases the tickling and Alex falls on him again, arms slipping around his neck. He narrows his eyes at Miles but doesn't resist when Miles brings his chin closer. He accepts the kiss that captures his lips and they continue again, slow and silent.
They’re chaste kisses, intermixed with a languid slide that makes Miles' toes curl. It's a thrilling scene—always was and will be—and he pulls Alex closer, feeling him slowly rock his hips into him with the rhythm of Tame Impala echoing out on the Glasto’ speakers. It's filler music as the stage resets for the next act, but it's also a great tune and Alex the shit won't stop dancing. He's still hyped on the show. Miles smirks, and Alex's exaggerated hip swivel makes them both smile when Miles responds with his own shoulder shimmy. Naturally, dancing makes it harder to co-ordinate the kisses and their lips break off with a breathy laugh. The giddy buzz is a pleasant hum under the skin and Miles thinks of how balls of energy are blinding stars in the sky. He can believe it. It truly is an unsung gift, and when he sees the state of Alex’s lips—all shiny and pink—he vows to write sonnets about it. He will.
Because they’re one unit, Alex blinks and smirks at him like he knows just what Miles was thinking. It wouldn’t surprise him if he did, honestly. Miles can read minds too though, and he swoops in for another kiss that Alex was thinking of, because he knows this man inside out and he knows what a biting lip means. Alex hums, pleased, and when they finally part his hands brush over the thin material of Miles’ top.
His words are slow but clear when he says, half whispering into Miles' open mouth, “Claudia said there's cake in the green room.”
Well, Miles needs no more encouragement than that.
“Alright, let’s go,” he says, pulling back from their private corner. He grasps the hand at his shirt and turns to lead the way out of the backstage maze. He hears Alex snort, and really, what did he expect? He brought up cake first, and Miles lets him know, "Honestly, Al, cake obviously comes first."
"Clearly," he drawls, but the smile in his voice betrays him. Miles squeezes their joint hands and weaves them out from the back into the open.
It's quite like a tunnel, with the way they have to navigate around the darkened space. Alex has to quickly grab Miles when he trips over a bundle of jack wires, nearly going down himself, and Miles hangs on with a giggle. "Whoops."
Alex tightens the grip on his waist, smirking, "Can't have ya splitting yourself before we get to the cake, Mi."
Miles affects an exaggerated limp, hand gripping Alex's shoulder as he wheezes out, "Cake comes first. If I go down—"
"I'll just give ya another dose of Claudia's concoction—hey! Nope, you're not taking me down 'ere." Alex resists Miles tipping his weight to the side, pulling him in closer. "M'hungry, Miles— bloody—" He stumbles when Miles genuinely does trip over his feet "—if it's almost gone by time we get there I'm sharing fuck all with you—Miles!" He swears, dragging Miles up from tipping over but gravity fucking wins and they go down like a tangle of toddlers.
The backstage maze ends just beyond the corner. It's dark, but a dappled light shines just beyond the corner. It carries over them briefly, illuminating the bundled wires that they ended up tripping up on, a fire hazard honestly.
A lone bee startles off the wall and flies off towards the end of the tunnel, following the scent of something sweet.
Laughter lights the way.
You appeal to me, my darling.
You appeal to me, through the garden of these gifts;
Your electricity, your eyes, your touch, your generosity.
The touch of your royal hands, my love, calms the very sea in me.
Let me bathe in your light, my darling.
Appeal to me.
fin