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It’s 2008. Alex is touring with Miles and it feels like an affair. He’s spent enough time with the Monkeys to come to terms with what being on stage feels like, the challenges and rewards that come with it. Miles takes this and flips it upside down. They’ve got an orchestra, a whole new set list, a David Bowie cover. They’re John and Paul, strumming on acoustics and crooning into their microphones. His heart thrills when he catches Miles’ eye on stage. There’s something that glitters between them that has always been, and it intensifies now.
When they get backstage after a particularly good show, one with a small audience and their orchestra tuned perfectly and with the glittering thing between them reaching a zenith, they just fall into each other. They laugh and hold each other all the way to their dressing room, their private dressing room with a big comfy couch in the middle and a door that locks, and there’s no doubt in either of their eyes when they turn to each other once inside. Miles locks the door with his index.
It’s like nothing Alex has ever felt before. They crawl over each other on the comfy couch, turning the whole affair into a bit of a wrestling match. They push each other around, giggling the whole time, pinning the other under his body and then getting toppled over. They’re just boys, wrapped up in the most wonderful, holiday-like sentiment, bringing their lips together over and over and laughing into each other’s mouths.
It ends with Alex on Miles’ lap while Miles kisses his neck oh-so-delicately, not to bruise, only to taste and tease, and with his hand around Alex’s cock. Alex huffs at the ceiling, going glazed-over with the feeling of Miles touching him, stroking him, of sitting in his lap and feeling Miles grow hard under him.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop,” Alex says and buries his face in Miles’ hair with a whine when he switches up his strategy. He wants to touch Miles too, to feel him lose his composure as well. But it’s Miles. He can’t even think. He feels Miles’ hair under his mouth get wet with his spit because he’s drooling. The pace Miles has got stroking his cock is so perfect it’s making Alex stupid.
“Alex, baby,” Miles is saying, thumbing over his slit, making Alex’s hips stutter where he’s dumbly circling them. Miles moans in sympathy. “That’s it.”
“Yeah,” Alex breathes, blinking slow, staring at the floor now. His cheek is pressed against Miles’ head, the scratchiness of his hair itching his cheek. “Like that.”
Miles kisses his throat, the sweat and spit slicking, Miles’ lips making a squelch against the skin. Alex’s vision bursts with red as he stares at the back of his eyelids, rolling back into his head. “That’s right, sweetheart,” he says, and Alex feels the rumbling of his voice against his neck, against his chest where their bodies are pressed together. “I got you, yeah.”
Alex cants his hips and feels the hardness of Miles’ crotch swell against his backside. The knowledge that it’s them making each other feel this way makes the scene ring in his ears like tinnitus. “Miles,” he says stupidly, and his chin stutters open– oh, the way Miles’ arm around his back tightens, holds them closer together, it’s got Alex spirling too close to the edge, “ oh, I don’t think– Miles, I feel–”
“Gonna come, baby?” Miles asks, and the words are hardly even there in his mouth, it’s just breath, Miles’ hot breath hitting Alex’s throat as Alex arches, losing sense, fluttering along the precipice. “That’s it, come for me, darlin’.”
“Oh,” Alex is saying, reveling in thoughtlessness, bliss, “gonna– Miles, Miles.”
Miles kisses his throat lingeringly, brushes his mouth there, holds a steady pace, moans as Alex does. “Yeah, Al, baby.”
Alex comes, all over Miles’ hand down his trousers, stuttering on his breath. He can’t breathe for a moment as it hits him, like all his breath is sucked into his core as he sits, silent, and feels. Miles is solid and warm under him, around him, and his hair smells like hairspray and pomade. Miles. Miles. Then he moans. Miles strokes him through it, his other hand petting calming patterns on Alex’s hip as he pants against Alex’s neck like he’s just run a marathon.
Alex sags into him as the vignette leaves his eyes and the choir fades from his ears and they both sit there, breathing. “Thank you,” he says, words unenunciated in his slack mouth.
Miles just pulls him down to kiss him. Alex kisses back, catching his breath through the nose, sucking in the desperate sounds Miles makes against his mouth. He’s being lowered back against the couch and the kiss gets slopier until Miles is only panting into his open mouth as he ruts against Alex’s thigh, hand still curled around Alex’s softening cock.
“Alex,” Miles breathes and Alex watches, eyes blown wide, as Miles’ face flushes in pleasure and contorts in need. It’s beautiful. His long hair curls around the base of his sweat-soaked neck and his pink lips hang open, letting out soft sounds.
Alex wants to touch him. He reaches carefully between their bodies, feels the outline of Miles’ erection through his trousers. Miles makes a loud sound and Alex gasps, desire rendering him voiceless.
“Yeah, Al,” Miles says and it’s nearly a cry, he’s shaking above him, “oh, shit, Al, yes–”
Alex palms him, breathing hard, rapt with fascination, admiration. “Miles,” he says, a declaration: you’re beautiful.
Miles falls into him and comes like that, shaking and stuttering against him, face pressed into the sweat-slick valley of Alex’s throat he’s already marked with kisses. “Alex,” he’s saying, each syllable another kiss on his skin, “Alex.”
They lay like that for a while, sticky and worn out. It’s nice. Really nice. Alex breathes, feeling Miles on top of him rise and fall with every breath.
Then Miles rolls onto his side to look Alex in the face. “We didn’t just fuck everything up, did we?” he asks.
Alex, sleepy and too comfortable to think about consequences, just smiles. “I dunno. Ask me when I can think,” he says, and kisses him.