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“If I could choose to be with Maria DeLuca, I would too,” Alex says quietly.
Something about that sits wrong in Michael’s chest. He never likes it when Alex sounds dejected.
“I’m not choosing—it’s not a binary choice,” Michael says. “Don’t pretend it’s clear cut like that.” He really doesn’t think of it that way, like he’s got Alex on one side and Maria on the other, and he has to choose which direction to turn. They are two completely different things, in relation to himself and who he wants to be. Alex has never been a choice he’s made, something he decided on for himself. Maria’s different.
“Right, no. I know that,” Alex says, but he still sounds too quiet, almost meek. Michael knows there are issues layered upon issues here for Alex. He knows that for many years, Alex had wished he could be straight just so his dad would stop fucking hurting him for loving who he loved. There’s a strange, uncomfortable bitterness between them, caused by the fact that Michael is interested in a woman now, and not only a woman, but the very same woman Alex always joked he would have married if only the sexuality and gender cards had aligned a little differently. For most of their lives, Maria DeLuca has been someone Michael barely knew. Firmly classed in the Alex’s friend category, and nothing more.
“Alex,” Michael says wearily. “Working together on this stuff isn’t a good idea. Because of Maria. You understand that?”
“I told you I wanted to be your friend.”
Michael shouldn’t say this next thing. He’s aware, in a distant sort of way, that he’s actually being kind of a dick to Alex right now, that Alex has been nothing but helpful, working himself to the bone for the sake of uncovering Michael’s past. But he takes a step closer, puts a hand on Alex’s arm. “We’ve never been able to keep our hands off each other.”
Alex’s eyes snap up to meet his, widening. “Guerin—”
“You call me that to try and get some distance, but it doesn’t work. I throw your family in your face, it doesn’t work. We can’t help ourselves.”
Alex takes a shaky breath. “Yeah. I know.”
“And I want to give it a try with her. I want to see if it could be something. I can’t do that if I’m…”
And Alex steps back. Michael almost follows him on instinct, so used to staying in his orbit, closing the physical distance between them as much as he possibly can whenever they’re alone together.
“I get it,” Alex bites out. He looks at Michael quickly and then away, and Michael sees the brightness in his eyes. “I said I get it. If you’re looking for my blessing, this is me giving it to you.”
“I wasn’t asking for it.”
“You could at least pretend to give a shit about what this is doing to me—”
Michael steps forward then, puts his arms around Alex, pulling him into a hug. Alex resists it, his arms staying pinned to his sides, sharp intake of air sounding in Michael’s ear.
“I can promise you, I give a shit,” Michael says softly, and he feels it in Alex’s body when he caves to the embrace, the lines of him softening and melting against Michael. They fit well, this touch a familiar comfort, although Michael’s having trouble remembering the last time he and Alex had shared a hug, of all things. Even when they were kids, they’d never have held each other like this without it being the prelude to something more. It would be easy, really, to duck his head and nuzzle his nose against the line of Alex’s cheek. Nudge him up and into a kiss, melt into Alex Manes in that dizzying, unreal soup of sensation and peace. There’s a pull to it, an automatic, heated anticipation of a familiar destiny. He knows how it would feel to do it. He knows it would feel so good.
Michael doesn’t want to be the guy who hurts people anymore. He can’t stand that he’s found himself in a situation where he will be that guy, no matter what he does.
“If you told me,” Michael says, pulling carefully out of the hug and keeping his hands on Alex’s arms, “right now, if you said it was hurting you too much, to see me with her…”
“You’d drop it?” Alex says incredulously. “No you wouldn’t.”
Michael shrugs. “I don’t know, Alex. Historically, I haven’t been great at denying you what you want. It’s moot, though, isn’t it? Because you’d never ask me to.”
Alex smiles at him. It’s a sad expression, one Michael hates to find so familiar. Alex shines so goddamn bright when he’s happy; it’s a shame it doesn’t happen more often. “No, I’d never ask you to.”
And then Alex walks away, and Michael watches him, because he’ll never not watch him when he leaves. That’s a part of who they are, and always will be, and it hurts, and it’s hard, and he doesn’t want it to be. He has an odd, unexpected longing for Max, wishes they could go for a drink and pretend none of the rest of this shit had ever happened.
With Maria, there are things that are harder, things that are worse, somehow, than he could have expected them to be. He’s not choosing her as the soft option, the one who will welcome him without challenge or pain. If anything, quite the opposite.
Bringing the Airstream to the parking lot of the Pony feels like the kind of gesture Maria might appreciate: something concrete, a way to promise her he’s sticking around, and wants to help. The thing is, he doesn’t want Maria to hate him. He tells her so, and she shoots back without a moment’s hesitation: “Then don’t make me hate you, Guerin.” In that split second, despite every molecule of his body and mind trying to prevent it, he thinks—Alex wouldn’t have said that. Alex would have said I could never hate you.
And it’s true. He and Alex could never hate each other, he and Alex could never, ever hurt one another enough to entirely sever what they have. But that’s part of what’s so damn tragic about the two of them. They can’t be ordinary people with ordinary problems, they can’t get the distance they need, to figure out if they ever could have made each other happy. Ten years hadn’t done a thing to dull the aching want. Alex’s abusive father, Michael’s mother dying with Michael standing by, helpless to stop it. None of it has ever made him want and love Alex any less.
But when he kisses Maria it’s a different kind of want, an ache of a refreshing variety. Triumph, in the choice he’s making. Relief, in holding her to him and having it feel good without any accompanying panic about the pain that’s sure to follow. He could fuck this up. He could make Maria DeLuca hate him, if he’s not careful. But he loves that now he gets a fresh chance with someone. Someone who doesn’t know the worst and the best of who he is, but who he might be willing to tell, in time.
This is something he could fuck up. But it’s not fucked up yet, and that’s about as much as Michael feels ready to hope for.