Work Text:
Life on tour usually feels like a never ending repetitive cycle of identical days. Cities and towns pass by in a murky haze as the band journey around countries they get to see very little of. More familiar with the interiors of tour buses, taxis, hotel rooms, green rooms and arenas. Alex often gets the impression that if he squints every crowd and every show looks and feels exactly the same. It’s not something he minds, the rhythm of routine on tour and the familiar ritual of performance are so ingrained in him that they feel as natural as the back of his hand. Within the eye of the storm that is international touring, Alex imagines himself sitting comfortably with his band mates, listening to Black Sabbath wail over the speaker system in a darkened green room- it’s his happy place.
But sometimes the well worn path diverges and leads to new and unexpected territory, so as Alex steps out of the tour van and into the dazzling light of the morning he feels ready to take on a new challenge. The crew have been busy all morning finishing the stage for the first night of their Finsbury Park shows and Alex feels the familiar tingling sensation he gets when real excitement begins to bubble up inside of him. He stretches out a little, waiting for Miles to emerge from his side of the Van. When he does appear Alex throws a smile at him ready to face the chaos of the day with Miles by his side.
—
Alex draws out the last few words of ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ breathing in and out through his nose as he takes a moment to stare out at the sea of people, their phones and lighters twinkle like stars in the night sky and for a moment Alex basks in the glow of thousands of adoring faces. The sweat trickling down his back, the slight ache in his feet, the tension in his shoulders, all of it feels worth it for a moment like this. Triumphant is a word he likes to use in interviews when other ones like ‘celebration’ and ‘big party’ won’t cut it and that’s exactly how he feels now as he grabs the guitar Scott hands him and gets ready for ‘R U Mine’.
“Thank you very much for having us Finsbury Park.” He yells into the microphone, combing his hands through his greasy hair and feeling a twinge in his left hand, he brushes it off. As he stands and waits for everyone to fall into place the crowd gets louder and he nods along with a smirk, letting the excitement in the park bubble up and spill over.
“R U Mine mothefuckers?” Alex yells, voice a little hoarse as Matt’s drums kick in and he begins to roll through the familiar twists and turns of their closing song. Everything is muscle memory at this point, the way he holds his guitar, the stance he takes with one foot on his pedal board even his voice as it rides along with the music. It’s this muscle memory that saves him when that twinge in his left hand returns and attacks him with viscous vengeance. Pain shoots through from his wrist to the tips of his fingers, it feels like his nerve endings are on fire as he flinches and drops his hands from the neck of his guitar. For a split second panic swirls through his body and he falters a little vocally, shocked by how quickly his body is letting him down. He shakes out his hand in an attempt to regain his composure and stretches out his middle and pointer fingers, pressing them against his other palm to try and release the muscle tension. In the end it’s his voice that carries him, unwavering even as he tries again and again to run his fingers over the fretboard, pain preventing him from playing without taking short breaks to shake out and rub his hand. Alex pushes through, feeling the burden of being the frontman rest heavily on his shoulders as he looks out at the crowd. Most don’t seem to notice his struggle, and he finds it hard to identify whether that fills him with relief or resentment. His body is on the line and it hurts, but the show can’t work without him so he keeps playing.
“Finsbury Park thank you!” Alex yells into the crowd as the song comes to an end and they roar in applause. It’s bittersweet. The end of the first night is welcome but Alex can’t help feeling annoyed at his failure to see it through to perfection, pain still radiating through his hand as he waves and walks off stage. Besides the anger and the shame is a fear that grows, spreading its suffocating tendrils around the already weak bravado he needs to maintain his confidence on stage. Everything feels shaky and uncertain as he follows his band backstage into their greenroom where Alex’s first and only instinct is to hide his pain.
“Boys you were fucking boss out there!” Miles’ scouse lilt temporarily cuts through Alex’s inner turmoil and he walks hastily towards him, drawn like a magnet to the object of his attraction. It doesn’t take long for everyone to flood into the green room, the opening bands and their mates spilling out into the rest of the backstage area. Alex sits on a leather sofa pressed up against Miles, only partially aware of the activity in the room, focused mostly on controlling the pain that bares down on him. Someone sits down on the other end of the couch next to Miles and causes the scouser to bump up against Alex, he winces at the movement, his left hand trapped awkwardly between the arm of the couch and his own body.
“Al?” Miles turns to look at him, eyebrows raised and pulled together in concern as he watches the fleeting expression of pain flash across his partners face. “You ok love? Need some air?” Miles offers, assuming Alex is overstimulated as he stands and offers him a hand. Alex grabs it and let Miles pulls him up and out of the room. They walk through the endless maze of the makeshift backstage area until Miles finds a quiet spot near the tour vans and stops to let Alex sit down at the tables where they’d had dinner earlier.
“Fuck.” Alex breathes out, trying desperately to hold it together as Miles rubs his back, worry working it’s way through his body until finally he cracks.
“What’s wrong?” Miles asks gently, looking down and finally noticing the way Alex cradles his left hand towards his body, fingers curled in a fist as he tries not to move it.
“It’s nothing, just- just give me-“ Alex replies through slightly gritted teeth, steeling himself internally as the urge to lie and push Miles’ concern away becomes more and more tempting.
“Something’s clearly wrong Al, is it- is it your hand.” Miles tries to reach out gently but Alex flinches away, biting his lip as pain continues to pierce through his thinly veiled veneer of composure.
“Miles it’s just-“ Alex tries to reply, but the quiver of his voice and the way his body trembles gives him away and he slowly stretches his arm towards Miles, wincing at every incremental movement. Miles gently draws Alex’s elbow onto the table, letting his forearm rest between them on the cold surface.
“Ok love, I’m just going to try and open up your hand, just relax for me, deep breaths.” Miles whispers, slowly beginning to trail his fingers up from Alex’s elbow to his wrist. Besides him Alex takes deep breaths, rocking back and forth gently to try and calm down. The bench they share creaks a little from his self soothing behaviour but Alex doesn’t care, too focussed on managing his pain and having long since stopped feeling self conscious about stimming in front of Miles.
“Stop me if it really hurts,” Miles warns as he starts the process of opening up Alex’s hand. With as much care as he can muster, he begins to slowly push his thumb into the palm of Alex’s hand, running it up and down Alex’s curled up fingers. At first Alex tenses, but as he lets his partner relax the muscles in his hand, he begins to uncurl his fingers, exposing dark red crescents, nail imprints that line the soft flesh of his palm. “There we go, much better.” Miles breathes a sigh of relief and Alex can’t help but mirror it.
When Alex sits up and opens his mouth to thank his partner, no words come out and he deflates slightly. But Miles understands, he always does. And in the dark gloom of the backstage area, Alex clings to that fact. Their unspoken bond and the reliance on each other has carried him through so many years of confusion and shame. As his star has risen taking his band to the top of album charts and to the front of magazines, to the lists at celebrity parties and to the largest stages on the planet, Alex has often felt lost along the way. But when Miles appears, he is as bright and warm as the sun, so comforting in the midst of a cold and endless universe of impossibility. He’s real and his love is real. Alex longs for it in a way that sometimes makes him feel afraid. Worried that one day he’ll push to far and be consumed in the fiery blaze of Miles ire, too close for comfort, scorned like a moth scorched by a flame. But for now he leans into the familiar warmth, grateful for Miles healing touch.
—
In their hotel room, Alex slumps onto the bed, white sheets catching his body as relief washes over him. Escaping the park unseen was an almost impossible feat, but they’d managed, only alerting their tour manager Steve before sneaking away into the back of a cab to head back. Alex had sent a hasty text to his groupchat with the Monkey’s, typing out something about feeling tired and sore, and was relieved to find they’d not pressed him on it.
“You’re a cute little thing you know?” Miles smirks as he eyes the slip of exposed pale white skin between Alex’s belt and his shirt. Alex in turn rolls his eyes and sits up, still feeling the full ache of his wrist as he flicks his fingers outwards, desperate for them to regain their mobility. “Are you worried about tomorrow?” Miles asks softly, scooting up beside Alex and pulling him in to a side hug.
Aled nods and begins to bite at the dry skin of his bottom lip, his words haven’t returned to him yet and he finds himself unsurprised. It’s his default reaction to crisis, losing his ability to speak amidst whatever chaos is consuming his life at the time. Alex is forever grateful for the people in his life who don’t poke and prod at him when he does lose his voice, dependent on their understanding to keep him afloat.
“You’re gonna hate me for saying this but I think you should start wearing the wrist brace again.” Miles whispers into Alex hair, kissing the top of his head even as the frontman flinches beneath him at the mention of his old brace. Alex wriggles out of Miles’ grasp but stays pressed up against him, his face pouting as he looks over at his partner.
“I know I know, but that’s what the doctor said to do last time remember?” Miles reasons and Alex nods, remembering in painful detail how he’d flipped out in the doctors office. Yelling incoherently about how he needed both hands to play and begging for a solution to the periodic pain that came and went, an unwelcome visitor in Alex’s already complicated life. He’d tried to explain how losing his ability to play would be like losing a part of himself, but nobody seemed to want to listen. Too convinced by his mask of false confidence to care that he was really afraid, beneath the bravado, the smirking indifference, the long drawn out drawl of his tongue. Beneath it all he trailed precariously on the edge of a precipice that lead straight to the death of his career and the pain in his wrist felt like being forced to stare into the great abyss that threatened to consume him. But that was the past, the present version of himself understands how dangerous it is to let himself be fuelled by fear above all else, so time and time again he finds himself giving way to Miles’ suggestions.
Miles stands up and goes rifling through the little first aid kit he carries around in his luggage. He grabs the makeshift brace inside of it and turns around to find Alex slumped back onto the bed, right hand twirling and pulling at strands of his messy hair. Despite Alex’s despondency, he lets Miles take his left hand and slowly begin to fit the brace, securing it at his wrist and looping it round so that his thumb and fingers are separated.
“Better?” Miles asks, laying down to face his partner once he’s done, and earning a soft smile of approval from Alex who does appreciate the slight relief from the aching pain. They lay like that for a while, Alex running his right hand up and down Miles’ forearms as they face each other. Every now and again Miles will tell a joke or make little comment and Alex will giggle with glee, eyes twinkling and cheeks reddening with joy. It’s here in the quiet of their hotel room, staring into Miles sunny face that he lets himself believe that tomorrow will be a better day.