#i wrote most of this at like midnight so it may be somewhat incoherent but I had a lot of feelings and no idea what to do with them

[iatethepomegranate]

For now, they had this

So Shadowgast has finally made me write fanfic again. I started this a few hours after the finale, and then woke up to find Twitter confirmation for my reading of their epilogue. So here’s 2k of soft wizards confirming for each other what they already knew, in their quiet way. I’m playing with the timeline ordering of things, so my interpretation is not necessarily the Canon interpretation of how things went between them.

Demisexual Essek is addressed here, without saying it explicitly. I tried. Massive spoilers for the finale, obviously.

____

For now, they had this

As much as Caleb trusted Essek to handle himself, he had to admit he was nervous about leaving him behind in Aeor. But the longer they spent together, the greater the weight of things unsaid, and Caleb had to take care of something first.

He had to go home. Blumenthal.

So he did. Found his parents’ resting place. Buried his letters to them. Grieved.

He didn’t go back to Aeor right away, the weight of the Sending stone Essek had foisted on him heavy in his pocket. Essek didn’t need it; he could Send without expending too much of his reserves. Essek hadn’t said anything, but Caleb was keenly aware this stone was solely for his benefit.

Caleb lingered close to Blumenthal for a time, feeling the finality wash over him. He could sometimes feel the phantom weight of the letters as if they still hung from his book holster. It would take time for him to get used to not carrying them around anymore. Just like he had carried the weight of what he had done for so long. And likely always would. But he was more at peace with that now. He had a mission to prevent this from ever happening again. There were things he had done about it, and things he would continue to do for as long as he lived. Fixing his home would be a lifelong mission, but he was finally ready to handle it.

Essek left him alone for a few days, until he must have grown anxious. Well, more anxious than usual. Essek, Caleb had learned, was an anxious person.

“Caleb,” Essek’s voice appeared in Caleb’s head. Soft, but concerned. “I apologise for the intrusion. Are you all right?” The barest pause. “I am safe up here, but… I am concerned. But no rush. Please.”

“I’m all right,” Caleb replied before the spell could decay, losing the thread of the dome ritual he had begun to cast moments ago. “I will return tomorrow. Stay safe. And thank you.”

Jester would be appalled that he didn’t use all his words, but Caleb was… wrung out. Catharsis was, by its nature, exhausting. His response must have satisfied Essek, who did not Send again.

Caleb began to cast the dome once more, blending the exterior with the greens and browns of the woods, but transparent inside so he could fall asleep under the stars of his childhood one last time.

***

Caleb risked the teleport directly into Aeor the following morning, grasping the paper from the records room firmly in his hand. He mercifully landed exactly where he had intended, breathing the dusty air. His ribs expanded more freely than they had in years.

Essek floated cross-legged just above the floor in the corner, looking up from the pages of a ledger in his hands. He watched silently for a second, as he usually did while waiting for a wild magic surge in this place. When none materialised, he gave Caleb a soft smile.

“Welcome back. Come. I am sure you will find this interesting.”

Essek rarely pushed Caleb to talk when he wasn’t ready; he was grateful, especially now. They sat together on the floor for a time, smudges of salt and soot on their fingers as they dug deeper into the records of Aeor. Stacks of books, long-hidden information, and Essek’s steady, quiet company. Caleb had needed this.

It was only when Caleb threw off his coat to more comfortably crawl among the books, collecting fragments of a damaged volume that had fallen apart at the spine, that Essek said anything unrelated to the work.

“Uh, Caleb?”

“Ja?”

“Your other book…”

Caleb followed Essek’s gaze to the empty side of his holster. “Ah.” He sat back, depositing the rescued fragments on the floor in front of him. “It was… time to let go.”

Essek watched him quietly, but did not press. But, mere weeks earlier, he had listened to Caleb lay out all his plans to save his parents. He had even offered to help him. And had been visibly relieved when Caleb instead destroyed the time travel device and all the notes that could have been used to replicate it. He knew enough to understand.

So Caleb explained. The letters he had written. His plans to give them to his mother and father after he had saved them. But he had to let go.

“So, I…” Caleb had to take a moment, the tears threatening to overtake him.

Essek silently looped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him in, tucking Caleb into the hollow of his throat. Caleb breathed him in, and remained there. 

“I teleported the book into the earth between their graves,” he murmured. “It's the closest I can… it’s with them now. Best I can manage.” Talking hurt too much, so he stopped.

“Caleb,” Essek said softly. “I’m proud of you.”

Caleb let himself cry.

***

Essek was always gentle with him, but even more so in the following days. Passing of materials gave rise to held hands, lingering touches, lingering stares. Slowly, Caleb began to feel better. As much as he believed he could, at least for now. It was better than he had felt in a long time. With time, perhaps, the wounds would ache less. Never perfect, but better.

Having disturbed an absorber of an evening, the resulting scuffle left Caleb too tired to summon the tower. He instead set to conjuring the dome while Essek kept watch. They were a little far to retreat to the records room, but they had managed to barricade an entranceway with damaged furniture despite their pitiful strength. Essek, of course, had demonstrated he was more than capable of surprising everyone, including himself, in moments of great duress. Fortunately, Caleb had not gotten himself trapped under a tower this time.

So, Essek hovered close to Caleb during the ritual, keeping an eye on the door they had barricaded. He was tense, but Caleb had to get this dome up before he could address it. There was also a gash on his forearm that would need dressing… but later. Focus.

The dome popped into existence. Caleb put his spellbook away, feeling his shoulder protest. He would need Essek’s help checking the damage.

Essek ducked into the dome, sighing. “Let us not repeat the events of today.”

Caleb produced a set of clean bandages, a cloth and a waterskin. “Agreed.” He grabbed Essek’s arm and dabbed the dampened cloth against the cut. Essek hissed in pain, but didn’t flinch. He hadn’t in a while. Caleb wasn’t sure if that was a sign Essek was getting hurt far too much, or a sign of trust. Both, perhaps. Caleb bandaged the wound, and held Essek’s arm for a moment longer. He was okay. The fight had been tiring, but they had both come out of it. A cut on the arm was nothing in the scheme of things.

Essek extricated his arm from Caleb’s grip, and pushed Caleb’s coat off his shoulders. “Let me see.”

Caleb hadn’t spoken of the pain, but he also hadn’t tried to hide it. Essek carefully loosened the book holsters--a research journal, for the moment, filled the spot once occupied by the letters--and set them aside. He then ran his fingers gently across the front laces of Caleb’s shirt, until Caleb nodded his consent.

Essek gently tugged the shirt loose until he could pull one side off the sore shoulder. He frowned; Caleb couldn’t see the cause. Essek prestidigitated the washcloth clean and wet it, carefully draping it across Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb closed his eyes as the cool sensation took the edge off the pain. He heard a soft mumble, and sensed movement akin to the somatic components of a basic evocation cantrip. The cloth grew colder.

Essek placed his hand over the cloth, squeezing gently. “I think you pulled something. I will continue to ice it tonight.”

“Thank you,” Caleb whispered.

“Rest.” Lips on his forehead. “I will keep watch.”

Caleb opened his eyes. Essek was kneeling at his side, not floating. Too tired, perhaps. But his eyes were sharp, trained on the barricaded doorway.

“Essek.”

“Yes?” Eyes still focused outward.

“Relax a moment. This has been a hard day for both of us.”

Essek let out a long breath, turning his gaze towards Caleb. “I apologise. I… have a hard time seeing you hurt.”

Caleb’s keen mind kindly conjured for him all the times Essek had seen him hurt much worse than this, but he held his tongue. Frequency did not make these things easier. Least of all for Essek, who had been alive for over a century but had only been genuinely close to a small number of people. Caring was hard. Worth it, but hard.

“I know,” Caleb said. “The very nature of caring for someone… witnessing their suffering… it hurts.”

Essek frowned at the floor, but then lifted his gaze to Caleb. “I worried while you were away.”

“I know. And thank you.” Caleb pulled Essek in with his good arm, laying his head on his shoulder. He felt, not for the first time, the urge to talk about this thing between them. But, as he had felt many times before, now was not the time.

Caleb and Essek were not the kind of people to blurt out complicated feelings in a moment of distress or exhaustion. So he closed his eyes and rested against Essek instead. They were what they were to each other, and Caleb was confident this would not disappear overnight. Putting that into words could wait a little longer.

***

The next day was quiet, spent examining record books rescued from the rampage of yesterday’s absorber. Caleb and Essek needed a quieter day, and the slower pace was welcome. They rarely spoke while in the throes of research, always keenly aware of each other, passing paper and writing implements back and forth, smudging soot and salt against each other’s skin as their touches lingered.

It was everything Caleb had ever wanted.

Taking a moment to stretch his back and roll his aching shoulder, his eyes were drawn to Essek’s form in the corner. So engrossed in his reading and note-taking, he had stopped floating about an hour ago. Hunched on the hard, warped floor of this broken city, eyes intense as he scribbled feverishly. He was running low on ink again.

Caleb chuckled softly and crawled closer, gently nudging another inkwell into Essek’s reach. Essek paused in his scribbles, a small smile softening his features. He reached out, eyes retracing the notes he had just written, but instead of taking the ink, he caught Caleb’s fingers and laced them with his own.

Caleb had figured out he was in love with Essek long ago, but in this moment, those feelings swelled until he thought he would burst into tears. He squeezed Essek’s hand. Essek squeezed back.

And the words finally found their way from Caleb’s heart, and out of his mouth. “I love you.”

Essek tore his eyes from the papers, softening as he met Caleb’s gaze. “I love you, too, Caleb.”

Of course, the curse of a mind as keen as Caleb’s was the ability to have too many thoughts at once. He loved Essek. Essek loved him (Caleb had already known that, but it was beautiful to hear out loud). Caleb was human. Essek was an elf. Caleb probably had sixty years left to live, if he was lucky. Essek would likely live another six hundred or more, if he was careful. Essek was on the run from the Dynasty. Caleb had to return home, at least periodically, to root out corruption and make it the place he had once believed it to be. So many factors. So many barriers.

He wanted what time he could have with Essek, but it would be cruel to entangle him when Caleb’s lifespan was barely a speck of dust in the winds of time, when there were so many things they would have to do apart even before Caleb would succumb to his mortality. Caleb had hurt the people he loved too much already.

Essek’s free hand slid up Caleb’s neck and into his hair, cradling the base of his skull. “Your eyes are sad again, my love.”

“This will hurt you,” Caleb said, “in the end.”

“I know.” And it was Essek who pressed their foreheads together this time. “I will cherish the time we have together, and whatever comes after that. It is… rare for me to feel this way about anyone. I will not give you up so easily, even if I know it will end. I am who I am today because of you, and I will carry you with me long after you are gone.”

Caleb had tried to keep people at arm’s-length before, just as Essek had. But he felt emotions deeply, especially love, and it went against his nature to deny the love he felt. And Essek was the love of his life. It would hurt in the end, but they still had time. Decades, if they were lucky.

Essek and Caleb knew a thing or two about pulling luck in their favour.

The moment stretched beyond words. Caleb reached up to kiss Essek’s forehead. They were both reserved people, not given to grand gestures. It was not necessary. Their love bled into everything they did together, in dressing each other’s wounds, in defending each other in battle, and in their quiet moments--the shared silences, the passing of research materials, the touch of soot-stained fingers.

They were what they were to each other, in the time they had together. The joy would one day turn to sorrow, but, for now, they had this.

#cr spoilers #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role #fanfiction #my fics #i wrote most of this at like midnight so it may be somewhat incoherent but I had a lot of feelings and no idea what to do with them #started making it had a breakdown bon appetit

[drivingsideways]

In your experience, how much can a fic really improve after a shitty first draft? I can never just make myself keep writing without editing because I always think: the better the first draft, the better the final product :(

Hi! 

First a disclaimer: I am not the best editor! I hate it! When the first draft is done,  my impulse is to get “rid” of the story as fast as I can; I often feel emotionally done with the fic before I’m actually done with fixing it, even at like, basic proof- reading level. And that’s something I’m trying to fix as a writing process, but I don’t always succeed. The luxury of fanfic writing is that it’s so low stakes that you can do this, and feel only a mild pinch of conscience. 

Anyway, trufax: I don’t have the kind of patience that @rain-hat has for revisions. And I can see the difference in the quality of the fic! So this is why I’m trying to internalize and nurture within myself some discipline and patience.  

So this “first draft only has to exist” rule is really something I currently use when I’m feeling particularly stuck. Which happens a lot, especially when writing long fics, or feeling that my fic is getting out of hand. (As I write this, I’m side-eyeing my current WIP where I really want to write just That One Scene, but I’m finding myself writing 5k words of back story to get there.) 

Anyways!  I think the point of first drafts- they are allowed to be shitty. Second, I don’t think first drafts are actually first drafts in the sense that they’re not just top of the head, no filter brain to paper/ word doc writing! It’s just the first version of the story where it’s completed in the most basic sense, but within it lies many “drafts” that you’ve discarded along the way. 

Ok, so first, the different ways in which first drafts are shitty. There are so many. 

There’s the kind where at some point you realize that ohhh, a key plot point is resting on something totally unworkable/ untenable even within the universe of your fic, forget “real life.”  This is probably something you should fix straight up, as you write, because otherwise you end up with a lot of rewriting and midnight cursing.

Then there’s the kind where  you’ve got midway or even three-fourths through your initial plan, and  it feels patchy and incoherent- maybe you aren’t hitting the right emotional notes in sections or you’ve bogged yourself down in subplots that felt necessary when you started, but now JUST WON’T WRAP UP. This is the kind of thing where I think it’s super useful to remember that you can fix it later. Give the story some time to rest with you, and sometimes, writing ahead actually clarifies what it was that wasn’t working before. Enjoy going down the rabbit hole with whatever silly subplot or character is demanding your attention. Once it’s done, literally cut that section out into another document or something and let it sit there! Then come back. You’re a fic writer! There’s no deadline! Nobody outside of you ever even needs to read these parts where you reveal your obsession with idk, wine prices in 18th century NY, or whatever. It can be fixed!

There’s the kind of shitty where the sentences just sit there like ungainly rocks on a hill and you’re frantically looking up synonyms for “said”. Adjacent is the kind of shitty where you’ve been swinging between tenses like a trapeze artist within the same sentence. This is the kind of thing I’d say you can fix relatively stress free- even if you cringe a lot as you go through the edit. Thank god your English teacher won’t ever see this kind of thing.  I’m REALLY bad at this kind of fixing though, so if I can bamboozle kind souls into beta reading for me, then I do so pretty shamelessly. But wow, it’s amazing just how much, idk, just neat punctuation and fewer adverbs will improve the readability of the fic dramatically.  If you don’t have a beta reader- I think it’s great to take a few days off entirely from the fic, until you’ve more or less forgotten what you wrote. Fresh set of eyes- even your own- can help this part a LOT! 

So the other thing I mentioned- the first draft isn’t actually “first”. 

I’m also a fan of editing as I go along, or going back to a previous section to tweak things. Sometimes I write a chapter, and then wake up the next morning and think, well, that wasn’t great, and I’m not able to move on until I fix it. So then I do that, and the "first draft” version may more or less be this “second” version.  And y’know, I know some fic writers who will draft and redraft each paragraph as they go along because they can’t get to the next section in their heads until they do that. And that’s fine, if that’s working for you! But for me, what happens is that I run out of patience, and then stress myself out, which makes the “imperfect” section have even less of a chance of being fixed. 

So this is where non linear writing helps me, as a trick, to move the story along while also keeping me mentally in a good place re: the story. In my most recent fic, I actually wrote the end and then went back to the beginning. Which was a very, very weird thing to do, even for me--but after the prologue, that I’d written first, I just wasn’t able to make the introductory chapter work. Just staring at blank pages and feeling a rising panic. Because I was in that obsessive stage with the fic, y’know, when you’re thinking about it constantly , but the problem was I wasn’t thinking about the chapter I was supposed to write, it was the chapter I wanted to write. So that’s what I did! 

 And I think this trick works if your story isn’t very plot heavy; or it is, but you do have a good and detailed plot outline done. That way, you don’t mess up too much in terms of continuity and so on.  Sometimes I find that just making chapter headings clear my head out A LOT. Also then I can do the - ok, you have 3 chapters to go ONLY. (Lies, this will become 5, but still.) Anyway, having some kind of progress bar does help a lot! 

Ok, this is extremely long and somewhat rambly. I hope it’s encouraging! 

Last thing: it’s fine if you trash the first draft and start all over. (Ok, don’t REALLY trash it, keep it there. You’ll find some of it would be useful!)  Anyways, lots of pro authors say that their first draft and the final version are completely different- so you know, sometimes that does happen. Maybe the right thing to do IS trash it, and approach the story or the characters from a different perspective. It’ll be hard to do, and you need to allow yourself space and time to mourn the bits you’re trashing (the grief is REAL!) but at the end of the day, you’ll free yourself to write the better version of the story! 

Ok, really shutting up now. :D

Take care and best of luck with your writing projects!

#writing things #Anonymous

[girlinthepictureframe]

The Briefest Kiss Part 10

New Year's Eve

“He knows how to play the acoustic,” explained Alex, still laughing, “but he doesn't know a thing about modified electrics. Broke the damn thing off. He looked so guilty and lost, I actually felt bad for him. Got him an old electric of mine, told him to practice until I get back. He'll get there.”

Miles, who sat a few seats down the bar, was able to hear Alex tell the story and smiled to himself. How he would have loved to have seen it. Alex's father was a very talented musician, he played a bunch of instruments, but it was only in recent years that he had discovered his interest in rocking out on guitars. He'd jammed quite a few times with him and Alex during their last tour. Miles lifted his eyes, carefully sneaking a glance at Alex, only to have him glance back. Miles quickly adverted his eyes, feeling stupid and caught. A ridiculous thought. But it was there nonetheless.

Why did Alex have to show up tonight? Miles began bouncing his leg, a nervous gesture. For the first time in a long while Miles was having somewhat of a good time, surrounded by friends and old acquaintances. They had chatted, caught up, laughed, until, about an hour ago, Alex had walked in. Everyone else was still having a good time. Only his good mood had withered immediately.

Well, to be perfectly honest, he hadn't been in thatgood of a mood to begin with. It was New Year's Eve and here he was, three months after his kind-of break-up with Alex, still trying to figure out where to go from there. For the entire day the thought of not spending the night with Alex had weighed down on him. Then he'd told himself to bloody get a grip and get it together. So he'd tried to get it together, to not think of Alex, and to distract himself. Naturally, Alex had used that moment to reenter Miles' life.

Fucker loved a good entrance.

Miles had been so shocked by the sight of his old friend that he had only been able to mumble a weird, incoherent welcome which had included the words 'hi', 'um', and 'hello'. Not his brightest moment! Then Alex had given him the tiniest, most timid smile and a carefully spoken 'hello'. It was the first time he'd ever heard anyone say anything in a careful manner, but truly, there was no other way to describe it.

Overwhelmed and unsure how to react, Miles had wordlessly walked away, taken a seat at the bar and not moved from there since. Ten minutes later, Alex had taken a seat as well. Two chairs down to the right. And when Miles began to believe that the night couldn't possible get anymore awkward, Al's girlfriend had walked in and straight up planted herself on Al's lap.

'That's my spot,' Miles' increasingly drunk and startlingly jealous mind had chimed in and almost as if Alex had heard it, he'd had given her a nudge and let her know to find a chair instead. Miles' mind had responded a snarky 'thank you!' Ever since then he and his mind were pondering his next moves. Should he remain at the bar? Should he head out to the balcony? Or, better yet, just go home? Maybe he should just call it a night and—

“Hey, Miles.”

He and his mind should have paid more attention, apparently! Neither one had noticed Alex taking a seat next to him. Miles took a large swig from his drink and swallowed hard. “Alex.”

“Are you enjoying your night?”

As Miles pondered his response, he allowed his sight to linger on Alex. He looked vulnerable and afraid, almost scared. It was hard to see his friend like that. His former friend. He didn't want things to be awkward between them. Maybe they didn't know how to be the friends they used to be at the moment, but did that necessarily imply that they couldn't act 'normal' around each other? They didn't need to hug or whisper or talk about their shared history, but couldn't they have a neutral conversation? Apparently not, Miles realized, as he attempted to answer Alex's very simple question. “I was. I am, I mean. I believe. What I'm trying to say is...oh bloody hell!” Miles grabbed the drink in front of him, finished it off and turned to Alex. “Fuck this! Care for a smoke?”

Alex looked as though Miles had made him the world's greatest gift. “God, yes!”

Both made their way out to the balcony. It was almost empty. A few people were hovering near the wall, but it was an icy cold winter night and people weren't dressed for the weather. Miles didn't care. The cold soothed him, helped him get keep his head clear. And he knew Alex felt the same.

“It's weird,” said Miles, trying to explain his set of mind. “Seeing you here, after all this time. For a moment I wished you hadn't shown up. At the same time, though, I'm glad that you did. I just don't know how to talk to you.”

“Me neither,” admitted Alex, shyly. “I hadn't planned on coming here. I was sitting in my apartment the whole day, deciding for and against coming here. But we always spend this night together. And I thought, if I don't show up, what if that's another nail in the coffin of our friendship?”

“Does it have a coffin yet?” Miles snuck a worried glance at Alex.

“You tell me.” He lit the cigarette for which they had come for. As did Miles. “I still don't have the words you deserve to hear. I've written countless letters to you. They're sitting in shelves all over the world. I was in LA and remembered our time making our album. And I tried writing to you about that. In France I recalled our night at the lake. How simple it was for us to shrug off what had happened that night. How we didn't move on from that, because we never needed to move on. We were just okay with it all. In London I went to visit the club where we first met. Remember the one? There's a picture of us which the owners hung up near the bathrooms. I had never noticed before. A few days ago I was in Sheffield and wrote to you about how much I miss you.”

Miles wished he'd gotten the letters, wished that he knew every single word Alex had written down. “Why haven't you sent any of 'em, Al?”

“I let my heart write those letters, Mi. They're too honest. At times, they're even too honest for myself.”

Miles wanted to tell him that there could never be too much truth between. But that was a lie. He remembered his own omissions of honesty. And he knew there were things he was keeping from Alex. Feelings. Desires. Fears. Truths. If Miles allowed his heart to take the reigns, he'd be having his way with Alex right here, right now, consequences be damned. If he allowed his mind to lead, he'd never touch Alex again out of fear for even the smallest repercussions. “What if we never find the right words, Al? What if we don't find a way out of this hole that we've dug?”

“We will, Miles.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Cause I bloody fucking miss you.”

Miles closed his eyes, took a deep breath and clutched the wrought iron rail of the balcony they were standing on. It took all that he had inside of him not to grab Alex and haul him in for a tight hug and God knows what else. How was it possible to long so deeply, so overwhelmingly, for another person? How was it possible to need somebody so desperately? Not just in a physical manner, but also emotionally?

“It's almost midnight,” Alex pointed out.

Miles kept his eyes close, but nodded into the night. Their time was up. “We should go back inside.”

“Yes.” He let go of the rail, met Alex's eyes briefly, then followed him back towards the bar. Alex returned to his chair next to Louise, and Miles took his old seat two chairs away from him. Other people began to gather around the bar. Not long and the countdown began. Seconds ticked down. Fireworks could be heard through the open windows. Miles saw Louise giving Alex a kiss and quickly looked away.

'Happy New Year,” his bored and lonely mind chimed in. “And if he were mine, better fucking believe he would be grasping for air right now.”

Valentine's Day

“Dear Friend, I know this day is meant for lovers, but I consider us lovers of a different kind. We share a mind. May these flowers find you well. Love, Alexa.”

Miles chuckled as he read the card. Hers, as always, was much classier than the one he'd sent her. His was the humorous kind. Instead of flowers, he'd gotten her a selection of sweets, which he knew she loved.

“A girlfriend?” Pauline, his mother, smiled cheekily as she made her way towards her dining room table upon which Miles had placed the flowers. “Do I know her?”

“A friend. And yes, you do. It's Alexa.”

“Oh, how disappointing. Well, not that, but here I had hoped you would found yourself a date for tonight.”

“Mother,” said Miles, giving her a tone of complete annoyance and utter disapproval, a tone he had perfected when he'd been a teenager. A tone that expressed his displeasure at the idea of his mother being noisy, a tone that professed gratitude for her general interest in his life but at the same time conveyed a warning not to show too much interest for she may not like what she'd find. A tone that said, 'mother, I love you dearly, but please, bugger off.'

Pauline understood it perfectly. “Here's your mail, sweetheart.”

Miles quickly flipped through the letters that had arrived for him since the last time he'd been here. Even though his official address had him residing in London, some wayward correspondence still made its way to his hometown. But between the occasional fan letter, some ads and a bunch of invitations, the stack of mail held not what Miles was hoping for ever since Alex had told him about his letter-writing habit.

He sat down, pushed the mail away, and returned to the emails he was catching up on.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. That's it,” said his mother, took the iPad away from him and sat down. “I've had it with you, son. Tell me what's going on or I will call Alex and make him tell me! You know I will!”

Miles's eyes went wide. “Say what now?”

“The Miles that I remember wasn't so gloomy and sad all the time. I admit I don't see you as often as I used to, anymore. Touring and all that – don't get me wrong, I'm quite happy for you and very proud! But you used to come here, happy and carefree. Now you spend your free time staring out the window as though you're waiting for Christ's return!”

He scoffed. “That's not what I'm doing, mom.”

“I know that. But it sure looks like it. And I'm telling you, that's enough. I mean it. Tell me what's causing you sorrow!”

He gave her a reluctant look, but, maybe she was right. Maybe it was time he spilled his heart to somebody? Maybe it was time for a different perspective? And his mother would offer a solution, of that he had no doubt. It was the part before that, the admitting-to-what-he-had-done, which was troubling him. “What if you don't like what I'm about to tell you?”

“Miles, you quit school and told me you wanted to become a rockstar when you were a teenager. I honestly don't believe it can be worse than that!”

He couldn't help but smile. “Love you, mom. But this one's a bit of a different problem.”

“Miles,” she warned.

And he understood perfectly. “Alright.” For a moment he considered his words. He sat up a bit straighter, attempted to appear not quite as lost as he felt, and began. “There's this person.” For now he went with vague descriptions. He wasn't yet sure just how much he was willing to share. “This person and I...we've known each other for a long while now an—”

“So this is about Alex,” concluded Pauline.

“No,” said Miles. “I didn't say that!”

“That boy used to come here as often as you did. Now it's been over a year since he last placed his muddy boots on my perfectly clean carpet. And even when he was here, the last few times, things weren't as they used to. The both of you used to be glued to the hip together. I swear, last time I saw you two, you religiously avoided touching each other! Start again, dear. And don't be shy with the details! Come now, what happened? Did you fall for the same girl?”

Involuntary laughter escaped him. “Oh, if only.” Seeing the wish to help on his mother's face made him falter and relent. “We had sex,” Miles blurted out.

“You and the girl?”

“No, mom. Me and Alex.”

“And?”

Had she understood what he had just admitted to? “Me and Alex, mom. There's no girl involved. Alex Turner and I, we had sex. With each other.”

“I got that part,” she dryly let him know. “I'm not stupid. I know what sex is. Was is bad? Is that what happened? I presume he was the first man you spent a night with? I've never seen you show any sort of romantic interest for any other man. So if this was the first time, maybe the two of you didn't do it right?”

He wanted to say something, but for the life of all that was holy to him, he couldn't form a single sentence. He had just told his mother that her supposedly straight son had slept with his male best friend. Instead of asking what he assumed was the world's most obvious question, she was worried that they had struggled with the mere mechanics of it? “That's...we...uh—”

“Words, dear. Use them. I can't yet read your mind.”

Miles shook his head in disbelief. “It wasn't bad, mom. That's not the issue. It was quite the opposite, to be perfectly honest. If anything, that's the issue! No, it's...the issue is that I've...” The words were stuck in his throat. He wanted to tell her, but that meant saying them out loud. Which, in return, made all of it that much more real and tragic. And once they were out in the open, he could never unsay them. They became a fact. Undeniable. But when she reached for his hand, he closed his eyes. And gave up. “I'm in love with him. Imagine that, mom. I've fallen hopelessly in love with my best friend. Now what?”

“Now you let me hug you,” said Pauline, got up, pulled Miles out if his chair and squeezed him tightly against her.

He loved her more than ever in this moment. She was his rock, his unshakable foundation.

She pecked his forehead, smiled warmly at him and sat back down. “Now tell me about that night and why the two of you are no longer speaking.”

“Because he's not in love with me,” said Miles and shrugged, helpless and out of answers. “Not even a little bit.” And it sucked, be to honest. “But that's okay. I can handle that. I'm trying to figure out how to handle it,” he admitted. “Alex – you know him, mom. He's bad when you confront him about his feelings. What we did, it freaked him out. He couldn't even stay around to look at me afterwards. And now he won't talk to me. All he says is that he's struggling to find the right words. But that's not even what I want. I need him to tell me that he regrets it. I need to hear it from him. To move on. And I need him to tell me that he can still be my friend.”

“Are you sure he regrets is, sweetheart? Because I always had the feeling that—”

“He walked out, in the middle of the night. Grabbed his stuff and just left. Not even a note. It happened last September. We have spoken exactly twice since that night. Trust me, I know he regrets it. He just doesn't want to tell me. But we're stuck. We need to talk about it.”

“Miles, I know it sucks to be in love with someone who doesn't love you back in the same way. But you can't wait for him to invite you back into his life. Alex is a very complicated man and you know that. If he feels as you say he does, he'll never find the right words to break your heart, because those don't exist. Only he doesn't know that and so he'll spend the rest of his days searching for them. It's a never ending spiral. Ha! Funny,” she suddenly said, smiling. “I just quoted one of your songs!”

He rolled his eyes. “Well done, mother.”

“Oh, stop it. What I mean to tell you is this: If you want Alex back in your life, and you can be okay with having him back in your life as just as friend, then you need to let him know that you're fine and that you can handle that. You need to let him know that his words won't make you leave him for good.”

He thought about it. As always, his mother had valid points. Back in that dimly lit hallway in Paris, Alex had told him that he'd never wanted to hurt him. It wouldn't surprise Miles if Alex was trying to figure out a way to break his heart without breaking it, which was impossible but 'impossible' was a term that Alex considered stupid. “So I should go to him?”

“That's what I would do. Tell him how you feel and tell him that, regardless of it all, you want him in your life as a friend. And if he doesn't want that, you need to know that as well. Whatever his reply may be, I know you can handle it.”

“I'll consider it. Thanks, mom.” He reached for his iPad, got back to the emails, but his mind lingered on her advice. If he did go to Alex, what would he tell him? Should he tell him everything? Or just tell him that it was time for them to move on? Would they have to discuss what had happened or merely agree never to mention it again?

“Out of curiosity,” wondered Pauline, “is Alex a good kisser?”

“Mother!” He wondered if all mothers were this nosy or if it was a unique trait of hers. He groaned when he noticed her eyes drilling a hole into his scull, as if trying to read his mind. “Oh if you must know, yes! He's a bloody amazing kisser! Can we please change the subject?”

“Fine,” she agreed. “So, does all of this mean that you're gay now?”

He grabbed the iPad and walked away. “Unbelievable!”

Here’s a little spoiler for the next part. ;)

“Don't!” Warned Alex sternly, even pointing a finger at him. His voice turned angry. “That's not— We're not at a point in our relationship where we do that!”

“Do what?”

“Fucking flirt!”

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