#pbbft

Agreeing to talk to him was a mistake, but he didn’t know what else to do. Somehow Miles had figured out where to find him and had tracked him down. Alex panicked a little when his former professor recognized him, had tried to turn on his heel and make a quick escape but he didn’t have a chance. Miles moved surprisingly fast and intercepted him, cutting him off and asking him what happened.  At a loss for words he’d been left standing there for a breath too long before saying, “Not here.” And then he’d reached for the notebook he used to keep in his pocket only to remember it wasn’t there anymore and then been forced to tell Miles what motel to find him at, room number and all.

Sure, he could have up and abandoned the place before Miles got there, but he had a feeling someone like Miles wouldn’t be discouraged at being ghosted like that. He’d keep searching and probably find him again and then he’d be really irritated at being tricked like that.

So Alex sits at the edge of his bed, mind racing, and one foot nervously tapping against the floor. He stares down at his hands, where they sit atop his thighs and he can feel the fingers that aren’t there anymore twitch with pain. It’s something he’s not used to yet. His head snaps up when there’s a knock at the door and for a split second he’s forgotten that Miles was supposed to be there and that it wasn’t them. He bolts to his feet, ignores the creeping sensation along his spine that runs up into his skull and rushes for the door. It’s locked at both the handle and the deadbolt. Not really all that useful for the people he’d need them to stand strong against, but it makes him feel better. A placebo effect.

He opens the door, keeping most of his body behind the flimsy fake-wood as Miles enters the room and then hastily shuts and re-locks it behind him. His former professor picks up on the atmosphere fast, on how anxious Alex seems to be and how quickly he moves. Alex gestures for Miles to take a seat. There’s one shitty chair beside a shitty table or the equally shitty bed. It’s all pretty terrible. Only after Miles sits down does Alex move away from the door and where he’d been peering out through the crack in the blinds of the window beside it. Then he starts walking.

“Alex,” hearing his name snaps him out of the pacing he’d started and he stops, eyes darting up towards Miles, who watches him with obvious concern, “What’s going on?”

His hands are stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie and he’s certain the beanie isn’t helping him look presentable. More like death warmed over, which was accurate, which was true.

“I can’t. Tell. You.” It sounds like the words are dragged from his throat, clogged with emotion when he manages to speak. He’s on the edge of a breakdown but he has to keep it together. “Honestly I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” can feel the impatient humming underneath his skin, “but I knew you wouldn’t leave without an explanation so that makes this kinda difficult.” A sigh as he runs a hand with one finger too few over his face.

“You...you said something before about what was it? Hold on, give me a second.” Alex snaps his fingers – thank god he has the middle still, “Right, you said ‘I see a lot of myself in you’ back at office hours.” Alex bites down on his bottom lip, and finally meets Miles’ eyes for more than a fleeting glance. “And I know I wouldn’t have let this go if you up and vanished.” He’s kind of rambling and he usually doesn’t but this is the first conversation he’s had in weeks, months(?). “I should’ve realized that of anyone to bother looking for answers it’d be you.” A nervous laugh, “Because that’s what I’d do.” Alex flinches when Miles stands up and the other man hesitates, having seen his reaction.

Miles moves slowly, with very obvious movements, closing the space between them and all the while Alex has to fight with the too-tight feeling of something wanting out the closer he gets. When arms wrap around him, he’s tempted to collapse against Miles and break down, but he can’t, not entirely. But he does shift some of his weight onto the other man and turns his head to stare blankly at the mass-produced piece of art that hangs crooked on the wall above the headboard.

If he cries he’ll stain his shirt.