Title: Restless
Authors: muzaiden and yuuzaiden
Characters/Pairing: Trent/Miles Mentions Sam/Mikaela Sam/Bee ( that one's subtle)
Rating:
Warning: there will be sex in this fic, and drinking and swearing
Disclaimer: As i don't own it I won't claim to, see my name isn't Hasbro or anything else like that
Notes: Sequel to Miles to Go & Before Sleep.
Started with the challenge
blazehex: 11. Sam always heard from Miles about his 'crazy' uncle. Never really thought it would turn out to be Simmons.
This is Miles Lancaster. He's Sam's best friend as well as a high school sophomore trying to keep his grades up. He's also gay. And he's just gotten sucked up into a war. An alien war without a guardian to make sure he doesn't get squished. He might also be in love with Trent.
Chapter 1
Seven crickets tumbled into the tank and Arod advanced slowly, enticed by the movement of his meal. The tiny chirping things fell silent as the toad approached, sensing their eventual demise. The other thirteen bugs who'd escaped that fate scattered over the desktop, fleeing the frenzied swipes of the teen above them. Miles swore loudly as they leapt for the window and floor, his previous plight all but forgotten in the mad dash to exterminate the tiny invaders. He should just crawl into bed he thinks, trapping handful of bugs on the sill. They tremble in his hand, tickling something fierce but he deposits them in the aquarium and drops to the carpet.
The blasted little devils are almost quicker than he is, almost but not quite. There's a squish as he claps his hands over the nearest few, but no one's dead yet and they're dumped into the glass aquarium. He feels sorry for them. Stuck in the last place they would ever wanna be. It's like High School, he's sure of it, newer and newer crickets dancing about to get gobbled up by the biggest, meanest thing. Like most students returning to the hallowed halls of Tranquility High, he'd rather skip, but that's outta the question, especially on the first day.
Ah the new semester. Miles captures another handful and lets them slide into the bug box with a sigh. The lid slides shut over the crickets, sealing them away from their doom. Those guys are safe, for now. Belatedly he wishes he was safe. Wishes he was too sick to venture out or that he was home schooled. Impossible, but an admirable hope, despite his numerous objections he's ready for his sophomore year.
The ugly green backpack full of notebooks and pens and everything else sat tucked by the stairwell in preparation of his impending departure. He's got everything he needs plus a bright green can of sugary caffeine goodness tucked in the side pocket, for emergencies. On the sibling front, Syd's got work so he won't be getting a ride; at last check Casey was dead to the world, face down in batman sheets with a stuffed Cuthulu clasped in her grip. He'd sneak a can in to her bag too before she left, first day of middle school looming over her head and all.
He's almost nostalgic about it, remembering his own years of grade six as he rounds up the last few insects bouncing across the floor. He cradled the tiny things gently to his chest as he scans the rest of his room. It's clear, cleaned with the determination of one putting off studying or sleep. There's a pile of mostly clothing set out for tomorrow, along with his charged cell and money for lunch. Turning back to the desk, Miles lets that final handful of crickets tumble down to join their brethren. As the insects flee the inevitable crush of a sticky tongue Miles goes for the hand sanitizer, wiping away the evidence and adding the last mark on his mental checklist.
There, done, and that's out of the way; he's left standing with nothing to do. Well, except for the fact that still he has to go to sleep. Right sleep, yeah that's kind of important. He's amused by the thought, but makes no move towards the safety of his bed; instead he wanders about his room shuffling papers and knickknacks about. He's too keyed up for sleep.
He can hear the reruns of Lucy streaming from his mother's television, the echoes of the studio audience seeming to laugh at him. He can feel the taped mirth growing, vibrating the floorboards beneath his feet. And suddenly he's backing away from the stairway, his bedroom oppressive with the last too hot days of summer.
The sewing kit and the rainbow patch inside are half tucked under his backpack and it's taunting him, daring him to stand with pride. He'd gotten the patch on a lark, and then promptly hidden it under his stash of Busty Beauties to throw of anyone snooping in his room. It's a cry to take up the cause. To wave his rainbow flag high and scream it from the roof tops. The laughter echoed and he's dropping down to the plush of his covers, trying to make one of the most important decisions of his life. It's too much, really. He can't just make such a spur of the moment decision like that. He sagged against the blankets, missed the pillow but he didn't care. He could fall asleep, if he just closed his eyes.
It smelled different, his bed; strange and wrong, and it's smelled that way for longer than he'd care to admit. The comforter too, familiar and alien all at once, bore the nearly enticing aroma of green summer and sex. It's musky and earthy, as if he'd left sheets out on the lawn overnight. It's been plaguing him since the Great Gay Summer of 07, since the end of last week. It doesn't make anything easier; in fact the scent chases away the absolution of sleep.
He can't help savoring the odor, the only proof that the GGS07 wasn't simply a vodka induced hallucination. It wasn't Trent, so much as it was Miles' defining moment of homosexuality, well his second, but no one was counting that one, no one but him. He buried his face in the fragrant covers and groaned piteously. His sheets smelled like another man and that drives home the point of the matter. He's gay and has no idea how to come out to the rest of the world.
It's there, lurking with fear like a first time stripper in a birthday cake. He's gonna have to present himself sooner or later. Not that he's all ready to bare himself again, so soon. There's no cute guy offering to drive him home because he's drunk. His eyes are open, the urge to sleep having long since faded with the sound of the crickets.
He moved and stared at the tank with his over-sized toad inside. Arod was silent now, lounging in the water, satisfied with his meal. Miles would have to pick up more crickets for him after school, if he wasn't hanging from the flagpole by the last bell. No, he decided that was an unlikely occurrence, especially if he avoided wearing the rainbow patch or organizing a rally or stopped being gay, which was even more of an unlikely occurrence.
Miles liked being gay, he loved it, aside from the crushing indecision and constant second guessing. Everything else was pretty good; not having to bother with silly little cockteases, was a bonus to his libido and it had been tragically easy to come out to his sisters. Even Casey was pretty sure he was a "fruit". He'd sworn the girls to secrecy and had insisted he'd explain it to everyone else. Almost five years later, he was still hiding the homo and fighting the urge to kiss his best friend. Which brought him to this current state of sleeplessness.
He rolled off the bed, taking the nest of covers with them. He just wouldn't talk about it, not any more. It was a new school year, and he was about to go to college. He could be the dateless wonder for another year. College would be the most opportune place to come out. He could go to California or go to another place with marriage rights and the whole shebang.
He looked at the lopsided curve of rainbow patch peeling out of his bag. He knew he couldn't wait any longer. Visibility was important, hell he needed this, he needed to come out. He had to grow up sooner or later and it was time to embrace the raging homosexual inside of him.
There's no time like the present Miles thinks, fingering the little rainbow in the pocket of his jeans. He picked up a can of Mountain Dew and climbed out the back window. If he was going to come out like a metamorphosed butterfly he was gonna to have to do it right. The most important people needed to know, and that meant, besides his family, Sam Witwicky had to know he was best friends with a friend of Dorothy.
The roof creaked as he shimmied down to the edge of the eaves. His sneaker laces flopped as he swung his legs over, clinging tight to the slanted tiling. Clutching to the drain pipe he began the descent, using the many ledges as hand holds as he descended the back of his house. Miles kept his eyes on his hands and his movements slow and steady. His foot slipped just once, but by then he was already on the ground, his hands scraped and his heart beating a march against his ribs. When he could breathe again Miles peered up into the darkened windows to see if anyone had noticed his escape. With no admonishment forthcoming, he snuck into alley and strolled down the worn path.
The long grass and dandelions stuck up through the broken pavement, remnants of a missed mowing. He skirted the edge of the sagging fence and hopped over an old wagon just beyond a neighbor's back gate. Three houses down the roses had bloomed, the subtle aroma wafting over the familiar tinge of something else. He inhaled deeply and recognized the odor at once, there just beyond the pink petals was a freshly mown lawn. Crisp and wet, the scent hit him like a truck and he reeled. The herbal, earthy hints reminded him of the too quick summer, stolen moments and broad hands. Miles flushed in the dark, felt his cheeks heat; turning pink. Frozen in place he stared up the alleyway beyond the road and streetlights, the wet plants soaking the edge of his jeans. His mind rebelled with the stillness, the empty road and his own self-consciousness.
What was he doing, in the middle of the night, standing in an alley? What did he even expect to happen?
Shuffling on the cracked stonework, Miles looked back towards the darkened windows of his house. He turned to go back, goal almost forgotten.
Did Sam really have to know?
His shoes sounded quiet over the abandoned trash and debris. He felt more than a little lost himself.
Would Witwicky even want to know?
Panic crawled up his spine and he turned again, completing a small weaving circle in the bare space. It was easy, so easy. He could climb back through the fence, in his left pocket his house keys, he could just crash on the couch and no one would wonder. No one would ask him why. He could pretend and his secret would be safe for, for as long as he wanted it to be. It could be his escape. The best escape, better than he could have ever possibly hoped for.
The scrawny teen stopped pacing at once, shivering in the cooling air, his decision clear.
One step backward and light flooded in the alley. A large sleek vehicle cruised by, the purring rumble of its engine drawing him out to watch as it turned down the street. Just as quick and the cop car was gone from his sight, its alluring sound barely audible. He followed the veritable Pied piper, trying not to tremble with each step. He's made his decision, and changed it twice now. He's going to take all the signs he can get.
Miles crossed the street and hopped up over the curb slipping into the alleyway. He counted the houses under his breath, and stopped at tan fence and slipped inside letting the gate swing shut behind him. Just as every time before he strolled down the tiled walkway path, but tonight he stopped short. The familiar decorative fountain was gone from the yard, a pale police line draped over the broken pieces. He stepped past the pieces moving up the porch to back door. The knob twisted under his hand, but for the first time in seven years, he found it locked. He tried again, but still nothing, not that something like a little locked door was going to stop him.
Descending from the back porch, Miles skirted the side of the house, trailing his fingers along the siding as he walked. Just past the line of the grass, he spotted a golden yellow vision parked beside the house like a sentry. The old beater Camaro was gone, replaced by a sleek sporty thing that Miles was hard pressed to believe Sam had received in trade. This new ride was hard, smooth and too good to be true. He smiled to himself, brushing a hand over a single of the paired black stripes as he passed by the epitome of sex on wheels.
The trellis wouldn't hold him, he'd known from experience so he turned to the eldest tree, a longtime suffer of his lofty aspirations. Toeing off his sandals at the base Miles caught the rough wood and heaved himself up the side. The bark was damp under his bare feet as he climbed, he almost slipped going up, his knee sliding on the moist surface, but he clung to trunk and continued up. A familiar knot in the trunk served as a bracing point as he leveraged himself higher into the branches. Resting in the nest of limbs, he picked the accumulated leaves from his hair before starting towards the open window.
In the cool night Samuel Witwicky looked almost peaceful, his snoring mostly muffled by a pillow. Sprawled inelegantly across the plush chaos that passed for his bed, blankets bunching at his hips; Sam was for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Mojo, his four legged companion, settled in the folds of slipped the covers, his legs twitching. Both teen and tiny Chihuahua snored, but Miles ignored this and slipped into the space clear of man and beast, easing his way under the sheets.
The mattress dipped with his weight and he scooted forward easing an arm over the sleeping teen. To his surprise Sam shifted to accommodate the intruder in his bed, snuggling against him with a pleased sigh. Miles smothered a laugh and leaned closer, watching his friend in the dark.
There was a mark across Witwicky's temple, a mostly healed line stretching into his hair and over an eyebrow. Miles drew his finger over the new scar, listening to the much louder snores of the teen and his dog.
'What had Sam been getting into?' Miles wondered ruffling his friends hair.
Sam murmured in his sleep, squishing his pillow further into submission. Miles leaned close and strained to catch the sound, find out just who he was dreaming about.
The name wasn't a welcome one. Mile had and hadn't expected it, the soft syllables hanging heavy in his ears. Shaking his disappointment and surprise, he flicked Sam in the forehead and propped himself back on a pillow to wait. The brunet rolled onto his back, Mojo whining as he moved. A free hand captured Miles' arm and he held back a smile, then he heard that name again from Samuel's lips.
"I'm not Mikaela." Miles whispered in reply, pressing a kiss to the teen's cheek, his amusement tinged with irritation. "And if she makes a habit of sneaking into your room, I'm telling your mom."
Sam jerked upright, a flailing limb catching Miles in the jaw as he scrambled backwards in his bed. Mojo dove from the mattress as Sam did, small feet scrabbling on the wooden floor as he bolted. Frowning at Miles from his spot on the floor, Sam untangled himself from the blankets and pulled the old tee down to cover his stomach.
"Miles?" He asked in confusion, the surprised tone full of sleep.
"Hey dude." Miles answered leaning over the edge of the bed, gently prodding the sore spot on his cheek.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to talk."
A quick glance at the clock and Sam rubbed his eyes vigorously "At four in the morning?"
"If I'd called, you would've had the option of hanging up." Miles answered unabashedly.
"Which I definitely would have."
"Case in point."
"What do you want?"
The question came unexpectedly; and Mile had been so ready to answer it moments before. Well he'd felt ready, at least since he'd climbed the tree. Now that the moment was upon him and suddenly Miles was stumbling for words.
"I wanted you to be the first to know." He lisped, his tongue probing the inside of his mouth.
"Know what?" Sam demanded sharply, his brows knitted in the dark. "What could be so important you had to wake me up at four in the morning?"
There it was, the moment of truth. The unopened can of Mountain Dew was cold against his leg; his lips dry as he took a breath.
'I'm gay, and I've had a crush on you since forever.'
The sentence wasn't innocuous but Sam would understand.
'Surprise I pitch for the other team!'
Something he needed to say something before the moment slipped away.
'I fancy dudes!'
It was terrible but at least it was something.
'I'm gay'
Cliche but it would work. He decided it would have to do. 'I'm gay.' that's what his brain told him to say. His mouth however, had other plans
"Your girlfriend's a slut."
In the silence that followed the declaration the teens stared at one another, the pooling linens forgotten on the floor between them. Sam sat down heavily on the bed, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He seemed tired, older and his voice was soft.
"Get out Miles." He said, too worn to work any vehemence into the order.
"Dude-" Miles answered, swearing silently to himself.
Why on earth had that been the first thing out of his mouth?
"Just go." The teen ordered again.
"Don't be an ass." Was Miles's reply, a less than snappy retort and that's what started the fight.
Both attacks missed, Miles stumbling in the blankets as Sam ducked the swung pillow. They circled around each other before lunging and striking out with fist, foot and occasionally an improvised weapon. Once they had exhausted cache of clothing and small projectiles, they move to close quarters, shoving and twisting as they struggled. They pitched back and forth, shuffling across the sudden disaster area. It was a lucky shot that tumbled the shortest of the pair, the blond falling back with a cry. He lashed out as he landed on the floor, the angle granted him the advantage and his punch brought Sam down with him.
They hit the floor and its carpet of miscellaneous items hard, the floor echoing beneath them. Sam groaned clutching his wound as his so-called best friend nursed his injured face. Underneath his interlaced fingers his grimace of pain, twisted into one of horror and surprise.
"You punched me in the face." He slurred, massaging the bruising skin.
Sam made a soft, halfhearted apologetic sound, but said nothing else as he weathered the pain.
Miles, incensed, watched Witwicky; admiring the skin his bunched shorts revealed. Glancing at the bared expanse of thigh, He smiled bitterly, before reaching for his pocket. With a strategic yank of his worn cotton shirt, the soft fabric effectively trapping his arms above his head. Miles leaned forward, hooked his fingers into the waistband Sam's boxer shorts and shoved the can of Mountain Dew in. The resulting howl and his surprised laughter set Mojo barking, roused Sam's parents from their bed and set off the car alarm.
Shocked and in pain, Samuel slapped at the offending limb as he writhed under the chill of the soda. It helped little, hurt worse, wet and hard pressed to his already abused skin. He swore up and down at each cold touch, promising violence and death threats on his best friend. Ron and Judy found the boys flopped on the floor, their son clutching his crotch as Miles peered up guiltily from between spread legs, his hand down Sam's shorts.
Things went pretty quickly afterwards. The pair disentangled in a flurry of limbs and loud words, color flooding their cheeks. Ronald Witwicky hauled the teen in the hall, as Sam scrambled embarrassedly to his feet.
"Mom, it's not what it looks like!" he yelped, wrenching the can from his damp underwear.
Judy for her credit smiled reassuringly at her son and hugged him to her chest as the bedroom door swung shut.
Miles shuffled his feet, following the elder Witwicky as they marched down the creaking hall.
"Hi Uncle Ron-" he began, but the round face man hushed him with a hand.
"Don't give me that, mister. It's pretty obvious what was going on and I am telling you now, Milton Lancaster, that sort of thing is not acceptable behavior in my house."
The blond winced but tried again, shaking his head firmly.
"It's not like that at all." He stammered sparing a glance at the shut door, wondering what it exactly it was like.
Ron dropped a firm hand on his shoulder and began again. "You and Sam are practically adults; don't you think it's time to stop fighting like children?"
Miles was silent at the remark, but nodded solemnly. Was that all the fuss was about? At least everything wasn't blowing up in his face, or so he thought.
"Yeah I guess you're right."
"I usually am." Ron answered, half smiling in the dim hallway.
Miles laughed weakly and turned back to the door.
Ron cleared his throat and Miles looked back, a guilty expression firmly pinned to his face. Rats, he'd almost gotten away unscathed.
"Yeah?" He asked quietly.
"The busty beauties aren't yours?" Asked Ron glaring down his nose at him.
The last question Miles had expected to hear. Frantically he tried to concoct a lie that wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass. From the sounds of Sam venting behind the door, he didn't think his mouth would oblige him.
He shook his head defeated, "No sir, they're my sister's."
Ron harrumphed; the disapproving frown was back with a vengeance.
"Uncle Ron-" Miles began and stopped unsure of what was going to come out of his mouth next. Just what could he tell him? What would he say? What would Ron say?
"I just wanted to tell him…I wasn't…I mean I was trying to tell Sam-"
He closed his mouth and looked at Ron, a helpless sort of expression on his face.
"I couldn't."
Ron patted his shoulder and dispelled every fear with one edict. "I don't want you bringing anymore of that filth into my house, you understand?"
"Yes sir." Miles answered, saved from yet another awkward outing. Biting his lip to keep the relief from his expression he spun on his heel and carefully grasped the knob.
"Son." Ron said finally.
"Yeah?" he asked airily, looking over his shoulder.
"I'm not you father, so I'm not going to say anything about your choices-" Ron nodded towards the door.
"You've always done right by Sam before, so try not to get your heart broken."
Flabbergasted Miles only nodded, murmuring "Yes Sir.", before he slipped back into his friend's room, making a beeline for the window.
Judy nudged Sam with her elbow and he gritted out a "Goodnight, Miles." as he shuffled past.
"Use the door. Your mother would never forgive me if you fell to your death," Judy cooed at him.
"Or if I pushed him…" His best friend, or so he hoped, grumbled.
"Put on some clothes Sam." His mother insisted taking Miles by the shoulders, leading him out.
"It's so not what it looks like." Sam groaned.