Chapter 10: Project Alp

The next morning, Waylon awoke to the sounds of banging in the kitchen. He was surprised when he walked out in his pajamas, and saw Miles setting up an ancient laptop.

"Where'd you get the brick?" asked Waylon, scratching his stomach.

"I asked Chef Boyardee if he had a computer we could borrow, and he had this old one. Said it doesn't work, but I bet I can get it going. Then we'll have a way to get back into that system, to double check."

"What's the point? They're already on their way," said Waylon.

"We don't know that for sure, stop being such a Debbie Downer," said Miles, pausing to plug in the power supply for the computer. "Anyways, doesn't hurt to get a computer up here. I know there's wifi downstairs that we can 'borrow.' Maybe we can watch something in English for once…"

"I guess that doesn't sound too bad," said Waylon. He walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a cup of the coffee already waiting in the pot. I was still scalding hot, before Waylon dumped in a huge amount of cold milk and sugar. He stood, holding his mug up to his lips, as he watched Miles suffer.

"I don't know how to get to the diagnostics from start up, the operating system won't even boot…"

"Move," said Waylon, sighing. He walked over to the chair, and jerked his chin toward the couch. "Seriously, go away. I'll have this up and running before work."

—

"Can Ravioli see what we're searching for, if we're on their wifi?" asked Miles, as they walked together toward the barn in their work uniforms. Waylon completed his look with shaggy bangs in his face, scruff on his cheeks, and dark circles under his eyes. Miles hair was combed and his face shaved clean.

"What the hell are you planning on searching?" asked Waylon.

"Nothing," said Miles, pulling at his collar.

"I don't see how you can worry about Internet searches, when we're walking straight to our goddamn doom, here…"

"Dramatic," said Miles, rolling his eyes. He lengthened his stride, and Waylon's legs were forced to work double time to keep pace. "Maybe they didn't detect anything. You haven't gone in to check, yet."

"It's safest to assume they have," said Waylon, panting from the effort to pace. "Why are you always so annoying?

"Look on the bright side, this is almost over, and you don't have to keep hanging out with me, since I'm so annoying…"

"It's not like that," said Waylon, though he was stopped short when he arrived at the barn. The employees were setting up everything, per usual. Angelo and Marco were both scowling while discussing something in quick Italian. The tour bus in the distance was a familiar company, with an Italian flag painted on the side.

System check. All normal.

Except, how was that possible? Waylon performed a manual override to ensure he remained on high alert. He had no reason to doubt Miles was telling the truth about accessing the system. And he had no reason to believe Murkoff would ever fail to detect anyone accessing a flagged account.

The tour group included more college students than usual, a few older couples snapping photographs every two seconds, and even a trio in Catholic vestments. Waylon would have bet his life none of them were associated with Murkoff.

As the wine tasting continued through lunch, Waylon began to relax. Every time he scanned the crowd, there was no change in the population. Miles performed his duties with his usual indifference. He caught Waylon staring at him once, and smiled when their eyes locked.

Waylon's mouth went dry. He quickly diverted his eyes.

Other than his strange feelings about Miles, the day was much the same as every other work event. Waylon focused on menial tasks to keep his mind from wandering. He was busy shoving used, plastic tasting glasses into a black garbage bag, when something caught his eyes.

Something about Miles' posture set Waylon's nerves on edge. Even from a distance, Miles looked pale, causing the grayish tone of his skin to stand out more than usual. He stared, without blinking or moving. Waylon would have questioned whether he was even breathing in that moment.

Slowly, Waylon turned to see what had captivated Miles' attention.

An unmarked black car was parked on the property, directly behind the tour bus. Waylon had not noticed its arrival. A short, black haired man in a black suit stood near a tall woman with short, auburn hair and a charcoal dress suit. The woman was speaking with Angelo, while the man stood back, surveying the area behind black shades.

"Buck! Flint!" shouted Angelo. "Take a break, vieni qui, per favore! Just one momento, si?"

Waylon's feet froze in place. He turned to see Miles already walking, his expression trained and cool.

Waylon attempted to walk without looking suspicious, and stumbled like a drunk. Perfect. A cold sweat immediately broke out across his entire body.

"Grazie," said Angelo, once Miles was within comfortable speaking distance. "These people are sent from the hiring agency, they were checking up on any new hires from the past month."

Miles' body was frozen in place, even after Waylon joined him. Waylon could not stop staring at the man. The dark glasses, his black hair, the cut of the suit. Everything about him screamed Danger. The entire look was something too familiar. Waylon knew he was fidgeting, drawing both of the newcomers' attention.

Finally, the man pulled his shades down slightly, and Waylon's heart stopped. His eyes were blue.

Someone's been telling stories outside of class.

"Blaire," said Waylon.

At the sound of the name, both of the newcomers' heads snapped to stare at Waylon. It was reminiscent of two piranhas catching the scent of blood in the water. Waylon's heart sank.

"Scusa?" asked Angelo.

"Supervisor's supervisor…" said Waylon, before he was cut off by a sharp jab in the ribs. As the air whooshed out of his lungs, he stared up at a furious Miles. His eyes were black, and scary.

There was a buzzing near his ear, and Waylon swatted his hand at the unseen menace. But the sound was morphing, into the noise of an entire storage room full of computer servers...

Error.

Jeremy's smile was cold and his blue eyes devoid of any warmth. He stared through Waylon as he spoke.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to have you committed, Mr. Park…"

"No," said Waylon, whimpering as he took a step back, away from Jeremy. He stumbled, regaining his balance just before he hit the ground. "Please!"

"Do you willingly submit to forced confinement?" asked Jeremy.

"No, stop, you don't understand," said Waylon, scrambling to get out of the room. He turned quickly in a circle. Nothing but servers and computer equipment in every direction. "HELP!"

"And did I just hear Mr. Waylon Park volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program?"

Run. Hide. Survive.

Waylon's legs finally decided to obey. He dashed blindly forward, dodging rows of cheap metal shelving housing computer equipment. He found himself at a dead end. He was forced to turn around, and run back the way he had come. But every turn offered only more endless shelves.

"No," cried Waylon, his vision blurring from the tears in his eyes. "Shit. Fuck."

"Park…"

"Shut up," said Waylon, still attempting to find his way out of the terrifying maze.

"I could strangle you right now, would you calm down, and shut up…"

Impossibly strong hands tightened around Waylon's wrists. He attempted to dash away, but was stopped easily.

"No, please," said Waylon, hissing as the strong hands twisted his arms, and brought him quickly to his knees. The blinding pain caused him to close his eyes, and when he opened them, he was staring into a familiar blackness.

"You back? Waylon?"

"Miles," said Waylon, collapsing forward, and wrapping his arms around Miles' legs. "Thank god, Miles." Waylon pressed his face against Miles' thigh. "Was it them?"

"That would be my educated guess," said Miles, standing perfectly still. Waylon slowly realized he was in one of the many storage rooms in the barn, filled with rows and rows of crates.

"Do you think they recognized me?" asked Waylon.

"Uh, yeah," said Miles, stifling a laugh. "You called out to Jeremy Blaire, and ran away, screaming. They were talking to Angelo, in Italian, but I'm pretty sure they asked if you were named Waylon Park, or Farley Brown, or…some others. Anyways, Angelo said you weren't, but they were both on their phones, leaving quickly. I got their tag information, but, I mean, no way to really search that."

"It's them," said Waylon, sighing. He started to stand up, and was assisted by strong hands pulling him up by the shoulders. "We're fucked."

"No," said Miles, frowning as he dusted fresh dirt away from Waylon's white uniform shirt. "We're right on schedule with our plan. They're the ones who're fucked."

"I need to call Perry," said Waylon, surprised at how calm his voice sounded in his own ears.

"Wait on that. I'm going to tell Wario out there that we need to cut out early," said Miles.

"No, it's fine," said Waylon, shaking his head. He reached out, and grabbed Miles' hand to stop him. "I feel alright. I can finish this service."

"Your knees are caked in dirt, and you look like you've just seen a ghost…"

Stupid, Mr. Park. More than stupid, in fact, that was crazy.

"I'm fine," said Waylon, storming back out into the main area. The other employees were already busy with clean up, and the tourists were boarding their bus. Miles and Waylon helped the employees, but most were staring and speaking in hushed tones around the pair. Miles pulled Angelo aside and requested the following day off of work.

"Our first time skipping work," said Waylon, carrying the last two trash bags out to the dumpster.

"Yeah," said Miles, walking closer beside Waylon, as they veered toward their apartment. He seemed to be looking everywhere at once, scanning for danger. "We need to get home, and get you out of those clothes."

"Wha-yeah" Waylon stammered. He looked askance at Miles, and caught a mischievous smirk on his face.

Error.

If Miles is flirting, then Miles is confirming interest, else there has been a terrible misunderstanding.

Embarrassment imminent.

Waylon's computations were interrupted when Miles thumped a shortened pointer finger against his chest. "Did you hear me?"

"No," said Waylon. "I mean, yes. Repeat it, though. Just in case."

"What kind of response do you expect from Perry? Think he'll send the cavalry right away?"

"If I can convince him of the severity, then yeah, probably immediate," said Waylon, before humming to himself. "Though, he is usually reluctant to listen to my complaints. Some of those times my paranoia was substantiated, but other times…"

"Yeah, I get it," said Miles. "It's okay. You survived. This is going to be the end. We made it."

Waylon sighed as they walked up the stairs, and into the apartment.

Waylon rushed to sit down in front of the repaired laptop. His leg bounced as he waited, impatiently, for the slow system to reboot. As soon as he had the computer connected to the Internet, he began typing in addresses. The interface was still familiar.

"What are you looking for?" asked Miles. "We already know that Murkoff knows." Miles face looked calm, but his body was tense as he paced back and forth behind Waylon's chair.

"They probably won't even know I was in here, unlike someone…"

"I know you're pissed I set the plan in motion," said Miles, "but it's obviously happening now. Spending time arguing, or feeling pissed about it, is a waste of time and energy. So get over it."

Waylon set his face in a grimace, and made no answer. He was busy typing away at the code for the website. Little had changed since he had assisted with creating the system. Waylon was not usually the type of employee to code in secret backdoor access, but with Murkoff, the safety measures had seemed appropriate.

Soon, Waylon was performing searches. Typing, waiting, and reviewing the immediate results pinged back to him.

Do: enter input. While: Results continue to be useless.

The loop continued in his head, calculating each new result. Nothing seemed relevant to the situation, until…

"Here," said Waylon, pushing his chair back with a loud scraping sound. He tapped his finger on the computer screen. "Here. This is it, this has gotta be it. Project Alp, created two days ago."

"Right, because we're near the Alps," said Miles, nodding.

"No, the Walrider, that's…that's Wernicke's preferred name for the swarm, but there were other words that mean the same thing. I remember seeing them on some Murkoff memos. Mara was one, Alp was another, it looks like it has the highest priority they can give a project, and it's titled Project Alp."

"Okay, but, also, the Alps…"

Waylon barley heard Miles. He was already typing away, digging for more specific information about this Project.

"It's company wide, they're calling in everyone to join this project," said Waylon. "But there's only sixty addresses on this list, sixty? Could that be right? There's only sixty employees left in all of Murkoff?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," said Miles. "I mean, aside from those they can hire, expendable mercenaries and the like, there's not a lot of people feeling very loyal to the old company these days."

"They're probably all being held hostage, a lot like I was back in 2013…"

"Bingo," said Miles. "So they took the bait. Any idea where they're going? When they're coming? Can I get an ETA…"

"There's a place they've set up, for correspondence, but so far it's empty, it was only created last night, maybe it's too soon," said Waylon. "Just. Needs time, maybe."

Miles sat down at the kitchen table, across from Waylon. Both men stared away, neither speaking. The hum of the laptop seemed to grow louder, until it was the only sound in the room. Waylon finally shook his head.

"I need to call Perry," said Waylon.

"Couldn't hurt," said Miles, his voice monotone. He continued to stare at the table, unblinking. Waylon remained seated for a few more minutes, waiting for anymore response from Miles. There was none. He retired to the bedroom to place the call in private.

"Well, hey there, Buck," said Agent Perry. "How do you like the name?"

"Did you have something to do with this? Farley Brown, and Buck Morris?"

"And Flint Westwood. Who's your new husband, anyways?"

"None of your business," said Waylon.

"Why are you calling me in the middle of the goddamn night, then? Not a lover's quarrel?"

"It's happening," said Waylon, letting out a long exhale. "It's for real, this time. I'm sorry. I know that I'm always always thinking Murkoff is hiding in every shadow, but, I'm positive this time."

"Sure thing, Peter Wolf," said Perry.

"His…his name was just Peter, it was Peter and the Wolf, not Peter Wolf…"

"You got the reference, jackass," said Perry. "I got that request a few weeks ago, increase in your antipsychotic dosage. You're using it, right?"

"I contacted Murkoff myself," said Waylon.

"Oh really, call them back and tell them I said hi, because we've been searching for them for the last three years, and every time we get close, they relocate, but sure, you found them, and called them up…"

"I didn't…" Waylon held the phone away from his face, and took a calming breath, before bringing the phone back to his cheek. "I was able to log onto their system, it was thought defunct, but they have it operating on some level. They're on their way, now, to intercept me, but I won't be taken alive. Call your people, Perry. Get them over here."

"Ugh," said Perry, giving a long yawn into the receiver. "Hmm, temporary bodyguards. Temporary. That's more than you deserve. They'll stay only as long as you're acting this irregular, but after that, you need to work through this paranoia, or we might be forced to relocate you to a completely secure facility…"

"Don't even joke about that," hissed Waylon, switching the phone to his other ear. "I am not crying wolf this time! All of Murkoff, everything that's left, is gonna be converging here, possibly within the next twenty-four hours. Send everyone you can gather. And hurry."

"You really are crazy, Park," said Perry, giving a sleepy chuckle. "Northern Italy, easy job, nice apartment. I've seen pictures of Como, it's beautiful. You're sure you want to destroy this opportunity? Your next assignment might be in some slum."

"I know in the past, there were some false alarms, but this time, it's for real. I contacted them. I used myself as bait. I hacked their systems, and I brought them here. Now, do your job, and get your people here. It's time for this to end. I'm going home."

"Are you seri…"

"I want to go home. This is your job, ending Murkoff, and keeping me safe. So fucking do it."

Waylon felt uneasy when he hung up, and proceeded to pace at the end of the bed. He kept one ear to the door, half expecting an army of boots to arrive at any moment.

"Waylon?" came a voice from the bedroom doorway. "Hey, come out, sit down. Relax. Drink something. We would know if they were close."

Waylon collected himself before walking out into the living area. Miles had opened a bottle of wine from the vineyard, and had two glasses out. Waylon grabbed a glass, but walked to the sink, instead, and filled it with a small amount of water from the tap.

"If you really think this is your last night on earth, one drink wouldn't hurt," said Miles, filling his own glass.

Waylon ignored him, and pulled out an orange plastic prescription bottle. He struggled with the lid, before tossing a few pills into his hand. He threw them back, downing the water in the glass.

"Should you drink on that medication?" asked Miles, raising an eyebrow.

"What happened to 'last night on earth,' who cares, right," said Waylon, muttering as he poured himself a large glass of red wine. "I hope this isn't the last night. It could take a couple days to gather their forces."

"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst," said Miles, holding up his glass of wine. The two ended up sitting on the couch, sipping their wine as the television blared away in the background. Soon, they were working through a second bottle.

"In another life, I could have stayed here," said Miles, the wine sloshing in his glass as he gestured with his hands. "The vineyard, the countryside, the mountains, even you aren't bad. The job though. I can't fucking stand the way those tourists talk to us…"

Waylon giggled into his recently refilled glass. "You have a short temper."

"It's my nature," said Miles, pausing to take a sip. "At least, it is now."

"I could have stayed here too," said Waylon, taking his own long gulp from his glass. He always had been a lightweight when it came to wine. "It's pretty. I don't even mind the job, when I'm not having a panic attack. And you…well…" The sentence trailed off, and hung awkwardly between them.

"…Me?" asked Miles, grinning.

"Well, you know, you're my friend," said Waylon, holding his glass in two hands, and staring at his reflection in the red liquid. "Or at least, the closest thing I have to one since the asylum. I mean, are you my friend?"

Miles' body shook with the effort to keep his laughter in check. He held his glass up, as though it would stop him from spilling it. "You just reminded me so much of this guy in the asylum."

"It takes a mentally unstable person to want to be your friend?" asked Waylon.

"No, it was this one particular patient," said Miles, setting his glass on the end table to free his hands. "So, I'm in the asylum, walking around, and I'm trying my damndest to avoid anyone. You never know who's peaceful, and who's going to try to peel your skin off. But this guy gets in my face, and he's talking to me, and he's not trying to hurt me, but he keeps saying, over and over again, silky, silky…"

"Silky?" asked Waylon.

"Yes, he's talking about like, I look so silky," said Miles.

"I need to tell you a secret," said Waylon, leaning closer to Miles on the couch. "I have an itch."

"What the fuck…"

"Are you my friend? I want to help you," continued Waylon.

"How do you know about that?!" asked Miles.

"I was in the asylum, remember?" asked Waylon, grinning. "I ran into some guy, down in the hospital. He was speaking just like that. He said I looked silky, too. His eyes and most of his face were bound, though, so no idea how he even knew…"

"Yeah, his arms were bound too," said Miles.

"Really? Not when I saw him," said Waylon, pursing his lips. "At least, I think. Maybe it was a different guy."

"A different guy, walking around with his face bound, talking about how silky I look?"

"You do look very silky," grinned Waylon. He reached his free hand out to ruffle Miles' unruly brown locks. The innocent touch made Miles tense. "S-sorry."

"It's fine," said Miles, smiling. "I get that all the time, honestly. It's obnoxious."

Waylon shook his head, and tucked a stray strand behind Miles' ear, before pulling his hand away. Miles did not pull away, instead bringing his own hand up to pull at Waylon's shaggy blond hair.

"Wish I could say the same for you," said Miles, chuckling. "Your hair's a mess."

"I know," said Waylon, sighing. "The…the sound of the clippers, reminds me of something, from the asylum."

"That's funny, I have an aversion to scissors for the same reason," said Miles, chuckling. "But not the electric clippers. You want me to give you a quick buzz cut?"

Waylon hesitated, already thinking about the distinct buzz of the clippers. Maybe it was the liquid courage from the wine. And maybe it was the idea of Miles giving him a haircut.

"Let's try it."

Minutes later, Waylon and Miles were on the balcony. Waylon sat in the rusty metal lawn chair, and Miles held an electric razor in his hand, set to the longest setting.

"Do you use this razor for like, your face, or your balls?" asked Waylon.

"Yes," said Miles.

"That doesn't answer…" started Waylon, but he was stopped by the sudden strong buzz from the instrument. His hands began to shake. He picked up his wine glass, and took a long drink.

"You okay?" asked Miles, as Waylon replaced his glass. He gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white.

"Yes. Do it."

Waylon closed his eyes. He could see it, clearly. The dark room, viewed through the green lens of his night vision camera. The stifling fear of what unknown evils lurked around every turn. And then the sharp buzz in the dark, coming from down the hall, confirming his worst fears. He was not alone. He was being hunted, like an animal.

Before Waylon could reach critical levels, he felt gentle fingers, instead of clippers. Miles ran his fingers through Waylon's hair, several times, nails lightly dragging against his scalp in some places. Waylon sighed, and relaxed into the touch.

He barely noticed when the clippers were pushed through his hair. Tufts began falling around his shoulders, and blowing off the balcony on the calm night breeze.

"I can't believe such a clean freak like you would let your hair grow out so crazy," said Miles, talking loudly over the noise. He worked diligently, pushing the device through all of Waylon's hair, and focusing on areas that had cut unevenly. "Sorry, I'm not a professional, but it's not like it was that even before. This will be slightly better."

"Good," said Waylon, equally loud to be over the buzz. "I want to look good at my open casket funeral."

"Hey, no talking like that, it's bad luck," said Miles, cleaning up the last bits around Waylon's ears. His fingers traced Waylon's sensitive outer shell, working around it, causing Waylon to sigh happily. Soon the clippers clipped off, and Miles pushed his hands vigorously through Waylon's shortened blond hair. "Sorry, if you're all itchy."

"Thank you," said Waylon. He let out a long exhale. "I did it. I only thought about Frank a little."

"Good," said Miles, giving a last few combs with his fingers. "You're going to be okay."

Waylon stood up, shaking off clumps of hair. He leaned over the balcony, attempting to shake it off. He finally gave up, and retrieved his wine glass. The two continued drinking while leaning on the railing, and staring out over the dark landscape.

"If we don't survive," said Waylon, holding up his empty hand to stop Miles' automatic argument against such talk, "I just wanted to say, thank you. For, you know, not killing me."

"You're welcome," said Miles, snorting through his nose.

Waylon grinned, and nudged his shoulder into Miles. "Aren't you glad you didn't kill me?"

"Sometimes," said Miles, grinning and leaning his shoulder back against Waylon. When Waylon turned his head, he found that Miles was close. Really close. Their cheeks were almost touching.

They were both smiling when their eyes met, and then Miles' immediately vanished. He straightened upright, abruptly. Waylon followed him, clearing his throat.

"Also, I wanted to say, that I would miss you, if we aren't together anymore," said Waylon. Miles met his stare, but there was only confusion in his gray eyes. It magnified when Waylon pushed up on his toes, and pressed their lips together.

Waylon maybe should have planned better. The risk of upsetting Miles seemed worth the risk. Lips lingered together too long to be considered appropriate between friends, and then Waylon lowered down on his heels. He licked his lips, and stared at the ground.

A long stretch of silence continued with only the wind, and distant traffic, filling the air. When Waylon finally ventured a glance at Miles' face, he found him holding his fingers to his lips, and blushing. Waylon had no idea Miles could look so adorable.

"Sorry," said Waylon. "I didn't mean to make it weird. I only wanted…"

Whatever he wanted remained a mystery, because Miles tossed his wine glass over the balcony, and swept Waylon into his arms. Warm, soft lips caressed Waylon's as he struggled to find the ability to return the gesture. Somewhere, over the hammering of his heart, Waylon heard Miles' wine glass shatter on the gravel below.

Their lips hovered apart as they separated. Waylon was not ready for it to end. He grabbed Miles' head, and pulled his chin down until he could fit their mouths together.

Fingers through Waylon's freshly cropped hair. The hint of tongue. The taste of wine. Waylon moaned into the kiss, pushing his body against Miles. But even as Waylon pressed forward, Miles took a step back.

"Miles," said Waylon, fighting to keep his voice steady. He had to get it out, before the blood came back to his brain. "I have feelings…I care about you, as more than a friend."

Miles frowned, refusing to make eye contact. "No, you don't, you're married."

"I know it's complicated, but my feelings for you, they're real," said Waylon, frowning.

"I'm sorry if I led you on in some way," said Miles, shifting uneasily on his feet. Waylon's breath caught in his lungs, and he couldn't breathe. Only listen. "That's not something I'm interested in."

"You said yesterday, there was someone…"

"So what? I'm not gonna be with that person. I'm not gonna be with anyone. I have to be alone."

"I didn't want to upset you," said Waylon, staring at Miles' lips. Had he imagined that kiss a minute before? "I'm sorry, I guess this is sudden, but I just, I didn't want to leave it unsaid, you know, in case…"

"You're right," said Miles, walking away from Waylon, and opening the balcony door. "We shouldn't leave anything unsaid. So let's get this out there. I have no feelings for you, other than as roommates, and pseudo-friends. I'm sorry if you had any kind of misconceptions about me."

"Are you…are you serious?" asked Waylon, tripping on his feet as he followed Miles back into the apartment. Miles was already in the kitchen.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" asked Miles, holding up the rest of the bottle, while leveling a serious black glare at Waylon.

"I guess not," said Waylon, closing the door quietly behind him.

"I'm glad we got that cleared up," said Miles, chuckling as he brought the bottle to his lips, but paused. "You're just bait."

"I understand that you may feel that way right now," said Waylon. His voice was so quiet, and the hum from the air conditioner so loud, he wondered if Miles had even heard. "But, could you maybe, consider, spending more time with me? After this..."

Miles pulled the entire bottle up to his mouth, and tossed his head back. It was a tense, silence moment, as he drained the last dregs.

"I know I'm average looking," continued Waylon, "and I have a lot of problems, and my family is a complication, but, I have growing feelings for you, and I wish you would consider…spending time with me…"

Miles almost choked on the last gulp of wine. His hand flew to cover his mouth, to prevent wine from escaping. Even after he had the situation handled, Miles continued to laugh, louder.

Waylon frowned, forcing himself to take a breath. He had never been the first person to express feelings. He had never approached anyone to ask for a date. How had Lisa been able to handle this stress? Except, she had not had to deal with rejection. Waylon's face burned with embarrassment.

"You're serious?" asked Miles, forcing back more laughter. "I'm not exaggerating when I say, I'm a monster. You don't know me. One month isn't long enough to know someone. And you really are delusional if you thought I was talking about you, of all people."

Waylon was unfamiliar with the feeling of falling while standing upright. It was like having his middle ripped out, and being left feeling hollow. His vision honed in on Miles' eyes. Angry eyes.

"Maybe you should get your dosage checked, after all this, since you're having trouble telling fantasy from reality," said Miles, before giving another bitter laugh.

"You kissed me," said Waylon, quietly.

"Yeah, because we might die tomorrow, I'm in a weird head-space, same as you…"

"No, I'm not in a weird head-space, I've wanted to tell you, before…"

"Yeah, because it's been a long time, huh? Your wife's far away, and you're horny, and wondering if maybe you couldn't switch teams for a night, but, no thanks. I've been that guy before, and it sucks. At the end of the night, you're still straight, and married, and all I get out of the deal is some virgin blowjob. I'll pass, thanks."

"I don't, want that, I want to be together with you, and stay roommates," said Waylon, surprised when his sentence was punctuated with a sniffle. His hand flew to his cheek to wipe away tears. How embarrassing. "I like you."

"Then you're even more pathetic than I originally thought."

Waylon nodded, feeling more tears dislodged, choosing a meandering path down his flushed cheeks. "Sorry," he said, as he began to walk toward the bedroom.

It felt like he was walking underwater. He paused to glance back at Miles. He stood, silent, in the kitchen, the empty wine bottle barely held in his hand, as he stared at the floor.

"Miles?"

No answer.

"See you in the morning."

A/N: I'm working hard on this :) I got like, another 3 chapters hanging out and I'm editing as quick as possible, but next chapter is freaking me out, having a huge block about it, because ya know, shit goes down, anyone wanna read it for me before I post to offer feedback HMU