Miles doesn't get a bit of sleep that night. He doesn't hold it against Waylon.
After he notices the first few rays of light hinting at sunrise, he abandons all effort to rest, knowing that it will be futile. His dreams have been more violent tonight –more visceral, and when he rises he can still hear the static ringing out faintly in his ears, as if warning him.
Miles wishes he understood the Walrider. He wishes he knew if the sound of static was to alert him to danger, or to alert him that the swarm would make an appearance, one way or another. But his only clues could come from Murkoff, and those files are confidential. In this instance, he really is alone, and perhaps that's why this scares him more than death, or insanity. More so than drowning.
He doesn't remember –no, he doesn't understand what he remembers after the narrative in his head becomes fuzzy. There had been no box to put it back into, no receipt by which to return it, no instruction manual to guide him and no contract that he can refer to. From here, Miles is blind, trying to work it out, and keep his head above the inky, black waters, the colour of the swarm.
For the most part, Miles can ignore it. He lacks the capacity to confront the awful nature of his situation, so he does what he can to forget, and he is let be. But over time he can feel it boil in him, like sinking deeper and feeling water pressure build on him –like the waters inside of him are being heated, slowly, and it rises and rises until he cannot withstand it –and the Walrider feels like it is tearing itself from him, burning through him.
Yet –it still belongs to Miles. He supposes he is a kind of leash for it. He is tied to that entity, in possession of it, and hopefully, control of it. It has never presented any signs of autonomy –any pull towards something or any kind of desire. Miles doesn't think it can. It's just a piece of technology, as simple as it seems. It's terrifying potential lies in the hands of it's owner.
And though Miles has inherited Billy's loathing, and fear and hatred, he has enough conviction of his own to believe he can control it. He's not a man who will let something own him, he knows that for sure. The rest is a matter of details. That's all.
He knows that sometime soon the Walrider is going to demand to exist in some way. That much is inevitable, and he can already feel the water pressure of an ocean on his shoulders, halfway to breaking. All that he can do, he knows, it try to stay lucid, and in control. Try to break down where nobody can see –where Waylon can't get hurt, this time.
That's only half the battle. As much as he fears the rise of the Walrider, it's the fall that scares him. He lost nearly a week of his life the last time –easily as if it were not his to lose.
The whole business is a mess, and Miles is tired. He orders his breakfast and his coffee and tries to think of something else. He doesn't know exactly when the static will start up, but it doesn't feel imminent, so the least he can do for himself is try to relax. Try to pretend. He just needs to find something he loves to busy himself with.
Breakfast gives him a little more life –he doesn't feel so worn when he's finished, and finishes the coffee over emails. Half of them are from people he met briefly, and maybe befriended from agencies and internships or stories, mass-forwarding pictures of their weddings and children and houses. It feels like everyone else has moved forward with their lives, and maybe Miles isn't the falling-in-love type, maybe he never asked for a picket fence or the moon on a string, but it makes him feel...lonelier.
Sometimes being next to Waylon, the last two humans, staring out at the flooded wastelands makes him feel even more alone. Because when the floods clear Waylon can find land, and find his roots and things will grow again. Lisa and his children bring with them this life that Miles can only look in on.
Again, he doesn't hold it against Waylon. He sees the previous night on his skin like dirt, and the feelings of apprehension and fear, and knows there's only one thing for it. Slinging a towel over his shoulder, he leaves 215 unlocked, and heads down to the hotel pool, ready to wash it all away.
-
Waylon gets his undisturbed rest that night. It feels an awful lot like thirty pieces of silver.
He wakes feeling no more rested than he did going to bed, but he thinks that's just down to his overactive guilt response. It's that cycle again, only now, he feels terrible about Lisa being all alone, and not being able to be more active in the lives of his sons, and then after a pathetic respite he feels terrible for leaving Miles –and even worse for staying with him.
What kind of message is he giving him? This insane give-and-take that has no pattern, causing the atlantic cable to be both three feet and three miles long, all at once. Yet there is immeasurable distance between him and Lisa, despite the fact that she remains perpetually searching for him, walking with blisters on her journey to find him.
Waylon wants to talk things out. Not with Lisa –god, the thought of hurting her is worse to him than his sins. But with Miles. To at least know where they stand. Because he wants to say 'friends' and mean it, this time –and he'd like to. But as far as friends go, they're awful with one another. He doesn't know a thing about Miles, and they don't do things casually. Everything with Miles is so intense –it's distance or passion, fury or indifference, kissing or strangling.
As much as they need eachother in their lives, Waylon isn't sure there's room for Miles, if he wants to be faithful to Lisa. He's not sure they can handle 'friends'.
It's intuition, then, that he finds Miles down at the pool. Of course, it's not the first place he looked, but he doesn't mention that. In fact, he doesn't say anything, standing in the entranceway to the showers, staring at the only man in the water, eyes closed, lying on his back. It's mesmerising to find Miles like this: utterly at peace, wearing no armour. Even his face is soft in it's expression. Tranquil, for once, and when Waylon realises it's the first time he's seen Miles like this he sudden feels like an interloper.
Miles doesn't notice him. Thankfully, he remains where he is, sustained entirely by the water. He looks so natural, like a permanent fixture, and Waylon thinks he ought to leave, but remains where he is, knowing that f he doesn't address the issue now, he won't ever and it isn't fair to either of them.
Silently, he makes his way to the edge of the pool, his footsteps practically silent on the cool ground. Miles remains exactly as he is, his breathing measured exactly to keep him floating, his arms stretched out as if he is reaching out for something.
It seems a sin to look at Miles as he is, but Waylon isn't a godfearing man. At this point, whatever god these is will have to beg for his forgiveness, for everything that has happened. Sins have no value to him. Miles is every bit as he imagined, only in greater detail, lean enough but built, long limbs, strong stature, and softness, in some places. In the water, unmoving, he barely seems human.
Miles knows he isn't, exactly. But even without the Walrider, there is still something more to him. Too much –too golden. Never merely human.
Looking at him makes ay hypothetical conversation so much harder. Waylon always knows what he wants to say, but when he's in Miles' atmosphere, he feels too small. For once, Miles doesn't look defeated, or fighting with existence. It seems cruel to say anything –especially bad news.
His voice gets stuck in the back of his throat. He puts a shaky hand on the pool ladder and manages to look at Miles. "I thought I might-..."
When Miles hears him, his eyes open, and tilts himself forward, so that he's standing in the water, not lying. He turns around and finds Waylon with his eyes, looking tired, suddenly –and Waylon feels like such an intruder.
"I thought I might find you here." Waylon offers, weakly. He sits himself down on the first rung of the pool ladder, so that most of his legs are submerged and looks at the water –anything but Miles' body. But looking away does nothing to kill the temptation, and he thinks that perhaps the deadliest sin of all really is lust. "Did you –did you sleep last night?"
Miles looks at him. The gaze is so intense that Waylon has to fight not to be suckered in. "Not really." He says.
Immediately, as if a knee-jerk reaction, Waylon says, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Miles walks towards him. The water makes the movement look so much more serious. Eventually, he's standing before Waylon. "What did you come here to see, Park?"
How can he answer when he doesn't know himself? Waylon doesn't know what he wants to have happen –for it to be okay, somehow. To be square with Miles. To be friends, at least, and mean it this time.
"I thought-..." His mouth is very dry. He still doesn't dare look at Miles directly. "I thought we could talk."
It relieves him so much to see the corner of Miles' mouth twist into a derisive smile. "Most people come here to swim, y'know. That's what I came here to do."
Of course Waylon doesn't mention that all he saw Miles doing was floating. He nods his head, taking that as his cue to leave. Miles seems to have so few pleasure –nobody to talk to, or hold. It is a vile crime indeed to deny him of this. Going to stand, shakily, Waylon nods, "Sorry." He says, again. "I'll-"
The last thing he expects is for Miles to grasp his bad ankle in a loose grasp. "Hey." He says, looking up at Waylon, his eyes intense, but not in an unpleasant way. Rather, full of something like wonder, while still being proud. "Jesus, I wasn't telling you to get lost, Park. I thought-..." Miles sighs, his grip on the ankle not tightening, but not relaxing, either. "I figured you'd be joining me."
Waylon bites his lip dumbly. "I didn't want to-"
"Just get in the fucking water." Then Miles starts tugging, and while it doesn't hurt, it's mildly alarming. It forces Waylon to sit so he can cling to the pool ladder, but that seems to make it easier for Miles, who is unmatched here in strength. With a tug, he manages to pull Waylon into the water, suddenly, submerging him in the shallows for a few seconds.
Waylon goes under gasping and swallows pool water immediately in the few seconds he's under, kicking up, emerging with a horrible splutter.
He cries in alarm, coughing out, "It's freezing!" He blinks the chlorine out of his eyes, shivering, pushing his hair from his eyes, vaguely aware of a warm hand pulling him forward.
Miles laughs at him. "Quit complaining. It's good for you." When Waylon realises that Miles is laughing at him, he finds the man's face, ready to hear another smart comment, and instead is almost blindsided by the smile on Miles' face. The moment Miles becomes self-aware again, it is suppressed, bulldozed into a flat line that is indicative of his default state. His hand withdraws, and he nods. "I'm sure you know how to swim." He says, quietly, and begins to swim towards the deep end of the pool.
Waylon has never been the strongest swimmer. He thinks he likes the safety of land, or the steady reliability of the shadows. He knows he isn't like Miles –he won't survive chasing waves or violent currents. He can make just as much distance, he knows, but only because he's smart enough not to battle the tide. As much as he'd like to follow Miles, he's not so sure he can.
He makes his way over sheepishly, finding very soon that he's unable to stand on the bottom of the pool. It's still cold, and he only came here to talk. It occurs to him, then, that Miles is toying with him. Trying to avoid what he perceives to be inevitable.
And as much as Waylon wants to humour him, he knows that he came here for a reason, too.
Finding the nearest edge to swim to, Waylon sighs, and searches for Miles in the water. He's not hard to identify by the easy circles he's making in the water, for once moving with grace, content to be silent. Maybe he should have chosen to speak somewhere more like neutral territory. Somewhere where Miles would be more loquacious, at least, because Waylon is bad at instigating things,
He wills this to be easier, feeling like a fool when he speaks. "Miles," He starts out, nervously. "About last night-"
"What about last night?" Miles is staring at him, suddenly, looking so terribly powerful and cold that Waylon wishes he had never spoken. "I'm pretty sure I'll get over it. It's not like I ever even asked for you to come in the first place."
Bitterness, Waylon notes to himself. Is he being defensive? Unwilling to show that he is really upset? Or is Miles truly that indifferent, and cold? God, if only the man weren't so mighty all the time, it would be so much easier to communicate. He never says things as they are, and it's a maddening habit, even to Waylon.
"If you didn't want me there, I'm sure you would have said something." He says, levelly, recognising the look in Miles face –that he has been caught, found out, beat at his own game.
Of course, it doesn't last for long. Miles is probably growing used to how perceptive Waylon can be –how he can play dumb when it protects someone's feelings, but how he won't when Miles is being unfair. And he has a tendency to be cruel when he's made himself too known –as if he wants to distance himself from anyone who knows the slightest thing about him.
"Why did you come in the first place?"
At that, Waylon can't raise his voice. "Is this where you start to moralise?" He murmurs, wistfully. "Not before, when you asked me to stay?"
"You didn't exactly argue, did you? And I'm not the one who has a fucking wife anyway!"
Cold passes through Waylon like lightning. He jolts, the water suddenly prickling to his skin, feeling himself tighten, and harden, withdrawing. Staring hard at some bleak corner of the room, he hisses, "That isn't fair." Like it will make any difference to Miles.
And Miles doesn't have a bit of sympathy in him to spare. "Fair? You think –you think jumping into my bed after you rejected me is fair?"
"I was trying to help you!"
"Help me?" Miles' voice drops suddenly, plummeting from a shout to a disbelieving whisper. But after falling, it begins to grow again. "Bullshit! The only thing you were trying to do was have your damn cake and eat it! Fucking –friends?" He laughs then, meanly. "What a great friend you are! Kissing me, sleeping with me –that is not how you treat your friend!"
Waylon doesn't have anything to say. God, he never could have prepared himself –his intentions were so good, and he cares about Miles. He cannot envision his life without Miles, being truly alone, having no context at all. And having it thrown back at him is cruel, yes. But mostly it's upsetting.
He bites his lip –unwilling to give Miles the satisfaction of hearing his voice tremble. "Fine." He gets out, ignoring the shakiness of his voice. "Fine, if this is what you want."
He draws himself up on his arms and clambers out of the poolwater, feeling eyes heavy on his back. The temptation to turn back is overwhelming, but Waylon knows that when he makes a decision, he has to stick by it. And he's deciding that Miles isn't worth the fight, right now. Too—too superior and righteous, and maybe he doesn't mean what he's said, but he's said it, and all Waylon wanted was absolution.
He hears the water slosh, as if somebody is trying to walk in it, and then he hears words over his shoulder, distant to him, irrelevant. "Don't be a dick, Park, c'mon..!"
It doesn't make him want to stay at all. In fact, it moves him to walking back towards the lockers, questioning why he'd come in the first place. "Park –for Christ's sake, don't just walk away."
Waylon doesn't want to say a word. He feels like too much has been said already, though not a single thing he'd wanted. That's Miles, he knows, with his rash decisions and his pathetic apologies and his mean spirit. Maybe this is a better place to end things –lord knows if he can make this walk now, he can resist ever coming back.
"Alright –okay, just-" Miles is getting irritated, now, some kind of vulnerability coming out in his tone, differing from his bitterness before. "Waylon, please."
That gives Waylon pause. He doesn't even want to stay, or listen, he wants to forget all of this, and go back to the simpler times in his life where he thought of only Lisa, and he didn't wake up scared of his own shadow. But hearing his name like that is the best –and the worst thing, all at once.
It only gets worse from there, because suddenly Miles' voice is all soft and stricken, and he's saying, "I'm –I'm sorry, alright?" He sighs, deeply.
It takes him by surprise when Waylon talks, making no move to turn around. "What?"
He waits for the reply, expecting Miles to make some excuse –he's not the type to apologise twice in one lifetime.
Yet, it shows how little they know eachother when Miles says, "I said I'm sorry."He hears Miles swallow, and say. "I'm not –I didn't mean to be such a dick."
Waylon is glad he's facing away, so that Miles doesn't see the very soft smile he feels, still hurt, but God, relieved. He knows that it's in Miles' nature to be hard and heavy-handed with his words, because he is lousy at saying what he feels, and even if that doesn't excuse it, at least he can understand it. Before he turns, Waylon tries to look passive and unimpressed. He doesn't want to demonstrate how much Miles' care means to him, either.
He's freezing, but tries to hold in his shivering when he turns back around and nods. "You still are." Waylon murmurs, but he takes a few steps closer to the pool. "A dick, I mean."
"I know." Miles is still in the water, standing in the waist-deep shallows, his chest glistening, rivulets of water tracing the plane of his back. It's not that staggering Waylon, but the lost look Miles has, all of the cold hardness in his eyes having melted, giving way to this helpless admiration in his gaze as he stares up at Waylon. It seems so familiar to him, and yet, Waylon knows he has never seen it before.
He realises why when Miles murmurs to him, "Just –don't have come here to tell me you're done with me."
It's a curious thing to think of. That Miles, who seems to brave, and resilient and stubborn, is just like Waylon –so scared of being alone, and so scared of commitment all at once. Waylon never thinks he has that much power over anybody –but here, he does, and Miles knows that. Does this really fulfil him –or make him happy enough that he'd swallow his ego just to appease Waylon?
The worst part is that's exactly what Waylon came to say. He'd planned to explain his situation –to say how much he loves Lisa, and how unthinkable the idea of hurting her is, and how that would always mean he could never be with Miles in an intimate capacity. His exact words were supposed to be 'I think we should stop seeing eachother', but now, with Miles' eyes still on him, he has forgotten every one of those words.
Eventually, Miles speaks. "Get back in the water before you freeze to death."
So he does.
Waylon wanders to the edge, and eases himself into the water, finding the temperature much more tolerable than the cold air. He submerges his shoulders and swims over to where Miles is standing, as if he is waiting for him.
"Just for the record." He says, quietly. "You are an awful friend. I don't know anything about you –I don't even know how old you are."
Quick to counter, Miles retorts, "I'm not sure that's a dealbreaker." He laughs, quietly. "Twenty-six."
Waylon doesn't know why that surprises him. He thinks that Miles is too young to see all he has seen –but he's older, and he still feels as if he was too young, too unprepared. Age hasn't anything to do with it, but it seems a robbery that miles only had twenty-six years of undisturbed sleep and ten fingers and internal peace. It seems such a tragedy that for his life, it's all he has to show. But Miles doesn't seem plagued by it. He looks at Waylon and says, "And you, old man?"
"I'll be thirty in about a month." He says, and then when reflecting on what he's saying, he laughs. "God, you're right; I really am old."
Miles looks at him again, fonder now, with a small smile like he's no longer afraid Waylon is going to pull away forever. He would survive if they were to part –the great flood having frozen to snow a long time ago but the snow is melting and spring will come and other lives will begin –ones that will call Waylon to arms elsewhere. But for now, the ice is still solid, and while the threat is gone, they can exit the ark hand-in-hand, discovering the rest of the world together.
They swim for a while, but Waylon tries easily. Whatever muscle he used to have was mostly incidental, but even that has been whittled down to bone over time. His ankle seizes up after a while, and he feels tired and breathless. Miles understands –for whatever reason, he says not a word of judgement either way, and follows.
They dry off separately –Waylon dresses and takes his cane, still embarrassed by it, but grateful to Miles for it. Even if he didn't want to admit it, having something to lean on makes the whole process feel easier. For one thing, it makes him less afraid to fall.
Miles is waiting for him by the pool entrance, dressed, playing with a carton of cigarettes. He looks impassive, as usual –but looks the tiniest bit relieved to see Waylon. When Waylon is standing in front of him, waiting, he speaks.
"You been out of this place much?" He asks, softly. Waylon shrugs, as he always does, but tries to make words. He still feels –lots of things for Miles: sympathy, pity, resent, lust, jealousy, fondness, admiration (love). But he tries not to let too many of them colour his words at once.
"I've been on a few walks." He says, quietly. "But I haven't been anywhere."
It's then that a flicker of doubt passes over Miles' face, but he swallows it before it's effects have any hold. "I was-" He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the hotel entrance. "I was gonna go out for a drink –I thought –I mean, you can tag along if you'd like. It might make this whole thing a little less awkward."
Lisa is coming tomorrow. She's going to bring the boys, and Waylon doesn't want to be hungover for that. He doesn't want to keep giving Miles the same impression, where his head says 'no' but the rest of him bows to Miles' every request so easily. It's a bad idea, plainly, but when he goes to make the right words appear, he hears himself talking, with a shy smile.
"Alright." He says, softly. "You're buying."
So he gets his coat, and heads out into the melting snow, following Miles, a breath behind, lead through the busy streets until they come to some obscure, but nice-enough bar. It's warm inside, and the staff all seem so happy. They smile when they serve Miles –Waylon has with soda, because it's still light outside, and he has no intention of drinking heavily. He takes off his jacket and watches Miles, as he interacts, and takes his drink, watching the barman's face change to sudden horror when he sees the ten dollar note in Miles' four-fingered hand.
And when Miles returns, things start off just as awkwardly. Neither of them have any idea what to say, or where to start. Waylon doesn't think anything in his life is worth mentioning. Lisa is his greatest joy, and his boys are his greatest accomplishments. The rest seems superfluous, truthfully.
At first, he mostly listens to Miles, who refuses to begin at the beginning or talk about where he was born or what his parent's names were. "I'm sure you don't give a shit about all that David Copperfield stuff anyway." And then, at Waylon's blank expression. "Seriously? Jesus, Park, read a book. What do you want to know about, anyway?"
It's a difficult question to ask. Honesty seems to invasive, but he wants to seem enthusiastic. "I don't know." Waylon says, uselessly. "Your job sounds fascinating."
Miles laughs. "Sure." He nods. "You get to see some cool stuff between all the paperwork. And when I was working my own stories, I could write about what I wanted."
"You wrote about Murkoff, right?" The reaction is small, but immediately. Miles lowers the glass he was raising and nods, very slightly. "Why?"
Miles' gaze becomes very intense. Waylon is very glad when those eyes move from his face to the table between them. Swallowing, Miles shrugs. "Shit, I don't know." He mumbles. "I guess I thought that people have the right to know what's going on. I figured I'd be doing the world a favour by trying to –expose them, or whatever. It's –it's dumb. Why'd you work for them?"
It's not intended to be low –Miles is only trying to shift the focus of the conversation. On this occasion, Waylon will humour him. "We were in alot of debt, at the time." He says, removed from it now, at peace with it. "It was the only thing I could do."
Somewhere else, far from Waylon's mind, Lisa Park is standing in her too-small kitchen. She finishes drying up the last few plates from dinner, having washed them in the sink because the dishwasher is broken again. She can hear the television playing cartoons for James in the living room, at a cautious volume so as not to wake Colin. Her hair is unwashed –having had no time between packing and sorting flights and taking the boys from school, and she is unbelievably tired.
Tomorrow, she knows that she will smile for Waylon, and be full of energy and grace. She will be everything she needs for him. But for now, she is alone, finishing the last of her tasks before putting James into bed, and explaining again that Daddy still loves them, and that he'll be home soon, and the holiday is only going to be for a little longer, that's all.
And Waylon is onto whiskey-and-coke by now, his first, listening to Miles talk about how he ended up in that place, looking intently at the softness of his face.
"I was just –I don't know, I think I knew it was a bad idea at the time, y'know? But I-..." He sighs, and looks up at Waylon like he's helpless. "I just kept hoping it'd be my big break, and that it would make everything better. I was fucking broke, and my ex fucking bailed-...I thought if I could find something big, it would fix everything."
Waylon thinks that Miles is brave. A man at the helm of his own destiny, even if his fate was so poorly designed. He can't help but feel guilty, and responsible, because however bad things were before, he made them worse. It's his fault Miles can't sleep at night. It's his fault that all of these terrible things happened.
"I'm sorry." He says, quietly.
"Don't be." Miles says, suddenly, brightening. "I got a free trip to New York out of it. And I got to-" His eyes flick to Waylon as if he's the greatest prize, but the sentiment is never fully completed. After a few seconds Miles just looks away and says, "It's happened now. And I think I'm okay with it. Now."
Now that James is in bed, and the television is off, Lisa is alone with the silence of the place. The darkness of it. It's full of ghosts, she knows, crossing the living room, recognising the place Colin said his first words, propped up on Waylon's knee on the sofa over there, and the place that Waylon would hold her, when they'd lie down together to watch television. The hardest place to look at is the coffee table, when she can still feel the hot, menacing breath in her ear, and the overly auspicious 'Mrs Park' in her ear, tied to the feeling of immense pain and the smell of expensive cologne.
The bed is the safest place in the house, and the warmest. Colin won't sleep in the room he shares with James anymore, because he misses his father so much. Lisa doesn't mind it, watching her baby sleep is a reminder of what they're fighting for, and who the real enemy is, and what will pull her from the darkness.
Because some nights, it's so dark that when she wakes, she cannot see a thing.
Waylon can see the table between them becoming littered with glasses. He's had more to drink now, and he used to be able to manage, but there's nothing on him, and he can tell that he's lost his inhibitions, a little. It's hard to remember things aren't how they were, and that he isn't who he was. And that he's already drunk, or close to it.
Miles seems sober enough, and he's saying something –something about his childhood, Waylon's sure of it, but he can't listen hard. In fact, he's staring at Miles' mouth, thinking that he has nice lips, and if he were called upon or questioned, that's all he'd have to say. It's late now, and dark, and he doesn't know how long they've been talking for, or how much Miles has said that he hasn't absorbed.
He exhales, contentedly, watching Miles continue to speak. He's so animated when he talks –and Waylon admires that. That place didn't take his passion from him, and Miles still gets specific and excited. He still gets riled up about things and picks battles that aren't worth it. Maybe Waylon lost it in there, but he doesn't remember if he was ever indignant like that anymore.
If he focuses, he can put Miles story together. That his father used to be a police officer, and his mother worked part-time doing something, and he had a nice childhood, but got moved around alot. He's listening when Miles tells him about his mother, and about church, and that she would smoke on the steps and they'd go inside, and suddenly Miles' reasons for going seem so much more human, and sentimental and sweet.
Waylon would never have called him sentimental.
Lisa is. She strokes Colin's back as he sleeps, curled up towards her, sucking his thumb, his other thumb hurled tightly. He's beautiful and fragile and looks too much like Waylon. The same soft hair, and nervousness. He sits the way Waylon does, leant forward, leaning further and further the more a conversation pleases him. He listens the way Waylon does, too, reserving judgement, never the first to speak, even if he usually has something worthwhile to say.
Nobody would see her if she cried right now, she knows that, but she would be aware of the defeat, and it's not good enough. She forces herself to remain composed, because if she can make it through this, she can make it though anything. And he'll find his way back to her –he'll find his way home.
Waylon does find his way home. He staggers, supported mostly by Miles, who walks him through the cold street for what seems like years until he sees the lights of the hotel like some grand beacon lighting up the night.
He thinks he wants to say something, but forgets, right away, what it would have been, and so he settles on letting Miles walk them into the warmth of the foyer. He avoids the elevator –they both have their issues, and neither of them have to say anything about it. With great effort, they manage the stairs, Miles first, heaving Waylon along after him.
It seems like an age until they finally get to 103. Miles has to lean Waylon against the wall while he unlocks the door, taking a moment to rest before he knows he will have to help Waylon into bed. He deflates when he sees that Waylon has gone slack against the wall, sitting in a messy pile on the floor, his red eyes smiling up at Miles.
"M'okay." He murmurs, raising a hand, pushing softly against the top of Miles' arm when he comes to lift Waylon up, entirely, and carry him through to the room. And that's when the fighting ceases, and Waylon rests his head against Miles neck, pressing his lips there softly but making no move to really kiss.
It makes Miles nervous. He makes it to Waylon's bedroom with relative ease and lays him down on the bed, stepping away to pull off Waylon's shoes and his outerwear. It isn't easy –Waylon doesn't co-operate so much as remain on his back, staring up at Miles with this strange expression.
When Miles leans don to prop his head up on a pillow, Waylon nuzzles him, softly, and yawns. "Stay?" He murmurs, gently. As if reading Miles' desires off of his skin. Of course Miles wants to stay, but he recognises that it would be indecent.
"I can't, Park." He tries, grasping Waylon's upper-arm softly just to hold him in some way.
"You can't?" God, Waylon looks so hurt by the prospect. He stares up at Miles and frowns. "Stay for a little while. Just –just for a little while..."
He begins to kiss at Miles' neck, and for a second, Miles doesn't fight it. Right now, if circumstances were a little different, he's be kissing Waylon back, and they would undress eachother slowly, and he would enjoy every part of Waylon. He'd stroke Waylon's spine and push into him if he could, and he would tell him how he feels and all that's between them, but he can't. It isn't right.
That's why he withdraws, and shakes his head, even though it pains him. "I have to go." He says, for his own benefit as well. "You're not sober, Park, it's –it's exploitation."
Waylon frowns at him some more. "I'm asking you to."
"And I can't say yes to you. I can't." He sighs, and then in a moment of weakness, he dips his head, and kisses Waylon tenderly, and fully, feeling the heat of the other man's face, and noting how gentle and unreistant he is. Miles wish he could keep him like this forever, no objections, no scorn, or difficult questions. Here Miles is, in Waylon's private space, and Waylon wants him there. He's asking.
Waylon stares at him when Miles pulls back, looking so at peace. "Miles..." He says, his voice like the balmy ocean breeze, gliding over the atlantic to him. "Miles, I want to-...t-tell you something..."
If he doesn't go now, he knows he'll end up staying forever. "Tell me in the morning." He says, hating himself, trying to pull away.
A hand shoots out and grabs him, harsh, at first, but devolving into a careful grasp soon enough, Waylon's thumb caressing what's left of Miles' ring finger. "Do you love me?"
What does it matter? Waylon won't know either way, come morning. It won't make a bit of difference, and yet, he still feels honesty burn his cheeks. "Park, that's not..." He swallows, and shakes his head. "Don't do this."
He never says no.
For some reason, Waylon doesn't press him after that. His gentle grip slackens, and he looks practically asleep by the time Miles has finished pulling the sheets over him and turning out the lights.
He goes to the door, and, before closing it, leans in and whispers, "Goodnight, Park."
And even though he's heard it before, and even though he knows it's coming, it hurts, somehow, to hear Waylon's response, whispered back on a dreamlike, tired voice.
"Goodnight, Leese."
So for the second night, Miles treads his way up the hotel stairs, and climbs into bed alone, and tries to sleep.